by A. Wendeberg
Olivia laughed softly and wiped her brow. ‘My apologies, Mrs Appleton. It’s just that… I don’t know. Why is it that everyone seems so untouched by all these horrible deaths?’
‘Really, Mrs Sévère! You must be half blind if you don’t see how much Mr Frank is suffering!’
‘He seemed quite happy just now.’
‘He was merely looking forward to visiting his wife’s grave. That’s all he has left.’
‘Late in the evening? He looked like he was going to the opera,’ Olivia said.
Mrs Appleton wiped the argument away with a sweeping gesture. ‘They always dress their best when they go out.’
‘Might I speak with Mrs Frank’s personal maid? She employed one, didn’t she?’
‘Oh, her. She’s long gone. Was relieved of her duties about…what was it…eight, nine months ago.’
‘Why?’
‘Mrs Frank couldn’t stand being touched by her. She was a bit—’
‘Eccentric?’
‘Yes. Well, different. Unusual. Mr Frank helped Mrs Frank with her dresses after they sent the maid away.’
‘And he was all right with that?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t he be?’
Olivia shrugged, a thought niggling at the back of her mind. ‘But you washed her body.’
‘Oh, well, I…’ Mrs Appleton cleared her throat. ‘He insisted on washing her.’
‘But—’
‘Yes, when you and the coroner visited, I was washing her body. She’d been dead for hours, and I thought… I thought that she had begun…smelling a tad. He wasn’t up to it, so I washed her the second time.’
‘So he washed her the first time, and you washed her again a few hours later, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did it help? Against the smell?’
‘Ah, no. Not quite.’
‘And what happened after my husband and I left?’ Olivia pressed on.
‘Mr Frank took to bed again. He instructed me not to disturb him for the remainder of the day, and to arrange for her body to be prepared for burial.’
‘Hmm,’ Olivia said, nodding slowly. ‘What was the waxed paper for? It lay crumpled on top of a pile of towels.’
‘The… Oh.’ Mrs Appleton turned her face away. ‘I don’t know what is was for. Mr Frank put it in the laundry room, instructing me not to touch it.’
‘Queer, don’t you think?’ Olivia asked.
Mrs Appleton shrugged.
‘And did you touch it?’
‘Of course I didn’t. He was quite insistent.’
‘Hmm.’ Olivia nodded, although she didn’t know what to make of it all. ‘May I see it?’
‘The towels and waxed paper are all gone now. He burnt them last night.’ Mrs Appleton scratched her scalp just below her white cotton cap. ‘Just after you left.’
‘Burnt, you say? Why?’
‘I assume he didn’t wish to be reminded of the day he had to wash his wife’s dead body.’
‘That makes…sense. May I take a sample of the ashes?’
The housekeeper picked at her apron, and mumbled, ‘I guess Mr Frank wouldn’t mind.’
Olivia borrowed a jar from her and shovelled bits of scorched fabric and flakes of black ash from the hearth into it.
Then she stood and said, ‘You wouldn’t know if there should be a life insurance in Mrs Frank’s name?’
‘I’m the housekeeper, Mrs Sévère. I do not know of such things.’
‘Of course you don’t. Well, I guess I should be leaving.’
* * *
She met Higgins not far from Mrs Johnston’s lodgings. He leant against a lamp post, cigarette in the corner of his mouth, whiskers twitching as she approached.
‘Dammit!’ Olivia huffed. She felt out of breath, her head was pounding. ‘Mr Frank has left the house. I suppose you haven’t seen him?’
‘If I had, I would be following him now. When did he leave?’
‘About ten, fifteen minutes ago. You won’t catch him anymore. Did you find out anything interesting from the neighbours?’
