Keeper of Pleas

by A. Wendeberg

  Again, she sat down, thinking. If it had happened here, what would have been done with the blood-soaked blankets and rags? Where would I put them?

  I would burn them. Or bury down.

  Again she looked toward the window.

  ‘Mr MacDoughall?’ she called across the yard.

  He looked up and leant on his rake.

  ‘May I ask you something?’

  He pushed up his hat and cleared his throat. ‘I can’t give you no shovel, Misses. How would I know the coroner sent you? For all I know you’re with child.’ He looked her up and down and added, ‘Mrs Sévère.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Mr MacDoughall,’ Olivia said brightly, and extracted a piece of paper from her jacket. She unfolded it, and held it out for him to read:

  _________________________

  London and Southwark

  and Liberty of the Duchy

  of Lancaster in Middlesex

  and Surrey.

  By virtue of my office and in the name of our Sovereign Lady Queen Victoria, my wife and assistant Maria Olivia Sévère, née Kovalchuk, shall be given full charge and responsibility on behalf of said Lady the Queen to investigate the death of nine infants, and for her doing so this shall be her warrant.

  Given under my hand and seal this 12th day of March in the year of our Lord 1881.

  Gavriel Sévère

  Solicitor at Law

  Coroner of our said Lady the Queen

  for the City of London and the County of Eastern Middlesex

  and the Liberty of the Duchy of Lancaster.

  _________________________

  ‘Hum,’ said Mr MacDoughall and spat on the grass. ‘I already told the coroner everything.’

  She smiled warmly. ‘You have answered his questions sufficiently, thank you. However, new questions have arisen and I was rather hoping you could help us once more. Did you grow up in this house?’ She nodded toward his home.

  ‘Why is that interesting to the coroner?’

  ‘A mere formality.’ She knew the answer. Sévère had checked the registry.

  ‘I was born here, as was my father.’

  ‘How old are you?’ This she also knew.

  ‘Twenty-seven. No, twenty-eight. Is that important?’

  ‘Oh, not so very much. You and Charlotte Hunt grew up together. Can you tell me anything about her?’

  MacDoughall dropped his gaze, and grunted something Olivia didn’t catch. ‘Excuse me?’ she said.

  He lifted his head, looked at Hunt’s house, and said, ‘We didn’t grow up together.’

  ‘Are you telling me you know nothing of Charlotte?’

  ‘She didn’t speak.’

  Olivia nodded slowly. ‘I see. Well, Mr MacDoughall, here is your pruning knife. I thank you for lending it to me. It has been most helpful. I can see that you don’t wish to answer my questions. You have seen, read, and understood the warrant. I will now take you into custody, and transfer you to our offices in London. You may pack a few things and inform your wife, but I must ask you—’

  He held up both hands. The rake handle dropped to the ground. ‘You cannot!’

  ‘I very well can, Mr MacDoughall. And please be assured that I will. Unless, of course, you decide to answer my questions truthfully, here and now.’

  He set his jaw, turned a shade of purple, then jerked down his chin once.

  ‘Thank you. Did you grow up with Charlotte Hunt?’

  ‘We were friends, if you mean that. I knew her well.’

  ‘How would you describe her family?’

  ‘The mother was distant and sickly. I rarely saw her, never talked to her much. The father, Rupert Hunt, I liked him. I never expected him to…’ MacDoughall turned his face away. ‘…to do such a thing.’

  ‘Did you ever notice that she was with child?’

  ‘Mrs Hunt? No, she was old. Older than her husband, I believe.’

  ‘I was referring to Charlotte.’

  He sucked in air, his ribcage expanded. He let out a groan. ‘I suspected it once or twice.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Nothing ever came of it, so I believed…I believed I was mistaken.’

  ‘Hum.’ Olivia pushed her hands into the pockets of her coat. She toed a clump of dirt aside and mashed it with her heel. ‘The seven apple trees were yours?’

  He looked up, pale. ‘No. She…she knew how to graft. She and I learnt plant craft from my father and grandfather. She mostly watched. She had nothing else to do.’

