by A. Wendeberg
‘Sir?’ he called to Sévère, and waved the hat at him.
Sévère held on to his crutch, growled something about February being too wet, stormy, and cold for anyone’s taste, and retrieved his hat from the conductor.
He stuffed the bent umbrella into his shoulder briefcase, and, holding onto his hat, left Sevenoaks train station as swiftly as his leg allowed. He made his way to a nearby cab and called, ‘To the asylum!’
A sheet of drizzle hid the driver. The horse shivered as the whip struck its back. And off it went, neck bent against the wind.
Sévère took little notice of his surroundings. He thought of Hunt and how the man had collapsed when he’d been identified by MacDoughall. Sévère had made sure that MacDoughall did not know why, precisely, he’d been summoned. All MacDoughall had been told was that more evidence had come forth, and a few issues needed to be clarified. When MacDoughall entered the room he found several detectives in plain clothes and the suspect, sitting around a table. As soon as he laid eyes on Hunt there was a look of shock and perhaps a trace of disgust in his expression, as though MacDoughall had suspected Hunt all along and this suspicion was now confirmed. But Sévère wasn’t quite certain if he’d observed correctly, and MacDoughall had refused to elaborate on his relationship with Hunt. They’d simply been neighbours who talked on occasion, that was all.
Since his arrest, Hunt’s lips had remained sealed. ‘I did it,’ was all he kept saying. Fortunately, an earlier telegram to the Redhill police station had resolved the whereabouts of Hunt’s daughter within a few hours. She was an inmate at Sevenoaks Asylum for Women.
Sévère turned up his collar. His knee ached only a little. He wondered when he could dump the crutch.
Swallow your stupid pride.
A low, ‘Ha!’ burst from his mouth.
The asylum was smaller than he’d imagined. It stood on a slope, an aged mansion clad in thick ivy, and surrounded by large, fenced-in premises.
Sévère, who’d announced his arrival via telegram that morning, was a little surprised when he was received by a flustered nun.
‘My apologies, coroner. Dr Faulkner has had an emergency. I’m Sister Grace. Please do come in.’
They entered a lobby, and Sister Grace offered Sévère an armchair at the window.
‘You’ve come because of Miss Hunt, I expect?’
‘Indeed. Can you tell me something about her?’
Sister Grace inhaled deeply. ‘It will be problematic to interview her, for you especially.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Men distress her. And she is deaf, we believe. It appears her family misinterpreted her hearing impairment. You see, they believed her to be an idiot. I detest this word, but it’s the term used by most people.’
Sévère pulled his notepad from his briefcase, and asked about the age and medical condition of Miss Hunt.
‘She is thirty-three and in good physical health. She was brought to us by her father this past summer. It seemed to pain him greatly to leave her here, but he said he couldn’t take care of her anymore. He said he was getting too old.’
She stared at her knees, frowning.
‘There is something else?’ Sévère asked softly.
Sister Grace shook her head, a jerk of the neck that appeared to shake off something repellent.
‘How many patients do you have here?’
‘Seventeen women, aged between twenty-one and sixty-four.’
‘What emergency is Dr Faulkner attending to?’
‘Oh.’ She waved her hand in dismissal. ‘Mrs Lewis shaved off the tip of her big toe down in the vegetable garden. She was turning the earth, you see. A trifle, really. But she faints at the sight of a single drop of blood, and there was rather a lot of it.’
‘She ran the spade through her boot?’
The Sister smiled. ‘No. She wore only stockings.’
‘Why had she been committed to your house?’
‘Uterine derangement.’
Sévère could only imagine what that meant. ‘I see. Your patients are free to roam the house and the premises?’
‘Our patients are not dangerous in the least. Their diagnoses are all linked to disturbances of the female sexual organs, such as insanity caused by child birth, by excessive menstruation, uterine derangement, masturbation, or fornication. We, that is we of the Religious Sisterhood of the Church of England, guide them back onto the path of Our Saviour. Once they find peace here, they are allowed to return home.’
