Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

“Coo,” said Mary Jane, and she smiled wickedly. “And ’ere, I thought you was a good girl . . .”

  Ivy looked up at Constable Twist.

  “Sir,” she said. “I must insist we be taken to Inspector Savage at once. We have knowledge of a most heinous crime.”

  “Most heinous,” said Fanny.

  That was when Mary Jane smiled at him, dimples dazzling. Ivy could have sworn the man’s cheeks reddened and his moustache twitched just once.

  “This way.”

  And the ironclad of a man turned and carved a path through the crowd that parted like the Red Sea. The four women followed in his wake.

  THE ROOM AT Central Office was much the same as the room in A-Division, only minus the bed and covered pot. The two buildings were virtually identical, with only a narrow lane separating them. In fact, there were so many of these red-bricked addresses now that made up the Yard that police services were much impeded, hence the need for a comprehensive new building on the Embankment. It would have been a wonderful, progressive thing, had there not been a torso in the cellar.

  Damn those torsos. But there were two fewer to plague him, and it was all he could do to keep from smiling. That, Sebastien concluded, would simply not go down well at the present time.

  “Well,” said the man sitting across the table from him, closing up his medical bag. “These injuries do seem consistent with blows from a spade. Had you not the metal plates in your skull, sir, you could easily have been killed.”

  It had been a pleasure to finally meet Dr. Thomas Bond, the man who had been so instrumental in his brother’s life, and he desperately wished it could have been in happier circumstances. There was little shadow in him and no malice, only pride, a quick, inquisitive mind, and strong sense of justice. However, Sebastien could not shake the feeling that life would not end well for Dr. Bond. Some people just dragged sadness like a chain.

  “In fact,” Bond went on, “I have never seen anything quite like them. A Dr. Arvin Frankow, you say? Neurosurgeon?”

  “Psychiatrist.”

  Bond raised a grey brow. “A talented man.”

  “I am alive and sensate, so I will give him that.”

  “Now, de Lacey,” said the other man. “You are maintaining that it was the Ripper who took this round out of you?”

  He looked like a banker, with thinning dark hair, large deep-set eyes, and a fine up-turned moustache. He had been introduced as Inspector Frederick Abberline, and while the other officers had paid him great respect, Sebastien had yet to see why. He seemed much like the others—pedantic, authoritarian, and sharp. They all threatened like bullies.

  He was tired. Every bone in his body ached. He hadn’t eaten for days and was desperately beginning to wish for either the wide fields of Lasingstoke or the solitary comfort of Lonsdale. He had never been one for much sitting.

  “De Lacey?” the banker reminded him.

  “In my mind, the man I encountered and pursued through the entirety of Whitechapel could only have been London’s Ripper, so yes, I maintain that he is one and the same. But it is my private opinion. A man cannot be held for having an opinion, surely.”

  “And you maintain that this man was left-handed?”

  “He swung the spade with his left. He pressed the blade into my throat with his left, so yes, I do maintain that.”

  “So why did he stop?”

  “I have asked myself the very question. I have yet to discover the answer.”

  “The arms fit, sir,” said Bond now. “To the torso they found at the construction site.”

  “I would expect that they should.”

  “So did you, or did you not, see a head in the Thames?”

  Sebastien was silent.

  “De Lacey?”

  “May I tell you the truth, sir?”

  Abberline snorted but Bond nodded earnestly. “Please do.”

  “I did, in fact, see a head in the Thames. But I have also seen the entire torso for over two months and sent her to a little house we call Seventh at Lasingstoke. But she’s free now, for whatever reason I cannot imagine. She and the other from last summer are gone, although there are two more, very old. I doubt your boys had anything to do with them.”

  “My boys?”

  “Your boys, sir. The medical students.”

  “You suspect my boys because they are medical students?” asked Bond. “You read far too many papers, sir.”

  “I do read many papers, but I suspect your boys because the dead despise them.”

  There was silence once again in the little room for several moments before Dr. Bond leaned forward. “Your brother is very concerned for you, de Lacey.”

