“He was up in June during the Solstice festival. Here’s his receipt from the Tumblestone in Pelling the same date Tilly Barton was done. I believe her heart is still missing . . .”
“I think I know where he sent it.”
“Hmph.”
She clutched the pot tightly as ballast. Storms were rough everywhere tonight.
Rupert glanced up at her. “You still don’t believe it, do you?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Well, that’s honest. Sebastien found the pistol in his medical bag. Just like Renaud said.”
Easier even to believe a dead man killing in the streets of Whitechapel.
“Remy saw him do it,” Rupert went on. “He told me once when he was little. Renaud had just thrown Sebastien out the window, and he turned, saw Remy staring at him with those great blue eyes of his . . .”
He sighed, flicked ash onto the floor of the airship.
“He put a hand on his head, pulled the pistol, and fired. It must have happened then. I can only guess how much our Remy has suffered.”
“He never let on,” Ivy said softly. “He is always in control of everything, what he says, what he does . . .”
“A mask. A bloody English mask on a very French face.”
Rupert flicked his cigarette again and bent back to his papers.
She looked over at Sebastien, sitting cross-legged on the floor under the window. His eyes were closed, hands cupping the locket that was hanging from his neck, and she could see snowflakes spinning in circles around his palms.
“That thing is killing him,” said Rupert without looking up.
It was obvious. His eyes and cheeks were sunken, lips blue, as they moved to unspoken words—prayers most likely, in Latin.
“Remy had it all along. I don’t know how he managed to lay his hands on it—he was never allowed in their room.”
“Is that why Renaud was able to wear Christien’s body like his own, to be able to kill? Because of the locket?”
“Most likely, but I don’t know, to be honest. This is not my world.”
She nodded. “And the murders stopped when he gave it to me, but started again when I returned with it to London.”
“Which is why we’ll need to move quickly once it’s back in the city.”
“Yes.” She looked over at the Mad Lord. “What is he doing?”
“Practicing.”
“Practicing what?”
“Tracking. Something that Frankow was supposed to teach him, but didn’t. Something about following a trail. Cold trail. Spirit trail. Something like that.”
“Oh.”
She could feel Rupert’s eyes on her now and she looked away, heat growing in her cheeks.
“You’ve made your choice, then?”
“Sorry?”
“Of my boys. I assumed that with the ‘death’ of one and the ruin of the other, you’d see clear to leave well enough alone; yet, here you are, back with a vengeance.” He blew smoke out through tightened lips. “What are you thinking, little skirt?”
She looked down at her left hand. “I am wearing no man’s ring, sir. I am a writer pursuing a story. No more than that.”
“No more? Really?”
“Yes, sir.” She swallowed, looking back at the Mad Lord sitting under the window. “No more than that.”
But she was wearing tan breeches, riding boots, and a red corset laced over her blouse, so she imagined she had made a choice after all.
She clutched the pot a little more tightly and waited for the ship to dock.
ONLY A VIOLET I plucked when but a boy,
And oft' times when I'm sad at heart, this flow'r has given me joy,
But while life does remain, in memoriam I'll retain
This small violet I plucked from mother's grave.
It was strange—wonderful strange—and sad how a scrap of a tune forgotten since childhood came back to mind so easily once begun. As they wandered the streets from Commercial around to Dorset and all the way to Osburn and Brick, then back around on Buxton towards the Bells, they sang “A Violet From Mother’s Grave,” again and again and again. He had a woman tucked under each arm, and while it might have looked like they were supporting him, it was clearly the other way round. Both Mary Jane and Julia were quite drunk, and he wondered how they could not afford food nor rent, but seemed to find enough for gin and beer. Gentlemen, he knew, hoping to buy their company with a drink or two. These girls had likely not paid for their own drinks in years.
For his part, Christien was not near as drunk as he would have liked tonight.
