Spider Silk

by A. Wendeberg

  ‘In the laundry room,’ Olivia whispered, and brushed her fingers over her chin, her mind wandering back to that evening. ‘When she pushed the bucket with the towels and waxed paper into a corner of the room.’

  ‘And when I interrupted her as she was washing her mistress’ corpse, she all but fainted.’

  ‘You don’t think she…’

  ‘One of several possibilities. Ask yourself, who had both a motive and the knowledge to kill Mrs Frank in this particular manner.’

  ‘Mr Frank could have wanted his wife dead so that he could live with his mistress, if he has a mistress, that is. Mrs Appleton’s motive might be revenge for her broken heart, if she indeed was in love with Mrs Frank.’

  Sévère’s jaws worked, his brows pulled low. ‘Hum… You said Higgins is trying to find information on the substances Mr Perkin is using in his dye shop?’

  She nodded. ‘He’s learned that Perkin is using salts and modern coal tar derivatives that he acquires directly from the manufacturer.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he know how to use plant toxins?’

  ‘Why would he?’

  Sévère scratched his short beard. ‘As far as I know, fabrics were traditionally dyed with plants or plant extracts. As a dye chemist, Perkin should have some knowledge of extraction methods, I would think.’

  ‘As would any chemist.’ Olivia shrugged. ‘But…hum. The poison was applied to the skin, and that bothers me. Why would Perkin, or anyone else for that matter, know more about poisons than one of the great experts in toxicology? Not even Dr Barry was aware that aconitine can be deadly when applied to the skin. As far as I know, the only person who might have been able to deduce the use of aconitine as a contact poison is Johnston’s wife.’

  ‘Hum…’

  They sat in silence until a warden called through the peephole in the door, ‘Five minutes.’

  Olivia massaged her neck, and whispered, ‘If you were only small enough to fit into my purse…’

  Sévère bumped his fist to her arm. ‘Next time. The food here is terrible enough.’

  ‘Any suggestions as for the potential mistress of Mr Frank?’

  ‘Find out if he promised her a future together, or if she’s with child. Anything that could indicate why he might have wanted his wife dead, and why now. As to Mrs Appleton: Her behaviour was unusual. Find out why. You already know her nerves don’t hold up well under pressure. Use this to your advantage. And keep an eye on Mr Perkin. If his sister did indeed treat him unfairly, that might be a motive.’

  A soft knock sounded from the door. ‘Come in,’ Olivia said.

  Marion stepped into Olivia’s private rooms and shut the door. Three strides in, she clasped her hands behind her back. Her white apron and cap were missing.

  Olivia waited. It was simple enough to guess what was about to spill from the maid’s mouth. Olivia wouldn’t make it easier on her.

  A high-pitched clearing of her throat, then Marion lifted her chin, and said, ‘My parents do not wish me to remain in your services, Mrs Sévère.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I know it is an unfortunate time, but… May I kindly ask for a character so I may acquire a new situation?’

  Olivia placed her pen into its holder. ‘You said your parents want you to leave. But what do you want, Marion?’

  The maid blushed. ‘I, too, wish to leave.’

  ‘And why is that, I wonder?’

  She dropped her head. ‘Because… Because…’ And that was all she managed.

  ‘You are worried what people will think of you, working for a woman who is said to have been a prostitute. Yet you seem unbothered asking me to be concerned about these immaterial problems of yours, even knowing that I must spend every moment fighting to save my husband’s — and your master’s — life. If you truly wish to leave your post because people gossip, you will soon be disappointed. People gossip everywhere. Stop aggravating me, stop wasting my time, and write that character yourself or ask Netty. I will sign it. You are dismissed.’

  Marion opened and closed her mouth, curtsied awkwardly, and stumbled from the room.

  ‘Well, that was one,’ Olivia muttered, and turned back to her notes.

  Olivia alighted from the cab, crossed the street and entered Regent’s Park. She longed for a walk, for an hour or two without worries. But she only had time for a brisk stroll. As she walked, she collected her thoughts on what to say to the person inhabiting Mr Frank’s secret apartment.

  Higgins had seen boys delivering milk and meat, a maid leaving and returning, and had heard a child playing in the backyard. But he wasn’t sure if the child lived in number eighty-two, or in one of the houses on either side.

