Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

  Sebastien closed his eyes.

  “Next, he will head up north for her brother. He will feed him to the furnace and watch him burn to a cinder. Then he will flay the skin from his little Lottie until she curls up like ash and dies. He will take Cookie and Castlewaite and all your miserable dogs—I might spare the horses, mind—before I set my hand to my dear brother Rupert. Oh my, what a time I shall have with him . . . He the adulterer, the spoiler of women, the ruin of my perfect home . . .”

  His breath had grown raspy and hoarse, and it seemed to take a moment before he had composed himself once again. But when he did, it was complete.

  “That is what will happen if you don’t do as I say. Do you understand, boy?”

  There was a sound at the window and when he looked he saw a face. A familiar face, but he could not place it. It was likely dead, for the window was three stories up and there was no ledge. Dead inside, dead out. All spectators watching the grim show.

  “Do you understand?”

  He nodded, felt everything slipping away in a swirl of ice and madness. Lees had been right. It was for the best; he understood that now.

  “Good. I look forward to reading your obituary. You have no idea how much I look forward to that.”

  And his father patted his shoulder once, twice, three times, sending the ice like blades into his flesh.

  With that, the sixth Baron of Lasingstoke moved like water, flowing across the floor towards the door. Slowly, with deliberation, he turned the key and left the room, not bothering to look back before closing the door behind him.

  IVY STARED AT the card in her hands.

  Renaud Jacobe St. John Lord de Lacey.

  Williams had given it to her. It was there, in grease and ink.

  Slowly, she slipped it back into her pocket, wondering what her father or Dr. Bond would say if he saw it.

  She wished she had a pen or pencil with her. It always helped her to write her thoughts down, follow them like white rabbits as they led down trails to mystery and adventure. She was alone in a room in Scotland Yard with a terrible mystery to solve and no tools with which to solve it.

  No, that was not right. She had all the tools she needed—her imagination and her mind. This was a perfect opportunity, she’d wager, so she folded her hands under her chin and began to think.

  According to Sebastien, similar crimes had been occurring, not only in London, but in Lancashire for several years, Tillie Barton and Clara Clements, to name a few. Obviously, there had to be a connection. It seemed to have had its start fifteen years ago, when Renaud Jacobe St. John de Lacey took a hunting knife to his wife.

  As they had sat, toe to toe under the blanket in his room, Sebastien insisted he had seen his father in a Whitechapel yard.

  But his father was dead, had shot his head off with that damned three-chambered pistol. Sebastien had to be mistaken. He was either mistaken or mad.

  She sat back in the chair now, wished her mother were here to listen. While she would never answer, it had always been helpful to talk her mysteries through. Perhaps that was the reason she had taken so quickly to the sisters Helmsly-Wimpoll. They were natural foils.

  She looked over at the window, where a pigeon sat on the outside ledge. Ivy turned her chair to face it.

  “Right, let’s talk this through, shall we? Fifteen years ago, Renaud de Lacey killed his wife in her bed, cut out her womb and her heart, and then shot himself with his pistol. That is the story, isn’t it?”

  The pigeon blinked.

  “Well?” she said. “What if he didn’t?”

  The pigeon cocked its head.

  “Do we know for a fact that Renaud Jacobe St. John de Lacey is dead? We have only gossip and rumour. Is there a death report? An autopsy? Who found the body? Who identified it? After all, the only witness is Christien and he was six at the time.”

  A second pigeon landed.

  “Was there in fact ever a full investigation into her murder or was it simply closed and forgotten? Believe me, that’s often the case when the police have an open and shut case.”

  And then a third.

  “And there was a lover, yes?” Ivy added. “Who was this lover, this secret lover of Jane Penteny of Eccleston? Surely, he would have had some involvement in the affair, something to say about how the investigation was handled. I understand she was a beautiful woman. He had to have felt some regret over her death . . .”

  Her words trailed off as a memory came to call, a memory of a stormy morning by a fire at Second, drinking bitter coffee with a man who had lost his heart fifteen years ago.

