Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “See?” The woman grinned, leaning into him. “I knews you did. Ten pence gives you a peek in the yard. Blood’s still on the fence, it is . . .”

  He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, checked the time. The necropsy was scheduled for two. That gave him an hour to hail another cab and get back to the hospital. He would make Rosie’s excuses, do the necropsy, save his friend from failing yet again. He had time, he knew it. He had time.

  “Ten pence it is. But I warn you. I work with the Met. Any trouble and I’ll have you in irons. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, I understand, luv. I do indeed. This way, then.” She turned away, marching down Commercial with a swish of her tattered skirts. Christien took a deep breath and followed.

  “WE ARE NOT amused.”

  Sebastien stared at the tartan carpet under his feet. Balmoral was full of tartan. There were tartan curtains, tartan chair-covers, tartan blankets, and even tartan linoleums. There was the Balmoral Tartan (designed by dear deceased Albert) and the Victoria Tartan, and of course, the Royal Stuart. By her own admission, Victoria RI was an ardent Jacobite.

  “So you are blatantly refusing the Crown, boy. That is a capital offense.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he said. “But I will not assist the Ghost Club. Not now, not ever.”

  “Not even to serve your monarch in her time of grief?”

  Over twenty years of grief, he thought grimly. “Not even then.”

  She arched a brow, small eyes boring holes into his forehead. Her mechanical heart beat like a drum, and the DE program that ran it tick-tocked in its gearbox like a clock. She had mechanically assisted lungs as well, which created a sound like that of a bellows stoking a fire. But the most unusual of her prosthetics was the wheeled brass crinoline that carted her around. Victoria had severe rheumatism, and the crinoline served to take the weight from her legs and distribute it to a set of wheels, allowing her both mobility and modesty. Her black skirts covered it completely, but like the heart and the lungs, the sound of the device was a dead giveaway.

  Other than the crackling of the fire and the clockwork Empress, there was no sound in the room. The tension, however, was as thick as the smoke in the air. Edward had smoked at least seven cigarettes this evening and it seemed his mechanical arm went through the motions of its own accord. Sebastien wondered if perhaps there was a small difference engine running a specific “smoking” program and if it could be programmed differently for cigarettes, cigars, and pipes.

  Albert Victor was sitting quietly, and Sebastien was certain he was holding the same cigarette as when he’d entered. The brass ring on his little finger was attracting an apparition, however. He couldn’t make out her face, but someone had painted the ligaturae spirituum over the doors and windows, so it was impressive she had made it through at all. She was hovering around the Duke, so likely he had some involvement in her death, but then again, these were royals. Death was historically at their disposal.

  “The Club has not been able to help us speak to our dear Albert since he passed,” said Victoria. “They insist that is something only you can do.”

  “The dead contact me, Your Majesty,” said Sebastien. “I do not, nor would not, contact them. I wish they would stop.”

  “You belong to the War Office, boy. Never forget that. Your father died, taking his secrets with him and leaving the Club with one hell of a mess. And while we still wait to speak to our dear Albert, we foot the bill for Frankow and his failed experiments. Is that all you are, boy? A failed experiment?”

  He continued his study of the floor.

  “If you could shoot some of the hoodlums in London, then perhaps we could justify funding Lonsdale to the War Office. And yet you insist on skulking ’round the countryside, ridding the world of Lancashire’s ne’er-do-wells, but leave London to rot like a slab of mouldy cheese.”

  “Perhaps you should come to London,” offered Edward. He was lighting his eighth cigarette of the evening. The prosthetic had a flint attachment, so it could light the cigarette as well as hold it. “Perhaps the proximity of the crimes would do something for you.”

  “I hate London and would happily shoot all the hoodlums I could find,” he muttered. “But there are only so many hours in a day and a finite number of bullets.”

  An absurd giggle escaped the mouth of Albert Victor before he quickly composed himself once again, lifting the cigarette to his thin lips.

  “Insolence! We have half a mind to give you over to the Ghost Club on that alone. Both Williams and Gull have been after us for months. They could draw it out of you with their experiments and science. What do you have to say to that?”

