by A. Wendeberg
One by one.
When Olivia entered his cell, Sévère thought for the shortest of moments that he had never before seen this woman, that this wasn’t his wife, but a brittle, empty husk of her. An impostor.
The next moment, he thought he was going to die. Whatever news she brought must mean he would, with utter certainty, face the gallows. He dared not breathe.
She told him about the statements of Franks’ laundry maid and the former personal maid. He knew these new developments should give him hope, but the way Olivia spoke — detached, like an automaton— he all but waited for a blow. But it did not come.
When she fell silent, he croaked, ‘Something horrible must have happened. Tell me.’
She turned her face away. ‘Rose was taken to her mother.’
Relief blasted through him — the fatal blow, the thing that would get him hanged, did not exist. Not today. At once, the feeling of relief was swept away by fury. Fury that he was locked up here and couldn’t prevent, couldn’t revenge, couldn’t protect. He felt the bite of his nails against his palms. The small pain tethered him to sanity.
‘Higgins and I retrieved her.’ Olivia clapped a hand to her mouth. In the dim light her eyes began to glitter. Silver trailed down her cheek. ‘I told that swine of a mother I would make sure she rots in gaol. But…’ Olivia dropped her hand and lifted her head to the ceiling, gulping for breath.
Sévère pulled tight the buckles of his brace, and made to stand. Olivia threw her hands out. ‘No! Sit down. ‘I’m all right. It will pass. It will pass.’
He lowered himself back onto his hammock, watching Olivia adjust her armour. Her chin lifted, her spine straightened. Her gaze emptied.
‘Rose spoke very little. She blames herself. Judging from the things she doesn’t say, it’s clear she is protecting her mother. And even if she weren’t… Madame Rousseau would tell the police that Rose offered herself to the man and lied to him about her age. The police won’t expect much else from a girl who grew up in a brothel.’
Sévère had no words.
‘But there’s still the concealment of death she’s committed. Rose has…injuries. Her body will heal. As for her soul…’ Furiously, Olivia dashed tears off her face. ‘She’s convinced she’s the stupidest and weakest girl in the world, because she believes that all of this is normal and she’s the only one who didn’t do it right and so…she deserved the pain.’ She dropped her gaze and balled her fists. ‘It’s what he told her, the bastard.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Wednesday.’
Sévère cocked his head. ‘Do I know him?’
‘One of my clients preferred to visit me on Wednesdays. It was such a regular occurrence that Rose called him Mr Wednesday. They rarely gave their real names, anyway.’
Sévère felt tension grow in his stomach. He leant forward. ‘Who?’
‘Frost.’
Falling
Sévère watched the clenching and unclenching of his hands. There was a trembling of the distal two digits whenever he stretched his fingers. It disappeared when he curled them. You are weak when you open yourself up, he thought.
And yet, maybe that’s what he would do.
What had been done to Rose drove chills down his back. But the way Olivia talked about it was incomparably worse. It had given him a clear view of the darkness curled up in the depths of her soul. It terrified him how brittle her armour had become. He feared what might happen when she broke — when it broke out.
Something inside him stirred. He wondered if Olivia was feeling the same. As if a beast had been roused. Was that the birthplace of monster stories — one’s own soul? It must be, for what else would a storyteller weave if not his own tapestry?
Chief Magistrate Frost was a black thread in Sévère’s tapestry. The man had inserted himself into Olivia’s life, and with that, into Sévère’s. And now into the life of Rose. He had seen her in Height’s office, and must have notified her mother at once. Rose had turned nine in spring. Sévère hadn’t known that until Olivia told him. She also told him that for Madame Rousseau, nine was an appropriate age to be sold to the highest bidder. Her own daughter!
Disgusted, Sévère spat on the floor.
The attack on Rose felt like an attack on himself. A girl who was under his protection had been taken from his own home, and raped. But shouldn’t he be outraged that this was an everyday occurrence in this city? Shouldn’t everyone?
He had tried to convince Olivia to report the crime to the police. She turned him down with a cold glare and two short sentences: Frost is the police. Rose will not be violated again.
