by A. Wendeberg
Johnston stood, placed the saucer he was still holding onto a nearby table, and left the room without a word.
Sévère stared at Olivia, about to speak, when Johnston returned with three glasses and a bottle. He poured whiskey, and handed a glass to Olivia, and another to Sévère.
With a grunt, Johnston tipped his drink into his mouth. His Adam’s apple bounced, and he smacked his lips. ‘Well, then. May I assume your knowledge of Chief Magistrate’s illegal and, I must say, extraordinarily disgusting activities stems from personal experience?’
Olivia dipped her chin.
Johnston harrumphed, refilled his glass, and hurried the contents down his throat.
‘By the Queen’s mammary glands,’ he muttered. ‘I agree with your wife, Sévère. Do not use an innocent as bait. Do you have a trustworthy midwife at your disposal?’
Sévère shook his head no.
‘In that case, you will need a surgeon or physician whom you can trust. And I don’t mean to stitch up your wife every time she’s injured. Well…that, too. But what you need is a medical man who is discreet and ever at your disposal. One who is qualified to testify at court that a girl’s maidenhead is no longer intact, and that physical evidence clearly shows she’s been taken against her will.’
Sévère coughed. ‘Are you volunteering?’
‘Of course I am. Why else would I venture such a forthright speech?’
‘I think the swelling is going down,’ Olivia said. A fat leech let go of her brow and dropped to her lap with a soft plop.
Edwine
Edwine’s gaze hurried across the note. Her hand twitched and the small paper fluttered to the floor. Hastily, she picked it up. Had she read correctly? Yes, she had. There was no doubt. After all, he had typed it:
Wear this and meet me by the tigers.
She felt herself blushing. Her gaze dropped back to the package. Her fingers brushed the shimmering fabric. She lifted the garment from its wrappings and gasped. Rupert had sent her the finest chemise she’d ever laid eyes on. Embroidered silk in shades of rose and pink. The sheer garment would reveal more than it hid. Outrageous!
Edwine’s blush grew hot.
The room tilted. She sank to the mattress and clapped a hand to her heart, whispering softly to herself, ‘He will propose today. Oh my god! Did he speak to father already?’
She looked up, wondering if her sister knew. She probably did. ‘You should have warned me, Frances! He should have warned me.’
‘About what?’ Frances was oddly flushed. Much like an overripe apple. Her hair was in disarray and stuck to her sweaty temples.
‘What in all the heavens is wrong with you?’ Edwine asked. ‘Are you upset?’
‘The boy was rather rude.’
‘What boy?’
‘The boy who gave me the package, you goose! Rupert’s boy.’ Frances tried a smile, but it slipped off her mouth and her trembling chin.
Edwine’s fickle attention drifted back to Rupert’s present. The chemise. Oh gods, the chemise! How much had he paid for it? She picked up the chocolate that lay on a purple, heart-shaped paper, sniffed at it, and stuck it into her mouth. Almond flavours burst on her tongue. Marzipan was her favourite.
‘Fetch Ella,’ she said. ‘I need to change.’
‘If she’s to help you with this,’ Frances indicated the chemise as though it were a fat and hairy spider, ‘…she’ll tell Mother before we can make it to the coach.’
Edwine eyed her sister, her triumphant, but strangely nervous expression, and wondered if Frances begrudged her her happiness.
Edwine brushed the thought away, and put on a friendly face. ‘Would you, dear sister?’
Frances pulled up a shoulder, as though she didn’t care either way.
* * *
When they reached the zoo, Edwine could barely contain herself. The prospect of seeing Rupert and being asked for her hand in marriage was making her skin prickle. Her heart felt unusually heavy, and she wondered if she were quite ready for him.
She clicked her tongue. Of course she was ready! She’d been wondering for a month when Rupert would finally ask her. In fact, their parents must have met and come to an agreement already. The thought made her stop in her tracks.
Why hadn’t anyone told her? Perhaps Rupert had asked her parents and her sister to keep it a secret until he could talk to her in person? So as not to impose on her?
That might be it.
