The Hanging Cage (The Northminster Mysteries Book 4)

by Harriet Smart

  “You think that is the case?”

  “We shall have to see what the lady has to say for herself.”

  “You may have to beat back that bear Latimer,” Felix said. “He was concerned about reputation. Sukey wondered if he hadn’t had congress with both the mother and the daughter. And that was the cause of Miss Rivers’ distress.”

  Major Vernon nodded.

  “That’s a good observation,” he said.

  “Especially,” Felix went on, “if one considers the nature of the wounds that Miss Rivers has inflicted on herself. They were confined to her lower abdomen. I wonder if that means anything.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “If this self-mutilation is not a form of self-expression, as well as a punishment. Sometimes, when people cannot speak of a thing, when there is too much distress and shame to speak of it, they find another language. If a woman slashes at her belly, the place where a child grows, is she not attacking her womb? I know it sounds most outlandish, but the girl was in such a state.”

  “And Miss Barker was acting in a similar fashion – to the extent of actual self-murder. I have heard that her ‘admirer’ Earle is not to be trusted with women servants. I wonder if he was preying on Miss Barker?”

  “As Latimer may have preyed on Miss Rivers,” Felix said.

  “It is a good theory,” said Major Vernon. “But I find it puzzling that they should choose these girls. Why? There is a high element of risk in seducing a Miss Rivers or a Miss Barker. These are not housemaids who can be quietly used, and who will stay quiet from fear of losing their places. These are respectable young women whom the wives and mothers of the town asked to tea.”

  “Isn’t that the point?” said Felix. “It’s because the other sort of woman is too easy for them. They want variety, novelty, and presumably virginity. I know that some men prize that experience and will actually pay a premium for it – though Lord knows why. I must say I have never understood that!”

  “Nor I,” said Major Vernon. “But you are right. Perhaps they will pay for their pleasure with the risk. Or does the risk itself add to the pleasure?”

  “Perhaps,” said Felix. “This town is dreary beyond belief. They are bored.”

  Silence fell between them for a moment as they considered the implications.

  “It is something of a wonder that women will ever have anything to do with us,” Major Vernon said.

  -o-

  Mrs Connolly was in the kitchen at St John’s Lane, feeding stew and dumplings to the Rivers’ children.

  “Mrs Rivers is upstairs with her daughter,” she said.

  Giles followed Carswell up the narrow staircase to the girl’s room. They found Mrs Rivers sitting by the bedside, holding her daughter’s hand. She looked as if she had been crying. There was a crumpled handkerchief in her lap. One meagre candle was burning.

  “If I can just see all is well?” said Carswell, lighting another couple of candles.

  She rose and nodded.

  “And if I might have a brief word, ma’am?” Giles asked. “In private?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, and they went out onto the landing.

  “In here?” Giles suggested, indicating the door opposite. “Perhaps?”

  She seemed to hesitate a moment and then opened the door. They went into the darkness and Giles reached for a lucifer and lit the candle stub on the table. As the flame established itself, he saw that the table was quite clear and the cupboard in the corner closed.

  “Won’t you sit down?” he said, offering her the only chair.

  She sat down and looked up at him.

  “What is it, sir?” she said.

  “Can you tell me about these?” he said, taking the labels from his pocket and putting them on the table before her.

  She reached out and straightened one with her finger.

  “Where did you get these?” she said after a minute.

  “Did you make them?”

  “I – yes,” she said.

  “You write and decorate them?”

  “Yes.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “To make money,” she said.

  “Could you explain a little more about that?”

  “I have a few old receipts. Family receipts. For beauty preparations. They are very effective. I make them up and sell them to a woman called Mrs Wilson. She has a bonnet shop in Greyfriars Lane.”

  “You make them here?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is in these preparations?”

  “Oh, nothing much. Almond oil, beeswax, rosewater, lavender oil and so forth. Just simple little creams and ointments.”

  “With fanciful names?”

  “Yes, I suppose they are fanciful. But Mrs Wilson tells me her customers like the names.”

  “Annabella Barker liked them,” Giles said. “She had a great many of your potions on her dressing table.”

  “Yes, she did,” Mrs Rivers said.

  “Could you show me where you make these preparations?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, getting up and going to the cupboard, and unlocking it with a key she took from her pocket.

  “Why do you keep the cupboard locked?” he said.

  “Do you not have children, Major Vernon?” she said.

  “I don’t,” he said. “You mean you have to lock it because there are things in there that are dangerous?”

  “No,” she said. “Nothing I make is dangerous. Of course not. I do not want it disarranged, that is all.”

  The cupboard door was open now, and as Carswell had said, it had the look of an apothecary’s workbench. One shelf was full of jars and pots with Latin names painted on them, and another contained the various mixing and grinding vessels, as well as measuring tools. On the back of the door several hand-written sheets had been pinned up, apparently for reference.

  “Very impressive,” he could not help saying. “For a few simple preparations.”

  “My father was an apothecary,” she said. “I inherited some of his tools.”

  “And his books?” he said, reaching for a volume on the top shelf. It looked well-thumbed.

