“One last question, Doctor. Your ring. Did one of your ‘boys’ give that to you?”
“This?” He glanced down at the little brass ring. “No, sir.”
“A family heirloom, then?”
“Not at all, sir. It was given to me by Dr. Williams to commemorate a special event. Why?”
“Dr. John Williams of St. Mary’s Bethlem?”
“And the London Royal Teaching Hospital and University to College Hospital along with Kensington, Buckingham, and Sandringham, sir.” Christien frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Three small brass rings were removed from the dead body of Dark Annie Chapman, or so the story goes. It’s just a coincidence then, that you have a matching one.”
Christien’s heart thudded in his chest, but he kept his face a porcelain mask.
“They are cheap rings, sir. You can buy twelve for a penny at Billingsgate.”
“Of course, I know that.”
And Abberline smiled at him one last time.
“Well, thank you for coming in, Doctor. And do say hello to Bondie for me.”
“I will do, sir. Thank you, sir.”
He rose to his feet, his mind racing in many different directions, not the least of them being the innocuous brass ring making a home on his finger.
MY DEAR IVY
,
There has been another killing in Whitechapel. You will likely have read about it in the papers, and I am so grateful that you are not around to see the growing panic in the streets. This time, the woman’s body was so terribly mutilated that I feared it would be too much for me. Upon close investigation, it is clear that the villain has some medical skill. Your father fears this will not be the last, and I feel inclined to believe him.
I have been getting headaches of late. I suppose it is to be expected during these last six months of my internship, but Dr. Williams has insisted I try a tincture of laudanum next time and will consult his fellows. If anyone can secure treatment of these accursed episodes, it will be him.
My exams amid-terms have gone well, and Bondie has granted me and the boys leave for a few days, given the trying circumstances of our apprenticeships. I will attempt to visit you at Lasingstoke. Perhaps I will take an airship. They run fair regular from London to Lancaster, and I am eager to try my hand at this very modern mode of travel.
Did I mention that my brother has an airship?
I am looking forward to seeing your sweet face again. I miss you already.
Yours,
Christien
Ivy laid the note carefully on the table and reached for her tea. The post had been late and Castlewaite had just given her the letter after lunch. Cookie had frowned as she tore it open, ignoring the penknife in front of her, but Ivy didn’t care. After her strange conversations with Arvin Frankow and Sebastien de Lacey, a letter from Christien was a welcome thing.
“He’s coming,” she said, and Davis looked up at her from his soup.
“Who’s coming?”
“Christien. Christien is coming to Lasingstoke.”
He slurped, and from her post polishing the silver, Cookie glowered at him. He grinned and slurped some more.
“Don’t he live here?” He slurped.
“Only sometimes,” she said. “He came back for a brief visit this June, but he’s been in London for years now. His schooling, you know.”
“Ye
should take some schooling, young Davis,” grumbled Cookie from the hutch. “Ye’ve done mighty fine on tha’ mop. Works like a charm, it does.”
“Really?” Davis sat up. “Like a charm?”
“That’s what Ah said, weren’t it?”
He popped a crust of bread in his mouth as he looked at her. “Is there anything else in need of fixing? I could take a look . . .”
“Hmph. Ah’ll send ye t’Over Milling.”
“Over Milling?”
“The wee town o’er the hill,” she said, turning back to the silver. “Ye can get parts at Grimwalts.”
Davis sat straighter, and Ivy marvelled at his attention. Davis never paid attention like that.
“That’d be grand,” he said.
“Ye’ll go in the morn, ken?” And with a sour glance, she marched out of Smalls, disappearing entirely.
Davis looked back at his sister.
“D’you hear that, Ivy? She’ll see what she can do. The mop works like a charm, she said. Just needed a bit of tinkering. One of the gears was too tight. Buggered up the pulley mechanism.”
“Well, I’m glad you fixed it, Davis. You have a talent. I have several chapters of
The Ghost of Lancashire
finished. Would you care to furnish it with illustrations again?”
“If I have time between the mops and the sweepers and trying to find that bloody Seventh house. I’ve only got as far as the church.”
“I wonder when Christien will come.” She sank back into her chair and looked down at the letter in her hand. It wasn’t dated, but still, she wondered how long it would take to journey north in an airship. Perhaps there were connections to be made. Perhaps he wasn’t able to leave on time. Perhaps the airships were filled.
She frowned.
Did I mention that my brother has an airship?
Why wouldn’t he take his brother’s airship? Surely it would be available for him had he the need? And where was it stationed, this de Lacey airship? In the Lancaster dockyards? Here at Lasingstoke?
Reach a little higher,
he had said.
Else buy yourself some very fine boots.
She sat back, scowling. The Mad Lord was as odd as people said and deserved every word of his tabloid reputation. She understood now why Christien never spoke of him or of Rupert or even Lasingstoke, for that matter. And yet, Sebastien had been surprisingly astute in his observations, and she wondered how he could have guessed so much simply by the holding of her hands.
Metal in his skull. Runs with horses. Died as a child, now speaks with the dead.
Two rumours confirmed. One to go.
“I think I’ll go with you to Over Milling, Davis,” she announced, pushing back her chair.
“Yeah? Why?”
“I need to find myself a pair of boots.”
SEBASTIEN REACHED DOWN
a hand to touch the grizzled grey coat. He could walk with closed eyes knowing Fergis the wolfhound would be there, watching for stumps, pot holes, and ruts in the road. Clancy was next, a fine retriever with a flaxen coat and a good nose for grouse. He grinned at the others bumbling all around him, some ranging out in front, some lagging behind. Jo, the English Setter; the collie Birdie; a Springer Spaniel by name of Tag; and a scruffy tailless mongrel called Dickey. The best family he could ever ask for. The best of friends. His pack.
