by A. Wendeberg
The judge was admitted, and with him three robed men.
‘Why does he carry flowers?’ Olivia whispered to Sévère.
‘To cover the stink of Gaol Fever.’
‘I don’t smell anything.’ She sniffed to make sure she hadn’t missed something obvious.
‘It’s an outdated tradition.’
The men mounted the dais and seated themselves. The judge placed the posy of flowers onto his desk.
Rupert Hunt was brought into the prisoner’s dock. His ear trumpet was placed in his hand, and when he had put it into his ear, the charge was read to him. Upon the question how he pleaded, he lifted his head high and said with a voice as clear and strong as a young man’s, ‘Guilty!’
The world did not tip off its axis, no one cried foul. The clockwork of justice kept ticking on as though one man’s fate did not matter.
The jury was sworn in, and then a barrister rose and began his opening speech for the prosecution. Olivia paid little attention. Her eyes were stuck to Rupert Hunt, more haggard and whey-faced than she remembered him.
Bicker stood and said that, yes, the accused pleaded guilty, but that the defence would show during the course of the trial that Rupert Hunt was lying to protect the real killer. A boo sounded from the audience. The judge rapped his gavel against his desk.
The first witness was called in: Mrs Hopegood, Hunt’s housekeeper.
She stood in the box, hand still firmly pressed to the Bible, and gave her statement in a small voice. The defence attorney rose and asked only one question: If Rupert Hunt had been surprised by the discovery of a skull in his flowerpot. Yes, of course. He’d been utterly shocked.
Then he sat, and Mrs Hopegood was released.
Next, Dr Baxter was called into the stand, followed by Dr Johnston. Before the latter could dive into the details, the judge bade all women and children in the audience to leave the courtroom.
Once the shuffling and rearranging had quieted down, Johnston continued, followed by Inspector Walken and Coroner Sévère. Then, the trial was adjourned until after lunch.
Sévère appeared calm as Olivia watched him and the defence attorney talk in hushed voices. But she recognised the furrows on his brow and the whiteness of the knuckles of his left hand that grabbed the cane.
Finally, he walked up to her. ‘We are missing Aliya Dunham. Where the blazes is she?’
Olivia shrugged.
‘I left a note at her house that she should report to my office. She didn’t. I sent two telegrams which she didn’t answer. She received a subpoena. No answer. Dammit.’ He was about to check his watch when the judge entered, and the trial was reopened. ‘Send a telegram to Redhill police. I need them to arrest Mrs Dunham and convey her to court by tomorrow morning, at the latest,’ he whispered, and she slunk from the hall.
Olivia didn’t get far.
‘Now, what’s this? A dove!’
She scrambled back from the man who’d caught her by her wrist. She recognised him immediately and bit her tongue. The taste of blood made her gag.
‘Excuse me, sir, but you are confusing me with someone else.’ Her voice sounded unnaturally high.
Chief Magistrate Frost’s grip around Olivia’s arm tightened. He raised an eyebrow and hissed, ‘Am I, now? Why did you disappear? I see you dressed like a lady. For whom? Who is the man?’
From the corner of her vision, she saw someone in uniform. A policeman. ‘Sir? Sir! Help me, please, this man is accosting me!’
Frost didn’t move an inch. ‘PC Lester, arrest this woman for loitering,’ he said to the hastily approaching constable.
‘What? Are you jesting?’ She tugged at her arm, but Frost didn’t let go.
‘Mr Frost, sir, you wish me to take this woman into custody?’
‘Indeed. She is a common whore, and was just now offering her services to me.’
That was when Olivia decided to make a ruckus.
It took five seconds for the door of the courtroom to burst open, a further two seconds for Sévère to step through and wrench Mr Frost’s hand off his wife.
‘Explain yourself, man!’ he said to the Chief Magistrate.
‘As I already said to Constable Lester here: I found this woman loitering in the lobby. She even offered her questionable services to me.’
‘Are you mad?’ Olivia squeaked.
