Cold Stone and Ivy (42 page)

“Henry.” She smiled lazily and flopped her backside on the arm of Pickett’s chair. It was clear she was drunk. “What’s happened to poor Rosie?”

“He got shot.”

“Poor baby . . .” She ran her fingers up his cheek. Rosie pouted at her but Henry flushed red.

“Remy’s brother shot him.”

“Oh God,” groaned Lewis. “Not him, again. I thought he was up north.”

“Society business.” Christien began wrapping the leg with gauze.

“Does he know you’re a Clubber, Remy?”

“You won’t mention it to him, will you, Lewis? I’ll ask him to shoot you next.” He straightened, reached for his bag. “There, Rosie. All done. All you’ll need is a shot of morphine and a new pair of trousers.”

“It hurts, Remy . . .”

“Did you just toss it off the pier, then?” Lewis rolled his eyes. “You git.”

“Well, we didn’t see no-one,” moaned Pickett, and he laid his head on the back of the chair. “It were dark as pitch, it were.”

“Poor baby.” Marie leaned over and kissed him.

“And we ain’t been caught yet, have we?” growled Henry.

“Well, you ‘ain’t been caught,’ but you
have
been shot . . .” Christien glanced at Lewis. “And the rest of her? What did you do with that?”

Powell-Smith tossed his head.

“I ditched ’er,” he sniffed. “The Bottle’s gonna blow when they find her. It was brilliant. I’ll go down in history most likely.”

And he smiled smugly.

From his seat on the ottoman, Christien removed a small bottle of liquid, began to assemble a very long brass hypodermic syringe. “You will see us all disbarred, Lewie. Williams will sell us out and Bondie won’t be able to do a bloody thing.”

“Ah, come on,” groaned the blond man. “They were dead anyway. Who’s going to miss a few dead lunatics?”

“They die all the time at Bedlam,” said Bender. “This way, it saves room in the infirmary for the next.”

And he washed it down with the last of his port.

“I been to Bedlam,” cooed Marie. “Once, with John. He took me there for me surgery. Said it were more clean there than a clinic. He takes lots o’ the girls there.”

She looked up at Christien. “He’s a very clean man, John.”

“Still, I will make a point of telling Williams that we’re not on for any more extracurricular business. It’s too dangerous now,” said Christien, and he lifted the hypodermic syringe to the light. A drop of morphine dripped from the needle’s tip. “Rosie, I need your arm . . .”

“Dangerous is right,” groaned Pickett, raising his arm. “I’m not dying for a few bonus marks—what the bloody hell?”

His breath was creating frost in front of his face.

“Shite!”
Bender turned his glass upside down, and a chunk of golden ice dropped to the floor.

“Damnation,” hissed Christien, and he bolted to his feet. “Shut up, all of you. Shut up and don’t move!”

“What the hell is going on?” Lewis’s breath was frosting now, and Marie shrank back to cling to his arm.

“It’s freezing in ’ere,” she moaned. “Take me home, Lewie . . .”

Christien reached for the handles of the French doors, snatched his hands back, for the handles had grown slick with ice. He took a deep breath and grabbed them nonetheless, feeling his palm sear with the cold. He swung the doors open onto the sight of his brother, waistcoat and shirt hanging like bloody rags. There was an unnatural wind plucking at his hair, and he looked like a dead man himself.

“Bastien, get back to bed.”

“Who’s in there, Christien?”

“Just the boys, Bastien. We’ve talked about this before.”

“There is wickedness in there, Christien, I can feel it. They must be stopped.”

He tried to push past his brother, but Christien stepped in front of him, barring the way and pulling the doors closed behind him.

“The boys haven’t murdered anyone, Bastien. I’m telling you the truth. Why can’t you believe me?”

“The torsos are angry. I need them out of my head.”

“I’ll get you your Scotch, Bastien. Or the laudanum, if that’s what you want. Just leave my friends alone.”

The ice was crackling up the walls, up the doors, along the floors. Even their breath hung like a wall between them.

“You see them even now, don’t you?” said Christien. “They want you to kill me.”

Sebastien swallowed.

“Do you think this is good for you? Are you happy with how your life is rolling along?” Christien stepped forward. “Because you can change it, you know. You only need to say the word and I will do everything I can to help you.”

Sebastien stared at him, eyes changing colour as quickly as a London sky. Not for the first time, Christien wished Frankow had just let him die.

“You could have everything, Bastien. A wife, children, a normal life. Everything I know you want, deep down. But not with this affliction. Not if there is the hint of possibility that when your demons tell you to kill, you listen. That, Bastien, is simply not acceptable.”

“I know. I do—I know it, Christien. I would shoot myself if I had the pistol. I would.”

“Would you consider the lithium? Please, Bastien.”

He watched as his brother glanced at the door. There were shapes visible through the curtain over the glass, shapes of Henry, Lewis, Rosie, and Marie, watching, gawking, and whispering. Christien hated all of them at this moment.

He took a deep breath.

“They haven’t murdered anyone.”

“I will consider it,” Sebastien said quietly.

Christien took his arm, sighed when his brother flinched. Not from flesh, he knew, but spirit. It had always been this way.

“I’m sorry, Christien.”

“Come on, get back to bed, and I’ll bring you a Scotch immediately. How does that sound?”

“Good.” Sebastien nodded. “Yes, good.”

“Right. Off you go, then.”

And the Mad Lord of Lasingstoke turned and slowly made his way back up the stair, taking the cold and the ice with him.

Christien turned to find Pomfrey standing behind him, eyes sleepy still. But the wig was straightened and he was holding a slip of cardstock in his hands.

