Spider Silk

by A. Wendeberg

  Mrs Hibbert cocked her head. ‘No, she didn’t. Strange, isn’t it? She used the laundry tongs for everything.’

  ‘Even the heavy dress?’

  ‘Yes, and her…shoes.’

  ‘That must have been a sight,’ Olivia said.

  ‘Oh, it was. It was.’ Mrs Hibbert rubbed the back of her right hand. ‘She whacked me with the tongs when I tried to grab the chemise.’

  ‘Would you describe Mrs Appleton as a woman of delicate nerves?’

  Mrs Hibbert burst out laughing. ‘Among the other servants she’s called the badger.’

  ‘The badger?’

  ‘Prod her once and she’ll eat you alive.’

  Sévère stared at the ceiling — his favourite pastime now that there was nothing else to do but sleep, eat, worry, and piss into a bucket.

  His mind went in useless circles, as it often did these days. Poison — skin samples — Johnston’s bowler hat — the clump of gold.

  He longed for exercise, for a walk, for open air. But most of all he worried about Olivia’s absence. Was it a good or a bad sign? Was she already chasing the killer, or did she not dare come to see him because she hadn’t found anything that might help?

  He would go mad, indeed he would. There was a constant dripping noise just outside his cell, echoing through the peephole. Its frequency was just a tiny bit faster than his pulse, and when he tried to sleep, it seemed to quicken his heartbeat to match, so that he never truly rested.

  Nor would rest have been possible even without the drip drip drip, for the men in the neighbouring cells rarely kept their mouths shut. They prayed for their souls, begged for someone to spare their lives, cursed judge, police, and magistrates, or masturbated with abandon.

  Sévère had tried praying, but it felt ridiculous. He had tried stuffing corners of the threadbare blanket into his ears, but then chill went into his bad leg and the ache grew too intense to be ignored. He tried to pleasure himself to find sleep, but grew even more frustrated once the edge was taken off and his mind pounced on his case, on solving this problem and that, and then finding even more problems.

  Noises rose in a cell to his right — one of his fellow prisoners was taking up his angry prayers once more. The man had been pleading his case since the previous day, at times angry, other times desperate. And then, his prayers turned to sobs.

  Sévère found no pity in himself. After all, he was the only innocent man in this place.

  But…was he?

  Somewhere, a door was unlocked, words were muttered. Keys scraped through various locks. His cell door sprang open and Bicker stepped in. He had to stoop not to knock his head against the low door frame. Sévère’s eyes went to Bicker’s hat, which he gripped hard in front of his stomach.

  Sévère wondered how bad the news might be.

  Bicker waited for the warden to leave them alone, and then he heaved once, twice, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Dr Barry could not find vegetable alkaloids in Johnston’s skin samples,’ Bicker began. ‘He wasn’t even able to find vegetable alkaloids in the organ samples the second time he analysed them. It’s the embalmment fluids. They render an analysis impossible.’

  Sévère felt his spine go soft. He sagged forward and buried his face in his hands.

  Bicker went on, ‘He did find traces of vegetable alkaloids on the rim of Johnston’s hat, though, which he will analyse further. However…’ And here he stopped.

  In the silence, Sévère looked up.

  Bicker’s eyelids drooped. His mouth was working up the words. ‘The prosecution will point out that both the hat and Johnston were in your house, and that you had ample opportunity to manipulate both.’

  ‘But…what for?’

  ‘The point is that the hat would have helped your case only if it had never entered your house.’

  ‘Then my release hinges on Rose’s statement.’

  Bicker rubbed his face and gazed up at the ceiling that was mere inches from his face. ‘Well… There’s her upbringing.’

  All joints felt too loose on Sévère. He had the faint impression that his very substance was falling apart, and dripping from his frame. ‘Does the prosecution know?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. She’ll be asked the usual questions: her name and residence, how long she has worked for your wife, how she came to know the prisoner, et cetera. And because she is so young, the prosecution will enquire about her mother and her upbringing.’

  ‘But all this taken together — the burning sensation on Rose’s palms after she touched Johnston’s hand, the poison on the rim of his hat, the fact that I told the surgeon to send organ samples to Dr Barry — all this is evidence that I did not commit the crime. Yes, it is circumstantial evidence, but so is the evidence that was brought up against me.’