  Sebastien leaned forward. “And your boys are very wicked, Dr. Bond. If I had had my pistol that night, I would have shot the lot of them. Without hesitation.”

  “Your brother included?”

  Sebastien set his jaw. “I will never shoot my brother.”

  “Ah,” said Abberline. “Only those who have little or no value to you.”

  “The dead are self-absorbed, sir,” he said. “I am rather preoccupied with their business and leave the living to themselves.”

  “The dead speak to you, then?”

  “The dead rarely speak.”

  There was a rap at the door and a uniformed constable peered in.

  “Dr. Bond? You’re wanted on the floor.”

  With a deep breath, Bond rose to his feet, but paused at the door, throwing a glance at the Mad Lord.

  “Have you ever considered lithium, sir? It might help with the delusions.”

  Sebastien stared at him a moment.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I will consider it.”

  And Bond left the room.

  “So, de Lacey, you’re a clairvoyant?” Abberline asked. “A psychic channel of the other side? A spiritualist?”

  “If I say yes, will you boot me out the door like you did Mr. Robert James Lees? For I would very much like to be booted out this door.”

  Abberline grinned. “I like you, de Lacey. And in fact, I don’t believe you are the Ripper. Can you give me any hard evidence at all that can corroborate your testimony? I have a public that very much wants a hanging.”

  Sebastien sighed and sat back in his chair, the chains making a scraping sound across the table.

  “When the first woman died, a man in a dark Coburn dropped over the fence. He had a black bag similar to a medical bag. When I gave chase, he loosed his Coburn, so perhaps it is also on the street, although it was a very fine coat and I think someone would have nabbed it. There is a yard with a four-foot wall and a spade that might still have my blood on it but it was raining, so any blood will likely have been washed away. Other than those things, sir, there is little I can give you.”

  “And your pistol, sir,” said Abberline. “You told Moore that you shot one of the men you were chasing with a pistol. What has become of that?”

  “I lost it in the scuffle. The Ripper has it in his collection, surely.”

  “Was there a serial number?”

  “No serial number, but it was a musket-bore three-chambered piece commissioned by my father and signed by William Westley Richards. Walnut and steel, with ivory grip. If you find it, I would very much like it back.”

  “So you can shoot more villains?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Moore wants to send you to Broadmoor, you know.”

  “Not Bethlem?”

  “Bedlam doesn’t take the criminally insane.” He pushed off the wall. “Are you, de Lacey, criminally insane?”

  Can’t tell a living person from a dead one. The Avenger of Blood. I believe it to be morally wrong. How could she possibly be safe?

  Sebastien looked down at the cuffs on his wrists. “Maybe so.”

  And with that, the man who looked like a banker shook his head and left the Mad Lord of Lasingstoke alone in the room.

  EACH WOMAN HAD been taken to a separate room, and it was a strange, unnerving feeling to be s
eparated from these women who had grown so close, so quickly. But now she sat across from both Dr. Bond and her father, looking at her hands and trying desperately to keep her chin from rising.

  “You know these are serious allegations, Ivy,” Bond was saying. “Williams could be disbarred for this.”

  “Are you telling the truth, Ivy?”

  She glanced up at her father, who was staring at her, arms crossed over his chest. He looked weary.

  “Yes, Tad. I am. I’m sorry for lying earlier. I’ve always been too quick with my tongue though, haven’t I?”

  He said nothing, telling her everything.

  “Just a moment,” she said and slipped a hand down, past the fabric of her skirts, to the breeches she was wearing underneath. She ignored the strange looks of the men as she found the tight pocket, fished around, and produced a scrap of fabric in her fingers. She held it out to Bond.

  “I found this on the pier that night, very near the bullet hole.”

  Bond took it from her, turned it over in his hand.

  “I believe if you check all of Rosie’s trousers, you will find a pair with a corresponding hole. Unless of course, he’s disposed of them, which he may have done entirely.”

  “Evidence . . .” Bond looked up at her, a faint tug of approval on his lips. “Trevis, why haven’t you trained this girl? She has a good mind for forensics.”