It was dark now and the streets were filled on this Friday night. The rain had held off, although the fog had rolled in, keeping everything damp and chill. It wasn’t bad yet but he had masks in his bag, just in case. The Ripper had not struck in over a month and it seemed good times were returning to the worst street in London. For one night it was a wonderful and desperate delusion.
Scenes of my childhood arise before my gaze,
Bringing recollections of bygone happy days,
When down in the meadow in childhood I would roam;
No one's left to cheer me now within that good old home.
Father and mother they have passed away.
Sister and brother now lay beneath the clay;
But while life does remain, to cheer me I'll retain
This small violet I plucked from mother's grave
“My mum’s dead, you know,” said Christien, and both girls turned their faces to look at him. He nodded seriously. “My dad killed her. Cut her into a hundred pieces in her bed.”
“Like the Ripper,” cooed Julia.
“Just like the Ripper.”
“Did your dad swing for it?”
“He did not.” Christien made a face, pulled his gloved left hand to his temple—for he was sporting his medical bag in his right—made a pistol with his fingers. “Popped himself, he did. Right in front of me too. Bam. Have you ever seen a man shoot his own head off? It’s a terrible thing.”
“Just like yer brother,” said Mary Jane.
He looked down at her. She was so very beautiful. “Just like my brother.”
And he kissed her as they walked, bumping into a streetlamp and laughing it off.
“So you see, it’s just like the song . . .
But now all is silent around the good old home,
They all have left me in sorrow here to roam;
While life does remain, in memoriam I'll retain
This small violet I plucked from mother's grave.”
And they all joined in on the chorus and sang as loudly as they could as they walked drunkenly back towards 13 Miller’s Court on Dorset.
IT WAS CLEAR that poor old Pomfrey had not been let in on the ruse as they pushed open the door into the foyer of Hollbrook House. As he took their coats and gloves, he looked as though he had just seen a ghost. Which, thought Ivy, was perfectly reasonable.
The dogs had stayed in the carriage with Castlewaite to be taken to the mews to be fed. She couldn’t imagine poor Pomfrey tending six happy, wet dogs the way Cookie did.
The three of them stomped up the steps to the long hall that led to the sleeping rooms. They stopped at one of the doors.
“This one?” asked Rupert, and Sebastien nodded sharply. He had not spoken at all since boarding the Chevalier, and Rupert had warned her on more than one occasion not to touch him. The air around him was brutally cold, even to frosting up the windows in the carriage on the way in from Big Ben Tower, and she had found her teeth chattering on account of it. Even now, it was fogging the breath in front of their faces as the door swung open onto Christien’s room.
Rupert moved in to start a fire and she let her eyes sweep around the room. It was green. Odd, she thought. She had never seen Christien’s bedroom, could not have imagined it. The colour was exquisite, however—rich and velvety and elegant—and she had to admit that it did suit him so. There were books everywhere, and strange mec
hanical devices with lenses and gears and wire. There was a birdcage in the window but no bird, and by the bedside, a vial of pills. For his headaches, she knew. The neighbouring physician, Jekyll, had written him a script. Everything was neat, orderly, meticulous. Everything had its place.
She swallowed, fighting back the rush of emotion, but she felt Rupert’s eyes on her and was determined to hold up under them.
As Rupert spoke to Pomfrey, Sebastien moved slowly into the centre of the room and dropped to sitting, cross-legged on the floor. He took a long, deep breath, his exhale sounding like tinkling crystal, and Ivy thought she had never seen a man so otherworldly as he looked now. His skin was pale, his pupils wide, almost fully black like a cat’s in the night, and she wondered what he was seeing.
“I need . . .” His voice was hollow, echoing.
Rupert turned to him.
“Yes, Laury? What do you need?”
“I need something of his . . .” He turned his strange gaze to Pomfrey. “He sleeps here? In this room?”
“Why, yes sir. He does, sir. Most nights, sir. That is, when he is not working. Which he is not, these days . . .”
“Personal effects?” asked Rupert and Pomfrey shrugged.