Sévère raised his voice. ‘Are you calling my wife a prostitute?’
‘What is this circus?’ The usher elbowed himself through the onlookers, followed by the judge himself.
‘Coroner Sévère, Chief Magistrate Frost, you will be removed from court should you—’
‘May I?’ Olivia interrupted.
‘And who are you, Miss?’
‘I am Olivia Sévère, wife of Coroner Sévère. I had just left the courtroom and was on my way to dispatch a message to Redhill police station to apprehend a witness who apparently ignored a court order, when this creature brutally grabbed my arm and called me a whore.’ For effect, she spat at Frost’s lapel.
‘Is this true?’ the judge thundered.
Frost, now pale, looked down at the saliva dribbling down his waistcoat, then at Olivia, Sévère, and back at the judge.
‘It happened as my wife said. I asked her to send a telegram in my name,’ Sévère said calmly. ‘This was merely minutes ago. Then I heard my wife scream, exited the courtroom, and saw the Chief Magistrate assaulting her.’
The judge’s eyes narrowed on Frost’s face.
Frost bowed his head. ‘This is… I am most…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I am lost for words, my lord. It appears I have confused this woman for another I knew from the House of Detention. My sincerest apologies.’
‘I demand reparation,’ Sévère growled. ‘He has treated my wife in the most foul fashion.’
‘An apology is in order, I should think,’ the judge said to Frost.
‘Thank you, my lord, but I don’t want an apology from a man who believes he can treat a woman like a slab of pork at the market — be she a prostitute or not. With your permission, I will take my leave now, and let you continue your trial. My apologies for the disturbance.’
She gifted Sévère a small smile and left, but not without noticing the expression of incredulity on Frost’s face.
The last thing she heard was a grunt of protest from Frost when the judge ordered both men to his chamber as soon as the trial was closed for the day.
❧
Olivia returned from the telegraph, quietly entered the courtroom and sat down next to Sévère. She put her mouth to his ear, and said, ‘Thank you.’
He gave a curt nod.
Mrs MacDoughall was telling the court that she’d been a neighbour of Rupert Hunt for the past nine years, since the day she and her husband married. They had two children, and no, her husband did of course not entertain other relations, but yes, he’d done so before they’d begun their courtship. No, he hadn’t courted Miss Hunt; she had courted him. No, she didn’t have any knowledge of Miss Hunt having been with child. Ever.
Next, her husband was called onto the witness stand, and swore upon the Bible that he would say the truth and nothing but the truth.
The prosecutor stood and asked, ‘Mr MacDoughall, you and Charlotte Hunt grew up together?’
‘We were neighbours, yes.’
‘You were childhood friends?’
‘Yes, we were.’
‘When did Charlotte’s interest in you change into something more than friendship?’
‘I cannot say precisely.’
‘What do you mean, you cannot say precisely? Does a man not know when a woman shows romantic interest in him?’
Laughter in the audience. The judge threw an angry glance up at the gallery.
‘I couldn’t tell when precisely her interest in me grew, but she signalled it when I entered my fifteenth year.’
‘Of what nature was your relationship thereafter?’
‘That of occasional lovers.’
; ‘How occasional?’
‘We had…relations, on and off. She wouldn’t let me see her for months, and then she was all over me again. I broke it up when I met Celia. My wife.’
‘Can you describe Miss Hunt’s relationship to the accused?’
‘It was a good relationship.’ He caught himself, and added, ‘A good father-daughter relationship.’
‘They were close?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was a loving father?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you say that the relationship between Mr Hunt and his daughter was in any way queer?’
‘No.’
‘Mr MacDoughall, you have heard the accused plead guilty to having fathered nine children and to having brutally murdered them moments after their were born. The children of his own daughter. Would you say that this is in no way queer?’
MacDoughall seemed alarmed and confused.
‘Was my question unclear to you, Mr MacDoughall?’
MacDoughall inhaled and said, ‘As I said, the relationship between Mr Hunt and Charlotte was in no way queer. Not from what I observed.’