  The sweetest, fairest flower in a wildflower meadow.

  “Oh no . . .” she whispered. Another pigeon landed, and they all cocked their heads as she rose to her feet. “Oh, no no no . . .”

  “Ivy?”

  The pigeons took off from the ledge, and she spun around.

  Carter Beals was standing quietly at the door.

  “I’m sorry, Ivy,” he said. “They’ve taken him to Broadmoor.”

  “To Broadmoor?” she repeated as all the air left her body. “But I thought it would be Bedlam . . .”

  “Moore’s orders. He’s being committed to a facility for the criminally insane. A company of four warders just packed him into a carriage not twenty minutes ago. He’s gone, Ivy, and I doubt you’ll be seein’ him for quite some time.”

  She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think.

  Beals sagged against the doorframe.

  “Ivy, just this morning he told me I was going to have a little girl. A little girl with red curls and brown eyes and her name would be Claire. That’s me mum’s name, Ivy. How in hell did he know that? I didn’t know Ginny was pregnant until a few hours ago.”

  She felt emptied, numb.

  “I need to speak with my tad.”

  “He’s in with Williams and the boys upstairs. It’s a bloody mess.”

  With a terrible sinking feeling, Ivy threw a glance at the window ledge. All the pigeons had gone.

  THE RAIN WAS hard as the carriage rattled its way down Finborough Road, causing the windows to steam and frost inside the cab. The chains at his wrists were white with ice, and the locket sang a sweet, strange song inside his head.

  The voice of angels.

  His chest was tight, his nerves tense, and he began to wonder if it was fear. He had never experienced anything quite like it in his life. It was most unsettling, and he realized most people lived their lives to avoid this at all costs.

  No wonder he preferred the company of dogs.

  There were two warders in the cab with him, and he could feel them stealing glances, trying not to stare as his breath fell like icicles to the floor. They hadn’t spoken a word since ushering him into the coach, but he was grateful for it. They had been on the road for half an hour, and he needed to think, but the damned locket was so loud, drowning out all thought. He wished he could take it off, but he knew now that he would never have the power to do so. She was terrible and beautiful and better than the laudanum by far.

  In flesh or in spirit. That was the question. He had simply assumed it was flesh when he’d seen him in the lane. Definitely flesh to have killed a woman, swung a spade, pressed a blade into his throat. Never in his experience could the dead do anything like that. It was a mystery far greater than anything he had ever come across, certainly greater than anything he or Frankow had ever been prepared for. But if it was in spirit? His father was a ghost hunter and a founding member of the Ghost Club. If it was a matter of spirit, then that might explain a great many—

  Suddenly, there was the screech of tires on metal, and the coach jerked violently across the road. There was the flashing of bright lights, the scream of horses, and Sebastien was thrown against the roof of the coach as the world turned upside down.

  Chapter 39

  Of Allegations, Recriminations,

  and Things One Can Buy for a Penny

  BEALS TOOK HER first to the sisters, who were waiting for her
outside the women’s docket. They knew very little of the affair, only what they had heard from Ambrose Pickett in the mortuary of the Royal. Their cousin Mary Jane knew far more, having accompanied Lewis in placing the torso in the cellar of the Embankment Building the very night Pickett was shot. She was a key witness, in fact, but according to the police, something about her profession made her an unreliable one. It made Ivy very angry, realizing that “freedom” was a word that few women could truly call their own.

  It was very late now, almost midnight, and the Central Office was much quieter than earlier that day. The sisters shuffled nervously as Ivy rushed down the hall toward them, catching them in her arms.

  “Dearest,” said Fanny.

  “It’s very late,” said Ivy. “You should go home. Where are you staying, by the way?”

  “Our mother’s sister’s friend’s chemist’s cousin’s residence. In Highbury.”

  “Highbury,” said Franny.

  “Are you free to go?”

  “Are you free?”