“He had a bird, a pretty little songbird, but it died. It looked as if someone had wrung its neck, but who would do such a thing to a pretty little bird?”
Sebastien exhaled again, and Ivy could have sworn she saw his breath fall to the floor like ice.
“His pillow. Give me his pillow.”
Ivy glanced at Rupert, who nodded, so she moved quietly to the bed, lifted one of the pillows. It was heavy with the softest down, its case pure silk, and she carried it as though it were the crown jewels as she crossed the floor.
“Carefully,” said Rupert. “Don’t touch him.”
She nodded and passed the pillow into the Mad Lord’s waiting hand.
He closed his eyes, ran his palms over the fabric, crushed the feathers in his grip. The locket began to spin once again, and tiny sparks flashed in the darkness.
“A hospital . . . The Royal . . . He has gone to the Royal . . . why?”
“Ah, to collect his things, sir,” Pomfrey answered. “His studies have been suspended.”
Rupert crouched down close beside him. “It’s closing on eleven, Laury. He’s not at the Royal now. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You need to ask.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You need to.”
Rupert leaned closer, and she could swear she saw the scruff of his chin begin to freeze.
“We need to find him and take him to Lonsdale. He will be safe at Lonsdale, Laury. Frankow will help him.”
“Yes,” said Sebastien. “Frankow will help.”
“So, you need to ask.”
Sebastien nodded, and Ivy watched as he dropped the pillow and turned his palms upward. A wind picked up in the bedroom.
Pomfrey stepped back, eyes wide, and Ivy took his arm in hers. Truth be told, she wasn’t any less afraid.
The wind began to whip their hair and clothing, the drapes along the window, the papers on the dressers. Everything was moving and moaning and beginning to whirl in circles in the centre of the room. She thought she could see faces in the swirling of the wind, and she shuddered at the thought.
Ghostlight was spinning madly now and sending sparks into the wind. It began to rise off his chest as if being pulled heavenward by a powerful magnet.
Or angels.
There was a strange sound and the light of the fireplace began to reflect on the floor. She narrowed her eyes to see. It was ice growing in a slick across the floor. Like a shot, the ice flashed out the door and down the hall. Sebastien leapt to his feet and out the door after it. Rupert grabbed her shoulders, hauling her out of his way.
“You see?” said the Scourge. “Tracking. Castlewaite! Fetch the dogs!”
And together, the pair of them followed the Mad Lord out onto the streets of Kensington-Knightsbridge.
SHE FASTENED THE last button of her bodice, slipped her feet into the boots, and propped her foot onto the desk to draw the laces. There was a healthy fire in the hearth, and she threw a look over to the bed. Julia was asleep, her mousey hair spilled across the pillow, one arm across de Lacey’s chest. He was watching her with sleepy eyes.
She smiled.
“Yer a bonnie boy, my Remy,” she said. “You were always better than the rest.”
He blinked slowly but said nothing.
“The ten pounds? Where is it, then?”
“Why?”
She snatched her shawl from the chair, wrapped it around her shoulders. “I have bills, Remy, and I likes to pay ’em.”
He nodded at the pile of clothes on the floor. “Trousers, back pocket.”
She snatched it up, pulled the bill from the pocket, slipped it into her bodice before folding the trousers neatly and laying them on the desk. She turned and swished over to the bed.
“But I’ll be back, not to worry . . .” And she sat one hip on the edge, leaned over to stroke his fine face. “Ten pounds is too much for a mop like me . . .”
He gazed up at her. “You’re beautiful.”
“I could be,” she said, running a finger along his cheek. “For a man like you, I could be anything. I could be yer moll, Remy. I’d like that. And I wouldn’t have eyes for no other man, I wouldn’t. I would be yers, all yers. Miss Ivy had it fer yer brother, but I’d only have eyes fer you.”
She bent over, kissing him, felt his hands begin to move across her body once again. She caught them, brought them to her lips.
“I’ll be back soon. And I’ll be all yers.”
