Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “Abortions are illegal, dearest,” said Fanny, raising her teacup. “Even in Bedlam.”

  “That’s why it’s bad if one dies.”

  Her blue eyes were earnest, and Ivy believed her.

  “’E gives it to lots of the girls. ’E gived me one last year at Bedlam. ’E’s a saint, our John is. A true saint.” She sat back. “’Cept for the ones that die. Not a saint for them, then, is ’e?”

  And she raised her teacup to her lips. “No, not a saint if they die.”

  CARTER BEALS ENTERED the little room, carefully balancing two cups of tea in his hands. He bumped the door closed behind him and laid the cups on the table.

  The Mad Lord looked up at him, eyes baleful and asking.

  “Yes.” Beals grinned. “They’re both for you. You did something right peculiar with that Millhouse gang. I’m not quite certain I understand it, but I figured you deserve a cup or two.”

  “Oh, thank you so much,” said Sebastien, and he grabbed one of the cups in a most ungentlemanly fashion. “One never knows how utterly dependent one is until one is deprived for a spell.”

  And he gulped it down like a greedy little boy.

  Beals sat across from him, studied him for a long moment. “You didn’t kill those women, did you?”

  Sebastien hesitated a moment before draining the first cup to its dregs. Slowly, he pushed it aside in favour of the other. He seemed prepared to take his time with this one, savour the taste on his tongue, if for just a little while.

  “Would you be kind enough to answer me, de Lacey? Did you kill those women?” He sat back in his chair. “Because I don’t think you did. I think you’re a strange one, sure enough, but I’ve met stranger. And Ivy Savage speaks very highly of you.”

  De Lacey said nothing.

  “In fact, she says you didn’t kill those women”—he leaned forward now—“because you were spending the night with her . . .”

  The Mad Lord looked up sharply. “What? No. Absolutely not. I would not. She is engaged to marry my brother. I would never—”

  Beals held up a hand. “I believe you, sir, I believe you.”

  “She said that?”

  “She did.”

  “Well, that explains her father, surely,” he said. “He must love her very much.”

  “He does, sir. Don’t think too badly of him. Trev’s a good man. Losing his wife bit by bit like that broke his heart, made him very protective of his last girl.” He smiled sadly. “And Ivy’s a handful, believe me. She gets herself in a world of trouble. But she’s a good girl, too. Cared for her mother better than most nurses. Raised her brother, wrote her little stories. Yes, she’s a very good, sensible, clever girl.

  “So, tell me, de Lacey . . .” He looked up, eyes dancing. “Why would she lie?”

  Sebastien sighed, ran a hand along his face. There was considerable scruff now. His chin had not seen a razor in days.

  “De Lacey?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “She doesn’t believe you’re the Ripper, sir. She will gladly ruin her reputation to see you cleared. And yet you don’t seem to care about that. You don’t seem to be a callous man, but then again, I don’t know you from Adam, do I?”

  “I do care, Inspector. But it’s for the best. It’s honestly for the best.”

  “What is, sir?”

  “Bedlam.” He leaned forward, crossed his arms on the table, and began to tap with one finger. “You see, I need to know if I am truly mad or not, for I saw the Ripper the other night. I spoke with him after he beat me senseless with a spade. I know who he is, and who he is—for him to be doing the things we all know him to be doing—is impossible. And so, I am either bound to comb London for a man who cannot exist, or I am utterly mad. I would sincerely like to know before I begin to exert incredible amounts of energy and willpower in what could very well be a futile search. I would quite happily spend the rest of my madness at home in Lancashire with my dogs.”

  He lifted the second cup to his lips and sipped while Beals blinked very, very slowly.

  “Did you just say you know who the Ripper is?”

  “I did say that, yes.”

  “You know who the London Ripper is.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “You spoke with him.”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “After he beat you senseless with a spade?”

  “It was most humiliating.”

  “And who is he, sir?”

  “Renaud Jacobe St. John de Lacey, Sixth Baron of Lasingstoke.” He set down the cup. “My father.”

  “Your father.”

  “Yes.”

