by A. Wendeberg
Irritated, she patted the warden’s elbow and said, ‘That will be all.’
With grunt, the man left, wrenching the key in the lock with more force than was absolutely necessary.
Olivia’s eyes fell on Sévère. He was sitting on the bedding, his left leg wrapped in a blanket, the right pulled to his chest. His attention was on the noise the warden was making as he dawdled in the corridor, perhaps eavesdropping on their conversation. Or did the man expect him to take his pleasure with his wife, here in Newgate prison?
‘The new coroner is Wynne Edwin Baxter. Have you heard of him?’
He looked up at Olivia. ‘Coroner for Sussex. He was all over the papers only a month ago. Murder of Frederick Gold on the train from London Bridge to Brighton. He handled the case quite remarkably. An excellent replacement.’
Exhaustion fell heavy onto her shoulders. She sank to the bedding and whispered, ‘Have you given up?’
He snorted. ‘I couldn’t care less about my career when my life is at stake.’
She grabbed his hand, but he pulled it away. ‘We don’t have much time,’ he said. ‘Tell me about the raid.’
‘You heard about it?’
‘Bicker sent me a note, letting me know the police had taken all my notes on Johnston’s death. Is it true?’
She nodded faintly.
He motioned to her folders. ‘And what, pray tell, are those?’
‘My case notes. I wrote them up before I came here.’
Sévère’s eyebrows rose. He bent closer to his wife and said softly, ‘So Mr Bicker’s letter to the Magistrate, begging for a concession to be made so that you could help me transfer all my open cases to the new coroner is a ruse that no one noticed as they rifled through your papers?’
She twitched a shoulder, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘Well, I did bring some notes on your open cases.’
Sévère grinned, shook his head, and touched his fingers to her knee. ‘It doesn’t matter now. Our time is limited. Let us go through this case. Step by step. And tell me about all new developments.’
She was staring at the spot Sévère had touched. Her leg prickled. Shaking off the feeling of — What was it? Discomfort? Weakness? — she opened the folder for his reference, and began recounting events from the moment Johnston left his home up until he was pronounced dead and was cut open in their laundry room. And she told him about her visits to Mr Frank and Mrs Johnston.
Sévère’s gaze darkened. ‘No news, then.’
‘No.’
His lips were pressed to a thin line, brows drawn low. After a moment he cocked his head at her. ‘Have you ever asked yourself why? Why Johnston had to die?’
‘Of course. That’s what we already asked his wife, and she said there was no one who hated him or bore him a grudge. I thought of talking to his colleagues. But it makes no sense. He died from an aggressive vegetable alkaloid that must have been given to him half an hour to three hours before he died. During that time, only his wife, his servants, the Franks and their servants, you, and Netty had access to him. These are the only people who could have given him the poison.’ She tapped the papers before them. ‘I’m certain their dinners weren’t poisoned. — the servants fed the leftovers to alley cats that are still very much alive.’
Sévère nodded. ‘Dr Barry’s analysis will likely corroborate that. But you seem to believe Johnston’s wife might be involved. The way you spoke about her…’
Olivia shook her head. ‘She grieves. She doesn’t want me to poke around in her life. I believe that’s why she’s so…cold.’
‘Hmm.’ He unwrapped his leg and began massaging it, his breath shallow.
‘It’s growing worse in here, isn’t it?’
One sharp nod.
‘Oh! I brought you a present.’ She stood, and almost lost her balance in the process.
‘What is it?’ he asked, flinging out an arm to steady her.
She took a step back and said, ‘Nothing.’ She hoisted up her skirts and searched for something between her legs.
Sévère cleared his throat.
‘Almost…there,’ she muttered. ‘Dammit.’ She bent farther down, cursed once more and finally extracted a small jar from her stockings. She held it up triumphantly.
His gaze was trapped by her exposed ankles. Straightening her skirts, she cleared her throat. Then she offered the jar to him. His fingers touched hers as he took it. She felt as though lightning had struck her, saw how gingerly he held the jar in his palm, how his finger brushed its smooth surface to feel the heat of her body lingering within it. She saw his gaze flicker, his Adam’s apple bob once, his cheeks redden.
