Spider Silk

by A. Wendeberg

  ‘Did he look ill?’

  ‘Mr Frank?’

  ‘No, Dr Johnston.’

  ‘Oh! Ah, no. I believe not.’ A frown from Mrs Appleton was followed by an encouraging nod from Olivia. ‘Well, and then… Dr Johnston asked me to open the windows, which I did at once. He talked to my mistress, but she could not reply for she had lost her senses already.’ Mrs Appleton sniffed. ‘And then he undressed her.’

  ‘Why was she dressed in her finery?’

  ‘Because of the anniversary, of course!’

  ‘The Frank’s wedding anniversary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did they plan to go out? To the opera? Or an eating house?’

  ‘No, they planned to stay at home, for Mr Frank didn’t feel well.’

  ‘Mr Frank, not his wife?’

  A nod.

  ‘But they dressed up nonetheless?’ Olivia asked.

  Mrs Appleton twitched her shoulders. ‘As I said, it was their anniversary.’

  ‘I see. So you are saying that Mr Frank was unwell, but Mrs Frank was feeling perfectly fine until later that evening. When precisely did she begin to feel ill?’

  Mrs Appleton’s gaze drifted away, then focused back on Olivia. ‘About an hour before I called the doctor.’

  ‘I see. And what happened then? After Dr Johnston had undressed your mistress?’

  Mrs Appleton blushed. ‘He touched her all over.’

  ‘He palpitated her,’ Olivia provided.

  ‘I guess that’s what he did.’

  ‘Was she completely naked?’

  Mrs Appleton’s hands contracted. ‘What? No! He’d taken off her dress and unstrung her corset, no more!’

  ‘So she still wore her stockings, drawers, chemise, and what else?’

  ‘I believe that…that is all she wore, yes. And then…he instructed Mr Frank to rub the mistress’ legs, and then Dr Johnston lifted her and hit her on her back.’

  ‘Hmm…’ Olivia frowned. ‘You wouldn’t know if he used a stethoscope, would you?’ She knew the answer. They had found Johnston’s stethoscope under Mrs Frank’s bed. He must have pulled it out of his bag, perhaps used it, and then dropped it.

  ‘He put his ear to her bosom and her back. Then he pronounced her dead.’ Mrs Appleton rubbed her left eye.

  ‘And she died because of her weak heart,’ Olivia said softly.

  ‘Yes. She did.’

  ‘Did Dr Johnston touch the bottle with tincture of digitalis?’

  Mrs Appleton frowned, then shook her head. ‘Not that I know.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Olivia again, and chewed on the inside of her cheek. Mrs Appleton began to fidget with her apron.

  ‘Was this the only medicine Mrs Frank took?’

  Mrs Appleton’s jaw twitched. ‘She was in the habit of taking several tinctures for health. I have cleaned her rooms and poured them all out.’

  Olivia cursed herself. She should have searched the whole house and taken anything suspicious to Dr Barry.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Mr Frank joined Olivia in the parlour. He looked even more worn than the last time she’d seen him.

  ‘It is not precisely an acceptable time to pay visits,’ he muttered.

  ‘My sincere apologies. Had I known you had retired, I would have waited until tomorrow morning.’ She flashed a smile and clapped her hands together. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Shall we what?’

  ‘Begin. I am investigating the murder of Dr Johnston, and I need to ask you a few more questions.’

  Mr Frank wobbled. He locked his knees and caught the back of a chair, eased himself into it, but didn’t seem to find a comfortable position. ‘Murder!’ he huffed, eyes as round and dark as chestnuts.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. Would you mind recounting the events that led to the death of Dr Johnston?’

  His head snapped up. ‘Why would you believe I know which events led to Dr Johnston’s death?’

  ‘You were here, weren’t you?’

  ‘I… Yes, I was.’

  ‘It is known that Dr Johnston died from a very aggressive poison, which must have been given to him less than an hour prior to his death. He wasn’t given anything in my home. Nothing but a glass of brandy, that is. My husband drank it too, and felt no ill effects.’

  Mr Frank stared at her, as if waiting for something.

