Keeper of Pleas

by A. Wendeberg

  ‘I am teaching you the pleasures of the bedchamber, Coroner Sévère,’ she hissed as he began to tremble. ‘Five more lashes and I will be done with you. Count!’

  He refused to speak.

  When she finally dropped the belt and unstrapped his ankles and wrists, she merely said, ‘This was fun, wasn’t it?’ and threw his clothes onto the bed.

  ❧

  He didn’t move at first. He needed to get his bearings. His back and buttocks were on fire. He was certain she had drawn blood.

  He stretched his limbs, rolled off the bed in one smooth move, and stood. He shook out his aching hands that he’d kept balled up for too long. He tried his left leg; a peculiar prickling ran up and down its side.

  Mary refilled her glass, leant against the windowsill and sipped from her wine. ‘You could be a little more animated next time. It pays better.’

  He strode up to her, took her wine glass, and smashed it against the wall. His limp was worse than ever; his left knee didn’t seem to follow his commands properly. This, together with his bruised skin and ego, tipped him over the edge.

  He grabbed her neck and pushed her toward the bed, threw her onto it. ‘Skirts up to your ears. Lie on your stomach. I don’t want to see your face, whore.’

  She made to turn, but he pounced, grabbed her hair and pressed her face into the mattress. He pushed her skirts up and kicked her legs apart. Her rear was beautifully shaped. He wanted to slap it. Badly.

  Her sex. A nest of black curls; rosy lips. No wetness that indicated arousal. Of course not.

  Why did he even care?

  She didn’t struggle, didn’t say a peep.

  He spat into his hand and rubbed the saliva between her thighs. She jerked away from his rough touch. A minute movement that was swiftly doused by work discipline or routine or both.

  He stared at her passive form and felt as if he’d been sucked into a black tunnel and puked out on the other side, far back in time to when he was a boy, tied to a bed by a disease he did not understand. The helplessness. The humiliation. The pain that even the lightest touch had brought. Then, it had felt precisely as it had felt only moments ago. Precisely what he’d had in mind to do to her.

  His fury and lust left him with a huff.

  He pushed away from her and dressed. His left leg felt exceedingly tired; it trembled when he put his full weight on it. He would have to lean heavy on his cane tonight.

  Mary rolled onto her back, crossed her arms behind her head, and gazed up at him, unspeaking.

  ‘I paid for your honesty.’ His voice was soft, tired, and yet, carried a warning tone. He pulled his coat over his shoulders and nodded at the guinea on the table. ‘I paid for bedding you. Should we ever meet again and you dare lie to me, I will take you by force. And I promise I will hurt you more than you hurt me tonight.’

  The door snapped shut, and Mary’s gaze fell on the briefcase that lay forgotten on the floor.

  She scrambled out of bed, tiptoed around the shards, pushed the curtain aside, and watched Sévère limp across the street and hail a hansom.

  Mary picked up his wine glass and his briefcase, and made herself comfortable in the armchair. A few bills, two coins, and a thick folder. She counted the money. Six pounds sterling, two shillings. She extracted the folder and opened it. A smile curved her lips: case notes.

  ❧

  The following morning, Mary took her time to neatly pin up her hair and dress in her finery. She left the house at half past eleven, and reached Division H Headquarters before lunch to enquire about the location of the coroner’s practice.

  The young man behind the desk squared his shoulders and straightened his lapel. ‘Now, ma’am, you must know that there is no such thing as the coroner’s practice. A county coroner only works part-time, you see. Coroner Sévère’s solicitor’s practice is at 9 Laurence Pountney Hill, Cannon Street E1. Do you have a suspicious death to report?’

  ‘I wish to give a witness statement.’

  The constable scratched his chin pimples and gave a noncommittal grunt. She thanked him with a curtsy and walked off.

  ❧

  As she lifted her hand to pull the bell chain, the door was ripped open by Sévère himself.

  ‘Damnation!’ he huffed. ‘The hag is walking around in bright daylight. What is it that you want?’

  ‘At this precise moment I wish to kick your balls, because this is not how one addresses a lady. But I will refrain from doing so. Do you, by any chance, miss your case notes?’

