Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

  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.

  His mother had given her heart away, and so his father had taken it back.

  There had been so much blood.

  He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the whispers were growing louder.

  Bloody marvels. Bloody, bloody marvels.

  The voice of angels.

  He looked back at his bag. It was opening all on its own; something grey was reaching out.

  And that was the last thing he remembered for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 44

  Of Six Dogs, Ten Bells,

  and a Cry of Murder on Dorset Street

  SHE PRESSED HER nose against the window glass, trying to catch a glimpse of fur among the carriages clogging the streets at this hour. Apparently, Sebastien was tracking his brother and the dogs were tracking him. She wondered how Castlewaite in the dickey could keep them in his sights as they wove between the wheels and horses’ legs, but the dogs were well-trained and did not bolt off after cats, steamcars, or other distractions.

  She threw a weary glance at Rupert. He had a cigarette in his teeth, but was chewing on the butt more than smoking it. He noticed her look.

  “What?” he asked flatly.

  “How is he doing this?”

  “You think I understand, skirt? From what Frankow has said, the women are using the locket to track their killer.”

  “The dead women?”

  “It would be rather difficult for a living woman to track her killer, since she is living.”

  She scowled at him. “But if he can do this, why doesn’t he do it all the time?”

  The man shrugged, pulled the stub from between his teeth, tossed it to the floor of the cab. “Because he doesn’t know how. Because he isn’t trained. Because he never had the locket. Because it’s what led to the madness of his father. Take your pick, skirt. This is not my world, remember?”

  “Why can’t we touch him?”

  “By God, you’re a badger,” he grunted, began lighting a second cigarette. “He used to have seven dogs. Once before, when he gave it a try, one got worried like Tag, got too close, nudged him with her nose. Sucked all the heat out of her in a heartbeat. Shattered into a thousand pieces all over the Persian carpet.” He blew out a long stream of smoke, stared out the window. “Cookie was not amused.”

  “Oh . . .” was all Ivy could think to say as she tried not to imagine a shattered dog or Cookie.

  They continued their journey through the bleak streets in silence.

  HE HAD FOLLOWED the ice for hours. He was cold, wet, and exhausted, and now the ice was gone and he stood under the gothic limestone pillars of Christ Church Spitalfields.

  A church. Trust dead women to lead him to a church.

  He knew it. He should have sent the very first one to the little chapel the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He had been too young. He hadn’t known what to do.

  Damn these cursed spirits. He would if he knew how.

  His legs were shaking, so he sank down onto the curved steps beneath the pediment. There were two gaslights by the doorway and one across the street above a pub that looked to be very busy. He squinted as he tried to read it. Bells, the sign said. Ten Bells. For the church bells, most likely. He wondered if they indeed rang ten.

  At least the church was quiet. He would check and see if it was open in a moment, once he caught his wind. He had been on the move for most of the night, and while Hollbrook House seemed worlds away from this terrible corner of the city, he knew it couldn’t have been more than twelve miles. Didn’t matter. He had failed.

  He felt his muscles begin to tremble in the aftermath of the tracking. It was brutally cold in their clutches, cold and black and empty like a grave. He had given himself over; they had led him here and left him, and now he was alone, sitting on the cold wet step of a church and no closer to finding his brother. Pointless, he thought miserably. Useless.

  Even Ghostlight hung darkly against his chest.

  He hoped the automabobs got good shots of him tonight. The Mad Lord de Lacey back from the grave. That would be poetic justice, he figured. The peelers would chew on it for weeks.

  He closed his eyes and leaned against the pillar, wishing for sleep. Instead, he got a wet nose.

  He opened one eye. “Tagger . . .”

  And then many wet noses and kisses as finally, the carriage rattled to a halt at the foot of the steps. Rupert stepped out with Ivy Savage at his heels. He shook his head. The woman was worse than one of his dogs. It was a wonder her nose wasn’t wet.

  “Laury?” asked Rupert, towering over him in the darkness.

  “All done,” he sighed. “All gone. Nothing. Nowhere. Pointless. Useless. Failed again.”

