Keeper of Pleas

by A. Wendeberg

  Sévère removed his hat, ruffled his hair, and folded his hands in his lap. His eyes rested on Mary. ‘Now,’ he said.

  With an impatient movement of her hand, she wiped a wet gap onto the clouded window. She needed to gaze at something other than Sévère’s inquisitive, sharp eyes. ‘Men lie about their names. I get a lot of visits from Messrs Smith, for example. But Alexander Easy did not lie to me once.’

  ‘You know this from reading the case files, of course.’

  ‘They confirmed what I already knew, or believed to know. You see, the more lies a prostitute is able to detect, the longer she lives. I’m skilled at staying alive.’

  For a short moment, his gaze drifted out of focus. He nodded. ‘Can you tell me anything that’s not in the files?’

  ‘You want me to detail Mr Easy’s skills in the bedchamber?’

  Sévère slapped his thigh and laughed. It surprised her. She was certain she’d never seen him laugh freely.

  ‘Honesty suits you,’ she said, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘As I’ve told you already.’

  ‘Doesn’t it suit us all? I can’t imagine it helps you much, though. To know when a man lies, that is. Most are expected to produce a string of lies when they enter your room. How would it help you to know, for example, whether a man is dangerous?’

  ‘I know that you are dangerous.’

  ‘I can assure you that I am not.’

  ‘Be that as it may.’ She turned her attention back to the window, the droplets of water crawling down its cold surface. ‘The lies men tell me concern only the superficial. Their names, where they come from, what they do for a living. It’s of no consequence. Beyond these lies, I get to see their true nature. You wouldn’t believe the things they tell me. All the dirty secrets men don’t dare tell their wives. In general, it’s never the wife who knows her husband, it’s the whore. I get to see the naked man, inside and out. You, for example.’ She shot a sharp glance at him. ‘You are a liar through and through. You resent your position as a coroner. I’m guessing it’s because of Division H’s new superintendent, who is even hastier with his warrants than his predecessors. Or is it because the bunch of imbeciles the magistrate employs as plainclothes detectives spoils the fun of your investigations? Don’t look so surprised. Don’t believe all fallen women are uneducated and stupid. Besides, certain news spreads quickly among…shady individuals.’

  ‘Well…’ Sévère produced a quick smile. ‘For people who can and do read the papers, it must be common knowledge that coroners don’t mix well with the police force.’

  ‘You want me to tell you something about you that’s not common knowledge?’ She bent forward and lowered her voice. ‘Something only a woman can know?’

  ‘Try me.’

  She let herself sink against the backrest. ‘The question is, what you are willing to pay for an answer.’

  ‘Oh dear God, not this again!’ He threw up his hands in mock terror. ‘You promised not to bring your whip.’

  ‘I don’t require a whip. However, I’m afraid I might lose my chance to investigate this most intriguing case with you, because what I’ll say might disturb you.’

  ‘I promise I will hold up my end of our bargain. Besides, I’m not so easily disturbed.’

  She held out her hand. ‘Very well, let’s seal it with a handshake.’

  ‘Without spittle, certainly?’

  ‘No. There’s no spitting in first class.’

  He took her hand and gave it a good squeeze. ‘Now, tell me my darkest secrets.’

  ‘You are too easy to lure in.’ She brushed a few crinkles from her lap and cleared her throat. ‘You are unmarried. Quite unusual for a man in his thirties and of high social standing. The reason is rather unusual, too. Pride, aggression, arrogance. You are unable to share your life with anyone but yourself, and even this seems difficult for you. There is a darkness lurking behind your irises. A darkness that makes me wish to never again meet you alone at night. I believe you have what it takes to be a murderer — the will to control someone’s life and death, and the courage and coldness to do so.’

  Slowly, he exhaled. ‘You are wrong on all accounts.’

  ‘I believe I am not.’ She blinked and changed the topic. ‘Alexander Easy said he was a widower of six years. That he missed his wife terribly and had never before visited a woman of my profession — that’s how he put it.’

  Mary uncrossed her arms, unsure how to proceed. She watched how Sévère allowed a trace of expectation to show in his face, while remaining friendly and open. The impatience that must be twisting his insides was invisible. She wondered which mask he put on at court.

