Cold Stone and Ivy (40 page)

However, he might be able then to send her to Seventh and visit her from time to time.

He rather liked the idea, so he pushed himself off from the wall and headed back toward Batty Row and the docks.

“HELLO, CASTLEWAITE.”

“’Ello, miss.” The old man held the door open for her as she climbed in. “Did you and ’is Lordship find what ye was lookin’ for?”

“Yes, thank you. And a fair bit more.”

Castlewaite grinned his gap-toothed grin. “So tha’ was ’im I seed chasin’ them boffers, eh?”

“It was indeed.” She dropped the greatcoat to the floor of the cab. “I have no idea where he’s gone, or how long he’ll be.”

“Aye. That’s ’is Lordship, miss. Always on the town.” He had a small clockwork light pinned to the ceiling of the cab. With a few twists, it would set the gearworks in motion, creating a contained spark that, once magnified, provided a beam of golden light. Her father had mentioned the Met was outfitting their patrol officers with them for better visibility on the streets.

Pocket torches, he had called them.

She noticed his hand, sliding something behind his back against the seat cushion. She breathed in the air.

“Castlewaite? Something smells very good in here right now . . .”

“Aw now, miss. Don’t be angry . . .” He produced a copper container. “Just a bit of purl, miss. Ah gets chilled on a night like this.”

“Purl?” She flashed him a great smile. “My grandfather used to make purl all the time. May I?”

He averted his eyes. “Aw, miss. It’s a mite stronger than wha’ yer grandpa used to make, Ah’ll wager . . .”

“Castlewaite, I grew up in Swansea,” she said as she removed her bowler and shook out her hair. “I’ll wager it’s exactly like what my gran’tad used to make.”

He handed her the container, and she twisted the lid, breathed the rich bitter odour.

With a smile, she lifted it to her lips.

IT WAS A
mistake taking the cut down Helen Street. He didn’t know this part of town. Knew very little of London, actually, and he hoped he could figure out how to make it back to the river. There was no gaslight here, for in truth it was little more than an alley behind a walled yard. A horse and cart would have great difficulty making it past the rubbish piled against the walls. The footing was soddy earth and puddles.

Suddenly, there was a wail like the cry of a thousand banshees inside his head. He clapped his hands over his ears, staggering against the yard’s wall, and the cold cut through him like a knife. The air in the lane began to fog and warp, and slowly, a ghostly figure began ripping into existence. She was trying to speak, but the blood at her throat bubbled like a brook. He had never seen anything like it. The air began to sizzle with frost.

Some cussing, then footsteps, and silence once again. The cold was blistering, causing his teeth to chatter as the dead woman gestured and gaped. He placed a hand on the brick to steady himself.

Suddenly, a bag was tossed over the wall followed by the figure of a man. He was wearing a Coburn—a greatcoat with shoulder cloaking—and a very fine felt hat. He dropped quietly to his feet, looked first left then right, and froze when he saw the Mad Lord staring at him from the shadows.

Sebastien knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had just stumbled across the infamous London Ripper.

The man looked at him and even though there was no lamplight and the sky was blackened with rain, Sebastien could see his face as clear as day. He needed no light, for it was the face of a dead man.

“Father?”

The man snatched the bag and bolted down the lane, disappearing around the corner in a heartbeat.

And it was less than a heartbeat before Sebastien was hot on his heels.

Of Metal Spades, Left-Handed Villains,
and Dead Women in the Hall

THE RAIN WAS
pouring down like Noah’s flood, but inside the cab, they were warm and dry.

“Aw yes, miss. That Davis is a right smart lad, ’e is! ’Ave ye seen ’is plans for the boilers?”

Ivy was stretched across the seat of the cab, toes tapping together happily. The flask of purl was clutched contentedly in her hand.

“I have not, sir. I have been busy chasing Sebastien de Lacey all over Lancashire, Lonsdale,
and
London. That’s what
I’ve
been doing.”