‘Will Miss Hunt be allowed to leave?’
Sister Grace lowered her head. ‘I doubt it.’
‘But didn’t you say that her ailment is merely deafness?’
‘We believe that…that a man had relations with her without her consent, and that it was this that caused her insanity.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Marks,’ slipped from Sister Grace’s mouth. ‘On her stomach. From the stretching of the skin.’
Sévère sunk heavily against the backrest. ‘She’d been with child? How often, in your opinion?’
‘I cannot tell. Perhaps twice. More than once, I’m certain.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘Experience.’
‘I expect you found a way to communicate with Miss Hunt?’
‘Well, yes. But it is limited. We knock very loudly to let her know that we are about to enter her room. She feels it. The vibrations in the walls and the floor, I expect. It doesn’t help to call out to her. But knocking on the door or on the wall does. We found that hand signs work well enough.’
‘She can neither read nor write?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
‘Can’t you teach her?’
‘How? If I speak a word, she doesn’t hear it. How would she know what it means when I write it down for her? Besides, I also have other patients to oversee.’
‘Well, you could point at the wall and write down “wall,” for example.’ Sévère lifted his eyebrows in puzzlement.
Sister Grace opened her mouth, not quite sure how to reply, and was saved by approaching footfalls. Soon, a hatless and rather ruffled man appeared. ‘My apologies. You must be Coroner Sévère? I am Dr Faulkner.’
They shook hands. Faulkner leant against the windowsill and inhaled deeply. ‘Your telegram said you wish to see Miss Hunt. I’m afraid it is not possible.’
Sévère eyed Faulkner sharply.
‘Miss Hunt gets upset if a man enters her room. Besides, it will be futile to ask her anything. She’s deaf.’
‘What do you make of this fear of men?’
Faulkner pushed away from the window, and crossed the room. Sighing, he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Sister, you have a talent for explaining such matters. If you don’t mind?’
‘It is rather clear, I expect,’ Sister Grace began. ‘A woman wouldn’t need explaining. But a man does, it seems. Men scare her. She has learnt that men can’t be trusted. She’s had a child, if not two or three. This woman has seen years of suffering under the hands of a man. I thought I had made that clear.’
‘If you are so sure about that, why didn’t you report it to the police?’
Sister Grace snorted. ‘What good would it do to summon policemen who would ask questions she cannot answer? What good is it to call for a physician to examine her for signs of abuse, if she claws out his eyes when he attempts to touch her?’
Sévère grabbed his crutch and hoisted himself off the chair. ‘I need to take her statement. A case of unlawful killings hinges upon it.’
‘I cannot allow it,’ Dr Faulkner said.
Sévère leant demonstratively heavier on his crutch, and put on the kindest of expressions. ‘You can see I am a cripple. In no way am I a threat. Sister Grace will accompany me. If Miss Hunt protests, I will leave her room at once.’
‘No. Under no circumstances—’
‘We can try,’ Sister Grace said.
The doctor sighed. ‘Very well. She is your pa
tient.’
They walked down the corridor and stopped at a door. Sister Grace slammed her fist against the wood three times. She pushed Sévère gently aside so that he wouldn’t be visible. Then she opened the door, and said, ‘Hello Miss Hunt, I have brought a visitor.’ She was gesturing with her arms, pointing to herself, then she made a wave-like, searching movement with her arm toward Sévère, her hand groping for him. He took a step forward into full view. He made sure he looked smaller, friendlier, and very much crippled.
A woman was seated at a desk. She had a beautiful face, a straight, small nose, full lips, and high cheekbones. Her hair was pinned up in a simple knot. When her eyes met his, she shook her head, and pointed at him. Her mouth opened, producing a low, odd cry. He lowered his head a fraction, but kept his eyes on her.
Sister Grace approached the desk, speaking softly although everyone knew Miss Hunt could not hear her. But the movements of the Sister’s lips seemed to pull her attention away from Sévère.
