by A. Wendeberg
He spat on the grass. There was nothing but light-coloured clay inside the bundle.
Stripling wiped the rain off his brow and kept digging.
❧
Aliya Dunham had not been at home. Sévère had poked around her hut and her chicken coop, and then taken the cab back into Redhill. At the Miller farm he ordered the driver to stop.
He enquired after Mr Miller, and a farmhand pointed him toward the pigsty.
Sévère tiptoed around puddles that stunk of urine, almost slid off the wooden boards that served as a walkway across a mud pit, and finally entered the stable. Two men with pitchforks looked up. Sévère was surprised to see MacDoughall.
‘Coroner,’ MacDoughall said, and stuck the fork into the manure.
‘Mr MacDoughall, Mr Miller. I need to ask you a few questions regarding the murders of nine infants in your neighbourhood.’
MacDoughall looked at Miller. Miller gave a small nod.
They made for the main house, and entered. To his surprise, Sévère found Olivia chatting with Miller’s wife. The latter threw her husband a cold glance.
‘Good day to you, Mr Miller, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. Mr MacDoughall, how are you doing today? Hello, Gavriel, may I speak with you for a moment?’
Olivia saw the triple lines deepen on Sévère’s brow. They stepped out into the corridor and she shut the door, put a finger to her lips, and pressed her ear to the wood.
‘They know,’ hissed Miller’s wife.
‘Be quiet!’ Miller answered, and then they talked in voices so low that Sévère and Olivia couldn’t understand what was being said.
Olivia pulled Sévère down by his collar and whispered into his ear, ‘According to Celia MacDoughall, Charlotte Hunt warmed a lot of beds. Even MacDoughall’s and Miller’s. It appears that half of Redhill had the opportunity to father one of Charlotte’s children. If this is true, I wonder why the Sevenoaks staff told you she’s afraid of men.’
Sévère regarded Olivia with interest. A corner of his mouth twitched. Then he opened the door and stepped back into the room.
❧
Stripling’s stomach roared with hunger. He’d had enough, he truly had. Hours of digging in the pissing rain. He would probably come down with a cold, or worse. And for what? Dirty sheets and a cut-up rug.
❧
The two chestnuts’ new shoes rang sharply against the cobblestones. Olivia shut her eyes, glad the evening entertainment at the Berks hadn’t been as disastrous as she’d feared. Sévère hadn’t seemed the least bothered by the fact that everyone believed him a little deranged for having married below his station. Lord knows what she’s doing to tie him to her thus. Lord knows why he makes her work in his office. Assistant. Ha! A girl of unknown parentage, raised at an orphanage in Reading, they say. Her twin had been taken away soon after birth, they say.
‘You are very beautiful tonight,’ he said, without taking his eyes off whatever lay behind the brougham’s window.
‘You are to refrain from courting me. We agreed on this.’
‘If I were courting you, I would use pretty words to get into your bed. I must disappoint you. I’ve merely stated a fact.’ He looked at her now. ‘Why did Charlotte bury her children in flowerpots and give them to her father? Could it have been revenge? Could he have known… No, I don’t believe he knew. He’d never have allowed his housekeeper to touch them.’
‘Why did you leave the dining room when I told you about my theory of the codling moth?’
‘I needed to think. My apologies if I was too abrupt.’
‘I know what it means now. I don’t mind if you do it.’
‘You believe I stormed out because I was disappointed in you.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘The trial begins in two days. Did you speak with the High Court?’
‘About what precisely? That Charlotte Hunt draws plants and their pests? That we found sheets and an old rug that might or might not have been soaked in blood before someone covered them with muck? That several men have accused Charlotte Hunt of promiscuity?’
She lowered her head. ‘Is this the most depressing part of your occupation? Trying to make others see?’
‘It’s the most gratifying.’
Olivia balled her hand to a fist and rapped her knuckles on his knee. ‘How do we get a confession from Charlotte?’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘I don’t know. Am I?’
