Cold Stone and Ivy (8 page)

The horseman was staring at her, and she realized there were tears running down her cheeks. He offered her a cloth.

“It’s all I have,” he said.

“It’s fine,” she said, wiping her cheeks, not caring that it smelled of horse and leather and pine tar. “You are very kind.”

“Well, not really. I used it to clean his hoofs. Now you have black marks down your face.”

“Wh-what?”

“I’m not certain they will ever come off. Blast.”

She blinked, and blinked again, and then before she knew it, she began to laugh. She laughed until she cried all over again. The horse reached its head toward her, breathed on her with its great nostrils, and finally, she stopped her weeping, rubbed her cheeks with her palms and smiled.

“Better?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh dear!”

“Indeed. We may need Cookie herself to clean things up.”

“Please no!” And she surprised herself by laughing again. “I think I’ll take my chances with the Scourge!”

“And there you go.”

She looked at him. He had nice eyes. They were brown. Or maybe hazel. Or grey. She couldn’t tell. Wide cheekbones, fair wavy hair. Too long to be fashionable in London, but it suited him. Very pastoral and earthy. Not at all beautiful like Christien.

And yet . . .

She tore her eyes away, concentrated on the animal standing so quietly under her hand.

“Is this one of the Mad Lord’s French Warmbloods?”

“He is indeed. His registered name is
Montclaire’s Ghyslain
d’Auguste.”

She raised her brows, and he grinned.

“We call him Gus.”

“Much better.” She laughed and thrust out her hand. “Ivy.”

He took it. “Sebastien.”

“Seb what? . . . but . . .” She froze. “But I thought . . . But . . . He said . . .”

“Yes, just like Gus, Laury is my stable name. My ‘registered’ name is Sebastien Laurent St. John Lord de Lacey, Seventh Baron of Lasingstoke. See?”

And he rapped the back of his head, and she could swear she heard the sound of metal.

“So, future-sister-in-law Ivy Savage, let’s get this fellow out into the fields, shall we? He needs to breed some mares.”

And he pushed past her with the horse and dogs in tow, and she could have sworn she saw a flash of silver under all his golden hair.

ALEXANDRE GAVRIEL ST
. Jacques Lord Durand disappeared into the stable, and Penny felt a chill run up her spine. He was a villain, indeed—elusive and mysterious. To sit in the House of Lords and yet dress like a common farrier was confounding and, therefore, suspicious. Her instincts were always correct and she wondered if he, in fact, had stolen the Clockwork Heart from Lancaster Castle.

A gentleman thief, she thought to herself. Wouldn’t be the first.

There was a knock on the door, and she was relieved to find Clarys, her best friend, with a basket of wine, cheese, and biscuits. So the rest of the afternoon was spent in much merriment, and only a little sleuthing.

Wharcombe SteamPress

September 15, 1888

Charlie Fretts, 11 year-old son of fishmonger Reggie and Bernadette Fretts, was found dead in Wharcombe today.

Of Live Women, Dead Boys, and Horses at Midnight

SHE HAD SEEMED
live enough.

At least, Castlewaite and Rupert had spoken with her, had interacted. All good clues, generally. And she had held her own with Rupert, which was never easy. His uncle was a cad. Brilliant with finances, with estates and horses, but not so good with people. He smiled, thinking the same could easily be said of himself.

She had left quickly, however, once she’d uncovered his name. They all did. They either fawned and prattled or fled like a house on fire. But before she’d known, she had chatted. That was different than prattling. More natural. No, this little woman of Christien’s had bared her soul, had laughed, and even shed a tear. It had been sweet, almost normal, and he’d learned to take normal whenever and wherever he could get it.

There was a loud squeal, and he turned his attention to the field where Gus was entertaining the new mares. He was prancing circles around a little bay, tossing his head and trying to impress. The mare was
not
impressed, however, and kept laying back her ears and snapping whenever he would dance too close. Sebastien shook his head. Five mares in a field, four willing, but Gus would naturally choose the fifth. Life was curious that way.

He laid his chin on his arms across the fence rail, watching the dance of the horses, feeling the dogs wrestle and bump at his feet. The air was quiet and he knew there would be rain in two nights’ time. There was an enormous pile of posts on his desk at First, and he knew he needed to pass them over to Rupert. Cad though he might be, Rupert would never open a post not addressed to him. The man had scruples.

The dogs whined, and the air around him began to grow cold.

There was a boy watching him.

There was always someone watching. It was exhausting, and sometimes he found himself wishing for the solitary blackness of Lonsdale. Frankow was a good man. His laudanum was by far the best.

He turned to look at the boy.

Perhaps eleven he was, with dark hair matted on one side and a very pale face. They usually had pale faces.
If
they had faces at all. Large, dark eyes staring at him, blood and bruising at the right temple indicating a backhanded blow. Not a hand, however. The wound was too straight and deep for that. A poker perhaps, for there was soot on the boy’s cheek.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

The boy didn’t speak. The dead rarely did. Instead, he merely flicked his large eyes in the direction of the bay.

“Dunbridge? Pelling? Wharcombe?” he asked, and at the name of the bayside town of Wharcombe, the boy nodded. “And did you die in Wharcombe as well?”

The boy said nothing. He was grateful it wasn’t Manchester. Manchester was a long ride.

“Was it your father? Was he drinking, or did you make him angry?”

Tears began welling behind those large eyes, and Sebastien looked away. Gus had found himself a willing mare, and he knew Rupert would be furious. Still, they were Warmbloods all. Any foal by Lasingstoke’s Gus would bring a good price.