  “You know how many of us die in the line, Bondie. I’ll not have my daughter in danger. I’ll not. Not for my last girl.”

  “She’s an asset, Trev,” muttered the surgeon, and he leaned forward now, lacing his hands across the table. “And you say that Williams admitted performing these abortions at Bethlem?”

  “Yes, sir. Mary Jane and Rosie confirmed it.”

  “The physicians of Bethlem are bound to deny these allegations.”

  “Of course they would,” she said. “If Williams was being called in to do these because of inadequate supervision in a public lunatic asylum, do you think the staff are going to admit it? Even worse if a patient dies because of it. It would look very bad on them if this came out.”

  “The boys will be suspended,” said Bond quietly. “They always were pranksters, but what they’ve done to the bodies . . . As medical men, this is unconscionable.”

  “Remy too,” added her father. “Is that what you want, Ivy? Do you want to see Remy’s career ended before it has even begun? He’s a fine man, Ivy. He’s been very, very good to us.”

  “I know he has, Tad.” She felt her throat tightening once again. “So don’t pursue it. Leave it. Ignore it. Sweep it all under the rug. But don’t make Sebastien de Lacey spend another night in irons because of it. He is innocent of these crimes and you know it. Even if you don’t want to believe it, you know it.”

  Savage sighed, looked at the ceiling.

  “No, the boys are guilty,” said Bond sadly. “I should have seen it earlier. I should have known . . .”

  He sat back in his chair and ran a finger along his grey moustache. “Williams has been running clinics for years now. We’ve all known it, but he kept it quiet, kept it discreet. God knows, the street girls need the help, and he was the perfect one to do it for them, with his connections and his research. But if a girl died because of it, it’s unlikely that even Victoria could intervene if a family chose to prosecute.”

  “We’ve had these torsos for years, Bondie,” said Savage. “Are you suggesting Williams has been using students all along?”

  “I am out of my depth, Trev. He would have suggested it surely as an easy way to dispose of the evidence. And from a purely pedantic point of view, it is no different than using our John Does, vagrants, and paupers for teaching purposes. The boys would not think twice if asked by an instructor. Lewis has no morals. Bender and Pickett only slightly more so, but Remy . . .” He shook his head. “I had such high hopes for Remy. He usually stays above it all.”

  “Please don’t think too harshly of him, sir,” said Ivy. “He thinks of you as a father. And Dr. Williams too. He would do anything to please either of you.”

  “That’s very astute of you, Ivy. The gate to hell is flanked by approval and rejection.”

  There was a buzz at the door, and Savage opened it to reveal an automaton the size of a child. It held a letter in its pincer-like grip, telescoped it up so the investigator could take it. He peeled it open, read it quickly, raised his brows, and gave the communiqué back to the little robot. It wheeled on its axis and disappeared down the hall.

  “Bondie, the boys are in room two-thirty. Williams is on his way.”

  “Ah, me. What a night . . .”

  As the Police Surgeon left the room, Ivy looked up at her father, tried to stop the quiver of her chin.

  “Tad, will you have Sebastien released? Please?”

  “I’ll do what I can, my girl, but it’s not my call. Moore’s the Chief and he doesn’t like your Mad Lord one bit. He’d be happy to see him swing for anything.”

  She swallowed, feeling quite undone.

  “You really care about him, don’t you?”

  Damn those tears. She could not stop them this time.

  “Oh, Tad,” she moaned. “I thought I was helping. I thought I was being clever, but I’ve made such a mess of things . . .”

  And he crossed the floor and wrapped his arms around her as she wept into his chest.

  “You are clever, my girl,” he said, stroking her hair and rocking her like he did when she was little. “Too damned clever for me.”

  He held her face in his hands, brushed the tears away with his thumbs. “I’ve never given you enough credit. I was afraid of losing you, and I thought Remy would keep you safe. Maybe I’m the one who’s made a mess of things.”

  “Just growing up Savage.” She took a deep shuddering breath and tried to smile. “Please help Sebastien, Tad.”

