Keeper of Pleas

by A. Wendeberg

  ‘Very well. You will receive her allowance and decide what to do with it, how much of it is to be given to her directly, and how much is to be spend on her education and clothing.’

  Olivia coughed and lowered her gaze. ‘Gavriel,’ she said softly. ‘Thank you for your kind offer. But I will use my own money for her tuition, clothing, and food.’

  ‘You may do with your funds what you wish, but the allowance of the lady’s maid will be given to you, whoever said maid might be. What did this mean, anyway? Why the blazes did she hop on my lap?’

  ‘Her mother has taught her from an early age on, to be forthcoming with gentlemen.’

  He paled. ‘Her mother?’

  ‘The madam.’

  Sévère, who was about to decapitate his breakfast egg, smashed it. ‘I hope this swine didn’t force the girl to take a client!’

  ‘She was planning to wait another year or two.’

  He grunted in disgust. ‘Teach this girl some manners. She can’t take a tutor if she behaves like this. I don’t even want to think about it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be entertaining?’

  ‘No, it certainly wouldn’t.’

  ‘Would you pass the butter? Thank you. Now, do tell me whom I may chase down for you today.’

  ‘It is Sunday. You may chase a church pew, if you wish.’

  Olivia snorted. ‘Tell me about the cases you are working on.’

  ‘Nothing too exciting at the moment. Elizabeth Parker allegedly murdered her five month-old daughter, Rosina Alice Parker. The inquest will be held on Tuesday. The case is as clear as bright daylight. The woman will be charged with murder or manslaughter. The Temple case is quite an interesting one. Catherine Temple is accused of feloniously killing Annie Holloway.’

  Sévère washed down his muffin and smacked his lips. ‘You wouldn’t believe it: Catherine Temple and Annie Holloway were both drunk and had a brawl. Frail Catherine hit sturdy Annie over the head. A little too often, as it turns out.’

  ‘The fair sex,’ Olivia mumbled.

  ‘Indeed.

  ‘And then there’s the Burns case. I want you to work on it. Patrick Burns was indicted for the manslaughter of Mary Ann Hennessey. Evidence points to him having struck her behind the ear, which resulted in a haemorrhage of her brain. She died soon thereafter.’

  Olivia cracked her egg and sunk her spoon into the soft yolk.

  ‘I will give you the respective files tomorrow morning, before you take the train to Redhill. I expect it to be a short trip. There should be plenty of time to take a detour over Sevenoaks on your way back.’ He opened the papers and continued to read where he’d left off.

  ‘Isn’t the case out of your hands now? Hunt has been committed to trial at the Old Bailey,’ Olivia said.

  Sévère dipped his head, and frowned.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My instincts tell me that Hunt is lying,’ he said.

  A soft knock interrupted their conversation. One of the maidservants — what was her name? — stepped into the room. ‘You’ve received a message, sir, ma’am.’ She held out a small silver tray; Sévère picked the letter from it. The girl curtsied and left.

  ‘My face hurts from all this…’ Olivia waved her hand at the door. ‘…stiff etiquette.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Sévère answered, and slit open the letter. A calling card fell out onto his palm. ‘I hope you’ll get used to it within the next few days. News of our marriage has spread. Lady Anne and Sir Peter Berk have invited us to dinner.’ He made a retching noise at the back of his throat.

  Olivia tut-tutted and, a moment later, almost gagged on a spoonful of egg. ‘What will your parents think?’

  He looked at her sharply. ‘You believe I told them all about you?’

  ‘No. No, that would be idiotic.’ She shook her head. But curiosity got the better of her. She leant forward and pointed her spoon at him. ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing. They are dead.’

  Olivia’s ears reddened. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘If you wish, I’ll let the Berks know that we are unable to attend.’

  ‘Thank you. But I prefer to face my enemies head-on. All I have to remember is to say “napkin” instead of “serviette” and “lavatory” instead of “toilet.” And that I must refrain from blowing my nose on the tablecloth.’

  ‘Keep in mind that the resulting uproar would save us from another such invitation,’ he said, and spread butter on his second muffin. ‘Tell me, why did you never run away from Madame Rousseau’s? Why did you never go back home? Your parents must believe you dead.’

