Cold Stone and Ivy (14 page)

His blue eyes scanned the lists, looking for any variation of Annie Eliza Chapman he could find. To his surprise, he found another—Mary Ann Nichols. The name of the woman found dead in Buck’s Row, the one he had spoken to Bond about that morning in the mortuary, had been Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols. According to the journal, she had been given a “procedure” for an unwanted pregnancy and it had gone terribly wrong.

Pregnancy was a complicated marvel,
Williams had always said,
but
never a guaranteed joy.

His eyes ran over the list of names, searching for but not finding Annie Eliza Chapman, or Elizabeth Ann Chapman, or any variation of it, but then again, these women changed their names as often as men changed their socks. He was grateful that Ivy was made of more constant stock. He wondered how she was doing, hoped she was enjoying the fine country air.

One name caught his attention, but he was diverted by a rattle at the door.

He placed the notebook down as John Williams entered the room.

THE MORNING STARTED
out grey, with clouds hanging heavy over the skies but by nine o’clock, the sun had reappeared as the coach rolled into the tiny town of Over Milling. Ivy liked the look of it at once.

According to Cookie, Over Milling had a population of twelve hundred people, but it served an area of close to five thousand. Like the surrounding district, it was hilly and the streets rose and fell with the land. Many of the streets were cobbled, others were dirt, and most of the houses were fashioned from stone. Limestone, sandstone, or slate, and once again, it served to reinforce her image of the north country. The grey and the green. The cold stone and the ivy.

Davis leapt from the cab and stretched. Cookie had given him a list of machine parts—two half-inch Daniels gears, one ten-pound McKenzie Steam boiler, a half-winch drill, several pulleys of differing lengths, and a bolt of Strong’s copper wire. Apparently, there were many, many machines in need of repair at Lasingstoke.

She had also given him a sizable purse and made him promise to bring back the rest. He had crossed his heart and sworn to die, and the look on Cookie’s face made Ivy wonder if she intended to take that literally. Lottie had smiled sweetly and disappeared with the jams.

“Well, Castlewaite, where should I start?” Davis called up as the coachman began dismounting the dickey.

“Well, lad. Farnun’s is over yonder. They’ll ’ave much of wha’ on yer list. And, if’n they don’t . . .” He hitched his trousers up a notch. Being a thin man, his trousers frequently sagged. “Ye could always talk to Grimwalt. Tha’s Andy Grimwalt over at the fact’ry. They makes pistons for motorcars and Victoria’s
sous-
boats, they do.”

“Sous
-boats,” said Ivy. “Do you mean the submersibles?”

“Aye, miss. But Grims calls ’em ‘
sous-
boats.’ Fer the French.”

“Cor.”
Davis grinned. “Submersibles . . .”

Submersibles, or s
ous-
boats, were the newest weapon of Victoria’s Empire—boats that travelled beneath the surface of the sea. The Germans had pioneered the technology, with their U-boats, the French had copied with their
sous
-boats, leaving the Empire of Steam scrambling to catch up. But catch up, she had. Victoria did not relinquish her dominion of the world’s oceans lightly. Rumour had it that one British submersible could take out an entire enemy fleet before a single cannon could be loosed. Next to airships and ironclads, the submersibles virtually guaranteed the Empire’s supremacy for the next decade.

“Brilliant.” And he darted down into the cobbled street toward the factory.

“Be back by noon, mind,” called the coachman. “Cookie’s ’olding lunch fer us back at the ’all.”

Davis waved over his shoulder and was gone.

The coachman turned back to Ivy.

“And wha’s on yer map today, miss?”

“Boots.” She raised her chin. “A pair of very fine boots.”

“Well, good luck wi’ that.” He winked. “Just be back by—”

“By noon, yes. I most certainly will.”

He grinned his gap-toothed grin, and Ivy wondered how he could afford an artificial copper eye but no teeth. As he led the horses toward the livery, she turned and surveyed the town.

