by A. Wendeberg
‘Indeed I did.’
‘Occupation?’ Height asked.
‘Prostitute.’
‘Place of residence?’
‘You are sitting in it.’
‘Obviously,’ Sévère muttered and wrote down the address, remembering to add the day’s date to the top of the page.
‘Would you be so kind as to inform me why a coroner and a chief inspector are calling on me at this time of day?’
Oh dear God, what a voice! shot through Sévère’s mind. The timbre seemed to reach out to him and softly caress his balls. Involuntarily, he crossed his legs. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he fought to pull his attention away from his crotch and back to the business at hand.
Before the inspector could utter a peep, Sévère asked him, ‘May I?’
‘Certainly,’ Height answered, a little perplexed.
‘Miss Mary, we know that Alexander Easy paid you a visit on the night of Friday, December 10, to Saturday, December 11. He died of a heart attack in your room, most likely in your bed. His corpse was thrown into the Thames. All I want to know before we apprehend you is why you did it.’
Slowly, the woman blinked. Her cheeks paled a little. When she parted her lips to speak, Sévère couldn’t help but think of a vulva.
‘Who?’
I’ll be damned, Sévère thought. His instinct told him that this woman had yet to speak a single word of truth. But his analytical mind — despite being distracted by his animalistic urges (or perhaps because of them?) — told him she was sincere.
‘Alexander Easy,’ Sévère repeated the name calmly. ‘Five feet, nine inches, aged forty-two, weighing eighteen stone and five pounds at the time of the autopsy — of course before his organs were removed. He had brown hair and a large moustache. He wore…’ Sévère consulted his notes. He knew precisely what Easy had worn that night, but he needed a moment to take his eyes off the woman and collect himself. ‘Black wool coat, yellow waistcoat, top hat, white shirt, striped trousers, brown patent leather shoes.’
‘Mr Sévère, please correct me if I’m mistaken, but I do have the impression you believe my clients are in the habit of telling me their name, weight, and age?’
Height cleared his throat. Sévère threw him a glance, shook his head slightly, and pointed his pencil at the suspect. ‘I believe you are intelligent and observant enough to be able to tell a man’s age, height, and certainly, his weight.’ He paused for effect. ‘As for their names, no, I doubt they would tell you the truth.’
She held Sévère’s gaze until he began to feel awkward. ‘Would you please grace us with an answer, Miss Mary?’
‘Oh, your question must have escaped me.’
That was when Sévère lost it. Blood rose to his cheeks as he leant forward. ‘I doubt you are as dimwitted as you wish to make us believe. I will tell you how it stands for you: Several men have testified that Mr Alexander Easy entered two public houses in Whitechapel, enquiring about a Miss Mary at Madame Rousseau’s. One witness stated that he gave Mr Easy a card of your establishment, the same card that was later found on his body. Mr Easy then entered this establishment, died here, and was discarded like a mangy dog. You will be contained for up to three years for fraud. Chief Inspector Height, arrest Miss Mary for concealing the death of Mr Alexander Easy and the unlawful disposal of his body.’
‘Erhm…’ said Chief Inspector Height and drew himself up to his full six feet. ‘Will that be all, Coroner Sévère?’ There was an edge to the inspector’s voice, enough to let the other man know he’d crossed the line once too often.
Height held out his hand to Mary. She cleared her throat and said, ‘May I collect my belongings?’
‘If it’s not too much.’
‘It is not.’ She retrieved a box from under the bed, threw in what she found in the drawer of the nightstand, as well as her undergarments and a simple dress from the wardrobe. She didn’t spare her expensive dresses a single glance. She was certain they would be taken away and sold, and her room rented to another woman before she returned. If she returned. She stared down at the rug in front of the window, then kicked it aside.
‘I will now take a knife from beneath my mattress to move a floorboard,’ she said and looked at Height, who took a step back and drew a revolver. That was when she knew the inspector wasn’t as easily fooled as she’d previously believed. She smiled, because she liked that in a man.
