Cold Stone and Ivy (5 page)

He wished he could leave it all behind and forge a life in the bright, new, and unbiased world of science. He doubted very much that this Club would help him do that. In fact, the Ghost Club would threaten everything he held fast. It had been his father’s passion, his life’s work, his all-consuming pursuit—and had driven him to the brink of insanity. His brother lived on that very road, and it seemed they were all covered in blood.

Madness ran in the family. He knew he couldn’t outrun it, but it remained to be seen whether or not he could outwit it. He would bring his scientific mind to the collective of the Ghost Club, show them there was indeed a better way. Perhaps in doing so, he might save his brother in the process. God knew his family needed the help.

He was through the Memorial Gate now and he left the park, the familiar shape of the Wellington Arch towering above the fog. A row of white houses came into view, looking ghostly in the green mist. Hollbrook House boasted a prestigious address—Kensington-Knightsbridge no less, but he hated it almost as much as Lasingstoke Hall. As beautiful as it was, he was certain Hollbrook hid more secrets than any other house on the street.

There was a sound again, and he turned, but could see no one. He pushed the mask onto his forehead.

“Hallo?” he called out, his voice echoing in the deserted road.

Behind him the Memorial Arch was oddly luminescent as gaslight reflected off limestone and fog. Shadows moved across the arch, but they were the shadows of buildings in the moonlight and trees.

On his chest, the locket began to spin.

“Hallo?” he called again, wishing he had kept one of his surgical blades in his pocket, just in case. “Who’s there?”

A whisper now in front and he whirled but there was no one, nothing but the street lamps, the fine houses, and the fog. The street was entirely empty. Even the pigeons were asleep.

He shook his head. Histrionics. He was scaring himself with all this talk of blood and madness. The damned locket, however, was dancing up a storm, so he snatched it and tucked it under his collar, hiding it from view. The street grew quiet once again.

With a deep breath, he pulled the mask back onto his face and stepped onto the road.

Daily Steam

September 15, 1888

London Shocked Yet Again

Another shocking murder was perpetrated between five and six o’clock last Saturday morning, in Whitechapel. The scene of this crime was the yard of 29 Hanbury Street, and the murdered person, Annie Eliza Chapman nee Smith, was again a woman of low life and in the poorest circumstances. No clue to the murderer had up to last night been obtained. These repeated attacks in the Whitechapel district have produced an amount of alarm and anxiety in the neighbourhood bordering on panic. The inquest will be opened today, when evidence of the finding of the body and of the mutilations will be given.

Police are continuing to investigate.

Of Servants, Sweepers, and Very Fine Men

“GOOD MORNING, MISS.”

Reluctantly, Ivy opened her eyes.

“There’s tea on the nightstand, miss.”

“Oh, thank you,” she mumbled. Arms and legs felt like lead as slowly, she pushed up to sitting, hair spilling across her face. “Very much needed this morning.”

“Ah’d like to pull the curtains, miss. Mind yer eyes, now.”

A golden cord was pulled and a great bank of fabric swished aside. As she fumbled for her tea, Ivy blinked as the morning light spilled into the most beautiful room she’d ever seen.

It was very grand, with high ceilings, elaborate crown mouldings, and wallpaper. The bed was high with walnut posts and a canopy of Oriental silk. The linens were crisp and clean and the mattress soft as down. Even the teacup was marvellous—white with pink roses and a gold gilt edge, and the tea . . . She lifted it to her lips. The tea was as good as the best in all of London. She wiggled her toes in bliss.

Ivy studied the girl standing at the windows. It was the same girl she’d seen last night, the one with the ginger hair and the freckles.

“My name’s Ivy,” she said. “What’s yours?”

“Lottie, miss.”

“This is an impressive house, Lottie. It was difficult to see it all last night.”

Ice at the window, tea frozen in the cup.

“Aye, Miss Ivy. Although Ah’d imagine London to be a fair bit grander, with all its fine folk and steamcars.”

“Oh I don’t know. I’m certain there’s no house in London as fine as this, except perhaps Buckingham or St. James.”

“Ye should ask to see the stables then, miss,” said Lottie. “They’ll take yer breath away. ’Is Lordship does like ’is Warmbloods.”

“Warmbloods?”

“French Warmbloods, miss. It’s a type of ’orse.”

“French.” Ivy grinned. “Of course.”

“You must be used to fine things coming from London, miss—
Oh . . .”

The girl had noticed the desk where the pen lay splintered, the ink dried like blood on dark wood. Ivy rolled out of bed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was so cold in here last night. There was ice everywhere, on the window, in my cup. I thought I got it all.”

“Not to worry, miss,” said Lottie. “We do get a chilly night from time to time.”

“It was most unusual. And there was a man in one of the fields—”

“It’s not ’aunted.”

Ivy blinked. “What’s that?”

“Lasingstoke ’all, miss. It’s not ’aunted. At least, not like people say.”

“Why?” Ivy’s eyes gleamed. “What do people say?”

“They just like to talk.” Lottie dabbed at the ink with the corner of her apron. “Just because the machines are old and the men are French. ‘
Oh, ’e’s mad. Oh, there’s ghosts.
Norman gold in the tower and Saxon bones in the cellar. Metal skulls and the Curse of Sebastien de Lacey.’ Things like tha’. People can be so cruel, can’t they? They talk but they don’t know. This is a fine ’ouse, a very fine ’ouse. Ah’m very lucky to be ’ere.”

She looked up at Ivy and curtsied.

“But don’t mind me, miss. There’s breakfast waitin’ downstairs. Quickly, now, or ye’ll miss it.”

As she busied herself with the making of the great soft bed, Ivy marveled at her good luck.
Norman gold in the tower and Saxon bones in the cellar.
She couldn’t have written it better herself.