  Her face fell and all colour drained from her cheeks. She turned away and gazed out the window. Shoulders squared. Jaw set. After a moment, she turned back to him. ‘It is none of your concern. But I will humour you anyway. Had I gone back to my parents, they would have been deeply dishonoured and shamed by their own daughter. A prostitute can’t be married off to a suitable man. She would be the cause of slander, making her parents suffer until they moved far away from London, or died. So tell me, Coroner, would you truly expect me to have no honour whatsoever, and to do such a thing to my own parents?’

  ‘I was merely curious. Curiosity is in my nature. However, you might wish to contact your parents now that you are married to a suitable man.’

  With precision, she placed the spoon next to her plate, brushed two muffin crumbs off the tablecloth, and stood. ‘If you don’t require my assistance today, I will help my maid settle in. I will probably see you later.’

  The door closed with a snap and Sévère stared at its bleak surface, wondering how and why this conversation had turned sour so thoroughly.

  ❧

  ‘No…more…hopp…ing…on…to…Mister…Sévère’s…lap!’ Rose screeched with every bounce.

  Olivia watched the girl’s trajectory. The bedsprings were howling pitifully beneath her, and she had to hold onto the headboard so as not to be rocked off their pirate ship. The rug was strewn with pillows. The sea was merciless tonight.

  Rose stopped bouncing. Her braids hung limply down the sides of her flushed face. ‘Can I be a detective, too?’

  ‘Hum.’ Olivia stroked her imaginary beard.

  ‘Please?’

  ‘Well, I might need your opinion on a case from time to time. But you’d have to learn to read and write.’

  ‘What…for?’ The girl picked up her hopping again. This time, she flung out her legs, flashing her garters.

  ‘Secret messages.’

  ‘Oh!’ The sea calmed at once. ‘I can’t be a pirate, then. Pirates don’t know the alphabet.’

  ‘Captains and first mates do.’

  Rose plopped down next to Olivia, her breath whistling through her small windpipe, her brow sweaty.

  ‘Is your cabin to your liking, First Mate?’ Olivia asked.

  Rose stuck a braid between her teeth for lack of appropriate facial hair, and looked around the small room as though seriously inspecting it yet again. She pulled her eyebrows together and nodded. ‘Not bad, Captain.’ Then she collapsed flat on the bed, and put her head on Olivia’s shoulder. ‘It’s really my room, is it?’

  ‘It is. It’s the lady’s maid’s room. All fine ladies have a personal maid and every respectable lady’s maid has a room like yours, all to herself.’

  ‘Can I leave the door open?’ A small voice. One that was afraid of the dark.

  ‘You must, for what would happen should I wake up at night and need your services, and you couldn’t hear me, because the door was shut?’

  ‘What services?’

  ‘Tie my corset. Button my dress.’

  ‘At night?’

  ‘Certainly. I might have to go on a mission. I might have to catch a murderer. You see,’ Olivia said, her voice resonating dramatically, ‘the most famed villains prefer the night. The moon is like the sun to them. Dense fog is their dearest friend, and the squelch of rain under their boots is their…their…um.’


  With a heavy sigh, Rose rolled onto her stomach and blew her bangs out of her face. ‘I want to be a detective.’

  Olivia poked her ribs. ‘Brush my hair, First Mate, and I’ll brush yours. Then it’s time for bed.’

  The girl jumped off the mattress, screeched ‘Aye, aye, Captain!’ and flitted through the connecting door into Olivia’s room, and stood at attention before the vanity.

  Olivia sat down and watched the reflection of her First Mate, the seriousness and concentration of the girl, and she wondered if, one day, she would miss her mother.

  ‘Rose?’ she whispered. Their eyes met in the looking glass. ‘If you ever want to go back. Back home, I mean. You are free, you know. This is not a prison.’

  Perplexed, Rose frowned, then she turned her attention back at the strand of black hair she held in her hand, and gently pulled the brush through it.

