Cold Stone and Ivy (46 page)

She glanced up.

“Taunting Remy? What do you mean?”

“Been sending him cards and letters. We have no idea as to why.”

“Oh dear God,” she moaned. “Poor Christien. Oh it makes sense now, why he wanted me safe.”

“Your turn, my girl.”

She sighed.

“We were at the docks last night, Sebastien and I, and he says he saw the Ripper and fought him off with a spade.”

“Sebastien? Sebastien
de Lacey?”

“Yes, Sebastien. I suppose I should call him Your Lordship, but honestly—”

“Good Lord, he’s in town . . .”

“Tad?”

“Stay here!” And suddenly, her tad bolted from the room, leaving the door wide open. Beals glanced in and she shrugged.

He returned a few moments later, closed the door behind him. He held out a photochrome. It was of a London street at night.

“An automabob took this last night on Cable.” He moved in closer under the gaslight so she could see.

“Look at this. Look at these two here . . .” He pointed to a grainy image along the shopfronts and she could make out a man holding a woman against a wall. She swallowed, recognizing him immediately.

“This woman is Catherine Eddowes. She was one of the victims of the Ripper last night. This man . . .” He looked at her now. “Is this man Sebastien de Lacey? Lamb said he recognized him from one of the tabloids, but I said he was up north.”

Her heart was racing, and she could feel her knees trembling. She was actually grateful for the sweeping fabric of the skirt. It hid many things.

“Ivy? Is this man Sebastien de Lacey?”

She took a deep breath.

“No,” she said firmly. “It is not.”

His green eyes tried her like fire. “Ivy, you’ve always been a good girl. You tell me the truth.”

“No.” She swallowed again. “That is not Sebastien de Lacey.”

Suddenly, he grabbed her wrist and dragged her out of the tiny room, down the hall towards the first office. All the officers, including Beals, watched them and even the automatons swivelled their heads to follow. Savage paused only to rap on the door before pushing it open and dragging his daughter in. She recognized the grey moustache of Dr. Bond, and he frowned as they entered.

“Trevis? Ivy?”

The walls were covered in photochromes of mutilated bodies, and Ivy looked away.

“No, Ivy,” growled her father. “You look. Look at these women. Study them hard, my girl. This is what our Ripper is doing in the back streets of Whitechapel. This here . . .”

He pulled her over to a set of fresh chromes, and Ivy felt the bile rise in her throat.

“This is Catherine Eddowes, the woman in this chrome.”

The tears were stinging her eyes once again, and he raised the automabob image up to her face, gave it a shake.

“Now, you look one more time and tell me that this is not Sebastien de Lacey in this chrome. Tell me that and if you’re lying, let every one of these murders be on your head.”

“Sebastien de Lacey?” Bond frowned again. “Remy’s brother? I didn’t think he was in town.”

The tears were spilling down her cheeks, and her chest was pressing in on itself so that she could barely breathe. She fought the rising of her chin.

“No,” she whispered. “It is not Sebastien de Lacey. He was with me last night.”

“All
night?” She saw the flash in his eye. Lowered hers. But she did find her chin rise and that, of all things, surprised her.

“Yes,” she said. “All night. I spent the night at Hollbrook House.”

The silence in the office was crushing. He had not closed the door and several officers drained away, not wanting to see, not wanting to hear of the fall from grace of Trevis Savage’s “good” girl. To his credit, Dr. Bond said nothing.

“I see . . .” Her father straightened. “Does Remy know?”

She nodded.

“How could you?”

“Tad—”

“Go. Leave, my girl. I have work to do.”

She did, feeling the eyes of the entire department on her as she fled the floors of H-Division, out under the inhuman gaze of Coraline Candymore and the Sentinels of Leman Street.

Of Obfuscation, Fabrication,
and a Room in Scotland Yard

SHE MANAGED TO
hail a cab for the ride back to Hollbrook House, rushed up the steps to bang on the door. Within moments, Pomfrey answered, looking prim in his wig and satin coattails. He did not move to let her in.

“Pomfrey, is Christien in?”

“I’m afraid Mr. Christien has been called to work, miss.”

For some reason, she felt a wave of relief. “And Sebastien? Is he here?”

“Is His Lordship expecting you?”

“No. But he’ll see me. He must.”

He seemed to consider this and stepped aside.

“Please wait in the foyer, miss.”

Her heart was still racing, and she dreaded the feeling sinking into her bones. What had she done? She had lied to her father both
as
her father and as an officer of the court. It
had
been Sebastien in the photochrome, and if he was the Ripper, she was playing a very dangerous game. It likely would have gone better for him had she told the truth. Now, she was wrapping him in lies. That would not sit well with any court of law.

Within minutes, Pomfrey returned.

“This way, miss.”

With a deep breath, she followed him to the sitting room of Hollbrook House. It was large and very ornate, with cream papered walls and a marble fireplace in the centre. A bank of high windows at the west end invited the struggling October sun and under the windows was a piano, much like the one back at Lasingstoke. Sebastien was sitting at that piano now, staring at the keys.

She turned to Pomfrey. “Please have Castlewaite ready the coach. Sebastien is needed back at Lasingstoke.”

The houseman raised a wiry brow.

“Please, Pomfrey,” she said. “If you care at all for your masters, do as I ask.”

He nodded primly and left the room.

“Hallo, Sebastien . . .”

He said nothing, merely stared at the keys. He was dressed now, which was a good thing, but whether he had done it himself or Christien had taken care of him, she couldn’t tell. His clothing was fine and his hair was swept off his forehead like a regular gentleman, so she suspected the latter.

