Cold Stone and Ivy (54 page)

She noticed her father shake his head and glance her way. All this conspiracy. All this secret talk. The world of men was filled with bitter secrets. It was making her very angry, and she realized that this world was for men alone. Women like Mary Jane, even like herself, skirted the edges but never really got in. She had always thought that she belonged here, in this world of detectives and mysteries, but now she wasn’t sure if she wanted to, even if she were allowed.

The detectives returned and her father put a hand on her arm as he leaned in.

“Remy, a word if I may?”

The sound of another chair and she held her breath. Christien appeared in the doorway, face a fine porcelain mask. He did not look at her, and Trevis touched his arm as well. Ivy frowned again. Her father was not a touchy man.

“Both of you come this way. I need to talk to, ah . . . to talk to the pair of you.”

“Two-twelve?” suggested Beals.

“Aye. Two-twelve. Just here, ah . . . down the hall . . .”

And her father turned and led them down the quiet hall, Beals following like a shepherd.

Savage opened another door, held it wide for the young physician.

“Wait outside, will you, my girl?”

He looked grim as he closed the door and disappeared inside with her fiancé.

She glanced at Beals. “What’s going on, sir?”

He smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile, and her heart lurched within her chest. Surely they couldn’t deal with any more blows tonight. This night had already shipwrecked their futures. Truth was a pitiless thing.

Behind her, Chief Inspector Henry Moore walked out into the hall, accompanied by Drs. Bond and Williams and what was left of Bondie’s boys. They were laughing and chatting but Ivy thought their voices sounded strained, their joviality forced. Once they spied her, all conversation ceased, and with malicious glances, they left the hallway in silence.

Suddenly, she felt very sad and wondered if there wasn't anyone who didn’t hate her tonight.

The door opened and her father peered out. She could see Christien, sitting at a far table, head in his hands. Her heart thudded once again.

“Come in, Ivy,” said her tad, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “I need to tell you something.”

With a deep breath, she stepped into the room, and he closed the door behind her.

Of Rain, Blood, and an Obituary in the Times

IT WAS RAINING
hard as the coach clattered down the cobbled streets of Kensington-Knightsbridge. The line of fine white houses was a blur, the blanket on her lap as heavy as a stone. There was no sound. There was no heat, no light, no taste, no feel. Not even an ache to indicate life. Just the deep hollow pull of emptiness, a hole that had no sides, no roof, and no end in sight.

It was amazing how quickly the emptiness had come. Frightening almost, and that too she realized was a kindness. She wondered if this was her mother’s world, this place of quiet apathy, where the only sound was the rushing of blood through the veins and the steady pulse of the heart. Hands on her, moving her, directing her, up into the coach, sit here, look there. Yes, this was her mother’s world. She understood it now all too well.

An automaton sat next to her, a perfect machine-man with dark hair, clear blue eyes, and skin like porcelain. He did not move, did not flinch, as the coach rattled and bumped over the stones. He was in his own world, she knew. Of all of them now, he was the most alone.

Her father sat across from her, his eyes darting from his hands to her face and back again. She wondered in a detached way what he was thinking but didn’t care overmuch. And Carter Beals next to him, his day starting with the announcement of new life and ending like this. Together, the four of them rode through the narrow dark streets toward Hollbrook House and the dead Lord of Lasingstoke.

“It was a steamcar,” she could hear her father saying, although his voice sounded hollow and very far away. “A bloody four-wheeled steamcar flipped in the rain and hit the cab on the way to Broadmoor. That’s how he made his escape. He would be safe at Broadmoor if it hadn’t been for that steamcar. Damn those bloody four-wheeled death traps . . .”

At some point, the coach halted and the automaton was gone from her side. A hand was held out for her, and, obediently, she took it but did not feel it in the least. The water splashed her boots, the hem of her skirts, and she remembered vaguely that she was still wearing the breeches he had bought her underneath. She couldn’t feel them either, but that did not surprise her.

