Cold Stone and Ivy (58 page)

He had not seen the boys in weeks. Theirs had been a respectable profession with a promising future, but now, with a disgraceful blot on their records, no hospital in London was willing to offer them internship. Lewis Powell-Smith had moved back to the family home in Cambridge, where it was said he was registered in the Law School there. Bender, also from a well-heeled family, was reportedly heading into the army to serve as a medic in Afghanistan. Williams had retired to private practice, citing a decline in his health, and Rosie had simply disappeared. The boys had lost everything, while in less than two months’ time he would have Sebastien’s seat in the House of Lords. Life was funny that way.

He wondered if Ivy would have him then.

Girls had come tonight and girls had gone, each one trying to catch his eye. He was flash—he knew that full well—and he stared at his reflection in the glass. He wondered if that was all they saw when they looked at him, wondered if that was how a woman might feel as she walked past a group of men. Did she turn the eye, melt the heart? Was that what was needed to catch and keep a man? If so, what was needed to catch and keep a woman?

He took a long swig from his beer and, not for the first time, wondered what she was doing now.

“Oy, Remy de Lacey. If it ain’t you, I’ll skin me gran.”

He raised his eyes to see a young woman in black velvet with fair curls and dazzling dimples. She was arm in arm with a mousey-haired woman of similar age. They were eying him up like a pearl necklace in a shop window.

He looked back into his drink and sighed. “Mary Jane.”

She was smiling from ear to ear, but her eyes were daggers.

“Marie Jeanette and mind the French.”

“My mistake.”

He rubbed his temple, feeling his stomach lurch with the vertigo.
Damn these headaches.
He hadn’t had one in weeks.

“Jules, this here’s Christien Jeremie St. John de Lacey. Remy, say hallo to me mate, Jules. She’s . . .” Mary Jane grinned slyly and nudged her companion. “She’s Italian!”

“Italian,” the woman giggled back. “I’ma froma Italia. Calla mia Julia.” And she giggled again. Christien rolled his eyes. Julia was as Italian as Mary Jane was French. It was clear they were in their cups.

Mary Jane swished forward, pushed his shoulder so that he was forced to look at her.

“You owe me, Remy. All you gits do. Me man left on account o’ yer lies and I got no money for me kife, let alone kippers.” She moved closer, brought her face almost nose to nose, and he could smell the gin. “You owe me Remy, an’ I mean to collect.”

“I have ten pounds,” he said finally. “That is all I am willing to pay.”

The woman called Julia squealed, but Mary Jane moved even closer still. She was a beautiful woman and she knew it.

“Ten pound, eh? Well, that’s a start . . .”

He ran his eyes down past her face to her bodice, her tiny waist, the old bustle increasing the size of her hips. This was not Ivy’s body. No, Ivy was small and slim, almost boyish. Mary Jane was all woman, and his head throbbed again, causing him to grimace with the pain of it.

She noticed, and stroked his cheek with her finger. It occurred to him that she would have made a tremendous nurse if life had been kinder.

“Oh, ’e’s a poor lad, my Remy is. So ’ow’s about a trade, then?” And she pushed him back in his chair and sat on his lap, straddling him with her skirts. “You pay me what you owe me, and I’ll keep you company tonight.” She kissed his forehead tenderly and he closed his eyes. “Me an’ Julia both. We’ll both keep you warm tonight. How’s about that, me Remy boy, me pretty lad?”

He opened his eyes to see her face full of mischief, her coy mouth, those marvellous dimples. He was very sad tonight and had just received a fine offer.

She kissed him again, and this time, he did not think of Ivy.

SHE HELD ON
to the pot for dear life as the
Chevalier
shook in the violent winds. They were approaching the Airships Docking Port at Whitehall and, once again, there was lightning flashing across the skies.
Honestly,
she thought to herself,
how can people employ these contraptions?
It was worse than riding a drunken horse through a minefield in a snowstorm.

They had brought the dogs with them, all six, but they were locked in the galley. Apparently, she was not the only one who disliked air travel.

“See here,” Rupert was saying, and he passed her a bill. It was for a steamcar, purchased from Lancaster Motors on September 17. “He did in fact fly up on an airship, most likely coming to visit and in full control of his faculties. At some point, Renaud took over, killed Clara Clements of Maudgate, purchased the steamcar, and drove back to London the next morning. We have receipts from all the steamstations along his route.”

She took a deep breath. It was too difficult to believe. Christien, her Christien, the Ripper. Even now, as Rupert sat smoking and shuffling through papers, she found it far more palatable to think Rupert the villain, Dr. John Williams, or even dear, strange Sebastien. Anyone but Christien.

“He was up in June during the Solstice festival. Here’s his receipt from the Tumblestone in Pelling the same date Tilly Barton was done. I believe her heart is still missing . . .”

“I think I know where he sent it.”

“Hmph.”

She clutched the pot tightly as ballast. Storms were rough everywhere tonight.

Rupert glanced up at her. “You still don’t believe it, do you?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Well, that’s honest. Sebastien found the pistol in his medical bag. Just like Renaud said.”

Easier even to believe a dead man killing in the streets of Whitechapel.

“Remy saw him do it,” Rupert went on. “He told me once when he was little. Renaud had just thrown Sebastien out the window, and he turned, saw Remy staring at him with those great blue eyes of his . . .”

He sighed, flicked ash onto the floor of the airship.

“He put a hand on his head, pulled the pistol, and fired. It must have happened then. I can only guess how much our Remy has suffered.”

“He never let on,” Ivy said softly. “He is always in control of everything, what he says, what he does . . .”

“A mask. A bloody English mask on a very French face.”

Rupert flicked his cigarette again and bent back to his papers.

