Cold Stone and Ivy (39 page)

“Missing one front tooth. He was very young.”

“ . . . oh God . . .”

“Your mother is here, with him. Over there, under the truss.” He narrowed his eyes to study them. “I thinking they’re playing cat’s cradle. She is singing to him.”

The tears came, and she leaned her forehead on his chest.

“No, no. It’s good, Ivy. She’s happy. Her body is just a shell. Here, with Tobias, she’s happy.”

“Tobias is dead, Sebastien. And my mother is still living. In what way can that possibly be good?”

“Ah, you’re quite right. I’m sorry.”

“Is she choosing this?”

“No . . . maybe . . . probably . . . yes . . .”

“Death is not an acceptable choice,” Ivy whispered, her words coming out small and strained. “Not when you
have
the choice. It’s cowardly and defeated and it’s just not fair.”

He focused his attention on the truss, and the damp air grew cold very quickly. Ice began to form all along the beams in direct lines from the corner and there was a rush of cold wind. Abruptly, Sebastien turned away, eyes tightly shut.

“She’s angry with me. Made quite a terrifying face, actually.” He peered back at the corner. “They’ve gone now. But they’ll likely be back tomorrow. Perhaps we should try again in the morning?”

“Yes,” she said. She was still pressed tightly against him, and she looked up into his eyes. She had given up trying to track their colour. They changed like a London sky. “In the morning.”

“Yes, in . . .” he swallowed. “In the morning.”

She could feel his heart beating against hers and she held her breath. She very much wanted to taste him again. Just a little kiss. It wouldn’t take much for this choice to be made. Just a simple push with her toe and Christien would be little more than a porcelain memory.

“So”—his voice no more than a whisper—“you think I should stop . . . shooting people?”

“Yes, Sebastien,” she whispered back. “I really think you should.”

“Well . . . I’ll, I’ll give that a try . . .”

His eyes had found her lips, as if seeing them for the very first time.

“Sound good?”

“Sounds very good.”

Yes, she very much wanted to kiss him.

“So,” she began. “If I were to reach a little higher . . .”

“Just a little.”

“Just a very little . . .”

And she pushed with the tip of one very fine boot . . .

The thudding of her heart was growing louder, although this time it was more a thump, thump, thump. With a sinking feeling, she knew that this was not her heart.

Someone was walking on the pier above their heads. They could hear voices, whispering, sniggering, and Ivy bit her lip. Sebastien grinned and pulled her closer.

“Shhh . . .” he hushed her, as if it were a great game, and she supposed it was. The Mad Lord and the policeman’s daughter, looking for ghosts under St. Katharine’s Pier. “It’s the Beak!”

“The Blue Bottle!” she whispered.

“Coppers.”

“Peelers.”

An entire host of slang terms for her father’s profession were on her tongue, when there was a splash into the water just beyond their feet. Ivy let out a little whimper as water sprayed onto her legs, and she knew she would be miserable if she caught cold because of it.

Something white and brown bobbed in the water by their feet. Sebastien grew very cold, and she craned her neck to see.

A cry died in her throat as the head of a woman rolled in the water once, twice, before being swept under the dock toward Whitechapel.

Of Purl, Strauss Waltzes,
and a Chance Meeting in Dutfield’s Yard

THE HEAD BOBBED,
rolled once, twice, then disappeared into the blackness of the water.

The air under the pier was crackling with ice, and slowly, Sebastien de Lacey reached behind his back. Ivy could barely breathe—her pulse was roaring in her ears—but she most definitely heard the sound of a hammer being cocked and quite reflexively, she pushed away from the man holding her. For with slow and painstaking control, he aimed the tri-barrelled pistol up, corrected the angle, and fired into the underside of the pier.

“Shite!”
bellowed a voice from above, and suddenly, the dock thundered with boots. Sebastien swung like a monkey through the beams and within seconds, had disappeared up the ladder, over the edge, in pursuit.

It took Ivy several moments longer, and when she finally pulled herself up and onto the pier, there was no one but a small group of dockhands gathering nearby. She snatched up her umbrella, for the rain was pelting hard.

“Oy!” shouted one man. “You all right, lad?”

“Yes!” she called back.

“Lad?” said another voice. “That ain’t no lad.”

“A bird? In breeks?”

“I never seen no bird in breeks . . .”

“Did you see anyone just now, sirs?” she called. “Anyone at all?”

“Aye,” came another. “We heard a shot and two blokes tore outta here like they was on fire!”

“And anover un chasin’ ’em, dat’s wot I saw!”

“Which way, sirs?”

They all turned and pointed, and Ivy sighed. Back down St. Katharine’s Way.

“Thank you, sirs. Could someone please fetch a bobbie?” She moved across the pier, scanning the black water for a sight of the head. “I fear there’s been a dreadful murder.”

She could hear the men as they murmured amongst themselves but she could see no sign of the head. It was too dark. However, she did find a sizable hole made by Sebastien’s bullet and knelt down to study a puddle of rainwater. There was a scrap of fabric floating that looked like trouser material. It was grey wool with a thin blue pinstripe, and there appeared to be blood on one edge. She marvelled, thinking that Sebastien might have scored yet again. The man was a crackerjack shot. She rose to her feet, slipped the fabric in the pocket of her breeches, and looked around to wait for a police officer.

Naturally, of Sebastien de Lacey, there was no sign.

THE DEAD STARED
at him as he raced down the black alleys of Smithfield. The pair had a decent lead on him, but they were careless. Knocking things over in an attempt to slow him only left a bang-up trail for him to follow. He was soaked to the bone, and the greatcoat was growing heavier by the minute, so he slipped out of it and dropped it by a box of cornhusks on the side of the road.

