Read Cold Stone and Ivy for Free Online

course.”
    “You must be used to fine things coming from London, miss— Oh . . .”
    The girl had noticed the desk where the pen lay splintered, the ink dried like blood on dark wood. Ivy rolled out of bed.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was so cold in here last night. There was ice everywhere, on the window, in my cup. I thought I got it all.”
    “Not to worry, miss,” said Lottie. “We do get a chilly night from time to time.”
    “It was most unusual. And there was a man in one of the fields—”
    “It’s not ’aunted.”
    Ivy blinked. “What’s that?”
    “Lasingstoke ’all, miss. It’s not ’aunted. At least, not like people say.”
    “Why?” Ivy’s eyes gleamed. “What do people say?”
    “They just like to talk.” Lottie dabbed at the ink with the corner of her apron. “Just because the machines are old and the men are French. ‘ Oh, ’e’s mad. Oh, there’s ghosts. Norman gold in the tower and Saxon bones in the cellar. Metal skulls and the Curse of Sebastien de Lacey.’ Things like tha’. People can be so cruel, can’t they? They talk but they don’t know. This is a fine ’ouse, a very fine ’ouse. Ah’m very lucky to be ’ere.”
    She looked up at Ivy and curtsied.
    “But don’t mind me, miss. There’s breakfast waitin’ downstairs. Quickly, now, or ye’ll miss it.”
    As she busied herself with the making of the great soft bed, Ivy marveled at her good luck. Norman gold in the tower and Saxon bones in the cellar. She couldn’t have written it better herself.
    She rolled out of bed and reached for her clothes.
     
    THE PEA SOUP had dissipated at some point and the houses gleamed gold in the early morning light. Christien was weary from his long night but as he trotted up the wrought-iron steps of Hollbrook House, he pulled the mask from his face and breathed the sweet smell of fresh air, wet trees, and chimney smoke. The row of white houses looked beautiful this morning, no trace of ghostly green, no eerie glow, and he had to admit life could have been far worse for him than to live here.
    “Hallo, Remy!” called a voice, and he turned slightly to see a man standing on the stair next door, holding a paper. He was a small man with thinning brown hair, neatly trimmed chops, and a rather common face. “Not coming home from classes, are you?”
    “Indeed I am, Dr. Jekyll,” Christien lied. Jekyll was an odd neighbour. He was a medical man and his research into the human mind bordered on scandal. He conducted frequent experiments in the cellar of his home, and Christien doubted they were sanctioned by any hospital or medical facility. “You remember your qualifying year, surely.”
    “I do indeed, Remy. Hated every minute of it. If you managed four hours of sleep a night you were accorded an automatic failure.”
    “That sounds about right, sir. And I am due my four hours now in fact.”
    “And how is old Bondie doing with that Leather Apron character?” He held up the paper. “The News has an article. Has he put a finger on anyone yet?”
    “Not yet, sir. It’s all very unofficial at the moment. Dr. Bond is A-Division and these crimes are occurring in H.”
    “Oh, the life of a police surgeon. It must be very exciting, catching a killer and all that.”
    Christien held his tongue. The public lived for their scandals, and the Whitechapel killer was selling more papers than the royal family. Even someone as odd as Jekyll was captivated.
    “We don’t ‘catch’ anyone, sir. We simply analyze the evidence. However it ends, I’m quite certain I will be the very last to know.”
    He turned to move into the house but Jekyll waved at him.
    “And the headaches, Remy? Still giving you grief?”
    “Yes, sir. But I can manage—”
    “If you need any more of those tablets, son, just whistle. I do only live a wall away!”
    “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
    “I’ve worked on a new potion that I think will do just the trick!”
    Visions of ghastly faces and vile