Of Night and Dark Obscurity

by Nicola Italia

  Malvina looked over the menu for the evening supper and sighed. A clear gravy soup, fried sole, veal with spinach and pudding with raspberry cream. Malvina sniffed and laid the piece of paper aside.

  “Is it all right, Madam?” Cook asked as she stood to one side waiting for her instructions.

  Malvina eyed the menu again. Her son Hubert wanted to host a small dinner party, which he did periodically and that was well and fine, but she was left with planning the evening and their Cook was many things but not inventive.

  “It’s a bit underdone,” she said, and thought much like the Cook’s soufflé, but didn’t voice the last part.

  “I’m not sure I agree, Madam. You asked for a menu for a small dinner party. I can add or substitute whatever you wish.”

  Malvina nodded. “Leave it with me. I’ll make the changes and return it to you.”

  “Very good, Madam,” the Cook bobbed and then left.

  Malvina pinched at her eyes, removing her spectacles to wipe them thoroughly with her lilac-colored handkerchief, before returning them to her face.

  Her son was a well-respected physician and a lecturer at several medical colleges and she boasted about him often to her friends. Her granddaughters were something completely different. Not that they both weren’t attractive and each with their own attributes, but they were night and day and odd and confusing to her.

  The youngest, Irene, was not so odd except she was flirty, silly and interested in nothing more than the latest fashion and had an eye for anything in trousers. Caroline was the opposite. Intelligent, beautiful, she was also set about destroying her reputation by traipsing into the poorest districts of London helping people that should help themselves. She had gotten it into her head that the slums needed to be purged and the people saved. As a child, she handmade toys for the poor children with her father’s consent, and as she grew older, she wanted to do more.

  Malvina sighed.

  The best option for both the headstrong girl and the flirty one was to get them married. Irene would not be a problem. She was silly but pliable. Caroline was another matter entirely. What man would want a woman who had a mind of her own and used it? Unheard of. She must watch and wait for the time to come and then marry them to suitable men. It was the natural course of events.

  ✽✽✽

  Valentine Pierce rubbed the back of his neck and cocked his head from side to side releasing the pressure. It had been another long day with little accomplished. He had pored over the same records, the same reports, the same interviews, the same pictures, learning nothing new. The pictures were not something he liked to look at often, but he forced himself to look at them to remind him of the three women who had been murdered, with three families left behind to mourn them.

  Detective Chief Inspector Val Pierce was in charge of the investigation into the death of three women who had been murdered in the span of nine months.

  He had been working on the case since the beginning and only recently been able to see a slight pattern. It was not much to go on, but it was something. The three women were not of the poorer class. The victims were all from good families who did not lack for money, and yet had been killed all the same. The first woman was Effie Whitson, whose father owned a small bank, and the second victim was named Bessie Turner, the daughter of a successful green grocer who had several stores in and around London.

  Finally, the third victim, Aida Harris, was the daughter of a prominent judge who had been engaged to Pierce. Though he was extremely attached to the case, and it was personal, he had not been pulled off of it. Superintendent Osgood had allowed him to stay, declaring that if he thought it became too much, he would remove him.

  Val glanced back down at the pictures. Physically, the women looked nothing alike. He pulled the pictures closer and studied them. The photographs were in stark black and white, but Val remembered each woman in vivid detail. Effie had hair the color of straw and a slender body, while Bessie’s strawberry tresses had been long and tangled and her body voluptuous.

  Then there was Aida. His finger caressed the curve of her face and he traced her figure until he could stand it no longer. He abruptly turned it over and away from his view. She had been a slender woman with dark hair and eyes.

  The women had all been strangled and in each of the three cases, the bodies had not been disturbed in any way. Effie had been placed in a sleeping position with her hands crossed over her chest, and Bessie’s long hair had been combed. Aida had been placed in a similar final resting pose, but unlike the other victims, her nails had been broken and bleeding. He knew that Aida had most likely fought her killer until the very end, and left him with a final memento of a small scar or wound on his hands or face. But even that was no help as the wounds would heal in little time.

  And time was something that was never on the side of the detective, he mused. With little to go on, it was only a matter of time before the killer struck again, and another woman was dead and another family torn apart. He sighed heavily.

  A knock on his office door sounded and Val looked up. His sergeant Felix Grant was standing in the doorway. Felix and Val had been working together for two years and he liked him well enough. Felix had an easy way about him although he was sometimes flippant. He dressed simply every day to work with a jacket, trousers and vest. He was unmarried, though Val knew he frequented the music halls with certain ladies who admired his perpetually sloppy brown hair and smiling brown eyes.

  He didn’t begrudge Felix’s off-hour enjoyments and they never spoke much about their personal lives. He liked working with the man because he was young and optimistic, dedicated to the job with a quick mind. More than anything, Val respected those who wanted to learn and were curious by nature. Detective work was mostly research, interviews and hard work, no matter what Edgar Allan Poe and Wilkie Collins wrote.

  “Sir,” Felix addressed him.