  Higgins’s brief description of the neighbourhood hadn’t done Gloucester Terrace justice. Olivia faced a row of pretty houses of bone-white plaster, large windows, and neat front yards. Not one pile of horse manure dirtied the street, not one ill-clothed person loitered. Roses and lavender spilled through picket fences, and bumblebees hummed summer songs.

  Number eighty-two looked much like the neighbouring houses, except for a miniature perambulator abandoned on a path of stones flanked by flowers and ornamental grasses. Olivia stretched her neck and found a porcelain-faced, lace-trimmed doll that stared up at the blue sky. It gave her pause. Not the fact that she had finally found a motive for Mr Frank to kill his wife. No, it was the revelation that investigating this murder was granting her insights into the lives of strangers. It was intimacy she was forcing onto her suspects.

  Olivia lifted her hand and rapped the knocker against the door. A peal of laughter sounded through a window that stood ajar, and a short moment later, a head peeked out through lace curtains, dark blue eyes blinked at Olivia, and then at the perambulator.

  ‘Cecilia!’ the girl squeaked and dove back into the room.

  A servant opened the door, but before Olivia could introduce herself and state her business, she was interrupted by a white and yellow whirlwind that pushed past her and almost toppled into the pram.

  ‘Bernice, your manners!’ sounded from behind the servant. A shapely woman appeared in the doorway, her attention snapping from the girl to Olivia.

  Olivia held out her card. ‘Good day to you, miss. I am Olivia Sévère, private detective. I’m investigating—’

  ‘I didn’t expect you would find me so quickly.’ Her hand went to her stomach, pressing down on it.

  The servant’s gaze flitted from her to Olivia and back.

  ‘And when precisely did you expect me to find you?’ Olivia asked, pretending she knew what the woman was talking about.

  ‘I had hoped never.’ She took a step back. ‘You might as well come in. Bernice, bring in Cecilia. Cora, we’ll take tea in the parlour.’

  Bernice raced ahead of them, bouncing and screeching, and Olivia felt a wave of relief at her own childlessness. She stumbled over her own toes as she thought of Rose. But the girl was more like a little sister than a daughter. And she wasn’t half as annoying as Bernice.

  Bernice ran circles around the coffee table until the maid snatched the girl’s wrist and pulled her out of the room. There was some more screeching that threatened to shatter Olivia’s eardrums, but finally silence fell and tea was delivered.

  ‘I’ve forgotten my own manners, being so focused on the girl’s,’ the woman across from Olivia said, and held out her hand. ‘Helen Warder. You probably wish to know why I did it.’

  Olivia nodded, and said, ‘Indeed,’ but couldn’t work out what Mrs Warder was playing at, for she seemed much too calm to be offering a confession of murder.

  ‘I thought it unfair how the press was treating you, and…it all happened because of Hawley’s wife—’

  ‘Hawley?’

  ‘Hawley Harvey Frank. Everyone calls him Harvey. Except me.’ She smiled fondly. ‘I’m aware that a little gold is nothing when one’s reputation had been utterly ruined, but then…it was what I had, and after all it wasn’t me who did it.’

&nb
sp; ‘Did what?’

  ‘Ruined your reputation.’

  Olivia gazed out the window, then back at Mrs Warder. ‘Did you melt a golden necklace, or did Mr Frank give you a gold nugget and tell you to send it to me?’

  ‘Why would I destroy my jewellery?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Olivia shrugged. ‘You sent a stranger a big clump of gold. That’s rather queer, so why not make a habit of it?’

  Mrs Warder ran her finger around the rim of her cup. ‘Hawley doesn’t know I sent it.’

  ‘He doesn’t?’

  ‘I didn’t tell him. He will notice, though, sooner or later.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a nugget he brought from Africa. One of the biggest they’ve found in the mine he owns. Well…he doesn’t own it. He invested into it.’

  ‘When was that?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘When we fell in love. Four years ago.’ Mrs Warden touched a ring on her finger, then settled her gaze on Olivia. ‘I was a prostitute, and he a client. He gave me the gold so I could buy my freedom. I never used it. I didn’t want to leave, I…wanted him. A few weeks later he presented me with this.’ She motioned at the room, the garden outside the window. ‘I was already carrying his child.’