“I found this at the door, sir, when the boys came in,” he said. “I fear your dreadful night is not yet over.”

It was a post card, smeared with blood.

I WAS NOT CODDING
dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you'll hear about Saucy Jacky's work tomorrow. double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn’t finish straight off. ha not the time to get ears for police. thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again

Jack the Ripper

Of Circus Monkeys, Vitamins,
and a Conversation Under a Blanket

EVENING STEAM

1 October 1888

The East-end of London was yesterday again much excited by the discovery of two more revolting murders. About one o'clock in the morning, the body of a woman, with her throat cut, was found in a yard belonging to a work-men's club, in Berner-street, and an hour later another woman was found murdered in a corner of Mitre-square, Aldgate. In the latter case, the body was also mutilated, and as this was not the case with the woman found in Berner-street, it is supposed that the murderer was disturbed before completing his dreadful intentions, and that he then proceeded towards the City and committed the second crime. The body of the woman found in Berner-street has been identified as that of ELIZABETH STRIDE and the body of the woman found in Mitre Square as that of CATHERINE EDDOWES.

Police are continuing to investigate.

IVY AWOKE TO
the pounding of her head.

She sat up slowly, and thankfully, the room stayed put. As she let her eyes adjust to the morning, she realized that she was once again in an unfamiliar bedroom and her heart did a somersault. She had heard tales from friends of her father—respected officers of the law—of the consequences of too much drink. Usually they involved strange bedrooms, tattoos, and circus monkeys. She glanced down, praying that she would find neither tattoo nor monkey. Of the two, she wasn’t certain which would be worse.

It was the Blue Room, she realized, in Christien’s home at Kensington-Knightsbridge. She vaguely remembered Castlewaite’s eight grandchildren, a potent silver flask, and Sebastien carrying her up the stair.

Her boots were neatly placed beside the bed but she was still dressed in her breeches, corset, and blouse, and she was grateful that while the Mad Lord was indeed mad, he wasn’t a cad. A murderer, yes, and a screwsman, but not a cad.

She slipped out from under the brocade and held still while the room did a little spin. On the vanity was a pitcher and bowl of water, and a folded tweed skirt was on the chair by the door. She set her mind to clean up before heading down for tea.

THE STAIRCASE AND
foyer were flooded in light. In Stepney, almost every day was grey, but here in Kensington-Knightsbridge, the sun seemed stronger, more golden, and she knew it had to do with the money. Fancy houses simply attracted the light.

Pomfrey watched as she moved very carefully down the stair.

“Mr. Christien is in the dining room,” he said, and Ivy smiled, grateful that she had taken the time to wash her face, repin her hair, and slip on the skirt. Rupert had been right so many weeks ago—Christien had never seen her look anything other than her best and even then, that was a struggle. She wasn’t sure how he would react to the thought of her escapades last night.

He sat at the head of the long table, dressed in a suit of charcoal grey. He was reading the paper, and at this moment he reminded her very much of Rupert. In fact, as he looked up at the sound of her footfall, his face was stern.

“Good morning, Christien,” she said, forcing cheer into her voice.

“Good morning, Ivy.” He did not do the same.

“Is there tea?”

He waved a hand toward the hutch, where a French breakfast of croissants and berries was set. Normally, she would have dug in, but suddenly she found her appetite gone. She did, however, decide to fix herself a cup. Tea worked wonders for frayed nerves and sticky situations.

He folded the paper and she noticed he was wearing a glove on his left hand. It looked out of place.

“There were two more murders in Whitechapel last night,” he said.

“The same man?”

“Apparently so. What were you doing out with my brother?”

His face, so perfect, lips drawn in a very tight line.

“Christien—”

“And what, for that matter, are you two doing in London?”

She tried to stop the trembling of her hand as she poured the tea.

“We came to Whitechapel,” she said, “to find my mother.”

“To find the
ghost
of your mother, Ivy.” His face still showed no emotion. Blank, neutral, porcelain. “How can you find a ghost of someone who’s still among the living?”

“Sebastien said we’d find her and we did.”

“Ivy,” he began, smoothing the newspaper, “my brother is mad.”

“Christien—”

“He’s mad, Ivy, and yet you brought him along with you for a little romp through the East End on a whim. On a farce. Did he shoot anyone last night?”

She opened her mouth but no words came.

“You don’t know, do you? Because you weren’t with him the entire night. You were drunk in the cab with Castlewaite.”

For some reason, when her eyes should have been filling with tears, she felt her chin rise inexplicably.

“Do you know how many people he’s shot because the ‘ghosts’ tell him to? I don’t. I don’t have a clue, Ivy, how many murders he is responsible for. I cleaned him up last night when I put him to bed. Imagine my surprise when I saw wire stitches holding his arm in its socket, and what looks like a fresh bullet hole, no more than a few days old. Were you with him, Ivy, when my brother was shot?”

“Yes,” she whispered defiantly.

“I see.” He pursed his lips, nodded. “And so, you decided it would be jolly good fun to bring him to Whitechapel, see if he could find that devil who’s ripping whores. Maybe he could even shoot him for you. Wouldn’t your father be proud?”

“He’s worried about you, Christien!” she snapped, surprising herself with the tone of her voice. “You’re a member of the Ghost Club and he’s worried.”

He blinked slowly as he processed her words. She couldn’t allow him the chance.

“You know there are strange things going on, Christien, otherwise you wouldn’t have given me the locket. I know you’re trying to find out what happened to your father, but dismissing your brother is no way to do that.”

“Ivy, you don’t understand . . .”

“And you’ve made certain I never will. But that’s wrong, Christien. Hiding things is no way to discover truth.”