Spider Silk

by A. Wendeberg

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. She didn’t know what one was supposed to say to the dead, and she certainly wasn’t going to kiss his cheek in farewell, so she simply wished him a good night, curtsied, and slipped through the door.

  Once she reached the stairwell, she found she had no stomach for eating, or talking about what she had done, or anything at all but curling up next to Olivia.

  She rushed up to Olivia’s room and entered quietly. Olivia was sitting on her bed, chewing the inside of her cheek. A candle stump was guttering on the bedside table.

  They exchanged a silent glance. Rose kicked off her shoes and sneaked into Olivia’s bed, pulled up her knees, and pressed her back against Olivia’s warm side.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Olivia asked softly.

  Rose shrugged, pressed closer, and rubbed her prickling hand. She felt the touch of Olivia’s fingers on her hair, felt how it helped her unclench her stomach. She shut her eyes and tried to think only of the soft touch and the rhythm of shared breaths.

  A few moments later, she retched on the bedside carpet.

  The warm and buttery taste of fresh rolls went unnoticed by Sévère. He could have eaten sawdust; it wouldn’t have made a difference. The morning papers lay next to his plate, untouched.

  Olivia entered and wished him a good morning. He automatically nodded and sipped at his tea. When she asked him how he was doing, he didn’t know how to answer, so he talked about what was occupying his mind.

  ‘The postmortem examinations rendered no evidence which could adequately account for the death. All organs were found to be healthy.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Olivia and took her seat.

  It was this “hmm” that nearly threw him off. Had she asked him how he felt, or told him she was sorry, he could have dealt out a blow of sarcasm, and then carried on with his own thoughts.

  His fist hit the table. The cutlery bounced to the floor.

  ‘I know. To have to wait for the results of the toxicological analyses for two weeks is…’ She groaned. ‘It makes me itch all over. Did Johnston have enemies?’

  Sévère squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, collected himself, and said, ‘None that I know of. We have to track his every move from the moment his heart stopped beating, all the way back to where and when he met his killer. At present, everyone is a suspect.’

  ‘Even his wife?’

  ‘Even his wife.’

  ‘I don’t think she did it,’ Olivia said as she stuck her knife into the pate de foie gras and spread it on her roll.

  ‘Never disregard a potential suspect because of your emotions and limited experience. I’ve met Molly three times. You’ve met her four times. Everyone is a different person unobserved.’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  An unexpected grin flickered across his face. ‘I am the only person I can exclude as a suspect.’

  ‘I didn’t do it, either.’

  ‘You have no motive. Well, we could construct a motive of jealousy. My husband spent more evenings with him than with me. Which is untrue, of course. How does your eye feel?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’ She caught his gaze. ‘Rose watched the postmortem.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ It took him a moment to take in what she’d said. ‘How?’

  ‘She hid in the laundry closet and slipped out only an hour or so ago. She’s taken ill. I allowed her to stay in my bed.’

  ‘Where does this girl get her mad ideas? An eight-year-old attending postmortems?’ Sévère huffed and shook his head.

  ‘She was curious to see what had happened to Johnston. She had no idea he was to be cut up.’

  ‘She didn’t make a peep.’ He frowned. ‘I wonder why.’

  ‘Her mother taught her early on how to be quiet. Rose was repeatedly locked in the closet of her mother’s room and told to peek through the keyhole, so she would learn how to satisfy a client.’

  The pulse on Sévère’s throat visibly quickened. His hand holding the tea cup shook. He set the cup down and cleared his throat.

  ‘Which brings me to a question I meant to ask you last night,’ Olivia said. ‘Did the Home Secretary respond to your request for a new decree to protect children from abduction?’

  He pulled in a deep breath. ‘Yes, he did. It was his usual “We are looking into the matter.” Letters are of no use, obviously. I will pay him a visit next week. Would you join—’

  A knock interrupted him. Netty stepped in, kneading her apron. ‘Sir, the police wish to talk to you. They are waiting in the parlour. Would you like me to offer them tea and biscuits?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you, Netty. Please inform the gentlemen that I’ll join them shortly.’

