Keeper of Pleas

by A. Wendeberg

  Hunt wept openly. Bicker handed him a handkerchief. The ear trumpet dropped to the desk, and the accused buried his face in the embroidered silk.

  Bicker stroked his lapel, nodded once and turned to the jury. ‘I have no further questions.’

  The prosecutor rose, opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and finally said, ‘What makes you think the jury will believe this new version?’

  Hunt blinked, put his ear trumpet back into his ear and Wimsey repeated the question.

  ‘Because it’s true,’ Hunt said.

  The accused was returned to the prisoner’s dock, and the judge asked if the prosecution needed more time to prepare the closing speech.

  Wimsey waved a hand in dismissal and said, ‘The statement of the accused has no bearing on the evidence.’ Then he laid out every grisly detail of how the infants must have found their end, he illustrated the incredibility of Charlotte Hunt: an asylum inmate with a knack for fornication. And the similar lack of credibility of Hunt himself: a man who seems to have no qualms about stating under oath first one thing and then another, a man with neither alibi nor, obviously, honour. The queerness of Miss Dunham: a woman who lives in the woods, looks like a fairy, and excuses her failure to turn up at court with having celebrated spring equinox. Ridiculous!

  Bicker smiled at Wimsey as they traded places. He reminded the jury that the only solid evidence for Mr Hunt having committed the crime was his own confession, and that this one piece of evidence was now void. He laid out how Charlotte Hunt’s children found their grisly end at the hands of her mother, and that, according to Mrs Dunham’s and Miss Hunt’s statements, Rupert Hunt had had no hand in the murders.

  He fell silent and let his gaze sweep across the courtroom. Then he smiled and nodded and said, ‘Even if Miss Hunt, Miss Dunham and Mr Hunt had said nothing at all, the evidence does not link Mr Hunt to the murders. The Crown has failed in its first duty: to establish the guilt of the accused, Rupert Hunt, beyond all reasonable doubt.’

  Bicker took his seat and the judge asked the jury to retire and begin their deliberations.

  ‘Jesus!’ Olivia groaned into her hands. ‘Is it always as nerve-racking as this?’

  Sévère mildly smiled to himself.

  ‘Why the dickens are you looking like the cat that stole the cream bucket?’

  ‘Because I am the cat that stole the cream bucket.’ He winked at her, stood, brushed lint off the rim of his hat, and said, ‘Please excuse me. I have to arrange for one more thing before the verdict is read.’

  And with that he was gone. Olivia felt like the fifth wheel on this circus waggon.

  Four and a half hours later, the jury returned, took their seats, and the judge addressed them, ‘Men of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘Do you find the prisoner, Rupert Hunt, guilty or not guilty of the murder of nine infants?’

  ‘We find him not guilty.’

  ❧

  ‘A most satisfying end to our first case,’ Sévère announced, as he filled two glasses with brandy. He handed one to Olivia, who sat curled up on her armchair, wrapped up in a woollen blanket, her hair wet from bathing.

  She took the drink from his hand and gave him a quizzical frown. ‘That’s a queer way of describing the outcome of a case with no outcome whatsoever. The only thing we have accomplished is the death of seven apple trees. Oh, and we made Hunt’s premises impossible to sell. No one wants to live in the house of a mad killer. Yet, you are entirely satisfied, which makes me worried about your sanity. And why the dickens did you disappear right in the middle of Dunham’s witness statement?’

  ‘I thought she was about to be released from the witness stand.’

  ‘Ah. Well. She was. But where were you?’

  ‘I went to the witness room. I needed to see Charlotte’s face when Aliya Dunham was brought in.’

  Olivia sat up.

  ‘Absolutely as expected.’ He wiggled his back snug against the cushions, and grinned. ‘Miss Hunt was surprised to see Miss Dunham. A moment later, they sat together and happily conversed. One woman told the other that she was with child once more. Miss Dunham’s face fell, and she made the sign of the devil. Miss Hunt began to weep. And now it gets interesting: Dr Faulkner—’

  ‘Why wasn’t he questioned by Bicker?’ Olivia interrupted.