  ‘I knew before reading your notes that he is…was a mortician,’ she said.

  ‘He told you this?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. I could smell it. In his hair and on his hands.’

  Sévère’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘The hair on his head. Not the other,’ she muttered.

  ‘Who would have guessed.’

  ‘Putrefaction and embalmment liquid, I believe. A mere whiff. He must have washed before he came to me.’

  ‘Obviously. He’d worked on a bloated corpse only hours earlier.’

  ‘You repeatedly attempt to rattle my composure. I wonder why that is.’

  Sévère did not reply, so she continued, ‘Alexander Easy arrived at my door in a fashion that suggested he came on a whim, that he didn’t plan it in the least. He must have left his home, perhaps, and simply drifted in an…unexpected direction. I greatly doubt he read any of the city’s nightlife guides. He’s not a man of that…was, I mean… Anyway. He must have walked past the only billboard that advertises Madame Rousseau’s. It’s an old, tattered thing, at Charlotte’s and York. He couldn’t have seen it from a cab. The address is torn off. Your witnesses from the public house told the truth when they testified they’d seen Mr Easy that evening and had told him how to find me.’

  Sévère’s lips curled to a smirk. He gave a slight nod. ‘Charlotte’s and York, you say? Why would he walk through the slums?’

  ‘And I keep wondering why anyone would advertise Madame Rousseau’s at that squalid corner,’ she said, absentmindedly. ‘Alexander got lost. And then he found me.’

  ‘And then he died.’

  ‘He died a happy man. He was extraordinary lonely. But when he died, he was happy. Or as close to happy as he could be.’

  Sévère regarded her, his curiosity attempting to burn a hole into his stomach. But his main question had to wait a little longer. Why dispose of him?

  ❧

  ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ Mary said when they exited Redhill station and walked up to a trap with an old donkey tied to its shafts. ‘According to the inquest notes, you kept referring to the offender as male, although it might be more likely that the mother of the infants is the murderer.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Sévère called up to the man in the worm-eaten driver’s seat. ‘We are looking for a nursery.’

  ‘Plants or children?’ he barked, his long pipe precariously close to dropping from his mouth.

  ‘Apple trees,’ Mary provided.

  ‘Fifteen minute walk that way.’ The man jerked his brush of a beard somewhat ahead of him, or perhaps leftish or rightish, one couldn’t be sure. He threw a measuring stare at the two town people before him and grunted. ‘Or a three-minute drive. Costs a shilling, mind.’

  Mary looked at Sévère and down his left leg.

  ‘We walk,’ he said.

  ‘You are stubborn, Sévère.’

  ‘And you have a death wish.’

  Mary squeezed his arm and they set off. ‘I merely keep my end of our bargain.’

  Sévère looked up at the sky. ‘You do indeed. You asked why I referred to the offender as male. Call it political reasons. Every jury comprises respectable middle-class men who seem to be unable to convict the fair sex for crimes of murder or manslaughter. They would wish to believe that temporary insanity wa
s the cause, or that, despite the evidence, the victims were born dead. If I had referred to the offender as female, the jury would have likely arrived at the verdict “concealment of birth,” and that won’t do. In the past twelve months alone, two hundred thirty-five infants have been found dead in Middlesex, and barely a hundred women have been charged. Only five of them were charged with manslaughter, the rest with concealment of birth. The verdict here is unlawful killing in nine cases, which gives me the freedom to investigate further and find the murderer. Had the verdict been concealment of birth, the involvement of a coroner and his officers would be unlawful. It is even possible that the magistrate would then deem the inquest unnecessary and disallow my fees. He tries that as often as he possibly can.’ Sévère showed Mary a sour smile.

  ‘He can do that? I believed coroners were independent from the police.’

  ‘Yes and no. The office of coroner is much older than the police. It dates back to the twelfth century. But — and this is the unfortunate part — since the invention of police, there have never been any statutory definitions on the intersecting responsibilities of police and coroner. Police believe they are modern and coroners are outdated. For decades now, magistrates have tried to exercise control over coroner inquests, which form the core of our work. If the magistrates and the Metropolitan Police could do as they please, I would be an anecdote in a museum.’