  “Yes. I do not pretend to have studied them, of course. All I have any knowledge of is the creams that I sell to Mrs Wilson – and thank goodness I do, for we should be hungry if I did not. Though you perhaps think it is shameful for me to do it.”

  “It’s enterprising,” Giles said. “Tell me, is Mrs Wilson the only person you supply?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “What about this one?” he said, taking from his pocket the envelope containing the charred ‘Eternal peace’ label he had retrieved from the hearth at the Black Cat. He took it from the envelope and put it with the others. “The style, as you can see, is identical.” She did not answer. “‘Eternal Peace’. Is this your handiwork? Pick it up and look at it carefully, will you?”

  She obeyed him and then said, “Why is it half-burnt?”

  “I snatched it from the fire. It was about the neck of a little bottle – just like these ones here,” he said, taking an example from one of the shelves and putting it on the table. “Unfortunately the bottle was smashed, but the contents were quite deadly. A concentrated draught of prussic acid. Would you call that a simple preparation?”

  “No,” she said. She put the label down on the table again. Then after a long moment she said, quietly, “That is my handiwork, yes.”

  “And how did it come to be on a bottle of strong poison? Do you have any explanation for that?”

  “Because I made it,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Money,” she said.

  “For Mrs Wilson?”

  “No.”

  “Then for whom?”

  There was another long pause.

  “Annabella,” Mrs Rivers said at length. “I made it for Annabella.”

  Giles sensed the emotion in her voice but he could not feel the sincerity of her words. It seemed too ou
tlandish. He shook his head.

  “You don’t believe me,” she said, rising. “But that is the Gospel truth,” she said. “God help me, but I did.”

  “You know I will have to charge you if you stand by that, ma’am?” Giles said.

  “Yes.”

  “And that I will have to take all this into evidence?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “So I ask you again, is that really the case?”

  “Believe me, sir,” she said. “You must, I beg you.”

  “How much money?” Giles said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “How much money did she give you to make the stuff?”

  “Oh, I don’t know – perhaps fifty guineas.”

  “And you have this money still?”

  “Of course not! I had a hundred debts to pay off. I settled various accounts in the town. It was a great relief to do so.”

  “Sit down Mrs Rivers,” said Giles. “And tell me the truth.”

  “That is the truth. I have told you.”

  “And you expect me to believe such a fabrication, ma’am? You expect me to believe that, for only fifty guineas, you calmly made and supplied a dose of deadly poison to a young woman, no, a girl, who was your own daughter’s best friend, in order that she might destroy herself? And not only that, you put a pretty label and a ribbon on the bottle?”

  “You must believe it,” she exclaimed. There were tears in her eyes now. “You must. Please.”

  Giles shook his head.

  “It’s a farrago, ma’am, an utter farrago. Now, I am going to leave you with your conscience and come back tomorrow and then you will tell me the truth, if you have any sense. But first you are going to give me the key to that cupboard, because this is now material evidence, and it will remain locked away until I say so.”

  She surrendered the key to him, choking back her tears as she did so, and Giles locked the cupboard.

  “That is the only key, ma’am?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, and then added with a touch of defiance, “What common house cupboard ever came with two keys?”

  -o-

  “Will she be able to travel tomorrow?” said Major Vernon coming into Louisa’s bedroom.

  “It won’t be comfortable for her,” said Felix. “But she’s out of danger, so, yes.”

  “I’ll make arrangements, then,” he said, glancing about the room. “Are there any painting things in here?” he asked.

  “I saw a paintbox in the chest,” said Sukey. “Here,” she said opening a drawer.

  Major Vernon took out the paintbox and examined it.

  “It looks well used,” he said. “But there isn’t much evidence of art work in here, is there? One might expect to see a few sketches pinned up.” He went to the lamp on the mantlepiece and started to peer at the palate in the lid of the paintbox, which was still stained with colours. “These colours – we might be able to match them in better light.”

  “How did it go with Mrs Rivers?” Felix asked.

  “She tried to tell me she made the prussic acid,” Major Vernon said.

  “But you don’t believe her?” Sukey said.

  “No. She was determined for me to charge her. Practically putting her head into the noose.”

  “Is she covering for someone?” Felix said.

  “My thought entirely. A protective mother, I would say.”

  “You think she is covering for Louisa?” Sukey said.

  “It seems only natural.” Giles said. “I think Mrs Rivers has guessed at part of the truth, or observed something that disturbed her profoundly. She is no fool – well, she wasn’t until she decided to pretend she had brewed that poison. She knows who did and doesn’t want that to come out. She is prepared to sacrifice herself to save her daughter.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Why am I here?” Louisa Rivers said.

  She was sitting up in bed and her dark eyes scoured the room, like a cornered animal.

  “To get better,” said Sukey. “Now are you comfortable there, or do you think another pillow will help?”

  “You can’t keep me here!” she said. “You can’t! My mother –”

  “Now, please stay calm, Miss Rivers. It’s for the best that you’re here,” Sukey said.

  “For who’s best?” she said. “Yours?”

  “Yours,” Sukey said again, calmly but firmly. “Now, do you like chicken soup?”