She rolled out of bed and reached for her clothes.

THE PEA SOUP
had dissipated at some point and the houses gleamed gold in the early morning light. Christien was weary from his long night but as he trotted up the wrought-iron steps of Hollbrook House, he pulled the mask from his face and breathed the sweet smell of fresh air, wet trees, and chimney smoke. The row of white houses looked beautiful this morning, no trace of ghostly green, no eerie glow, and he had to admit life could have been far worse for him than to live here.

“Hallo, Remy!” called a voice, and he turned slightly to see a man standing on the stair next door, holding a paper. He was a small man with thinning brown hair, neatly trimmed chops, and a rather common face. “Not coming home from classes, are you?”

“Indeed I am, Dr. Jekyll,” Christien lied. Jekyll was an odd neighbour. He was a medical man and his research into the human mind bordered on scandal. He conducted frequent experiments in the cellar of his home, and Christien doubted they were sanctioned by any hospital or medical facility. “You remember your qualifying year, surely.”

“I do indeed, Remy. Hated every minute of it. If you managed four hours of sleep a night you were accorded an automatic failure.”

“That sounds about right, sir. And I am due my four hours now in fact.”

“And how is old Bondie doing with that Leather Apron character?” He held up the paper. “The
News
has an article. Has he put a finger on anyone yet?”

“Not yet, sir. It’s all very unofficial at the moment. Dr. Bond is A-Division and these crimes are occurring in H.”

“Oh, the life of a police surgeon. It must be very exciting, catching a killer and all that.”

Christien held his tongue. The public lived for their scandals, and the Whitechapel killer was selling more papers than the royal family. Even someone as odd as Jekyll was captivated.

“We don’t ‘catch’ anyone, sir. We simply analyze the evidence. However it ends, I’m quite certain I will be the very last to know.”

He turned to move into the house but Jekyll waved at him.

“And the headaches, Remy? Still giving you grief?”

“Yes, sir. But I can manage—”

“If you need any more of those tablets, son, just whistle. I do only live a wall away!”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“I’ve worked on a new potion that I think will do just the trick!”

Visions of ghastly faces and vile concoctions filled his head. He tried to smile.

“Thank you, sir. I’m sure I will be fine.”

Jekyll disappeared behind his door, and Christien threw a glance around the street. Cabs out now, chimney sweeps heading to work, street girls selling flowers. No one following him, no villains or voices out of place.
Histrionics,
he thought again. Science and fact, those were the cure for an overactive imagination. He welcomed the challenge, knowing the Ghost Club would find him a hard nut to crack.

And with that, he stepped briskly up the last of the steps and pushed through the fine white door of Hollbrook House.

SHE FOLLOWED LOTTIE
down a long hallway, watching the sweepers whirring along the floors. They were all the rage in London now. Small, round, and mechanical, their spinning brushes polished the floors and beat the rugs. They detected changes in the surface of the floor, whether wood, carpet, or stone and adjusted brushes accordingly. They were also designed to avoid both furniture and stairs, and she could see tiny buttons in the top, glowing as the machines altered their courses at will.

At the end of the hall there was a grand staircase and one of the devices was humming toward it.

“Aren’t these ingenious?” she said. “I’m quite amazed at how they navigate the stair.”

The device hummed to the very edge of the first tread and paused, bobbing a little. She could see the lights along the top blink and flash, then turn green. Suddenly, the sweeper shot forward into the air, dropping top over tail from step to step to step with a series of thumps. It ended upside-down on one of the landings, whirring and humming happily but going nowhere.

“Perhaps that one is defective,” said Ivy.

“They’re all like that,” said Lottie.

Ivy grinned and followed the girl down the stair.

Golden-framed portraits lined the walls, of great men and horses, fine ladies and dogs. She shook her head, wondering if the great men placed the same value on the horses and dogs as the ladies.

“The Lords de Lacey,” said Lottie. “Ye must be quite ’appy.”

“I would be happier back in London.”

“’Onestly, miss?”

“I’m sorry, Lottie. Don’t mind me. I’m not very good at restraining my tongue. It was a stubborn thing, growing up Savage.”

Lottie smiled at her. “What’s ’e like, then, Mr. Christien?”

“You’ve never met him?”

“Only once, miss. Ah’ve only begun working upstairs this past year.”

“Oh, he’s very clever and very serious. My tad likes him because he’s rich, but I like him because he’s clever. He’s so dashedly clever. He’s studying to be a police surgeon, in fact, like his mentor, Dr. Bond. That’s how we met. He was working with Bondie, met my father, and came back for tea with the rest of the coppers. I’m hoping he’ll let me help him on some of his cases. We would make such a grand team— Oh! Look! There he is!”

On the last landing, there was a large portrait of a gentleman standing by a curtain, dressed in fine clothes with a pair of dogs at his feet. As far as paintings went, it was only slightly exaggerated, but the dark hair, porcelain skin, and delicate pouting mouth were unmistakable.

If any man could be called beautiful, it was Christien.

“Oh no, Miss Ivy. That’s Renaud Jacobe St. John Lord de Lacey, the sixth Baron of Lasingstoke.” Lottie nodded. “
Yer
Christien’s father.”

“Oh, how remarkable.” She tried to study the painting more closely, but it was a large canvas mounted high on the wall. “You can most certainly see the resemblance.”

“’E looks t’be very clever indeed, miss,” said Lottie with a grin.

Ivy noticed the next and last painting in the line. It was also of a man in fine clothes, standing at a window. His back was to the painter, so that little could be seen of his face, and his hair was pulled back in a short queue. The rest of him was almost in silhouette.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

“Ah, that is the seventh Lord de Lacey, miss.
Yer
Christien’s brother.”