Her mother had drugged the girl with laudanum to make her pliable. Olivia had drugged her again in the early morning hours when the pain and nightmares came.
He touched his throat. He was in gaol, but a serial rapist wasn’t and never would be.
Sévère curled his hands to fists. What were the things he desperately clung to? His freedom. His ability to walk.
He unfurled his fingers.
He listened to his fellow prisoners, their moans, prayers, and curses. ‘I’ve lost all fear,’ he whispered, the sudden clarity shocking him.
He gazed at the peephole in his cell door. A smile tugged at his lips.
Mrs Appleton sank against the door frame. One hand fluttered to her mouth and lingered there. ‘Perhaps…’ She looked up at Olivia, who was waiting on the doorstep. ‘Perhaps it is best if we retreat to my room.’
They walked down a staircase, past the kitchen and laundry room, and through a door at the end of the corridor. Mrs Appleton offered Olivia a chair by a narrow window that was set high up in the wall, but she herself remained standing, fidgeting with her apron.
‘I did not steal it,’ Mrs Appleton said, eyes fastened to her shoes. ‘I returned the necklace to my mistress’ jewellery box.’
‘You took the property of your mistress. That’s theft. And then you went on and falsely implicated Miss Shepherd for the theft that you committed, knowing she might be taken to the police.’
Mrs Appleton licked her lips. ‘But she wasn’t.’
‘Hmm,’ Olivia said, and scanned the room.
‘You won’t find it here. I returned it.’
‘I wasn’t looking for the necklace. In fact, I didn’t come here to enquire about it.’ Olivia rested her gaze on Mrs Appleton. ‘Where do you keep the poison?’
All the blood drained from Mrs Appleton’s face. She methodically shook her head.
‘I know what you did,’ Olivia lied. ‘As does my attorney. He and I have an appointment with Inspector Height of Division H at noon today. It is of no use to lie or to delay, Mrs Appleton. The evidence against you speaks clear enough.’
Mrs Appleton stumbled two steps back. ‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I swear I didn’t!’
‘You were seen burning the clothes of your mistress,’ Olivia said softly. ‘And then you laid out fresh clothes for her before you washed her a second time.’
Mrs Appleton took another step back, bumped into the bed frame and sank to the mattress. ‘He wants to kill me.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘He wants me dead. The Spider wants me dead! Or a man who’s paid the Spider for his services. All he needs to do is place an ad in Reynolds’s Newspaper. Don’t you see?’
‘I… No, I don’t.’ Olivia had never expected Mrs Appleton to be raving mad. Does one call a doctor or does one drop off insane people directly at the gates of an asylum?
Mrs Appleton’s chest was heaving. She gripped her hair and began rocking back and forth, muttering, ‘Spider silk sought, that’s all one has to write. Spider silk sought. And where and when. Don’t know how much it is, but it must be expensive. Very expensive. It must be a rich man who wants me dead.’ She looked up. ‘Why would a rich man want me dead?’
‘Who is the Spider? And what is spider silk?’ Olivia asked, mostly to calm Mrs Appleton down and get her to make some sense.
It was as if li
ghtning struck the housekeeper. She shot out her arm, wrenched open a drawer of her night stand, and picked up a piece of paper. A newspaper clipping. ‘It’s from the Daily Post. From Tuesday.’
Olivia took it and read.
Fleming heir dead!
The police and trustworthy sources close to the Fleming family have informed us that on Sunday night last, Mr Rupert Maximilian Fleming, heir of Sir Robert Maximilian Fleming, did commit suicide by firing a bullet into his own heart. In a letter to his parents, he listed his reasons for ending his own life: The loss of his fiancé, Miss Edwine Mollywater, and the false and cruel rumour connected to her death — that she had taken a lover. The rumour arose when it became known that she did receive a package on the day of her death, that contained an extraordinary undergarment as well as a note that read, “Wear this and meet me by the tigers.” The ceremony for Mr Rupert Fleming will be conducted within the circle of his closest family.