He had dropped them off in the middle of the square at the feet of a terribly old Sentinel. Sentinels were mechamen, huge automatons that had been fashioned to resemble people and were made entirely of metal. This one was perhaps the oldest she had ever seen, and she wondered if he had been a part of the original fleet, manufactured and sent out to every town across the country as a part of Prince Albert’s Great Exhibition of 1851. A little park had been built around it, with flowers and pigeons and vines that climbed his clockwork legs. But he was a fearsome sight nonetheless, standing guard over the town as a symbol of imperial majesty and might.

Black iron posts circled the Sentinel, to which a few horses were tethered, as well as three dogs and a toddler.

There was also a steamcar badly parked on the side of the road, and she briefly wondered if it belonged to the same blonde woman who had driven so madly the other day. Over Milling did not seem the type of town that welcomed progress. And yet, if it boasted a factory that made parts for
sous-
boats, then she had no clue what else might be in store.

She could see shops in the buildings nearest the square, and she cast her eyes across their fronts for a promising venue.
Benny’s Books
, read one placard
. Verne’s Clocks,
read another
. Simon’s Smokes & Fine Tobaccoes.
The
Lancashire Fishmonger
and
Oldtown Cloth and Feed
.
Peter’s Pork Pies, Salisbury Sausages,
and finally,
London Shoes.

Her heart leapt within her, and she made for it straightaway.

Within minutes, she stood at the black and gold door of the promising
London Shoes.
The door, however, was locked so she tried the bell to no avail. Higher up, a sign posted on the glass read:

Closed by Order of His Lordship

Due to Scurrilous Rats, Ghosts, and Other Vermin

April 17, 1884

That heart, that had leapt so happily only moments ago, began to sink like a stone, and on that stone, only one name was carved.

Sebastien de Lacey.

“Oh, Franny, look. A new girl,” said a voice behind her.

“Yes, Fanny, a new girl,” echoed a second, and Ivy turned to see two young women, dressed in fine, if dated, clothes. They were standing very close to her, and she felt the need to step back to avoid bumping noses.

“What is your name, new girl?” asked the first. She was perhaps Ivy’s age, tall and thin with dark hair piled high under a feathery cap. Her face was long, her eyes small, and her teeth reminded Ivy of a horse.

“I’m Fanny Helmsly-Wimpoll,” she said before Ivy could respond, and she thrust out a gloved hand. “And this is my sister, Franny.”

Franny was very different from her sister, being shorter, stouter, fairer, and less equine. Although perhaps more bovine. Her hat looked like a flowerpot and she sported a set of goggles round her neck. Ivy recognized her immediately as the mad-driving woman in the steamcar on the way to Lonsdale. She also held out a gloved hand.

Ivy looked at the hands, took one in each of hers.

“Ivy Savage,” she said, shaking politely. “I’m very pleased to meet you both.”

The women’s eyes grew very round.

“The
Ivy Savage?” said Fanny. “Writer of the
Penny Dreadful, Girl Criminologist
serials?”

“I love Penny Dreadful,” said Franny.

“Franny has an entire shelf full of them, don’t you, Franny?”

“I love Girl Criminologists . . .”

Ivy smiled. “I had honestly thought them a fancy only in Stepney. It surprises me to hear they’ve left the city, let alone the county.”

Fanny leaned back, placed a hand theatrically on her chest, sniffed. “Got ’em from my mother’s sister’s cousin’s chemist’s chimney-sweep’s uncle, Alby Thistle.”

“Alby Thistle,” echoed Franny.

Ivy grinned. Alby, her agent, publisher, and merchant all in one. He ran a parlour press on Bruley Gate that produced everything from flyers and tracts to broadsheets and the penny serials that gave her a few shillings a month. He insisted that he lost money on them but would tear a strip off her if ever a chapter were late.

“We’re almost family, you know. You and we.”

“Really?” Ivy cocked her head. “How so?”

