Keeper of Pleas

by A. Wendeberg

  A rap at the door. ‘Come in, please,’ she called.

  A young man in his twenties entered, swept off his hat with a grand gesture, and crooned, ‘My princess!’

  ‘Good evening, Simon.’

  Simon dropped his coat, scarf, hat, and gloves. ‘I’m parched,’ he said, placed a gold coin on the table, and poured them wine.

  ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Gory anatomy practice. But next year I’ll have my first patients.’ He eyed her dress, obviously searching for a clue as to what she might have planned for tonight.

  She placed her feet into his lap. ‘Muscles and fasciae.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you find it too difficult?’

  He blew through his nose. ‘No, not at all. First, second, or third layer?’

  She leant forward. ‘Can one even reach the third layer without a knife?’

  He gazed at her ankle. How neatly it fit into his hands. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Well, then. Do the first. Bones, too, if you please.’ She nodded at him, and leant back.

  He pulled off her boots, and let his hands slide up her long legs. His fingers unhooked her garters and pulled down her stockings.

  His eyelids sunk lower as he gingerly probed her flesh with his thumbs. The soft, inside portion of her sole. ‘Flexor helices brevis,’ he muttered.

  He drew a line to the outside of her foot, down toward her heel. ‘Fibularis longus.’ His index and middle finger traced the arch of her foot and he looked up at her, whispering, ‘First cuneiform bone, second cuneiform bone, third cuneiform bone, cuboid bone. Are we doing the foot or all lower extremities?’

  ‘There are more than a hundred muscles in the foot, and you’ve identified only two. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘Damn.’

  Some time between caressing her Abductor digiti minimi and the distal phalanx of her small toe with his right hand, he managed to extend his explorations with his left hand all the way up to the soft hollow of her knee. When he muttered, ‘semitendinosus,’ and, ‘gracilis,’ she moaned and slid down in her armchair, offering him access to her thighs.

  ‘Mons pubis,’ he said softly, and then, ‘Labia minor.’

  ‘You forgot something, Simon.’

  ‘Clitoris,’ he sighed.

  Simon left past midnight. Mary curled up in her bed, exhausted. Before she fell asleep, the strings of evidence seemed to tangle her mind. She pictured the case like a ball of yarn a cat had used as a toy.

  What did one do with such a chaos?

  Undo it.

  ‘We have to begin anew,’ she whispered.

  ❧

  ‘Sévère, I’ve examined it from all angles. It’s the only option left.’ She blushed and added, ‘I believe.’

  She emptied her cup and placed it back on his desk. Cigar smoke curled up thickly from the ashtray.

  ‘Do you ever smoke it or do you just leave it smouldering there?’

  ‘I never smoke.’ Frowning, Sévère opened his pocket watch. ‘Half past eleven. Do you have any plans for today?’

  ‘Not before seven o’clock in the evening.’

  ‘Let us visit Mr Bunting, then.’ He stood, and grabbed his crutch.

  ❧

  ‘But I’ve told you this already. All of it.’ Mr Bunting spoke a little too loud, his eyes wide open as if to compensate for his poor hearing. His ear trumpet was directed at Sévère, then swivelled to the housekeeper, who stood at the door, kneading her apron. ‘Mrs Hopegood gave you the exact same information under oath as I did. What else could we possibly help you with?’

  ‘I was hoping that time had stirred up a piece of memory. A small detail that might seem unimportant to you. Something about the man who sold you the trees.’

  ‘Stirred what?’ Bunting said.

  Sévère scooted his chair closer to the man, leant forward and said loudly, ‘I hoped that time might help your memory. Do you recall something more about the man who sold you the trees? A detail that you haven’t mentioned previously. Something that might appear unimportant to you.’

  ‘Coroner, I am an old man. Time doesn’t stir up my memory, it muddles it.’

  Mary felt as though Bunting had kicked her in the gut. ‘May I use your privy?’ she whispered, trying to control her excitement. ‘My apologies, but…I suffer from a…weakness of the bladder.’

  ‘Excuse me? What did the lady say?’ Bunting shouted.

  Mary walked up to Bunting, lowered her mouth to his ear trumpet and repeated her request.