Her knees felt strangely too soft. She sat down on the bedding.
With his free hand, Sévère brushed the hem of her dress. A few burrs were stuck to the fabric. Thistle seeds hitching a ride. The soft tug of Sévère’s fingers plucking the burrs, his expression of…of…
Shocked, she rose and took a step away from him.
He looked up and said softly. ‘Thank you, sweet wife.’ Hastily, he added, ‘Thank you for the unguent. For being a friend.’
Ice dropped to her stomach. ‘You misunderstand, Sévère. All I am is a person who knows how to treat others with consideration and respect. I am not your friend, I am your assistant.’
‘I… What?’
Stiffly, she made for the door. ‘Warden, I wish to leave.’
‘Is it because I offered you money to bed you?’
‘Excuse me?’ She turned to face him.
‘Is it because I was once your client?’
The warden approached, the clank of his keys echoing sharply in the corridor.
She stepped closer to Sévère, lowered her face to his, and whispered, ‘It is because you found it only natural to bend a woman to your will. I remember that night very well. You planned to rape me. Don’t play the hero while condemning Frost for his actions, because there is no reason for you to believe you are a better man.’
His jaw dropped. His gaze turned murderous. ‘That night, you violated me. It might be all right for you to violate a man you tie to your bed under false pretences, but it isn’t all right with me. Yet despite the pain and humiliation you subjected me to, I decided against taking revenge. I have never forced a woman. Not once. And yet, here you are, looking down upon me, calling me a rapist, and telling me I am just like the man who raped you when you were a girl of only nine years. A man who abused you, again and again, for seven long years.’
Silence roared in her ears.
‘If this is what you see in me,’ Sévère continued, ‘you should leave now. Leave this cell, leave my house. And don’t you ever return.’
A key slipped into the lock. The door creaked opened. ‘Mrs Sévère?’
‘My wife wishes to leave,’ Sévère snapped at the warden.
Frost
Olivia leant against the fence, her hands grappling for support, her heart hammering. Oh gods! Sévère was nearly crippled, locked in a cell, accused of a crime he didn’t commit, and she had thrown even more accusations at him. Why the deuce had she chosen such an unfortunate moment?
Her knees nearly buckled. It was too late to explain herself, to make her words less terrible. Comparing him to Frost wasn’t at all what she’d meant to say. What she meant was…was…
Fighting the urge to scream at someone, anyone, she gritted her teeth, pushed away from the tall metal fence of Newgate prison, and crossed the pavement to her waiting coach.
‘Back home?’ Higgins asked softly.
She merely nodded and climbed inside. The door shut behind her. The brougham sagged as Higgins jumped up onto the driver’s seat.
The setting sun flickered in and out the carriage window, stabbing into her eyes and her brain. Groaning, she pulled the curtains shut and pressed her brow against the wooden frame, praying that her strength and wits would not leave her.
They reached the Sévères’ lodgings, and the brougham came to a halt. Netty
opened the door. The letter in her hand didn’t need an explanation.
Olivia ripped open the envelope. A note was tucked into it. Her chest contracted.
Briefly, she considered burning it. If it weren’t for her curiosity…
She unfolded the note and read:
I can make you scream. Would you like me to do that for you, my sweet?
Sévère tried to stand, but his damn leg wouldn’t let him. As soon as he put his weight on it and tried to straighten himself, pain lanced through his knee. Sweat itched on his brow as he grabbed the crutch harder and managed to pull himself halfway up. His bad leg wobbled, and finally caved in. Sévère collapsed back onto the mattress — the filthy, stinky thing a hundred men had abused before him.
With a bellow, he flung the crutch against the wall. It bounced off and hit his ankle. He slammed his fist against the floor. A curse remained stuck in his throat.
The whooping and cackling that followed was all too familiar. The cell to his left. A man who had murdered a family of six. He called himself, “Gentleman.” His real name was less grand: Tom Cobb.