  “I want to stay. Christien is in with the detectives now and I think they’ll be keeping Mary Jane for a while longer as well. She has history with the boys. She’s a prime witness.”

  “Of course she is,” said Fanny.

  “I’ll see to it that she gets home. Actually, I might ask her to stay with me. It’s going to be very cold and lonely in my house tonight . . .”

  “Are you not going to Hollbrook?” asked Fanny.

  “No,” she said quietly. “Sebastien . . .”

  Fanny reached out, laid a hand on her sleeve. “We’ve heard, darling. This entire station is abuzz with the scandal. The Mad Lord being committed, and to Broadmoor, no less.”

  “Nasty Broadmoor,” said Franny.

  “He shouldn’t have to go. He’s done nothing wrong. But I see now how difficult it can be dealing with the police. I’ve never known that before. I mean, I’ve known, but I’ve never truly known . . .” She stared at the doors leading off the hallway. “I wonder if Prince Edward could help . . . Or Albert Victor . . .?”

  “Ooh, Albert Victor.” Franny sighed. “He’s sweet.”

  “Of course he is, dearest,” said Fanny, patting her hand. “I’m sure he would return your letters if ever he got them.”

  Ivy smiled sadly at the thought of dear, odd Franny Helmsly-Wimpoll with a little corner of her heart reserved for the scandalous Duke of Clarence. Women were deep and complicated creatures, she realized. They all had secret places.

  “Right,” said Fanny. “We’d best be off then, dearest. If you are certain you can manage on your own . . .”

  “If you are certain,” repeated Franny.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll just wait for Mary Jane and Christien. We’ll be fine. And thank you both, for everything.”

  They gathered their brollies, buttoned up their buttonables, straightened their hats, and pulled themselves together. Fanny sniffed, took Franny’s arm, and the sisters set off down the hall, the syncopated rhythm of their footsteps echoing as they went.

  She rejoined Carter Beals, and together they headed down the quiet halls of the Central Office. It was very late and she wondered what the next few hours would hold. She would wait for Mary Jane and Christien. Of the two, Mary Jane would be by far the better companion tonight. She wondered if Christien would even look at her, if he would demand the ring back, if he would ignore her presence like a beggar on the street. She had effectively ruined his life tonight. He would never consider marriage now, and she wondered what that might mean for her mother.

  She missed her terribly and she missed her father too. He had surprised her with his belligerence, but she had to admit that she was a chip off the old block. Belligerence and tenacity, two things that the Savage household had by the trunkload. Growing up Savage had been a difficult thing.

  She could overhear shouting coming from a room down the hall, and suddenly, the door swung open and a blonde blur stormed out. Mary Jane Kelly whirled and lashed her finger out at the men in the room.

  “I am not lying!” she snarled. “And I am not cheap! You take that back, John! You take that back!”

  Seated inside, John Williams flashed a grim smile. She could see Bond, Moore, her tad, and the boys around a large table. There were papers scattered everywhere, giving the impression they had been at it for a while.

  “You are indeed a cheap whore, my dear,” said Williams coolly. “Your body is bought at the price of a brass ring worth less than a penny. How can your testimony possibly be worth any more?”

  “Lewie?” Mary Jane wailed. “Say something!”

  “I think I paid less than a penny,” Powell-Smith sniffed and tossed his head. “In fact, I could have sworn she paid me . . .”

  The boys sniggered at that.

  “Rosie? Henry? Remy?”

  “Cheap,” said Rosie.

  “Dirt cheap,” said Henry. He was looking at her, his pale eyes glittering.

  For his part, Christien said nothing.

  “That’s enough then,” came the voice of Inspector Moore. “Miss Kelly, we’ll need you to sign—”

  “I ain’t signing nothin’!” she snapped. “No wonder you ain’t caught this Ripper, the way you jacks think of us working girls! We may be of low profession, but we ain’t low of character like the papers says, or low of value! We have value, we do! We have worth!”