  Bunting turned a shade of burgundy, and flicked his hand at Mrs Hopegood.

  Mary was led downstairs and through a corridor. ‘Poor Mr Bunting. Suffering from rheumatism all these years,’ she said.

  ‘It didn’t used to be this bad. He was much better this past summer, when I entered his employ. The chilly weather has made it worse. To the right, please, Mrs Jenkins.’

  They walked through the back door, and toward the servant’s privy. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hopegood. I am really sorry about this, but I simply can’t help it.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Mrs Hopegood said. ‘Will you find your way back?’

  ‘Oh most certainly!’ Mary pulled the door closed and hoisted up her skirts. She listened to Mrs Hopegood’s exceedingly slow retreat. Mary suspected the woman to be eavesdropping, so she squeezed out what her bladder contained, added a few relieved sighs, and muttered, ‘Christ! Not my guts again!’ Then she wet her lips, pressed her palm against them and produced a very crude sound.

  Mrs Hopegood shut the backdoor noisily.

  Mary counted to twenty and left the privy. She quietly pushed down on the handle and pulled open the back door. Sévère’s low voice trickled down the stairwell.

  Her eyes scanned the corridor. There was a door to her right; she tried it. It opened. Bookshelves on the left, two windows on the opposite wall. A fireplace, a desk, an armchair. No flowers. She stuck her head back out into the hallway and pricked her ears. No one was descending the stairs.

  Mary took a deep breath and disappeared into Mr Bunting’s office.

  ❧

  ‘Are you feeling better, Mrs Jenkins?’ Sévère enquired upon her return.

  ‘I am, thank you.’ She sat, squeezed his arm, and slipped a note into his hand.

  Sévère gazed down at the crumpled paper and unfolded it. For a long moment, he said nothing.

  ‘Will that be all, Coroner?’ Bunting enquired.

  Sévère looked at Mary and whispered, ‘Do you have it on you?’

  She nodded, and patted her skirts.

  Sévère grabbed his crutch as if to leave, stopped himself and looked at Bunting, ‘That will be all, Mr Hunt.’

  Bunting nodded and smiled.

  Sévère leant back.

  Bunting frowned. ‘You have another question?’

  Mary waited, hoping that Sévère would repeat the test, because Bunting might believe he’d misheard, or, indeed, had not heard the name “Hunt” properly.

  ‘I forgot to ask your age. A mere formality.’

  ‘Three-and-sixty.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hunt.’

  Mary threw a glance at the housekeeper, who was looking at the scene in puzzlement. A cough pulled her attention back to Bunting.

  ‘My name is Bunting. Rupert Bunting.’

  ‘You lived in Redhill until summer the previous year, is that correct?’

  Bunting paled, blinked, and shook his head slowly.

  ‘Mr Hunt, assuming a fake identity and failing to reveal the truth when interrogated by the police is fraud. If you do not cooperate with us, I must ask the magistrate to issue a warrant at once. If you are found guilty, you will spend up to two years in prison.’

  Bunting unstoppered his ear and placed the trumpet on his lap. Then he muttered, ‘I love her.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Sévère said.

  Bunting looked up at his housekeeper. ‘I believe our guests wish to leave now. Would you sh
ow them to the door, Mrs Hopegood?’

  ‘Mr Hunt,’ Sévère bent forward. ‘You will answer my questions here, or in the House of Detention.’

  Bunting looked out the window.

  Mary touched Sévère’s elbow, and gave a slight jerk of her head.

  ‘Show it to me,’ he said.

  She stuffed her hand into the folds of her skirts and extracted a small, red volume with a bee printed on the cover.

  THE BRITISH BEE-KEEPER’S GUIDE BOOK

  Sévère took it from her and opened it. A receipt was tucked into the book.

  _____________________________

  British Bee Journal. The Beekeepers’ Record

  23, Bedford Street, Strand,

  London, W.C. 2, 4. July 1879

  Received of ___ Rupert W. Hunt ___ the Sum of

  ___ Three Shillings ___

  for The Beekeepers’ Records, June 1878 to July 1879

  _____________________________

  On the inside cover an inscription read:

  Property of Rupert W. Hunt. Redhill Apiary

  Sévère rose and said, ‘I will keep this as evidence. Mrs Hopegood, may I speak with you in private?’