  In three years, Olivia thought. Three more years and then I’ll be free. Rose will be eleven, old enough to make her own decisions. Should I take her with me? Would the girl even wish to leave London? Rose had time. Enough time to find out what suited her. If she decided she wanted to go back to her mother’s, she’d be free to do so on her own terms.

  —Final Act—

  in which new yarn is spun

  —Neighbourhood—

  A fickle spring was upon Greater London. The morning sun dashed in and out of hiding, until it finally succumbed to a thick wall of clouds. The sky darkened.

  Sleet nipped at Olivia’s cheeks and she unfurled her umbrella hastily. Tapioca snow whirled on the pavement. The budding vegetation was shaken by angry squalls. Shivering, Olivia hurried past MacDoughall’s Plant Nursery and pushed open a wooden garden gate with a neatly carven sign that read:

  Rupert Hunt

  Redhill Apiary

  The whitewashed stone house hadn’t been sold yet, a circumstance that made a search of the premises less bothersome. She pulled a skeleton key from her coat pocket and pushed it into the lock. The key was courtesy of Mrs Hopegood, who, after having heard the verdict, appeared to have shrunk to half her original height.

  Olivia stepped into the hallway and shut the door. Darkness closed in on her. She should have brought matches.

  Gradually, her eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light and she saw a pale, white strip a few steps ahead — a crack under a door. She set one foot in front of the other, careful so as not to run into something and knock it over.

  She pushed at the door. Sharp white daylight cut through a gap between thick curtains, and blinded her for a moment. The air was stale. She coughed and came to a sudden halt as a thought hit her: what if this Sir Peter Berk was one of her former clients? And if not him, then some other man she and Sévère would happen to meet, sooner or later? No man in his right mind would mention in front of his own wife that he’d lain with a whore. But what man wouldn’t try to blackmail her? Let me take you in the broom closet, else I’ll tell your husband who you really are. Oh, he knows already? Even better. You’ll serve me every night, else I’ll ruin his reputation.

  She grabbed the door frame for support. What was she to do? Had Sévère spent even a single thought on the consequences? He must have. But they’d never discussed it, never agreed on tactics. Had he evaded the topic when she’d asked him about it at Pagani’s?

  Olivia lifted her gaze. Behind the window, the sky cleared and sunlight hit the lawn. She wondered who’d cut it since Hunt’s departure. MacDoughall, perhaps?

  Briefly, her thoughts drifted to Chief Magistrate Frost. He was a man who would not take prisoners. What will I do when I meet him? Chills rippled down her arms. You won’t get to me, you bastard. I will strike first.

  She stepped through the door into the parlour.

  The house echoed her steps. Not a cupboard, a picture frame, a lamp left. It was only the pale patches on the wallpaper and skid marks on the floorboards that told of former inhabitants. The outline of a headboard in the room where Mr and Mrs Hunt must have slept, a smaller outline in a smaller room that faced the garden. Was this what Charlotte Hunt had seen, day in day out? The line of apple and pear trees, the walkway with shrubs on either side. A small, overgrown pond.

  Olivia opened the window. The forsythias were in full bloom. A gust tore petals off a wild plum tree; it looked as though the tree wept snow. MacDoughall’s plant nursery was to her left, a pasture to her right, a farm building nestled against a group of larch trees farther off. She scanned the lawn that lay inconspicuous before her. Nothing indicated burial sites. Sévère had sent her here to locate the original graves of the infants, hoping she’d find clues as to why Rupert Hunt would plead guilty to a crime he had not committed.

  She wondered if Sévère’s instincts were fooling him. Surely, he didn’t want her to spend days digging up Hunt’s premises? She wondered if Rupert Hunt had been a rapist and murderer before his mind grew muddled and soft with age. Wasn’t it common for old men to be entirely different from their younger selves? An arrogant wife-beater could turn into the most charming grandfather once strength of body and mind left him. They simply forgot who they were. Or they realised what it meant to be weak.

  For a short moment, she wondered if it was justified to hang an old Rupert Hunt who seemed so different from his middle-aged version: a man who had repeatedly forced his own daughter, and then killed their babies.

  Or had he?