She looked over at Sebastien, sitting cross-legged on the floor under the window. His eyes were closed, hands cupping the locket that was hanging from his neck, and she could see snowflakes spinning in circles around his palms.

“That thing is killing him,” said Rupert without looking up.

It was obvious. His eyes and cheeks were sunken, lips blue, as they moved to unspoken words—prayers most likely, in Latin.

“Remy had it all along. I don’t know how he managed to lay his hands on it—he was never allowed in their room.”

“Is that why Renaud was able to wear Christien’s body like his own, to be able to kill? Because of the locket?”

“Most likely, but I don’t know, to be honest. This is not my world.”

She nodded. “And the murders stopped when he gave it to me, but started again when I returned with it to London.”

“Which is why we’ll need to move quickly once it’s back in the city.”

“Yes.” She looked over at the Mad Lord. “What is he doing?”

“Practicing.”

“Practicing what?”

“Tracking. Something that Frankow was supposed to teach him, but didn’t. Something about following a trail. Cold trail. Spirit trail. Something like that.”

“Oh.”

She could feel Rupert’s eyes on her now and she looked away, heat growing in her cheeks.

“You’ve made your choice, then?”

“Sorry?”

“Of my boys. I assumed that with the ‘death’ of one and the ruin of the other, you’d see clear to leave well enough alone; yet, here you are, back with a vengeance.” He blew smoke out through tightened lips. “What are you thinking, little skirt?”

She looked down at her left hand. “I am wearing no man’s ring, sir. I am a writer pursuing a story. No more than that.”

“No more? Really?”

“Yes, sir.” She swallowed, looking back at the Mad Lord sitting under the window. “No more than that.”

But she was wearing tan breeches, riding boots, and a red corset laced over her blouse, so she imagined she had made a choice after all.

She clutched the pot a little more tightly and waited for the ship to dock.

ONLY A VIOLET
I plucked when but a boy,

And oft' times when I'm sad at heart, this flow'r has given me joy,

But while life does remain, in memoriam I'll retain

This small violet I plucked from mother's grave.

It was strange—wonderful strange—and sad how a scrap of a tune forgotten since childhood came back to mind so easily once begun. As they wandered the streets from Commercial around to Dorset and all the way to Osburn and Brick, then back around on Buxton towards the Bells, they sang “A Violet From Mother’s Grave,” again and again and again. He had a woman tucked under each arm, and while it might have looked like they were supporting him, it was clearly the other way round. Both Mary Jane and Julia were quite drunk, and he wondered how they could not afford food nor rent, but seemed to find enough for gin and beer. Gentlemen, he knew, hoping to buy their company with a drink or two. These girls had likely not paid for their own drinks in years.

For his part, Christien was not near as drunk as he would have liked tonight.

It was dark now and the streets were filled on this Friday night. The rain had held off, although the fog had rolled in, keeping everything damp and chill. It wasn’t bad yet but he had masks in his bag, just in case. The Ripper had not struck in over a month and it seemed good times were returning to the worst street in London. For one night it was a wonderful and desperate delusion.

Scenes of my childhood arise before my gaze,

Bringing recollections of bygone happy days,

When down in the meadow in childhood I would roam;

No one's left to cheer me now within that good old home.

Father and mother they have passed away.

Sister and brother now lay beneath the clay;

But while life does remain, to cheer me I'll retain

This small violet I plucked from mother's grave

“My mum’s dead, you know,” said Christien, and both girls turned their faces to look at him. He nodded seriously. “My dad killed her. Cut her into a hundred pieces in her bed.”

“Like the Ripper,” cooed Julia.

“Just like the Ripper.”

“Did your dad swing for it?”

“He did not.” Christien made a face, pulled his gloved left hand to his temple—for he was sporting his medical bag in his right—made a pistol with his fingers. “Popped himself, he did. Right in front of me too.
Bam.
Have you ever seen a man shoot his own head off? It’s a terrible thing.”

“Just like yer brother,” said Mary Jane.

He looked down at her. She was so very beautiful. “Just like my brother.”

And he kissed her as they walked, bumping into a streetlamp and laughing it off.

“So you see, it’s just like the song . . .

But now all is silent around the good old home,

They all have left me in sorrow here to roam;

While life does remain, in memoriam I'll retain

This small violet I plucked from mother's grave.”

And they all joined in on the chorus and sang as loudly as they could as they walked drunkenly back towards 13 Miller’s Court on Dorset.

IT WAS CLEAR
that poor old Pomfrey had not been let in on the ruse as they pushed open the door into the foyer of Hollbrook House. As he took their coats and gloves, he looked as though he had just seen a ghost. Which, thought Ivy, was perfectly reasonable.

The dogs had stayed in the carriage with Castlewaite to be taken to the mews to be fed. She couldn’t imagine poor Pomfrey tending six happy, wet dogs the way Cookie did.

The three of them stomped up the steps to the long hall that led to the sleeping rooms. They stopped at one of the doors.

“This one?” asked Rupert, and Sebastien nodded sharply. He had not spoken at all since boarding the
Chevalier,
and Rupert had warned her on more than one occasion not to touch him. The air around him was brutally cold, even to frosting up the windows in the carriage on the way in from Big Ben Tower, and she had found her teeth chattering on account of it. Even now, it was fogging the breath in front of their faces as the door swung open onto Christien’s room.

Rupert moved in to start a fire and she let her eyes sweep around the room. It was green.
Odd,
she thought. She had never seen Christien’s bedroom, could not have imagined it. The colour was exquisite, however—rich and velvety and elegant—and she had to admit that it did suit him so. There were books everywhere, and strange mechanical devices with lenses and gears and wire. There was a birdcage in the window but no bird, and by the bedside, a vial of pills. For his headaches, she knew. The neighbouring physician, Jekyll, had written him a script. Everything was neat, orderly, meticulous. Everything had its place.