by A. Wendeberg
He didn’t answer, so she looked up from her palm.
‘Olivia,’ he began. ‘I apologise. And I promise I will try my best to behave.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your letter.’
‘Oh.’ She dropped her gaze to her exposed ankles. Hastily, she arranged the hems of her skirts. ‘I apologise for my harsh reaction. It was unjustified.’
‘It was entirely justified.’
‘It… Let us not talk about it now,’ she said, and looked up. ‘There’s so much to do.’
He nodded once. ‘And too little time. But I need to tell you that… The night I visited you and my behaviour… I despise the man I was.’
Olivia swallowed. ‘Sévère—’
‘Let me finish, please. I entered your room expecting to get… I paid a prostitute for her services and she was to give them to me, that’s what I expected. After all, I gave her my money. A guinea!’ A harsh, rueful laugh erupted from him.
Olivia’s stomach roiled. Blood roared in her ears. ‘Sévère—’
‘I have not ever questioned what is considered normal. I have not for a moment wondered if a soul might be worth infinitely more than a gold coin. I wish I could undo everything.’
Darkness descended on her. The stone walls. Sévère’s presence. All collapsed onto her chest. She pressed her hands to her ears, squeezed her eyes shut, and chanted, ‘Be quiet. Be quiet. Be quiet.’
When her forehead hurt from pressing it too hard against the stone wall, when her lungs ached from strained breathing, she straightened up, wiped her face, and cleared her throat. ‘Alf and Rose mingle with the urchins around Sillwood Street. They witnessed Mrs Johnston paying Mr Frank a visit earlier this evening. There must have been an argument, because they bade farewell in a rather…icy manner.’
Only then did she look at Sévère. He was utterly pale.
He opened his mouth, considered, and said in a hoarse voice, ‘I see.’
She brushed wrinkles from her skirts and continued, ‘Alf and Rose heard how Mr Frank bade Mrs Johnston a good evening. Alf said his voice was flat. She answered with, “We will see.” Which is a little odd, but nothing…nothing that should cause concern. Probably irrelevant. But Alf might have learned more about the mysterious man who visited the Franks. The wealthy-looking one. One of the street urchins says he heard the man tell another that he’s from London Joint Stock Bank. No name, though. William will try to find out more tomorrow as soon as the bank opens.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. I’m sorry.’
He rubbed his face, then his scalp, and murmured, ‘What if Johnston’s death was an accident?’
‘I had the same thought a few days ago.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. And then I…forgot about it.’ She twisted her fingers in her lap, a deep frown carving her brow.
Sévère made to touch her hand, but she stepped out of his reach. ‘Leave your fingers attached please,’ he said. ‘How else will you write case notes for me?’
A small snort erupted from her, and even Sévère’s mouth twitched.
‘That leaves us with only one question,’ he said. ‘If Johnston wasn’t supposed to die, who was?’
‘The Franks? Mrs Johnston?’
‘Hum.’
Day two
Sévère watched with a puzzling degree of detachment as the prosecution called in witnesses to describe his character and outline the events leading up to Johnston’s death. A tiresome lineup of servants, neighbours, and his officer, Stripling — or rather, his former officer. Sévère observed the jury grow heavy-lidded while the audience up in the galleries gradually thinned.
When Netty stated that she had overheard Johnston complaining about Sévère hurting his arm, and that the two men had been arguing — about what precisely she wasn’t sure — the jury seemed to come awake. Bicker then questioned Netty to establish that Johnston had arrived at the prisoner’s home looking ill, that he was pale and sweating before he even entered the house.
Straight-backed, the jurymen listened to the statement of Inspector Height and two of his deputies. Again, Sévère’s character was outlined. This time, the solicitor-general demonstrated how driven Sévère was, how great his interest was in all medical matters related to deaths by violence, poison, and neglect. Yes, the coroner was known for insisting that the doctor who was to perform a postmortem wait for him. Yes, he had attended many postmortems. Unusual for a coroner. Quite unheard of, in fact. And yes, one can be certain that he knew everything about aconitia, given the unguent he was using and his medical knowledge.
