“I couldn’t tell you, sir. Without the key, it is simply a bauble.”
“Hm. Bring it again on Friday night, will you? Crookes will be there. He’s itching to get that thing into his laboratory.”
“I will do that very thing, sir. Good day, sir.”
“Good day, Remy. And Remy?”
“Sir?”
“You don’t need to tell anyone about the girls you visit in here. You know that, yes?”
“Yes, sir. I know that, sir.”
The man blew out a thin stream of smoke. It drifted up and over his head.
“We’ll see you on Friday at eight.”
“Friday, sir.”
Williams was still watching as he closed the door behind him.
THE TEA SHOP was tucked into a small house at the corner of a street at the bottom of a hill. It was called, strangely enough, “A Tea Shop,” with a very large “A” painted in red. It didn’t take long to realize that the sisters Helmsly-Wimpoll were not only odd but terribly clever, and she enjoyed their company immediately. It was a refreshing change from all the sobriety of Lasingstoke.
The sisters had been born and raised in Over Milling, had spent some time in Newcastle with wealthy relatives upon their coming out into society, but had eventually ended up back in Over Milling when, oddly enough, no offers of marriage were presented. But their spirits were not dampened, and they were the socialites of the town, knowing everyone’s business and, naturally, everyone’s secrets.
Fanny laid a gloved hand across Ivy’s sleeve. “And how is your mother, dearest? Have you really sent her to Lonsdale, like they say? You know it is a dreadful place, Lonsdale is.”
“Simply dreadful,” echoed Franny, and she popped an entire scone in her mouth. She had picked it clean of currants, and they sat like little flies on her plate.
“I . . . I’m afraid I did.” Ivy looked from one to the other. “Christien said Dr. Frankow was the best in the country . . .”
“Well then. I’m sure that he is.” Fanny sniffed, looked off dramatically. “He must be worth something then.”
“Muffming,” said Franny, with her mouth full of scone.
“He’s Edward’s mortal enemy, you know.”
“Mortal enemy?” asked Ivy. “Of Edward, Prince of Wales, Edward? That Edward?”
“The very one, dearest. Old Mechanical Bertie.”
“Mechanical Bertie,” said Franny after swallowing the scone.
Ivy frowned. “Mechanical Bertie” was one of the nicknames for Edward, Prince of Wales. He had survived an attempt on his life during a tour of India, which required the amputation of his right arm. Of course, being the heir apparent to the English throne, Edward had at his disposal the very best in medical treatment. His arm, elbow, and hand had been replaced by an artificial clockwork limb. It was fully operational, but left much room for wild speculation. It was often said that inside that mechanical arm were torpedoes, cannons, the crown jewels, and cigarettes.
“But why would a psychiatrist be the mortal enemy of the Prince of Wales?”
“There was a problem with national security, dearest,” said Fanny. “With the War Office. He was working on opening up new areas of the mind. What was it called, Franny?”
“Hypersensory Mental Acuity, Spiritualism, and Communion with the Realm of Departed Souls,” said Franny.
Ivy stared at her.
“For the wars, you know,” said Fanny. “For the progress of the Empire. And science is all about progress, isn’t it, dearest?”
Ivy frowned. “Do you believe that?”
“That science is about progress?” asked Fanny. “Of course it is.”
“No, sorry, not about that. About Frankow being an enemy?”
“Well, not at first,” said Fanny. “Frankow was the engineer of Mechanical Bertie’s arm, you know. But there was a problem some years later, and he was exiled up north. To Lonsdale.”
“To Lonsdale.”
“But, but why?” asked Ivy, completely bewildered now.
“Oh, dearest. You couldn’t have such a man running around performing horrific experiments on upstanding British citizens, now could you?”
“Experiments?” bleated Ivy, beating Franny to the punch.
“Don’t fret, dearest,” said Fanny, laying a hand across Ivy’s. “I’m certain he’s learned his lesson by now. Otherwise he would have been deported.”
“Bye bye,” said Franny.
“Deported?” said Ivy.
“To Slovakia,” said Fanny. “Dr. Frankow is a Czech, after all.”