  Olivia inhaled. ‘Dr Johnston must have been poisoned in your home, Mr Frank.’ She kept her friendly facade, hoping that her half-knowledge disguised as solid fact would sufficiently scare Mr Frank into confessing. Whatever it was that needed confessing.

  She wondered, briefly, if it was normal procedure to treat witnesses and suspects alike.

  Mr Frank’s face derailed. His mouth sagged, his chin pulled tight into small dimples, the skin around his eyes turned a snowy white. She’d never seen a man’s expression change so rapidly, except of course when the man had just spent himself. But that usually resulted in a very different change of mood.

  Mr Frank muttered something she didn’t understand.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Do I need an attorney?’

  ‘Not thus far. My warrant only permits questioning.’ She leant back against the windowsill and relaxed her posture. ‘To be honest with you, Mr Frank, I doubt you did it.’

  His gaze flickered.

  ‘My husband and I have met numerous murderers and there is something in their eyes that is…’ she waved a hand at her own face and trailed off, allowing his imagination to fill the gap.

  He nodded. Yes. Don’t we all know how murderers look. Haven’t we all seen those damned creatures in the Illustrated Police News.

  ‘But the police think differently,’ she added softly. ‘Inspector Height…’ Again, she trailed off, hoping for help from Mr Frank’s fear-infused imagination.

  His shoulders snapped back. ‘I am innocent!’

  ‘Oh, I do know that, believe me. I just came to tell you to be careful. To let you know that the police will come looking. So you can be…prepared. That is why I didn’t wish to wait for tomorrow morning.’

  ‘They’ll come? Tomorrow morning?’

  She lifted a shoulder, innocence filling her eyes.

  Mr Frank dropped his gaze to his hands, investigated the lines on his palms. A hangnail seemed of particular interest all of a sudden.

  She approached him and asked, ‘Was there anything you found…peculiar about Dr Johnston’s behaviour?’

  He wiped his brow and shook his head.

  ‘Was he disoriented? Flushed? Did he say he was thirsty or hurting? Feeling unwell?’

  Mr Frank gazed toward the window. Drops of rain glinted yellow against the black night. ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Well then,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I need to get going.’

  His gaze was back on her. ‘Going? Where to?’

  ‘Home, of course. It is close to midnight.’ She yawned and pushed away from the window.

  Mr Frank jumped from his chair. ‘And what am I to do now?’

  ‘Go to bed, sleep well, and when the police come to interrogate you, tell them the truth. What you told me and my husband. You did tell the truth, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of… Of course I did!’

  She watched him.

  His eyes darted to the door and back at her. He nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll tell them what I told you. What else is there to do?’ It wasn’t intended to be a question. It was more like the waving of a white flag.

  * * *

  ‘I’ll be damned if he isn’t hiding something,’ Olivia muttered as she stalked across the street. The rim of her damp bonnet hung limply into her face. She wished she could wear a bowler instead.

  ‘Anything to report?’ she called up to Higgins.

  ‘Lights were switched off about half an hour ago. Do you wish to go home?’

  ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘I’m all right.’ He flashed a grin at her that wasn’t entirely respectful.


  ‘I’ll be right back. Please do keep an eye on the house of Mr Frank.’

  He tapped two fingers to his hat and nodded once.

  * * *

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Sévère.’ Mrs Johnston opened the door the moment Olivia rapped knocker against wood. ‘I hope your coachman won’t catch a cold.’ She stepped aside to admit her late guest.

  ‘You expected me.’

  ‘The brougham has been standing there for about an hour. One couldn’t miss the implications. Anything useful to be gained from Mr Frank or his housekeeper?’ Mrs Johnston had yet to invite Olivia into the parlour. Olivia suspected that tonight she’d have to make do with the entrance hall.

  ‘I hope I didn’t keep you up.’

  Mrs Johnston’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘The police have arrested a suspect,’ Olivia said softly.

  ‘They found the murderer?’

  ‘They did not. They arrested my husband.’

  Something clattered to the floor. Olivia’s eyes caught the gleam of brass and mother of pearl as Mrs Johnston picked up the item. An opera glass.