‘Maybe. Very few urchins in this area. But one or the other proved rather attentive. Talkative, even.’ He pointed his chin up the street and began to walk. ‘We have the usual: milk is delivered daily, meat every Wednesday and Saturday, and so on. There were a few visits by the dye chemist from the shop down the street, who’s said to be a friend of Mr Frank. No one seemed to consider the Johnstons’ and Franks’ marriages as noteworthy, except that the Johnstons never fought. Or did it so quietly that the neighbours couldn’t eavesdrop. The Franks, however, entertained themselves with regular shouting matches. Not in the days or weeks her heart was giving her troubles, mind. But the interesting bit is that a rich fella was seen at the Frank’s about a month ago. He visited several times, and left with a smile.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘About the rich fella? The kitchen boy who works at the Doughty household that’s two houses down from the Johnstons.’
‘Did he know who the man was?’
‘No. But I’ll keep asking around.’ Higgins lit another cigarette, paused, and glanced at Olivia. ‘Would you like a smoke?’
Olivia regarded him. Was it so obvious she wasn’t a lady? ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘Mr Higgins, do you have family here in London?’
‘I don’t. Why are you asking?’
‘Because I’m wondering about your wages. Your responsibilities are…’ She stopped and frowned. ‘They exceed those of a coachman. What does my husband pay you?’
‘Fifty pounds per annum.’
‘Would it suffice for now if I raised it to seventy?’
Higgins gave a single nod, but didn’t speak.
‘May I ask you something, Mr Higgins?’
‘I believe that’s what you’ve been doing the entire evening.’ A grin flashed across his face.
‘Did you work as a coachman before you came into my husband’s employ?’
‘I did not.’
‘What did you do before entering the employ of my husband?’
He flicked a sideways glance at her, sucked on his cigarette, and said, ‘Baked bread.’
‘You are a baker?’
Higgins dropped the butt of his smoke onto the flagstones and methodically ground it under his boot. ‘Mrs Sévère, let us make an agreement.’
She frowned at him.
‘You don’t ask me about my past, and I won’t ask you about yours.’
Aghast, she took a step back. ‘Higgins, you are forgetting yourself!’
‘Believe me, Mrs Sévère, it takes more than a little prodding to make me forget myself. I will not answer questions about my private life, or my past. Accept this, or send me away.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘What will it be?’
‘Did he tell you where…I come from?’
‘Everyone knows you grew up in an orphanage.’ He twitched his shoulders.
Olivia nodded once. People ate up the orphanage lie particularly well. She tried to imagine the uproar if they learnt she’d earned a living as a whore.
‘I apologise,’ she said to Higgins. ‘I know what it means to have a…difficult past. I won’t ask you about yours again.’
Dim light from the street lamp seeped through the curtains. Rose’s warm body was pressed to her back, but still Olivia shivered.
She longed to discuss her thoughts with Sévère, but that was impossible now. Investigating Johnston’s murder was like rolling a boulder up a mountain. Not only did she have to catch a murderer without Sévère’s help, she had to do it without his warrants, and without the aid and protection of his title.
She sighed. And coughed. Coughed, and couldn’t stop.
Rose stirred, reached over to place her small hand onto Olivia’s brow. She rubbed her eyes. ‘Want tea with honey? I can fetch it. Cook keeps it warm for you on the stove.’
‘Thank you,’ Olivia said hoarsely and sat up. ‘Tea would be nice.’
Ro
se slipped from the bed, snatched a robe and went down to the kitchen. A few moments later, she returned with a teapot, a small pot of honey, and a candle on a tray. She bumped the door closed with her heel, and sat back down on the bed.
‘You look sad,’ she said.
Olivia stirred honey into the hot tea and answered, ‘I don’t know how to fix this.’
Rose tipped her head at the teacup. ‘Fix what?’
‘Sévère’s in gaol, the new coroner may not be willing to talk to me, and I don’t have a warrant that gives me the right to question witnesses and suspects. I don’t even have a suspect.’
‘You aren’t a detective anymore?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ Rose dropped her head, but before Olivia could pat the girl’s hand to comfort her, she squeaked, ‘Then we can be pirates!’