Without an umbrella, Christien slowed, eyes drawn to a black coach parked on the street in front of Hollbrook House. It was a distinctive carriage, one she had seen too often lately in Whitechapel. It was drawn by black horses, heads low, tails dripping in the rain.

There were already policemen at the door as they moved up the steps and into the large foyer. Servants were there, offering towels, but Christien did not take one; rather, he looked to where constables were conferring with a rumpled-looking man wearing a smoking jacket. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he was wiping his hands on the towelling. It was stained with red.

“Ah, Remy,” said the man, and Christien broke company with Savage to stride over. The man had thinning light brown hair, neatly trimmed chops, and a rather common face. He extended his hand, almost cleaned. “Terrible business, this.”

Christien shook stiffly like an automaton. The porcelain was set tight. “Ivy, this is Dr. Henry Jekyll, my neighbour.”

She nodded, shook his hand, but could think of nothing to say.

“I heard the shot,” Jekyll said. “Came by to see if I could be of help.”

“Is he . . . ?”

“Quite,” said the doctor, shoving his hands in the pockets of his smoking jacket and looking at the floor. “The undertakers are upstairs now, bagging him up. Metal skull, wot? Fascinating.”

Christien stared at him.

“Ah. Sorry, Remy. Well, damn peelers want my statement, so . . .”

Christien reached for his hand again, shook long and hard. “Thank you, Henry.”

“Not at all, Remy. Miss Ivy. Good night, then.” And he left their side for the company of the constables, but Savage motioned from the stairs.

Christien sighed before turning to follow the inspector up the steps of Hollbrook House. Down the hall, last door on the right before the terrace. The door was ajar and the room was dim, lit only by a single gaslight over the fire. Castlewaite was standing by the window, watching as two men intently wrapped a body in black cloth. There was a long wooden box, a dark pool on the floor, and blood splattered across the paper on the wall.

“Oh,”
she gasped, her first utterance in almost an hour, and she felt the urge to turn away. Christien stepped in front of her.

“Ivy,” he said. “You don’t need—”

“No,” she said. “No, please, may I stay?”

He said nothing but stepped into the room. On hands and knees, Pomfrey was scrubbing at the stains, producing a pink foam with his brush. His wig was in place but it looked hastily put.

Castlewaite approached, wringing his hands.

“Ah’m so dreadfully sorry,” he moaned. “Ah tried to stop ’im but ’e was set on it, ’e was. Said it were the only way.”

Christien nodded, watched with dull eyes as the undertakers finished the last of their wrapping. Together, they lifted the body and deposited it inside the box with a thump.

“’E made me promise you’d take ’im to Lasingstoke. ‘Lasingstoke, not London,’ ’e said. ‘Tell Christien. Just not London.’”

She swept her eyes across the floor again, noticed a fresh dent in the floorboards and several links of chain nearby.

“What’s that?” she whispered.

“Ah ’ad to take ’is claps off, Ah did. Used me axe from the stables.”

“And where is the axe now?”

He glanced up quickly, his copper eyepiece whirring and clicking. “In the stables, miss. ’Is Lordship asked me to ready the coach, said we was ’eadin’ back to the ’all, so Ah put it back afore Ah got the ’orses.”

“But weren’t you with him when he . . . when . . .?”

He nodded quickly. “Aye, miss. Ah felt sommat weren’t right, so Ah came back up. ’E had the pistol in ’is ’and, ’e did.”

“Please, Ivy,” whispered Christien. “Not now.”

She swallowed and shut her mouth, not for the first time wishing she could restrain her tongue. That trait had cost her, and the de Lacey brothers, everything.

Christien took a deep breath. “I’ll contact Rupert . . .”

“Already done, sir. Ah telegraphed ’im at once.”

“Thank you, Castlewaite.”

“’E were a good man,” he said, and for some reason, he looked at Ivy. “At the ’eart of it all, ’e were a good fine man.”

