AHMM, January-February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I thought maybe we could both get a peddler's license,” the girl answered, an eager desire shooting through her voice.

  "Our husband will take care of us,” objected Miriam, hoping to soothe her.

  "For now,” said Nana, lying back against her pillow. “But one day I will have a job of my own. With a job, no one will be able to turn me out whenever they want. I will make my own way in the world."

  "Ah,” whispered her older co-wife with approval. “For once, I think you show a great deal of sense."

  Copyright © 2006 G. Miki Hayden

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  MOTHER BRIMSTONE by JAMES LINCOLN WARREN

  * * * *

  Linda Weatherly

  * * * *

  SE'ARCHER. n.s.

  [from search]

  2. Officer in London appointed to examine the bodies of the dead, and report the cause of death.

  The searchers, who are ancient matrons sworn to their office, repair to the place where the dead corps lies, and by view of the same, and by other inquiries, examine by what disease the corps died. Graunt's Bills of Mortality.

  —Johnson's Dictionary, 1755

  Temper, Emma Stavacre thought, inhaling deeply, is of an incendiary nature, whether it erupts in the solitary flash and report of a squib, thus extinguishing itself almost as if it had never been, or instead glows slowly and long, like a resentful ember in a bed of ashes, biding its time until bursting into an all-devouring flame. Fire has its uses, to be sure—one might cook by it, or bake bricks by it, or warm oneself by it in the cold and darkness—and temper has its uses too, foremost among them as fuel for the righteous castigation of fools. But wrath, the Church teaches us, is a deadly sin, and so is pride. Temper should be—tempered.

  She slowly let out her breath, closed her eyes, and struggled to maintain her composure. Dr. Henry Driffill, vicar of the London parish of Saint Katherine Creechurch, stood at the threshold, benevolently smiling, taking up the entire doorway with his rotund bulk. As Mrs. Stavacre was short, she found herself looking up into his broad nostrils.

  Dr. Driffill was a man of great erudition but little sense, one whose sincere compassion was made absurd by an irksome and ostentatious manner. She knew he was only doing his duty in visiting her, a widow, and that his sanguine charity was nothing she ought to resent so strongly, but he had arrived, almost predictably, at a most inconvenient moment.

  Her recently married daughter Nancy had quarrelled with her new husband and showed up on the doorstep that morning in company with her personal maid and her entire and extensive wardrobe, and as Mrs. Stavacre had let her children's rooms since they had all grown, there was no place to put anything, and worse, Nan perforce must share Mrs. Stavacre's bed, there being no other available. In addition, Nancy's lady's maid Irma had already insulted Mrs. Stavacre's awkward housemaid, who answered to the even more awkward name of Tulip and was her only servant, and who was now up in the attic agonising, sulking, and disconsolately weeping for her unappreciated station in life in lieu of attending to her duties. Which was why Mrs. Stavacre had been forced to answer the knock at the door in her own person.

  "Dr. Driffill,” she said, smiling and successfully not grinding her teeth. “How thoughtful of you to call."

  "If I were but only doing my pastoral duty—” as if anything about a parish in the middle of this great city could be considered pastoral, “—in bringing solace to the needy, I should have hesitated to come, indeed I should, cognizant as I am, indeed, and duly appreciative, of your, erm, peculiar preference for, erm, your independence."

  Mrs. Stavacre raised an eyebrow. She had not credited Dr. Driffill with as much perception.

  The rest came out in a rush: “—but truth be told, I was reminded by our Mr. Butters, that the late and estimable Mr. Stavacre was a trusted, indeed, one might not blanche at the description, an accomplished and respected apothecary, and that he depended upon you, even as fully as any Oriental caliph has ever done, upon any grand vizier."

  "Would you like to come in?” Mrs. Stavacre asked, standing aside so that Dr. Driffill might move his almost globular torso toward the drawing room. She herself did not harbour any sentimental recollections of her husband and was unmoved by Dr. Driffill's flattery of him. Early in their marriage, she had realised that Humphrey Stavacre was a charming scoundrel, an unfit and disloyal husband, an overindulgent father who used bribery as a surrogate for love, even as he provided his family with a comfortable home. It was true that he had been a gifted chymist, maugre of his wayward character.