  ‘Did you ever see the Hunts burn blankets or rugs or other items one normally doesn’t burn, or did you see them bury a small package or two?’

  He shook his head violently. ‘No. Never.’

  ‘I am trying to understand how he did it. Rupert Hunt. How did he hide nine bodies, how did he hide all those bloody sheets? How could Charlotte have been with child seven times and no one saw it, and why did she never ask for help?’

  Her eyes were sharply on him, analysing every twitch and every change of colour, every breath.

  ‘She is a big woman. I imagine it was rather hard to see it, when she was heavy with child.’

  ‘Did she have a nurse? When she was a child?’

  Startled by the sudden change of topic, MacDoughall blinked stupidly. After a short moment, he recovered. ‘Ah. No. It’s not common here. Employing a nurse, that is.’

  ‘Did she play with other children?’

  ‘When she was young? Yes. She was quite normal. Except that she was mute.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Olivia said. ‘She is in an asylum now. Her father told the staff that she’s an idiot.’

  MacDoughall jerked back as though he’d been punched in the face. ‘No! Impossible. Why would he say that about his own daughter?’

  ‘I don’t know. He fathered her nine children.’

  MacDoughall spat again. He shook his head, then nodded. ‘That must be it.’

  ‘Must be what?’

  ‘He was done with her. He dumped her. Poor Charlotte.’

  ‘Yes. Poor Charlotte. I will visit her today. Would you like me to say hello?’

  For a moment, Olivia saw shock in the man’s face.

  ‘Better not upset her.’

  ‘Very well. Have a nice day, Mr MacDoughall.’

  When Olivia shut the garden gate, MacDoughall called after her, ‘Don’t tell Charlotte you talked to me.’

  She found an inn and ate a quick lunch, then took the South Eastern Railway to Tunbridge and up to Sevenoaks. She was certain the asylum staff would not be delighted when they learnt she was the assistant of Coroner Sévère, the man who had caused a fit of hysteria in one of their patients.

  She thought about the book and the ink bottle and the curious statement Sister Grace had given, and she wondered if the asylum staff could be trusted at all.

  ❧

  The maid delivered a telegram together with his four o’clock tea. Sévère took a sip of the hot and aromatic brew, and only a moment later, snorted it right back out. Through his nose. He coughed and sputtered, wiped his face with a hanky, and read the telegram once more:

  Committed myself to Sevenoaks Asylum. Back in 2 days. O.

  —The Silent Victim—

  A thin sickle of moon peeked through a gap in the clouds. Olivia watched the trees wave their twigs in the moonlight, and wondered whether she missed her old life.

  What was there to miss? Nothing, really. For certain not the many men who’d had her. Perhaps the company of the other women? The laughter and silly stories they’d shared? Perhaps not. She found no regrets in her heart, no wish to return to Madame Rousseau’s for even the shortest of visits.

  Shivering with cold, she lay down in her bed and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She felt new, strange, other. She touched her lips, her breasts, and slid her fingers between her legs. For the first time in seven years, her body didn’t have to serve anyone.

  The memory of Sévère whispering “silk” against her thigh sent a rippl
e of heat through her.

  ‘Get to work, woman,’ she growled and kicked the blanket aside. She pushed her feet into a pair of scratchy felt slippers, wrapped a robe around herself and turned the doorknob. Her slippers were as silent as a cat’s paw on the hardwood floor.

  As she pulled open the door, the soft creak of metal sounded as loud as an alarm bell to her. She stuck her head out into the dark corridor and pricked her ears. Nothing moved.

  She tiptoed down the corridor and toward the north end of the house, past four doors, two on each side. The rooms of Sarah Bollard, Annie Swinfew, Emma Alexandra, and Rebecca Austin — they’d been committed to Sevenoaks Asylum for various forms of hysteria. Rumour had it that Sarah had sewn shut her abusive husband’s coat sleeves and subsequently shat into them. He’d not been delighted.

  The last door on Olivia’s right was that of Charlotte Elizabeth Hunt, and opposite that was the communal sewing room. The staff had decided that deaf Charlotte wouldn’t be disturbed by the other women chatting and doing their needlework.