She inserted the blade into the cracks in the floor, ran it around one of the boards and then jammed it in. The board gave and revealed a hollow space beneath. Eleven guineas, five shillings, and a few pence. The bulk of her savings was hidden elsewhere. She pocketed her money and stood.
‘The knife,’ Sévère said.
She flipped it in her hand and held it out to him, handle first. He took it from her and gingerly dropped it into his coat pocket.
They walked her down the stairs and through the entrance hall. She didn’t look at the madam, else she might have jumped at her and scratched her eyes from their sockets.
Silently, she exited the brothel and came to an abrupt halt. She tipped her face at the sky and shut her eyes. Small droplets of half-rain, half-snow caught in her lashes.
Sévère felt his skin come alive.
Height harrumphed, took Mary’s elbow and helped her into the police carriage. He followed and sat down next to her.
Sévère held open the door and said, ‘Inspector, I must apologise for my lack of respect earlier. You allowed me to interview the suspect although I have no jurisdiction in cases of fraud.’
Height nodded once. ‘Apology accepted. You knew Easy. It must be unpleasant to have to stand aside.’
‘Thank you. Yes, we…were friends,’ Sévère answered, lowering his gaze to demonstrate a gratitude he didn’t feel.
‘You don’t have friends,’ Mary said, her voice so soft Sévère wasn’t sure he’d heard her speak. Her profile revealed nothing to him; her eyes scanned the other side of the street.
‘Pardon me?’ He gripped the door handle tighter.
Slowly she turned and addressed him with politeness. ‘Coroner Sévère, as your involvement in this case has ended, perhaps you can refer a colleague to take my case? I need an attorney. I pay well.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘For all I know, you could be a coldblooded murderess. But, as you so aptly observed, my involvement in this case has ended.’ He shut the carriage door and nodded at the driver.
❧
Mary found herself in a holding cell of Division H Headquarters. She kept telling herself to remain calm, but the not-knowing made it hard. No one had told her when or if she would be transferred to Newgate, and how long she had to await trial.
She did not need to fret for long. An hour or two later, she was taken before the magistrate of Division H who sent her to the House of Detention with the words, ‘The bill of indictment will be submitted to the Grand Jury and, if found true, you will be tried for fraud at the Old Bailey on February 28, 1881.’
❧
After a week of living in a small cell with women in various states of ruin, feeding on gruel and dry bread, pissing and shitting into a common bucket, she was brought up again before the magistrate. He didn’t bother to look up from his papers as he muttered, ‘The jury has rejected the bill; you are to be discharged immediately,’ He scribbled his signature at the bottom of a page.
‘Why was it rejected?’ she asked.
Confused, the man looked up. ‘The normal reaction would be to whoop and run, not question the decision of the jury.’
‘I am curious.’
‘The police failed to provide sufficient evidence. The drunkards who testified to have seen Mr Easy could not even describe him when asked a second time. The pickpocket who said he’d given Mr Easy the card to your establishment was detained for pickpocketing and could not tell who or what Madame Rousseau’s is, let alone remember if or when he gave the card of your establishment to a heavy-set, moustached man. The card being found
on Mr Easy’s body did in no way indicate that he had visited you, died in your bed, and had then been deposited in the Thames by you. And your madam testified that no such man had ever entered her establishment. Hence the jury rejected the bill.’ The magistrate shrugged, flapped his hand at her and said, ‘Off you fly, dove.’
❧
Mary entered her room and softly closed the door behind her. She leant against the wall, her eyes scanning the bed, the nightstand, coffee table, armchairs, wardrobe. It was as if she’d never left, as if her days in gaol had never happened. The bell struck three o’clock in the afternoon. Time to bathe, take a nap, and make herself presentable before her new client arrived.
—Blood, Sweat, & Bollocks—
His knock was answered by a soft, ‘One moment, please!’ A creak of a floorboard. The door opened.