  “I’ll do what I can, my girl.”

  He kissed the top of her head, lingering a moment before following the surgeon out of the room, leaving Ivy alone for the first time in hours.

  She pulled out the punch card from the pocket of her skirt, setting her mind to figuring out exactly how a dead man could kill.

  Chapter 38

  Of Flying Corpses, Sitting Pigeons,

  and a Dead Man Walking

  NO ONE HAD come back in for some time, and at some point, he had fallen asleep, head down on the wooden table, cheek resting on the cold links of iron that were his claps. The dead had come and gone, leaving him once they realized he would not help, and his sleep had been restless, with dreams distorting in a brew of memory and fear.

  Suddenly, the room grew cold, and he lifted his head from the table. The locket was spinning madly, causing light to flash across the room.

  His father was standing at the door.

  Sebastien studied him for a long moment, blinking the cobwebs from his mind and trying to harness his thoughts. They were rushing like wild horses.

  “Damnation,” growled his father, eyes glued to the locket. “I knew it was back.”

  “Are you flesh,” Sebastien began quietly, for his voice was merely a croak, “or are you spirit?”

  His father’s lip curled, and he turned the key to lock the door before gliding into the room.

  “I had you for ten years, boy. You know the drill. When the spirit is willing . . .”

  “The flesh is weak . . .” Sebastien finished, staring up now as his father circled the little desk. The room was very cold, with long slicks of ice now growing up the walls. His own breath was frosting the air, but truth be told, his father’s was as well, answering his question. “Why are you here?”

  “To kill you. Your flesh is weak.”

  Sebastien nodded. He knew it was true.

  “Frankow should have let you die all those years ago. He did no one a kindness, least of all you.”

  His father was standing beside him now, hands clasped behind his back, and a dozen dead women began to rise from the floor.

 
; “Your brother is the strong one,” Renaud growled. “He should be running Lasingstoke, not you. And certainly not my damned brother.”

  The iron around his wrists was burning his skin with frost, and his teeth had begun to chatter on their own. There were sparks arcing from the locket, and he could feel heat and cold radiating from it in waves. The door was locked from the inside. No one would be coming to help. No one would be coming at all.

  “Remy is a bright, clever, obedient boy. Not you. You are a bastard. Your mother doted on you, but I should have drowned you then when I had the chance.” He looked down his nose, blue eyes narrowed and cold. “I did not try hard enough.”

  Sebastien swallowed, knowing it to be true.

  “And so, somehow, you ended up with my estate, my pistol, and my Ghostlight.”

  He reached a hand for the locket, but was repulsed by an arc of blue light. Renaud hissed and pulled back.

  “So this is how you’re going to end it, boy. Listen up and pay attention.”

  The man leaned down and Sebastien could see the bullet hole in his temple. The skin was puckered and proud, and he was grateful the other side was turned away from him.

  “They’re going to take you to Broadmoor. Not Bedlam. Bedlam refuses to accept the criminally insane now. Far too upscale for murdering lunatics like yourself. There will be no little surgery for you, not even a chance of a normal life. They will not do that for criminals and bastards. So, very soon, they will come to take you to Broadmoor, but you will escape them en route—I don’t care how you do it—just do it and make your way back to Hollbrook House. There, you will find my pistol in Remy’s bag. It’s a fine pistol and you don’t deserve it. You never have. You will leave the locket in the bag, take the pistol up to your room, and you will blow your own damned head off with it. Do you hear me, boy? For if you do not . . .”

  The stench of death from his mouth, the smell of blood, the writhing and wailing of the women.

  “If you do not, the Ripper will strike again, and this time he will take your little novelist, Miss Ivy Savage. He will remove the skin from her face, cut off her breasts and the flesh from her thighs, move her organs around like chess pieces. He will cut out her heart the way she has cut out my Remy’s, the way your mother cut out mine. He will make her the worst of all of them and will cut her into one hundred pieces and turn her into your mother, lying on a bloody sheet. And that will be only the beginning . . .”