Sévère found the entire thing fascinating — a novelty to experience the system from such a unique angle. On the other hand, it shocked him utterly just how little power he had.
He caught himself wondering who might be doing this to him. Who wanted to kill him in such a torturous manner? His gaze kept straying to Linton Frost. The man looked through him. As though the prisoner weren’t worth the Chief Magistrate’s attention.
Sévère found nothing surprising in how the case was laid out against him. The previous day, as the solicitor-general described all events to jury and judge, Sévère relived Johnston’s final hours. He could almost see himself applying poison in a mysterious fashion that the prosecution would be revealing during the course of the trial. As it stood, he would probably be found guilty. He must have done it: there seemed no other conclusion. With each piece of evidence, each witness statement, the tightening around Sévère’s throat grew worse.
His gaze drifted to Olivia who sat by the jury box. The tension in her shoulders. The whiteness of her knuckles. Would she come up to the dock and talk to him in a hushed voice? Words seemed to be burning in her mouth. She would probably tell him that the prosecution had thus far failed to provide a motive. As though this would in any way change the bleakness of his prospects.
The glances she kept throwing at Frost seemed to contain more than the usual cold contempt she cultivated for the man.
He wondered how long she could endure the pressure. A shudder crept over his neck as he thought about the previous day. What had caused her violent reaction? Twice now she had… How could he even put it into words? Folded in on herself and exploded at the same time?
But why, precisely?
He laughed. Just once, quietly. The solicitor-general threw him an irritated glance. Justice Hawkins’ fingers moved toward the gavel. Sévère answered with an apologetic smile.
His gaze went back to Olivia. How young she looked. How…breakable. A woman who had been owned since the age of nine.
She could have filed for a divorce the moment he lost his position as Coroner of Eastern Middlesex. Their contracts were void. Why hadn’t she?
Perhaps he should ask her about it.
Or better yet, he would present her with divorce papers. She would be free at last.
As Olivia hurried from the Old Bailey to catch a cab to Sillwood Street, she desperately wished there were two or three copies of her. Sitting through Sévère’s trial, she couldn’t aid William in trying to find information on the mysterious visitor; when trying to find clues on who’d poisoned Johnston, she couldn’t discuss the case with Sévère; and while visiting Sévère, she couldn’t ask Higgins, Rose, and Alf what they’d found out.
Her teeth were hurting from so much grinding. And her aching neck and shoulders robbed her of what little sleep she allowed herself to catch.
* * *
Olivia rushed into the fashion boutique not far from Johnston’s home, and was hit by wall of rose water and lavender scents, by the chattering of excited customers, and the patient answers of those who attended them. She pushed herself to the front desk, cleared her throat, and said, ‘May I speak with your dye chemist?’
One of the men attending the bustling ladies turned to Olivia, inserted a needle into the small cushion that was strapped to his wrist, and said, ‘Ahem. It is a bit early…’ He trailed off and narrowe
d his eyes. ‘You are not picking up an order, are you?’
‘Not today. But I was hoping he might be able to help me with new colours I have in mind for an elaborate ball gown.’
The man tipped his head to the side, then shook it. ‘My apologies. You did look familiar for a moment.’
‘People tell me that all the time.’ She smiled, whipped out her fan and fluttered fresh air into her face. In fact, she’d met the man in passing when she’d questioned the owner — a Mr Hall — on the death of Dr Johnston.
Suddenly, the tailor’s head snapped up, his eyes latched onto someone behind Olivia. ‘Mr Perkin! There’s a lady who wishes to see you.’
She turned and found a man by the door, a curse on his lips — swallowed before anyone might see it. She thanked the tailor, and approached the dye chemist. ‘I see that you were about to leave. I have but a few questions, and promise I won’t bother you for long.’ Then she showed him her card.
His brows rose.
‘So far they believe I’m a client,’ she said, and cocked her head in the direction of the tailor, who was still watching. ‘I need your help with something. Shall we walk, Mr Perkin?’