  Beals blinked again. “Isn’t he dead, sir?”

  “Yes. He shot his head off with a pistol fifteen years ago. You see my dilemma.”

  After a moment, Beals rose to his feet, turned, and moved to the door.

  “Say,” said Sebastien. “Do you know if anyone from the circus owned the Savage house before they did?”

  Beals turned slightly. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because I distinctly saw a bearded woman at the door, along with a clown and a sword-swallowing acrobat.”

  The detective stared at him, and the Mad Lord sighed and looked down at his hands, knowing he had done it again. There was silence for a long moment.

  “This man whom you saw,” said Beals. “Your father . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he your father in flesh or in spirit?”

  Sebastien looked up.

  “Well? In flesh or in spirit, sir?”

  “I . . . I cannot say.” He sat back in the chair, frowned. “That is a very good question, sir. Damnation. That complicates things entirely.”

  “Right,” said Beals, not knowing what to say to that.

  “But thank you, Inspector. The tea was delightful.” He rose to his feet, extending his hand. “Actually, it tasted like cabbage, but I’m not picky. Honestly, I’m not. It was delightful, nonetheless.”

  Beals took the man’s hand, shook, and frowned when he did not let go.

  “Hm . . .” said the Mad Lord and turned the hand over in his grip, running his fingers along the man’s palm and up his wrist. He gave it a final shake, released, and smiled.

  “Five children. You must be very happy.”

  “Four,” said Beals, cheeks flushing red. “Four strapping sons.”

  “No daughter?”

  “No, sir. God has not blessed us with a girl.”

  “No little girl with big brown eyes and red curls? I see her quite clearly. Her name is Claire.”

  Beals stared at him. “Only sons.”

  “My mistake.”

  “Well, good day to you,” said Carter Beals, and he slipped quietly out the door.

  IT TOOK THEM less than half an hour to drive to London Royal in the steamcar. Franny seemed to have an endless supply of goggles and steam, and Mary Jane joined them as they puffed and chugged down the narrow streets. Ivy couldn’t think, needed to keep quiet and stay still, and perhaps she might just manage to keep her heart from bursting through her chest.

  He only had to do the legs.

  He only had to do the legs.

  The cadavers are too much for him.

  He’s mad, Ivy.

  He only had to do the legs.

  At some point, the steamcar bumped and lurched to a halt, parked almost on the front step of the hospital, and Fanny slipped her goggles up on her forehead.

  “Are you quite all right, dearest?” she asked.

  Ivy nodded woodenly.

  “Yes. No. I’m not sure. I will be.” She took a deep breath. “Yes, I will be.”

  “Spoken like Penny Dreadful, dearest. Take heart.”

  Even though she had known these women less than a month, Ivy was certain they were the best friends a girl could ever have.

  Together, the four of them headed up the steps and into the green corridors of the hospital. She led them down several flights of stairs to a small surgic
al theatre, dark save the few gaslights on the wall, and they could see a thin shape moving through the leaded glass of the door.

  She rolled the door wide, seeing first the saws, drills, masks on coils, and other macabre devices hanging from the ceiling over their heads. Beneath it all, a cadaver lay naked on a steel table in the centre of the room and beside it stood Pickett, wearing goggles and leather apron, holding a long sharp-edged knife.

  “Oy!” he snapped at them. “Ivy? Marie? What the ’ell?”

  “Oh my!” cried Fanny and looked away. The cadaver was a woman, her colour the sickly grey of the dead. Her abdomen was opened from her navel down, and the room smelled of ammonium and blood. For her part, Franny patted her sister’s hand but could not tear her eyes away from the sight.

  “Rosie!” said Ivy. “What are you doing?”

  “Schoolwork, Ivy!” He glanced quickly between the women. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Rosie. Is this schoolwork for Bondie or schoolwork for Williams?”

  He glared at Mary Jane now, his eyes made all the larger by the goggles he wore. “What ’ave you told ’er, Marie?”

  “She’s just looking for the truth is all, Rosie.”