With that, the coachman turned to help the undertakers with the nailing of the lid.

Her father approached, holding the clockwork pistol in cloth, its three chambers polished and gleaming in the gaslight.

“I thought he’d lost it,” she said softly.

“That’s what he told me too,” said Savage. “He said the Ripper had it.”

They all flinched as the first nail was hammered into the wood. It sounded like a gunshot, again and again and again, and Ivy found herself shaking quite uncontrollably. Finally, after several minutes, it ceased.

With the help of two constables, the undertakers lifted it up, across the floor, and out of the room. Now there was only Pomfrey, the scraping, and the terrible pink foam.

Christien sighed. “Pomfrey, you don’t need to do that now . . .”

The prim man looked up. His eyes were red and puffy. “Oh no, sir. Blood stains so. I shall never get it out if I don’t do it now.”

“We can replace the flooring, Pomfrey. And change the paper. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”

“But sir, I do feel the need—”

“I said stop!”

Everyone glanced at him, the man who rarely raised his voice in laughter let alone anger, and silently the houseman rose to his feet and left the room. Castlewaite did the same, as did Ivy’s father, leaving the pair of them in the dark gaslight of the bedroom.

The tiny muscles in his jaw were twitching and she longed to stroke his face, to hold him, comfort him. But it was simply an inclination, for inside, she was as dead as the body in the box. She looked down at the ring, the single pearl with two diamonds, and slowly, deliberately, slid it off her finger. She held it a moment before slipping it into the pocket of his waistcoat. He made no move to stop her.

“It ends. With me,”
he had said over tea and pasty at the Clarence. She should have known what he was thinking.

She should have known.

She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek and turned to look one last time at the room, at the blood of the man who had changed everything. The corner where they had sat toe to toe under a blanket, the scrawls of chalk and Latin on the walls.

And she turned and left Christien in the room, alone.

“IVY, WAIT,” CALLED
her father, meeting her at the door. She paused but did not turn as a gust of wind buffeted her face and hair. The rain was pelting down now and she had no umbrella, but she doubted she would feel either cold or wet or darkness. She watched the undertakers load the box into the back of the carriage and slap the door shut. There was a man at the dickey, a small man in an overcoat, reticulating goggles, and a beard that looked silver in the gaslight of the street. He pulled his cap down low, and with a flap of the reins, the black horses headed off into the night.

“Ivy,” said her father at her side now. “I’ll have Beales take you home.”

“No, Tad,” she said. “I’m going to walk.”

“Aw, my girl, you can’t walk in this. It’s a long way, a bad night, and in this weather—”

“Tad, I think it’s time you stopped telling me what I can and cannot do.”

“I know, my girl.” He reached out to stroke her hair. “And I’m sorry. I just, I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you. Please, please understand . . .”

She turned her face, saw tears brimming in his eyes, forgave him everything, although the numbness did not sway.

“It’s all right, Tad. I understand. I’m sorry too.” She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. As she did, her eyes spied a small amount of debris on the floor, lifting and swirling in the wind from the doorway.

Odd,
she thought.
Feathers.

“I’ll see you at home, Tad.”

And she tugged her bowler down on her head and stepped out into the night.

The Steam Times: Obituaries

October 6, 1888

Sebastien Laurent St. John Lord de Lacey

Baron Lord of Lasingstoke, Lancashire

It is with sorrow that we announce the sudden and shocking death of Sebastien Laurent St. John Lord de Lacey, Seventh Baron of Lasingstoke, Lancashire. He was found two nights past at his family home of Hollbrook House in Kensington-Knightsbridge, a victim of a bullet to the head in what police are calling an apparent suicide. Long troubled by mental instability and given to lengthy stays at Lonsdale Abbey, a sanitarium on the shores of Wharcombe Bay, Lord de Lacey held a seat in the House of Lords and will be missed by the French Warmblood Society of Europe for his contributions in the field of equine husbandry.