Cold Stone and Ivy (36 page)

Yours truly,

Jack the Ripper

Don’t mind me giving the trade name.

P.S. Wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands, curse it. No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now.
Haha.

End of Part I

Of Butchers, Mortuaries,
and Meat Pies in the Clarence

SEPTEMBER 28, 1888

Lambeth Road, Southwark, London

It looked like a butcher’s packet, tied in brown paper and lying on the side of the road.

The boys had been out early that morning, shovelling coal at the Blind School on Lambeth. It was a hard job, but it was a job, and at the ripe old age of nine, all three of them could boast regular pay of a shilling a month, split among them. For nine-year-old boys, it was enough to keep them in taffy and Penny Dreadfuls for weeks at a time.

Sharpie spied the package first in a puddle under the wrought-iron railing of the fence.

“What’s that, then?” he cried as the others moved round to see.

“Looks like bacon,” cooed Martin Alcorn.

Sharpie’s eyes gleamed. “Y’ think some butcher dropped it, then?”

Martin shrugged. “Or Mrs. Tumblemorrey. She’s always losing her markets.”

“We could sell it,” whispered Ronnie Shipley. “Me mum’s always selling old meat in the rooks.”

“Can ye get it, then?” asked Martin. “Try and get it.”

The package was wedged beneath the railing, and Sharpie dropped to his knees, pushed his arm through the grass, and slid the package through the puddle towards them. He had begun to tug at the string when white powder spilled through onto the stones.

“Salt?” offered Ronnie.

The three of them began to tug on the strings now until the paper unfolded on its own. Cyril Sharpie screamed and dropped the package, bolting down the road as fast as he could. Martin Alcorn began to back away and tripped over his feet before turning and scrambling after him. Ronnie Shipley watched them for a moment but he peeled the paper back to reveal the contents.

“That’s not bacon,” he whispered to himself, and he peered closer.

It was an arm, tied off with a piece of string and lying in a puddle on Lambeth Road.

SHE HAD NEVER
dreamed she’d be arriving at the Westminster Port Tower in an airship. The tower was a common sight for all Londoners, better known as the Clock Tower of Big Ben, and there were always airships tethered to the top. But she had never been up, never set foot in the adjoining palace of Westminster either. No one in her family had, but now, as the wind buffeted and the thunder threatened, she was about to experience it all firsthand as the
Chevalier
moved in to dock.

It had taken the entire afternoon to make the trip from Lonsdale to London, and she had spent the duration sitting with an iron pot in her lap. She was not a good air traveller, she reckoned, not with the way the airship rocked and bucked like a frigate on the high sea. The skies had been dark and occasionally split by lightning and they had outrun the storm by mere hours. It was dinnertime now as Castlewaite piloted the great ship through the gusting winds to the dock.

Three other airships were moored, and the narrow gangplank was open to the skies, flanked only by a thin copper railing. It allowed her a terrifying bird’s eye view of the city and, given the wind, she wasn’t surprised that there were always hats, gloves, and umbrellas littering the streets below. It was a haven for quick-handed thieves. A fine hat could bring a pretty penny in the secondhand shops of Piccadilly.

The gangplank made landing high in the tower at the Clock and Bell Club, a lounge that served tea and spirits to the politicians who made airship travel a routine part of their schedules. She couldn’t fathom it. The trip had been far too bumpy for her to carry on any sort of conversation, let alone a political one, and for his part, the Mad Lord had polished off an entire decanter of port before starting on the Scotch.

As they trotted down the steep steps of the tower, she could feel the glances of men in black overcoats and top hats. The Mad Lord did not look fit for a day in London, being plucked from the wilds of Lancashire as he had been, and she herself was still in her breeches, red corset, and riding boots. She wondered what Christien would think if he saw her.

Finally, they were out onto Whitehall Road, and the late afternoon crowds flowed around them like a river. Down the street, she could see the buildings of Greater Scotland Yard that served as home for the Metropolitan Police Service. Her father used to have a desk in A-Division, before transferring over to Stepney’s H, and she had fond memories of riding his shoulders through the halls of the building. Her father would often remind her of the time when she was six and had announced to his entire unit that one day, she would be a crimes investigator like her tad.

She didn’t need to wonder what
he
would think if he saw her like this. She knew well enough.

“So the Clarence is just down the road,” she began. “Perhaps we might have time for a cup of tea before Castlewaite fetches us in the coach? The man is remarkable, isn’t he? Coachman and airship pilot. What else can that fellow do?”

But her breath fell like ice to the walk and she looked up at the Mad Lord, hands in the pockets of his greatcoat, staring across the road at the Yard. His eyes were changing colour, and around her neck, the locket began to flash. She swallowed, dreading now what that meant.

“Sebastien?”

“Lees,” he said, his voice hollow and echoing. “His name is Lees and he has seen the Ripper.”

Without warning, he turned and stormed across the street, unmindful of the squealing of horses and shouting of cabbies as he went. She scrambled to catch up as the crowds parted for him but closed in on her, and she fought her way through wave after wave of black wool and protests. Finally, he slowed at one of the many backstreets rabbiting the Yard. She reached his side just as a door swung open and a man was pushed out into the lane.

“But you need to listen!” moaned the man, a slim, middle-aged fellow in a charcoal suit and spectacles. “He’s a medical man, I tell you. I’ve seen it! Please listen!”

“We already listened, Lees,” said one officer. “You’re a lunatic, you are!”

“You need to take this up with the City Force,” said the other. “Or the Hs, not us.”

