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

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.
    “Very well, Remy.