“Well, Ah think ’e’s the best, Ah do. A right smart lad.”

“I’m so glad. Did I mention I saw a head tonight?”

“Yes, miss. Many times, miss.”

“But it was a
head,
Castlewaite. A single, bobbing head.”

“That’s terrible, miss.”

“It was, Castlewaite. Truly terrible. I’ve never seen a head before, just bobbing like that. And the eyes! It still had eyes! Did you know I was sent a heart in the post? A human heart! That’s why they sent me up north, they did. What is it about me that attracts all manner of misplaced body parts?

“Ah don’t know, miss.”

“Ooh look!” she exclaimed and glanced down at the locket. It was spinning once more.

“Honestly, Castlewaite, I have never owned a single piece of jewellery in my life, but now, Christien has given me two. A ring that belonged to his dead mother and now this infernal thing.”

“It’s right pretty, miss.”

“It talks to ghosts, Castlewaite. In
Latin.”

“Does it, miss?”

“Yes, Castlewaite. Believe me, I know how it sounds, but I have seen far too much in these last weeks to think anything but.”

“Well then, Ah believe it, miss.”

“It snows, Castlewaite. You just wait. We’ll be shovelling before the morning.”

He grinned, toothlessly.

“I should have given it to Frankow. I don’t know why I didn’t. Stubborn, I suppose. It was a stubborn thing growing up Savage.” She swirled the flask in the air. “Castlewaite?”

“Yes, miss?”

“What is your Christian name, Castlewaite?”

“Jerry, miss.”

“Jerry Castlewaite, may I ask you a personal question?”

He grinned again. “Aye, miss. Ye may ask.”

“How did you lose your eye, Jerry Castlewaite?” And she passed him the purl.

He took a swig, wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“Well, miss, it was one of the Master’s ’orses. It was wearing iron shoes and it kicked me in the ’ead, right ’ere . . .” He tapped his copper-plated brow with the flask. “Broke the bone and squished me eyeball like a grape.”

“Oh, Jerry. That’s terrible. One of Sebastien’s horses?”

“No, no, miss. The Master. That’s wha’ we called ’is dad. Renaud Jacobe, miss. A right nasty piece, ’e was. An ’ard man, sure enough.”

He drank again, passed her the flask. “But Rupert, now. There’s a good ’un. Felt bad fer the way ’is brother treated me, so ’e paid for me new eye. Took me down to Manchester ’imself, to the Manchester Royal Eye there.”

She took the flask. “Can you see out of it?”

“Aye.”

“Yes, I mean your eye. Can you see out of your eye?” She took a swig. It was wondrous strange how everything was growing blurred. Even the motions of her hands were slow and echoing. Her lips felt like rubber.

“Yes, miss. Ah can see. Rupert says it’s got a minachure AE program in it tha’ lets me brain decode the light. ’E says the brain is a right remarkable piece of machinery, which, Ah suppose it is.”

“Well, I think it is too. And I’m so very glad you can see. Now . . . why don’t you have any teeth?” She raised the flask, frowned, shook it. “It’s empty, Castlewaite? What are we to do?”

He grinned and reached under the seat, slid a tarnished silver flask out now.

“Ah’m quite sure yer granddad didn’t make nowt like this, Miss Ivy . . .”

She grinned back and reached across the cab.

“A toast,” she said, lifting it to her lips. “To the head.”

SEBASTIEN WAS EXHAUSTED,
and his dead father was fast but he would not give up, not after losing the other two earlier on. So he dogged him through every deserted lane and dark alley in Whitechapel. There was not even the opportunity for a shot, as the villain dodged and wove like a hare. In the pouring rain, the ground was slopping and he was hard-pressed to keep his feet under him. Now he was wishing for some of the crowds of earlier. But his father obviously knew the vicinity well, for he kept his trail to the back streets where no one could lend a hand.