‘Do you agree that an intimate relationship between Mr Hunt and his daughter might have been possible, from what you observed?’
‘I have not observed anything like that.’
‘But it is possible?’
The attorney of the defence stood and reminded his colleague to cease his attempts at putting words into the mouth of the witness.
Olivia’s gaze slid to the men of the jury. Two scribbled away in their notebooks. She looked back at the defence attorney. It was his turn to interrogate the witness.
Bicker nodded to himself, and scratched his whiskers. ‘Mr MacDoughall, according to the very limited statement of the accused, the accused had relations with his own daughter, in the course of which he fathered nine children. You were close to the daughter of the accused. Did you ever see her with child?’
‘I might have suspected it once or twice.’
‘How could you not be certain? A woman’s body is either with child or it is not. Toward the end of the pregnancy, there cannot be any doubt about this, can there? You have two children with your wife. Shouldn’t you know the symptoms?’
MacDoughall blushed. ‘Yes.’
The attorney waited, then said, ‘Would you please answer my question.’
‘I have never seen Charlotte with child.’
‘Thank you.’ Bicker sat, and MacDoughall was released.
A ripple of excitement went through the courtroom when Rupert Hunt was called into the witness stand. The prosecution asked only one question. Had he done it. Yes, he’d done it.
Bicker rose again, and walked up to Hunt.
‘Mr Hunt, I sincerely doubt you did it.’
Hunt adjusted his ear trumpet.
‘While my dear colleague over there might be satisfied with a mere “I did it,” the jury and I will need a little more convincing. You see, justice will be done only when there is sufficient evidence. The slightest doubt and…fooof!’ Bicker waved his hand as though to swat at a fly. He straightened his lapel, let his gaze sweep over jury and audience, and said, ‘How precisely did you murder your own children?’
Hunt’s ear trumpet sank to the desk upon which the Bible lay. He mumbled something and shook his head.
‘Excuse me?’ Bicker said loudly.
‘It happened precisely as Dr Johnston described it.’
Everyone in the hall could see Bicker grind his teeth.
‘Thank you, Mr Hunt. You are released for the moment. I now call Charlotte Elisabeth Hunt into the witness stand!’
Hunt stood abruptly and grasped Bicker’s arm. ‘No! You mustn’t!’
The judge demanded order in the courtroom, to little avail.
Hunt, protesting until spittle wet his chin, was removed to the prisoner’s dock. When Charlotte was led in, the room hushed. She held her head low, and seemed to walk on feathers. Hunt called out to her, but she did not lift her gaze, did not look at anyone.
‘Miss Hunt, we understand that you are deaf, but that you can read lips. Is this correct?’
She nodded once.
The prosecutor stood. ‘My lord, the movement of the witness’ head does in no way indicate that she understands Mr Bicker’s questions.’
‘What do you suggest, Mr Wimsey?’ the judge asked.
‘A question that requires more than a simple yes or no. Would Mr Bicker please ask the witness how many men are in the jury.’
The judge nodded at Bicker and Bicker said, ‘Miss Hunt, it appears as if my dear colleague would like you to tell him how many jurymen you can see.’
Charlotte looked confused, pointed at her own eyes, then at the prosecutor and made a wiggling movement with her fingers in front of her face.
‘You wish to know whether he can’t see the jury properly?’
She nodded and smiled. Her beautiful face transformed into something ethereal. Men held their breaths. Some hastily arranged their wigs and robes.
Charlotte held up her hands, spread ten fingers, curled them, and spread them again. Twenty men in the jury.
The charm was broken. Nervous giggles erupted here and there.
‘Thank you Miss Hunt. To ensure that you understand why you are here, I will give you a short summary. The skeletons of nine newborns have been found in seven flowerpots. These flowerpots belonged to your father, Rupert Hunt. He has confessed that he fathered these children and murdered them as soon as they were born.’
Bicker paused.
Charlotte swallowed, and methodically shook her head.