She smiled to herself, feeling lucky to have found such a thoughtful man. All of a sudden, she grew hot. The chemise clinging to her bare skin was giving her impure thoughts. Bawdy, even! As if Rupert were already laying his beautiful hands on her. Her breath shortened. Was this what a woman felt in such moments? Odd. It was almost…painful.
She spotted the building where the large cats were kept. The stink of urine burnt in her nostrils. How could Rupert possibly consider this place romantic? What was he thinking?
A wave of nausea ripped through her. The corset was hurting her, squeezing her, stretching her skin too tight. Unbearable. Her legs felt like water. She stumbled, and her sister caught her elbow.
‘Frances?’ she whispered as her vision blurred, grew yellow around the edges, and finally winked out. ‘Why does it hurt so much?’
The darkness around her did a backflip, and Edwine could no longer control her limbs.
‘We had another incident,’ Sévère said when Olivia entered the dining room.
‘Is that so?’
He looked up, his gaze touching upon the bruises around her eye and her mouth. He decided to say nothing, for she very much disliked his fussing. Instead, he tried humour, ‘I see. You were fraternising with the enemy.’
She flicked an eyebrow at him — the one that wasn’t bruised — then she sat, and reached for the tea. ‘Thank you for last night. It was very refreshing and enjoyable.’
‘It was?’ He folded the morning papers. ‘I thought it was rather…painful. By the by, why do we sound like a married couple?’
‘I’m working hard at keeping up the pretence.’
He stopped chewing.
‘That’s…not how I meant it, Sévère.’
‘To keep up the pretence it would rather help if you addressed me by my given name.’
She signalled neither agreement nor disagreement. The word Gavriel clung to her tongue, reluctant to slip out. She’d called him that when they’d consummated their marriage.
She gazed at the shimmering film that floated on her tea, and wondered why she couldn’t say that one word to him. Perhaps referring to him by his family name — her family name — created the distance she needed in order to feel safe? Was she afraid of him? No, she certainly was not. But feeling close to a man was something she couldn’t imagine. Not in a hundred years.
Through her lashes, she stole a glance at him. His hair had an odd shade between brown and blonde, and currently needed a cut. He had shaved this morning, for the stubble from the previous night was gone. His cheekbones and nose seemed sharper than usual, and shadows clung to his eyes.
Had he slept at all? Had he gone out again after they had returned from Johnston’s? How often did he enjoy other women? She didn’t even know if he had a lover, or if he visited prostitutes. No, he wasn’t the type of man who took a lover. It was…impractical, too intimate and time consuming.
She cocked her head. How often did he think of her as a whore? How often did he wonder what it would take to get her into his bed? Would he try the stick or the carrot?
Upon her scrutiny, Sévère looked up from his papers, frowning. ‘Were you saying something?’
‘We do indeed sound like an old couple.’
He shrugged. ‘There are worse things, I’m sure. Now, I would appreciate it if you would tell Rose to cease her stink bomb assaults on Higgins and the horses, else I shall find myself unable to hold off an assault on the…erm… What might that thing up in the attic be called? Her dinosaur cave? A witch’s hovel?’
�
�It’s a castle. I thought that was obvious. She and I conquered it. We drove out the evil king and his soldiers with cannon fire from our pirate ship.’
Sévère blinked. ‘You did what?’
Her mouth twitched.
‘Excuse me,’ he continued, ‘…but aren’t you a grown woman?’
‘You know, Sévère, sometimes I think a laugh would do you good. Shake off etiquette and do something silly from time to time.’
He opened his mouth, shut it, and smirked. ‘How, then, would you describe our nightly activities?’
‘Useful.’ She decapitated an egg with a swing of her butter knife. ‘Adventurous, reckless, and wonderful. Definitely not silly.’
He sighed. ‘Well, then. Let me be responsible for adventurous, reckless, and wonderful while you are responsible for silly and…whatever it is a woman feels the urge to do.’
Her shoulders stiffened. She placed the spoon aside, and cleared her throat. ‘Funny. I have an entirely different view of what distinguishes man from woman.’
‘Predator and prey, I know.’ He feigned a yawn.
Her jaw clenched.