  “Answer me, Ambrose Pickett, or I will go to my father straightaway. Is this schoolwork for Bondie or for Williams?”

  He studied her now as if there were no other person in the room.

  “You can’t tell yer dad, Ivy. You promise you won’t tell yer dad?”

  “I can’t promise, Rosie. You know that.”

  His eyes flicked down to the body on the table, to the blade in his hand. His shoulders sagged and he pulled the goggles down under his chin.

  “For Williams,” he said in a quiet voice. “He’s teaching us the obstetrics and the gynaecologies. I’m failing the class.”

  “You are practicing abortions on cadavers?” Ivy felt her chin rise. It just seemed to do so on its own now.

  “I’m practicing all kinds o’ things. It’s better than learning on a live girl, ain’t it? We get ’em from Bedlam. They die all the time at Bedlam.”

  “And what do you do with these unfortunates once you have finished your practicing, Rosie?”

  “Ivy . . .”

  “Tell me, Rosie. I need all of my friends to hear it so they will know that I’m not mad. And that Christien’s brother is not mad, either.”

  “But he is! He shot—” He stopped himself, glanced quickly at a cane leaning against the table.

  “Tell me what you do with them!”

  “Ivy . . .” he moaned. “We’ll get the boot, we will! We’re six months away. Six months! And these is dead already! They don’t feel nothin’!”

  “Say it, Rosie. What do you do with the cadavers when you’re finished with them?”

  “You promise you’re not going to tell yer dad, are you, Ivy? I promise we won’t do this no more. Christien said it weren’t worth it and I agreed. I got shot for all me troubles. That crank brother of Remy’s . . .”

  “I will ask one last time.” She stepped forward again. “What do you do once you are done?”

  “We . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “We cut ’em into pieces and chuck ’em in the river.”

  “And how did the arm get on Lambeth Road?”

  “It dropped out of the bag when we was leaving. It were a mistake, it were! Henry wouldn’t do that by purpose! It’s not right.”

  “No, Rosie. It’s not right. None of this is right, is it? These poor girls deserve a burial just like everyone else.”

  “It’s got honour, Ivy, just like a sailor! But we take out the wombs and such, just in case.”

  “In case?”

  “In case someone finds ’em and brings ’em to Bondie and he sees she’s been Restelled. He’d get suspicious. He’s a smart one, is Bondie.”

  “So how did one get in the construction site of the New Scotland Yard?”

  “That was Lewie being an ass!” He flung his hands in the air. “You know it, Marie! You was with him that night! He’s an ass, that man is!”

  Mary Jane looked up. “’E said ’e were dropping some lime off for the workers. I didn’t know it were a . . . it were a . . . you know . . .”

  Ivy nodded, sighed. “I’m sorry, Rosie. I’m sorry for all of you.”

  “You can’t tell anyone, Ivy.”

  “Come with us, Rosie,” she said. “It’ll be easier if you do.”

  He swallowed, and Ivy was glad it wasn’t Bender or Lewis. Rosie had no fight in him. She couldn’t say the same for the other two.

  Of Christien, she had no clue.

  Finally, Rosie sighed. “I gots to put ’er away. Wait for me outside, will you?”

  They did, waiting outside the ghoulish surgical theatre for almost ten minutes before Ivy rolled the door open once again.

  Ambrose Pickett and the cadaver from Bedlam were gone, a fact that did not surprise her.

  SEBASTIEN DE LACEY suddenly stopped as Savage held the door open to the laneway behind Great Scotland Yard.

  “Bastien?” asked Christien, but he did not touch him.

  The Mad Lord blinked and blinked again, looked around the dark hall, past the constables, detectives, and his brother, all surrounding him like Queen Victoria in a May Day Parade. The locket was spinning and flashing, creating a kaleidoscope of colour across the brick.

  “They’re gone,” he said. And he looked around again.

  Savage glared at Christien, shaking his head.

  “Who’s gone?” asked Christien.

  “Just a moment . . .”

  Sebastien closed his eyes, turned his palms upwards, but they were manacled together and the chains made it difficult. The temperature in the hallway dropped immediately, and they could see their breath in front of their faces.

