Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

  An automaton sat next to her, a perfect machine-man with dark hair, clear blue eyes, and skin like porcelain. He did not move, did not flinch, as the coach rattled and bumped over the stones. He was in his own world, she knew. Of all of them now, he was the most alone.

  Her father sat across from her, his eyes darting from his hands to her face and back again. She wondered in a detached way what he was thinking but didn’t care overmuch. And Carter Beals next to him, his day starting with the announcement of new life and ending like this. Together, the four of them rode through the narrow dark streets toward Hollbrook House and the dead Lord of Lasingstoke.

  “It was a steamcar,” she could hear her father saying, although his voice sounded hollow and very far away. “A bloody four-wheeled steamcar flipped in the rain and hit the cab on the way to Broadmoor. That’s how he made his escape. He would be safe at Broadmoor if it hadn’t been for that steamcar. Damn those bloody four-wheeled death traps . . .”

  At some point, the coach halted and the automaton was gone from her side. A hand was held out for her, and, obediently, she took it but did not feel it in the least. The water splashed her boots, the hem of her skirts, and she remembered vaguely that she was still wearing the breeches he had bought her underneath. She couldn’t feel them either, but that did not surprise her.

  Without an umbrella, Christien slowed, eyes drawn to a black coach parked on the street in front of Hollbrook House. It was a distinctive carriage, one she had seen too often lately in Whitechapel. It was drawn by black horses, heads low, tails dripping in the rain.

  There were already policemen at the door as they moved up the steps and into the large foyer. Servants were there, offering towels, but Christien did not take one; rather, he looked to where constables were conferring with a rumpled-looking man wearing a smoking jacket. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he was wiping his hands on the towelling. It was stained with red.

  “Ah, Remy,” said the man, and Christien broke company with Savage to stride over. The man had thinning light brown hair, neatly trimmed chops, and a rather common face. He extended his hand, almost cleaned. “Terrible business, this.”

  Christien shook stiffly like an automaton. The porcelain was set tight. “Ivy, this is Dr. Henry Jekyll, my neighbour.”

  She nodded, shook his hand, but could think of nothing to say.

  “I heard the shot,” Jekyll said. “Came by to see if I could be of help.”

  “Is he . . . ?”

  “Quite,” said the doctor, shoving his hands in the pockets of his smoking jacket and looking at the floor. “The undertakers are upstairs now, bagging him up. Metal skull, wot? Fascinating.”

  Christien stared at him.

  “Ah. Sorry, Remy. Well, damn peelers want my statement, so . . .”

  Christien reached for his hand again, shook long and hard. “Thank you, Henry.”

  “Not at all, Remy. Miss Ivy. Good night, then.” And he left their side for the company of the constables, but Savage motioned from the stairs.

  Christien sighed before turning to follow the inspector up the steps of Hollbrook House. Down the hall, last door on the right before the terrace. The door was ajar and the room was dim, lit only by a single gaslight over the fire. Castlewaite was standing by the window, watching as two men intently wrapped a body in black cloth. There was a long wooden box, a dark pool on the floor, and blood splattered across the paper on the wall.

  “Oh,” she gasped, her first utterance in almost an hour, and she felt the urge to turn away. Christien stepped in front of her.

  “Ivy,” he said. “You don’t need—”

  “No,” she said. “No, please, may I stay?”

  He said nothing but stepped into the room. On hands and knees, Pomfrey was scrubbing at the stains, producing a pink foam with his brush. His wig was in place but it looked hastily put.

  Castlewaite approached, wringing his hands.

  “Ah’m so dreadfully sorry,” he moaned. “Ah tried to stop ’im but ’e was set on it, ’e was. Said it were the only way.”

  Christien nodded, watched with dull eyes as the undertakers finished the last of their wrapping. Together, they lifted the body and deposited it inside the box with a thump.

  “’E made me promise you’d take ’im to Lasingstoke. ‘Lasingstoke, not London,’ ’e said. ‘Tell Christien. Just not London.’”

  She swept her eyes across the floor again, noticed a fresh dent in the floorboards and several links of chain nearby.

