by A. Wendeberg
‘A very delicate matter. One needs to handle it expertly…’ he mused.
‘Handle it expertly?’ Her voice had grown cold.
‘Accusing him openly without proof would be madness, don’t you think? I am not certain I should confront him at all.’
‘That certainly is one way of handling it expertly.’
‘Whatever I do, it will risk your past being made public. You won’t be able to go anywhere without experiencing the repercussions. No…’ He tapped his index and middle fingers against his lower lip. ‘What we might need are the services of a newspaperman.’
He scrutinised her for a long moment, nodded, and said, ‘Yes, I think this might work. We will take our time to carefully collect evidence against Frost. The man ought to rot in gaol for years. I will speak to an acquaintance, a scribbler of horribly sensational gibberish. He might be just the man to unearth grisly secrets. All we need from him is a nudge to start an avalanche.’
Satisfied, Sévère leant back and crossed his legs. ‘Now, tell me what you think of Charlotte’s queer behaviour today. ‘
‘To me, it did not look like she was putting on a show. She truly fainted when she heard about the violent deaths of her children. But this makes no sense…’ Olivia brushed her hair behind her ears.
‘Hum…’ said Sévère. ‘When I visited her at the asylum, I believed that Sister Grace conveyed to Miss Hunt what I’d asked her to say. That her father had confessed to having killed her children and that her statement was needed. But in fact, I didn’t hear her say it. All I heard was a great commotion. I wonder why the asylum staff repeatedly shielded Charlotte from the truth.’
‘Isn’t that what one does with the insane?’
‘But she is not insane! That was what Faulkner wrote in his file. You said so.’
‘I know,’ she answered. ‘But please explain to me why she’s still an inmate in a lunatic asylum.’
❧
‘Miss Hunt, I do hope you have recovered, yes?’ the prosecutor asked.
Charlotte nodded. She clasped a handkerchief in her right hand, and ran the nail of her left index finger up and down the Bible.
‘I must remind you that you are still under oath.’
A nod.
‘Now. Would you please tell us who the father of your nine children is, Miss Hunt?’
A slow turning of her head, then a curt shake.
‘You must answer my questions — all of them — truthfully. If you refuse to do so, you will be held in custody until you give a full statement.’
A nod.
‘Excellent. Did Rupert Hunt father your children?’
A violent shake of her head.
‘Who was it, then?’
She scanned the courtroom for a few long moments, then shrugged.
‘He is not in the room?’
She shook her head.
‘I will now call out names, and you will indicate with a nod or a shake of your head whether or not you have had relations with that man.’
Disapproving grunts and murmurs issued from the audience. Bicker stood. ‘What does this have to do with the issue at hand?’
‘I wish to outline the character of the witness.’
‘Get to the point, Mr Wimsey,’ the judge said to the prosecutor.
‘I will, my lord.’ He turned back to Charlotte and said loudly, ‘Alexander MacDoughall.’
A nod.
‘Peter Miller.’
A nod.
‘Rupert Hunt.’
No, she signalled. No.
Mr Wimsey read more than twenty names off his list and every now and then, Charlotte nodded. With each nod, the audience grew more restless. What kind of woman had so many lovers? Only a whore, surely?
‘You stated that all your children were stillborn. Can you explain?’
She looked around her desk as though searching for something to express her thoughts, then she stood and stepped out of the witness stand.
The judge was about to protest, but Wimsey asked for a moment’s patience.
Charlotte put both hands to her stomach, grunted as if in pain, knelt and lay down on the floor. People stood up to see better, effectively blocking each other’s view.
Charlotte swung her hands down along her body. Then she closed her eyes, her chest heaved. Immediately, she jumped up, held up a finger, stepped around the spot on the floor she had just occupied, and picked up an imaginary bundle. She rocked it in her arm and carried it away. Then she lay down again and shut her eyes.
Prosecution, defence, jury, and judge stared down at the scene. Charlotte opened her eyes, trying to find understanding in the faces around her, then she stood, brushed off her skirt, and returned to the witness stand.