  His gaze dropped to the briefcase clamped under her arm. His mouth compressed to a thin line, and he held out his hand, palm up.

  She took a step back. ‘The case is closed, it appears.’

  ‘I need those papers, Miss Mary. If you have no further wish to spend a few days in a holding cell, I recommend you hand them to me. Including the money the briefcase held.’

  ‘Holds,’ she corrected him. ‘Mr Sévère, why, in your opinion, did I come here? Do you see a whip on me? Shall we begin anew? Hello, Mr Sévère, I brought your case notes, your money, and your nice briefcase. Why don’t you offer me tea, a sandwich, and a comfortable seat and I’ll tell you what you have missed.’ She tapped her gloved fingers against the briefcase.

  ‘What I’ve missed? What I’ve missed?’ He inhaled deeply, looked up at the dreary sky, and shook his head. Then, he pushed aside all emotions, switched his mind back to professionalism, and grabbed the chance to interrogate a difficult suspect.

  A dazzling smile lit up his face when he said, ‘Oh, hello, Miss Mary. How very nice to see you. Allow me to invite you for lunch.’ He pulled the door shut and offered his arm.

  ‘Most gallant of you, Coroner,’ Mary purred, and sneaked her hand into Sévère’s elbow bend.

  ❧

  She placed the briefcase on the table and pushed it toward him. ‘Three types of soil.’

  Sévère picked it up and placed it on his lap. ‘Three types of soil. Is that what I supposedly missed?’

  ‘The inquest notes don’t contain a statement by a naturalist or a geologist. You didn’t listen to Dr Johnston who said, “You may wish to consult an expert on this.”’

  Sévère extracted his watch from his waistcoat pocket, flipped it open, read the time, and closed it. ‘Please reach the essence of your speech, Miss Mary. My time is limited.’

  ‘Identify the variety of apple tree saplings and how they were grafted. With a little bit of luck, this should tell you who made them or, at the least, where the man has learnt his trade. Identify the three types of soil and you will pinpoint the nursery with precision, even though you could not find the man who sold the trees to Mr Bunting.’

  ‘You approach this case with too much enthusiasm. You believe logic is all that needs to be applied and the crime will be solved. You will burn yourself out.’

  She regarded him with curiosity, cocked her head and said, ‘A cold, analytic mind can solve crimes, a hot head cannot.’

  ‘Can you explain mankind with logic, Miss Mary? Please do so because I can’t. Give me a logical reason why someone killed these nine infants.’

  ‘The reason will be revealed when the case is solved. You will find logic in it.’

  ‘I will find logic in it? How amusing. Mankind is not logic. Mankind is sweat and blood and fear and bollocks. Passion, love, envy, hate, terror — yes. But not logic. You, of all, should know that.’

  She batted her lashes at him. ‘Thank you for your honesty, it suits you. I must say that I find your opinions of mankind very interesting, especially as I get to see a lot more balls than you, Mr Sévère. I will think about what you’ve said. Will you think about what I said?’

  ‘I did already.’ He pulled two coins from his pocket, placed them on the table and rose. As he did so, he watched her expression from the corner of his vision. She kept her disappointment well hidden. Only the corners of her lips quirked a little; he would have to keep an eye on them.

  ‘Are you coming?’ he said.<
br />
  ‘For which deed are you apprehending me this time, Coroner?’

  ‘Grab my elbow, Miss Mary. We have to catch a cab, else we’ll be too late.’

  She narrowed her eyes.

  ‘The statement of the expert is not in my notes, because he was travelling and arrived in London only yesterday in the late afternoon. If you wish to whip the man, it will be my pleasure to introduce him to you. But you’ll have to hurry up now.’

  Mary jumped from her chair, threw on her coat, and snatched her sandwich. Only a few minutes later the two climbed aboard a cab to Cable Street.

  ‘Why was the inquest held so soon? Before you had all the evidence?’

  ‘Because the police took Mr Bunting into custody and the old man would not have fared well in a cold cell for longer than a few nights. He could barely walk down the stairs of his own house.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Rheumatism.’