“But I’ve already talked to H-Division, sirs! They said the Ripper was your jurisdiction!”

“But dreams, visions, and other such ‘communications’
ain’t
. Now, beat it or we’ll ship ya to Bedlam.”

“Here,” said the man called Lees. “Take my calling card. Call me if—”

They smacked the cards out of his hands, causing them to fly up like leaves before falling into the mud.

“Mark my words, sirs,” he grumbled as he bent to collect them. “He will strike again soon.”

“If he does, we’ll throw
you
in the claps.”

“Bloody lunatic . . .”

And they disappeared back into the door of the Yard.

She glanced up at Sebastien. He wasn’t moving and she was certain that, right now, his eyes were greener than hers. She stepped forward into the lane, the locket sending colours all across the shadowed brick.

“Mr. Lees?” she called.

“Leave me alone, miss.”

“Sir, we overheard your conversation—”

“Then you heard what they said.” He rose to his feet, began to straighten the cards in his hands. “They think I’m a lunatic. They’d ship me off to Bedlam if they could.”

His tired eyes flicked over Sebastien. “Him too, by the looks of things.”

“We can help.”

“Can you shoot me?” He strolled over towards them, slipped a card into her hand. “Your friend’s got a pistol, I can tell. Shoot me in the head and put me out of my misery. Will you do me that kindness, pistol man?”

She swallowed, wondering if Sebastien would consider doing that very thing.

“You said ‘he’ is a medical man, sir. What did you mean?”

“Nothing.” Lees smiled now, but it wasn’t a pleasant sight. “Nothing at all. What do you see, pistol man?”

The Mad Lord was staring at him, cocking his head like a dog hearing a faraway sound. At her waistcoat, the locket was humming like an engine.

“A Highlander,” said Sebastien. His voice was hollow, his eyes as green as emeralds. “There is a Highlander behind you.”

“Been there ever since I was a boy. He protects me. I have no clue as to why.”

“He was killed by a sword to the belly. He died in agony.”

Lees laughed.

“By God, you’ve got it worse than me.” He stepped forward, slipped the rest of his calling cards into Sebastien’s waistcoat pocket. “Do yourself and your young lady a favour. Take that pistol of yours and shoot
yourself
in the head with it. Let her find someone normal and get on with it.”

And with a pat on the chest, Lees pushed around them and departed the alley.

Ivy didn’t know what to think, even less what to do. The crowds were moving to and fro in their suits of black and grey. Coaches and steamcabs rolled along the streets and the shadows of airships fell across the skies, but as they stood toe to toe, hearing the distant rumble of thunder and waiting for the rain to fall, there was no one else in the entire city, and the locket called Ghostlight had fallen silent once again.

IT WAS DARK
in the Mortuary of the Royal. It was always dark in the Mortuary of the Royal. Shapes were distorted by the flickering gaslight on the walls and the leaded glass of the door, and Christien rapped once before rolling it aside. Bond, Henry, and Rosie looked up from the dissecting table.

On the table lay a pair of arms.

“Christien,” said Bond. “I told you not to come, boy. We’ve got this handled.”

“All we got is arms,” grunted Bender. “You got another letter from the Ripper.”

“The Police have the letter now,” said Christien. “And Inspector Savage told me about the arm. I want to help.”

“You can go
home
, boy.”

“Home
is where I find the letters, sir,” said Christien. “I feel much safer here.”

Bond studied him for a moment before stepping back.

“Very well. Second arm found on Lambeth Road by the Blind School wrapped in lime. The hypothesis is that they are from the same woman. Henry, refute.”

“Aw, Dr. Bond, why do I always have to refute?” grumbled Bender as he ambled over to the table. “Right, then. Right limb is slimmer than left, less subcutaneous hemorrhaging, seems to have been removed from the trunk at a radically different angle than the other . . .”

“Removed, not dissected?”

“I see no evidence of medical skill, sir. Any competent butcher could have done this. Joints of cows and joints of people are all the same, really. All you need is a good strong blade.”

“Continue.”

“Nails of the right hand shaped differently, perhaps indicating a different line of work.
If
she worked. Ah, let’s see . . . This one found in the river tied with string and black tape and this one . . .” He rolled the other arm. “This one found wrapped in paper and cased in lime. Radically different methods of disposal. And weeks later to boot. Not likely the same perpetrator, so therefore, not likely the same victim.”

“Brief and to the point. Verdict?”

“Found dead, sir.”

“Christien, are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Defend.”

Christien moved in, lifted the limbs one by one. “They are the same length of bone. I’d put her height at five-seven, or five-eight. She’s well fed but not gluttonous and her hands are long and fine. She’s used to a comfortable life.”

“Maybe she lived in a lunatic asylum.” Rosie grinned, but Henry smacked him.

“Shut it, you git.”

“It were a joke, is all . . .”

Christien glared at him before turning back to the cadaver. “Probably young, given the state of the hands. No wedding ring found or indicated.”

“Speaking of rings,” said Bond. “That one of yours seems to be cutting off the circulation.”

Christien studied his hand. “I can’t get it off, sir. I’ve tried everything.”

“You ’aven’t tried the bone saw.” Rosie grinned, and Bender hit him again.

“Try some of the carbolic soap,” said Bond. “You’ll want to get that off before it damages a nerve. With your skill, that would be a loss.”

The boys rolled their eyes. Christien was Bond’s favourite and they all knew it.

“So then, getting back to our girl. What do
you
make of the difference in the nails, Christien?”