SEPTEMBER 15, 1888
Dear Tad,
I am happy to admit that our situation in Lancashire is beginning to improve and I am beginning to believe that both Davis and I will settle in nicely. I have met both Rupert the Scourge—a miserable man who apparently is Christien’s uncle, and the Mad Lord himself, who does not seem as mad as he is made out to be. However, I have only spoken with him once, and then our conversation was impeded by my weeping so I could be sorely mistaken.
We take Mum to Lonsdale Abbey tomorrow. I am still dreading it, although I know I cannot be both Christien’s wife and Mum’s caretaker. I do hope this Dr. Frankow is as kind as he is talented. Mum has been loved all her life. I fear that somehow, she will know that she has been abandoned and will fail to thrive under his care. That would be something I could not bear.
Regarding the woman found in Spitalfields, you might check with Dr. Williams on the possibility that she was pregnant. It’s just a thought. He runs many clinics and his research in obstetrics and gynaecology might prove helpful.
It is very late and I must be off to bed for it will be an early start tomorrow. Lonsdale is a good two-hour coach, and our appointment is for quarter of ten. Please give my regards to Mr. Beals and Ginny if you see them. I will give Mum a kiss from you.
Your girl,
Ivy
LOTTIE HAD FOUND
her a new fountain pen and Ivy laid it down on the desk, waiting for the ink to dry. It was late, but she was unsettled, and she found her mind spinning in many different directions.
She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and rose to stand by the window that only last night had been covered in frost.
Funny,
she thought, how for six months of the year, it was the moon that was brightest, cast the most light. She had heard that in France, the sun was king. Cherries and winefields and steamcars and writers and dancers and bohemians, all in love with the regal French sun. But here in England, over the rolling, sweeping grey-green hills, painting everything in strokes of silver, the moon was queen.
The squeal of a horse broke the stillness and then, an answering squeal. She peered out to see if it was the walking horse and his walking man. She could see nothing, but there was another squeal, louder this time, and she grinned to herself.
Penny Dreadful and the Ghost of Lancashire
was a real-life mystery
.
She exchanged the blanket for a woollen cardigan, slipped on a pair of old Wellies, and headed out her door and down the stair.
The house was silent at night and very dark, and she was grateful for that. The cardigan and Wellies could not disguise the fact that she was sneaking around in her nightdress, and she smirked to think of Rupert St. John and his “no skirts” rule. Before she knew it, she was opening the great wooden door to slip out into the night.
The air was cold, so she tugged at the cardigan and hurried across the cobbles to the fields beyond. At the fence, several horses gathered, necks outstretched to a grey standing on the other side. As she neared, she realized two things. One, that it was the horse called Gus, the one that belonged to Sebastien de Lacey, and two, that it was fully tacked, with bridle, saddle, and reins looped up on its withers.
She smiled to herself. Her father could not possibly have known the sort of story he had written her into.
Gus was blowing softly into the nostrils of a bay mare who was blowing back. She moved closer.
“Hello, Gus,” she said softly, and he swung his head in her direction. When she was close enough, she caught his bridle, making a point to run her free hand along his neck the way Sebastien had earlier. He was soft and warm.
“Where’s your lord, then?” she asked. “Did he fall off somewhere? You would be a naughty boy if you left him somewhere far, far away, now wouldn’t you? That’s right. Naughty, naughty boy.”
The great horse turned back to face the mare, and the blowing ritual began all over again. With a hand still fixed to the bridle, she looked up and down the road for a sign.
She heard it first, the faint crunching of boots on gravel, but before too long, she could make out his shape, coming out of the shadows of the trees and into the moonlight. He was wearing a greatcoat that billowed like a cloak and was coming from the west, from the direction of Lancaster and Wharcombe Bay. She clutched the cardigan tightly at her throat, wishing now that she had taken the time to lace up her country boots. Wellies suddenly seemed far too clumsy for her feet.
He said nothing until he was right upon them, and still he did not pause, merely walked up to the fence and began to pull the saddle of the horse’s back. She didn’t know what to think, knew even less what he expected her to do, so she stood, holding the bridle as he slid the saddle from the grey back and laid it across the rail fence. He then slipped the reins over the neck and began to work at the buckles of the headstall. She glanced at his face, lit on one side by the moon. There was mud on his cheek and hands. Or perhaps it was blood. She couldn’t be certain, and her heart thudded once in her chest.
Soon, the horse was completely undone, and still, without a word, he moved to the gate, opened it, and Gus trotted happily through.
He slid the gate closed behind him, swung the saddle off the rail and into her arms. She staggered under the weight but took it, too surprised to do anything else.
And throwing the bridle across his shoulder, he stepped back onto the path in the direction of the Hall.
All of this without a word.
At night, he runs with wild horses.
She stood in the moonlight and watched him go.
Wharcombe Steam Press
The body of local fishmonger Reggie Fretts was found off the shores of the bay this morning. He was shot once with a bullet to the head. This is the second tragedy to strike the fishmonger’s family, the first being the sudden death of his oldest son Charlie earlier this week. Upon interview, Mrs. Bernadette “Dottie” Fretts made mention that her husband was a terrible drunk and had gotten himself in low with the bookies. She has recently come into some money and made plans to leave Wharcombe with her four surviving children and move back to Surrey for a better life with her sister.
Police are now listing the Wharcombe/Milnethorpe bookmakers as prime suspects in this case and are continuing to investigate.
Of Datamancery, Necroscopy, and a Clockwork Man
COOKIE HAD SET
out an early breakfast but her brother had elected to stay behind at the Hall—helping Lottie with some of the cleaning machines, he had insisted. It didn’t surprise her. He put on a good show of pretending his mother’s state mattered little to him. She knew that deep in his heart he cared, but still, it was up to Ivy once again, taking their mum on the road to Lonsdale.
