“Well, she certainly wouldn’t carve herself up like that, now would she?”
“No sir, that’s not what I meant.”
“I’m an obstetrician, Ivy. Many women have need of my services. My ‘extracurricular business.’ Not every baby brings happiness.”
The hum of machinery was growing louder, louder even than the grinding of the hydraulic gears. Steam billowed up from below, hissing in bursts from behind their backs and the entire contraption smelled of metal, oil, and ink.
“So you are helping them, sir? In the clinics?”
“I’m one of the few legitimate physicians who care to try, Ivy. You know that.”
“But isn’t it . . .?”
“Illegal? Yes, Ivy dear. Quite.”
She nodded. “And there are others, less legitimate than you.”
“They call it Restellism, on the street.”
“I see.” She thought for a moment. “No, perhaps I don’t. But that’s quite expected, given the last few weeks . . .”
“Are you certain Sebastien de Lacey didn’t put you up to this?”
“Quite certain, sir. It is my own belligerence.”
“So you know Remy is a member, then?”
“Yes, sir. It’s one of the reasons I’m here. I want him to quit.”
The lift shuddered to a halt, and he stared at her for a long moment.
“Come this way, Ivy,” he said. “There is someone I want you to meet.”
He pulled the iron grille door onto a room deep underground and she wondered at that. The Infirmary of Lonsdale was underground. The Mortuary of the Royal was underground. It seemed all manner of unnerving operations took place underground. Perhaps it was the seclusion, away from windows and prying eyes. Perhaps it was the air or the darkness or the magnetism of the earth; she had no clue, but there had to be something that drew dark pursuits underground.
The room was dim and gleaming with old gold. As her eyes adjusted, she could see sparks arcing through tarnished pipes and glass tubes along the ceiling high above her head. The walls themselves were lined with machines—flashing lights and spinning shafts and shuttling levers that reminded her of automated weavers’ looms. They were running nonstop, these pipes, drums, and plates, moving with clockwork precision. In fact, it looked like a factory, and workers manned various stations along the wall, inputting cards and punching keys and pulling levers at amazing speeds.
It was an Analytical Engine, she knew, had heard the boys of Leman Street Station talk about the hopes of getting one working for the Met. Hundreds of numbers spun on brass plates and she wondered how information could be communicated to and from such a device. Difference Engines were helpful but Analytical Engines could almost think.
A man with grey hair and grizzled chops marched up to meet them, his shoes echoing on the tarnished floor.
“What the devil is a woman doing here, Jackie?” he growled, thumbs hooked in his waistcoat pockets. “It’s against Club rules.”
“Henry, this is Ivy Savage,” said Williams. “Remy’s fiancée.”
“Henry Babbage.” He did not offer her his hand. “Can’t say I’m pleased to meet you. Inviting women into the Club is worse than inviting Anarchists. Or the French.”
“Manners, Henry,” said Williams.
“Remy’s fiancée, you say?” His eyes flicked down. “Is that the locket?”
“It is indeed. She’s brought it to London, along with Sebastien de Lacey.”
“Good Lord!” said the man named Babbage. “Explains a few things, wot? Very well. How can I help?”
“I want her to meet Erica.”
Babbage held wide his arms. “And so she has.”
“I don’t understand,” said Ivy.
“ERICA,” said Babbage. “Engine for Rational Input, Computation, and Analysis.”
“She’s remarkable,” said Ivy. “But why would the Ghost Club have an Analytical Engine?”
“Despite our name, we are a scientific organization, my dear,” said Williams. “And Analytical Engines are the cutting edge.”
“Science and socialism,” said Babbage. “This way, girl, keep moving. Don’t stop to gawk.”
Up a set of steps that clanked underfoot and a small man in shirtsleeves turned at their approach. He was a diminutive fellow with kind eyes and a timid air.
“Ninian,” said Babbage. “This is Ivy Savage, Remy’s woman. Shake, boy. Shake.”
Reluctantly, Ninian held out his hand. It was blackened with grease.