Sévère remembered him well. The way Cobb had slouched in the prisoner’s dock at first, but when it became clear at the Coroner’s Inquest that he would be found guilty, he began boasting of his deeds. Now, Cobb relished whispering endearments to Sévère. How well he knew one of the wardens. How he would make Sévère regret having been born. That all it was going to take was a small bribe, and then Gentleman would bring the long nail he’d worked out of a piece of furniture. And Sévère’s trousers would serve as a gag.
This — or one of the many variants of the same tiresome theme — Cobb whispered down the deserted corridor every night.
Sévère was certain the wardens were receptive to bribery. Especially in his case. That he had been assigned a cell on the top floor was no coincidence. He knew that the bottom floor was the least crowded. He had made for great entertainment when he’d been brought up the many flights of stairs. Cripple coming up!
Soon, he would be doing this twice every day. Until his acquittal. He huffed. As it looked now, a death sentence was just as likely. He wondered how, though. It was doubtful his leg would allow him to stand for a hanging.
The clanking of the warden’s keychain approached. Sévère laid back.
The door opened. ‘What happened here?’
‘I fell,’ Sévère said without taking his eyes off the ceiling. He heard the warden step closer, then lightly kick his crutch.
‘It’s broken,’ the warden said.
‘Spoken like a true detective.’ Sévère looked at the man now. He was bony. Perhaps a head shorter than Sévère himself. He thought the warden neither evil nor good in character, just…malleable. He would go with the flow, whatever direction the flow might take. If enough men felt motivated to make the life of the former coroner a little harder, the warden would do precisely that, and more. But if no one acted against him, the warden wouldn’t, either.
Sévère wondered briefly if exposing his own weakness to the man would pull him over to his side. He wouldn’t bet on it. Should he wait for the next shift? No, that man didn’t even talk to him.
‘I need a physician,’ Sévère said.
The warden crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Do you, now?’
‘The leg has grown weaker.’
No reaction.
‘I can’t stand up anymore. The consequences should be obvious, I expect.’ Sévère threw a quick glance at the bucket that served as a privy.
The warden’s eyebrows shot up.
‘I’m certain a brace would solve this issue at once. So if you’d please summon a physician before I’m forced to foul the bedding?’
A lazy nod, and the man slunk out the door.
Sévère put a hand over his face, trying to swallow an overwhelming sense of inadequacy and helplessness.
Methodically, Olivia folded the note and stuck it back into the envelope. She wanted to burn the damn thing, turn it into black ash and never lay eyes on it again. But maybe one day she could use it as evidence.
At least she now had a good idea who was writing these love letters. Frost.
He had a penchant for sensing a person’s weakness, and acting on it for his own pleasure. The urge to murder the man made Olivia’s flesh ripple.
Netty cleared her throat. Still holding open the brougham’s door, gaze firmly plastered to the pavement, she said, ‘Higgins ran off to catch Alf.’
‘This message was just delivered?’
‘Mere moments ago. Would you like a cup of tea, Mistress?’
Olivia sucked in a breath. ‘Yes. Hot. With honey.’ She heaved herself out of the carriage and made for the house. Her joints were aching.
* * *
The fire burnt high. Olivia sat close to the heat, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a cup of tea in her hand. She stared at the flames, furious at herself, her own shortcomings. None of her theories were leading anywhere. They weren’t even worth mentioning. If only she weren’t ill…
She jerked as an idea hit her. She threw off the blanket, set the tea aside and went to enquire after Higgins.
* * *
Mrs Appleton’s expression remained carefully neutral as she opened the door. ‘Mrs Sévère. Good evening. I’m not sure Mr Frank can see you.’
‘Is he home?’
‘He is about to leave.’
‘Excellent. I would take only a minute of his time.’ Olivia took a step forward, but Mrs Appleton held her ground.
‘What will the neighbours think if a woman is seen loitering on your doorstep so soon after the mistress has died?’ Olivia mused.