  "Indeed, I should like it above all things,” said Dr. Driffill, relief evident on his pudgy face. With something of a revelation, Mrs. Stavacre realized that Dr. Driffill was intimidated by her. It made her wonder if she had somehow earned a reputation as a shrew, and that made her temper threaten to flare up again.

  "Please, come in, sir, and I shall see to tea,” she responded, trying hard to be gracious. She had been obliged to prepare the morning's tea herself, of course. Without warning, Nan came flying down the narrow stairs, her fine broad skirts barely impeding her progress—her mother's modest existence offered no hindrance to her own zealous allegiance to vanity—a letter from her estranged spouse clenched in her hand. The paper fluttered like a startled pigeon as she held it before her. Even in her agitation, she was perhaps a touch too glamorous: Her dress was more appropriate to the evening amusements of Carlisle House than to the daylight routines of the Stavacre house. “Mama, why did you not tell me ere I married that all men are reptiles?” she passionately cried. “The—the beast! Did I not deserve some warning?"

  "Nan, I'm sure you remember Dr. Driffill,” said Mrs. Stavacre, threateningly calm. Nan froze, blushed violently, placed her hands behind her in order to hide the letter, and then smiled as prettily as if she were posing for Mr. Gainsborough. “Dr. Driffill, a pleasure.” She wisely did not attempt to curtsey on the stairs.

  "Your servant, Mrs. Templedon,” the vicar replied, bowing, himself blushing.

  "Of course I did not mean all men, certainly not men of the cloth—” Nan began to explain, but her mother mercifully cut her off.

  "I'm sure Dr. Driffill understands the tempests accompanying the accommodation of a young bride into an unaccustomed matri-mony,” she said, her eyes shifting pointedly back up the stairs, twice.

  "Pray excuse my passion, sir,” Nan said, smiling, then frowning, and then smiling again. She hesitated, torn between embarrassment and the compulsion to seek her mother's solace, or at least attention, and then fairly fled back up the stairs.

  Dr. Driffill's eyes, meanwhile, were fixed on the floor.

  "I believe you had accepted the invitation to partake of tea?” Mrs. Stavacre asked gently. She could see that Dr. Driffill was still somewhat discommoded by Nan's outburst, and felt a sudden pang of pity for him, something she rarely felt even for intelligent and compassionate fools.

  "I have no conception of what to do about Nan,” she said.

  "I should only be too happy to speak with her,” said Dr. Driffill sagaciously, “for I know only too well the sort of derangement to which a young and innocent female mind may be prone."

  "I might, then, suggest to her that she seek your counsel,” Mrs. Stavacre said, intending no such thing.

  The vicar and the widow finally seated themselves in the parlour, and Mrs. Stavacre poured.

  "I shall come to the point of my visit, ma'am,” Dr. Driffill said. “I mentioned Mr. Butters, who, as you know, is the charlie—” Dr. Driffill paused on the familiar term, as if it were unseemly for a man of the cloth to indulge in vulgar speech, and quickly substituted the official one. “—that is, the night watchman, of our parish."

  Mrs. Stavacre briefly wondered what that vigourous and merry monarch King Charles II, who had established the office, would have thought of old men without other prospects of employment being named in his honour. Although ostensibly endowed with the powers of a constable, charlies in fact had little or
no authority. Even now in 1769, the English (and particularly Londoners) constitutionally abhorred the idea of police, which they regarded as a potential threat to their personal liberty and their cherished right to assemble into rampaging mobs at the slightest provocation. True, Sir John Fielding's Bow Street Runners were now seen all over the City, and they had managed to reduce crime somewhat, but they were not loved.

  Dr. Driffill continued. “'Twas he suggested your name, recollecting the universal regard inspired by your late husband. Ma'am, will you be pleased to assume the office—"

  Mrs. Stavacre blinked. “Office, sir—What office—"

  "The office of searcher, of course; did I not mention it? Mrs. Sharples, who has held that position these many years, is no longer as hale as once she was and feels she may no longer discharge those duties with the same dispatch as was her custom."

  "In that case, I accept."

  "I am certain you shall wish to consider this proposal at your leisure, and I may only admonish you with considering the general welfare of the par—You accept? Did you say that you accept?"