  “I would shoot myself if they dared try.”

  Victoria snorted and wheeled back to face the fire, hands folded against her black skirts. The ticking of her clockwork heart accentuated the long silence that followed. Finally, the monarch of the Empire of Steam took a deep wheezing breath.

  “There have been eleven such murders now in Whitechapel, did you know that, boy? Damned Frenchies are already claiming that civil unrest is at the root of such crimes, and the Anarchists are calling for riots until the villain is caught.”

  Edward leaned forward to rest on a fine ebony cane, his eyes bright and intelligent under the bushy brows.

  “Can you, or can you not, catch this villain?”

  “I am trying, Your Highness,” said Sebastien. “But there are so many dead at Seventh besides the women from London. Two young siblings drowned in sacks with rocks. A man hanged wrongly in Furness. A mother and daughter poisoned by a cad in Milnethorpe. And then there are the torsos . . .”

  “Torsos?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “The torsos are the worst. Dismembered bodies. They hover together but separate. I want to claw out my eyes when I see them . . .”

  He could feel the discomfort in the room now. At least Edward was distressed. Victoria was colder, however, than the breath of the dead.

  “Take something for it, boy. Surely, Frankow can give you the lithium.”

  “The lithium stops everything, Your Majesty.”

  “Well. Opium, cocaine, something else, then. We don’t really care.”

  Laudanum, he thought. Deep, dark, quiet laudanum.

  “Good God, boy,” she snorted. “Do not look at us with such a face. It is ghastly to behold. You shall make us toss our kippers.”

  Quickly, he looked back down at the floor.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty. The women of Seventh are very angry.”

  “And they can do this to you, then? Spectres, ghouls, and apparitions can rend flesh and bone? Is that what you would have us believe?”

  “When the spirits are willing, the flesh is weak. Even in this room, there is a woman trying to communicate, but she’s a vapour, a shadow, and I would be hard-pressed to learn more.”

  “Here?” said Edward. “In this room? But the Latin writing—”

  “The ligaturae spiritus keeps most out, yes. This one is attracted by Eddy’s ring. Jewellery is a powerful magnet.”

  The Duke looked up. The cigarette in his hand was merely for appearances. The smoke curling up around him looked very sophisticated.

  “But you see how difficult this would be. The dead might lead me to shoot Eddy, whom I’m sure has never harmed a soul in his life, simply because he’s wearing a peculiar ring.”

  Edward glared at his son, but Albert Victor merely blinked his heavy-lidded eyes and covered the ring with his cigarette hand.

  “Jewellery a powerful magnet, you say?” said Edward after a long moment. “What about lockets?”

  “Lockets, cameos, charms, rings.” Sebastien shrugged. “They are all the same to the dead.”

  “Williams has a locket,” said Edward. “To which he insists you have the key.”

  “Me?” said Sebastien, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t even have a key to the Hall. I get locked out most nights and frequently slee
p in the stables.”

  “Do you deny it, then?”

  “I know of no locket, so yes, I do deny it. What is this locket?”

  “Some blasted locket that can open doors to other worlds, or some such rot. The Club wants it badly. Williams says it belonged to your father.”

  Sebastien glanced over.

  “My father? How would the Club come into possession of something that belonged to my father?”

  “From Christien, boy!” exclaimed the Prince. “Wot? Don’t you know?”

  Suddenly, the world lurched beneath his feet; every sight distorted, every sound magnified.

  “Know what?” he asked thinly. He barely had words.

  “That Remy’s a Clubber! Williams recruited him weeks ago!”

  Sebastien had to force his legs to hold. They were shaking like a newborn colt’s.

  “Why, they’ve already had success, and Gull is certain he will step into your father’s shoes presently.”

  “I would like to go home, please.”

  “You will come to London,” said Victoria. It was not a question.

  “Yes,” he said. “I will come to London.”

  “Ah, capital, man!” boomed Edward. “Capital! I’ll let the Club know to expect you! Williams will be thrilled!”

  “He can meet Erica,” said the Duke.