And so for a little over two hours, the coach rolled along the dirt roadways of Lancashire. She had seen only one steamcar so far and that of the four-wheeled variety. A blonde woman was at the helm, great goggles covering her eyes and a long paisley scarf flowing in the wind. Ivy could hear Castlewaite cursing from the dickey above, and the horses snorted and reared as it roared past. While they were a common sight in London, they were fairly new contraptions. Built upon the same steam-powered principles as a locomotive, they were modern but noisy and their movements stilted and jerky. Ivy thought they would need considerable improvements for people to abandon their coaches in favour of them.
She did not see a single airship in the sky. She did, however, see many sheep.
So, it was with such strange, trivial, and unrelated thoughts running through her mind that she barely noticed Lonsdale Abbey come into view, perched like a tower over a stretch of grey water.
She sat forward, pressed her nose against the glass.
The Abbey sat on the hills above Wharcombe Bay. She loved the smell of the ocean. It always made her spirit leap with the promise of adventure. The Thames was not the same. The Thames smelled like rubbish. The Thames smelled like ashes and oil and the hulls of large ships. There was no promise of adventure in the Thames.
She threw a glance at her mother, head bobbing in time with the horses. Cookie had exchanged her bonnet for a cream mob, although her dress was still deepest black. No matter what anyone did, she still looked dead.
Ivy felt her throat tighten, so she looked back out the window as finally the carriage rattled to a halt at a wrought-iron gate. There was no gateman. There was, however, an impressive set of gears set in a rusted archway over their heads. She watched as Castlewaite climbed down from the dickey to punch in a sequence of numbers on an antiquated set of hex-nut keys. She could hear the punch and click as each number was entered, and she marvelled at how a simple coachman could possibly know the code for such a place.
Suddenly, there was a shudder as the mechanism sprang to life. The articulating gears groaned overhead, and wheels inside the gate lintel began to spin. Slowly, the wrought iron moved, swinging open to allow the carriage passage. Castlewaite urged the horses through and Ivy watched through the window as the wide black gate swung closed behind them.
Datamancery,
she thought. What a remarkable science.
The grounds were vast enough to boast a small farm, residences for the staff, and a chapel. As they neared the Abbey, she could see weathered red brick and limestone dressing over doors and windows. Three large stacks puffing smoke and steam into the grey sky.
This
was the Gothic ghost house of her imagination. She dreaded what she might find inside.
The coach rattled to a halt, the door swung open, and a hand was presented. With a deep breath, Ivy stepped outside and into the damp grey air of Wharcombe Bay.
Two men snapped heels at her approach. They looked like bellhops from fancy hotels. Two women stood dressed in nursing whites, their black cloaks and large winged caps reminding her of swooping birds.
“Miss Savage?” said one of the men. He was holding a wheeled chair. “We will take you to see Dr. Frankow presently. Would your mother care to sit?”
“I think that would be fine. Mum?”
Naturally, Catherine Savage did not respond but she moved when Ivy moved her and allowed herself to be seated. At once, the chair was spun and the man disappeared up and into the sanitarium.
The nurses followed.
“Ah’ll wait ’ere, miss,” said Castlewaite. He sprang from the dickey and began to help the second man with the bags.
Leaving Ivy to walk alone into the mouth of Lonsdale Abbey.
THE SURGICAL THEATRE
was dark, illuminated only by a single gas lamp over the table. A sheet had been pulled across the body, the organs carefully replaced inside. Everyone else had gone home after the necroscopy, leaving him with the cleanup. He didn’t mind. The silence was good for thinking.
The lab smelled sharp and sweet, though not quite clean. In the mortuary of the London Royal Hospital, “clean” was a subjective thing. Carefully, he sprayed the last of the tools with the carbolic acid, began the slow, methodical process of wiping it clear of blood. It was the Lister knife, a fine piece of ebony and metalwork. It cut through both muscle and connective tissue with ease. Detail and precision—that was the name of the game in the police surgeon’s department. Christien loved the lab. It was more a home than Lasingstoke or Hollbrook could ever be.
He was in the process of wiping the Lister and lost in thought when a man with a thick grey moustache entered the room.
“Remy?” said Dr. Thomas Bond, surgeon for the Metropolitan Police. “I wasn’t expecting you. I thought Rosie was on this morning.”
“His mother’s down with the Soup, sir,” he lied, pulling his goggles under his chin.
“Ah damn,” said Bond. “I do hope he’s not drunk again . . .”
“We have an exam later on today, sir. I’m sure he wouldn’t drink before an exam.”
Bond studied him for a long moment before moving to the body and lifting the sheet.
“Fine job, Remy. You’ve stitched her up nicely. Very neat.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Terrible business, this. Are you certain you are fine with it?”
“I’m fine, sir,” he said as he laid the blade on the cloth that held the bone saw, the chisel, the clamps, and the scalpels. Set the threads back in their cases, dipped the needles in the acid, collecting his thoughts. “But I do have a question.”
“Ask away, boy. It’s our job to ask the hard questions.”
“The blade that made those incisions . . .”
“Yes?”
“This is no butcher, sir. I fear this is a very different sort of character.”
“Ah
ha
. Are you speaking of forensic pathology or psychology, boy?”
“Pathology, sir. I’m not nearly so skilled in psychology.”
“Top of the class, I’m told.”
“Motivated, sir.” He smiled. “Madness runs in the family.”
There was a twitch of Bond’s thick grey moustache. It was unnerving, thought Christien, Bond’s quiet, intrusive ways. He was changing things with his character analyses and villain profiles, giving the Bottle a run for their money, making them work harder, think better. Thomas Bond was a brilliant man, and Christien knew he was lucky to be here.