“Oh yes,” Franny nodded. “Quite Czech.”
“They make them that way, in Slovakia, I’ve heard. Almost everyone there is automated. You’ve seen him, surely. All cogs and gears and metal shafts.”
“Oh my,” said Ivy.
“No, no dear. No Czech machine-man can be experimenting on any Englishman. Not under Victoria’s watchful eye. Not under any circumstances. Not anymore . . .”
“Whatever do you mean, not anymore?” asked Ivy.
“Why dearest, look what he did to de Lacey.”
“Poor de Lacey.”
“De Lacey? Which de Lacey? Christien or Sebastien?”
“Sebastien Laurent, my dear. Christien Jeremie is quite sane, is he not?”
“Is he sane?” asked Franny.
“Yes, but . . .” Ivy cocked her head. “What did Dr. Frankow do to Sebastien de Lacey?”
The sisters exchanged glances, suddenly becoming strangely reticent in their conversation.
“Please tell me,” Ivy said.
Fanny swallowed, looking suddenly young and frail. “You do love your Christien Jeremie, yes?”
Oddly, Franny said nothing, merely began picking the currants out of another scone.
“I am engaged to marry him,” said Ivy, wondering again why the question should keep coming up in conversations.
“And you are completely honest with each other?”
“Of course.”
“And has he told you how his parents died?”
“I . . . I never thought to ask.”
And now, like a very old friend, Fanny took Ivy’s hand. “Perhaps you should, dearest.”
“Oh you should,” echoed Franny, laying her hand now on top of Ivy’s.
They sat that way for a very long moment.
“But a wedding!” sang Fanny, breaking the spell. “Have you picked out your dress, dearest? We can help you with that, can’t we, Franny?”
“Oh yes, Fanny. We can help.”
“We have the best eye for fashion in the county.” Fanny sniffed. “Lancaster has good dresses. Preston even better. But if you’re in mind for a bit of a romp, I would suggest Chester.”
“Oh, Chester,” cooed Franny.
“Franny can drive, you know. She has her very own steamcar. It’s an antique, you know! Quite the little roadster!”
And the rest of the afternoon was spent in idle chitchat, with a goodly amount of gossip thrown in. When the tower in the centre of town chimed noon, Ivy Savage climbed into the coach, with clockwork conspiracies on her mind.
Chapter 11
Of Anarchy, Library, and a Murder in Lancaster
SEPTEMBER 16, 1888
My dear Christien,
Over Milling is a charming town, almost entirely what I expected. I met two sisters—perhaps you know them. Fanny and Franny Helmsly-Wimpoll. I think we shall become fast friends. With caring for my mother, I haven’t had a friend in a very long time who wasn’t a copper.
I am feeling most dreadful strange after these past few days. I thought perhaps our luck was changing but after your dreaded Frankow and now, a hint of that aforementioned “scandal,” I do fear I will be taxed to remain much longer. I have half a mind to return to Lonsdale and retrieve my mother and see how I can manage as both daughter and wife. Please, consider it, Christien. I am sincerely torn.
You have not come as you promised. I understand the nature of your studies, but surel
y Dr. Bond and the boys can manage for a few days without you. If only you could petition for the use of your brother’s airship. Surely you could be here and back before you were even missed.
I do not know what to make of your brother. At times, he seems a fair and hearty fellow, but at others, I find myself unnerved and apprehensive. Rupert is prickly. I understand he was as a father to you, but still, he leaves much to the imagination.
The day has been heavy and I believe it will rain. Perhaps that will wash away my fears and leave me renewed.
I miss you, Christien.
Your Ivy
EXHAUSTED, CHRISTIEN DROPPED into a wing chair by the fire in the study of Hollbrook House. The fact that there was no fire didn’t even occur to him and he was asleep before it could register in his mind.
Very soon, however, someone was pulling a blanket over his legs and he cracked an eye.
“Pomfrey,” he smiled.
“Sir, would you like me to start a fire, sir?”
Christien glanced at the black hearth. “God, yes, Pomfrey. That would be wonderful.”
“And some tea, sir?”