  They came to a halt at a small stone house. A thin layer of snow covered the straw roof, a row of poplars waved their scrawny twigs in the wind. Smoke curled up from the chimney and was whisked away by the icy breeze.

  ‘Here we are,’ Sévère said and pointed at a wooden board nailed to the fence.

  MacDoughall’s

  Plant Nursery

  ‘Any preferences for a fake surname?’ he asked, as he opened the garden gate for her.

  ‘Jenkins,’ she answered. ‘He’s the milkman.’

  Sévère raised his cane and tapped the front door. His knock was answered quickly. The door creaked open and a wave of warmth touched Mary’s face.

  ‘Good day to you. I am Gavriel Sévère, Coroner of Eastern Middlesex, and this is Mrs Mary Jenkins, my assistant. We have questions regarding a recent case of infanticide in London Whitechapel. May we come in?’

  The woman swallowed, and pressed the bundle she was holding closer to her bosom. A tiny fist stretched up and clutched a strand of her hair that had come undone. She stepped aside and beckoned them in.

  As Sévère placed the flowerpot on the ground, Mary inhaled the scents of fresh, warm bread and melting butter. She smiled at the woman. ‘Is smells very good here. Reminds me of my own home.’

  The woman seemed to wake from her shock. ‘Oh, yes, well. Um…’

  A man rumbled through the back door, wiping his hands on his trousers. ‘Celia, I saw someone—’ His gaze fell on Sévère and Mary. ‘May I enquire what two strangers are doing in my house?’

  Sévère repeated his introduction. The man’s expression darkened. He indicated a well-worn table with four well-worn chairs. ‘Have a seat, please. Celia, bring tea. Give me the little one for the moment.’

  Chairs scraped over polished floorboards. Sévère leant his cane against the table, sat, and folded his hands. ‘Mister MacDoughall, I assume?’

  ‘Are we suspects?’

  ‘No, of course you are not. I was hoping you could provide me with information on this sapling. It is evidence in a crime we are investigating. Do the pot and the tree look familiar to you?’

  The man threw a glance at the small tree. ‘Well, I know what it is, if that’s what you mean. It’s an apple tree.’

  ‘Would you take a closer look, please?’

  With the child in one arm, he squatted down and ran his fingers up the stem and back down. He inspected the grafting knot and the bare roots. ‘Why is it without soil?’

  ‘The soil and what it contained is kept as evidence in London. Does the pot or the tree look familiar to you?’

  ‘Not the pot, no. But the tree could be one of mine. The grafting looks quite similar to my own.’

  ‘Quite similar or identical?’ Sévère asked.

  ‘Isn’t that the same?’

  ‘No, it is not. Similar indicates that it has not been done by you, but by someone who grafts in the same fashion. Identical means it has most likely or definitely been done by you.’

  ‘Looks like mine, but I couldn’t swear upon it,’ the man said, and rose. The child in his arms squeaked.

  Celia MacDoughall placed the teapot on the table, left, and returned with four mugs. ‘The goat is dry and the honey harvest was poor this year,’ she explained the lack of milk and something to sweeten the brew. She sat down next to her husband, who offered her the whimpering bundle. She unbuttoned her blouse. At once, the hungry complaints were silenced and replaced by small smacking noises.

  ‘May I use your privy? I’m with child and, despite its smallness, I have the impression it sits on my bladder day in, day out.’ Mary dropped her gaze to the floor.

  ‘Oh. Certainly,’ Mrs MacDoughall said, and nodded to the back door. ‘Through the corridor, straight ahead and out into the backyard. You can’t miss it.’

  Mary thanked the MacDoughalls, and left the room. Through the shut door she heard the husband mutter, ‘You employ a woman who is in the family way?’

  She scanned the short corridor. There was a door ahead of her, one to the right and one to the left. She opened the one to her left and peeked in. A tiny room, clad with shelves that were filled with a number of small crocks. It smelled of lard, smoked meat, old wood, beeswax, and pickles. She retreated and opened the door behind her. A larger room that smelled of vinegar, dust, and, faintly, of urine. A bed with two blankets and a lamb skin. A bucket with a nappy in it. She stepped forward and sniffed at it. It was the source of the vinegar and piss smell.