  After Netty had left, he addressed his wife, ‘Remember, we are not only witnesses. We are suspects, too. That is, if the police are any good at investigating a crime. Keep this in mind when you speak to them.’

  * * *

  Sévère entered the parlour, Olivia one pace behind him. Everyone took a seat. Inspector Height whipped out his notebook and pencil. He was the only man in the room who knew of Olivia’s past. Other than Sévère himself, of course. Height had given his word to keep her secret — that is, until the law should require him to do otherwise.

  Courtesies were exchanged, and Sévère gave Height an account of what had occurred, and the results of the postmortems.

  ‘Will you be holding an inquest?’ Height enquired.

  Puzzled, Sévère said, ‘Of course I will. Do you see any reason why I should not? If you believe I am unable to conduct an investigation into Dr Peter Johnston’s death, say so now, and send notice to the Home Office to ask for a replacement.’

  ‘I was referring to the cause of death.’ Height tapped his pencil against his notes and read, ‘No evidence for death by violence or poison.’ He looked up at Sévère. ‘I can’t see anything suspicious about Dr Johnston’s death. Can you?’

  Sévère arched an eyebrow. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Inspector?’

  Height produced a soft groan. ‘When do you plan to hold the inquest?’

  ‘As soon as I have the results of the toxicological analyses.’

  Height nodded, shut his notebook, and stood. ‘My constables and I will now take the statements of other household members. A mere routine. You understand, I hope.’

  ‘I do. And I’d appreciate if you began with my wife. We have work to do. Olivia, meet me in my office when you’ve answered his questions. Gentlemen, you will excuse me now.’ With that, Sévère pulled himself up on his crutch and left the parlour.

  He climbed the stairs, entered his bedroom, and locked the door. Hastily, he opened the drawer to his night stand. There was the small jar he wanted. He pushed down his trousers and sat, uncapped the jar and spread the unguent onto his aching leg. The prickling of a thousand small needles was followed by numbness and the sensation of his limb being wrapped in clouds.

  He sighed in relief, pulled his trousers back up, and went down to his office.

  * * *

  When Olivia entered, she was unusually pale. ‘Height asked me to show him where Johnston fell. The stairs, your smoking room. He even examined the bottle of brandy. And he pocketed a sample.’

  Sévère gazed at her through a curtain of smoke. His cigar was, as usual, smouldering in the crystal ashtray, untouched. ‘Hmm,’ he said.

  ‘Molly Johnston said she wants the body. This morning, if possible. Is he…presentable?’

  Sévère gazed at the desk, took a deep breath and slowly let it out again. ‘He’s stitched back up and dressed. I’ll have Higgins deliver Johnston to his wife after we return.’

  ‘Return from where?’

  ‘From Johnston’s home. We’ll first pay his wife a visit and then the household of the patient Johnston treated before he came here. We will find the cab driver who drove him. We will see everyone he met in the hours before his death, visit every place he went.’ Sévère rapped his knuckles against the armrest of h
is chair. ‘I want to know where and when he ate and peed, whom he saw and who saw him. Stripling will deal with the Medley and the Bartlett cases. He’ll be delighted to be given more responsibility again. You and I will focus our efforts on finding Johnston’s murderer.’

  She lowered her head and crossed her arms behind her back.

  ‘Spit it out, Olivia.’

  ‘I’ve learnt to trust your intuition. But in this case, I have to point out that your judgement might be…clouded.’ She looked up, her expression softening. ‘Your friend died. And you couldn’t help him. It’s hard for you to accept that nothing could be done, so you are desperately trying to find something to do now. Have you considered that you might be hunting a ghost?’

  ‘I’m considering that every minute. The problem is that I cannot wait for the toxicological analyses. If Johnston was poisoned, we can’t give his murderer time to destroy evidence and disappear. A hunt must begin while the tracks are fresh.’

  He stubbed out the cigar, and stood. ‘Grab your bonnet. We are leaving.’