Something niggled in the back of Olivia’s memory. ‘I don’t understand,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, this is so much more fun than attending to Mr Anonymous and his many criminal friends,’ William said, and scratched his belly. ‘Did I hear you right? You did place the ad already?’
‘Well…yes,’ Olivia answered.
‘But you don’t seem to be overly convinced that this will work?’
‘I honestly don’t know, William. This is too absurd to be true. A man who fashions poison undergarments as murder weapons, to sell them to killers? If that were true, he should have been discovered much sooner. Let’s assume Mrs Frank wore a poison chemise fashioned by a serial killer. Johnston examined her, and died. Mr Frank was affected as well. The killer would soon discover that dead people cause more dead people. Not only members of the household, but the physicians and surgeons who perform postmortems would be dying, too.’ She slapped her forehead. ‘It simply can’t be! It was Johnston who performed the postmortem on Edwine Mollywater. He would have noticed the effects of aconitine, had her chemise been poisoned with it. But I remember him saying that Miss Mollywater’s death was natural. There was nothing much suspicious about it, other than the swiftness of it, and her youth and good health.’
‘Hum…’ Willian said, and tapped the edge of the table. ‘Maybe the chemise was accidentally overdosed? Murderers can get carried away. Especially when the motive is love, envy, hate, revenge. Passion can turn a planned clean death into a bloody massacre.’
‘But are you willing to go? Even if I might be wasting your precious time?’
‘Waste precious sleep for an adventure? Anytime, my dear!’
Olivia smiled at him. ‘You are a good friend. Thank you.’
At ten minutes past midnight, William and Olivia walked through Victoria Park toward its fountain. She kept whispering instructions, and he kept waving them away.
‘If you don’t stop your sermon, I will resort to a screaming attack,’ he whispered back. ‘We’re almost there. Time for you to be invisible.’
A few yards from the fountain, Olivia hid in a copse, pulled her cap down low, and the collar of her dark jacket up. Squatting in the underbrush, she pricked her ears.
Crickets clicked and rasped. An owl screeched. And occasionally, William coughed. It was their signal that he was all right and still alone. It was early yet. He was to meet the poisoner at one o`clock.
Olivia thought of Rose. The girl walked about the house like a wraith, avoiding everyone but Olivia and Higgins. She played quietly. She’d smashed the shack in the attic. And then she’d returned to her silent, hollow state.
Olivia wished Rose were furious instead.
Olivia knew precisely how she would kill Frost. She wasn’t sure yet what to do with the madam. She didn’t want to hurt Rose. But Frost’s fate was sealed. She would follow him, wait until he was done with whatever girl he was assaulting, and then she would put a bullet into his belly, gag him, and watch him die slowly. She would make him suffer.
There was a faint crack. A twig breaking under the weight of a boot. Olivia narrowed her eyes to slits, worried the whites would make her visible. She silenced her breath, but could not silence her heart that threatened to jump out of her throat.
A crunch of footfalls on the walkway. Not far away now.
She heard William’s voice greeting the person, enquiring about spider silk.
The answer must have been a nod or a shake of the head, because Olivia did not hear the stranger speak.
William explained about his nonexistent wife, that he wished her dead because she was an evil hag who had not shared his bed for twenty years.
There was still no answer from the stranger, and Olivia grew nervous. What if William was in danger? He was too slow to dodge the slash of a knife or the swing of a fist.
William kept on prattling. He asked about the price.
‘One hundred pounds,’ the stranger said. His voice seemed familiar, but Olivia couldn’t place it.
‘When will it be delivered? And…how? I don’t want it to be sent to my home, you see.’
‘You will give me your name and your address, and I will send you a telegram with directions when and where you can pick it up.’
That voice! Olivia pressed her knuckles to her mouth.
William chuckled. ‘I’m no fool, dear man.’
‘Very well,’ the man said, and the scrunch of boots retreated.
After a moment, William called, ‘Wait!’ and ran after the man, huffing like a steam engine.