He’d completely forgotten about Gus. He’d left the horse behind in the pasture with the mares. He hadn’t even noticed the girl but she had surely noticed him. He could see it in her eyes as she had studied his cheek. But to his surprise and to her credit, she had said nothing, had even indulged him while he read her like a book. She was a spirited little creature, he thought. Highly strung and emotional, but then again, he had no experience with the fairer sex. Maybe they were all like that. Truth be told, when his human company was overlord uncles, brilliant psychiatrists, dead people, and Cookie, an emotional woman was an earthly delight.
He could see the fence up ahead flanked by elms, could make out the shapes grazing in the fields. Sebastien smiled to himself. That would be a fine colt if the bay mare caught. He had hopes to keep it, train it himself, if he lived long enough. If Seventh didn’t kill him first.
He reached the fence, ran a hand along it as he walked its length. Wood, dogs, horses, stone. No shadow in those, no vice. No fear of death, no fear of life. Even cold stone was warmer than most people.
Gus nickered and trotted to meet him. He laid a hand on the grey nose, ran it up along the cheek to the neck, down to the deep chest, and there he gave him a sound pat.
“Did you have a good night, my lad? She’s a fine thing, I know it.”
He turned to lean against the fence, pulled a letter from his pocket.
Sebastien,
We do not need to tell you of the pressing incidents occurring in Whitechapel. We know you and Rupert keep abreast of the tabloids where the scandalous details are out for all to see. The French anarchists are paying close attention as well, and we have it on good account that there are those who are already planting the seeds for riot if the crimes continue. Such villains will use anything as fodder to undermine the solidarity of our Empire. This is something we shall never allow.
Bertie has informed me that you have refused him once again. We will remind you that you are an English citizen and a gentleman and have responsibilities to the Crown. Lonsdale exists because of our good pleasure, sufferance, and purse.
We trust that we will not need to remind you again.
Victoria RI
He crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it onto the road. Dickey fetched it like a stick, causing the others to bound around him with the game. Sebastien turned back to the fence where Gus was waiting, pushed the gate wide.
Suddenly, the horses squealed and bolted for the far end of the pasture.
Fergis whined, and the air around him grew deathly cold. He refused to look behind him. He knew what would be standing there.
“Go home,” he growled, and his breath frosted in front of his face. “I’ve told you, stay at Seventh. You’ll do no good out here.”
He cursed his luck. The horses would never come if
she
stayed at the gate. Animals were sensitive that way.
“I said, go home!”
But the cold remained, so he turned slowly and immediately wished he hadn’t. It was the woman, the one with her intestines around her neck. It had made him sick when she’d first shown up, and he wasn’t certain he was getting used to it now. She still shook him to the very core.
“Where are you from?” he asked again, but still she said nothing. The dead rarely did. But unlike the boy from Wharcombe, this one would not even nod. It was impossible to help those who would not help themselves.
“Are you Annie from Whitechapel? Annie Chapman? Tell me. I can’t help you otherwise.”
She had died quickly, it seemed. The gashes in her throat were deep, and he could see the white tendons beneath the skin. Her clothes were tattered and separated from her torso in a bloody mass. Her hair was brown, her eyes blue and very sad. She held up her hand, extended a finger.
“You’ve shewed me this before.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
She gestured again, but he closed his eyes and turned away.
“Please,” he moaned. “Go back to Seventh.”
She stared at him for a long time until, like the boy from Wharcombe, she folded up on herself and faded away. He stood very still, as if the very act of moving would bring her back. Finally, he released a long breath. There was no frost; there was no cold. He simply breathed again and again and again. Just the filling of his chest reminded him that he was still alive. Any day spent living was a good day. The air was sweet with rain and life.
The dogs looked up at him adoringly.
He looked around. The gate was wide open, and the paddock was empty. He could see the shapes of horses thundering down the path toward the road.
“Ah blast,” he groaned, closed the gate, and set off to fetch them.
Of Clandestine Visits, Very Fine Boots,
and the Communicative Properties of Tea
THREE BRASS RINGS
. Three brass rings. Christien could think of nothing but those three brass rings.
He knocked on the door, waited for a moment before stepping into the Doctors’ Room of St. Mary’s Bethlem Hospital and Lunatic Asylum. It was a fine room, with wide windows, walls of books, and lounge chairs of studded leather. It was frequently used by Dr. John Williams during his Bethlem clinics and at the moment, was completely deserted.
He closed the door behind him and breathed deeply, trying to steel his racing heart. Three brass rings. Dark Annie Chapman had owned three brass rings. The night of the Ghost Club meeting, Williams had pulled three brass rings from his pocket, given him one. He had been able to think of nothing else since the meeting with Abberline but those three damned rings.
Large mullioned windows cast light across the desk and the young surgeon crossed the floor to stand behind it. There was a tea service with two china cups, a stack of letters, and a series of notebooks lined against a lamp.
He glanced around the room again.
Paranoia,
he told himself. There was no one here; Williams wasn’t due until tomorrow, and the boys were off on three days’ leave. No one would question him. No one would even care.
He picked up one of the notebooks, recognized it instantly as a physician’s log. There were at least twelve, so he went through each until he found one with Williams’s distinctive handwriting. Flipped it open on dates and places of clinics, patient names, diagnoses, prescriptions, and procedures. It was a record of Williams’s clinical files dating back over three years and Christien understood immediately the importance of what he was holding in his hands. Many of the procedures held at the clinics were abortions, and at the moment they were illegal, the topic still hotly debated in parliament.