Cold Stone and Ivy (55 page)

Son of Renaud Jacobe St. John de Lacey, Sixth Baron of Lasingstoke, and Jane Penteny of Eccleston, he did not marry nor are there heirs to the de Lacey estate. He is survived by his uncle Rupert Therrien St. John of Lasingstoke Hall; and his younger brother Christien Jeremie St. John de Lacey, a physician studying under Thomas Bond. Christien Jeremie is expected to be conferred the title as Eighth Lord of Lasingstoke on January 1, 1889, by Prince Edward in a special ceremony at Buckingham.

He was last seen in the company of a young brunette whom our Society columnist believes to be Ivy Savage, daughter of Metropolitan Police Inspector Trevis Savage and fiancée to the aforementioned Christien Jeremie. This correspondent wonders if perhaps some scandal involving the young woman played a part in de Lacey’s unfortunate decision to take his life. Neither Miss Savage nor Dr. de Lacey was available for comment.

According to one
Times
source at the Met, Lord de Lacey was en route to Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum in Berkshire for random attacks on citizens in Whitechapel and Smithfield when he escaped due to a steamcar accident on Long Wood near Heston Park. This is the fifth such incident involving four-wheeled steamcars this week and the group Six-Wheeled SteamCar Alliance (SWSCA) is petitioning parliament for the banning of four wheels on steamcars. (See article, “Four Wheeled Death Traps,”
Sunday Lifestyles
,
D3)

Bethlem Royal Hospital’s resident physician, George Henry Savage, MCRP, (no relation to the aforementioned Ivy or Trevis) has called the suicide tragic, and is calling for greater education on psychiatric conditions for all police officers, and most especially Met and City forces.

The private funeral will be held at All Souls Christchapel, Lasingstoke, on October 10.

Of Morning, Mourning,
and the Helmsly-Wimpolls of Over Milling

FROM HELL.

Mr de Lacey,

Sor
I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

signed
Catch me when you can Mishter de Lacey

NOVEMBER 2, 1888

It was late, it was raining, and she had been walking for hours, thinking nothing, feeling even less. In fact, the rain was a comfort, the constant tapping on her hat, her face, her shoulders. It was like music, she thought. Like sweet, sad music, and was a perfect accompaniment to the symphony of misery playing in her heart.

It was nearing dawn as she stood on the pier at St. Katharine’s docks, a weathered carpetbag at her side. The river rippled like a living thing, the rain dancing on its oily surface. Her mother lived under this dock where her brother had died. Sebastien had held her here, warm against his body. She had tempted him to kiss her and he had almost given in. She had lost everything here, on this bloody dock.

It had been almost a month since that terrible night, a month spent either in her room, or here, on this pier, waiting for ghosts. Despite her father’s protests, she had begun work on
Penny Dreadful and the Terror of Whitechapel
and it had all but consumed her. She had reached an impasse, however, for she needed an ending. A pine box and a black carriage seemed far too dismal for such a tale. She felt her throat constrict every time at the thought. But the tears wouldn’t come anymore. She had cried them all out over the last month, and now she stood on this dock like an empty canvas, waiting for the paint.

Soon, the first glimmers of purple stole across the water and she gazed eastward to where the sun was rising. There were ships and dorrys, trawlers and barges. Stacks from the factories were black spires in the distance. She could see the silhouettes of airships floating quietly over the city, and around them birds swooping and diving for fish. Slowly, ever so slowly, there was colour, painting water and sky first purple then pink, red then orange, as the sun rose over the city of London.

For the very first time in her life, she thought it beautiful.

She picked up the carpetbag and left the docks, heading for the
Whitechapel-Mile End Station.
There she boarded a steamtrain heading north. She did not take a sleeping car but was content to sit and watch the grey-green countryside roll past her window. It was the next morning before she found herself stepping onto the platform at Over Milling Rail Station and breathing in the sweet, damp country air. Even in dull, dark, dreary November, Lancashire was green, and she marvelled at the change in her. It was a new thing.