‘You suppose that the jury will believe what you believe. Let me ask you this: if both Charlotte Hunt and Rupert Hunt admit to the killing of these nine infants, and each continues to insist the other is lying, to whom will the jury give more credit? To the old man who says very little? Or to the woman who can’t say anything at all, and who is an inmate of an asylum?’
‘Are you saying that Rupert Hunt has no chance whatsoever?’
‘He has a good chance to get what he wants. We, however, will probably not get what we want: the arrest of the murderer. We might have to settle for much less.’
When the brougham came to a halt and the coachman opened the door for them, Sévère said, ‘It’s not about catching the murderer anymore, Olivia. It’s about not getting an innocent man hanged, no matter how much he wants it. This mess is my fault. I’ve been sloppy and complacent.’
—Trials & Errors—
She sat facing him in the smoking room. The customary cigar smouldered in the crystal ashtray. Her fingers balanced a glass of brandy on her armrest. He watched how the liquid left oily trails on the thin glass as she turned it in her hand, her gaze unfocused, her lips a hard line.
She opened her mouth, shut it, and inhaled.
He knew he had to wait until she’d sorted her thoughts into a narrative. Olivia theorised more freely when she had the time to chew on and spit out her thoughts bit by bit.
‘Charlotte’s first journal begins with a pupa, not an egg. It was her first pregnancy. She probably didn’t know the signs and only realised it when the child inside had grown large enough. Odd, isn’t it? That even before she saw it, it already felt like a pest to her.’
Sévère said nothing. He had the impulse to challenge statements as soon as they were uttered. As a young man, this reflex had hindered him more than it had helped. Especially at court. It had taken him years to realise that in order to listen, one had to be silent. In order to understand, one had to allow the other to make himself understood. Or herself. He would deliver his counter-arguments once she’d emptied her glass.
‘I can imagine she pretended to graft the apple tree saplings for him as a farewell present. While in fact, they were a revenge. Or perhaps they were a keepsake? She must have known that her mother was dying, and that her father would then send her away. But why did Hunt tell Dr Faulkner that his daughter was addled in the head?’
Olivia cast a glance at Sévère. ‘Did he know that she had killed her own children? Or was it her promiscuity that made him say it? And how can parents be blind to their own child’s pregnancies? Impossible! Damn, I wish I could talk to her mother.’ Her gaze drifted out of focus. ‘Her father put her into a Christian institution, although the family preferred the services of a wise woman. It sounds a bit pagan to me. Did you confiscate the journals?’
‘I told you I sent Faulkner a telegram.’
‘Oh, yes. I forgot.’ She massaged her brow.
‘I haven’t received them yet. Which is odd. He wrote that he sent them out four days ago.’
‘I’ll take the train to Sevenoaks tomorrow, if you wish, and enquire at the post office. If they have no records of Faulkner’s package, I’ll pay Sister Grace a visit. I’ve always wanted to confiscate something.’ She wiggled her eyebrows at him, and, all of a sudden, sat up straight. ‘Fuller’s Earth is meant for cleansing. It was all over the sheets and the rug. They were wrapped around it. But it’s clear that no one attempted to wash them, launder them. It makes no sense with all the blood on them. But why take handfuls of it
and wrap it into the sheets? Do you believe that…’
She drifted off again.
‘Believe what?’ Sévère said.
‘That it was some kind of ritual. That she saw her children as things that needed cleansing.’
‘Hm.’
‘What?’
He eyed her glass. There was only a drop left.
‘It is irrelevant, Olivia.’
She leant forward, eyes sharp and narrow. ‘How can the motivation of the killer be irrelevant?’
‘It is highly likely that we will never get a satisfying answer as to what Charlotte’s motivations might have been, neither in private nor in court. Evidence to link Charlotte Hunt to the killings is weak at best. Besides, the trial concerns Rupert Hunt, not his daughter. It is him we need to worry about, not her.’
‘But—’
He growled in response. ‘Two days, Olivia! We have two days. What is more important to you: to be right and have the last word in the matter, or to save Hunt from the gallows?’