  ‘Because Faulkner had said everything that needed saying. If Bicker had asked any more questions, Faulkner might have let slip that he had withheld the truth from Charlotte and that he had refused to hand over her journals. Anyway. The interesting bit is… Dammit, Olivia, you spoiled the climax of my story!’

  ‘My sincerest apologies. Please go on. I will chew my fingernails, if this makes you feel better.’

  ‘Please do. The interesting bit is this: when Charlotte began to weep, Dr Faulkner rushed to her side. They are lovers.’

  ‘Goodness gracious, Sévère! A man comforts a woman, and you think of intercourse.’

  ‘Faulkner held her and kissed her wet cheeks. Then, when he noticed that everyone was looking at them rather perplexed, he explained that all was in order, for he and Charlotte are to be married in a fortnight.’

  ‘What? Didn’t you say he has children?’

  ‘He’s a widower.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Indeed. And he’s the father of Charlotte’s unborn child. For once, her child has a future. Miss Dunham joined the weeping, then. Faulkner didn’t kiss her, of course. So!’ Sévère, clearly drunk on the unusual developments of the day, as well as the excellent brandy, had just warmed up his tongue.

  And so he continued while Olivia watched with fascination the unfolding of a man she knew as controlled and shuttered. ‘Most puzzle pieces have been laid out, and the story of the nine bodies unfolds thus: Miss Hunt could always take her pick from a long list of suitors. Apparently, men liked not only her beautiful face, but also that she spoke rather little. Her mother was the lunatic in the family. She believed that all men were inherently evil. Perhaps that is why she rarely left the house, or perhaps it was because her mind had slowly poisoned her body. Perhaps both. Charlotte never went to school. For obvious reasons. So it was only her mother who educated her, and, to a limited extent, also her father. But he was a male of the species and thus not trustworthy, according to the mother.’

  Sévère stopped and gazed into his glass as though to find the proper words. A little less enthusiastic, he continued, ‘Each of Charlotte’s children was a thing that could not be. When Charlotte’s pregnancies began to show, she didn’t dare leave the house. Charlotte gave birth attended only by her mother, who took away her child at once, and told her that it was stillborn.’

  ‘Why did Hunt commit her to an asylum? And what about his daughter’s supposed fear of men?’

  ‘What else could Rupert Hunt have done? Considering his daughter’s age and reputation, no man in Redhill would have offered for her in marriage. And she was hardly in a position to provide for herself. Hunt had also hoped to shut her away from men. So he chose an asylum led by nuns. He didn’t share his wife’s views, but he believed it better for his daughter. Why Sister Grace believed Charlotte Hunt had suffered at the hands of a man, I don’t know. Perhaps she simply didn’t want to believe that Miss Hunt had a taste for men. I still have to ask her about Miss Hunt’s outbreak of hysteria. My guess is that, first, I asked her about her dead children, effectively reminding her of something she wished to forget, and then she learnt from Sister Grace that her father had been incarcerated. Naturally, she was upset. As to Faulkner’s letter about Charlotte Hunt’s relocation: Faulkner never sent it. He’d already fallen in love with her. And, he said, he wanted her to have a child of her own. One that wasn’t buried under an apple tree.’

  Sévère’s nervous energy had entirely evaporated. He was about to refill his glass, but then thought better of it. He inhaled and said hoarsely, ‘I asked Faulkner about the codling moth. He said that
I should have looked more closely at the worm she’d drawn in her new journal. It was the larva of a swallowtail... May I ask you something, Olivia?’

  She looked up. The fire illuminated her pale skin; her hair seemed to emit small sparks.

  ‘You mentioned that you have plans for your life once you’ve collected enough funds. Tell me: what will you do and where will you go?’

  She turned her gaze back to the hearth. ‘You would laugh if I told you.’

  ‘I promise I won’t.’

  For several long moments she said nothing. Sévère stretched his left leg closer to the warmth, gradually coming to the conclusion that she’d never answer.