  “Oh, stop grousing,” said the man and reached under his arm to haul him to his feet. “Come on, little skirt. It’s three a.m. and the pubs never close in Whitechapel. Let’s get my boy a drink.”

  And Miss Savage too now, slipping her arm under his, and together they lifted him to stand.

  “Wait,” he said. “Dogs. In the coach. Go. Go now.”

  One by one, the six dogs slunk off to hop into the coach, with tails—those that had them—tucked between their legs. Ivy wrinkled her nose.

  “That is going to smell dreadful when we are finished.”

  Rupert grinned. “Then the point shall be to drink enough not to notice.”

  And they set off across Fournier Street to the pub.

  IT WAS NEARING four a.m. when they pulled chairs at the Bells. An automaton furnished crudely as a woman, with large colanders for breasts, twisted copper wire for hair, and tin petticoats, had taken their order and they sat now, Rupert drinking bourbon and Sebastien a second large dark ale. Ivy nursed an absinthe, not certain if she enjoyed the strong taste but also fearful of repeating her purl experience of a month ago. She was, she had convinced herself, a teetotaller.

  Sebastien looked terrible. His eyes were completely different colours, his clothes muddy, his hair a wet, dishevelled mess. He had in fact, just run through a good half of London, and through a toxic fog to boot, but there was more than physical exertion playing a role. She was beginning to appreciate how taxing his abilities must be and wondered if he regretted not making that last shot count.

  “Well, maybe the locket led you here,” said Rupert, one hand on his bourbon as his eyes swept the crowds. “This place is close to the hospital and we know he was there tonight.”

  She watched as Sebastien finished his second ale and laid his head in his arms across the table. There was a peal of laughter and she looked to a doorway off the bar where a woman was escorting a man into the crowd. Ivy recognized the dimples in a heartbeat.

  Across the floor, their eyes locked for the briefest of moments before Mary Jane looked away, quickly ducking into the crowd with her companion. Ivy felt a pang of regret that friendship was not in the cards. She had liked the woman immensely.

  There was a humming sound and Sebastien raised his head. The locket about his neck was spinning, but in the opposite direction.

  “Rupert . . .”

  “Mm-yes, Laury?”

  “Oh God, Rupert . . .” he moaned.

  Rupert moved his bourbon aside. “Laury?”

  And suddenly, Sebastien bolted to his feet, knocking his chair backwards in haste. He was breathing with great difficulty and began to stagger towards the door, pushing patrons and knocking over their drinks as he passed. People grumbled at him, but then again, this was a public house in Whitechapel. A night was not a night without a brawl or a good drunk.

  The air smelled of sulfur with the fog hovering like a blanket as Sebastien staggered onto the street. There were many coaches parked along the roadside, making the narrow street narrower still, and Ivy spied him leaning against one of them, retching into the gutter. Steam rose from storm drains and from
the horses’ breaths and from the gutter where his beer had landed.

  They exchanged glances but waited for him to finish before approaching.

  “Laury?” said Rupert once again.

  “There’s another one . . .” he moaned, wiping his chin with his sleeve. “Oh Rupert, she’s . . . I’ve never seen . . . Oh dear God . . .”

  “It’s all right, Laury,” said Rupert. “We can still find him.”

  “Make her go away . . .”

  “I can’t, Laury. You know I can’t.”

  “Where?” he moaned to the empty sidewalk. “Where are you? Lead me! Ducite me!”

  And he began to gesture wildly, pleading with an invisible someone, and to Ivy’s eyes, she had never seen a man look so utterly insane as he did now.

  Suddenly, he froze, turned his head back as the pub door swung open, spilling light out into the dark street. Two patrons stepped out—Mary Jane Kelly and a man—laughing. The man pressed something into her palm, and she kissed him on the cheek before wrapping her shawl and rushing between the parked coaches, setting off swiftly down Fournier.

  Sebastien’s eyes had not left her for a moment and without a word, he set off to follow.

  Rupert turned to look at Ivy. “I’m not certain—”

  “Let’s go,” she said, darting off after the Mad Lord. Rupert shook his head and did the same.