She turned her gaze away. After a moment of consideration, she nodded faintly. ‘What is your plan?’
‘I’ve given Hunt’s attorney all relevant information and informed the assizes as to the new witnesses that need to be heard. Subpoenas have been issued. Dr Faulkner is still insisting that Miss Hunt is unable to give evidence. I wonder why he shields her. You said that he’d written in her file that nothing seems wrong with her mind. He even suggested having Miss Hunt removed from the asylum. I wonder why Mr Hunt never answered Faulkner’s letter.’
Sévère’s attention was distracted by his left knee. It had begun to tremble. Not visibly, but he could feel the vibrations down to the marrow of his bones. A prickling rushed up his leg and a stabbing pain followed. He told himself to take slow, measured breaths, and wondered when the pain would grow unbearable, when he would have to use his crutch, and employ a manservant to help him use the stairs. When he would have to signal defeat.
‘Gavriel?’
Gruffly, he said, ‘I’ll send a warrant to the Redhill police to summon all men between twenty to forty-five years of age, should it become necessary to identify each and every one of Charlotte’s lovers.’
‘That must be three, four hundred men! Why the dickens would you do that?’
He felt an urge to lie down and guzzle all the alcohol he kept in the house. He unclenched his jaw and spoke, ‘To force Charlotte Hunt to give her statement. She’ll not wish to be paraded before all of Redhill. Bringing up the issue will also slow the trial. We might need more time.’
He slapped the armrest to announce the end of the discussion. ‘Very well. You will take the first train to Sevenoaks tomorrow morning. At present I need to think about two inquests I’ll be holding tomorrow. Good night, Olivia.’
He didn’t meet her gaze. Instead he busied himself with his brandy, tapping his fingertips against the glass as though solving a problem of great proportion.
From the corner of his vision, he saw her rise and approach.
She held out her hand. ‘You are entirely hideous, with or without your limp.’
An involuntary laugh burst from his chest. It sounded more like a cough than anything else. ‘You are a wicked creature. Very well, then. This is what you bargained for.’ His hand grabbed hers, her wrist, her shoulder, and then he pulled himself up.
She steadied her stance as he leant heavily on her.
‘You should eat less,’ she suggested.
‘Is your courage failing you already?’
‘I merely made a humorous statement. Shall we walk to your bedroom, or do you first need the water closet?’
‘My dear wife, I feel a tad too invalid tonight to do it in the lavatory. I suggest we make use of my soft bed instead.’
‘Sévère, really! If you keep jesting like this, I will push you down the stairs.’
‘Well then, perhaps another night. Shall we?’
❧
The clerk at Redhill’s mail office had neither record nor recollection of Dr Faulkner’s package.
When Olivia banged the knocker against the asylum door, she didn’t need to make an effort at looking official, effective, and cold.
‘Mrs Hewitt!’ Sister Grace’s surprised look quickly turned to puzzlement.
‘My name is Olivia Sévère. I’m the wife and assistant of Gavriel Sévère, Coroner of Eastern Middlesex.’ She pulled out her warrant and held it under Sister Grace’s nose. ‘I came to confiscate Miss Hunt’s journals and to ensure that you, Dr Faulkner, and Miss Hunt appear at court tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Should I get the impression that any of you plans to disobey the High Court’s orders, the Redhill police will apprehend you and transfer you to the Old Bailey to give evidence. May I come in?’
‘I recommend we talk in our office.’ Sister Grace stepped aside.
‘Thank you, but I will first talk to Charlotte,’ Olivia replied, strode past the nun and banged her fist against the door to Charlotte’s room.
‘She’s in the orchard.’
Olivia entered the room. Without much ado, she picked up the journals and placed them into her briefcase, opened all drawers of the desk and searched the shelves. The ink bottle, pen and pencil were gone. One journal was missing. She took a step back, surveyed the room, and left.
‘I assume she’s drawing?’
‘I couldn’t say,’ Sister Grace said. ‘Aren’t you ashamed you lied to us?’