  Olivia peeked through the half-open door of the sewing room, and, seeing no one, moved on to the next door. The office was locked. She pulled two pins from her hair and picked the lock. A low, grating noise. The lock gave.

  She stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. She’d seen an oil lamp on the desk and a box of matches next to it when she’d given herself into the good Sisters’ care. Slowly, she stepped forward and probed with her fingers. When she found the lamp, she lit the wick, and carefully placed the matches back at where she’d picked them up. Then she opened drawer after drawer.

  Patient files. There weren’t that many and she quickly found Charlotte Hunt’s. Committed in June by her father, Rupert Hunt, who’d stated that his daughter was addled in the brain and had always been so, and that, according to the family practitioner, there was no cure for her malady. No name was given for the practitioner.

  A note by Dr Faulkner, Sevenoaks’ physician, dated July 2, 1880, was next: “Miss Hunt takes delight in drawing flowers. Fresh air seems to have a positive effect on her nerves.”

  Below that was a note from August 15: “It appears as if Miss Hunt is merely deaf, and not of a weak mind. She has taken responsibility for the orchard and the rose garden, and seems to thrive.”

  And a note from October 1: “I believe that nothing is wrong with Miss Hunt other than her being unable to hear and speak. I have sent a letter to her father to enquire about relocating the patient.”

  Olivia wondered where Miss Hunt was to have been relocated, and if these plans had been changed. Had anyone talked to Charlotte about it?

  She replaced the file and shut the drawer, turned off the lamp and left the room. Her gaze fell on the door of Charlotte’s room.

  One part of her argued that patience was her best friend in this case, the other part whispered hurry! Hunt’s approaching trial was cutting her time short.

  She turned the doorknob.

  The moonlight zigzagged from windowsill to rug, across the dark silhouette of a desk to her left. To her right stood a bed. Someone lay in it. She couldn’t make out a face. Was Charlotte Hunt turned toward her, or away from her? Olivia tilted her head and listened. Soft, regular breathing.

  She tiptoed to the desk and picked up one of the books that lay there. Moving it into the sliver of moonlight, she leafed through the pages. There were drawings of plants. A simple shape at the border of some of the pages drew her curiosity, and she lowered her face to the page, trying to crank open her pupils as far as possible. Could it be the pupa of an insect?

  A cough issued from the bed. Olivia dove behind the desk. Her heart hammered. She hadn’t placed the book back to where she’d taken it. It still lay open in the moonlight.

  Miss Hunt moved. A little at first. As though she dreamt. A sigh, and the blanket was thrown aside.

  Olivia felt sweat tickle her spine.

  The scrape of something metallic. Another sigh. A trickle of liquid. Olivia bit her knee so as not to make a sound. Miss Hunt was using her chamber pot.

  ❧

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Hewitt.’

  Olivia rubbed her eyes and sat up. The sun had not yet risen. ‘Good morning, Sister Agatha,’ she said with a theatrical yawn.

  ‘Rise, and thank our Lord for a new day, Mrs Hewitt. The others are already up and about. Prayer and singing will begin in a moment. Then you can take breakfast. Sister Grace will assign your work.’

  ‘Thank you. I was hoping… Oh, please forgive my audaciousness, but I was hoping I could help in the gardens.’

  Sister Agatha smiled mildly. ‘You are new. You will soon learn our ways. I will let Sister Grace know you’ve enquired about the gardens. Wash and dress now. Mrs Bollard has water duty this week. She’ll be here shortly.’ With that, she left and shut the door.

  Sarah Bollard entered before Olivia had time to push her feet into her slippers. Sarah was a quiet woman whose left hand was crippled, her crooked fingers curled to a fist. ‘I’m sorry, it’s ice cold,’ she said, as she put the jug down.

  ‘Thank you,’ Olivia said. ‘I’m Mary Hewitt. I arrived yesterday afternoon. I heard about the coat sleeves. Brilliant!’

  Sarah Bollard dropped her head hastily, a shy smile and a flush of colour in her face.

  ‘You can do needlework with your hand?’ Olivia pointed her chin at Sarah’s left hand.