  ‘Why didn’t he divorce his wife?’

  Mrs Warder snorted. ‘He believed she would die of a broken heart. He is too soft-hearted. It’s one of the reasons I love him.’

  ‘It must have been rather inconvenient for you.’

  ‘Sometimes it was. I despised her for the nights I spent alone. Despised her for her right to call herself his wife.’

  ‘And now you can have it all,’ Olivia said softly.

  ‘It should make me content, shouldn’t it?’ Mrs Warden tilted her head. ‘But he grieves. I didn’t think he would.’

  ‘You believed he would not grieve the death of his wife?’

  ‘There was no love between them.’

  ‘Did he say that?’

  ‘At times. But even if he had never mentioned it, it was obvious from how he talked about her.’

  ‘I see.’ Olivia stood and walked to the window. ‘May I ask if you grow wolf’s bane in your garden?’

  Evidence

  Olivia woke with a start. Alf stood above her, a finger tapping her cheek. ‘Missus! Missus!’

  She swatted him away and sat up ‘What is it?’

  ‘The laundry maid is about to leave.’

  ‘The…what?’

  ‘The laundry maid. You wanted to talk to her. She’s about to leave her home and go to Mr Frank’s house.’

  Olivia blinked out the window. The sun was up and birds were blaring, but the usual street noises were missing. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half past five.’

  She yanked the covers aside, and sent Alf off to tell Higgins to ready the brougham. She dressed, rushed down to the kitchen to snatch a cup of tea, and then hurried to the stable to find Higgins waiting by the gate, holding the brougham door open for her.

  ‘I’m in need of fresh air and information,’ she said, and climbed up onto the driver seat. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  In answer, Higgins folded up the steps, snapped the door shut, and took up his seat next to her. He snapped the reins and clicked his tongue. The brougham made a lurch.

  ‘Mr Perkin doesn’t seem to have a family. That is, he’s not living with wife and children,’ Higgins said, and fumbled around in his jacket, extracted a tobacco pouch, and began to roll a cigarette.

  ‘You can do that and steer?’

  ‘I’m not steering right now. We are going straight and not very fast. You can hold the reins if you wish.’ He dropped the leather straps in her lap. ‘Grab them, but don’t pull. Use them to tap the horses once in a while. They need to know you’re in charge and awake.’

  Olivia picked up the reins, trying not to look like a dolt.

  ‘Take the next right,’ Higgins said. ‘Pull the right side in, gently. A bit more. There.’

  They made the turn, and Olivia exhaled. ‘I’m glad I didn’t tip us over.’

  Higgins chuckled. ‘For that, we would need more speed.’ And then he grabbed the whip and tapped the horses. At once, they fell into a trot.

  ‘Higgins, I doubt this is a good idea!’

  ‘It’s only a trot. Look straight ahead, and don’t run over the old ladies.’

  ‘Higgins, really!’ She slapped the reins back to him.

  He grinned, stuck the cigarette into his mouth, and took over. ‘Mr Perkin seems to be a hard working fella,’ he spoke through the corner of his mouth. ‘He is at his workshop from six in the morning till eight or nine in the evening. He rents a small room up in the attic of one Dean Knapman at 21 Ravey Street. Cheap place. And I was thinking about what you said earlier. About shooting practice. It’s a good idea. You need to get a feeling for the recoil, else you’ll hurt your wrist, and then you might hesitate to pull the trigger a second time.’

  ‘Do you think…’

  ‘That you’ll need to fire more than once? Yes, I do.’

  ‘I don’t want to shoot anyone accidentally.’

  ‘You might shoot someone accidentally if you don’t practice. You can use the basement. Send the servants away. Alf especially. And then…put up a target of some sort. A door, maybe. I’ll show you later. Ah, here we are.’ Higgins thrust out his stubbly chin and pulled the horses to a stop.

  At first glance, the house Higgins had indicated seemed covered in rust and flour. Its dark red bricks were withered. White crusts were blooming around the base. The air swelled with scents of dew and ammonia.

  Olivia picked up her skirts, climbed off the brougham, and made for the house. She rapped knocker against cracked wood, and waited. The tapping of heels, the whining of a key in a rusty lock. A middle-aged woman with creases around her mouth and a flowery kerchief covering her brown hair opened the door.