She wondered if Christien felt the same way about his brother as she felt about her mother. It was a common thread, ties that bound them together as caregivers and prisoners both. It broke her heart all over again. How could one woman love two men, and brothers yet?

No, she wasn’t a romantic girl. She was a calamity.

She sat on the piano bench.

“Sebastien?”

Still nothing. She touched his hand, and he breathed in as if suddenly awakened. Slowly, he raised his head. Slowly, he blinked at her. Slowly, a smile spread across his face.

“Oh. Hallo, Ivy.”

His words were slow as well, and she knew it was the lithium. He was still drugged. This could be problematic.

“Sebastien, I’m having Castlewaite take you to the airship. You need to get back to Lasingstoke.”

“I can’t play,” he said slowly. “My hands . . . they won’t work.”

“I know. That’s the lithium. Its effects should wear off soon. You need to leave. Do you understand?”

“Why did you do that, Ivy? I would never hurt you.”

Damn those tears. They were calling again.

“I’m so sorry, Sebastien. I know you won’t hurt me. Will you go back to Lasingstoke?”

“My dogs are at Lasingstoke.”

“Yes. They’re missing you. Here, I want you to take this with you . . .”

She reached under her collar to the clockwork locket, slipped it off and over his head. It began to hum and glow.

He looked down at it as it sat just over the first button of his waistcoat.

“Mumford says it’s dangerous.”

“Take it to Frankow. He’ll know what to do.”

“Frankow has good laudanum . . .”

“Will you go?”

He nodded, slowly looked back at the keys.

“Miss?”

It was Castlewaite in the doorway of the sitting room. He looked surprisingly fresh and well-rested after a night of cold rain and hard purl.

“We’re ’eadin’ to the airship, Ah take it?”

“Please, Jerry. We need to hurry. I’m afraid I’ve made a calamity of things and Sebastien is in a bit of trouble.”

“We’ll get ’im ’ome, miss. Not to worry.”

She turned on the bench seat. “Sebastien, the coach is ready.”

“I can’t play,” he said quietly. “My hands won’t work . . .”

She sighed and looked back at the coachman. “Perhaps Lonsdale instead . . .”

“Aye. Lonsdale it is.”

Castlewaite crossed the floor, and together, they slipped arms under Sebastien’s to help him to his feet, when they heard voices in the hall.

“Quickly,” she whispered, but it was too late. Flanked by several constables and Carter Beals, her father was standing in the doorway of Hollbrook House.

ONCE, WHEN HE
had been very little, he had been angry at Cookie, so he had set out to break some windows at Fourth. As he passed the pond, the swans had chased him, but being the ruffian that he was, he chased them right back. Straight into the water and then some, but he was only seven and half-English, so he didn’t know how to swim. The sensation of going under, of trying to move heavy arms and legs, of looking up through the water, of voices garbled, and of seeing sunlight and trees through walls of liquid glass. He remembered very little of his life before Lonsdale, but that particular memory had stayed with him forever.

He felt that way now.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastien said, holding his head in his hands. “Can you repeat the question?”

He was in a room in what he assumed was the Metropolitan Police on Great Scotland Yard. The gaslight was very bright and there were men in the room with him. Most of them were older, moustachioed, and hard as tack and one of them was Ivy’s father, Trevis Savage. Another, with a great handlebar and chops, loomed over him and had been introduced as Chief Inspector Henry Moore.

“I said, what were you doing in Whitechapel last night, de Lacey? Answer it this time or I’ll throw you in the claps for a night. You’ll be happy to talk tomorrow.”

There was an apparition flickering around the man and Sebastien felt a chill. The lithium was wearing off.

“Answer me, damn it.”

“Aaah . . .We were looking for a woman . . .”

“A woman? Well, you went to the right part of town, sir. More whores in Whitechapel than pigeons.”

“No, not that kind of woman.”

“A particular woman, then. Who is this woman? Does she have a name?”

“Aaah . . .” He racked his brain. The name was there, on the tip of his tongue, but neither brain nor tongue was operating on all gears at the moment. Just like being underwater. “Savage, her name is Savage.”

Moore glanced at Trevis before resuming. “Ivy Savage? Are you referring to the girl, Ivy Savage? Was that her name?”

“No.” He shook his head, but the motion made him dizzy. “No. We were looking for Catherine Savage, her mother.”

“YOUR MOTHER?” CARTER
Beals scratched his head. “But Ivy, your mother is alive.”

“I know, but Sebastien sees things that we don’t. He thought that since Tobias died in the water at St. Katharine’s docks, we might find her there. Her soul, that is. Sebastien says that her soul is disjointed from her body and that is why she lives like she is dead.”

“And this made sense to you, Ivy?”

She looked up now. She was very fond of Beals. He had a young wife and four happy sons and for a detective, he was a very kind man.

“No, not at first. But I’ve seen things that defy explanation. Talk to Dr. Williams. Talk to Henry Babbage or Ninian Liddell or Arvin Frankow. Honestly, sir, talk to Prince Edward or Albert Victor. They are in this thick.”

“I would never talk to a royal about issues of sense and nonsense.”

She smiled now, grateful for his friendship.

“So you were lying earlier, weren’t you, Ivy? About spending that sort of night with de Lacey? A woman’s reputation is a hard one to gain back once lost.”

“He’s not the Ripper, sir. I know he’s not.”

“Well, we shall have to prove it then, shan’t we?” He straightened, took a long deep breath. “But that’s going to be difficult. The public believes the Ripper is a madman, and the way I’m seeing it, they don’t come much madder than your Mad Lord of Lasingstoke.”

“ARE YOU A
ghost hunter, sir? Is that what you are saying?”