He wondered if he should risk a step forward, but decided against it. One doesn’t catch a bird by flinging oneself at it.
Sister Grace signed and talked to Miss Hunt, and Miss Hunt signed back, her mouth moving, issuing strange noises.
‘She wants to know what happened to your leg.’
‘Recurring infantile paralysis,’ Sévère answered. He’d purposefully chosen the complicated words. It didn’t escape his notice how Miss Hunt squinted to follow the movement of his lips. She blinked, turned to Sister Grace, and shrugged.
Sister Grace tried to explain it as best she could, but after a few attempts she settled on injury or partial amputation. Sévère wasn’t sure which.
‘Would you ask her how many children she’s had and what has happened to them?’
This time, he couldn’t read Miss Hunt’s reaction. Her face was a mask of naïveté, painted with shadows. Sister Grace was translating, signing at her stomach, and pretending to rock a child in her arms, then pointing at herself and signing, ‘Zero.’ She pointed at Dr Faulkner and signed, ‘Three.’ Then she pointed at Miss Hunt.
Miss Hunt shook her head.
When her gaze met Sévère’s he said quietly, ‘You had nine children, and among them were two pairs of twins.’
Her face crumpled and she threw an ink bottle at him. Her scream was utterly inhuman, a howl that seemed to come from deep in her chest.
Sévère stepped back and out of view. He had only guessed that she might be able to read lips, and then had gone a step farther in suggesting she’d been the mother of the nine infants. A little stunned, he leant against the wall. Faulkner eyed him with suspicion.
When the shouting had lost its shrill intensity, Sévère called into the room, but avoided showing himself so as to not cause more screaming. ‘Sister Grace, would you please let Miss Hunt know that her father is in custody. He has confessed to the wilful killing of the nine infants. The trial will be held in three days in London and Miss Hunt’s statement is of utmost importance. In fact, I can apprehend her if she is not willing to cooperate.’
‘This has to stop now!’ Faulkner barked. ‘Sister Grace, leave Miss Hunt alone.’
‘Are you attempting to influence a witness, Dr Faulkner?’ Sévère warned. ‘Sister, please tell Miss Hunt what I said.’
With a voice that fought for self-control, Faulkner growled, ‘This woman has suffered enough, can’t you see that?’
‘Has she?’
The crash of what Sévère guessed was a chair told him that Miss Hunt had received his message. Her wail chilled his bones. Sister Grace screamed for help and Dr Faulkner rushed into the room, ignoring the onslaught of protest and flying items. A book skidded to a halt just outside the door.
Sévère peeked into the room. Faulkner and Sister Grace had wrestled Miss Hunt down on her bed, and tied her thrashing arms and legs. Three more Sisters hurtled down the corridor and entered Miss Hunt’s room, one of them carrying a cloth and a bottle of what Sévère suspected to be chloroform. A minute later, silence fell with a sigh.
—Inquest—
Sévère tapped his crutch against the wooden floor. The sound was dull. He much preferred the sharp, echoing knock of his cane. ‘The inquest is herewith opened. Officer Stripling will make the case for the prosecution.’
Stripling stepped onto the witness stand — improvised from a table and a chair — and placed his hand on the Bible.
‘I do solemnly and sincerely and truly declare that I will speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’
‘Thank you, Officer Stripling. If you would now outline the case for us, and read the witness statements that would justify the committal to trial of the accused, Mr Rupert Hunt.’
Stripling smartly snapped open his folder, smoothed the first page, and began with the seven flowerpots on a balcony of a house on Whitechapel Road, the statements of Mrs Hopegood and Mr Bunting/Hunt, the results of the postmortem examinations, and the statements of the naturalist, Mr Pouch.
Stripling was reading slowly and without enthusiasm. Nothing he said was new to anyone in the room. They had all heard it during the first inquest, and, if not, they had read it in the papers. People stifled yawns. The newspapermen, who were sitting at a long table before the jury and who had been scribbling away during the first few minutes of Stripling’s speech, now stretched their shoulders and checked their watches.