  ‘So you held the inquest to…do what precisely?’

  ‘There’s no evidence whatsoever of Mr Bunting being involved in, or responsible for, the killings. Besides, he can barely descend the stairs, let alone ascend them, so there’s little danger of him disappearing should the police or I plan to question him further. I prefer to take all witness statements when their memory is still fresh. The case has not been closed, Miss Mary. The inquest is adjourned.’

  ‘You did someone a favour. How very curious.’

  ‘You once said to me, “You don’t have any friends.” Why would you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s true. Cooperation is against your nature.’

  He snorted. ‘My occupation requires cooperation on a daily basis.’

  ‘A fact that does not prove me wrong. It only means that you have learnt to adapt to that which is against your nature.’

  ❧

  They reached the mortuary and alighted. When Sévère opened the door for Mary, he said, ‘This is where Alexander Easy used to work. You wouldn’t know him by any chance, would you?’

  ‘Oh, I do know him. He is…was a very nice man.’ She bumped her elbow against his, and strolled through the antechamber into the viewing room.

  He stared at her back, the bustle of her dress bouncing beneath her coat. The clacking of her heels on the hard floor.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ he growled and followed her inside.

  ‘Mr Dennis Pouch.’ The man held out his hand. Mary gave it a squeeze. Through her gloves, she felt the calluses and warmth of a working man. His eyes were those of a scholar: bright with curiosity and intelligence.

  ‘Miss Mary,’ she answered.

  Pouch’s gaze strayed to Sévère, searching for an explanation for the woman’s presence.

  ‘My apologies for being late. I misplaced my case notes,’ Sévère said and nodded to the saplings. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Grafting is one of the oldest arts of plant craft,’ Pouch explained, stroking the trees as if they were his children. ‘These here are whip-on-tongue grafted. The stems exhibit marks of the band used to tie scion and rootstock together, and here,’ he bent closer and scraped at the knot with his small knife. ‘Here we have beeswax residues. Oh, and look at this: the apical bud has been snipped off. The grafting was done by an expert.’

  ‘Can you identify the apple tree variety?’ Sévère asked.

  ‘These young ones? Hardly. I need to see the fruits to be certain.’

  Mary inhaled, stopped herself, and crinkled her brow.

  ‘Yes, Miss?’ Mr Pouch asked.

  ‘Can they produce fruits at all? I mean, in a pot of this size and on a balcony here in Whitechapel.’

  ‘I doubt it. Actually, I would be surprised if the trees could survive for very long. Apple trees need plenty of space, good drainage, and full sun.’

  ‘Why would someone put them on the balcony of his London apartment?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miss. Sentimentality? Certainly not to grow apples.’

  Sévère’s shoulders stiffened. ‘Can you tell who grafted these?’

  ‘Ah, that I can’t say. I’m sorry. You can find this kind of grafting in nurseries all over England. In the message you sent me, you also asked about soil identification. I must disappoint you again, Coroner. The potting soil is a mixture of sand, clay, and compost with a dash of lime. I couldn’t tell you where the components come from.’

  ‘I hope you can identify the soil stuck to these.’ Sévère indicated a table in a corner of the viewing room, where a linen cloth covered something bumpy.

  He pulled aside the fabric. ‘You may touch them and pick them up, but be careful, they are fragile.’

  ‘So small,’ Pouch whispered, visibly shaken by the sight.

  ‘Newborns,’ Sévère supplied. ‘There is soil stuck to the insides of the skulls, soil that is different from the potting mixture.’

  Pouch’s thick fingers curled around a small skull and gingerly turned it over and over, tipping it this way and that. Then he chose another skull.

  With the nail of his pinkie he scraped at the thin layer of soil on the inside of an eye socket, rubbed it between his fingers, sniffed at it, and stuck it into his mouth. He ground it between his teeth and said, ‘Slightly acidic, loamy and clayey soil. Low permeability. Probably estuarine clay and silt. Not unusual around here.’

  He repeated the procedure with every skull until he found a layer of pale, slightly greenish clay. That, too, he ground between his teeth.