‘I can’t say I am. If you wish to accompany me to the orchard, I must ask you to refrain from talking or signing to Charlotte until I give you leave to do so.’
Sister Grace grabbed Olivia’s shoulder. ‘What is this about?’
‘Charlotte’s father has confessed to nine murders he did not commit. It is Charlotte’s statement that can save him from the gallows. Why, in your opinion, is she unwilling to give it?’
The nun’s gaze flickered. ‘Is she unwilling to give the statement, or is she unwilling to leave this sanctuary and place herself at the mercy of men?’
‘Are you so eager to sign a man’s death sentence?’ She stepped around Sister Grace and found Charlotte in the garden, hunched over her journal. She was drawing the small, simple shape of a moth larva onto the border of the right-hand page.
❧
They took the brougham to the Old Bailey. Olivia bent forward and straightened Sévère’s cravat, then pulled down the veil of her hat.
‘If you do not have the nerve to attend Hunt’s trial, go back home,’ he said.
‘You have a way of making me feel better instantly.’
‘Whatever you allowed that man to do to you, it does not matter anymore.’
‘I’m not worried for myself, you idiot! I’m worried your career will be ruined by the Chief Magistrate announcing to all of London that an official of the Crown is married to a whore.’
‘As I’ve said already, it does not matter. You are Olivia Sévère. Miss Mary does not exist. Should you indeed bump into Chief Magistrate Frost today, please do so as my wife, and not as his strumpet.’
Her hands curled to fists, and she had to unclench one to stick her index finger into his face. ‘If you didn’t need your visage intact today, I would knock out your front teeth.’
His mouth did a satisfied twitch. ‘There’s the warrior. Keep her there and walk into court with your head held high. Do not be afraid of Frost or any of your former clients. Keep these fists balled, if you must. Ah! Here we are.’ The brougham stopped and Sévère alighted. He held the door open for her, then excused himself and rushed ahead to consult with the defence attorney.
Olivia took the flight of stairs up to a lobby, then a second staircase. She kept her head low, her veil down. She could deal with Frost after the trial, if she had to. But now, she was feeling utterly out of balance.
As she slunk through the hectic lobby, she glanced up for a moment. A marble dome. It made her feel entirely insignificant. Where should she go? Straight ahead? The door to the left? She asked a poli
ceman, and he led her to the gallery where the public was to be seated. When she told him that she was with the coroner, he harrumphed and pointed down toward the attorneys’ desks. She spotted Sévère in conversation with a wigged, gowned man.
People were pouring into the courtroom. She pushed ahead. Sévère looked up, and waved her closer.
‘May I introduce my wife and trusted assistant,’ he said. ‘Olivia, this is the attorney for the defence, Mr Bicker.
‘It is my absolute pleasure, Mrs Sévère!’ The man shook her hand. His glasses sat slightly askew. Olivia resisted the urge to straighten them for him. She lifted her veil.
He smiled broadly. ‘Now I see why the Coroner has given up his long-cherished bachelorhood.’
She blushed, and dropped her gaze. As was expected of her. ‘Gavriel, where do you want me?’
‘The judge might wish to send away the womenfolk when we reach the grisly details. You’d better sit over there with me.’ He indicated a row of chairs behind the newspapermen, waved at the usher, and dismissed her with a nod.
The usher led her to a seat where she would have a good overview of the whole spectacle.
She scanned the hall. The bustling of the audience on the stairs and up in the gallery. The clerks and barristers in their gowns and white, curly wigs. A sword was hanging on the dark wood panels just above where the judge’s head would soon be, its tip pointing skyward. She wondered, briefly, if the weapon had ever been used. Where was the judge, anyway?
She stretched her neck, and felt a sudden chill. There was the prisoner’s dock. Rupert Hunt would soon be sitting there. And it had been her doing. Had she not broken into his office and taken his beekeeping book…
A stillness befell the room. An official stood and gave the order for the court to rise. Sévère chose the moment of commotion to join Olivia.