  “What’s that?” she whispered.

  “Ah ’ad to take ’is claps off, Ah did. Used me axe from the stables.”

  “And where is the axe now?”

  He glanced up quickly, his copper eyepiece whirring and clicking. “In the stables, miss. ’Is Lordship asked me to ready the coach, said we was ’eadin’ back to the ’all, so Ah put it back afore Ah got the ’orses.”

  “But weren’t you with him when he . . . when . . .?”

  He nodded quickly. “Aye, miss. Ah felt sommat weren’t right, so Ah came back up. ’E had the pistol in ’is ’and, ’e did.”

  “Please, Ivy,” whispered Christien. “Not now.”

  She swallowed and shut her mouth, not for the first time wishing she could restrain her tongue. That trait had cost her, and the de Lacey brothers, everything.

  Christien took a deep breath. “I’ll contact Rupert . . .”

  “Already done, sir. Ah telegraphed ’im at once.”

  “Thank you, Castlewaite.”

  “’E were a good man,” he said, and for some reason, he looked at Ivy. “At the ’eart of it all, ’e were a good fine man.”

  With that, the coachman turned to help the undertakers with the nailing of the lid.

  Her father approached, holding the clockwork pistol in cloth, its three chambers polished and gleaming in the gaslight.

  “I thought he’d lost it,” she said softly.

  “That’s what he told me too,” said Savage. “He said the Ripper had it.”

  They all flinched as the first nail was hammered into the wood. It sounded like a gunshot, again and again and again, and Ivy found herself shaking quite uncontrollably. Finally, after several minutes, it ceased.

  With the help of two constables, the undertakers lifted it up, across the floor, and out of the room. Now there was only Pomfrey, the scraping, and the terrible pink foam.

  Christien sighed. “Pomfrey, you don’t need to do that now . . .”

  The prim man looked up. His eyes were red and puffy. “Oh no, sir. Blood stains so. I shall never get it out if I don’t do it now.”

  “We can replace the flooring, Pomfrey. And change the paper. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”

  “But sir, I do feel the need—”

  “I said stop!”

  Everyone glanced at him, the man who rarely raised his voice in laughter let alone anger, and silently the houseman rose to his feet and left the room. Castlewaite did the same, as did Ivy’s father, leaving the pair of them in the dark gaslight of the bedroom.

  The tiny muscles in his jaw were twitching and she longed to stroke his face, to hold him, comfort him. But it was simply an inclination, for inside, she was as dead as the body in the box. She looked down at the ring, the single pearl with two diamonds, and slowly, deliberately, slid it off her finger. She held it a moment before slipping it into the pocket of his waistcoat. He made no move to stop her.

  “It ends. With me,” he had said over tea and pasty at the Clarence. She should have known what he was thinking.

  She should have known.

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek and turned to look one last time at the room, at the blood of the man who had changed everything. The corner where they had sat toe to toe under a blanket, the scrawls of chalk and Latin on the walls.

  And she turned and left Christien in the room, alone.

  “IVY, WAIT,” CALLED her father, meeting her at the door. She paused but did not turn as a gus
t of wind buffeted her face and hair. The rain was pelting down now and she had no umbrella, but she doubted she would feel either cold or wet or darkness. She watched the undertakers load the box into the back of the carriage and slap the door shut. There was a man at the dickey, a small man in an overcoat, reticulating goggles, and a beard that looked silver in the gaslight of the street. He pulled his cap down low, and with a flap of the reins, the black horses headed off into the night.

  “Ivy,” said her father at her side now. “I’ll have Beales take you home.”

  “No, Tad,” she said. “I’m going to walk.”

  “Aw, my girl, you can’t walk in this. It’s a long way, a bad night, and in this weather—”

  “Tad, I think it’s time you stopped telling me what I can and cannot do.”

  “I know, my girl.” He reached out to stroke her hair. “And I’m sorry. I just, I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you. Please, please understand . . .”

  She turned her face, saw tears brimming in his eyes, forgave him everything, although the numbness did not sway.

