Read Online Cold Stone and Ivy by H. Leighton Dickson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: H. Leighton Dickson
Tags: Steampunk
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Once again he felt the rush of desire for Lonsdale, its dark rooms and darker laudanum.
At least the girl had seemed live enough.
THERE WAS A swing in the dying garden. It was late afternoon, and her heart was heavy and the swing took her back and forth, back and forth, as if the simple motion could rid her heart of the weight. The sun was struggling to come out, but the clouds were thick and low and winning. Catherine Savage was still sitting on the stone bench under the branches of an oak, staring but seeing nothing.
Tomorrow , thought Ivy. Tomorrow everything would change.
She had left the stables and the Mad Lord de Lacey, who had at that point seemed the most sensible character on the entire estate. He certainly did not look like her impression of a lord, let alone a mad one. With the grey horse and six dogs in tow, he had headed out straight away to the fields in direct defiance of “the Scourge.” He apparently did have metal in his skull, and he certainly liked his horses. She wondered how many more of the rumours were true. Life was becoming too strange for her. She didn’t know what to think anymore.
She looked down at the newspaper in her hand, at the article in the Lancaster Guardian.
LONDON POLICE BAFFLED
The Latest Victim Discovered in Spitalfields Early Sunday Morning Shockingly Mutilated
LONDON, Sept. 10—The horribly mutilated body of a woman was found early yesterday morning in a yard attached to a common lodging house in Spitalfields. Her throat was cut from ear to ear, the body was ripped open, the bowels and heart were on the ground, a portion of the entrails was tied around the neck, and the womb removed entirely from the scene. This is the fourth murder of a similar character that has been committed recently in this vicinity. All the victims were women of the lowest character. The author of the atrocities remains undiscovered, and the excitement in the immediate vicinity borders upon a panic.
Police are continuing to investigate.
She frowned. Leather Apron, the press had taken to calling him, but truth be told, it wasn’t likely to be one man. At least that’s what her father had insisted. People, he had said, loved their conspiracies and would see devils in every lock and larder. The East End was a hard part of town, Whitechapel even more so. Women who worked their trade in dark alleys were easy to find.
Now Christien was involved, for he was studying under Dr. Thomas Bond in the new field of forensic pathology. Bond had assembled himself a team of brilliant young physicians-in-training. Bondie’s Boys, they were called. Christien, Henry Bender, Ambrose Pickett, and Lewis Powell-Smith. When he was not with her, Bond, or Dr. Williams, he was with the boys. They had been together for years.
It was an exciting pursuit, she thought, all for the advancement of science and the progress of the Empire of Steam. They were always dissecting something, analyzing something, cutting something apart. The other boys were hard as nails, but Christien was in it for the science. To see him working with Bond and the detectives of H-Division made her very proud. She knew that was his appeal for her, his dedication to the field of criminology. Not for the first time, she wondered what sort of wife she would make, when she’d rather be in a morgue than a kitchen or a nursery.
She looked down at the article once again.
“Her heart was on the ground, Mum,” she said as she swung back and forth. “That’s a terrible place to put a heart. Better than sending it to me in the post, I suppose, but still, I wonder what the devil was thinking . . .”
She shuddered, remembering the feel of the cold, sticky lump in her hands. It was as if Death were reaching for her from the pages of her stories. No, not Death. Jack. The heart had been “From Jack.” Was that his real name? Had the heart been taken from a woman like in this article, from a scene just like this? Her chest tightened as the
At least the girl had seemed live enough.
THERE WAS A swing in the dying garden. It was late afternoon, and her heart was heavy and the swing took her back and forth, back and forth, as if the simple motion could rid her heart of the weight. The sun was struggling to come out, but the clouds were thick and low and winning. Catherine Savage was still sitting on the stone bench under the branches of an oak, staring but seeing nothing.
Tomorrow , thought Ivy. Tomorrow everything would change.
She had left the stables and the Mad Lord de Lacey, who had at that point seemed the most sensible character on the entire estate. He certainly did not look like her impression of a lord, let alone a mad one. With the grey horse and six dogs in tow, he had headed out straight away to the fields in direct defiance of “the Scourge.” He apparently did have metal in his skull, and he certainly liked his horses. She wondered how many more of the rumours were true. Life was becoming too strange for her. She didn’t know what to think anymore.
She looked down at the newspaper in her hand, at the article in the Lancaster Guardian.
LONDON POLICE BAFFLED
The Latest Victim Discovered in Spitalfields Early Sunday Morning Shockingly Mutilated
LONDON, Sept. 10—The horribly mutilated body of a woman was found early yesterday morning in a yard attached to a common lodging house in Spitalfields. Her throat was cut from ear to ear, the body was ripped open, the bowels and heart were on the ground, a portion of the entrails was tied around the neck, and the womb removed entirely from the scene. This is the fourth murder of a similar character that has been committed recently in this vicinity. All the victims were women of the lowest character. The author of the atrocities remains undiscovered, and the excitement in the immediate vicinity borders upon a panic.
Police are continuing to investigate.
She frowned. Leather Apron, the press had taken to calling him, but truth be told, it wasn’t likely to be one man. At least that’s what her father had insisted. People, he had said, loved their conspiracies and would see devils in every lock and larder. The East End was a hard part of town, Whitechapel even more so. Women who worked their trade in dark alleys were easy to find.
Now Christien was involved, for he was studying under Dr. Thomas Bond in the new field of forensic pathology. Bond had assembled himself a team of brilliant young physicians-in-training. Bondie’s Boys, they were called. Christien, Henry Bender, Ambrose Pickett, and Lewis Powell-Smith. When he was not with her, Bond, or Dr. Williams, he was with the boys. They had been together for years.
It was an exciting pursuit, she thought, all for the advancement of science and the progress of the Empire of Steam. They were always dissecting something, analyzing something, cutting something apart. The other boys were hard as nails, but Christien was in it for the science. To see him working with Bond and the detectives of H-Division made her very proud. She knew that was his appeal for her, his dedication to the field of criminology. Not for the first time, she wondered what sort of wife she would make, when she’d rather be in a morgue than a kitchen or a nursery.
She looked down at the article once again.
“Her heart was on the ground, Mum,” she said as she swung back and forth. “That’s a terrible place to put a heart. Better than sending it to me in the post, I suppose, but still, I wonder what the devil was thinking . . .”
She shuddered, remembering the feel of the cold, sticky lump in her hands. It was as if Death were reaching for her from the pages of her stories. No, not Death. Jack. The heart had been “From Jack.” Was that his real name? Had the heart been taken from a woman like in this article, from a scene just like this? Her chest tightened as the
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