  ‘Have you my husband?’ was the first thing Molly Johnston said when they entered her house.

  ‘My driver will bring him in an hour,’ Sévère answered, gaze flat. ‘Mrs Johnston, I have reason to believe that your husband’s death was not natural. Allow me to express my deepest—’

  She slapped his face. ‘Stop your gabbing, Sévère. Don’t pretend Peter was a stranger to you. He was your friend. He spoke fondly of you. If someone has… If someone…’ She swallowed audibly, her lips compressed to a sharp line. ‘Find out who killed him and be quick about it. I want to see that monster hanged.’

  Sévère took her hand into both of his, looked down, and nodded. A promise.

  ‘Tea, Mistress?’

  Mrs Johnston straightened her shoulders, told her maid that yes, tea and biscuits were required, and that they would be retreating to the sitting room.

  * * *

  Mrs Johnston sat opposite Olivia and Sévère, a table between them, flowery china and silverware tastefully arranged on the tablecloth.

  ‘I’ll tell you everything I know of Peter’s day, but I’m afraid it won’t help you much,’ Mrs Johnston began. ‘First, do tell me the results of the postmortem. And please, don’t spare me anything.’

  Sévère lowered his head in agreement. ‘No physical signs to indicate death by violence or poison. He was healthy. But the symptoms I observed were viol…came on quickly. I found this suspicious. So I asked the surgeon to take samples of all his organs. They’ve been taken to London Hospital and will be tested for poison. I will get the results in a fortnight.’

  She gave him a faint nod. ‘He left early in the morning. As he usually does. Half past eight, that is. He took a hansom to Guy’s, returned at noon — ten minutes past one, I believe — to take lunch with me.’

  ‘Has he routinely done that?’ Sévère asked. ‘I remember him saying that he had a very busy day.’

  ‘Yes, his afternoon was horrible. An omnibus accident on the Strand. Many were injured. Two…two children died.’ She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and hurriedly dabbed her eyes. ‘Most days he doesn’t have the time to come home for lunch. Only once in a while, he… Perhaps two or three days a month.’

  ‘What did he eat that day?’

  ‘We had a light soup of chicken and vegetables, and bread with butter. Tea. And before you ask, he ate what I ate. If someone slipped poison into his food, it would have been in mine as well. And I’m not dead.’

  ‘Did you feel sick?’

  ‘Yes, after I heard that my husband died.’

  ‘What was on the lunch table? A soup bowl, ladle, a plate or bowl for each of you?’

  Her gaze dropped to the table cloth, lost and then regained focus. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It would have been possible to lace his plate or cutlery with poison. Were there animosities between him and the servants?’

  ‘No. You know him. He is…’ She picked up her cup and lifted it to her lips, but did not drink from it. Droplets spilt onto her dress. She set the cup back on the saucer, and placed a napkin in her lap.

  ‘He was a kind and humble man. The servants loved and respected him.’

  ‘What did Johnston usually eat at the hospital? Did he take sandwiches with him or did he buy from street vendors?’

  She smiled at her hands. ‘I make his sandwiches.’ Then she cleared her throat. ‘After lunch, he went back to work. A surgery was scheduled. A caesarean section, I believe is what he mentioned. I saw him next in the evening. We ate, then he was about to leave. To visit you.’ She looked up. ‘And then Mrs Appleton from across the street called for him. She said her mistress was dying. We didn’t quite believe it.’

  Sévère cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Mrs Appleton is known to be a tad melodramatic, as is her mistress, Mrs Frank, who has had a long history of minor heart problems. Every time Mrs Frank pales, Mrs Appleton believes she may be dying. Mrs Frank believes it, too.’ A small smile lifted her lips. It was gone in a heartbeat.

  ‘I see,’ Sévère said. ‘He mentioned that he might have caught influenza. Do you know anything about it? Did he show any symptoms last night? You mentioned you’d taken dinner together. What did he eat and was it the same you ate?’