“Mathematicians are notorious rude,” grumbled Babbage. “Good thing Lovelace had a hand in my raising. Ahem. Ninian is a northerner. Comes from Newcastle, don’t you, boy?”
“Yes, sir. I do indeed, sir,” he said shyly. “Ninian Liddell, from Newcastle ’pon Tyne.”
“Your name is familiar, sir.” Ivy cocked her head. “Do you know a young woman by the name of Fanny Helmsly-Wimpoll?”
“Fanny!” Ninian gasped. “She was the light of my sorry life.”
“She still speaks of you, sir.”
The young man dropped his eyes to the floor. “And I still dream of her . . .”
“Does she know of your current occupation, Ninian?”
“Alas, she does not approve of datamancery.”
“Even in Pall Mall?”
His mouth opened and closed. Apparently, he had no answer for her.
“I will be sure to tell her of your improved station when I see her next.”
He smiled shyly. “I would appreciate that very much, Miss Savage.”
“Miss Savage wants to know if we have anything regarding the Whitechapel villain,” said Williams.
“The papers are calling him ‘The Ripper’ as of last night,” said Ninian. “Apparently, there was another letter.”
“And why would a girl want to know about this Ripper?” asked Babbage. “It’s not a romantic topic.”
“I am not a romantic girl,” said Ivy.
“She is Remy’s fiancée. Poor boy works with Bondie. He’s up to his eyeballs in body parts.”
“Two more last night, wot?” grunted Babbage. “One in the back of some foreigners’ club and one in Mitre Square. Does that scare you, girl?”
“No sir,” she lied. “The mortuary is my second home.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Remember the arm off Grosvenor Bridge? They found another yesterday morning on Lambeth. Bond is checking them out as we speak.”
“As he should,” said Ivy.
“I say,” said Babbage. “This girl’s got pluck.”
He turned to face her and she steeled her will, determined to bear up.
“Right then, girl. The Met is looking for someone who has knowledge of anatomy, has access to a six-inch blade, and can work quickly in the dark.”
“Mr. Robert James Lees believes he’s a medical man,” said Ivy. “A surgeon would have access to a blade like that.”
“Robert James Lees is a fraud,” said Williams. “Crookes debunked his claims not last year.”
“ERICA has suggested a list of professions, miss,” said Ninian. “At the top of which is butcher, closely followed by leather craftsman. Surgeon is well down.”
“The police are questioning every butcher and leatherman in Whitechapel,” said Babbage. “They’re not about to start questioning surgeons, are they, Jackie?”
“Not bloody likely.”
“And what if he’s not from Whitechapel?” asked Ivy. “There was an article in the Lancaster Guardian recently. A woman named Clara Clements was murdered and her heart and womb removed from the scene, just like the women in Whitechapel. There was also, I believe, a young woman in Pelling—”
“Honestly, Ivy,” warned Williams. “This is not the subject for a young lady.”
“Seriously, sir? Considering the high percentage of crimes against women that occur in the Empire, wouldn’t it be sensible to have women in the field?”
“Suffrage is the path to anarchy,” said Babbage, arching a brow. “Has sh
e been sent by Frankow?”
“She’s a mystery writer,” said Williams.
“Tutored by Trevis Savage and the boys of H-Division.” Ivy arched a brow. “Let’s talk this through. All of these London women were prostitutes, as was Clara Clements of Maudgate. They have all experienced some mutilation of their hearts and their womanly organs. And I understand that Miss Barton had her heart removed from the scene. I propose that there may be an emotional connection that we are simply not considering.”
“Oh gads,” groaned Babbage. “Trust a woman to bring emotions into the mix.”
“And trust a man to ignore them.”
The mathematician laughed.
“She’s a bold one, Jackie,” he said. “How much has Remy told you, then?”
“What do you mean?”
The mathematician grunted, turned to Williams.
“Show her, Jack,” said Babbage. “I have real work to do.”
And he left them, his shoes echoing on the metal steps as he went.