  Until she suddenly said, ‘The sea.’

  She cleared her throat and sat up straighter, as if to prepare herself for an attack. ‘My parents and I lived near Hamstead on the Isle of Wight before we moved to London. I will purchase my grandfather’s house by the sea. In the past fifteen months, I’ve been sending small amounts of money to the landlord to ensure he does not sell to anyone else. In a little less than three years’ time, the property will be fully paid for, and I’ll go back and re-open my grandfather’s apiary.’

  ‘This is…unexpected.’

  ‘Did you believe I would open a brothel?’

  ‘No, most certainly not. I believed you’d wish to do something with that brain of yours.’

  ‘One needs a brain for beekeeping.’

  ‘But one doesn’t nurture one’s intellect with it,’ he replied.

  ‘There are other things that need nurturing.’

  Sévère opened his mouth, and shut it. He gazed into his glass and said softly, ‘I don’t think this will suit you. But I do understand your motivation.’

  ‘You don’t understand one bit.’

  ‘Perhaps you underestimate me.’

  ‘The topic is closed.’

  He lit a cigar and balanced it on the rim of the crystal ashtray, inhaled the rich scent and spoke with a trace of mockery in his voice, ‘You always close a topic when you fear my irrefutable counterarguments.’

  She rose and faced him. ‘As per mutual consent, our marriage exists on paper only. You, however, repeatedly cross the boundaries we agreed upon. You are my employer, and nothing more. Your money only gets you so far. Good night, Coroner.’

  He watched her silent retreat, the soft closing of the door, listened to her her fading footfalls.

  The fire crackled and rain tapped against the windowpanes.

  Sévère placed his long legs on the footstool, picked up the cigar and puffed it until he felt lightheadedness settle in on him.

  — End —

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  SPIDER SILK

  —Witchcraft—

  Summer 1881

  Edwine jumped as the door to her room flew open. Her sister, Frances, rushed in, tossed a package onto the bed, and leant against the wall, a hand to her bosom.

  ‘What is the matter with you?’ Edwine had never seen her sister like that. Frances was flushed like an overripe apple, sweat had beaded on her temples, and her hair was in disarray. ‘And what in all the heavens is that?’ She pointed at the package.

  ‘A boy gave it to me. Rupert’s boy.’ Frances tried a smug smile, but it slipped off her mouth and her trembling chin.

  ‘Are you upset?’

  ‘The boy was rather rude, but it was a trifle, really. Don’t you want to know what’s in it?’ She nodded at the package.

  Edwine tugged at the light blue silk ribbons, then ripped the paper. ‘Oh,’ she breathed. Her heart thumped with excitement and a series of giggles burst from her. She stuffed her knuckles into her mouth.

  ‘May I see?’ Frances took a tentative step forward.

  Edwine frowned. What had the boy said to her sister to upset her so? Frances rarely asked for anything; she usually tried to take whatever it was she fancied.

  Edwine shifted her body to block Frances’ view of the package. She lifted out its contents and blushed violently. Rupert had sent her the finest chemise she’d ever laid eyes on. Embroidered silk that would reveal more than it hid. A typed note tumbled to the floor. She picked it up, flipped it over, and read it. Her blush grew hotter. “Wear this and meet me by the tigers. I mean to ask you something of importance.”

  The room tilted. She sank to the mattress and clapped a hand to her heart, whispering softly to herself, ‘He will propose today. Oh my god! Did he speak to Father already?’

  She looked up, wondering if her sister knew. She probably did. ‘You should have warned me, Frances! He should have warned me.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, never you mind! Fetch Ella. I need to change.’

  ‘If she’s to help you with this,’ Frances indicated the chemise as though it were a fat and hairy spider, ‘…she’ll tell Mother before we can make it to the coach.’

  Panic tightened Edwine’s throat. She eyed her sister, her triumphant, but strangely nervous expression, and wondered if Frances begrudged her happiness.