She had only been to the Helmsly-Wimpoll family home once. It had been on the morning of their Lancaster visit, a whistle stop for a thermos of tea and a biscuit. But she was resourceful now, and it was Saturday, almost half past ten in the morning, so she hailed the first (and only) cab waiting at the station and made her way to the colourful limestone house known simply as
Wimpolldon.

She trotted up the steps to rap on the front door. After several moments, it creaked open and a very old woman peered out. She was wearing a traditional servant’s smock, white apron, and mob hat. Ivy was reminded of Pomfrey.

“Yes,” croaked the woman.

“My name is Ivy Savage,” said Ivy. “I was wondering if Fanny or Franny would happen to be in?”

The woman muttered something and closed the door in her face.

Ivy thought it odd, but then again, an unannounced visitor on a Saturday morning was odd as well. It wasn’t long, however, before she heard the stomping of feet and the shrill squeal of girlish laughter and the door was thrown open, unleashing the collective whirlwind that was the sisters Helmsly-Wimpoll. They were still in nightgowns and bedcaps but caught Ivy up in a great embrace nonetheless and dragged her into the house.

“Dearest, you came!” exclaimed Fanny, holding her out at arm’s length. “We knew you would. It was only a matter of when.”

“Only when,” cried Franny.

“Granny, this is our dear friend Ivy Savage,” said Fanny to the housekeeper. “Can you please put on some tea and ready up some biscuits?”

“Ooh, yes,” said Franny. “Biscuits.”

The very old woman turned and shuffled off to the kitchen, muttering the entire time. Ivy smiled.

“Granny? That’s an odd name for a housekeeper.”

“But she is, dearest.”

“Oh, she is.”

“She is what?”

Fanny blinked slowly. “Our granny, dearest.”

“Not your housekeeper?”

“Oh, tosh! You are an imp. Come, let us dress and prepare for a most wondrous, most amazing . . .”

“Most adventuresome!”

“Most adventuresome day!”

And with a Helmsly-Wimpoll on each arm, Ivy was hauled up the stair to the bedrooms.

PENNY DREADFUL AND
the Terror of Whitechapel.

A Novel

by Ivy Savage.

Chapter 1: of Floating Arms, Blobs of Ink, and a Murder in Manchester

September 11, 1888

Grosvenor Railway Bridge, London

It looked like a dead dog floating on the river . . .

As she read, they dined on tarts, biscuits, preserves, hard-cooked eggs, and sandwiches. The family sat around the table, spellbound and eager, drinking tea and shouting comments with every twist and turn of the plot. Ivy felt happier than she had in a very long while.

Mr. Helmsly-Wimpoll was a short round ball of a man, with a mop of fair curls on his head and enormous chops equally fair and curly. Mrs. Helmsly-Wimpoll, however, was a beanpole of a woman. She was less equine than Fanny but perhaps more mulish, and her clothes had been the height of fashion a decade past. Ivy couldn’t tell whose mother “Granny” was, and she served them all, shuffling around the tables and muttering to herself all the while.

Finally, Ivy laid down her papers.

“Is that it?” asked Fanny, tea cup frozen in midair.

“The end?” said Franny.

“No more, my peony?” Mr. Helmsly-Wimpoll now, blue eyes bright in his pink face. “My pet?”

“You must end it, dearest,” said Mrs. Helmsly-Wimpoll. “That is why you’re here, surely.”

“Yes, surely,” said Fanny.

“Surely, surely,” said Franny.

“Oh end it, surely!” said Mr. Helmsly-Wimpoll.

Ivy smiled, wondering if she’d ever get used to quadraphonic sound.

“That is, in fact, why I’m here. I was hoping to enlist the aid of my fellow sleuths. Franny, would you kindly drive me in your wonderful steamcar to the little church by Lasingstoke? I think my story needs to begin its end there.”

“Spoken like a true novelist,” sniffed Mrs. Helmsly-Wimpoll, and she sat back in her chair. “You are Emily Brontë reborn!”

“Emily Brontë indeed!”