The streetlamps were bright as he raced onto Butcher Row, and he could make them out darting right toward Mansell. He was tempted to pull his pistol and take one down, but there were pedestrians even now in this downpour and he knew it would be a risky shot at best. And Ivy Savage’s words were still ringing in his ears. He continued in pursuit.

He could feel eyes on him, and it was impossible to ignore them all. The Tower was a terrible place. People had died by the hundreds over the centuries and he could see them now—men, women, children. The plagues had taken their toll as well, and he could feel their deaths, frozen in time, as he raced past.

One of the men was limping now, and he secretly prided himself on his accuracy. They were not making a straight go of it, and he knew they were hoping to lose him in the chaos of the streets. Up Smithfield to Glasshouse and east again on Cable and it occurred to him that if they hit Commercial, they might be able to hail a cab. If they did that, he realized his chances of finding them would be slim.

He bumped into a woman, or rather, when he reflected upon it later,
she
bumped into him. She was very small, dressed in green and black velvet, and he tried to swing out of her way, but she had hold of his arm and he could not shake her off.

“Hallo, han’sum,” she purred, and the smell of liquor hit him like a wall. “What’s yer hurry?”

“Go home,” he snapped. “You should not be out tonight.”

He tried to bolt but she had his arm, was reaching for his trousers. He slapped at her hand and suddenly the cold threatened to crack his skull.

Blade slash throat ear kidney liver slice

She laughed and pulled him to her, but he clapped a hand over her mouth and pushed her backwards into the wall.

“Go home,” he growled. “You’re not safe!
Go home!”

“Oy missus, need some ’elp?”

Two longshoremen were standing there and Sebastien released the woman, staggered back into the street. There was no sign of the fleeing men.

To Commercial,
he told himself.
Just beat them to
Commercial.

He set off again in the rain heading west.

IVY TUGGED THE
umbrella lower over her head.

“Yes, sir. I’m quite certain it was a head, sir.”

“A woman’s head, you say.”

“Yes, sir. A woman’s head.”

“And you saw it where, miss?”

“Under the pier, sir. We heard feet, we heard voices, then there was the splash.” She watched him writing. “Of a head. In the river.”

His name was Constable Pleasant Poole and his moustache twitched as he regarded his notes. His dark helmet kept the rain from his head but his notebook was a soggy mess.

“And what, pray tell, were you and your friend doing under the pier, miss?”

Damnation.
She heard Sebastien’s words ringing in her ears. They would never believe her.
She almost didn’t believe it herself.

She raised her chin. “Investigations, Constable Poole. And when you do find the head, or the unfortunate torso to which it belongs, do remember to contact Ivy Savage, daughter of Inspector Trevis Savage, Metropolitan Police, H-Division. Do write that down, sir.”

His dark eyes flicked up at her before heading back down to his notes.

“Yes, miss. Thank you, miss. Do you need a cab ’ome, miss?”

“No, thank you, sir. I have a very fine one waiting. French Warmbloods, you know. All the rage in Lancashire.”

She stepped away from the officer and marched off the pier, through the gawking crowd of dockworkers who had gathered to watch. She cursed her stubborn nature and prayed Castlewaite was still parked by the Tower and hadn’t accompanied de Lacey on his pursuit. It was very late now, and she had no money. Sebastien had carried a sum in his pocket for expenses but she had no idea where he would have gone or if he would even remember to come back for her. He was like a bloody hound on a scent.

There was a coat thrown over a pile of cornhusks, and she paused to nudge it with her boot. Yes, it looked like his, so she picked it up, shook it off, and threw it over her shoulder like a sack.

With a deep breath, she tucked her hair up under the bowler, straightened her brolly, and headed off to find the coach.

“DAMNATION!” HE MUTTERED
under his breath.

He had reached Commercial Street and true enough, there was no sign of them. Cabs and hansoms jammed the streets, crowded even for this gusty Saturday night, and he realized there was no way he could find them to follow.

There was an automabob on the corner of Commercial and Backchurch, and he was sorely tempted to approach it and register. Automabobs were stationary automatons in the service of the Met, rather like short, automated police boxes. They were dressed in tin-plated officer’s uniforms and helmets, and recorded goings-on of the streets upon which they were placed. People could ask for directions or register a complaint and the automabob would do its best to provide assistance. It would also routinely take photochromes of the street life as well, which had proved to be a deterrent to all manner of petty crime.

They also played recordings of Strauss waltzes, which Sebastien believed was a greater deterrent. It was a well-known fact that most criminal types abhorred fine music.

He shivered and rubbed his hands together to warm them. He wished now that he had not ditched his greatcoat and debated going back for it. He leaned under the canopy of a shopfront, cursing his ineptitude. The torsos were angry and of all the dead at Seventh, it was the torsos that disturbed him most. He had been presented with a perfect opportunity to rid himself of them only to let it slip away because of a drunken woman.

Blade slash throat ear kidney liver slice

He rubbed his eyes, wishing he didn’t see the things he saw, and not for the first time he wished that Frankow had just let him die.

There was a single chime from the clock tower at the end of the street. He glanced up. 1:00 a.m. That was late. Very late, in fact, and he marvelled at the number of people still out and about at this hour, most especially the number of women. He shook his head. They simply didn’t understand the dangers of walking the streets as they did, how some men hunted them like deer, how like little lambs they were amongst a forest of wolves.

Ivy Savage!
He let out a groan, clapped a hand over his forehead. He had completely forgotten her under the pier. Hopefully, she hadn’t slipped. Hopefully, she hadn’t drowned. He’d never forgive himself if she died like that.