  Edwine wiped the thought away, and put on a friendly face. ‘Would you, dear sister?’

  ‘But, of course!’

  When they reached the zoo, Edwine could barely contain herself. The prospect of seeing Rupert and being asked for her hand in marriage was making her skin prickle. Her heart felt unusually heavy, and she wondered if she were quite ready for him.

  She clucked her tongue. Of course she was ready! She’d been wondering for a month when Rupert would finally ask her. In fact, both their parents must have met and come to an agreement already.

  She stopped in her tracks. Why hadn’t anyone told her? Perhaps Rupert had asked her parents and her sister to keep it a secret until he could talk to her in person? So not to impose on her? That might be it. She smiled to herself, feeling lucky to have found such a thoughtful man. Suddenly, she grew hot. The chemise clinging to her bare skin was giving her impure thoughts. Bawdy, even! As if Rupert were already laying his beautiful hands on her. Her breath shortened. Was this what a woman felt in such moments? Odd. It was almost…painful.

  She spotted the building where the large cats were kept. The stink of urine insulted her nostrils. How could Rupert possibly consider this place romantic? What was he thinking?

  She grew uncomfortable. The corset was hurting her, squeezing her too tight. She stumbled, and her sister caught her elbow.

  ‘Frances?’ she whispered, as her vision blurred. ‘Why does it hurt so much?’

  The world did a backflip and Edwine could no longer control her limbs.

  ❧

  Rose bunched up a handful of dirty-brown hair that she’d snipped off the neighbour dog’s wiggly backside. She added four matches she’d taken from Olivia’s room, and wrapped everything in a sheet of paper she’d found beneath Mr Sévère’s desk. She wasn’t supposed to enter his office. But then, she wasn’t supposed to do a lot of things she did.

  While she worked, a summer wind sneaked through the window and lifted her hair. The tip of her tongue poked out of her mouth, curling up, snakelike. She caught herself, tucked her tongue between her teeth to hold it still, and gazed out the window and down to the courtyard. Higgins was grooming the horses. Everything was in place.

  She struck a match and held it against the crumpled paper, then held her breath and let the burning missile fly. She watched its trajectory, a grin dimpling her cheeks as it landed in the courtyard with a dramatic poof.

  The chestnuts jumped.

  ‘One. Two… Three.’

  ‘Aaaaaalf!’ Higgins bellowed from below.

  Alf being the kitchen boy. He sported two very large ears, of which the left was more lopsided than the right. This condition alone had earned him Rose’s distaste when first they’d met.

  He would get those ears pulled in a moment. She hated Alf, he was… Well, silly, clumsy, and naive was how one could best describe him. He was two years her s
enior and a brat. The feeling of dislike was mutual.

  Alf often took a beating for things he hadn’t done. What a dumb boy! No one suspected her, of course. Not ever. Girls don’t build stink bombs, they don’t climb out of the attic’s top window, and traipse about the roof. And a girl would never throw a dead cat down the chimney.

  Rose loved being a girl.

  She waved whiffs of the stink bomb’s aroma out the window, then shut it, and tiptoed down the stairwell to the third floor, to the second floor, and — after making sure the servants weren’t around — she slipped into Olivia’s room.

  ‘You are late,’ Olivia said. ‘Quick, the buttons.’

  Olivia sat on a corner of the bed, so Rose could easily button her dress.

  ‘Thank you. Your hair is a mess. Here, let me.’ Olivia turned and her fingers flew through Rose’s hair. Strand by strand, the braids grew longer. She tied them with green ribbons, and slapped the girl’s behind. ‘Off with you.’

  A toothy grin, two fingers to her temple. ‘Aye, Captain!’ And Rose dashed from the room.

  ❧

  ‘We had another incident,’ Sévère said when Olivia entered the dining room.

  ‘Is that so?’

  He looked up, eyes narrowing. ‘I knew it. You are fraternising with the enemy.’

  ‘I would never.’ She took a seat opposite him, and reached for the tea. ‘Thank you for last night. It was very refreshing and enjoyable.’