  “About the price of a penny,” muttered Lewis, and the boys sniggered again.

  “Enough,” growled her father.

  The young woman spied Ivy standing beside the door, and they locked eyes for several moments. Mary Jane took a long deep breath, spun on her heel, and stormed out of the doorway. Her boots echoed on the linoleum until there was only silence in the hall.

  An officer approached and handed Beals a note. As he read, she peered into the room. Williams had said something, causing the boys to snigger anew. It boiled her blood, and she wondered how Christien could call these friends.

  She sighed and leaned against the wall, wishing life had gone differently, but then again, in which direction? Could she say she would prefer to have remained blissfully ignorant of Christien’s part in the torsos of London? He surely must have known how it affected his brother, and yet insisted on the madness, the “schizophrenia,” as the culprit rather than admitting to any guilt. Not for the first time, she wondered if she really knew him at all.

  Beals folded the note and looked at her before leaning into the room.

  “Trev,” he called in. “I need a word.”

  There was the scraping of a chair and Beals led her father to the other side of the hall. Trevis read the note and together, the detectives began to speak quietly. She sighed and looked away. The room beside her smelled of coffee and smoke, and she wondered if this night would ever end.

  She noticed her father shake his head and glance her way. All this conspiracy. All this secret talk. The world of men was filled with bitter secrets. It was making her very angry, and she realized that this world was for men alone. Women like Mary Jane, even like herself, skirted the edges but never really got in. She had always thought that she belonged here, in this world of detectives and mysteries, but now she wasn’t sure if she wanted to, even if she were allowed.

  The detectives returned and her father put a hand on her arm as he leaned in.

  “Remy, a word if I may?”

  The sound of another chair and she held her breath. Christien appeared in the doorway, face a fine porcelain mask. He did not look at her, and Trevis touched his arm as well. Ivy frowned again. Her father was not a touchy man.

  “Both of you come this way. I need to talk to, ah . . . to talk to the pair of you.”

  “Two-twelve?” suggested Beals.

  “Aye. Two-twelve. Just here, ah . . . down the hall . . .”

  And her father turned and led them down the quiet hall, Beals following like a shepherd.

  Savage opened another door, held it wide for the young physician.

 
; “Wait outside, will you, my girl?”

  He looked grim as he closed the door and disappeared inside with her fiancé.

  She glanced at Beals. “What’s going on, sir?”

  He smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile, and her heart lurched within her chest. Surely they couldn’t deal with any more blows tonight. This night had already shipwrecked their futures. Truth was a pitiless thing.

  Behind her, Chief Inspector Henry Moore walked out into the hall, accompanied by Drs. Bond and Williams and what was left of Bondie’s boys. They were laughing and chatting but Ivy thought their voices sounded strained, their joviality forced. Once they spied her, all conversation ceased, and with malicious glances, they left the hallway in silence.

  Suddenly, she felt very sad and wondered if there wasn't anyone who didn’t hate her tonight.

  The door opened and her father peered out. She could see Christien, sitting at a far table, head in his hands. Her heart thudded once again.

  “Come in, Ivy,” said her tad, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “I need to tell you something.”

  With a deep breath, she stepped into the room, and he closed the door behind her.

  Chapter 40

  Of Rain, Blood, and an Obituary in the Times

  IT WAS RAINING hard as the coach clattered down the cobbled streets of Kensington-Knightsbridge. The line of fine white houses was a blur, the blanket on her lap as heavy as a stone. There was no sound. There was no heat, no light, no taste, no feel. Not even an ache to indicate life. Just the deep hollow pull of emptiness, a hole that had no sides, no roof, and no end in sight.

  It was amazing how quickly the emptiness had come. Frightening almost, and that too she realized was a kindness. She wondered if this was her mother’s world, this place of quiet apathy, where the only sound was the rushing of blood through the veins and the steady pulse of the heart. Hands on her, moving her, directing her, up into the coach, sit here, look there. Yes, this was her mother’s world. She understood it now all too well.