  "Yes, sir. With alacrity."

  Dr. Driffill paused, at a loss for words, a caesura that naturally was not long-lived, and then stood. “Then I suppose there is nothing left to be said, except for the expression of my sincerest gratitude, that you should thus benefit our excellent parish, in spite of, or perhaps because of, the nature of those duties so often distressful to your delicate sex—"

  "I shall, of course, need to learn the proper manner of entering the bills of mortality into the parish records,” Mrs. Stavacre remarked thoughtfully, as if she were unaware she had interrupted the vicar. “Shall I call on you this afternoon for instruction?"

  "Why, yes. Of course. Splendid."

  She wasted no time in ushering him out into Billings Lane. No sooner had the door closed than Nan, who had been hovering by the balustrade on the first floor, seized the opportunity once again to surge downstairs, the offending letter before her.

  "The vile creature durst write, he accuses me, me, who only cares for his excellent reputation before persons of quality, of being spoilt, just because I—"

  "Because you give yourself such airs? Look at you, dressed like a, a duchess in the afternoon. The afternoon! I should say that you are spoilt indeed."

  "Do not be jealous of me, Mama, that I, at least, have pretty things."

  At that moment, the sputtering slow match of Mrs. Stavacre's temper at last breached its keg, with dazzling results.

  * * * *

  Saint Katherine Creechurch was generally a quiet parish. Mr. Butters preferred it so, not because it palliated his unpleasant labours, but because it informed him that his diligence in performing them was effective. It meant that he had something to show for his vigilant attention to duty.

  To ensure the continuance of parish tranquillity, Mr. Butters was not satisfied only to patrol its more well-lit avenues, where mischief in any case was unlikely to expose itself. Holding his lantern before him like a latter-day Diogenes, therefore, he frequented the alleys and rookeries by night, believing that the presence of his light would, in most cases, be sufficient to chase away the powers of darkness.

  It was in one such nameless alley that he saw, at the limit of his lantern's light, two women furtively lifting a bundle onto a cart, where no two women should be at such an hour.

  "'ere, then, what's this?” he cried.

  The two women immediately took flight. He had a fleeting impression of their dresses gleaming like satin in the low light as they fled. At the same time, the cart driver snapped his whip, and the dray horse broke into an instantaneous canter. Even with the aid of his staff, Mr. Butters was unable to keep up with any of them.

  In their precipitate haste, the women had not finished their loading. The bundle fell off the cart as it pulled away, then bounced hard against the back wall of a tenement before coming to rest on the cobblestones. By the time he reached it, Mr. Butters could see that it was an unconscious woman, wrapped in burlap. She, at least, wore not silk, but black-dyed wool.

  He held the lantern close to see her face.

  And recoiled in horror.

  * * * *

  Billy Butters had been a sergeant in Cumberland's army at the battle of Culloden nearly a quarter-century before. Sergeants are men of great consequence, none more so, and not even monarchs, attach more prestige to their dignity.

  He thought of his long staff as a badge of his imposing office; it did not occur to him that without it, he wouldn't have had the mobility to make his rounds. He was too proud of his soldierly past ever to admit that he was not the man he had once been. After all, he had faced cannon, musket, and blood-smeared claymore and never flinched. But pride notwithstanding, no man is without fear.

  It is proverbial that in war, for every soldier who dies of a wound inflicted by the enemy, a dozen more succumb to disease and fever. Billy Butters had firsthand knowledge of the truth of this conventional wisdom, and his special terror, his personal vision of painful damnation and a sulphurous hell, was not death by cold blade, nor burning shot, nor even splattering and stinking bomb: It was the horror of plague.

  Mr. Butters would never have admitted he was afraid. He attributed his shortness of breath and accelerated heartbeat not to any panic, but to his haste in repairing to Mrs. Stavacre's doorstep. He was even unaware that he kept his distance as Mrs. Stavacre kneeled at the corpse in the rookery gutter.

  "Mr. Butters, please bring the lantern closer."

  "'er skin, ‘tis bluish, marm. It ain't—It ain't the plague, please God?” he whispered.

  "Certainly not. But if you don't bring the light closer, I shall not be able to determine what, in fact, it is."