  Bicker slowly nodded, but Sévère saw that it was done for his benefit only.

  ‘Sévère, the problem is that the statements of Mrs Johnston and your housekeeper weigh heavy against you. Your wife’s past gives you a strong motive. Your unusual interest in postmortems and all medical matters relating to suspicious deaths gives you the expertise to accomplish such an extraordinary killing. Forgive me for being so blunt, but sending samples of Johnston’s organs to Dr Barry is only a sign of the arrogance you are well known for.’

  If Sévère had been able to stand, he would have punched Bicker’s face. ‘Bicker, forgive me for being so blunt, but you are a horse’s ass. You don’t have to prove my innocence. You only need to show that there is reasonable doubt as to my guilt.’

  ‘Is there?’

  Sévère’s jaw unhinged. ‘You believe I killed him.’

  Bicker’s expression softened. ‘No, I do not. But enough people do.’

  The Horseman

  A narrow beam of sickly-yellow light dropped through the peephole of Sévère’s cell door, and fell directly into the jar with unguent. He moved it in and out of the light, the unguent’s greasy reflection appearing and vanishing, just as hope had done these past days.

  God, how he embraced that feeling every time it returned! No matter how small or insignificant, he could weep every time hope showed its lovely face once more.

  And how hollowed out he felt every time it left.

  He exhaled, listened to the hiss of breath through his nostrils, watched ghosts of condensation rise, and wondered how death at the end of a rope would feel.

  He touched his throat. How tender the skin was there.

  His gaze dropped back to the unguent. Half a grain of aconitine in a dollop the size of a bean or nut. He had much more at his disposal. Judging from Johnston’s death, he wouldn’t have to suffer long.

  He dipped his index finger into the jar, and lifted it up to his face. Such a curious little thing, he mused, and stuck it into his mouth.

  His tongue began to prickle. Hot shame washed through him. He spat out, and washed his mouth with tepid water, rubbed his sleeve across his tongue, and spat again.

  Cowardice had, until this day, never been one of his traits. Nor was witlessness. For if he were found dead in his cell, poisoned by a substance his wife had smuggled in, she would face the consequences.

  Gnarled shadows twitched in the candlelight. Olivia’s nerves felt raw and exposed. Whenever she answered one of the many questions Sévère’s case raised, another dozen seemed to appear. It was maddening.

  How the deuce could she get Mr Frank, Mrs Appleton, or Mrs Warden to confess to the murder of Mrs Frank before it was too late? She didn’t even know where to begin.

  Olivia placed the pencil aside and stared at the useless scribbles in front of her. The clock on the mantle told her it was nearly two in the morning. She rubbed her face and went to check on Rose.

  The girl wasn’t in her bed.

  * * *

  Olivia blasted into the kitchen. ‘Have you seen Rose?’ she barked at cook who almost dropped the bowl of late supper she must have planned on sneaking into her room.

  ‘Seen her ar
ound noon. Surely she’s in bed now.’

  Olivia dashed from the kitchen and made for the coachman’s quarters above the stable. She banged her fist against the door until Higgins opened, dressed only in a long grey shirt that reached to his hairy knees, his face a question mark.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Rose?’

  He blinked. ‘In the morning.’

  ‘What was she doing? Was she distressed? Did she say anything about a man or woman loitering on the street?’

  Higgins shook his head, then his eyes flew open. ‘Is it about the man you warned her about?’ Before Olivia could reply, he said, ‘I’ll get dressed and find her.’

  He was about to slam the door shut, but she blocked him with her hand. ‘I’ll search the attic. You start in the basement. We’ll meet in the middle.’

  * * *

  Rose was nowhere to be found. Not in her pirate shack up at the attic, not in any closet, not under a bed or table. The servants stood in the corridor, Netty kneading her apron, cook staring into her bowl of cold supper, Alf pulling his ear. Olivia rushed from Sévère’s office, her purse stuffed with her gun and whatever money she could find in her haste. Higgins came back from his rooms, slipping a revolver into a pocket of his jacket, his face utterly calm. ‘Alf,’ he said to the boy, ‘go to the police and—’

  ‘No.’ Olivia grabbed Higgins’ arm. ‘We’ll decide about that later.’