Ivy looked back at the Surgeon. “What does he mean, sir?”
Williams sighed. “Come along, Ivy.”
They followed the walls toward a filing station, where punch cards sat in neat rectangular piles, wrapped with leather straps and buckles. Williams took one pile, slid a card out, and studied it under the golden gaslight of the room.
“ERICA has been a busy girl,” he said quietly. “The mathematicians have input every known variable into her algorithms for weeks now, with the same result.”
“A name?” she asked. “You have a name?”
“We do.”
“Why haven’t you brought this to the attention of the Met? That should be your first duty!”
“Because they wouldn’t believe us, Ivy.”
And he handed her the card. She read it, then read it again.
There was indeed only one name on the card.
Renaud Jacobe St. John Lord de Lacey.
Chapter 33
Of Conflicting Storylines, Coraline Candymore,
and the Sentinels of Leman Street
THIS JUST PROVED it. The light anywhere was much sweeter than the light in Stepney.
Her key let her in, and as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, it seemed as though there were a film over everything. Perhaps it was dust. Her father wasn’t much of a housekeeper, and while everything was neat, she doubted that anything was particularly clean. He was a crimes investigator. For him, there were more important things to do with his time.
Renaud de Lacey, the print-out had said. Renaud Jacobe St. John Lord de Lacey.
A dead man was the Whitechapel Ripper.
She headed into the tiny kitchen, found the kettle in the same place as always. Filled it with water and set it on the gas stove. Sat at the small table under the window, waiting for the kettle to boil.
Penny Dreadful and the Terror of Whitechapel. She had started it before she was sent north. She needed to write. Writing helped organize, clarify, simplify. Penny Dreadful would help her. Penny was so very much better at that than she. Penny was engaged to handsome Julian, but then again, Penny had let the rogue Alexander disappear with the stolen heart and her pearls. Strange. That was not at all like Penny.
They saw their mother in a bloody bed, her heart in their father’s hand, Fanny Helmsly-Wimpoll had said. It had broken her heart, had made her sick to her stomach.
The kettle was whistling now, but Ivy didn’t hear. She was trying to recall Fanny’s voice, her manner of speaking, her words in the Lancaster Mews, while Franny ate crumble and went on about Czechs.
Something about their mother . . .
She twisted the ring on her finger.
Something about their mother . . .
It was rumoured she was having a scandalous love affair with another man and in fact, that she was pregnant with his child.
But there was more.
So Renaud Jacobe St. John de Lacey killed her with a hunting knife and cut out her womb and her heart.
He cut out her womb and her heart. Just like the Ripper.
Could Renaud de Lacey possibly be alive? Or was it something worse?
She looked out through the window at the small grey yard beyond.
Clara Clements of Lancaster had her heart and womb cut out. Sebastien had cheerfully admitted to being in Lancaster the night of her murder. It was the night he had bought her the breeches.
And then there was Miss Barton from Pelling, whose heart was still missing. Pelling was a three-hour ride from Lasingstoke.
Sebastien was a killer; this she knew, but a murderer of women? She couldn’t believe that. But he was mad, wasn’t he? Why was this so very different?
She had a story now, but it was one she didn’t want to write. Alexander Dunn was not the Terror of Whitechapel.
And yet . . .
And yet . . .
Fortunately, she did remember to turn off the flame as she left the little rowhouse by the factory.
THE SENTINELS OF Leman Street had always frightened her, just a little. They were taller than a man and no effort had been put into covering up the mechanisms that made them work. While other automatons had little hats, bowties, moustaches, or other human metalwork, these Sentinels had no such attempts made. They were pure clockwork mechamen, and they guarded the doors of the stationhouse, reminding everyone not only of the laws of the Royal British Empire, but of the very ability to see those laws carried out.
She slipped in under their inhuman gaze to the registration desk and Mrs. Coraline Candymore, the registrar.