‘Do you remember Edwine Mollywater?’ Olivia asked Sévère after she’d taken a seat next to him.
He cocked his head. ‘Yes, I remember. She died in the zoo. I found her death suspicious.’
‘And you were right. She was poisoned by the same man who killed Mrs Frank and Dr Johnston.’
Time ceased to exist. Sévère acutely felt the clenching of his throat, the thudding of his heart.
He forced himself to breathe, and then he said, ‘Inform Height at once. You cannot catch a serial killer.’
She snorted. ‘Really, Sévère, you should hear yourself. Wouldn’t it be appropriate to say, “Thank you,” and “Who the bloody hell is the man?”’
He huffed a laugh. ‘Thank you, my sweet wife. Who the bloody hell is the man?’
‘The dye chemist of the fashion boutique on Sillwood Street.’ And she told him how she learned about it, what had occurred the previous night, and that the Spider’s voice sounded familiar to her. And when she asked William if the man had a harelip, he told her that he had a moustache and that it was too dark too see if it was fake or not. But the voice was the slightest bit muffled in a way that is peculiar to people with a harelip. William described the man’s stature and manners, and it was just how Olivia would have described Albert Perkin plus moustache.
‘And you are waiting for his note now.’ Sévère nodded slowly, then raked his fingers through his beard.
‘It suits you well,’ Olivia said and touched a hand to his cheek. ‘Will you need a barber?’
‘It’s courtesy of Newgate. Every prisoner is offered a grooming before facing the court, lest the honourable judge and jurymen believe the prison conditions dreadful. How is Rose doing?’
Olivia dropped her head. ‘It’s as if she’s half-dead. And she’s easily frightened. I left her alone in my room last night, and when I returned she was bathed in sweat, terrified I had left forever…’ She trailed off and Sévère felt an iron tension settle around her.
When the trial was reopened, William still hadn’t received a telegram from Perkin. Olivia felt as if she might burst into flame as she took her seat by the jury box.
The judge entered the court room and everyone was asked to rise, but Sévère wasn’t in the prisoner’s dock, and Olivia knew something was wrong. She willed Bicker to look at her, to explain what this was about. But the attorney gazed straight ahead, bowed slightly to the judge, and took his seat.
‘The prisoner’s poor health prevents him from attending today,’ the
judge announced. ‘The trial will commence without him.’
‘What?’ she cried. The judge narrowed his eyes at her, and Bicker turned and signalled her to be quiet.
Dr Barry was called in, but Olivia barely listened as he reported on the small amounts aconitine found on Johnston’s bowler hat, and the inconclusive results of the skin sample analyses. The prosecution established that the poison might have been applied in the home of the prisoner, and that there probably wasn’t any poison on Johnston’s hands after all.
She wished she could read Bicker’s mind. Or better yet Sévère’s, so she would know what had happened to him. If only Perkin had finished the chemise already and had sent word to William!
She was startled out of her thoughts when the judge rapped his gavel and announced that the trial was adjourned for the day, that all evidence had been heard, and that the attorneys were to prepare their closing speeches for the following day.
The solicitor-general stood. ‘My Lord, I wish it to be noted that the prosecution has reason to believe that the prisoner is planning to influence the jury.’
The judge raised his eyebrows.
The solicitor-general turned to the jurymen. ‘Tomorrow, the prisoner will enter the court room in a wheeling chair. He will claim that he has lost the ability to walk. But a warden tells me that Mr Sévère is heard shuffling about his cell at night.’
‘I object!’ Bicker cried out, and smacked his palms flat on the desk.
Justice Hawkins gaze grew icy as he looked from Bicker to the solicitor-general. ‘Mr Hanbury, your behaviour is appalling. You use rumour to discredit the prisoner. Shall we enquire if the audience would provide a few rumours of their own as to your nightly activities?’
Bicker snapped his gaping mouth shut. Never in his entire career had he heard a judge grind the solicitor-general so effectively under his boot.
Mr Hanbury had the presence of mind to blush, drop his head, and retract his statement.