  ‘How would you describe the relationship between the Franks?’

  Mrs Johnston blew air through her nose. ‘Normal.’

  ‘Please elaborate.’

  ‘I find it a bit late for elaborating, but if you insist. The Franks had an utterly unremarkable marriage. Which means they mostly ignored one another.’ The way she eyed Olivia made clear she believed the Sévères practiced that same kind of relationship.

  Olivia ignored the jab. ‘Any affairs?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  Olivia’s gaze slid to the opera glass in Mrs Johnston’s hand. ‘I expect you do know enough.’

  ‘Are you sure your husband is innocent?’

  ‘A swift change of subject? Very well, then. Which vegetable alkaloids do you keep in your house?’

  ‘I was wondering why neither of you attended his funeral. But your husband’s arrest appears to be a sufficient explanation.’

  Olivia clapped a hand to her mouth. She had completely forgotten Johnston’s funeral. ‘Where is he buried?’

  ‘Mrs Sévère, I must ask you to leave now.’ Arms went across her chest. The lapels of her robe parted, revealing a black nightgown. Mrs Johnston wore mourning attire even in bed.

  ‘Where can I find his grave?’ Olivia asked.

  Mrs Johnston’s eyes grew cold.

  ‘I beg you. Your husband was a friend.’

  ‘Duke’s,’ Mrs Johnston said in a flat voice.

  Olivia dipped her chin. ‘Thank you. And thank you for receiving me despite the late hour. I wish you a good night.’

  Olivia woke to a rumbling noise. At first, she thought she was still sitting across from Mrs Johnston, who was hammering on a table with overlarge fists. No, that had been a dream. The meeting with Mrs Johnston hadn’t gone well, but the woman had definitely not morphed into a rock-fisted creature who was insisting Sévère had killed her husband.

  Olivia shivered.

  There was a knock on her door. Perhaps that was what woke her.

  ‘What is it?’ she called.

  ‘A telegram,’ Netty said.

  ‘Come in.’

  Olivia took the slip of paper, unfolded it, and almost dropped it.

  Bill of indictment accepted. Meet me in my office at noon. Bicker.

  She gazed at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost ten in the morning.

  ‘Why did no one wake me?’

  ‘Rose tried, but she said you were sleeping like a stone. Then Marion woke you, and you said you’d take breakfast in a few moments. That was at seven.’

  ‘Oh. Really?’ Olivia rubbed her eyes. She’d been exhausted last night. Ashamed, she sat up, touched her brow and her neck. Her skin felt a bit hot.

  And then the full weight of the message hit her: Sévère would be led to trial for murder or manslaughter.

  How could the Grand Jury have accepted the bill so swiftly?

  Something was foul.

  Olivia grew cold. Of course they could do it if someone asked them to give priority to the case.

  She felt an overpowering urge to throttle Frost, to chop off his balls, and hammer them into his ugly mouth with a mallet.

  She tamped down her rage when she heard the doorbell ring. Marion’s voice in the hallway. And that of Inspector Height.

  The New Coroner

  ‘The police have confiscated our case notes.’ Olivia caught herself wringing her hands. She dropped them to her lap and wiped her palms on her dress. Inspector Height and his lackeys had dug through Sévère’s office, and then proceeded to upturn the rest of the house. They asked the same stupid questions they’d asked the first time they interrogated her. She’d barely made it to Bicker’s office on time.

  ‘Knuckle-brained meaters,’ she muttered at the carpet, before telling herself that none of it mattered. She didn’t need Sévère’s notes. Every detail was firmly lodged in her mind.

  Bicker coughed.

  Olivia looked up at him. ‘Don’t you think it suspicious that the Grand Jury accepted the bill in less than twenty-four hours?’

  Frowning, he dabbed at his whiskers.

  She blurted out, ‘It’s Frost. He wishes—’ She clapped her mouth shut and dropped her gaze. ‘He has an agenda.’

  ‘I greatly doubt that. But given the circumstances, it’s not surprising that you are so…upset.’