Narrowing her eyes, Mrs Appleton took a step back and admitted her. ‘If you will wait here, please,’ she said, patting the back of a chair in the hallway. ‘Mr Frank will be with you in a few minutes.’ With that, she left.
Olivia’s gaze followed the housekeeper until she disappeared. Her footfalls trailed off toward the kitchen. There was no sign of Mr Frank. Olivia walked softly toward the parlour, glanced up the staircase, pricked her ears. A door shut. Quickly, she retreated back to the chair in the hallway, dropped her bonnet and rubbed her cheeks, pinched them. Mr Frank took a final step off the stairs, and came into view.
‘Good evening,’ Olivia said.
‘Why… Oh. Mrs Sévère!’ He looked over her shoulder as though expecting someone else. ‘I see that your husband did not accompany you. He seems to be making a habit of it. Is the coroner unwell?’
‘Indeed he is. Mr Frank, what is it about your home that makes people fall ill?’
‘Excuse me?’ He paused before putting on his top hat.
‘You and your wife were both ill. Dr Johnston attended to her, then fell violently ill, too. He and your wife died the same night.’ Holding Mr Frank’s gaze, Olivia added, ‘And you didn’t.’
His nostrils flared, he slammed the tip of his cane onto the floorboards with a loud crack. ‘Are you insinuating I killed my wife and Dr Johnston?’
‘I’m not in the habit of insinuating when evidence does it for me.’
Mr Frank stood frozen for a moment, then shook himself, and said, ‘You will excuse me now.’ He turned and took long strides to the door.
‘My husband is accused of killing his friend, Dr Peter Johnston. He’s been taken to a cell in Newgate prison. His health is failing him, crippling him. He suffers for someone else’s deed. I won’t accept that and will do everything to find the murderer.’
Mr Frank stopped with his hand on the doorknob. His shoulders set. He faced the door when he replied, ‘I cannot help you.’ And then he left.
‘What is it with this household that a guest is never attended to?’ Olivia muttered, turned on her heel and strode to the kitchen.
‘Mrs Appleton!’ she called out. ‘Mr Frank said you are to answer my questions because he has no time to assist me.’
The housekeeper’s head popped around a doorframe. She adjusted her cap and clasp
ed her hands in front of her apron.
Olivia heard a softly muttered, ‘Did he, now.’
‘What illness befell Mr Frank the night his wife died?’
‘I am no doctor,’ Mrs Appleton answered.
Olivia’s gaze flicked to the large soup ladles that hung over the hearth. She wanted to snatch one and rap it against the housekeeper’s forehead. ‘Describe the symptoms, if you please.’
Mrs Appleton turned her gaze to the ceiling. Her chest lifted once, twice, then she narrowed her eyes at Olivia. ‘It was merely his nerves, I believe. Their twentieth wedding anniversary. They’d been chatting about it for weeks. In hushed voices. Endlessly. I don’t know what they’d planned, where they wanted to go, but it was most certainly something grand.’
Mrs Appleton’s expression drifted toward something that seemed almost dreamy. ‘I thought it romantic. Unfortunately, it ended…unromantic.’
‘Unromantic? Is that what you think of the death of your mistress?’
‘Och, romance. That’s not for folk such as myself.’ She shook her head, almost amused now.
‘I know what you mean.’ Olivia produced a conspiratorial twitch of her mouth.
‘Do you, now?’
‘What else was…uncommon that night?’
‘Don’t you think it uncommon enough that Mrs Frank died?’
‘I do. Forgive me.’ Olivia lowered her gaze and took a small step back, as though she were considering to take her leave.
‘He didn’t kill her, you know,’ Mrs Appleton said.
‘Did you?’
‘Mrs Sévère!’
‘Well, someone must have. And there aren’t all that many suspects available. May I see the laundry room?’
‘What for?’ Mrs Appleton pushed her feet slightly apart, her hands propped on her hips. Ready for battle, if need be.
‘Because it appeared to make you particularly nervous last night.’
Mrs Appleton harrumphed. ‘Of course it did. I’m not in the habit of exhibiting my dirty laundry to strangers.’