  She paled, and staggered back onto the landing. Sévère followed.

  ‘I must ask you to not leave your lodgings, else you’ll both be sent to the House of Detention until your case is heard. I doubt Mr Hunt’s rheumatism will take lightly to a cold cell.’

  ‘B…but…’

  ‘At the very least, you are an accessory to fraud.’

  ‘I… He said he forgets things. When he saw the…the skull. He said he’s afraid the police will detain him if he can’t give a clear statement.’

  ‘He told you to lie for him?’ Sévère was shocked about his own lack of skill. How could he have missed the dishonesty of the housekeeper?

  She shook her head violently. ‘No, he did not! When I began working for Mr Bunting, I asked him about the trees on the balcony. He told me he had purchased them a few days earlier at Covent Garden. Even mentioned how nice the man was who’d sold them to him. And then in December…’ she heaved a sigh. Her fingers twitched on her crumpled apron. ‘I found the skull and I screamed, and he asked, “What is it?” So I told him — showed him — and he looked like he was about to faint. He stammered something I didn’t quite understand, and I said he mustn’t worry about the police — the vendor must have put the skull there. He looked all flustered at me and said, “What vendor?” So I told him what he’d told me in summer, and he nodded and said, “Yes, yes, I believe that is correct. My mind is all muddled these days.” And then he asked me to repeat it once more, so he could give a clear statement.’

  Sévère, relieved that he’d not been entirely blind after all, huffed. ‘You withheld information, Mrs Hopegood, and you interfered with a murder investigation. Did it never occur to you that your employer might have put the bodies there?’

  Her eyes grew wide. ‘No! Not Mr Bunting. He cannot have… No. He’s no murderer. I am absolutely certain.’

  ‘Be that as it may, your employer is now the prime suspect in my infanticide investigation. I have to remind you that neither of you is allowed to leave the house until the police take your statements regarding the identity fraud. I will issue a warrant for Mr Hunt, and my officer and I will return shortly and take him into custody.’

  ❧

  While Sévère was speaking, Mary kept her eyes on Hunt. He let his gaze stray toward her, and, seeing that he was being watched, flicked it back out the window.

  From the corner of her vision, Mary noticed Sévère waiting behind the half-open door. It was time.

  ‘Mr Hunt?’ she said, approached, and knelt in front of him.

  He blinked at her in puzzlement, snatched his trumpet, and put it to his ear.

  ‘You must miss your bees,’ she said. ‘Your rheumatism must be so painful. Did you let them sting you? Did you snatch one or two, and rub them over your joints?’

  A smile flickered across his face. His gaze lost its focus for a moment.

  ‘The scents of honey and wax and resin during a hot summer day. You must have loved it.’

  ‘I did,’ he croaked.

  ‘I saw your bee skeps at MacDoughall’s. There was no roof protecting them from the rain. I was sorry to see them half soaked.’

  Hunt dipped his head. A tear welled up and lost itself in the wrinkles of his face.

  Mary waited.

  Hunt’s chest heaved, his gaze connected with hers and he said. ‘She gave me no choice.’

  ‘Who?’

  A deep, rattling sigh. ‘I will say no more.’ He jerked his head toward the door. ‘He can arrest me. I don’t care.’

  ‘Did you kill those nine children, Mr Hunt?’ Her voice was clear and strong, but to her it seemed vulgar to speak so.

  Hunt gazed at her, then at Sévère who had stepped from the landing back into the room and now leant against the doorframe.

  Hunt seemed to brace himself, inhaled, and said, ‘Yes, it was me.’

  A squeal issued from the landing. A heavy thump followed. Sévère limped back to Mrs Hopegood’s side to pat her cheek and mutter her name.

  Mary stood. ‘Thank you for your patience, Mr Hunt. I believe the coroner will arrest you now.’ She walked up to Sévère and said, ‘I will see to her.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and entered the room. Mary held Mrs Hopegood’s head and felt for injuries. There was a slight bump on the side of her head. Her lashes twitched and her eyes opened. ‘Will he be arrested?’ she said hoarsely.

