Cold Stone and Ivy (12 page)

“What of it?”

“He has seen much in his profession. Far too much of the darkness in the human soul. Do you believe in the soul, Miss Savage?”

“What has that got to do with—”

“Christien does not. He is a man of science. I fear your father does not, either. And nor, I think, do you.”

“Faith is a personal thing, sir. Hardly something that should dictate the suitability of a marriage partner.”

“Entirely the thing. Think it through. You have a father with a gruesome profession, a fiancé with an even more gruesome one. A dead brother and a dying mother. You write murderous stories, have your living brother illustrate them, and yet you are shocked when you receive a heart in the post. You yearn for a vibrant and fascinating career in crimes, but you set yourself up to be the wife of a city doctor. It is a conflict, in my estimation.”

“Christien is to be a police surgeon,” she countered. “Hardly a mere ‘city doctor.’”

“Ah. And you are to assist him in his investigations, then? And would that be before or after the elegant parties?”

Now the heat rushed to her cheeks.

“You are bold, sir!”

“It’s just a question, Miss Savage. Is that the life you want for yourself?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“Be honest, now,” he said.

“I have no realistic alternative,” she snapped, unable to stop the flashing of her eyes. “A man could not possibly understand.”

“Oh, I understand completely. It is the most realistic course.”

“You are mocking me.”

“I’m not, Miss Savage. Sincerely. But I see in you so much more than what you see yourself.”

“You don’t know me, sir.”

“But I do know my brother. It is Christien who wishes for a quiet, normal, and ‘realistic’ life. He is pulled towards the arcane as much as me, but masks it under the guise of science. He denies this, and in doing so, he denies himself. He deeply wishes for respect and approval, for vindication from his peers in London. He’ll get it, I’ll wager, but it will come at the expense of his brilliant mind and extraordinary talents. Our family’s history has set him on that course. Understandable, I suppose. But you, Miss Savage, you are quite the opposite. You come from an ordinary home, yet you yearn for the fantastical and are fascinated by the macabre. More than that, you have a quick mind, a vivid imagination, and are fairly bursting with the need for a challenge.”

“And you can tell all that in the holding of my hands?”

“Indeed.”

She raised her chin.

“The ‘fantastical’ is quite beyond my reach, sir.”

“Reach a little higher, then. Else buy yourself some very fine boots.”

They remained that way for some time, he with his arms folded, observing, and she standing with her chin held high, being observed. Frankly, she did not know what she should be doing, or what was allowed in the presence of a baron.

“You will write a letter of introduction for Dr. Frankow?”

“Certainly. Although I suspect that is not what he is wanting from me.” He pushed off the desk and moved around it, preparing to take his seat once again. “No, I will need to pay a trip to the Abbey myself. I was planning to do it anyway. Now I simply have an excellent reason. Thank you, Miss Savage.”

“When will you go?”

“I’m not certain. Sometime, I expect.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

He sat, slipped the spectacles back onto his nose, slit open the Victoria letters with a penknife. Peered up at her over the thick dark rims.

“Is there anything else, Miss Savage?”

“Nothing, sir. Good day to you, then.”

“Every day spent living is a good day.”

She stared at him.

And he bent back to his papers, dismissing her with that simple act. She stood for a moment longer before turning and slipping out of the room. Only the dogs watched her go.

SHE REINED IN
her Thoroughbred, Marlborough, next to the man on the French Warmblood. He was wearing a mask that covered his eyes and made him appear entirely villainous.

“You, sir? What is your name?”

The man smiled at her, and she thought to herself that even with the mask, he was surprisingly handsome, and most likely a thief.

“Why should I tell you? You are a girl wearing breeches.”

“And you are a man wearing a mask.”

“Aren’t we a scandalous pair?”

“I do not live my life afraid of a little scandal, sir. I am a modern woman.”

“I see. Then I shall tell you my name if you tell me yours.”

“Agreed.”

“Alexander Dunn,” said the man. “And yours?”

“Penny Dreadful.”

“Ah. The investigator’s daughter.” His horse was prancing, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. “A Girl Criminologist. How rare.”

“Are you mocking me, sir?”

“Not at all. Have you found the stolen Heart?”

“I have my leads,” she said defiantly.

“The thief is clever, surely.”

“Not as clever as he thinks, sir.”

“Or as clever as you think.”

“I do not think a man clever who has to steal to make a living.”

“What about a man who doesn’t have to steal, but simply chooses to?”

“Then he is a rogue, sir, and a cad. Do you know anyone like that?”

His grin widened. “Is your horse as quick as your tongue, Penny Dreadful?”

She scowled. “Quicker.”

“Then catch me and I’ll tell you.”

And he wheeled his horse and galloped off the common. Penny spurred Marlborough in the flank and set off in pursuit.

Of Brass Rings, Love Songs,
and a Woman named Annie

CHRISTIEN LOOKED AROUND
the chaos that was the Stationhouse. The floor was packed with officers. Those who had desks were at them, others milled about with papers and reports. He could tell the plainclothesmen from the clerks at a glance. There were several bobbies in uniform and a few reporters as well, and the entire building had the smell of old coffee and pistol grease. It was the Leman Street Station—the heart of the Metropolitan Police’s H-Division, Whitechapel.

Automatons wheeled and clanked through the crowd, doing the menial work of filing and fetching, delivering and recording. They were adept at navigating the chaos with a minimum of bruised shins, and Christien wondered how long it would be before the Surgeon’s department had robots doing simple procedures. As he watched them carry on with their tasks, he envied them their singular lack of emotion. It would make his job so much easier.