  “It’s all right, Tad. I understand. I’m sorry too.” She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. As she did, her eyes spied a small amount of debris on the floor, lifting and swirling in the wind from the doorway.

  Odd, she thought. Feathers.

  “I’ll see you at home, Tad.”

  And she tugged her bowler down on her head and stepped out into the night.

  The Steam Times: Obituaries

  October 6, 1888

  Sebastien Laurent St. John Lord de Lacey

  Baron Lord of Lasingstoke, Lancashire

  It is with sorrow that we announce the sudden and shocking death of Sebastien Laurent St. John Lord de Lacey, Seventh Baron of Lasingstoke, Lancashire. He was found two nights past at his family home of Hollbrook House in Kensington-Knightsbridge, a victim of a bullet to the head in what police are calling an apparent suicide. Long troubled by mental instability and given to lengthy stays at Lonsdale Abbey, a sanitarium on the shores of Wharcombe Bay, Lord de Lacey held a seat in the House of Lords and will be missed by the French Warmblood Society of Europe for his contributions in the field of equine husbandry.

  Son of Renaud Jacobe St. John de Lacey, Sixth Baron of Lasingstoke, and Jane Penteny of Eccleston, he did not marry nor are there heirs to the de Lacey estate. He is survived by his uncle Rupert Therrien St. John of Lasingstoke Hall; and his younger brother Christien Jeremie St. John de Lacey, a physician studying under Thomas Bond. Christien Jeremie is expected to be conferred the title as Eighth Lord of Lasingstoke on January 1, 1889, by Prince Edward in a special ceremony at Buckingham.

  He was last seen in the company of a young brunette whom our Society columnist believes to be Ivy Savage, daughter of Metropolitan Police Inspector Trevis Savage and fiancée to the aforementioned Christien Jeremie. This correspondent wonders if perhaps some scandal involving the young woman played a part in de Lacey’s unfortunate decision to take his life. Neither Miss Savage nor Dr. de Lacey was available for comment.

  According to one Times source at the Met, Lord de Lacey was en route to Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum in Berkshire for random attacks on citizens in Whitechapel and Smithfield when he escaped due to a steamcar accident on Long Wood near Heston Park. This is the fifth such incident involving four-wheeled steamcars this week and the group Six-Wheeled SteamCar Alliance (SWSCA) is petitioning parliament for the banning of four wheels on steamcars. (See article, “Four Wheeled Death Traps,” Sunday Lifestyles, D3)

  Bethlem Royal Hospital’s resident physician, George Henry Savage, MCRP, (no relation to the aforementioned Ivy or Trevis) has called the suicide tragic, and is calling for greater education on psychiatric conditions for all police officers, and most especially Met and City forces.

  The private funeral will be held at All Souls Christchapel, Lasingstoke, on October 10.

  Chapter 41

  Of Morning, Mourning,

  and the Helmsly-Wimpolls of Over Milling

  FROM HELL.

  Mr de Lacey,

  Sor

  I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

  signed

  Catch me when you can Mishter de Lacey

  NOVEMBER 2, 1888

  It was late, it was raining, and she had been walking for hours, thinking nothing, feeling even less. In fact, the rain was a comfort, the constant tapping on her hat, her face, her shoulders. It was like music, she thought. Like sweet, sad music, and was a perfect accompaniment to the symphony of misery playing in her heart.

  It was nearing dawn as she stood on the pier at St. Katharine’s docks, a weathered carpetbag at her side. The river rippled like a living thing, the rain dancing on its oily surface. Her mother lived under this dock where her brother had died. Sebastien had held her here, warm against his body. She had tempted him to kiss her and he had almost given in. She had lost everything here, on this bloody dock.

  It had been almost a month since that terrible night, a month spent either in her room, or here, on this pier, waiting for ghosts. Despite her father’s protests, she had begun work on Penny Dreadful and the Terror of Whitechapel and it had all but consumed her. She had reached an impasse, however, for she needed an ending. A pine box and a black carriage seemed far too dismal for such a tale. She felt her throat constrict every time at the thought. But the tears wouldn’t come anymore. She had cried them all out over the last month, and now she stood on this dock like an empty canvas, waiting for the paint.