‘Were you trying to convey that someone took away your child after birth?’
A nod.
‘Who?’
A shake of her head and a shrug.
‘Miss Hunt, do I need to remind you that you can be apprehended for refusing to give evidence?’
I slept, she signalled again and shrugged.
Wimsey grunted and told her she was now the witness of the defence.
‘Miss Hunt, do you recognise these?’ Bicker held up several journals.
A nod.
‘Are these yours?’
A nod.
‘Did anyone but you draw in these journals?’
She squinted, and cocked her head. Bicker repeated his question and she shook her head.
‘So it was only you filling the pages?’
A nod.
‘Very well. It appears as though you are a hobby gardener. You were given responsibility for the gardens at Sevenoaks Asylum. Is that correct?’
A nod and a smile. Bicker inhaled a wobbly breath.
‘Are you proficient in plant craft?’
A nod.
‘Well then,’ he continued, and strode behind his desk. He picked up an apple tree sapling.
‘Miss Hunt, did you graft this apple tree?’
Her hands came out to cup the naked, dry roots of the small tree. Her mouth formed an “oh”, and she looked up at Bicker as if to say, ‘Why did you kill it?’
‘Did you graft this tree, Miss Hunt?’ he asked softly.
A nod.
‘Did you give it to your father along with six others?’
A nod.
‘Did you bury the remains of your infants in the pots that you then gave your father?’
A slump of her shoulders.
‘Miss Hunt?’
A nod.
‘Did your father know that your children were buried in these pots?’
A shake of her head.
‘Why did you bury your children in flowerpots, and give them to your father?’
She frowned and looked at her hands. With trembling fingers she pointed at the prisoner’s dock and waved her hand to the right. Then she pointed at herself and waved her hand to the left. Then she indicated the ground, pretended to take something from there with both her hands, hold it in her arms, and to her bosom. She waved to her left again and shook her head. Then she waved to her right and nodded.
It took a long discussion between the judge, Mr Bicker and Mr Wimsey until finally the explanation to Charlotte’s gesturing — which grew more and more hectic with every repetition she was asked to perform — was found to be thus: She knew that after the death of her mother, her father felt unable to attend to the house, the premises, and his daughter. She knew he would go to London, and that she would be sent to a place for women. She didn’t want to leave her children behind, but she couldn’t take them with her, either. So she made her father a farewell present: seven apple tree saplings she’d grafted for him. She didn’t tell him what was hidden in the pots.
The courtroom had fallen utterly still. Bicker let his eyes roam the jury. Then he said softly, ‘Miss Hunt, I need to ask you again. Did your father kill your children?’
No.
‘If you were asleep, how could you possibly kn
ow whether or not he did it?’
She set her jaw, squared her shoulders, and tapped her fingers against her brow and her heart. Then she gave a single nod. Because I know.
The prosecution called Dr Faulkner into the witness stand, and questioned him as to the state of Miss Hunt’s mind. Surely the jury couldn’t trust the statements of a woman who was an inmate of an asylum and who has had more lovers than any decent person should have? Faulkner confirmed that Miss Hunt’s mind is of perfect health. He had no doubts as to her trustworthiness. Her father did commit her, but Faulkner soon realised that nothing was wrong with her. Nothing but her being deaf and mute, that is. Why keep her, then? Because she had nowhere else to go.
Unsatisfied, the prosecutor nodded to Bicker, and seated himself.
Bicker massaged his temples, grunted, and said that he had no questions for the witness. Faulkner was released, and the trial adjourned until after lunch.
❧
‘Mrs Dunham, you resisted a direct court order. Would you care to explain yourself to the jury?’ Bicker asked.
‘I was unaware of such an order,’ the small woman answered. She appeared to have sprung directly from the forest, with her green shawl, her fine-boned features, the freckles dusting her nose, and her fire-red hair.
‘How is this possible? You received the order five days ago.’