“This way, Remy,” called Trevis Savage as he appeared amid the crowds of coppers. “I’ve passed it on to the boys in Analysis. They seem to think the ink was the same, and they have an automaton running tests on the paper now. It’s a low quality, likely something used in a butcher shop to wrap meat.”

Christien fell in at his side as they moved down a narrow hall.

“He’s not a butcher, sir.”

“And so you keep saying. The postmark is the same as Ivy’s parcel.”

“London E.”

“Yes, by Jove, it is. Good observation.” And the investigator smiled at him, green eyes wrinkling at the corners. “I knew Ivy had met her match in you.”

The investigator pushed open a door into a room painted a sickly yellow with a window so high up that nothing was visible save a grey sky. Photochromes lined the walls, maps pinned and dotted with red. An automaton was working in a corner, punch cards moving in and out of its mouth like a tongue, and the room smelled of burning wire. Sitting at a table covered in documents, a small man with thinning dark hair and great handlebar moustache looked up.

“Freddie,” said Savage. “Here’s Remy—I mean
Dr.
de Lacey. He’s the one who received the note.”

“Inspector Frederick Abberline.” The man reached out his hand and the pair shook. For a small man, his grip was strong, and he glanced down at the automaton in the corner. “And this is PAUL.
Police Automaton Under Law.”

PAUL’s optic plates flashed twice.

“Just a few questions for you, Dr. de Lacey,” asked Abberline, and he indicated the chairs. “If you don’t mind?”

Christien and Savage took seats at the table, and the detective pulled a slip of paper from the rest.

“The ’bot downstairs is running some tests on the original, but we’ve made a transcript here. Can you read it for me, please?”

Christien took the paper, took a long deep breath.

“Ha ha my son. Nevr giv a woman yor hart. They will not keep it hole.

Next ones for you.

This is yor fathr, back from the ded.

Call me, Jack”

He laid the letter back on the table, looked up at the man. Abberline steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

“You work with Bondie, yes?”

“I’m in my last semester now.”

“The letter. What do you think it means?”

“I couldn’t tell you, sir. I would think it a joke from the boys had it not been for the heart Ivy received in the post.”

“Miss Ivy Savage of Stepney,” rang PAUL’s tinny voice. “Daughter of Detective Trevis Savage, Metropolitan Police H-Division, formerly of A.”

“Thank you, PAUL,” said Abberline. “The ‘boys?’”

“My fellows, sir. But they didn’t do this.”

Savage grunted and Abberline noticed.

“You’re certain of it, then.”

“Quite, sir.”

He folded his hands across the table.

“Interesting letter, isn’t it?” said Abberline. “What’s your first impression?”

“Atrocious spelling, sir.”

“Meaning?”

“I am particular, sir.”

“Take a guess.”

Christien blinked slowly. This man would never be a match for Bond. “Intentional, perhaps? To throw us off the trail?”

“Us?”

“The police, sir.”

“So you think the villain intelligent?”

“He could be. There must be a reason he has eluded capture.”

“You have assisted in these cases, have you?”

“Only the post-mortems, sir. I am very good at stitching, or so I’m told.”

“And what do you make of them?”

“They are very gruesome. I can’t fathom it.”

“Bond tells me you have a theory.”

“I have no theory, sir. I simply stitch and dissect.”

“Hm.” Abberline rose to his feet and began to move around the little office, PAUL’s optic plates following him as he went. “What do you think it means,
‘this is yor fathr, back from the ded’
?”

“I have no idea, sir. That is why I am here.”

“Your father has been dead for how many years?”

“Fifteen,” said Christien.

“Renaud Jacobe St. John de Lacey, Sixth Baron of Lasingstoke, died in 1873 AD,” said PAUL. “Many tragic events occur in that year, including the sinking of the
SS Northfleet,
the Economic Panic of Europe, and the—”

“Thank you, PAUL.” Abberline looked up. “Did your father write this note?”

“Not likely, sir, being dead.”

“Did
you
write this note, doctor?”

Chess,
thought Christien. Even in the police branch when they should be studying the evidence, it was all about games. Smoke and mirrors and chess.

“Emphatically not, sir. I would not.”

Abberline narrowed his eyes. “You would be surprised at how many false notes we get. People do love notoriety, in all its forms.”

“Not me, sir.” Christien raised a brow. “I avoid notoriety like the Soup.”

“The Pea Soup,” said PAUL. “Toxic fog that settles over industrialized cities—”

“Had enough of it in your family, wot? Notoriety, that is?”

“Indeed. Had I thought it a fraud, I would have disposed of it at once and spared myself the indignation.”

“Forgive me, then, if I have caused any.” Abberline sat back down. “But you can breathe easier, good doctor. It is indeed a fraud.”

Christien glanced at Savage, then back at Abberline. “How can you be sure?”

“Because your father is dead, isn’t he? Shot his own head off with a three-chambered pistol, if I recall correctly . . .” And he held up a police report. “You were, what? Five?”

“Six,” said the automaton.

“Someone is playing a jape upon you, sir. One of your ‘boys,’ most likely, and it is a very cruel jape indeed. But alas, that is the reputation of medical students, isn’t it? Arms, legs, what’s a heart or two between colleagues?”

And he smiled again, but it wasn’t a pleasant thing.