‘You do know this is your weakest spot, do you not?’ he said. ‘Whenever I wish to discombobulate you, I let out an idiotic men are so and women are so statement. And every time you jump at it right away. You fluff up your plumage and look at me as if I were the epitome of prejudice. But it’s you who can’t overcome prejudice, not I. Otherwise, I would hardly have found myself able to marry you.’
She gifted him a sweet smile. ‘Oh, well. Fret not, husband, for you will be rid of me in but two and a half years. Then you can marry a decent woman who warms your bed whenever you tell her to.’
‘Whatever you wish, wife. Now, let us finish our breakfast in a civilised manner. We are meeting Johnston in a few hours and it would look suspicious if my eyes were gouged out. Besides, we still have to get through said two and a half years without murdering each other.
‘She collapsed yesterday at noon,’ Johnston said, and leant against the doorframe to his ward. ‘She and her sister visited the zoo. You’ve read the witness statements?’
Sévère grunted confirmation. The police had taken Miss Edwine Mollywater’s body to the morgue before anyone had thought to notify the coroner. Naturally, a herd of onlookers had trampled the crime scene before evidence could be secured.
‘She being young and healthy, the police wished to consult a physician. Dr Edison examined her. You’ve probably read his report.’
‘We did.’
Johnston flicked his gaze to Olivia. He still felt a slight discomfort whenever Sévère mentioned discussing postmortems in detail with his young wife.
‘The results of my examination differ insignificantly from Dr Edison’s. The cause of death appears to be natural.’
‘“Appears” is not a word one often finds in your conclusions.’
‘I couldn’t find anything, Sévère. That’s the truth. You know me to be thorough.’
Sévère nodded, a frown carving his brow. ‘My intuition tells me someone sped up her demise.’
‘Well, my dear lad, I had the same feeling. But evidence is lacking. Perhaps she was killed by witchcraft.’ With a wink, the surgeon bade his farewell.
Johnston
‘Dr Johnston, sir?’ A sharp rat-tat-tat of knuckles against wood accompanied the warbling voice.
Johnston’s fingers slipped off his waistcoat buttons.
His wife closed the last two buttons for him, and said, ‘She probably forgot to take her medicine.’
‘What is it?’ he called, squinting at the milky looking glass.
‘Dr Johnston! You must come quick! Mrs Frank is dying!’
‘Yet again.’ Johnston puffed up his cheeks, and took the bowler his wife held out to him. He stopped before placing it on his head, and tried to flatten his unruly hair. To no avail. ‘It’s getting worse with age, it seems.’
‘I like your mop of wires.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Mop of wires?’
Molly Johnston reached up, and tweaked a corner of his moustache. ‘I wish you a pleasant evening with the Coroner. But don’t forget Mrs Frank is dying.’
‘How could I with the racket her housekeeper is making?’ He gave Molly a soft kiss, and brushed his whiskers across her cheek. ‘It certainly is one of those days,’ he mumbled.
One of those days when half the neighbourhood claimed to be at death’s door.
They usually weren’t — the crying and kicking were good indications of life wriggling through flesh unabated. It was the quiet ones who worried him.
Mrs Frank’s dying didn’t worry him in the least. On several occasions she had tried to convince him that her being short of breath was proof of an impending heart attack, and the inability to pass wind a sure sign of cancerous growths in her guts.
Unhurried, he grabbed his doctor’s bag from a chest of drawers, opened the door and clapped eyes on the Franks’ housekeeper. She wrung her hands as if she felt no need to keep her fingers functional and attached.
With a gentle but firm voice Johnston said, ‘Please lead the way, Miss Appleton, and tell me what ails your mistress this time.’ Over his shoulder he called to his maid, ‘Send notice to Coroner Sévère,’ and, seeing the shock on Miss Appleton’s face, he added, ‘Not to worry. The Coroner and I share a glass of brandy from time to time, and it seems I must keep him waiting tonight.’