‘I was about to take an early dinner. I forgot to eat lunch.’ For emphasis, he patted his stomach. It seemed almost concave beneath his waistcoat.
She snapped her fan shut and pocketed it. ‘I haven’t eaten anything since…probably…breakfast.’
‘There’s an eating house up the street,’ he suggested.
She gazed at him fully then. He had large, dark-brown eyes, long lashes. Bushy black eyebrows and a thin, almost girlish nose. She guessed him to be in his late thirties, although there was something fresh and boyish in his eyes. Her gaze snagged on the scar on his upper lip. A harelip, somewhat crudely corrected when he must have been a small child.
Upon her scrutiny, he didn’t lower his face, didn’t turn it away the slightest. Instead he smiled broadly, intensifying the asymmetry of his mouth.
Olivia liked him at once. She smiled back, and said, ‘Splendid! I’m perishing.’
* * *
As they walked, Olivia asked, ‘How long have you known the Franks?’
He frowned at her. ‘Long.’
‘You are a friend of the family?’
‘One could say.’
‘Could you describe Mr Frank’s relationship to the housekeeper, Mrs Appleton?’
Mr Perkin stubbed his toe on a cobblestone. ‘An odd question. I don’t know what to answer.’
‘Well, you could, for example, tell me whether or not their relationship extended beyond what is considered normal?’
‘How would you specify normal?’
They reached the eating house and entered. Fresh sawdust covered raw floor planks. The scents of salt pork and oatmeal made a puddle on Olivia’s tongue. They sat on rickety chairs and placed their orders. Then she said in a voice low enough to not be overheard by other clientele, ‘I was wondering if they occasionally or habitually shared a bed.’
Mr Perkin didn’t even flinch. ‘I doubt it. But I do find it rather alarming that a stranger is poking about the Franks’ private affairs. You can’t possibly expect me or anyone else to answer your questions truthfully.’
‘I’m a private investigator,’ she reminded him, but he only shrugged.
The matron appeared, her arms as thick and reddened as her neck, her footfall making the planks shudder and whine. She placed a crock of apple butter, a loaf of fresh bread, and a block of hard cheese on the table, and disappeared with a grunt.
Olivia shoved a piece of bread into her mouth, wondering how to best pry him open. ‘Until eight or nine months ago, Mrs Frank employed a personal maid. I forgot to ask Mrs Appleton about the maid’s name and her whereabouts. You wouldn’t know, would you?’
‘Addie Shepherd. She was offered a position at Mrs Muir of Vernon Street. Just across from the Baptist Chapel.’
‘How do you know where she works now?’
‘I gave her a character for Mrs Muir. Or rather…Mrs Frank did. I wrote it for her and she signed it. She wasn’t very good with words.’
‘I see. Hum…’ Olivia dipped a piece of bread into the butter on her plate, orbited it around, once, twice. ‘Have you ever accidentally poisoned yourself or others, Mr Perkin?’
He laughed at that. ‘I’m an accomplished dye chemist. I don’t accidentally poison anyone.’
‘And intentionally?’
He chuckled again. ‘Your interrogation methods are rather queer, Mrs Severe.’
‘It’s Sévère. French intonation rather than English.’
‘My apologies. How long have you been a private detective, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘A few days.’ She smiled at him.
‘Ah. Well… I see.’ He continued eating, his gaze stuck to his plate.
‘For how long have you known the Franks, Mr Perkin?’
He took his time chewing, then answered, ‘I’ve known Minnie since I was a babe.’
Olivia placed her fork aside, folded her hands below her chin, and asked Perkin to continue.
‘It’s not a secret that I’m her bastard brother. Our late father was… Well, I guess one could call him a ladies’ man. Minnie and I sometimes wondered how many siblings we really had.’
‘Why didn’t he keep you a secret?’
‘Because my mother was the lady’s maid. It was hard to deny that she carried his child. She and Minnie’s mother were good friends at that time.’
‘And now they are not.’
‘It’s not what you are thinking. My mother died from a fever a few days after I was born.’
‘I am sorry. I know how it is to…’ She cut herself off. What was she thinking to talk to a stranger thus?