  “I want to go home,” she said.

  “You can, when you are better,” said Sukey. “Now, then, how about some of this soup?”

  The smell was irresistible and the girl took a spoonful or two, slowly at first, and then her natural appetite got the better of her, and she sat and finished the bowl.

  That they had an abundance of chicken soup was due to an unfortunate incident in their absence. Sukey’s hen house had been ravished and the fox responsible had slaughtered all the birds. However he had not removed them all, and enough remained to be salvaged. Martha, Sukey’s cook, had laboriously plucked and jointed them, and made a vast quantity of excellent and rich soup, for which Felix might have thanked the enterprising fox, had he not seen Sukey’s tears for her brood. The depth of her grief had surprised him a little – indeed she had been surprised herself, she admitted, embarrassed at her feelings. “I’m a fool these days,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I can’t account for it.”

  “Perhaps you should try few a guinea fowl instead,” Felix had said. “My mother keeps those and they’ve never been got by the foxes. They are daft things, very amusing.”

  “Perhaps,” she had said, but her tone suggested that he wanted to replace the beloved Swiss leghorns too promptly.

  “Whose house is this?” Louisa asked, laying down her spoon.

  “Mine,” said Sukey.

  “But you’re just a servant!” said Louisa.

  “I turn my hand to many tricks,” said Sukey. “How about some bread and butter pudding? I made this myself.”

  “What are you, then?” said Louisa.

  “I am helping Major Vernon. As is Mr Carswell,” Sukey said, indicating Felix in his corner.

  “So you are in the police?”

  “After a fashion.”

  “How?” the girl said.

  “Luck, as much as anything. And Major Vernon thought I could help with things.”

  The girl sniffed the bread and butter pudding.

  “Nutmeg and cinnamon,” Sukey said.

  “My brothers love this,” Louisa said. “When we have it, which isn’t often, I never get more than a bite.”

  “You shall have as much as you want,” said Sukey. “If you like it.”

  “It is nice,” Louisa admitted, her mouth still full.

  “It’s a cure for a lot of things, bread and butter pudding,” Sukey went on. “If I were writing a medical book, I should put in a recipe for it.”

  “That would be novel,” Felix said.

  “It would be revolutionary!” said Sukey, and now a wan smile passed across Louisa’s grey face. Felix smiled as well, aware of Sukey’s quiet genius at work. She would charm the truth out of the girl, that was certain.

  At that moment the front door to the house slammed shut with such violence that the whole house shook.

  “Can he never close the door like a civilised...” Felix said getting up.

  “I am sure the wind just caught it,” Sukey said.

  “It’s intolerable!” Felix said and dashed out of the room. He ran down the stairs and out into the street and saw Georg Holzknecht vanishing round the corner. He wondered if he should give chase but decided it was undignified, and entirely futile, given that the door had just slammed again due to the stiff wind gusting along Silver Street. It was not worth the trouble.

  He went back into the house and found Professor Holzknecht staggering about the hall. He was in a state of some distress, doubled up and struggling for breath.

  “Herr Doctor...” the Professor began, but speech was beyond him
. Felix went at once to assist him, for he was on the verge of falling on his knees.

  -o-

  “Have you had such an attack before?” Felix asked, later when the crisis had passed, and the old man was installed on the couch in his sitting room.

  Professor Holzknecht answered only after a moment. He was still breathless.

  “Yes, twice.”

  “Recently? In the last week, or month?”

  “Month,” he managed to say.

  Felix decided to spare him any more questions for the present and went on with his examination. “You will be glad to hear that I do not think you are in any serious danger, sir,” Felix said, when he had finished. “Your must keep yourself calm, though. Perhaps a little less book work, and a little more exercise? A daily constitutional?”

  “Perhaps, yes,” Professor Holzknecht said.

  “You could walk up to the Precincts, around the Minster and back. That’s a pleasant walk.” The man nodded. “Or perhaps go and work in the Minster Library?” Felix said. “That’s supposed to have a fine collection of books.”

  “Ach, yes, but not the books I need to consult,” said the Professor. “The sort of books I need are not liked by the Church, in general. They disregard the gold I seek – to them it is trifling. And indeed, much of it is not even in the form of books. That is part of my purpose, really. To collect the gold!”

  “And what sort of gold might that be?” Felix said.

  “Stories,” said Professor Holzknecht. “Old, old stories. The sort of tales your nurse told you, Herr Doctor. Those have been my life study. You are a Scotsman, are you not, like the great Sir Valter?” It took Felix a moment to realise he was referring to the author of ‘Waverley’.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You like Sir Valter’s tales, I am sure?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  The Professor smiled.

  “Sir Valter was a great man. He has made this country appreciate the old tales and ballads – you people understand the importance of these things, because of his genius, yes?”

  “I really don’t know,” said Felix a little bemused by this. “It’s not exactly my line.”

  “Ach, but it is everybody’s ‘line’, as you say, Herr Doctor. We are made by such stories – they tell the real history of our world and we must catch them and put them down in writing before they are all lost. All the factories and railways and all that is new and so very fast is making them vanish like dew on the grass on a bright morning. Ja?”