Rose scrambled over Olivia and began hopping on the bed. ‘On our pirate ship!’
‘I’d rather be a pirate detective,’ Olivia said dryly, and placed the cup on the night stand to avoid a life-threatening, honeyed-tea flood.
Rose jumped even higher at that. ‘Pirate detectives Mistresses Sévère and Rousseau, at your service, Your Highness!’
Olivia couldn’t help but chuckle. Until… She grabbed the girl’s ankle. ‘Rose, you are brilliant!’
Rose plopped down and sat cross-legged, beaming like a Christmas tree.
‘My dearest First Mate,’ Olivia said, ‘I so adore your sharp mind.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. As it so happens, Sévère won’t be needing his office for a few weeks. We might as well use it for our private detective agency,’ Olivia said with a grin, balled her hand to a fist and bumped her First Mate’s bony shoulder. ‘I’ll register the business tomorrow morning.’
‘Pirate detective agency?’ Rose’s eyes glittered in the candle light. Her hair stood up, forming a frizzly halo around her head.
‘Officially, it’s a private detective agency, First Mate. The Londoner’s wouldn’t approve of pirates investigating crimes. You must swear to keep it secret.’
Rose placed her hand to her chest, and nodded solemnly. ‘I swear upon cook’s fresh breakfast muffins.’
* * *
Long after Olivia had emptied the tea pot, she stared at Rose’s curled up and softly snoring form, and wondered if Johnston’s death might have been accidental. Perhaps Mrs Frank had been the intended victim, and Johnston had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Her thoughts drifted to Sévère and the harsh words they had exchanged. She would have to undo the damage.
She rose and lit a candle, set out paper and pen, and began to write.
Pirate Detectives
The stone floor of his cell was littered with case notes in Olivia’s hand — script that didn’t roll or slant, but stood upright, the fs and gs cutting sharply into the words below. Had he not known his wife’s hand, he would have thought a man had penned the notes. They were precise, defined. Not a single annotation, not one word crossed out. She’d thought about this thoroughly before writing it down for him.
One page contained all the questions she intended to answer before the trial began. Why had Mr Frank burnt towels and waxed paper in the dead of night? Why had he insisted on washing his dead wife, and later couldn’t be bothered when Mrs Appleton thought the body needed to be washed once more? Who was the mysterious rich man, and what did the dye chemist know about the marriage of the Franks, the Johnstons, and the two sudden deaths? What had Mrs Johnston seen when she watched the house from the other side of the street with her opera glass?
Sévère heard the clanking of metal bowls and soup ladles from the storey below his own. Lunch time. By now, Olivia would have talked to Dr Barry and presented him with the new samples she’d collected from the hearth of the Franks’ household. If Barry turned her down, she would have to talk to Bicker, who then would have to talk to the magistrate to obtain a warrant, and then she would finally have to convey the samples back to Dr Barry.
Sévère dearly hoped that Olivia wasn’t made to run back and forth through half of London.
There was so little time left.
He sighed. His gaze fell to the page that was giving him heart ache. It was a letter to him, disguised as a case note. She had even used her old name — Miss Mary.
He brushed his fingers over one of the edges, picked it up, and read it again.
On the other case we recently discussed:
I talked to Miss M, the woman who was sold into prostitution as a young girl. I’m not sure if her statement is relevant to this particular case, but I believe you should know about it anyway.
In her own words:
“Many men told me they loved me. And I hated it. I could predict with some accuracy when they would say those words. Their gaze, their expression would soften. They would look at me as if I were their princess, their saviour, the only woman who understood all their needs. Because it was always their needs they saw, their urges, their body, their wishes. They hid their egoism behind their countless mutterings of “I love you so, my sweet,” because most weren’t dumb or blind enough to completely ignore that they were using a child — and later a young woman — for their own pleasure, without ever asking what she needed or wished for herself. Or what she didn’t want. When I saw that expression on my husband’s face — that softening — everything inside me went dead. I felt like a tree that had suddenly lost all its leaves to an autumn gust. And then, everything revolted. Rarely have I been so angry at the wrong man.