They crossed the street and went into Mr Frank’s house, all the while the housekeeper providing a flood of information on her mistress’s complaints: There’s a great weight on her chest. She can barely breathe. Her heart again. Couldn’t he give her more of the medicine? Shouldn’t he forbid her to tie her corset so tight? Wouldn’t it be better if…
Johnston entered the bedroom and almost stumbled. A chandelier was fully lit. Candles — ten or fifteen — spilt golden light across bedside tables, windowsills, and a coffee table. Mrs Frank lay prone, dressed in what seemed to be her finery: a dark-green velvet dress with lace at the throat and wrists, lace gloves, leather boots strung around slender ankles. Her ribcage barely moved. Her husband knelt at her feet.
That was when Johnston knew he should have hurried.
‘Open the windows!’ he said sharply, and bent over his patient.
‘Mrs Frank?’ He patted her cheek. She opened her eyes and focused on him with some difficulty. Her skin was clammy, her face pale.
He asked her about her symptoms, and she attempted to speak but it seemed her tongue was too heavy.
‘Did she complain about pain in her chest?’ he asked Mr Frank, to confirm what the housekeeper had told him.
‘Y-yes.’
Breath crawled lazily through Mrs Frank’s windpipe, and Johnston lost no time with etiquette. He rolled her onto her side, unbuttoned the back of her dress and, with the help of Mr Frank and the housekeeper, swiftly peeled off dress and corset.
The damp chemise stuck to her skin. Her ribs sharp against the silk. He palpated her through the fine fabric, examined her eyes and mouth, and pressed his wooden stethoscope to her ribcage. Two quick beats, and then silence. One beat. Silence. Three beats. Silence.
Her chest stopped moving.
‘Rub her legs!’ He barked as he bent Mrs Frank’s head back, and opened her mouth wide. There were no objects blocking her airway. Mr Frank was frantically patting his wife’s feet. ‘Harder, bloody damn! Rub the whole length of her legs. Help her blood circulate.’
At that, panic seemed to grab Mr Frank, and he rubbed and kneaded, his rough palms tearing holes in Mrs Frank’s expensive silk stockings.
Johnston lifted her upper body and slammed his flat hand against her back three times, then laid her back down and blew breath into her mouth. He searched for his stethoscope. It must have rolled under the bed. He pressed his ear against her breast, massaged her chest, breathed for her, and listened again.
Their efforts continued for a while — for how long precisely, neither man could ha
ve said — but when Johnston stopped and straightened up, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and tapped his index finger against Mrs Frank’s eyeball to ascertain there was no reaction and the patient was quite dead, Mr Frank still rubbed and rubbed.
Johnston squeezed the man’s shoulder until he ceased his desperate attempts at resurrecting his wife. He slumped forward, head low, hands wrapped around her ankles.
‘I will give the certificate of death. Will she be laid out here?’
Mr Frank nodded and wiped his eyes. ‘I wish… I wish we’d had more time.’
Johnston picked up a small brown bottle, labelled Tincture of Digitalis, from the night stand and checked its contents. Almost full. He nodded to himself. The symptoms weren’t those of a digitalis poisoning anyway. Mrs Frank’s heart had simply given up its long struggle.
* * *
Dr Johnston paid the cabbie, and caught his breath. You are getting too old for this, laddie, he told himself.
The summer heat wasn’t doing him any good. His palms were itching, and a peculiar burn was spreading to his wrists. His face felt too hot. An odd sensation filled his mouth. As if a wad of cotton were stuffed under his tongue. He pressed two fingers to his carotid artery. There was a stutter. He wondered if he should consider retirement.
But the thought of a comfy armchair, a drink, and a stimulating discussion with his friend distracted him from the shortcomings of his ageing body. Besides, what else could one expect at fifty-seven?
He knocked at the door to Sévère’s house, and was admitted. Netty took his hat, brushed it off, and placed it onto the hatstand. He climbed the stairs, his breath becoming shorter the farther he ascended. The door to Sévère’s smoking room stood ajar.
‘Did someone die?’ Sévère asked with a twitch of his mouth.
‘Indeed she did. A matter of time. The patient has had a weak heart for years.’
Sévère’s expression sobered. ‘I apologise for the poor jest. Would a brandy improve your mood? Or a coffee? Tea?’