‘The accused, Rupert Hunt, also has stated that these children were yours. I will now ask you simple questions to each of these statements, that you might answer with a nod or a shake of your head. Do you understand?’
Charlotte nodded once. A stray curl slid off her shoulder.
‘Did your father murder these nine children?’
Rupert Hunt’s cry ‘Don’t, Charlotte!’ cut through the tense silence.
The judge rapped his gavel.
Hunt stood, and waved his arms. ‘Charlotte, look at me! Do not speak ill of her!’
The usher hurried toward Hunt, the judge hollered ‘Quiet!’ and Charlotte looked calmly upon her father. She touched her hand to her heart, then stretched it out toward him.
Hunt howled, was wrestled down and led from the room.
The judge, now red-faced, brusquely swiped the posy of flowers from his desk, and pounded his gavel once more for good measure.
‘This was most enlightening,’ Bicker said, when the room had calmed down. ‘Now, Miss Hunt, where were we? Ah! Is Rupert Hunt guilty of the murder of your nine children?’
The prosecutor rose, and Bicker flapped his hand at him. ‘I apologise for my lack of proper wording.’ He turned once more to Charlotte, who was still shaking her head violently to answer the previous question. Bicker asked her, consecutively, if her father had killed one, or several, or all of her children.
And she kept shaking her head.
‘Thank you, Miss Hunt. Would you, by any chance, know who did it?’
She glanced down, and shook her head.
‘Miss Hunt. Miss Hunt!’ Bicker tapped his fingers onto her desk to catch her attention.
She looked up.
‘It is now your word against your father’s. I doubt it sufficient to change the verdict—’
‘He influences the witness!’ called the prosecutor.
‘I merely explain the process to her.’
The judge signalled to Bicker to go on.
‘Can you confirm that these were your children?’
Olivia sat up straight, barely able to contain her curiosity.
Charlotte nodded. Her eyes were glistening.
Bicker swallowed his next question, considered for a moment and said, ‘Do you know who killed them?’
Charlotte shook her head, clearly confused.
‘Can you speculate
as to… No, forget what I said.’ He was about to continue, but stopped when Charlotte began to sign.
Her stomach, seven fingers held up. Her arms formed a cradle, nine fingers held up. Her hand to her cheek, her head tilted to one side, her eyes closed.
‘You slept—’
She cut him off with a slashing gesture. Her stomach, the cradle, her head to one side and her eyes shut.
‘They were born dead?’
Yes! she nodded. And again, yes!
Bicker silently caressed his lapel. He harrumphed, and asked if she was absolutely certain. Yes, she was absolutely certain.
‘Thank you, Miss Hunt. Your witness.’
The prosecutor stood. ‘Miss Hunt, you might be unaware that Dr Johnston from Guy’s hospital has examined the remains of your children, and found that all suffered a violent death.’
He watched her pale, then added, ‘Their throats had been slashed.’
Charlotte’s face lost all colour, her hands grasped at the desk, her shoulders slumped, and she dropped out of the witness stand.
The trial was adjourned until the following day.
Sévère looked at Olivia, one eyebrow drawn up. ‘Now, that was interesting.’
❧
‘What happened in the judge’s chamber?’ she asked when he climbed into the waiting brougham.
He shut the door, and, ignoring her question, said, ‘As I am now deeply involved in this matter, I need you to tell me precisely all that has occurred between you and Chief Magistrate Frost.’
‘I doubt you want to hear this.’
‘It is more a need than a want.’
She inhaled and began, ‘He has two penchants: sodomy, and underage girls. I am quite certain that I was one of the very few experienced women he uses. Usually, he pays for maidens, often very young ones.’
‘How young?’
‘Nine, ten years old, if he can get them.’
‘Who delivers them?’
‘I heard from two other women, prostitutes like…’ Like me, she’d almost said. Sévère’s eyes flickered dangerously. ‘They told me a madam arranges for underage girls for men like Frost.’
‘For men like him, or for him?’
‘Both, of course. What are you planning to do?’