  “Felix. Have a seat.” He addressed his sergeant by his last name.

  Felix took the chair opposite Val and waited.

  Val placed the three photographs of the murdered women in front of him so that Felix could view them as well. His gaze flickered over them and then he looked at Felix.

  “What do you see, Sergeant?” Val asked.

  Felix gazed at each of the photographs and then shrugged. “All three of the victims were women. All three were strangled. They were all posed in a way to make them look pleasant, or at least a detraction from the violent death they suffered,” Felix surmised.

  Val nodded. “What else?”

  Felix looked them over and then saw them. “The primrose.”

  Val said nothing but nodded. In each picture, which had immortalized the three dead women, there had been one thing left with them. A small white primrose with a yellow center was placed in each of the dead woman’s hands, and it could only have been left by the killer. There was no other explanation but that the killer had left it at the scene of his crime.

  “What do you make of it, Sir?” Felix asked.

  Val pulled a worn copy of The Sentiment of Flowers by Robert Tyas from a small shelf behind his desk and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

  “Primrose blossoms can mean many different things,” he read. “It’s a symbol for bashfulness. It’s a symbol for inconstancy. It can also refer to young love as well as neglected merit. However, the most popular meaning for primrose is ‘I can’t live without you’.”

  Val closed the book and looked over at his sergeant. “Perhaps what ties these women together is a lover that they angered or spurned. Someone that didn’t take the rejection well. And in return for their snub, they paid for it with their life.”

  “Three women all with the same man? Sounds implausible.” Felix shook his head. “They weren’t streetwalkers. These were women from good families and good homes.”

  “Perhaps one of the women was murdered by one man and the others by someone else,” Val threw out. “We could have a copycat on our hands
.”

  “The newspapers have been covering the murders quite heavily since the second woman was found and a pattern was established,” Felix nodded. “It’s possible.”

  “Anything is possible,” Val nodded as he skimmed through the pages of the Tyas book, passing through the many illustrations of the flowers.

  He looked up and saw Felix staring at him. He closed the cover of the book.

  “But if you don’t mind me saying, Sir, we aren’t much better off since the first murder.”

  Val sighed softly. “I don’t mind you saying so because unfortunately it’s true. We aren’t.”

  Chapter 2

  Caroline smoothed down the front of her blue chambray skirt with the white eyelet trim and waited for the maid to finish pouring out the tea before she began. She did not particularly enjoy embroidery but she was good at it. She found that anything she wanted to do, if she put her mind to it, it could be accomplished. She lacked the patience many times to sit still and complete the task, but it was a skill most women of her acquaintance achieved, and it helped her spend time with women of her acquaintances.

  She took the tiny needle in hand and picked up the piece she was working on. It was an intricate embroidered collar that once completed she would gift to her grandmother. She looked across the table and saw another woman in the sewing circle embroidering a beautiful tobacco bag, and yet another woman was crocheting a garter for her daughter who was to be married.

  When the tea was poured out, she thanked the maid and bid the ladies help themselves to the tea cakes and cookies.

  Her grandmother, Malvina, who rarely attended her sewing circle, had arrived at the last minute and was seated before the fire knitting a scarf for her father. The dark colors were overtly masculine and she knew her father would be pleased. Her grandmother’s work was very fine and much admired as the stitching was small and elegant.

  “Ladies, thank you so much for once again joining me this evening,” Caroline smiled at them. “I do appreciate your time and efforts,” she told the six women.

  “Caroline. You know I do enjoy your circle,” an older matron named Cleo Goodey returned. “You’ve always included me and I appreciate it.”

  Caroline smiled and nodded in understanding. Her friend Prudence Finch sat across from her and gulped down her tea and a second lavender cookie. Lady Victoria Lyttleton, a friend of her grandmother’s, was a wealthy woman married to an Earl, titled and very proud of her position in society. She had a daughter on the marriage market and a son who would inherit the title when his father died. She often sat at many functions looking down her nose at everyone, but she was influential and admired Caroline for her desire to change things around her.

  “I know that this circle has been very informal up to this point, but I think it’s time to change that and in doing so make some great changes in the city we find ourselves in,” Caroline said excitedly.

  “As a former lady-in-waiting to her majesty the Queen, I’m certain that no one cares more about our great country than I do. The plight of those less fortunate weighs even on my mind often.” Victoria Lyttleton said.

  Prudence snorted in disagreement but said nothing as she took a third cookie.

  “Each of you brings something different to our circle. Your knowledge is all that more important. My concern is those less fortunate,” Caroline agreed. “Those that live in the slums particularly.”

  “I’m sure we can all appreciate your cause, Caroline dear, but some of these women that you aim to help are, well, you know what they are.” Gladys Clifton told the women.

  Caroline sighed. She did not want her frustration to show. “Well, I can understand that we don’t normally associate with women of those lower classes, but we should show compassion. They need our help, our kindness all the more.”

  None of the ladies said anything to this until Stella Oakley piped up. She was a governess at the local Holborn Union Workhouse. Caroline respected her tremendously. Her father was a country vicar and Stella had traveled to London with her brother to work and make a difference.