  Olivia leant back in her seat, regretting her outburst. Bicker didn’t know that she and Frost shared a past, had no idea why she’d come to such a conclusion. And yet… She pinned the attorney with her gaze, wondering how quickly he would lose his nerve should his wife face murder charges for killing her best friend. How well would he hold up with her life on the line?

  Nausea swept through her. Olivia touched her neck. Too hot. She’d been running a fever since rain had soaked her to the bone the night before. She groaned and tried to take her mind off all the seemingly unsolvable problems by counting the buttons on Bicker’s waistcoat. There were only six, and her anger flared up. Anger toward Bicker, who knew too little to be of any help.

  She folded her hands in her lap, smiling mildly. ‘Mr Bicker, I suggest you discuss Chief Magistrate Frost with my husband. He will know how much information can be dispensed to you.’

  Bicker frowned. ‘If it is relevant for the case, I must know about it at once.’

  Olivia said nothing.

  ‘Very well. I shall talk to your husband. As to the swiftness of the Grand Jury’s decision — an official of the Crown is accused of an unlawful killing. As such, the Grand Jury requires that justice be served swiftly in order to keep face and appease the public.’

  Bicker shifted in his armchair, fingering his thick whiskers. ‘Mrs Sévère, the press will pick up this case before this day is over. I suggest… My wife swears on needlepoint for calming the nerves.’

  At her stare, he dropped his gaze.

  She huffed and said, ‘Given the impatience of your juridical machinery, may we expect the trial to be opened soon?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘In fact, the date is already set.’ His eyes slid up to her face. ‘In five days.’

  Her stomach dropped. ‘So soon? The results of Dr Barry’s analysis won’t even be ready!’

  ‘They will be.’

  She watched Bicker squirm in his chair. His waistcoat bulged over his portly stomach. Two ruddy spots formed on his furry cheeks, like red beets riding a wooly mammoth. She almost laughed.

  Bicker shut his eyes and cracked his knuckles.

  She ripped off her lace gloves. It had grown unbearably hot in the room. Or perhaps it was her. Hot and cold. It would stay thus until the fever burnt itself out. Damn this impeccable timing! Damn time altogether. ‘How in all that is holy will I catch a murderer in five days? How the bloody hell will you have enough time to prepare a defence?’ Abruptly, she stood. ‘I need to speak with my husband at once.’

  Bicker dropped his palms
to his desk with a meaty thud. ‘That, Mrs Sévère, is impossible.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your husband is awaiting trial and is not allowed to receive visits from members of his family.’

  For a moment, she was dumbstruck. Then it dawned on her. ‘I am not the assistant of the Coroner anymore. I’m merely a prisoner’s wife.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  She rubbed her face and counted her options. There weren’t many. In fact, there was only one: she had to find the person who had poisoned Johnston.

  She took in Bicker, wondering if he believed that Sévère could… No, she wouldn’t allow herself to think about that. ‘The police have collected evidence against my husband. Except for the two of us, no one seems to consider him innocent. Mr Bicker, it is of utmost importance that I be permitted to speak with him. If I have to solve this case without the benefit of his acumen, he’ll be…’ She set her shoulders. ‘I cannot simply sit at home and hope the jury will deem the evidence too weak to find him guilty. I cannot wait it out. You have to help me get into Sévère’s cell.’

  Bicker stared at her. The church bells struck one o’clock. His gaze grew glassy, his lids slid to half-mast. Pushing a fist under his chin, he said, ‘Hum.’

  He stood and strode to the window. He ran a finger around the rim of a large vase, plucked the petal of a pink rose and crushed it in his fist. ‘My apologies for the needlepoint suggestion. I know how much he values your insights. But it will be…nearly impossible to help you with…’

  Olivia watched his stance, how it gradually shifted from slightly clenched to upright.

  ‘Hum,’ he said again and turned to her. ‘I believe this might work.’

  ‘Hello, Sévère. I am here on official business,’ Olivia announced, stepping past the warden. The man still eyed the folder she was holding like a shield to her bosom. The papers had already been searched — by him, two turnkeys, and the officer who’d led her into the main hall, but it appeared as though the warden wanted to look through them again.