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

houseman George Claudius Pomfrey still wore the satin breeches, buckled shoes, and powdered wig of generations before him. Christien shook his head.
    “I’ll take care of this, Pomfrey.”
    “Oh no, sir. It is my duty, but by all that is holy, sir—”
    “But we’re not holy, Pomfrites,” grinned Bender. He blew smoke in a thin stream. “In fact, we’re very un- holy . . .”
    “Very unholy!” echoed Rosie.
    Pomfrey moaned again and disappeared out the door and down the hall of Hollbrook House.
    “Honestly, boys, that poor man.”
    “He loves us, Remy. You know it.” Bender took a final drag on the cigarette, dropped it to the carpet, and crushed it under his shoe. “Williams wants us in this morning.”
    Christien sighed and reached for his waistcoat.
    “Where’s Lewie?”
    Bender shrugged, dug about in his pocket for another cigarette. “Probably ducked off to gay Paree with his little Marie.”
    “She ain’t really French, is she?” asked Rosie. “I mean, she sounds like a Mick to me.”
    “She is a Mick, idiot,” said Bender. “But she’s pretty, mind. Almost as pretty as Remy’s jewels . . .”
    And he picked up the locket, dangled it from his stubby fingers.
    “Ooh, Remy’s locket,” grinned Rosie. “Does it cuckoo in French?”
    “Did you take it to your Club last night, Remy?”
    “I did indeed,” said Christien, and he snatched the locket from Bender’s hand, slipped it over his head. “They are a strange and passionate lot. I’m not certain I belong.”
    Bender raised his pale brows. “Not nearly strange or passionate enough, Remy?”
    “Not by far,” said Christien as his fingers began work on the knot of a necktie. “We’re not scheduled for exams until tomorrow. Why does Williams want us now?”
    “He’s got a clinic at Bedlam,” said Bender. “Another one of the patients got knocked up.”
    “Oh God,” groaned Christien. “I hate those.”
    “You don’t hate the clinics, Remy,” said Henry. “You hate Bedlam. What d’you say? Madness runs in the family?”
    “Bedlam reminds you of your brother, don’t it, Remy?” And Rosie began to make faces like those seen in Bethlem Lunatic Hospital. “The Mad, Mad Lord of Lasingstoke . . .”
    Christien ignored them, turned to study his appearance in the mirror, smoothed the lines of the waistcoat and necktie. The locket hung, silent and sweet, across his chest.
    “You reading the papers, Remy?” Bender’s grin grew wide, pale eyes glittering and sharp. “The arm? Giving ’em all a bloody fright, it is.”
    “A bloody fright,” echoed Rosie. “The papers is saying it’s medical students playing pranks. We’s a serious lot, ain’t we, Dr. Bender?”
    “We certainly are, Dr. Pickett. We most certainly are.”
    “You are idiots, both of you,” said Christien, but he smiled. It was impossible to stay angry with the boys. “Right, let’s go. I don’t want to keep Williams waiting.”
    “In Bedlam, Remy. St. Mary’s Bloody Bedlam!”
    “Lunatics, Remy. More bloody lunatics than you can shake a stick at.”
    “We can say hallo to your brother, we can!”
    With that, Christien snatched a town coat and left the room with two of the nefarious Bondie Boys at his heels.
     
    THE MORNING FOG had lifted, and the sun peered out from above the low clouds. Ivy had found her mother in a tree-covered terrace on the south side of the Hall. The garden was lush but dying, roses folding into dark hips, poppies going to seed. The ivy was growing red with frost. It was beautiful and sad and a fitting place for her mother, she thought. A stone angel in a forgotten cemetery.
    She gave her mum a little kiss and headed out under a massive arch.
    At the very heart of Lasingstoke was a cobbled courtyard, bounded on all sides by stone walls. First, Second, and Third, all built at different times but now connected to make the Hall. Small, dark windows peered out like eyes in sandstone faces. From a far corner, two stacks towered