  Olivia turned on her heel and scanned the empty room. There was nothing of interest. She took two steps and lay down on the dusty floor where the bed must have been. She looked up at the ceiling.

  The room was silent. As silent as Charlotte Hunt. Olivia was undecided as to how to approach the problem of the silent victim. She’d left the folder with the case notes on the parlour floor. It was of no use to open it yet again. The most curious fact hadn’t been written down.

  ‘If Miss Hunt is unable to read and write, what use does she have for book and ink bottle?’ Sévère had asked earlier this morning.

  ‘What indeed,’ she muttered as she sat up. Something creaked under the pressure of her left palm. She lifted her hand and noticed two floorboards that were shorter than the others. Someone had cut a board in half, as though to repair damage.

  ‘Dammit,’ she growled. Sévère still hadn’t returned her knife. She’d forgotten to ask him about it.

  She rose and left the room.

  She found MacDoughall in his garden, moving piles of twigs.

  ‘Good day to you, Mr MacDoughall,’ she called across the picket fence.

  He straightened up and blinked against the light. ‘Mrs Jenkins?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Sévère now. We got married two days ago. Isn’t it a bit late for pruning?’

  He narrowed his eyes at her. His gaze slid to her stomach and up at her face again. ‘Congratulations,’ he said, and tapped his foot against the twig pile. ‘Pomaceous trees are customarily cut between January and March.’

  ‘Ah,’ Olivia said. ‘I was wondering if you could lend me a knife. I forgot to bring my own.’

  ‘A knife? What for? And why are you here? Mr Hunt confessed, didn’t he?’

  ‘Indeed he did. But a few things need clarifying.’ She waited until MacDoughall had approached the fence and was standing a short distance from her. ‘We need to know if there are more than the nine victims, and where they were buried before he put them into flowerpots and took them to London. You wouldn’t know, would you?’

  MacDoughall’s throat seemed to swell. His carotid artery visibly throbbed. ‘I do not.’ He flipped a pruning knife in his hand and held it out to her, handle first. ‘Be careful. It’s sharp.’

  ‘Thank you. I might ask you for a shovel later, if you don’t mind.’ She turned toward the house and walked away.

  ‘What do you need the knife for?’ he called after her.

  She looked back. The sun caught on MacDoughall’s face. ‘To move a floorboard. There seems to be a secret compartment.’

  A sharp nod and he tur
ned away.

  The mysterious compartment was, after all, rather un-mysterious. It was simply a damaged floorboard that had been cut to replace half of it. Olivia sat down heavily. She looked up at the ceiling, and said, ‘What would I do?’

  She stood and began pacing the room. ‘I give birth. There’s blood. I attend to myself. I need to protect my child. What do I do?’ Her gaze drifted to the window. ‘I would ask for help.’

  She inhaled deeply. ‘Slow down,’ she told herself.

  How much blood was in a newborn? One pint, perhaps? Where did it all go?

  There was no mattress, no blanket or rug she could examine. Only the floor, the wallpaper, the window, the door. She knelt, put her nose close to the polished wood, and inhaled. Dust. She sneezed.

  She picked up the knife once more and ran it along the edges of the repaired floor board, worked a long splinter out and inspected its rim. Nothing but dirt.

  She looked at the pale patch that indicated where the headboard of the bed had covered the wallpaper. She sat right where the bed had stood. That’s not where the blood would be, would it? Soaking its way through the mattress? No.

  But why would the board beneath the bed be broken, and not the ones closer to the door where everyone walked in and out?

  She couldn’t find an explanation.

  She chose other floorboards on either side of where the bed must have stood, and ran the tip of the sharp knife along the edges. She couldn’t lift the boards, for they’d been nailed down fast. But she managed to extract slender pieces of wood from the edges. A side of one piece was covered with a dark-brown substance. She scraped it off. It looked almost black on the shiny metal blade. Wouldn’t the floorboard itself be stained, if blood had spilt on it?

  She went back to where the bed must have covered the floor and repeated the procedure on several boards there. The knife came away with a greyish substance. Dirt, rubbed into the cracks as one scours the floor?