  They summoned a cab, and rode to a place Olivia had no wish to ever see again. She sorely missed Johnston. He was the only one she would have trusted for this.

  They alighted not in front of the brothel, but about fifty yards from it. ‘Higgins, you must stay close but hidden for now. I might need you to play the client if the madam doesn’t let me see Rose.’

  A nod from him, and she strolled off. The revolver in her purse felt heavy. She hadn’t had time to practice much. One evening, fifteen shots. That was all. Now she desperately wished she were a legendary gunfighter from the Wild West.

  She burst into the brothel without knocking. Bobby jumped from his armchair. ‘Where is she?’ Olivia barked, and only then took in the lobby. Two clients sat stiffly at a table, a bottle of wine and two glasses between them. They were unfamiliar to her.

  She turned back to Bobby. ‘Well?’

  Bobby straightened, cracked his knuckles, and stared down his nose. Then he lifted his arm and tapped the small bell above his head. The madam arrived a few heartbeats later.

  ‘Oh, look who graces us with her presence. Miss Mary, what a pleasant surprise. But if you are looking for work, I must dissapoint—’

  ‘Where is Rose?’

  ‘Are you referring to my daughter? The one you abducted and kept locked in your house for six months? She found her way back home and is doing very well.’ The madam smiled, and casually tucked a dark curl behind her ear. Her pearl earrings glittered in the lamplight.

  Olivia’s blood was coming to a boil. ‘You have two options. One: You hand Rose over to me and never see her again, except when she wishes it. Two: You rot in gaol.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her what she wants?’ The madam winked, sauntered to the stairwell, and called, ‘Rose, my dear, would you come down for a moment?’

  A door opened and a redhead stepped out. Her eyes flared with surprise when she saw Olivia. Mary, she mouthed, beaming.

  ‘Claire, fetch Rose,’ the madam said.

  Claire’s expression shuttered. ‘She’s asleep.’

  ‘Well, wake her then!’

  Claire descended the stairs, her eyebrows tilted toward sarcasm. ‘Wasn’t it you who gave her the laudanum?’

  Olivia stomach roiled. Her hand itched to grab her revolver and shove it into the madam’s face.

  Madame Rousseau waved a dismissive hand, and said to Olivia, ‘There you have it. She can talk to you tomorrow.’

  ‘Very well, gaol it is then.’

  The madam snorted. ‘The girl resides here, she is my daughter, and she offered herself to a man. Told him she was thirteen years old. What can I do?’ She shrugged. ‘No one will arrest me for this.’

  Olivia snapped her fingers, a cruel smile on her face. ‘Well, dammit. I would have liked to see the six months for seduction of an underage girl added to the three years for concealment of death. Because that’s what you and Bobby will get for dumping Alexander Easy into the Thames. Hum… And who knows if he was really dead when he was thrown in? It all depends on my memory which is a little…scattered. At times.’

  Still, the facade did not slip from the madam’s face. ‘Claire, dear, please take those two gentlemen up to your room.’

  Claire put on a seductive smile, and the men rose. As they passed Olivia, one of them whispered, ‘Is there a chance you would join us?’

  Olivia gifted him a cold stare that made him flinch. She watched Claire hooking her arms around both men, and walk them upstairs. As they disappeared, there was a softly spoken, ‘Bobbie,’ from the madam, and two thick arms dropped around Olivia.

  ‘You will go to gaol. I’ll make sure of it!’ Olivia hissed as she struggled against Bobby’s grip.

  ‘I wish you a pleasant night, Mary. If you dare show your visage here again, you will regret it.’ She nodded at Bobby, and his arms tightened around Olivia, and lifted her up.

  Olivia struggled, tossed her head back and whacked Bobby’s nose. He boxed her ear in retaliation. The pain and screeching noise in her head made her vision swim.

  ‘Higgins! Higgins!’ she hollered, kicking Bobby’s legs. ‘HIGGINS!’

  A dull thwack sounded behind her, somewhat above her head. Bobby froze, and dropped like a sack of flour, taking Olivia down with him.