  Crammed between the bed and the window was a smaller pallet. A pile of blankets began to stir and two large, dark eyes peeked out. ‘Hello. Are you an angel?’ a faint voice croaked.

  ‘Hello. Are you an owl? Your eyes are as big as an owl’s.’ Mary smiled and stepped closer. She dipped her index finger against the small nose. It was hot. The child coughed.

  ‘Am I dying already? Mother said I won’t. She said I have a cold, not the flu.’

  ‘You will be all right in a few days. Will you keep our secret?’

  ‘Secret?’

  ‘That I came to visit you.’

  A small nod.

  Gifting him her sweetest smile, she brushed a strand of hair off his moist forehead. ‘Rest well, dear.’

  She left the family’s bedroom and opened the last of the three doors. The cold made her cheeks tingle. She stepped out into the backyard and followed the narrow walkway. Left and right grew bushes of gooseberry, currant, and others she couldn’t identify.

  Next to the privy, a hawthorn held its red fruits into the winter wind. She touched the berries, their black, prickly navels and white snow caps. The sun stood low in the trees, its milky light seeping through the branches.

  When she walked back into the house, silence greeted her. The husband was bent over a journal filled with slanted handwriting. Sévère watched. The wife nursed her infant.

  Mary sat, wrapped her frozen fingers around the tea mug, and pushed the hawthorn berry around in her mouth. With her teeth she scraped the thin layer of flesh off the pit and began to chew. The hawthorn berry turned into a bland mush, and, after a minute or two of chewing, it gave off a pulse of short-lived sweetness. Mary swallowed. The infant demanded the other breast, and soon fell into a satiated slumber.

  MacDoughall turned the journal around and pushed it toward Sévère. ‘There is no entry for the sale of seven apple tree saplings. Not for the past year, or the year before.’

  Sévère scanned the journal, extracted his notebook and pencil and jotted down all bulk sales from the past twenty-four months. ‘You have six regulars here who purchased a number of fruit trees from you. W
ould you mind writing down their full names, addresses, and where they sell your trees?’ He held out his notebook. MacDoughall frowned, scratched his ear, and began to write.

  While MacDoughall worked, Sévère addressed the wife. ‘A very healthy child. How many do you have?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Where is the other one?’

  ‘School.’

  ‘A boy, then?’

  ‘Yes.’ She arranged her blouse and looked Sévère straight in the eye. ‘You said we are not suspects.’

  ‘You aren’t. But I do consider every possibility. Do you know of a woman who appeared to have been with child several times, but was never seen with an infant of her own? Or a woman who’s taking in infants for a fee?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘In which way precisely was my question unclear?’

  ‘I don’t know of any such woman,’ Celia MacDoughall answered.

  ‘My grandfather was a beekeeper, too,’ Mary said, and all eyes were on her, faces unable to conceal the puzzlement. ‘I saw the bee skeps in your back yard. I was little when he passed away.’ She cleared her throat and dropped her gaze.

  ‘We are no beekeepers,’ Mr MacDoughall muttered. ‘Well, weren’t until a few months ago. Our neighbour, Mr Hunt, sold us his bees for very little money.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Mary asked.

  ‘His wife died and he couldn’t tend to the daughter all by himself. She’s deaf and in a workhouse now, I believe. Hunt moved away. His property is for sale.’

  ‘Mr MacDoughall, did you ever have a burglary? Did anyone ever steal trees from you?’ Sévère asked.

  ‘No. Not that I can recall. Oh, yes! Someone took a few of our prized roses. When was that, Celia?’

  ‘Summer, six years ago. It was a very dry summer.’

  ‘Hm. Yes. That it was.’

  ‘No thefts in the past two years?’ Sévère asked again.

  ‘No.’ MacDoughall scratched his ear. He’d been scratching that ear for quite a while. ‘Well, some imbecile raided our herb garden last year. But no trees were taken.’