“My mother’s sister’s husband’s sister’s cousin’s daughter. She knows your fiancé.”

“My fiancé?”

Fanny pulled her close, leaned into her so that they were indeed nose-to-nose. “Why, you
are
engaged to Christien Jeremie St. John de Lacey, aren’t you?”

And she sniffed.

“Ooh, Christien Jeremie,” sniffed Franny. “He’s sweet.”

“Very sweet, dearest,” sniffed Fanny. “And he’s yours, Ivy. How adorable.”

“How adorable,” sniffed Franny. And both women released her hands to study her.

“Thank you,” said Ivy. “I think.”

“Oh, that’s not to say that his brother isn’t sweet, now is it, Franny?”

“Not saying that at all,” said Franny.

“But Sebastien Laurent is very different than Christien Jeremie, don’t you think?”

“Very, very different,” said Franny.

“He has a metal skull, after all.”

“All metal.”

“And well, of course, he’s mad.”

“Completely mad.”

“You aren’t looking for ghosts, are you?” asked Fanny, suddenly serious. “Or vermin?”

“Scurrilous
vermin?”

“Ah, no. Just some very fine boots, I’m afraid,” said Ivy.

Fanny laid a hand upon her heart. “All the way from London, in need of some very fine boots.”

“Alas.” Franny shook her head, lowered her eyes. “No boots.”

“Oh, we can show you where to buy boots, dearest Ivy,” sniffed Fanny. “But not very fine ones. For very fine
boots, Lancaster is the place.”

“The only place,” sniffed Franny.

“Have you been to Lancaster, dearest?” asked Fanny.

“No,” said Ivy.

“Well then,” exclaimed Fanny. “We must go!”

“To Lancaster, we must go!” sang Franny.

Fanny snagged her hand, pulled her close once more. “But not
today
, you impetuous thing, you! What
ever
were you thinking?” And she laughed merrily.

Franny laughed merrily.

“No,” said Ivy. “Not today, I’m afraid.”

“But later this week, surely.”

“Yes, later. Surely,” said Franny.

“Surely,” said Ivy.

“But tea . . . Now tea is something we can do today, surely!”

“Oh yes, surely!” echoed Franny.

Ivy smiled. “Tea would be lovely.”

“There are no lovely tea shops in Over Milling, dearest, but there is
a
tea shop in Over Milling . . .”

“A
tea shop,” echoed Franny.

And before she knew it, they had grabbed her by the arms and pulled her down the road in search of tea.

“I’M SURPRISED TO
see you here today, Christien,” said Williams, and he stepped into the Doctors’ Room of St. Mary’s Bethlem Hospital and Lunatic Asylum. “I thought Bondie had given you boys a few days off.”

Christien slipped his hands behind his back. “Yes, sir. But I wanted to check up on that young woman we attended last week.”

“Oh well done, boy. I’m proud of you for doing so, especially since it was extracurricular business.” He moved his stocky body around to the desk and lowered himself into the chair. “And? How is she?”

“Doing well, sir,” said Christien. “I was just coming to take some tea before leaving.”

And he held up one of the tea cups. Cold leaves were stuck to the china like bark. Good luck, that.

“The other boys didn’t see fit to check, did they, Remy?”

“I believe the boys have gone home for the break.”

“They are not in the same league as you.”

“They are ‘the boys,’ sir. Friends, regardless.”

“Hm. Very diplomatic. Let me tell you what I think, as their teacher and your mentor.”

Christien waited, saying nothing.

“Henry’s a stout fellow. Always up for a challenge. He’ll do fair in life but he’ll never be a success. Powell-Smith, the bastard, has avoided clinical for three weeks now. He always has the most damnable excuses but I can’t fault him when his father is in Bertie’s bend pocket. Hospitals will line up for him no matter what his grade. And Pickett, well, he tries but he is no means gifted. How he has lasted this long in Bondie’s company is quite beyond me.”