  Higgins grabbed her shoulder. ‘Where?’ he hissed, his eyes black and furious.

  ‘Upstairs. First door to the right, I believe.’

  Higgins whirled around, and took the stairs three steps at a time, closely followed by the madam who was struggling with her voluptuous skirts. Bobbie lay prone, his eyeballs rolling about beneath his lids, a line of spittle lolling from his half-open mouth.

  A screech and a thump sounded from upstairs. And then Rose’s small voice, pleading.

  Olivia pushed herself up, a hand pressed to the wall to keep the room from spinning away from her. She fumbled for her revolver, pulled it from her purse, and approached the stairs.

  Higgins appeared, Rose in his arms. ‘Out!’ he bellowed.

  Olivia backed away and stumbled over Bobby’s bulky form. He grunted and swatted at her. She kicked his side for good measure, then made for the door.

  As Higgins ran past her, the sight of Rose — dressed only in a sheer nightdress, her small arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her face pressed to his throat — broke Olivia’s heart in two.

  They covered a few hundred yards by foot until they found a cab. Rose was transferred to Olivia’s lap, and the girl clung to her like a barnacle.

  ‘Is she dead?’ the girl whimpered.

  Olivia threw Higgins a glance. ‘What happened to her mother?’

  ‘A small tap to her chin. She should wake soon enough.’ And then gently to Rose, ‘I did not kill your mother.’ He turned away and muttered, ‘Although I very much wanted to.’

  * * *

  Once at home, Olivia ordered a bath to be drawn in her bedroom. She held Rose’s hand as Higgins carried the girl up the stairs, and then laid her down onto Olivia’s bed.

  Silently, she sat by Rose’s side as the small tub was set up and filled. She watched her dilated pupils and half-open eyes that seemed unable to focus on anything for more than a fleeting moment. The faint, sweetish scent of opium clung to her lips.

  Once Netty had left, Olivia touched Rose’s cheek, and said with a nod toward the tub, ‘The ocean is all yours, First Mate. Although it might be a bit boring, for I ate all the sharks.’

  Rose blinked at Olivia’s face. ‘Claire washed me.’

  ‘Good.’ And after a moment, she asked, ‘Are you hurting?’

 
Rose’s lids fluttered. She pulled her knees to chest, her body stiffening. ‘I want to bathe,’ she said, voice adrift.

  ‘All right. Let me help you with the nightdress. It is a rather un-piratey garment.’

  Rose looked down her body, and plucked at the frills.

  ‘Shall we?’ Olivia asked.

  Rose pushed herself to a sitting position, her shoulders slumped.

  Careful, Olivia lifted off the nightdress. There were bruises around Rose’s neck, shoulders, and hips. She didn’t dare touch them.

  ‘Come, I’ll carry you,’ she said, slid her arms under the girl, and conveyed her to the tub. As she lowered her into the warm water, Rose flinched, but did not protest.

  ‘All right?’ Olivia asked.

  Rose stared at her knees that were sticking out of the water like white twin islands.

  ‘Shall I fetch our ships while you wrestle the sea monsters?’

  A small nod.

  Olivia made for Rose’s adjoining room and searched the cluttered windowsill for the armada of walnut shell pirate ships. She picked them up one by one, and returned to Rose.

  ‘The cowards were hiding behind a half-dead cactus,’ Olivia said, and set them down in the lagoon formed by Rose’s knees and chest.

  Rose’s throat was working. A tear scuttled down her cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘No, no! Don’t be sorry! Be angry. Furious. Scream at others, not at yourself. None of this,’ Olivia took Rose’s chin in her hand and made her look up. ‘None of this is your fault.’

  Rose’s gaze dashed away.

  ‘This is not your fault. Do you understand?’

  ‘But you told me to stay inside,’ she said with a trembling voice.

  ‘And that gives Bobby the right to take you away?’

  ‘My mam took me.’

  ‘It still doesn’t give anyone the right to do this to you. I’m so sorry, Rose. I’m your captain and I should have protected you better.’ Olivia caressed the girls’s cheek, and smoothed a strand of her hair behind her ear.

  Rose shrugged, dropped her gaze to the boats, and systematically sank them.