  Soon, the first glimmers of purple stole across the water and she gazed eastward to where the sun was rising. There were ships and dorrys, trawlers and barges. Stacks from the factories were black spires in the distance. She could see the silhouettes of airships floating quietly over the city, and around them birds swooping and diving for fish. Slowly, ever so slowly, there was colour, painting water and sky first purple then pink, red then orange, as the sun rose over the city of London.

  For the very first time in her life, she thought it beautiful.

  She picked up the carpetbag and left the docks, heading for the Whitechapel-Mile End Station. There she boarded a steamtrain heading north. She did not take a sleeping car but was content to sit and watch the grey-green countryside roll past her window. It was the next morning before she found herself stepping onto the platform at Over Milling Rail Station and breathing in the sweet, damp country air. Even in dull, dark, dreary November, Lancashire was green, and she marvelled at the change in her. It was a new thing.

  She had only been to the Helmsly-Wimpoll family home once. It had been on the morning of their Lancaster visit, a whistle stop for a thermos of tea and a biscuit. But she was resourceful now, and it was Saturday, almost half past ten in the morning, so she hailed the first (and only) cab waiting at the station and made her way to the colourful limestone house known simply as Wimpolldon.

  She trotted up the steps to rap on the front door. After several moments, it creaked open and a very old woman peered out. She was wearing a traditional servant’s smock, white apron, and mob hat. Ivy was reminded of Pomfrey.

  “Yes,” croaked the woman.

  “My name is Ivy Savage,” said Ivy. “I was wondering if Fanny or Franny would happen to be in?”

  The woman muttered something and closed the door in her face.

  Ivy thought it odd, but then again, an unannounced visitor on a Saturday morning was odd as well. It wasn’t long, however, before she heard the stomping of feet and the shrill squeal of girlish laughter and the door was thrown open, unleashing the collective whirlwind that was the sisters Helmsly-Wimpoll. They were still in nightgowns and bedcaps but caught Ivy up in a great embrace nonetheless and dragged her into the house.

  “Dearest, you came!” exclaimed Fanny, holding her out at arm’s length. “We knew you would. It was only a matter of when
.”

  “Only when,” cried Franny.

  “Granny, this is our dear friend Ivy Savage,” said Fanny to the housekeeper. “Can you please put on some tea and ready up some biscuits?”

  “Ooh, yes,” said Franny. “Biscuits.”

  The very old woman turned and shuffled off to the kitchen, muttering the entire time. Ivy smiled.

  “Granny? That’s an odd name for a housekeeper.”

  “But she is, dearest.”

  “Oh, she is.”

  “She is what?”

  Fanny blinked slowly. “Our granny, dearest.”

  “Not your housekeeper?”

  “Oh, tosh! You are an imp. Come, let us dress and prepare for a most wondrous, most amazing . . .”

  “Most adventuresome!”

  “Most adventuresome day!”

  And with a Helmsly-Wimpoll on each arm, Ivy was hauled up the stair to the bedrooms.

  PENNY DREADFUL AND the Terror of Whitechapel.

  A Novel

  by Ivy Savage.

  Chapter 1: of Floating Arms, Blobs of Ink, and a Murder in Manchester

  September 11, 1888

  Grosvenor Railway Bridge, London

  It looked like a dead dog floating on the river . . .

  As she read, they dined on tarts, biscuits, preserves, hard-cooked eggs, and sandwiches. The family sat around the table, spellbound and eager, drinking tea and shouting comments with every twist and turn of the plot. Ivy felt happier than she had in a very long while.

  Mr. Helmsly-Wimpoll was a short round ball of a man, with a mop of fair curls on his head and enormous chops equally fair and curly. Mrs. Helmsly-Wimpoll, however, was a beanpole of a woman. She was less equine than Fanny but perhaps more mulish, and her clothes had been the height of fashion a decade past. Ivy couldn’t tell whose mother “Granny” was, and she served them all, shuffling around the tables and muttering to herself all the while.