‘My chickens received it, but not I.’
Someone giggled. The judge struck his gavel against the desk.
She rearranged her shawl and said, ‘I had retreated into a safe and nourishing space to allow my spirit to journey through subtle realms.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘My dear sir, you might be unaware of your own history, but I am not. I celebrated spring equinox and, while doing so, I was not at home to receive any letters from officials of the Crown, or otherwise. I resided in the forest for five days, and ate only what the Great Mother provided.’
The prosecutor opened his mouth, shut it, and shrugged at the judge. The latter signalled to him to get on with it.
‘Very well, Mrs Dunham, would you—’
‘Miss Dunham,’ she corrected him.
‘Ah, yes. Miss Dunham. My apologies. Would you tell the jury of your connection to Miss Charlotte Hunt, and to the accused, Mr Rupert Hunt?’
‘I was occasionally summoned by the family when they needed the expertise of a healer.’
‘I see. How would you describe Miss Hunt’s health?’
‘Sturdy.’
‘And the health of her mind?’
‘I would think she has a perfectly clear head.’
The prosecutor huffed. ‘Have you ever attended a birth?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘As a midwife?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ever work as a midwife for Charlotte Hunt? Or did you attend one of her births?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
She shrugged and answered, ‘No. Mrs Hunt was proficient enough in these matters.’
Olivia grabbed Sévère’s wrist.
‘Were you aware that Charlotte Hunt had been with child?’
‘I was.’
‘How often, in your opinion, had Miss Hunt been with child?’
She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I cannot say precisely, but I dare guess three to five times.’
‘Did you ever ask yourself why she was never seen with any of these children?’
‘I did not.’
‘And why, I wonder, would you not be surprised that all of Charlotte Hunt’s children were dead?’
‘Because the woman is cursed.’
The judge groaned.
‘Please elaborate,’ Wimsey said, half-amused.
‘Just look at her. Every man is drawn to her. And she can’t carry even one healthy child. She’s cursed.’
‘What do you mean by “she can’t carry even one healthy child?”’
‘They were all stillborns. I don’t know why Mr Hunt said he killed them. It makes no sense to me.’
‘How do you know they were stillborn? You said you didn’t attend the births of Miss Hunt’s children.’’
‘Mrs Hunt told me. She was the one who helped her daughter.’
‘Mrs Hunt helped her daughter give birth?’
‘That is what I just said, didn’t I?’
‘Did you ever see the children?’
‘No. They were buried within the hour.’
‘Do you know where they were buried?’
‘In the orchard.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Mrs Hunt told me.’
‘Thank you, Miss Dunham. Your witness, Mr Wimsey.’
Sévère extracted his wrist from Olivia’s grasp, and slunk from the room as Wimsey stood. Puzzled, Olivia followed Sévère with her gaze.
Wimsey cleared his throat. ‘Miss Dunham, could you tell the jury if Mrs Hunt was the only person who tended to Miss Hunt during childbirth?’
‘This is what she said, yes.’
‘Was Mrs Hunt the only person who had access to the newborns?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Do you know if Mr Hunt had access to Charlotte Hunt while she gave birth?’
‘What are you thinking, dear man! This is women’s business.’
‘I did not enquire as to my own thoughts, Miss Dunham. I was asking if you knew whether Mr Hunt was present in Miss Hunt’s birth chamber.’
‘He couldn’t have been in the room. I’m absolutely certain of this.’
‘What makes you so certain?’
‘Mr Wimsey, I don’t know about your preferences, but I would think that a man has no business peeking at a woman’s private parts when—’
A bonk issued from the dais. ‘We’ve heard enough, thank you, Miss Dunham,’ the judge said. ‘Does the prosecution have further questions for the witness?’
Wimsey shook his head.
‘Well, then. All witnesses have been heard,’ the judge announced. ‘The council will be given time to prepare their closing speeches. The trial is adjourned until tomorrow morning, ten o’clock.’