‘Good evening,’ Sévère said, and tapped the rim of his hat. ‘I am aware that this is most unusual. You might wish to send me away.’
‘I might,’ Mary said, and stepped aside.
Again, her expression revealed nothing to him. Not even the lie that he was a welcome guest at her lodgings.
‘I was told to leave a guinea on your coffee table before asking you to undress. A hefty fee. Which services are included?’
Her lips curled in distaste and her gaze grew cold. ‘Mr Sévère, allow me to be honest with you. I am not your usual street whore. Men come to me because I provide services they can’t find elsewhere. Whenever a man attempts to bargain with me, I see him to the door and never let him back in. Are you planning to bargain with me, Coroner?’
‘Far from it. I was merely wondering whether that which I’ll ask of you is included in the price. Although I greatly doubt it. May I?’ He indicated the armchair.
‘Of course. Have a seat.’
He took off his top hat and placed it on the table, unbuttoned his coat and draped it over the backrest, slung a flat leather briefcase from his shoulder and dropped it onto the seat. Precise and effective movements.
He remained standing, and straightened his spine. ‘Your payment.’ The gold coin dropped onto the polished surface of her coffee table, spun, and fell flat on its face. ‘The other…special service I demand is honesty. How much will that cost me?’
She laughed. ‘You demand honesty? Here? Mr Sévère, I must have entirely misjudged you. I believed you to be a man used to spending a substantial part of his income on drinking, gambling, and women like me, one who would know just how much honesty can be found in an establishment like this one.’
‘I do enjoy brandy, but I never gamble without knowing the outcome of the game in advance. And I do indeed spend money on willing women, although I’ve never met one quite like you.’
She tapped her fingers against her lips, feigning a yawn. ‘Now I’m bored. Is it my unblemished skin? My long, black hair? The swell of my hips? The fullness of my lips, which, when I part them lightly, as now, makes you want to slide your cock into my mouth? My breasts, perhaps, that can provide the same service?’
‘All of those, and yet, none.’
Sighing, she sat down on the armrest. ‘What do you want from me, Mr Sévère?’
‘As I said, I wish to bed you and I demand honesty. I’ll know when you lie. Your moans will mean nothing to me.’ The lies came easily. In fact, he did want her to moan into his mouth, around his cock, into the pillows. And, by God, he wanted her to beg him for mercy. The thought made him hard.
‘Ah. I know what it is,’ she said and connected her gaze with his. ‘I am free. I’ve won. You’ve lost. And now you wish to know what really happened with poor Alexander. You believe I will tell you. Oh my.’
‘I care little about Mr Easy’s death.’
‘You lie, it’s written in your face. But that is nothing unusual. All men lie when they enter my room. You see, Mr Sévère, I am honest with you already. It is quite refreshing, I must say.’
Sévère found that he could barely contain himself. He was certain that there was much more to her than what met the eye, that she must have pushed Easy over the edge, cold-bloodedly sped up his death, and then dumped him. To Sévère, Mary was the most beautiful monster he’d ever laid eyes on. He wanted to dissect her, to rip her open. His animalistic side tugged hard on its leash and he was somewhat shocked by his strange reaction to her.
❧
Mary considered his request. She took in his expression — detached at first glance, but gazing deeper, there was a darkness coiled up and waiting to pounce.
Her gaze slid over his shoulder toward an invisible spot in the air and she wondered how he wished to torture her and if she should allow it. A man who demanded her honesty wouldn’t wish to be seduced, wooed, praised. Such a man would want to force himself on a woman, and revel in her screams.
She wondered what she might charge should she grant his request.
‘I will consider it,’ she finally said. ‘Wine?’
‘Yes, please.’
She stood and poured wine into two glasses and offered him one. Neither of them sat down to drink. They appeared like two large cats trapped in a cage — he standing with poise; she fluidly pacing the room.