  MARY JANE WAS moving swiftly, glancing behind her from time to time, as they followed in her footsteps. In fact, Sebastien was like a hound on a scent, Rupert only paces behind, and Ivy was forced to run to keep up with them both in the darkness. Castlewaite was following with the coach but the streets had grown narrow and he was forced to halt the horses and wait for them on Shepherd. The fog was a Pea Souper, and she wished they had thought to bring their masks. Prolonged exposure to the Soup was toxic, and there was a thriving black market in stolen gas masks. Now it was creating a strange illumination, catching the light from the streetlamps, bouncing it all around as if it were a strange silver dawn. In reality, it was very likely four in the morning and, for once, the streets of Whitechapel were as silent as the grave.

  Suddenly, the young woman swung around.

  “Leave me!” she snapped and began marching back toward them. “I know ’oo you are! You leave me and Remy be!”

  Sebastien did not stop but caught her by the arms, forced her backwards into a wall.

  “Where is he? Where?!”

  “Murder!” Mary Jane began battling at him. “You let me be! Murder!”

  “Where?” He shook her now.

  Rupert caught him now, hauling him off the young woman. Ivy slipped in between, pushing the Mad Lord back and reaching for Mary Jane.

  “Don’t you touch me!” shouted the woman, swatting at Ivy’s hands now and backing up down the street. “I’m not givin’ the money back, I’m not! ’E owed me, fair and square, so’s I took it!”

  “We don’t want your money, Mary Jane—”

  “Marie, you little mop! I told you! So you take yer Mad Lord and shove off! Remy’s mine now, not yers!”

  “Marie, I don’t—”

  “You left ’im, you did! Broke ’is poor ’eart! Picked ’im instead.” She stabbed a finger at the Mad Lord, still bound up in Rupert’s grip. “You made a bad choice of it, my girl. Remy’s worth ten of ’im.”

  “Marie, Remy’s not well—”

  “’E did right well tonight, I’d say. Kept up with two of us, ’e did. Aye, ’e did right well.” The young woman tossed her blond curls. “Not like you’d know.”

  “Marie, we just need to see him. He has a condition.” She reached into her pocket where she had slipped his prescription. “He has pills, see?”

  Mary Jane eyed the bottle with suspicion.

  “Fer ’is ’eadaches?”

  “Yes, Marie. For his headaches. Please, we just want to help him. Please.”

  She eyed Ivy now with equal suspicion.

  “Your word, now. I know where you live. I could make big trouble fer yer dad.”

  “You have my word, Marie. We just want to help him.”

  “I’m not givin’ up the money.”

  “I’m not asking—”

  “I have one hundred pounds,” said Rupert, finally releasing his nephew and stepping into the conversation. “Take us to him, and it’s yours.”

  Mary Jane wavered. “You can’t buy me.”

  “In point of fact, I can.”

  And he pulled a one-hundred-pound note from his pocket. He held it out to her as one might a bone for a hungry dog. She snatched it from his grip, tucking it into her bodice.

  “If you ’urt ’im . . .”

  Rupert sighed. “We’re not going to hurt him, skirt.”

  “Marie.” She fairly spat the name at him. “Marie Jeanette.”

  “Marie Jeanette.” He grinned his lazy cat grin. “Très jolie.”

  She eyed him now, and Ivy marvelled at how quickly she shifted. She needed to, undoubtedly. She had lived on these streets a long time.

  “And what about ’im?” She nodded her chin at Sebastien. “If ’e so much as lays a finger on me . . .”

  “Then he’ll wait in the coach with the rest of the dogs.”

  Sebastien glowered but said nothing.

  “I’m not a cheap whore,” she growled under her breath.

  “I’ve just paid one hundred pounds, chéri. And I’m quite certain you’re worth every penny.”

  She stared at him a long moment before nodding swiftly once.

  “This way,” she grumbled, turning and hiking off down Shepherd Street.

  MILLER’S COURT WAS a crowded tenement and it was situated on an alley off Dorset. The arched entrance to the yard was long and narrow, and the odour of rotting garbage very strong. Ivy was sincerely wishing for a gas mask now. The rubbish smelled worse than the Soup.