  “Tosh,” snorted Victoria. “Erica is useless. Worse than useless. She is in league with Schlaumann and the German intelligensia. No, after Sebastien shoots this Whitechapel villain, he will come to Sandringham where he shall contact my Albert.”

  “Mummie,” said Edward.

  “We keep his head in our wardrobe. That should prove a sufficiently powerful magnet, yes?”

  Sebastien felt ill.

  “It is me they want, yes? Not Christien. Me.”

  “Well yes, they’ve always wanted you. But dashitall, if two de Laceys ain’t better than one, wot! Ah ha, ah ha!” Edward slapped his son on the knee. “Eddy, sport this good man and his pack of hounds to the Airships Port Tower at Westminster—”

  “Lasingstoke, please?” asked Sebastien. “I, I must attend to one matter before I leave.”

  And he held his breath when Edward deferred to his mother, little more than a shadow in crinoline and black lace as she stood silhouetted by the fire.

  She nodded, and the Duke rose to his feet, flicking his cigarette into the flames.

  “Come along, Laury. The Carysfort is riding high and ready to sail.”

  “And don’t shoot our grandson, boy,” said Victoria from the fire. “You’d get the gallows, and we’d drop the trap ourselves.”

  Sebastien nodded, grateful to finally leave the fireside room to the tartan, the smoke, and the Clockwork Empress.

  THIS PART OF town was unknown to him. The Ten Bells was not the Good Samaritan and was a fair walk from the Royal. He was not intimidated but he was also not naïve, and once again he wished he had kept at least one of the surgical blades on him. The East End was a hard part of town. Anyone could be rolled for their cap, let alone their coin.

  “Was Annie wearing any jewellery?” he asked as the woman led him deeper into the maze of dark buildings and black cabs. The smell of rotting garbage was overwhelming, but he resisted the urge to cover his nose with his handkerchief.

  “Rings,” she said. “Like the one yor wearin’, luv.”

  And she grinned at him over her shoulder, shook her head.

  “She said she got ’em from the king, she did! That’s Dark Annie for ye. Full o’ piss ’n vinegar. All for three cheap brass rings . . .”

  They slipped in between two buildings to a lane in the back. It was everything he had imagined. In fact, it was almost familiar, as if he had seen it before in a very bad dream. The shadows cast by the pressing buildings, the odour of garbage, the whispers of violence, the promise of blood.

  She paused, jerking her head toward a rickety fence bordering the yard.

  “In ’ere,” she said. “Froat slit open like a gutted fish. If you look real close, you can see it on the rails . . .”

  He couldn’t bring himself to look. The ring was constricting his finger and he could feel the pulsing of blood in the vein.

  “Aww. It’s always the flash ones ain’t got no stomach. Not to worry, luv. It’s all over for Annie, it is. She’s feelin’ no pain now, I can tell you.”

  His heart was racing in his chest and he struggled for some measure of self-control. He was a forensic surgeon. Death and bodies, blood and violence, were a part of his life, but this was different somehow, and he simply couldn’t look. He could see it all in his mind—the throat, the intestines on her shoulder, the heart on the ground. He had sewn her up, nice and tight, but for some reason, he just couldn’t bring himself to look.

  Quite unexpectedly, the woman took his hand.

  “Come on, luv. Just a quick peek. You’ll see . . .”

  And like a mother leading a child, she took him step by step to the fence, placed his hand on the edge, nodded with each movement. He took a deep breath and turned his face to the yard.

  It was just a yard, with a step, an awning, some dried yellow grass.

  “There. See? If you look real close . . .”

  He exhaled, sagged against the fence, ran a hand along his face.

  “Gads, you’re a softie, ain’t you?” The woman clucked her tongue at him, patted him on the cheek. “So, luv . . . That ten pence?”

  He rummaged through his pockets, pulled out a coin, pressed it into her palm.

  “You can finds yer way home, right luv? ’Cause I got customers an’ all . . .”

  And with that, she was gone, leaving Christien alone with the whispers of Hanbury Street.