“Oh yes. Emily loves her ghosts!”

“Wonderful ghosts with all Brontës, my poppets,” said Mr. Helmsly-Wimpoll, and his blue eyes gleamed. “Perhaps you shall find a ghost or two of your own at Lasingstoke, wot?”

Her throat began to tighten when Mrs. Helmsly-Wimpoll laid a long, bony, but gentle hand across hers.

“Not to worry, dearest and darling. Your heart will mend. It always does. Even the most tragically broken beaters manage to carry on.” And she smiled the way a mule might bare its teeth. “Life is like that, you know.”

“Life is like that,” echoed Franny.

“Poor pigeon,” said Mr. Helmsly-Wimpoll.

“So you think it’s the Scourge, don’t you, dearest?” said Fanny.

“Nasty Scourge,” said Franny.

“A brute of a man,” said Mrs. Helmsly-Wimpoll.

“Now, now, my partridges, Rupert St. John is a pillar of the township and keen businessman. Kept the Hall running in the black for years now, so don’t be too quick to point your pretty fingers. Your plucky Penny would wait to glean all the facts, first, wot?”

“And I respect him, sir. I really do.” Ivy sighed, sat back. “But it is the only explanation.”

Mr. Helmsly-Wimpoll raised a bushy blond brow. “
Only
, my poinsettia?”

“Only, darling?” said Mrs. Helmsly-Wimpoll, a phrase echoed by both sisters.

Ivy gazed into her tea, suddenly unsure.

“Well, off to work, my petals, my pearls,” sang Mr. Helmsly-Wimpoll. “I have a limestone fact’ry to run. Someone needs to pay for the wedding event of the season! Ah ha! Ah ha!”

Ivy could not help but smile. Fanny had been busy this past month, renewing her correspondence with one Mr. Ninian Liddell of the Ghost Club
,
London,
and after several letters, an offer of marriage was once again presented. This time, however, it was accepted.

“Oh, the wedding!” sang Mrs. Helmsly-Wimpoll. “Our princess and her peculiar mathematician! It is indeed a marriage made in Pall Mall!”

“And Over Milling!”

“Oh, Mr. Helmsly-Wimpoll! You are too clever!”

“My pickle! My pansy!”

And for the first time in hours, Mr. and Mrs. Helmsly-Wimpoll pushed away from the table and with a kiss on the cheek for each of their girls, headed off hand in hand. Granny continued shuffling around the table, grumbling and wiping and picking up crumbs.

“My dear Liddell Ninny,” Fanny beamed quietly. “He has become entirely respectable, even with such a superfluous profession.”

“I’ve invited Albert Victor,” said Franny.

“And I’m certain he will respond,” said Fanny. “It is simply too prestigious an invitation to deny. You will help us find a dress, darling?”

“In Chester,” said Franny.

“Oh yes, in Chester. Only the best dresses to be found in Chester.”

“I would be delighted,” said Ivy, smiling again.

“Even with all this joyous talk, I can tell you are troubled, dearest.” Fanny sat back, raised a brow. “You are committed to confronting the Scourge, aren’t you? Is that wise?”

“Is that wise?”

“I need to speak with him at the very least. I need to ask him some questions, find out why . . .”

“Are you going to the grave?” asked Fanny, and Ivy started.

“I . . . I hadn’t considered it . . .”

“Oh, you should, dearest.”

“You most certainly should.”

She honestly hadn’t thought of it. Of course, Sebastien had been buried there, at the little graveyard by the chapel. She would have seen it had she been invited to the funeral. Life was so very strange. Flat now, and strange.

She took a deep breath.

“Right. Let’s go.”

“Let’s go!” exclaimed Fanny.

“Off to Lasingstoke!” cried Franny.

And so the sisters jostled and bumped and pulled and dragged their friend to the steamcar, where Franny spent over an hour preparing goggles, bricks of coal, and of course scarves, and finally, as the November sun was beginning to wane, they packed up the steamcar and set out on the road for Lasingstoke.