Cold Stone and Ivy by H. Leighton Dickson Read Free Book Online Page A

thought there were seven houses,” said Ivy before biting into her scone. She closed her eyes. The preserves were delicious.
    “It’s a grand property,” answered Lottie.
    “Where is Seventh?”
    “Ehm, northwest, miss.” Lottie’s eyes flicked downward. “But ye won’t be going there. Not Seventh.”
    “Why not?”
    “Ye’ll pass by, surely enough. There’s the church next to it, and the graveyard and the woods, which is a lovely walk. But Seventh, ye’ll not be going. Not Seventh. Never Seventh.”
    Ivy exchanged glances with her brother.
    “But why not?” she repeated. “Is that one haunted as well?”
    “Lottie!” came a voice from outside the room, and the young woman snapped to attention.
    “Ehm, Ah need to be fixin’ this mop,” she muttered, staring at the mass of copper piping in her hands. “Please excuse me, Miss Ivy, Master Davis.”
    And she curtsied once more before exiting the room. Davis folded his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair.
    “Well, I know what I’ll be doing after I finish counting them sheep.”
    Ivy grinned and reached for the Guardian and the story not fit for reading.
     
    London Steam Standard
    September 15, 1888
    Regarding the story ran on the arm found off the Grosvenor Railway Bridge, Police Surgeon Dr. Bond has concluded that the arm assuredly belonged to a tall young female with a history of comfort, but has declined to comment whether or not she was a victim of a murder or whether this is the work of the same Leather Apron who is stalking the women of Whitechapel.
    Information of the discovery has been forwarded to all the metropolitan police stations, and it is expected that the Thames police will today renew their search for other portions of the body. In the meantime, it is impossible to form an opinion as to whether another revolting murder has been committed in London, or whether the arm has been placed in the water as a grim joke by some medical student.
    Of both crimes, the police are continuing to investigate.
     
     

 
     
     

Chapter 5
    Of Bond’s Boys, French Warmbloods,
and the Mad Lord de Lacey
     
     
     
     
     
     
    IT WAS A puzzle, he realized. A puzzle of blood and limbs and tissue and bone and he had to put her together before the doors opened on the gentlemen of the Ghost Club. The smoke was heavy, the lab was hot, the locket was flashing merrily, and it was very hard to know which body part went where. Both Williams and Bond were standing to the side, watching him with surgical blades in one hand, pocket watches in the other, and very quickly, he realized that the body was Ivy’s and that someone had stolen her heart—
    There was a feather tickling his nose.
    Christien opened his eyes.
    “Dash it all, Rosie,” he groaned and he sat up, pushing the lanky form of Ambrose Pickett onto the floor. “Get off my bed.”
    “You’re so pretty when you sleep, you know that, Remy?” Pickett grinned wickedly, his moustache tugging up at one end. “Like a regular French girlie . . .”
    “Bloody ass . . .”
    “Muddy ass, old boy,” came a voice, and Christien looked to see Henry Bender sitting at his desk, dirty shoes up on the polished wood. Built like a bulldog, with thick ginger hair, pale lashes, and a wide jaw, he blew smoke out one side of his mouth and grinned. “It’s a piss hole out there.”
    Christien rolled out of bed, grateful he was still wearing his trousers from the night before. He grabbed a freshly pressed shirt from his dressing stand.
    “And you decided to bring it all into my room?”
    “We did indeed, Remy boy,” said Ambrose Pickett. He was a tall, thin young man, with dark hair and a moustache that made him look quite sophisticated. He slapped Bender’s arm and was rewarded with a cigarette. “Your man Pomfrites was complaining of nothing to do!”
    “Oh good heavens, sir . . .” moaned a voice from the doorway. “I just washed the linens yesterday, sir . . .”
    Slim, prim, and proper,