  “What the hell is he doing?” grumbled Savage.

  “Two gone,” said Sebastien, and he smiled at the inspector, as bright as the regal French sun. “Two of the torsos gone. Released. I don’t know how. Life is wondrous strange, isn’t it? New surprises every day.”

  “Get him out the door.”

  And they pushed the Mad Lord out of A-Division and into the lane that led to the Central Offices of Scotland Yard.

  Chapter 37

  Of Parking, Policemen,

  and the Unfortunate Punch Card

  IVY HAD BEGUN to realize that “parking” for Franny Helmsly-Wimpoll simply meant stopping the forward motion of the steamcar. As they piled out at the Met’s A-Division Station on Whitehall Road, most of the tires were on the paved walk and the car was almost blocking the doors. In fact, it was directly under the cold gaze of the A-Division Sentinels, and Ivy thought it was a very safe, albeit illegal, place to be.

  It had begun to rain on the drive over from the Royal, and A-Division was crowded with seas of people rushing to lodge protests, file complaints, and get out of the rain. She began to despair of getting anywhere when suddenly a woman with great brown eyes and red curls swept through the crowd on her way out the door. It was Ginny Beals, Carter’s happy wife, and as she swept past, she caught Ivy’s hands and clung for dear life.

  “Ivy, my girl!”

  “Ginny! It’s wonderful to see you!”

  Ivy held on but the crowds were like a current, straining to pull the woman out of her arms.

  “I just brought Carter his tea, but Ivy, I have news! I’m pregnant!” she exclaimed over the roar of voices. “Can you imagine? Pregnant again! Number five on the way!”

  “I’m so happy for you, Ginny! Maybe it will be a girl this time!”

  “That’s what I’m hoping! Oh dear, this crowd!”

  “Best of luck, Ginny!”

  “God bless, dear girl!”

  And just like that, Ginny Beals was swept out of her arms and out the door of A-Division.

  People were pressing in on them now, and she began to fear that the four of them might be sent in different directions, but they gra
sped hands and plowed through the crowd. They were stopped before they made the stair.

  “Only staff, miss,” growled a large ironclad of a man. His nameplate read “Constable Twist,” and he looked utterly formidable.

  “Hallo, sir. I’m the daughter of Inspector Savage, H-Division,” she said. “He’s upstairs with Inspector Beals, Chief Inspector Moore, and the de Lacey brothers. I was here with them all only last night.”

  “Sorry, miss. They’ve all gone to Central Office across the way.”

  “To Central?” She blinked. “But why?”

  “Don’t know, miss. They’re with Bondie and Abberline now.”

  Ivy felt all the air leave her body. “Abberline . . .”

  “Now, darling,” hushed Fanny, catching her arm. “Dr. Bond and Inspector Abberline are upright, virtuous men. This can only be good for your Sebastien Laurent, surely.”

  “Surely,” said Franny.

  “I seen Abberline once,” added Mary Jane. “’E looks like a banker.”

  “But he is the most familiar with the Ripper cases. They must be thinking . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Oh dear Lord, what have I done?”

  “None of this is your fault, dearest,” said Fanny. “The police are simply investigating every lead. Isn’t that right, officer?”

  “They do, miss,” said the constable. His eyes were darting under his helm at the women. Altogether, they made a very unusual puzzle.

  “There, you see?” said Fanny. “Not to worry. Besides, I’m quite certain your Christien Jeremie is with him, isn’t he?”

  “Isn’t he?” echoed Franny.

  “Yes,” said Ivy. “I’m sure he is. But he believes Sebastien to be mad.”

  “But dearest,” said Fanny. “He is, isn’t he?”

  “Isn’t he?” echoed Franny.

  “Well, yes . . .” Ivy frowned. “But not terribly mad.”

  “Is ’e ’andsome?” asked Mary Jane. “Like yer Remy? Is that the problem, then? You’ve got it fer both fellas?”

  Ivy found herself at a loss for words, while the sisters merely sniffed and looked off in opposite directions.