Olivia left the courtroom to find Sévère. The lobby gradually emptied, but there was no sign of him. She took a cab home. He wasn’t in his office, either.
❧
Sévère reappeared in the morning. He took his seat next to Olivia, excitement shining in his expression.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Shh!’
‘My lord, before the closing speeches can be given, I need to inform the court of a recent development. As of eight thirty this morning, Mr Hunt has pleaded not guilty.’
The judge nudged his spectacles down the bridge of his nose, and looked sharply at Mr Bicker.
‘And did he care to explain this?’
‘Yes. In fact, he is now willing to give a full statement.’
Hunt was called into the witness stand. Olivia lent forward, as did everyone else in the room. Except for Sévère, who smirked contentedly.
‘Mr Hunt, you pleaded not guilty, is this correct?’
Hunt grabbed his ear trumpet a little harder. ‘Yes, it is,’ he said.
‘Please explain to the jury why you gave false evidence, and why you have changed your mind and now wish to come forward with the truth.’
‘When I said that I had fathered and killed the children of my daughter, I did so to protect her. And I also…’
Here, he was drowned out by the audience, who booed and clapped and laughed, but couldn’t agree to a uniform response to this new development. The judge demanded silence, and Hunt went on, ‘I also did not wish to speak ill of my dead wife. One doesn’t speak ill of the dead.’
‘Just to clarify, Mr Hunt: you lied to the coroner, the police, the coroner’s jury, the High Court, and to this jury?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘I do not see what could possibly justify this behaviour.’
Is that what a good defence attorney would say? Olivia wondered, and che
wed on the inside of her cheeks. She threw a quick glimpse at Sévère. He seemed entirely comfortable, and not the least bit surprised.
‘All blame and all consequences are mine to bear.’ Hunt bowed his head to the jury. ‘When Mrs Hopegood, my housekeeper, showed the skull to me, I knew at once that the seven pots must hold all nine of Charlotte’s dead children. At first, I had no explanation of why she had done this. I thought she might have intended this as some kind of spite. I haven’t been a good father to her. I let my wife poison my daughter’s thoughts, and I allowed my daughter too much freedom. I knew she’d been with child. When it happened the first time, I was outraged, of course, and then…’
He sighed, and shook his head. ‘And then I decided it was women’s business. I suspected no ill deed when my wife told me the first child was stillborn. And the second and third. I found it strange when the fourth, the fifth were stillborn, too. But my wife insisted that it was so, that Charlotte’s children were all too weak to live.’
Hunt looked at every single jury member and said hoarsely, ‘And what man expects his wife to be a cold-blooded murderess? Can you imagine how it feels to watch the evidence laid out, to listen to the witnesses and have my suspicions confirmed? That my own wife had put a knife to the throats of our own grandchildren? I find it hard to accept. I will never understand why she did it.’
He dropped his gaze and wiped his eyes. ‘I swore to myself to never speak of Charlotte’s children. She was living in an asylum far enough from Redhill, that I believed the gossip couldn’t reach Sevenoaks. When I saw the skull Mrs Hopegood had dug up, when I knew the police and the coroner would be alarmed, I feared that…’
He braced himself, calmed his breath, and continued, ‘I feared my suspicions would be confirmed. I couldn’t bear it. Charlotte believed what her mother had told her: that her children were born dead. And I couldn’t take that from her. She didn’t deserve that. I feared that my daughter would truly go mad if she learnt that her own mother might have… Had murdered them. Her babies. That is why I lied. And I believed, and still believe, that I deserve to be hanged for my failure. I didn’t protect her. And…’
His shoulders were trembling. He inhaled a deep gulp and said, ‘I believed it better to simply disappear. To confess to a crime I didn’t commit, to go to gaol, be hanged. Charlotte would have never known. She’s deaf, she can’t read. The nuns wouldn’t have told her what happened to me. I thought she wouldn’t mind. But then… Suddenly, all is out in the open and she’s on the witness stand and puts her hand to her heart and offers it to me.’