I never wish to hear those words again, never wish to see that softening. Please understand that I am not sorry. I have been made to be this way. And I don’t have more in me.”
* * *
As to her former client, Mr F: I strongly believe that he is connected to another case we are currently investigating, specifically in a way that might influence evidence to make an innocent appear guilty. I will investigate this further and let you know about all new developments, but I would greatly appreciate your thoughts on this matter as well.
* * *
Yours,
Olivia.
* * *
PS: Your offices will temporarily be turned into the offices of Sévère & Sévère, Private Detective Agency. Hire me, Gavriel! Bicker is not doing any field work for you.
* * *
PPS: I increased the annual allowance of your coachman to £70 and made him my assistant investigator. He is surprisingly helpful.
Gently, Sévère placed the letter back on the mattress, and began tightening the straps of his temporary brace. He began at the top of his thigh and worked down to his ankle, then pulled his bad leg in with his hands, grabbed the crutch, and stood. The brace was sufficient to help him stand, but the buckles were made of a cheap leather that cut into his flesh, the joints creaked, and the wood threatened to splinter. In two or three days, the physician had told him, he would receive a new brace that would comfortably stabilise his ankle and knee. He would walk upright into the court room, not crawl on all fours.
He limped over to the bucket and relieved himself, one hand clawing the wall.
Back on his bed, he loosened the buckles, and gazed again at Olivia’s letter.
I don’t have more in me.
He thought back to their wedding night. Why the deuce had she insisted on the consummation if she felt this way? Could she have truly made herself do that for legal reasons? He barked a bitter laugh. She’d made herself bed men for years.
He racked his brain, trying to recall a moment, a word, a flicker in her eyes that would indicate she hated what she was allowing him to do. He had felt her body moving with his, had seen the blush rising to her face, her eyes darkening to deepest black.
But lust and love were two entirely different creatures. And he’d never liked the complications of the latter.
I don’t have more in me.
He shook his head. She loved Rose, of that he was absolutely certain. The way those two stu
ck their heads together, how they play acted, and invented silly contraptions they baptised pirate ships made it obvious they were friends. But Olivia was so protective of Rose, she must have maternal feelings for the girl as well.
I don’t have more in me.
But then it hadn’t been little girls who had hurt her. It had been men like himself.
Six, seven months ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about visiting a prostitute. Bloody hell! The day of a release from gaol would have found him tangled in sheets with at least two pretty and willing women. But knowing what he now knew…
I have been made to be that way.
He had never considered taking a maiden for his pleasure. Men who did so disgusted him. Even so, many of the willing women who had invited him into their beds in exchange for coin did so of necessity. He had never bothered to ask what they wished for themselves.
A sick and heavy feeling settled in Sévère’s stomach. Before marrying Olivia, he’d never even considered asking a woman what she wanted.
I don’t have more in me.
His gaze kept going back to these words, and he felt an urge to undo them, to undo…everything.
With an impatient growl, he pushed the letter aside.
Then he gathered the scattered case notes and stacked them to a neat pile, leaving Olivia’s letter at its very bottom. Methodically, he went through every witness statement, every piece of evidence, every question his wife had brought up, and added his own thoughts. He didn’t have the luxury of considering anything but his case.
‘The trial is in two days,’ Olivia glanced at every face in the room. Alf scooted around on his chair as if he were sitting on a nest of bumblebees. He pulled on one overlarge ear, and then on the other. Rose sat ramrod straight, cheeks red as though someone had slapped her, eyes glistening with excitement. William slipped one of the biscuits Netty had placed on the desk into his mouth, and wiped his crumbly palms on his trousers. Higgins stood by the door, still wearing his bowler, looking like he didn’t quite belong.