“Please.”
“And biscuits, berries, and clotted cream, sir?
Christien closed his eyes. “No, Pomfrey. Just the fire and the tea.”
The prim man studied him for a long moment. “Are you well, sir? Do you want me to call that horrible doctor fellow from next door?”
“Intern’s hours, Pomfrey. I’m quite convinced that it doesn’t matter your marks, simply whether or not you survive to the end, to become a surgeon nowadays.”
Pomfrey straightened. “Modern times are confounding to me, sir. What with these airships and steamcars and auto-men. I shall never employ an auto-man in the service of this house, sir.”
Christien smiled, eyes still closed.
“Furthermore, I am convinced that if man were meant to fly, God would have given him wings, not balloons. And oh my, don’t get me started on those contraptions they call steamcars . . .”
“Oh dear,” said Christien.
“Such noisy, malodorous inventions I could never imagine. A blight on the good name of the Empire. They do clog up the streets so. Terrify the horses and the good women. Why the chaos in the markets yesterday, all because a four-wheeled steamcar tipped over onto a booth of radishes. Gulls swooped down in the thousands, sir, and then the street dogs set about chasing the gulls, the shopkeeps set about chasing the dogs . . .”
“Pomfrey?”
“It was anarchy, sir.”
“Tea?”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. And a fire, sir. At once, sir.”
And the man immediately turned to start the fire, had it roaring in good time, and quietly left the study for the kitchen.
Christien sighed, slipped the locket from his pocket, let it dangle from his fingers. As it spun on its chain, he marvelled at how each of the metal gears caught the light in a different way. The glass that housed the tiny instrument was in need of a polish, and he was certain that his pocket was not the best place for it. Still, the way Williams and his strange Club had looked at it, he felt much safer with it on him than in any room of Hollbrook House.
Perhaps he should take out a safe at Lloyds.
As it twirled at the end of its chain, he ran his mind over the discoveries of the last few days. Annie Chapman was rumoured to have three brass rings, which were removed after her murder. John Williams was in possession of three brass rings, one of which had grown very tight on his little finger. Williams ran clinics for the street girls of the East End, and abortions were by far the most common procedures during the clinics. He had seen the name of Mary Anne “Polly” Nichols in Williams’s book, along with a mention of a procedure gone wrong. Abortions often went wrong, Christien had discovered. Women went septic, some died. He and the boys spent hours covering up for Williams in that regard but he was beginning to wonder how far or how deep this problem went.
The locket was still in his fingers when he slipped off to sleep.
“OH NO, DEAREST,” said Merryl Dewhurst-Smythe, and she laid a hand over Penny’s. “It’s not at all what you think.”
“Not at all,” repeated her sister, Berryl Dewhurst-Smythe.
“No?” asked Penny. “But then, why would the Crown employ a German scientist to guard British national secrets? It simply does not make sense. We British are a sensible people.”
“But darling,” said Merryl. “Dr. von Freud engineered the heart, not for Victoria firstly, but for Durand.”
“Durand?” Penny frowned. “Alexandre Gavriel St. Jacques Lord Durand?”
“The very one, dearest.”
“The very one,” said Berryl.
Merryl leaned forward. “He lost his heart, you know. As a boy.”
“As a boy.”
“And since von Freud was a friend of the family, he simply engineered one. Put it in himself.”
“Himself.”
Penny sat back, deep in thought. “So this elusive baron, this Mad Lord of Greystoke, has no heart?”
“Not since Queen Regina Imperiatrix needed one. Von Freud used the same design on Regina Imperiatrix as Durand, but the War Office thought it too dangerous. Someone could simply kidnap or kill the Lord, steal his heart, and find a way to sabotage our dear Regina Imperatrix the same way.”
“The very same way,” said Berryl.
“So then, Lord Durand . . .”
“Precisely, darling,” said Merryl. “Alexandre Gavriel St. Jacques Lord Durand . . . has no heart . . .”
“No heart . . .”
“No heart,” said Penny, and she set her mind to finally speak to this man, and we all know that once our plucky heroine sets her mind to something, it invariably happens.