She rose to her feet and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
IT WAS VERY dark on the street and Sebastien tried to get his bearings. Late at night, from the looks of the sky, and London judging from the skyline and the people. Only in London would people be out after dark, masked now because of the fog. It was difficult to remember how he had arrived back in London. He hated London. He would rather be dead than be here.
He was in a park, a city park, and he ran through the list in his mind. Hyde Park, Green Park, St. James’ Park, Regent’s Park, Kensington Gardens, Battersea . . .
He smelled water, heard it lapping quietly on a shore. A bridge mirrored in a lake, a silver-blue bridge over water.
Blue Bridge, St. James’ Park. He was on the Mall at St. James, by Buckingham.
He had been following the ice. Damnation. He had been tracking.
He took a long deep breath, turned both palms upward to the sky.
“Adiuvate me,” he whispered. “Ostendite mihi viam.”
He could feel the chill start from his ribs, up his back to his throat, and his teeth began chattering.
“Adiuva me. Ostende mihi viam. Adiuva me. Ostende mihi viam. Adiuva me. Ostende mihi viam.”
He repeated the plea over and over until he was shaking with cold. He scanned the street, caught a flash of lamplight in the gutter. He stepped over toward it, eyes straining in the darkness.
There was ice in the gutter.
It crackled and stretched like a living thing, pointing like a finger, leading him eastward.
He went east.
THE FIRE WAS dwindling as he slipped from the bed. It was late and she had not returned. He cared nothing for this Julia in this bed. She was a warm body, nothing more. But he did try not to disturb her as he raised the thin sheet and left her alone to begin the process of dressing.
He rolled up his stockings, pinned them to the garters before stepping into his trousers. He slipped into his shoes, pulled the spats overtop, watched with fascination the tendons in his hands as he worked the buttons. The cold air and warm fire made his skin prickle and he noticed the gooseflesh raise the hairs across his arms. Bodies, he thought. Bloody marvels.
Their clothes were strewn everywhere in the tiny room, and he noticed a broken window,
stuffed with paper and cloth. He shook his head, wondering how people lived this way. Hollbrook House must have seemed a palace to her. He bent to pick up a skirt, folded it neatly, placed it on the desk. A blouse, stockings, a chemise, a shawl, all he carefully handled, placing them in a meticulous stack. His shirt he plucked from the floor, shook out the ashes and bits of straw, and gasped as his head suddenly split with the pain that had plagued him for years.
He dropped the shirt and sat on a stool, rubbing his forehead until the ache subsided. He had not had one of these for weeks, and he released a long breath, looked for and spied his medical bag by the door. Not a good place for it, he reckoned. In this lodging house, anyone could slip a hand in and nick it.
He swung it onto the desk next to the clothes. There was a whisper in his ear, and he turned. No one was there, only the girl, and she sleeping soundly as the grave. He frowned, turned back to the bag. His pills were in there and he reached in for them, somewhere between the hypodermic syringes and the stethoscope. There were his surgical instruments as well—his haemostats, gauzes, forceps, and blades. The Lister, one of his favourites. A beautiful knife, producing a smooth cut. And Williams’s surgical blade, a fine black-handled piece, razor sharp and easily gripped.
Pick it up, whispered a voice. Feel it in your hand. It is a good blade. That’s my boy. My saucy boy.
His head throbbed, and he closed the bag quickly, let his eyes slide over to the figure of the sleeping woman.
“I could be yer moll, Remy,” she had said. “I’d like that. And I wouldn’t have eyes for no other man, I wouldn’t. I would be yers. All yers. Miss Ivy had it fer yer brother, but I’d only have eyes fer you.”
Marie had been right. From the moment she had set foot in Lasingstoke, Ivy had had eyes for Sebastien. She had tried to deny it, but he had seen it, plain as day. She had strayed and lost her heart. She had given it away, a heart she had once promised to him.
But now all is silent around the good old home,
Cold Stone and Ivy Page 42