  ‘We had…fish for dinner. Yes, that’s what it was. The food was arranged in tureens and platters on the table. If anything had been poisoned, I would be dead now, too. He mentioned that a few influenza patients have been transferred to his ward, because the infectious diseases ward was overcrowded. But he didn’t say anything about feeling ill. He…seemed normal. Perfectly normal. Had I known…’ Her chin trembled. She flicked her gaze out the window.

  Sévère waited for her to regain her composure. Then he said, ‘After he went to check on Mrs Frank, did he return or did he go directly to my house?’

  ‘He must have left directly, because I didn’t see him after that.’ She kept avoiding Sévère's gaze.

  ‘With your permission, I will speak to your servants now, and then visit Mr Frank.’

  ‘Mr Frank, my name is Gavriel Sévère. I am Coroner of Eastern Middlesex, and this is my wife and assistant Olivia Sévère. We heard about the death of your wife. Our condolences to you and your family.’

  Mr Frank held on to the doorknob, swaying a little. ‘The Coroner?’

  ‘We are here to enquire about the previous night. Can you tell us what occurred?’

  A cough. A wobbling of knees. The man stepped back. ‘The housekeeper is presently attending to my wife. W…washing her body. You don’t think… You can’t cut her up. I won’t allow it!’

  ‘I have not ordered a postmortem examination of your wife. Our enquiries relate to Dr Johnston. He died last night.’

  ‘Dr Johnston? Ex…excuse me, but I am not feeling well.’ Mr Frank leant against the wall, and Olivia wrapped her hand around his elbow and led him to a chair. ‘Thank you, ah, Mrs…Sévère. My wife…and I were ill, and…’ He looked up, a pleading in his eyes. ‘Could you come back tomorrow? I promise, I’ll answer all of your questions.’

  ‘Would you like to lie down, Mr Frank?’ Olivia said softly. ‘You are very pale. Perhaps if you lie on the rug and put your feet up on the chair? Yes, like this.’ She pushed a pillow under his head, and he shut his eyes. ‘Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ he whispered.

  Olivia jerked her chin at Sévère, and he disappeared from the hallway. He found a set of stairs and walked up to where he assumed the bedroom might be. The doors to all the rooms stood open. Sounds of splashing water came from the farthest door. He entered.

  ‘Mrs Appleton?’

  A squeal, and a flannel sailed through the air. The housekeeper turned, and clapped a hand to her bosom.

  Sévère introduced himself. His gaze scanned the body, the neatly folded clothes on the bedside table, the digitalis bottle, the boots at the side of the bed.

  ‘Mrs Appleton, you called upon Dr Johnst
on late the previous night to attend to your mistress. May I ask if Dr Johnston ate or drank anything while he was here?’

  She yanked a blanket over the exposed body of Mrs Frank, and answered, ‘I had not offered him anything. And now that you mention it, I think perhaps I should have. He is ever so helpful.’ She blinked, her gaze flew from the body to the coroner, and her mouth fell open. ‘Will you cut her open?’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Well, you are the Coroner.’

  ‘You have an excellent gift of observation, Mrs Appleton. But no, I didn’t come for your mistress. I wish to take your witness statement as to Dr Johnston’s visit the previous night. Unfortunately, he died shortly after he left this house. We have reason to believe that he was poisoned.’

  Mrs Appleton grabbed the edge of the bed, and sat down.

  ‘Let us begin with the moment you went to fetch Dr Johnston,’ Sévère said.

  Poison

  Dear Coroner Sévère,

  I wish I could give you a positive answer, but neither I nor my colleagues have found a cure for infantile paralysis in its recurring form. However, it may relieve you to know that although several of my patients have experienced a return of all the paralytic symptoms they suffered in childhood, a greater number have experienced no recurrence of symptoms, or the recurrence of only a few of them.

  This field of research is still very much in its infancy. However, I am presently collecting more data, especially as to the factors that bring on fatigue, pain, and muscle atrophy, as well as data on alleviating substances. Your physician did well in recommending unguent aconitia and frequent rest, and asking you to discontinue the use of arsenic, as I too have found it to be inadequate for the treatment of pain in joints and muscles.