THE RAIN STARTED just after dinner.
In fact, it seemed the skies were falling, and she had to admit that she was trapped inside Lasingstoke Hall. And so with VINCE and his teapot next to her, she sat in a window seat of the library at Second, writing and watching the raindrops run down the glass.
She missed her mother terribly.
She missed her frail, bird-like hands, her empty eyes, her tight drawn lips. Whenever she was tending her, Ivy would talk. She would describe the sights, the weather, the time of day. She would sing songs, tell stories, or read letters that had been sent from distant relatives. Her mother had been a loving woman before Tobias’s death. Deep down, Ivy knew that she was still in there somewhere. It was impossible to think otherwise.
What was it about love that caused so much pain, she wondered? Did she love Christien enough to be his wife or was it friendship that had taken a wrong turn somewhere? He was a very good prospect for a girl like her, but was that all she was looking for in life? Was she settling for less because she couldn’t imagine anything better? Is that the life you want for yourself, Sebastien had asked. Could he have possibly been right in any of his observations? If so, what did that say about her, to give up her dreams so easily?
And if he was right, what on earth did that say about him?
She looked at VINCE. He seemed happy to simply sit, her teacup balancing perfectly atop his squared head.
“VINCE?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love?”
“Love. An intense feeling of deep emotion. Love.” His eyepieces whirred a moment as his logarithms engaged. “Conversation. Castlewaite. Lasingstoke. Sheep. Yes. To the fullest extent of my programming, I love.”
He inclined his head, and she watched the teacup slide, just a little. “Do you love, Ivy Savage?”
She smiled sadly. “I do, VINCE. Very much. I love my mother and father. I love my crazy brother. I think I still love Tobias, even though he’s dead. Is it mad to love a dead person?”
“No,” said VINCE. “Just sad.”
“Mm. I love writing. Yes, I love writing very much. And I do love Christien. He’s so very perfect . . .”
“Not like a sheep,” said VINCE. “Sheep are not pe
rfect. But I love them. Their imperfections make them lovable.”
“Hmm,” she said. “You are very wise for a robot.”
“I know,” said VINCE.
She sighed, watching the trees bend in the gales, and she thought of Dr. Frankow. “He’s part machine,” Fanny had said. “All cogs and gears and metal shafts.” Could her mother be treated by such a man? Could she be loved?
“No Czech machine-man should be experimenting on any Englishman.”
What had she done?
She leaned her forehead against the windowsill, sleepy, melancholic, and waiting for the morning to come. Once again, she thought of Sebastien de Lacey, remembered how he stroked the grey horse, how he talked to the air and held her wrists. The large dark spectacles, the painting in silhouette, the blood on his cheek.
“Hypersensory Mental Acuity, Spiritualism, and Communion with the Realm of Departed Souls,” Franny had said. Spiritualism was all the rage in London.
But they were a far cry from London.
What had Frankow done to him?
She closed her eyes and slept, waiting for a break in the rain.
IT IS RAINING in Lancaster, and she ducks into a doorway to keep dry. She has not made much tonight. The rain keeps most away. It’s hard to make a living when there is always rain.
A shape moves past, slowly in the darkness. He is well dressed, she can tell. It serves her well if she can tell. The gents expect a little more, and if she’s smart, she gives it to them. They pay her well for the illusion.
She is hungry, but she hates the rain, so she slides her skirts up to her thigh, slips her leg out into the lamplight. If he’s looking, he’ll see. If not, she stays dry. Either would be fine tonight.
He pauses, turns back as if thinking. His felt hat is effective for keeping the water off his face, and his collar is turned up against the gales. Slowly, he moves back toward her and she is on, performing like a stage actress calling the spotlight.
“Hello, luv,” she coos. “It’s a cold night. Spare a bob an’ I’ll keep ye warm.”
She can’t make out his face, but reaches for the wool coat, pulling him closer. There is an understanding in her trade. Most men abide by it. It is the way of the world. He strokes her face with the back of a gloved hand, and she sees his eyes, light and clear like a summer day. She likes the light eyes. They are so very pretty.
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