  ‘Mrs Eloise Hibbert?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘Who is it?’ a male voice thundered from the depths of the house.

  ‘Well?’ Mrs Hibbert said to Olivia.

  ‘I am Olivia Sévère, private investigator. And I have a few questions regarding the death of your mistress, Mrs Frank.’

  ‘Is it the strumpet?’ sounded through the corridor. ‘Bring her in, Elli, I need a—’

  Mrs Hibbert hastily stepped outside and shut the door. ‘I am so sorry. My father, he is…um… Age has made him unkind.’

  Olivia merely nodded, then motioned to the brougham. ‘Shall we walk, or may I convey you to Sillwood Street? ’

  ‘Oh, I…I never…’ A smile spread on her face. ‘If I may?’

  They entered the carriage, and Olivia said, ‘You weren’t present the night your mistress died, but I wonder if there’s anything peculiar you observed the following morning?’

  ‘Peculiar?’

  ‘There was a bucket with towels and waxed paper in the laundry room. Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘It’s from Mrs Appleton what washed the mistress.’

  ‘And Mr Frank?’

  Mrs Hibbert frowned. ‘He was feeling poorly. I mean…his wife died. He grieved, but… He’d already felt poorly the evening before, that’s what Mrs Appleton told me. So it was her what washed Mrs Frank’s body.’

  Olivia squinted at Mrs Hibbert. ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘I saw Mrs Appleton come from the Missus’ room with a bucket and towels. I didn’t know why she had need of the waxed paper, but then I thought maybe it was to prevent the sheets from getting too wet.’ She shrugged, and continued, ‘Later that morning, she did it again. I heard her tell Mr Frank to rest and that she would take care of it. The…corpse.’

  ‘And then you left the house? I’m asking because you weren’t present when the Coroner and I came to the house, and Mrs Appleton was washing your mistress.’

  ‘I was at Mrs Bixby’s, and then at Mrs Greenham’s, where I also work as laundry maid.’

  ‘I see. Hmm…’ Olivia tapped her lower
lip. ‘Did you find it peculiar that Mrs Appleton washed Mrs Frank’s body?’

  ‘No, not really. Mr Frank was ill and Mrs Appleton was ever so helpful when it came to anything the mistress needed. But…’ Mrs Hibbert’s hand trailed from her chin down to her stomach. ‘But I was so very sorry to see her beautiful chemise burned. I’ve never seen such a fine piece of undergarment in all my life. That chemise was fit for a queen.’

  ‘You saw Mrs Appleton burn Mrs Frank’s undergarments?’ Olivia kept her voice calm, but inside, she felt something contract sharply.

  ‘Yes, it was…’ Mrs Hibbert looked out the brougham’s window into the pale morning. ‘About this same time. I came through the servant’s entrance, not knowing what had happened. Mrs Appleton dragged a bucket into the back yard and tipped it into the privy.’ Eloise Hibbert chewed on her lip, thinking. ‘She used laundry tongs to drape the towels over the rack. Then she pumped water into the bucket, rinsed it, and dumped that into the privy, too. Hum… I think there was a flannel in the bucket when she poured it out. I’m not sure. I asked her what she was doing, and she told me to mind my own business. I went inside and she followed. When I entered the laundry room, she sent me away to take breakfast.’ Mrs Hibbert looked up, eyes large, head bobbing. ‘She never does this. She ever only tells us to work work work.’ Her hands made quick shooing motions.

  ‘So you took breakfast.’

  Mrs Hibbert snorted. ‘I just had breakfast, and I…was curious. I poured myself a cup of tea and tiptoed to the laundry room. And there she was, shoving clothes into the fire. I was shocked to see her put Mrs Frank’s pretty evening dress into the hearth — it barely even fit. Such a nice dress. Mrs Appleton heard me gasp and scolded me. Explained that the missus had died in those clothes and that the master wanted them burned, because of the smell. They smelled of death, she said. I didn’t smell anything but the burnt fabric.’

  Mrs Hibbert put a hand to her mouth. ‘But the chemise! By God, I couldn’t help myself. I jumped to snatch it from her. But it was of no use.’

  ‘Did she touch the chemise with her hands?’