The woman was easily in her late fifties, and her blue-black hair was piled high on top of her head under a little hat with a single black feather. She was sporting a leather waistcoat and had a brass pistol tucked in the pocket of one breast. With thin lips over protruding teeth, she reminded Ivy of a crane or a stork or some other spindly wading bird. She had worked this desk for longer than most detectives could remember.
“Yes, and what are you wanting?” Candymore did not look up, merely continued punching her type-writing machine.
“Mrs. Candymore, I need to see my tad. Is he at his desk?”
“Your ‘tad.’ And what is your ‘tad’s’ name, girl?”
Ivy sighed. They went through this every time. “Trevis Savage, Inspector, H-Division.”
“And your name?”
“Ivy Savage, daughter of Trevis Savage, Inspector, H-Division.”
“One moment.” Candymore spun and wheeled on her chair towards a second desk where the officers clocked in. She flipped the cards, located one, studied it, looked at Ivy, studied her, before putting the card back and wheeling to her desk once again.
“Yes, he’s at his desk. Be brief. The Hs have work to do.”
“I understand, Mrs. Candymore. Thank you.”
As she left the foyer, Ivy wondered if the Empire needn’t simply hire Coraline Candymore to guard the doors of stationhouses across the nation. She was as fearsome as a sentinel, and almost as inhuman.
Down a short hall, up a flight of stairs, and Ivy breathed in the scent of old coffee, cigarettes, and pistol-grease. More familiar than baking bread, she thought as she opened the door onto the bustling centre that was H-Division.
As usual, the floor was packed with officers, most of whom she knew by name. Leach and White, Lamb and Brown. Through the glass on one of the doors, she could see Thompson and Thicke poring over some papers with Chief Arnold. She’d served them all tea at some time or other. They’d told stories by the fire, brought presents on her birthday. They had been her family growing up.
There were no women on the floor, however, and she’d always wondered why. With half the Empire’s population female, it made no sense. Victoria was down on any woman having a profession, but Ivy knew a woman’s perspective could come in handy in many investigations.
“Hallo Ivy!” called a voice, and she turned to see Carter Beals, one of her tad’s partners. He was a tall man with brown hair and a rather long,
pleasant face. “What are you doing home?”
Home. The Leman Street Station House was home.
“I’m here to see my tad, Mr. Beals. Where is he, please?”
“In with North and Bond. I’ll fetch him toot-de-sweet.” He grinned and disappeared into one of the offices down the hall.
She looked over at her father’s desk. There were three photochromes, two of his children and one of Catherine, back when she’d been alive. She was smiling, looking robust and cheerful. Not a stitch of black lace to be found.
“Ivy?”
It was her father. He was moving quickly toward her, catching her up in his arms for a squeeze. He didn’t seem to want to let go.
“Ivy,” he breathed into her hair.
“Tad?”
“There were two more last night. I found your note and when you didn’t come home . . .”
“Oh, oh Tad, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think . . .”
“Where were you?”
“I was out late and . . .” She bit her lip. “Tad, can we talk somewhere?”
He released his hold but continued to stare at her for a long moment, his green eyes dark with worry. “Of course, my girl.”
“Somewhere private? I have a question . . .”
He glanced at Beals, who shrugged. “Wheaton’s office?”
“Right. This way, my girl.”
And he led her down to the end of the floor to a small windowless room that looked more a broom closet than office. Wheaton was a clerk, and was responsible for much of the press releases and reports filed from H-Division to the newspapers and the Yard. There was a set of pneumatic pipes on one wall and a steam-powered type-writing machine on the desk. Type-writing machines were all the rage in London now. They made her fountain pens seem like antiques.
Savage closed the door behind him, turned up the gaslight on the wall. “What’s wrong with you, my girl? Why are you back in London?”
“It’s a long story, Tad, and I’ll tell you everything, but I need to ask you a question first. Please?”
He raised his brows, waiting, and she took a deep breath.
“The Ripper. Is he left-handed?”
Savage stared at her.
“Well, Tad? Is he?”
Cold Stone and Ivy Page 32