  Butters shuffled in closer and held the light up so that Mrs. Stavacre might get a better look.

  "Winsome young thing,” Mrs. Stavacre said. “What do you make of her, Mr. Butters?"

  "A young domestic, I should say. She be wearin’ a domestic's dress."

  Mrs. Stavacre frowned. “Domestic? I think not. Look at her hands. Her nails are clean. Let's examine her knees, shall we?"

  Mr. Butters averted his eyes as Mrs. Stavacre pulled the dead girl's frock up to expose her knees.

  "As soft as cotton, they are,” Mrs. Stavacre said. Butters clenched his eyes shut at such an indecent image. “What kind of housemaid has clean fingernails and uncallused knees?"

  "Then ‘o is she?"

  Mrs. Stavacre lifted her head. “What beautiful hair she has, like spun flax. Did you notice that it is damp?"

  Butters pursed his lips before mumbling, “No, marm."

  "And it smells of tobacco—not your Virginia tobacco, nor your molasses twist—methinks I detect an Oriental spiciness to it. Turkish, I should imagine."

  "Surely not, marm.” The image of a woman smoking was not to be borne.

  Mrs. Stavacre pushed one of the corpse's eyes open. “Do bring the lantern in closer, Mr. Butters. There. Do you see it? Her pupils are small as pinpricks. What beautiful eyes they must have been whilst living, as blue as a summer sky."

  Mr. Butters had seen many soulless stares on the battlefield, but he had never considered what they would have been like absent death.

  "Not lady, nor spinster, nor maid, nor even yet maiden, by the look of things,” Mrs. Stavacre said, rising at last. “Pretty, clean, and pampered, I should say, and yet so far below the consideration of her acquaintances that she has been thus abandoned to the discovery of strangers. Surely that tells the story."

  "What story?"

  "The story, Mr. Butters, of how we happened to stumble upon the cadaver of a murdered whore."

  * * * *

  "Murther?” Dr. Driffill's normally pink and self-satisfied face was a white circle of shock. Billy Butters leaned against the door of the vicarage and stared at the floorboards, unwilling to see Dr. Driffill stripped of his clerical habiliments’ decorum, clad as the priest was in nothing but nightshirt and cap.

&
nbsp; "Somewhere in this parish, there is a brothel in uproar,” Mrs. Stavacre said. “I need to know where it is, if I am to conduct the necessary enquirations."

  "By what evidence do you conclude that this unfortunate wench was—murthered?” Mrs. Stavacre seemed not to notice the question but continued with her own train of thought. “A bordello of some luxury, I should say, the sort to appeal to men of means, and doing trade in the guise of a Turkish bagnio. Be there any such in the neighbourhood?"

  "A brothel? I—I—I'm a clergyman, Mrs. Stavacre!"

  "Tut, tut. Clergymen—or at least high church clergymen, of which we know you to be one—do hear confessions, Dr. Driffill. While I accept that the confessional is sacrosanct, you cannot be ignorant of the Devil's footholds in your own parish, surely."

  "You avoid my question, ma'am. How can you know that this poor girl was murthered?"

  Mrs. Stavacre closed her eyes and sighed. “Very good. Let us first ask ourselves in what manner she did expire."

  "Yes, precisely, by all means, for that is your purpose, and there your responsibilities end, forsooth."

  "End? Not at all, sir. ‘Tis where they begin. After dedicating some thought to the matter, as required by the mandate of my new office, I have come to certain conclusions regarding this strange death—but which raise other questions, forsooth."

  "What other questions can there be?"

  "Attend, sir. On first examination, one might conclude by her colouration that she died of the blue jaundice, which is to say, a condition of the heart. But blueness of the skin can also be caused by asphyxiation, sir, and while her body was dry, her hair was damp, and she was unnaturally clean."

  "I fail to see the significance."

  "Isn't it obvious that she was drowned in a bath?” Mrs. Stavacre said, a little more sharply than she had intended. “Her body was dried with a towel, and then clothed as a servant, but you cannot get such a head of hair as hers completely dry by such means, nor introduce a servant's scars by changing raiment. Her head had been immersed in clean water. She certainly didn't drown in the stink of the Thames."