With a sigh, he looked back at the boy. “I’m sorry, lad. I’ll see what I can do. Can you give me some time? My horse is rather busy.”

The boy folded up and disappeared, and Sebastien ran a hand along his face. Once again he felt the rush of desire for Lonsdale, its dark rooms and darker laudanum.

At least the girl had seemed live enough.

THERE WAS A
swing in the dying garden. It was late afternoon, and her heart was heavy and the swing took her back and forth, back and forth, as if the simple motion could rid her heart of the weight. The sun was struggling to come out, but the clouds were thick and low and winning. Catherine Savage was still sitting on the stone bench under the branches of an oak, staring but seeing nothing.

Tomorrow
, thought Ivy. Tomorrow everything would change.

She had left the stables and the Mad Lord de Lacey, who had at that point seemed the most sensible character on the entire estate. He certainly did not look like her impression of a lord, let alone a mad one. With the grey horse and six dogs in tow, he had headed out straight away to the fields in direct defiance of “the Scourge.” He apparently did have metal in his skull, and he certainly liked his horses. She wondered how many more of the rumours were true. Life was becoming too strange for her. She didn’t know what to think anymore.

She looked down at the newspaper in her hand, at the article in the
Lancaster Guardian.

LONDON POLICE BAFFLED

The Latest Victim Discovered in Spitalfields Early Sunday Morning Shockingly Mutilated

LONDON, Sept. 10—The horribly mutilated body of a woman was found early yesterday morning in a yard attached to a common lodging house in Spitalfields. Her throat was cut from ear to ear, the body was ripped open, the bowels and heart were on the ground, a portion of the entrails was tied around the neck, and the womb removed entirely from the scene. This is the fourth murder of a similar character that has been committed recently in this vicinity. All the victims were women of the lowest character. The author of the atrocities remains undiscovered, and the excitement in the immediate vicinity borders upon a panic.

Police are continuing to investigate.

She frowned. Leather Apron, the press had taken to calling him, but truth be told, it wasn’t likely to be one man. At least that’s what her father had insisted. People, he had said, loved their conspiracies and would see devils in every lock and larder. The East End was a hard part of town, Whitechapel even more so. Women who worked their trade in dark alleys were easy to find.

Now Christien was involved, for he was studying under Dr. Thomas Bond in the new field of forensic pathology. Bond had assembled himself a team of brilliant young physicians-in-training. Bondie’s Boys, they were called. Christien, Henry Bender, Ambrose Pickett, and Lewis Powell-Smith. When he was not with her, Bond, or Dr. Williams, he was with the boys. They had been together for years.

It was an exciting pursuit, she thought, all for the advancement of science and the progress of the Empire of Steam. They were always dissecting something, analyzing something, cutting something apart. The other boys were hard as nails, but Christien was in it for the science. To see him working with Bond and the detectives of H-Division made her very proud. She knew that was his appeal for her, his dedication to the field of criminology. Not for the first time, she wondered what sort of wife she would make, when she’d rather be in a morgue than a kitchen or a nursery.

She looked down at the article once again.

“Her heart was on the ground, Mum,” she said as she swung back and forth. “That’s a terrible place to put a heart. Better than sending it to me in the post, I suppose, but still, I wonder what the devil was thinking . . .”

She shuddered, remembering the feel of the cold, sticky lump in her hands. It was as if Death were reaching for her from the pages of her stories. No, not Death.
Jack.
The heart had been “From Jack.” Was that his real name? Had the heart been taken from a woman like in this article, from a scene just like this? Her chest tightened as the questions mounted.

“And why remove her womb, Mum?” she asked. “That’s strange, isn’t it, and therefore, a very good clue.”

Catherine Savage blinked but naturally said nothing.

“Maybe he’s a collector, or a scientist of some sort. You know, like how some men like to stuff dead birds or pin butterflies to cork. Maybe he works for collectors or scientists and needs to find new parts to keep his kids in taffy.” She made a face as she swung higher and higher. “Maybe she was pregnant . . . Ooh, that would be bad, wouldn’t it, Mum? She
was
a working girl, after all. Dr. Williams says it happens all the time. He helps them with that, though we’re not supposed to say. Hmm, I’ll need to ask him when we’re back in London.”

And so she sat on the swing and went back and forth, going over the article in the
Guardian
until Lottie called them in for dinner.

THE SUN WAS
setting over the waters of Wharcombe Bay, and the smell of fish was strong on the wind. There were trollers rising and falling with the waves, and sea birds swooped low over the docks.

At the end of the road was the fishmonger’s shop. It was small and boarded with clapping, with barrels and benches lining the stoop. Gaslight beamed from the lone window, and the chimney curled with smoke. The shouting inside the thin walls had been going on for almost an hour. He dearly wished he could go in and put an end to it, but there were children, and he had principles.

Besides, while the wind was biting, there was no frost.

The wailing was growing unbearable when the door swung open and a man staggered out, a bottle in one hand, an iron poker in the other.

“Yor turn, next, Dot!” the man roared, and he struck the poker against the frame. It left splinters the size of a thumb, “You keep your gob shut or it’s yor turn for sure!”

The door slammed shut and bolts slid home.

“Piss on ’em,” the man grumbled. “Piss on ’em all.”

And he turned toward the docks and the cold waters of Wharcombe Bay, striking the poker on the ground as he walked.

Sebastien de Lacey released a long breath, watching as it frosted into a cloud in front of his face. He looked behind him. The boy with the large sad eyes was there, leaning against the wall of the shanty. His cheeks had sunken in, his lips as grey as the bay. The boy nodded.

De Lacey pulled the clockwork pistol from his belt, checked all three chambers for bullets, and followed the man toward the docks.