  ‘I manage. Why are you here?’

  ‘I had a stillbirth, and my husband believes the baby died because I didn’t want it.’

  ‘Did you not want it?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. It was my husband’s.’

  Sarah’s mouth formed an “oh” but she refrained from commenting.

  ‘What’s your work?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘Emma and I launder. Emma Alexandra…’

  ‘Why is she here?’

  ‘She took a lover. Her mother-in-law found out and told her husband.’

  Olivia snorted. ‘Unbelievable. I bet the husband has a hundred mistresses.’

  Sarah clapped her hand to her mouth, and after the initial shock had passed, she giggled like a child. She stopped herself when a bell sounded.

  ‘Prayer time! Hurry up now!’ she said, and flitted from Olivia’s room.

  They sang in a small chapel that had been erected behind the main house. The prayer, though, was performed lying flat on the icy stone floor.

  ‘Humbly lie face down, so that the Holy Touch can seep into your uterus,’ Sister Octavia had explained.

  ‘My bladder will probably catch the chills,’ Olivia muttered against the flagstones.

  Breakfast was a silent business. One doesn’t talk while eating what the Lord hath provided, even if the Lord provided only a slop of burnt porridge. Olivia wondered if the Lord had ever bothered to read the instructions on porridge preparation, or how to work stove and pot.

  She forced the food down her gullet, helped by tea so thin it tasted more like wash water than anything else. She avoided looking at Charlotte Hunt, who sat right next to her.

  Sister Grace did indeed assign garden work to Olivia, and (Thank the Lord, Miss Hewitt! Thank the Lord!) she also assigned Miss Hunt to supervise Olivia during her initial days.

  ‘Good gracious! I believe I thanked the Lord a hundred times today,’ Olivia whispered to Charlotte. ‘I hope he doesn’t burn our lunch.’

  Charlotte didn’t react. Olivia poked her elbow into Charlotte’s side. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’

  Charlotte’s eyebrows drew up. She shook her head, and placed her hands flat onto her ears.

  ‘Oh, dear! Are you telling me you are deaf? No one told me. I’m so sorry! Oh, what am I saying? You can’t understand a word anyway.’

  Charlotte, looking mildly annoyed, touched her finger to Olivia’s lips and then indicated her own eyes.

  Olivia squinted stupidly. ‘Excuse me?’

  Charlotte shrugged, and turned away.

  Olivia followed her into the tool shed and was h
anded a pruning knife. They picked their way to the orchard and she saw that most of the apple and pear trees had already been pruned, but not the cherry, plum, and peach trees.

  She poked Charlotte again. ‘It’s almost mid-March; we need to finish pruning the apple trees.’

  Charlotte made round eyes. Olivia babbled on, ‘Pomaceous trees are to be pruned between January and March. Why are you looking at me like that? You are not quite deaf, are you?’

  Again, Charlotte indicated her eyes, and then Olivia’s mouth.

  ‘Oh! Forgive my stupidity!’ Then she said very slowly, ‘You. Can. Read. Lips?’

  Charlotte nodded, hoisted up her skirts, tucked them into her girdle, and scaled the ladder that leant against one of the trees. She began to cut away the twigs which grew on the undersides of the branches. Olivia did the same on the branches low enough to reach from the ground.

  Aside from prayer every two hours, a dip in cold water before lunch, and sunbathing while being wrapped up in a wet wool blanket — all beneficial to the female nervous system — the day went on like this: Olivia was talkative and enthusiastic, annoying even to herself, all the while shadowing Charlotte. She hoped that her many questions about plant craft would prompt Charlotte to fetch her journals and better explain what she wished to say. Charlotte, however, seemed utterly comfortable in her silence. All Olivia could get from her was an occasional movement of her head in assent or disagreement, and a finger pointed at grafting knots, buds, or twigs. Olivia felt like ripping her hair out.

  When night fell, she lay in her bed knowing that by tomorrow afternoon she would have to report to Sévère. And aware that she mustn’t break the law to gather evidence, she felt the clench of predicament. Then she stopped herself.