  Mary Jane led them down the yard, stepping over a milk canister, a water bucket, and several broken carriage wheels lying on the ground. Grass attempted to grow between the stones and heaving had made the footing treacherously uneven. They could see the light of a flickering fire from within the lodging but little else, as the glass was blackened with soot. There was also a gas lamp on the wall opposite the door, and Mary Jane made use of its light as she pulled a skeleton key from her skirts and fumbled with the lock.

  “No,” said Sebastien, and Ivy turned. He was hanging back in the yard now, shaking his head. Around his neck, the locket was spinning and steady. “No, no, don’t go in . . .”

  Mary Jane snorted and twisted the key, Rupert slipping quietly behind her. He glanced over his shoulder at his nephew, who shook his head again. Mary Jane pushed open the door, stepped inside the room, and looked toward the hearth.

  As if she had been struck in the belly, she doubled up, a strangled cry escaping from her throat. Rupert moved swiftly, covering her mouth with his hand and dragging her back out of the room into the shadows of the yard. Ivy watched as the woman thrashed in his grip until slowly, her struggles grew weak and she began to sob uncontrollably. The Scourge of Lasingstoke turned her and held her while she wept.

  He looked at Sebastien.

  “He’s not there.”

  The Mad Lord nodded, stepped past him into the tiny room, and Ivy moved to follow, but Rupert shook his head.

  “No, skirt. It’s best you not.”

  And for once, her chin did not rise.

  “Take her to the coach. Castlewaite has a flask that will help with her nerves.”

  Ivy nodded, reached for the mother’s sister’s husband’s sister’s cousin of her best friends. The young woman was shaking, her breathing coming in ragged gasps, but she allowed herself to be passed into Ivy’s care, did not struggle as Ivy slipped an arm around her waist and began to usher her from the yard.

  “Murdered . . .” she moaned. “Julia . . . murdered . . .”

  “Ssshh,” hushed Ivy, and together they left Miller’s Court, but she did throw one look back over her sho
ulder to see Sebastien emerge from the lodging. He leaned against the doorframe, ran a hand across his face. He looked utterly undone.

  She took Mary Jane’s arm and led her toward the coach. She didn’t know what to say, even less what to think. It was all true. Christien, her Christien. The man to whom she had pledged her heart, a murderer. Even as she walked, she began to shake as the horror of that thought sank deep into her bones.

  Suddenly, a masked figure loomed out of the fog and into their path. The bulbous eyes glowed green, and slowly the man slid the mask up onto his fine forehead.

  “Hello, Ivy,” said Christien, and he held up a pearl ring in the gaslight. “I believe you’ve lost something.”

  Chapter 45

  Of Life, Death, and Those in Between

  “CHRISTIEN!” SHE GASPED.

  “You . . .” growled Mary Jane. “You killed ’er! You cut ’er into pieces like a bloody sow on market day! ’Ow could you?”

  “Easy,” said Christien, slipping the ring back into his waistcoat pocket. “With a sharp enough blade, even tough meat like an East End whore carves like Sunday roast.”

  The sound that came from Mary Jane’s throat was not a sound Ivy would soon forget, and she lunged at the man she knew as Christien de Lacey. But before she could get close, he swung the clockwork pistol in a smooth arc from behind his back, cocking the hammer and aiming it between her pretty eyes. She pulled up short, fists clenched, seething.

  “Ivy,” he purred. “Come here.”

  She swallowed.

  “Come here or I will put a bullet in her head.”

  “Run, girl,” growled Mary Jane. “I don’t care what ’e does t’me. But you run and tell yer dad who this bastard is. I want ’im to swing for what ’e did to Julia. In my bed.”

  Through the fog, Ivy could see his gloved finger move on the trigger.

  “In my bed!” she screamed at him.

  “Wait,” said Ivy, and her heart thudded in her chest. “I’ll come, Renaud. I’ll do whatever you say.”

  His blue, blue eyes brightened a moment, and he cocked his head at her. “You know, girl?”