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘What about me? Will he take me too?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. Don’t fret now, Mrs Hopegood. Try to sit. Slowly. There. Would you like something to drink?’

  ‘Yes, that would… Yes, please.’

  Mary went down to the kitchen, fetched a mug, filled it with cold tea she found in a pot, and brought it to Mrs Hopegood who seemed to recover with every sip.

  She heard the two men approach the landing. When she looked up, she saw a trace of horror in Sévère’s face. Climbing the stairs with his crutch hadn’t been too hard, but descending it with a suspect who could barely walk himself was outright impossible.

  She rose and scanned first Sévère: one crutch, an injured knee. And then Mr Hunt: two canes, a bent body, clumsy feet.

  ‘Perhaps the gentlemen might offer me an arm?’ she asked, and held out both elbows.

  Sévère frowned at Mary’s slight figure, and shook his head.

  ‘Mrs Hopegood,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘would you be so kind as to help Mr Hunt down the stairs?’

  Mrs Hopegood grunted, ‘Of course,’ but didn’t seem to be able to rise.

  Mary leant close to Sévère and whispered. ‘Swallow your stupid pride. I’ll help you down the stairs, and then I’ll bring you Mr Hunt.’

  She grabbed his elbow and took the first step down. Sévère followed, trying to put as little weight as possible on his left leg.

  During their slow descent, he spoke with a low voice so as not to be overheard, ‘Did you accidentally stumble into his office and happen to see a beekeeping book falling off a shelf and opening all by itself and you picked it up to put it back?’

  ‘Well…nearly. Mr Bunting’s statement about his muddled memory got me thinking about the pastries I bought at Regent’s Park last spring.’

  ‘Pastries.’ Sévère said as though he believed Mary had just lost her mind.

  ‘Yes, pastries. I remembered it was a woman who had sold them to me. They were extraordinarily delicious. A remarkable experience. I should remember the face and clothes of this woman, but I don’t. So I wondered how it was that Mrs Hopegood and Mr Bunting could recall the colour of the clothes of a man who had sold them seven apple trees several months earlier. Then I needed to use the privy, of course, and accidentally entered Mr Bunting’s office.’ She smirked at him.

  ‘And quite by accident,’ she continued, ‘a b
ook fell from the shelf, just as you’ve said. When I read the inscription, I realised that the “H” of “Hunt” could rather easily be changed into a “B” for “Bunting” in any identification papers the man might wish to have modified. And that bee-stings alleviate rheumatism, and that Bunting deteriorated after summer.’

  ‘After he moved to London.’

  They arrived in the hallway and Sévère grumbled, ‘You seem to fancy having two invalids on your hands.’

  ‘I’ve had worse days.’ She shrugged and went to help Mr Hunt down the stairs. Sévère clumsily pulled on his coat, and held Mary’s coat out for her.

  When the three were dressed, Sévère called up the stairs to remind Mrs Hopegood that she was not to leave the house, that he would have more questions for her later.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he asked Mr Hunt.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Are you ready?’ Sévère spoke loudly into Hunt’s ear.

  Mr Hunt set his jaw, and opened the front door.

  They hailed a cab, and the two men climbed into it awkwardly.

  ‘I take it you are not coming, Mrs Jenkins?’

  ‘No, thank you very much.’ With a glance at Hunt, she lowered her voice. ‘I remember the House of Detention and its damp prison cells well enough. That dreadful building should be torn down.’

  ‘The city is planning to demolish it,’ Sévère supplied.

  ‘Excellent. Goodbye, Mr Hunt, Coroner,’ Mary said in a clipped tone, and shut the door. She felt strangely empty. The case was solved, and yet, something didn’t sit quite right with her.

  —Second Act—

  in which a bargain is struck

  —Asylum—

  A sharp gust tore at Sévère’s coat. He unfurled his umbrella, and immediately regretted it as the wind turned it inside out and kicked his hat off his skull. He watched the clumsy trajectory of his accessory as it bounced off the back of an old lady and rolled several yards before it was picked up by a conductor.