Sévère observed the struggles of a one-winged fly on the floor in front of him.
Stripling didn’t pause once, not even to take a sip of water.
Vestry Hall grew stuffy.
Anticipation rumbled through the hall when Stripling neared the end and read Sévère’s statement on the identity fraud of Mr Bunting/Hunt and his confession to the wilful killing of nine infants. Stripling shut the folder. A small cloud of dust rose in the murky light.
‘Is the jury satisfied with the evidence against the suspect to justify keeping him on remand until a verdict is given?’ Sévère asked.
The men of the jury looked at one another; all of them nodded. The spokesman stood and said, ‘The jury is satisfied with the evidence. The accused may be kept in custody.’
Sévère tapped his crutch against the floor. The fomp irritated him. ‘The inquest is adjourned until after lunch.’
An hour and a half later the jury moved back into Vestry Hall and took their places, the audience shuffled and pushed into their benches and chairs, and Sévère took his accustomed position at the centre of the spectacle. When the room became hushed, he stepped onto the witness stand, swore upon the Bible to speak the truth and nothing but the truth, and read the statements of Dr Faulkner and Sister Grace on Miss Hunt’s whereabouts and condition. That she was deaf and had been deemed insane by her own family. That she had been with child, likely multiple times. He then read his own statement: that, when confronted with the facts, Mr Hunt had confessed to having had relations with his own daughter, physical relations of the kind between husband and wife, and that she had given birth seven times, twice having twins. That he had killed the newborns with his own hands. That the abuse of her own person and the deaths of her children had driven his daughter, Charlotte Hunt, into insanity, which made it impossible for her to give her own statement.
The silence was total. Sévère could hear the faint, irregular buzzing of the one-winged fly.
When he stepped off the witness stand, the audience roared with anger. Someone threw an umbrella at Mr Hunt, but the missile missed its target. Several gentlemen broke through the masses in an attempt to throw themselves at the accused. Inspector Height did his best to wrestle them down, boxing their ears and calling for enforcements. Sévère knocked an especially rude man on the head with his crutch, and threw the Bible into his face. Stripling shouted at the crowd. All to no avail. When, finally, Height pulled his service revolver from his pocket and fired a shot at the ceiling, people screamed and froze in place.
Sévère roared his disapproval, and banned them all from th
e hall. Height and two other policemen escorted the audience outside.
The sweat-bathed news reporters scribbled away, not without a gleam of happy excitement in their faces.
Stripling helped Hunt up into his chair, and dabbed at a scratch on the man’s brow.
‘We will now hear the statement of the accused, Rupert Hunt,’ Sévère said loudly, his voice a little hoarse from the shouting.
Hunt was led into the witness stand, confessed to fathering and killing the nine infants, and was led back to his chair.
‘All statements have been heard. The jury may now retire.’
When the men of the jury had left, Sévère sagged onto a chair, needing a brandy rather badly. But none was forthcoming.
‘How is Hunt doing?’ he asked Stripling.
‘He’s got a scratch on his forehead, but otherwise he seems to be doing just fine.’
Sévère wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen a serial murderer sitting through his trials just fine.
It didn’t take long for the jury to come to a decision. When the door to the anteroom opened, Sévère checked his watch, and raised his eyebrows. They had needed only eight minutes.
They filed in and took their place on the benches.
The spokesperson of the jury stood and read the verdict. ‘We, the jury, find Mr Rupert Hunt guilty of the wilful murder of nine infants.’
Sévère raised his voice. ‘The accused will be committed to trial at the Old Bailey.’
He kept his eyes on Hunt. The old man sat bowed, his head in his hands. Gradually, the jury and the news reporters packed up and left. Someone must have told the waiting crowd outside what had occurred. Whoops where heard, and the knocking of umbrellas against the pavement.
When the hall had finally emptied, Hunt gazed up at one of the large windows. The sun had begun to set behind a veil of thick clouds. He looked as though a great weight had been taken off his shoulders.