She inhaled, straightened her spine, and said, ‘They raised you as their son?’
‘No, as the kitchen boy. But they paid for my education and kept me fed and clothed.’
‘Did Mrs Frank always have problems with her heart?’
Mr Perkin chewed on his scarred lip, his brow in creases. He pulled in a slow breath. ‘It began, I believe, after her first miscarriage. For a month, she didn’t want to see anyone. Not even me or her husband. She looked like a wraith when I was finally permitted to visit her. After that, she complained about a weakness of the heart.’
He rubbed his ribs just below his heart. His gaze was unfocused. ‘They never spoke of it, but I believe she had several miscarriages. She didn’t ever show, but from how…how her nerves grew utterly fragile from one day to another, I believe it could only have been because she’d had been with child, but lost it early on.’ He shrugged apologetically.
‘Had you ever met Dr Johnston?’
Perkins looked up. ‘I heard he died.’
‘Yes. The same night Minnie Frank died.’
‘What a queer coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t believe in coincidence.’ Olivia rested her gaze on Mr Perkin. ‘Who, in your opinion, wanted Minnie Frank and Peter Johnston dead?’
Perkins sank against the back rest of his chair. A light creak of old wood. As if his bones were protesting the movement.
Prosecution
Day three
* * *
Olivia settled into her accustomed seat by the jury box, and looked straight at the Chief Magistrate as he walked in. She kept her eyes on him all through Mr Frank’s witness statement. When Mrs Appleton was brought in, Frost’s gaze flickered to Olivia.
She gifted him a smile. One of those sweet and innocent smiles she’d given him every time he was tucking himself back into his trousers.
Frost’s chin jerked, his eyes darting away from her.
Olivia’s hand strayed to her sleeve, the tingling there, and the note she’d tucked into it.
Soon, my sweet, you will feel me again.
She hadn’t dared enter the court room armed, so she’d left her revolver in the brougham. Higgins had shown her how to use it. Her aim was poor, but she
wasn’t concerned. At close range, with Frost pressing himself against her, she would not miss.
She forced her attention to the witnesses that were brought in, but neither Mr Frank nor Mrs Appleton had anything to add to what Olivia already knew, nothing she hadn’t heard or read at least twice.
Her stomach clenched when Mrs Johnston was called onto the witness stand. Had she ever told her how sorry she was that her husband had died there, in Olivia’s own home, when neither she nor Sévère had been able to stop it?
She probably had. Several times. She’d lost track of time these past weeks. Or rather, time had lost track of her, was racing ahead of her, running away from her.
‘Mrs Johnston, would you please recount the evening of the second of July for us?’ the solicitor-general asked.
Olivia knew that evening by heart. She could have spoken the words for her.
When Molly Johnston was cross-examined, and Bicker asked her to describe the relationship between the prisoner and the deceased, Molly spoke of the friendship as though it were a thing of a time long past. Cold crept over Olivia’s arms. She willed Bicker to stop. But he asked the next question without so much as a mild smile toward the jury.
‘Mrs Johnston, did your husband appear in any way fearful of the prisoner? Or rather, had he looked forward to spending the evening at the prisoner’s house?’
Molly Johnston inhaled a sharp breath, gazed at her fingers steepled in her lap, and squeezed her eyes shut.
‘Mrs Johnston?’
She looked up, her face pale. ‘I cannot be certain.’
The silence that followed was perfect.
Eventually, the judge broke it. ‘Are you not certain whether or not your husband feared the prisoner, or are you not certain whether or not he looked forward to spending the evening with a friend?’
‘I am certain he looked forward to it. He always did. But…’ Molly’s gaze latched onto Sévère. ‘But there was something. Something had occurred between them. It was a few days before my husband…died. Perhaps two weeks before. Mr and Mrs Sévère visited late at night. She needed my husband’s assistance. Her face…’ Molly Johnston touched her eyebrow. ‘Peter said someone attacked her. He attended to her injuries. They were minor. But something transpired that night that disturbed him greatly.’