She had to admit to herself that she was scared. The man exuded danger. Your moans mean nothing to me. If she were to be honest, she would have to tell him she was scared. But such admissions turned men like him into…beasts. They loved it, the squirming and screeching, the begging, sobbing.
The more she thought about it, the more furious she grew.
This man must have loved the thought of her being locked up. What a disappointment her release must have been to him.
Very well, if he demanded her honesty, he should have it!
She emptied her glass. ‘My decision is made. The price for my honesty is this: Undress. Lie down.’ She pointed to the bed.
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘That doesn’t quite sound like a price to me.’
‘I expect it doesn’t.’
She watched him as he unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, as he smoothed back his hair with one hand while the other held the cane he was leaning on. He unbuckled his belt and sat, pushed his trousers down his healthy leg and then the weaker one. Her eyes followed the line of his spine when he bent down to untangle his trousers from his left ankle. The vertebrae in his lower back seemed to have drifted sideways a little.
He dropped his socks and sock garters on the floor, pushed down his drawers and stood. He didn’t seem to feel awkward in his nakedness. But then, it would have surprised her if he had. Despite the disadvantage his left leg gave him, he appeared able to pounce at a victim without difficulty. When he limped to her bed, the muscles in his back and long legs rippled.
She licked her lips in anticipation. ‘Lie on your stomach.’
He stopped in his tracks, and cast a glance over his shoulder.
‘Second thoughts, Mr Sévère?’
He knelt on the bed and stretched out his body. His feet twitched when he heard her move behind him. He tensed when she sat on his buttocks, knees on either side of him. Her hands brushed along his sides and up his arms. She lifted her dress and scooted farther up, spread her legs wider, and pressed her unclothed sex between his shoulder blades.
He exhaled gruffly into her pillow, and she used the moment of distraction to quickly bind his right wrist to the bedpost.
‘What…’
‘Ssshh…’ she blew against his earlobe, licked the soft dusting of blonde hair at the back of his neck, and tied his left wrist to the other bedpost. She ran her fingers down along his spine, his buttocks, his balls. His skin answered to her touch, pulling tight, raising goose pimples.
‘Beautiful trim arse,’ she said, and, swift as a rat, she flipped around and tied first the ankle of his healthy leg to one bedpost and then the weaker leg to the other.
‘Second thoughts, Mr Sévère?’ she whispered and gave his rear a gentle smack.
‘Now that you mention it… I think I might.’ He tested the binds. The na
rrow leather bands held.
‘You see, it is too late for that. You asked for the price of my honesty. I will be honest now. The price is pain and humiliation.’
‘You forgot to gag me. I’ll scream. The police will come.’
She laughed a deep, throaty laugh, and stretched out next to him, her fingers playing with the sensitive skin of his lower back.
‘Do you want me to gag you? Ah no, my dear Sévère. I wish to hear you scream. The neighbours won’t mind. They are used to it. You should hear the screeching of a maiden when she discovers what seduction really means. No one will bother to save you. And if you think your wounds will be evidence for a crime, I must disappoint you. Many gentlemen pay for punishment. The police will assume you asked for it. I am not an expert in flogging, so I apologise in advance should I cause any form of…lasting damage.’
With that, she picked up his leather belt and cracked it against his backside.
Sévère bit into the pillow to muffle a groan.
‘Perhaps you wonder why I’m doing this to you?’ she asked sweetly.
‘I might,’ he grunted.
She hit him three more times before she replied, ‘Why do you think it is a woman’s problem when your prick itches?’ And she hit him again and again until he finally cried out with every lash.
‘Damn…you…witch! You should be…ah!…locked up in an asylum! You are…mad…dammit! Stop it already!’
‘I will stop when I am satisfied,’ she said, her breath heavy from the exertion.
‘If you plan to kill me, be quick about it!’
‘Killing?’ She laughed. ‘One doesn’t die so easily.’
She drew the belt across his skin again and again, marking him with broad, red stripes.
Unwilling to disgrace himself even further with cries of pain, he pressed his face deep into the pillow.