  “I can tell you all quite honestly that conditions in the workhouses are atrocious, and the need to stave off starvation causes the women to turn to the streets,” Stella said quietly. “I have seen firsthand the dire circumstances they find themselves in. If it is a choice between death or that,” Stella said emphasizing the word, “most would choose that.”

  “I never would,” Prudence said hotly, the notion of selling her body unthinkable.

  Stella caught Caroline’s eye and they shared a secret, brief smile at Prudence’s indignation.

  “We all make choices in this life,” Victoria spoke quietly. “And it is a choice to sell one’s self to the highest bidder.”

  Caroline turned to the dignified woman who looked very self-impressed, as she often did. “I must disagree. The need to keep shelter over one’s head and feed one’s family forces these women into the street. They are not educated; they don’t have husbands who care, so they do what they must. Let’s also not forget that they cater to men. Men who seem willing to spend a coin but do little else. They are not alone in their folly.”

  Victoria said nothing but nodded.

  “But let’s not get off course here,” Caroline tried to smooth over the conversation. “I started this sewing circle for companionship and conversation. I believe the time has come to find a solution, or discuss a possible solution to try to find a way to make a difference in some of these women’s lives.”

  Stella placed her tea cup back in its saucer and spoke. “I think we might focus on schooling. Education is always an important aspect to rise in one’s station,” she said very confidently.

  “Quite so,” Caroline agreed.

  “Well I think we might teach needlework and sewing to the women so they can have a trade of sorts,” Gladys interjected.

  “All great ideas,” Caroline nodded.

  “What about a sort of dance for these women so that they can meet eligible men and eventually marry?” Cleo said. “That solves all the problems and then there will be no need to learn a trade or educate them.” She smiled at them all.

  Caroline glanced over at her friend Prudence, and then beyond her line of vision she saw her grandmother who was seated before the fire. She had an odd smile upon her face as she returned her eyes to the scarf she was creating.

  “Thank you, Cleo, and indeed everyone. You have come up with some excellent ideas all worthy of our attention. I think we should think on this and discuss at our next week’s circle,” Caroline said.

  “An excellent suggestion,” Prudence nodded in approval.

  Caroline smiled. “Let’s finish our tea and please help yourselves to the cookies Cook made. They are her special lavender cookies. She will tell no one her recipe not even my father.”

  “Oh, your father!” Gladys smiled widely. “How is dear Hubert?”

  Caroline moved to speak to Gladys about her father and his many lecture assignments at the medical college. She knew that the older woman was smitten with her father, having lost her own dear husband five years ago.

  As they spoke the other women nodded to Caroline, thanked her for her hospitality and left. Finally, even Gladys departed leaving she and her grandmother alone.

  “It’s impossible,” Caroline said falling into the chair opposite her grandmother.

  Malvina smiled. “What did you expect? You invite a spinster, a ne’er do well, and the rest all may want to help but they have no understanding of the issue and no creativity.”

  “So, I do nothing?” Caroline responded.

  “Did I say that?” Her grandmother asked.

  Caroline shook her head. “No. But you weren’t exactly supportive either.”

  Malvina continued her stitches without stopping. “You don’t need my help nor my good wishes. In fact, my dear, if you’ll allow me, you don’t need them either.”

  “The sewing circle? I don’t need their help?” Caroline asked confu
sed.

  “Of course not. Your father dotes on you. He’s very proud of you. And he’s in a position to help. My advice…“

  “Yes?” Caroline prompted.

  “Decide what you want to do once and for all. Decide where you want to spend your financial and physical resources and then draw up a plan and discuss it with your father.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  Malvina shook her head. “No. There is nothing simple about this. You want to embark on some sort of social work and you think to change the world beginning with London, which is the home to an outstanding amount of four million people.”

  Caroline smiled. “You know very well I don’t intend to change the world. But I do want to make a difference, help the women who are forced to sell themselves and make their world a better place. For them and their families”

  “It’s commendable. And will you also teach the women needlework and marry them off one by one?” Malvina hid a grin.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Perhaps we can have some sort of auction. Each girl can wear a different colored handkerchief and the men can bid on their favorite?” Her grandmother asked as she continued to knit.

  “A sort of slave auction for a wife?” Caroline asked her with a serious face.

  “It might work, my dear.”

  “You’re enjoying this,” Caroline accused.

  “Well maybe just a little,” Malvina confessed smiling at last.

  Caroline shook her head and sat back against the sofa. “It was awful today.”

  Malvina shrugged.

  “Admit it. It was awful. I think the only reason you joined us was to watch me squirm,” Caroline said.

  Malvina was instantly serious. “Never that Caro. Let me tell you this. We may come from different times, and be raised very differently, but you are a force. You never cease to amaze me. Even when you were a child. When I sat here and listened to them, it reaffirmed two things for me. One, you have nice but silly women as your acquaintances. Not stupid just silly; ignorant.”

  “And two?” Caroline asked.