  ‘Fuller’s Earth!’ Mr Pouch exclaimed and licked his lips. ‘How very unusual! I know of only two deposits within a hundred mile radius.’

  ‘Where?’ Sévère’s body snapped to attention. Finally, there was a promising straw he could grasp.

  ‘One in Surrey, stretching between Redhill and Limpsfield, and the other in Woburn, Bedfordshire.’

  When Mr Pouch had been reimbursed for his time and services, and bade his farewell, Mary rubbed her fingertips over the small bones of hands and feet.

  The door shut and they were alone in the viewing room. Silently, Sévère watched Mary. She bent down to sniff at the skulls, touched her pinky to the soil and slipped it into her mouth. She ground it between her teeth, her eyes shut, her brow furrowed.

  ‘Hum,’ she said and turned to Sévère. ‘You look as if someone crawled over your grave.’

  ‘You stuck that into your mouth. I was surprised to see Mr Pouch doing it, but I never thought a woman would dare do this.’

  She snorted. ‘A great variety of things considered unappetising have been in my mouth.’ She brushed off her hands and placed her bonnet on her head. ‘I think I figured out how he identifies soil. It’s how the dirt distributes into the small ridges of one’s fingertips, and how fine the grain is. One can actually determine the grain size even better when grinding it between one’s teeth.’ She cleared her throat, blushed, and added, ‘I believe.’

  Sévère held open the door for her. They stepped onto the narrow, paved walkway. The crows up in the oak tree said, ‘Caw!’

  At Cable Street, Mary and Sévère came to a halt. It was time to part ways. But he didn’t offer his hand, didn’t say farewell. Instead, he frowned at her and waited.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Alexander Easy.’

  ‘Oh, Sévère, do you truly believe I wish to see the inside of that dreary cell once more? I very much prefer my own quarters, despite the company I keep.’

  ‘Why not call the police? Why throw him into the Thames? Why treat a man with so little respect?’

  ‘I don’t waste a single moment wondering what you might be thinking of me. I truly don’t. You may think me a coldblooded murderess, as little as I’m concerned. I’m generally very uninterested in the opinions of other people.’

  ‘A bargain then, Miss Mary. Tomorrow, I’ll pay a visit to Covent Garden for another attempt at finding the elusive creature who sold the trees to Mr Bunting, and after that, I’ll take a train to Redhill. If you wish, you may accompany me. I
n exchange for joining my investigation, you’ll tell me about Mr Easy.’

  ‘What makes you think I would wish to do any of these things, let alone in your company?’

  ‘I know that you do.’

  She mirrored his smile. ‘An amusement day for the whore. How very gallant of you. Give me your hand.’

  He held it out to her. She took it and said, ‘I will swallow your bait. Tomorrow, we will visit Covent Garden together, enquire about the nursery and the person who sold these saplings to Mr Bunting. We will board the train to Redhill and I will tell you the first half of what you wish to know. Once we’ve visited the nursery and boarded the train back to London, I will tell you the other half.’

  She spat on the pavement.

  He grinned, and spat on the other side of the pavement.

  ‘What about the trip to Woburn?’ she asked.

  ‘Let us not presume, Miss Mary.’

  —Saplings—

  The train swayed as it exited Victoria Station. Mary staggered, and her bonnet tumbled to the floor before she could grip an armrest and steady herself. She brushed the dust off her hat, dropped it on a seat and sat down next to it. Condensation was dripping down the window.

  Sévère slid the door to their first class compartment shut and sat, gingerly supporting the neck of the sapling to prevent it from tipping. To Mary, Sévère’s expression seemed that of disinterest, except for the slight deepening of the lines between his eyebrows. Their excursion to Covent Garden had turned up nothing of interest. The vendor who’d allegedly sold the seven apple trees to Mr Bunting seemed to have been one of those irregular tradesmen who appeared only when it struck his fancy. The description the housekeeper had given of the man fit countless others: five foot five, broad build, swarthy features, large moustache, corduroy trousers and jacket, heavy boots, cap.