Renaud began flailing his arms as he ran, and suddenly, the Coburn was released, catching Sebastien like a sail and forcing him to slow a little to keep his balance before wresting it to the side. The villain darted toward an alley yard with a four-foot stone wall surrounding it. With cat-like grace, he leapt into the air, pushed off the coping with his right arm and swung his legs over. He was gone in a heartbeat.

Easy enough, thought Sebastien, and he increased his speed and sprang, reaching out with his right arm. Something in his shoulder gave way, however, and the arm buckled beneath his weight. His body continued over the wall, but his legs did not catch him and he fell to his knees on the other side. Stars began to pop out from behind his eyes, and he cursed the fact yet again that, only days ago, he had been shot.

He struggled to his feet and saw a dark shape moving toward him. He ducked, but not quickly enough, for the broad side of a spade struck him flat on the cheek, sending him thudding into the wall. He forced himself to move as the spade struck the wall with the thin edge that would have surely cut him in two. He staggered backwards several steps and reached for the pistol. His right arm was useless, but he was proficient with both and pulled with his left, cocking the hammer as it came.

“That is
mine . . .”
growled his father, and the spade came down again, this time across his wrist, and the pistol was sent sailing out of his grip.

There was ice crackling up the stone even as the blood ran down his arm, and he knew he had little fight left in him. The yard was spinning all around, and the spade came circling in for another go. He couldn’t move fast enough and it connected with the side of his head, sending him to his knees once again. One last time it came, metal clanging against the metal plates in his skull and sending him the rest of the way to the ground. He could taste dirt and grass and his own blood.

The cold was blistering now as a hand twisted into his hair, raising his chin, and he felt a blade at his throat. A left-hander, he thought in a detached sort of way. He’d never known his father was left-handed. It made a certain sense. Handedness, like madness, ran in the family. He hoped the cut would be quick.

“That pistol is too good for you,”
growled the voice.

“The people I shoot with it stay dead,” Sebastien grunted, spitting out bits of dirt on his tongue. “Pity you can’t say the same.”

And suddenly, both the blade and the man were gone, and Sebastien lay there, trying to catch his breath. He crawled over to the wall and managed to sit with his back against it, wondering now if it really had been his father who had just beaten him down. If so, he wondered why in the world he had stopped his blade. Didn’t matter. He cast his eyes across the yard in hopes of seeing the pistol, but somehow he knew his father had nicked it. Failed again. He had lost the head’s men, his father, and his pistol, all in one night.

To top it all off, a dead man was the London Ripper. Not even Ivy was likely to believe him now.

Bad luck all around.

He pushed himself to his feet, hauled his bruised body over the fence, and headed in what he hoped was the direction of the cab.

“AND HOW MANY
grandchildren, sir?”

“Eight, as of last month.”

“Oh, well done. Eight grandbaby Castlewaites. Do they have all their eyes and teeth, sir?”

“Aye, all ’cept the little ’un. But she’ll get her teeth soon enough.”

She waved the flask around. “That’s grand, Jerry! Absolutely grand! I would love to have
wyrion
someday, oy? That’s Welsh for grandchildren, in case you didn’t know. But first I’ll need some
plant
and even before that, I’ll need a
dyn.
Ah, the
dynion.
Damn ’em all to hell . . .”

“Aw, now miss,” he said, reaching for the flask. “Ah think Ah should be takin’ tha’ about now . . .”

“Oy? Who’s the greedy girl, now, eh? Not me, sir. No sir.” And she clutched it tightly to her chest.

The cab door rattled and swung open, and the Mad Lord stumbled up the high step. Ivy raised her brows.

“And where have you been, then?”

He flopped himself onto the seat next to Castlewaite, bloody and bruised. His breathing was hard, as if he had tried to outrun a steamtrain and lost.

“You look like shite, sir.”

“Ah’ll get up in the dick, now,” said Castlewaite, and he slipped out of the cab to climb upwards.