  Chapter 19

  Of Riding Boots, Crown Princes,

  and Scandals on All Fronts

  ANNIE’S APPAREL WAS apparently one of the “very fine” shoe shops in Lancaster. It was low and dark with an old Tudor ambience but, Ivy had to admit, very good leather. She could hear the hiss of the boiler as it puffed steam out into the air, keeping the apparel soft and supple. For some reason, however, the smell reminded her of wet horse, and that made her think of Sebastien.

  “Really, Ivy darling? Riding boots?” Fanny turned to her with eyes fairly gleaming with delight. “Whatever will Christien Jeremie say?”

  “Ooh, Christien Jeremie . . .” echoed Franny. “What will he say?”

  “Christien . . . is in London . . .” She twirled, liking the way her skirts draped along the leather of the boot. It was a well-cut boot of ox-blood brown, laced up mid-calf and continuing up to her knee. The heel was copper, the toe pointed, and somehow, they made her feel strong, confident, and perhaps just a little taller.

  “Hah!” she said under her breath. “Take that, Sebastien . . .”

  “They do look dashing with your waistcoat and bowler, darling,” said Fanny. “And a pocket watch to boot! Why, if it weren’t for the skirts, you’d look like a regular boy!”

  “Like a regular boy!”

  “And, of course, with your new trinket a-spinning around your neck!”

  “A-spinning away!”

  “Did Christien Jeremie give that to you, dearest?”

  “Did he?”

  She paused to stroke the locket with her fingers. It purred like a cat.

  “Yes,” she said fondly. “It’s been in his family for years.”

  “Is it a clock?” asked Fanny.

  “A timepiece?” asked Franny. “A radiometer? A spinthariscope?”

  “I have no idea . . .” It was spinning happily on its own. She had not needed to wind it at all.

  “And what about Sebastien Laurent then, dearest?” asked Fanny. “Will he approve of your riding boots? After all, he does love his horses . . .”

  “He loves his horses . . .”

  “Well, actually . . .”

  Fanny gasped.

  “Out with it, darling!”

  “Out! Out!”

  Ivy looked up
at them. “Sebastien did offer me the use of one of his horses . . .”

  “One of his horses? Not the French Warmbloods?”

  “The Warmbloods?”

  “Yes. A fine bay mare named something something de la something. I call her Rue.”

  “Rue! That’s lovely, dearest! It’s simply wonderful when a gentleman offers you the use of a fine French Warmblood! Have you ridden her? Have you been riding with him? With Sebastien Laurent? Have you fallen off?”

  “Have you fallen?”

  “Not yet.” She sat and began to unlace the boots. “But he bought me breeches to wear when I ride . . .”

  There was silence.

  “They’re quite fine cloth with leather inseams. He bought them here in Lancaster. I’m certain they’ll fit rather well.”

  Still nothing.

  Ivy looked up. She had never seen such an expression on the faces of the sisters Helmsly-Wimpoll. In fact, with their eyes wide and their mouths hanging open, they looked extraordinarily equine and bovine. All they needed was some hay.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Sebastien Laurent bought you breeches?” said Fanny.

  “Breeches?” echoed Franny.

  “Yes. Why?” she began slowly, pulling first one, then the other, boot from her leg. “Is that strange?”

  “Of course, it’s strange, dearest. It’s very, very strange. Just like him.” Fanny cocked her head as if thinking. “It’s utterly strange, utterly odd . . .”

  “Utterly romantic,” sighed Franny.

  Suddenly Fanny grabbed Ivy’s shoulders, hauled her to her feet, and drew her close.

  “It’s completely and utterly romantic, dearest Ivy! Do you love him? Does he love you? Is he mad with love for you?”

  “Mad with love,” sighed Franny.

  “No!” Ivy protested. “Not at all!”

  “But of course he is! Why would a man buy another man’s fiancée riding clothes? It’s unheard of! Christien Jeremie does not ride, does he dearest?”

  “Does he ride?”

  Ivy blinked, for in fact, she had never seen Christien astride a horse.

  Fanny pushed her away. “You’re simply playing with us, you tease, you! Imagine that, both de Lacey boys smitten with the same new girl! How romantic!”