Spider Silk

by A. Wendeberg

  Last Day

  Sévère sat in a wheeling chair in front of the prisoner’s dock. He ignored the glances the audience threw down at him, those of mistrust, accusation, and pity. He was bored senseless by mankind’s predictability. It was no feat to deduce what they were whispering: How can he end up in a chair so quickly without visible injury? Does he believe he can wrap the jurymen around his finger with this charade? Does he believe the judge won’t send him to the gallows for all that he’s done?

  He wanted to set the court room on fire.

  There’d been no word from Olivia.

  Sévère looked down at his knees, observed the trembling of his bad leg, mildly fascinated about how little like himself he felt. It was as though his body weren’t made of flesh and bone, but wood. He could almost hear the creaks and groans of old planks. A ship sinking fast, the killing wave rolling in to pull him to the bottom.

  When he’d been taken from the condemned ward, sent through countless corridors, and through the domed hall of the Old Bailey — its entrance doors wide open and the sky a distant flash of blue — he’d filled himself with scents of summer and sun and life and freedom, and almost wept.

  That small moment had lost its meaning the instant he laid eyes on Frost.

  There was movement up on the dais. The judge was making an announcement. Was this already the summing-up? Had he missed the closing speeches of Bicker and the solicitor-general? Sévère blinked, and took in his surroundings.

  ‘…to call in new witnesses. In order to protect an ongoing police investigation, the court room will now be closed to the public.’ The judge rapped the gavel against his desk. The ushers promptly shouldered the protesting masses and newspaper men out of the room.

  Sévère twisted around, searching for Olivia. There she was, sitting in the very back of the room, her expression pinched and exhausted, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. This wasn’t the look of a woman who’d caught a murderer.

  The last wisp of Sévère’s courage vanished.

  Bicker’s voice rang through the court room. ‘Please accept my apologies for the delay.’ He offered a small bow to the jury, and another to the judge. ‘Only a few hours ago, fresh evidence was brought forth which allows me to outline to you how precisely Dr Johnston was killed. It is of utmost importance to the case, as I will demonstrate to you in but a moment.’

  Bicker coughed once. ‘The defence calls Mrs Eloise Hibbert onto the witness stand.’

  Sévère felt himself return to the present, as a woman in her mid-thirties placed her right hand upon the Bible, and swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. She told Bicker her name and occupation, and went on to detail how Mrs Appleton had burned Mrs Frank’s clothes — those her mistress had worn when she died. And that she felt very sorry about the beautiful chemise being burned.

  ‘Was it a chemise such as this one?’ Bicker walked over to his desk and picked up a package. He unfolded the waxed paper and showed its contents to the witness.

  Mrs Hibbert reached out. Bicker took a step back. ‘Please don’t touch it. It is extremely toxic.’

  The jurymen murmured. Justice Hawkins grumbled, ‘Mr Bicker, what is this?’

  ‘The murder weapon, my lord.’

  Hawkins’ jaw tensed. ‘And when, pray tell, did you come upon it?’

  ‘I received this final piece of evidence in the early morning hours, a few minutes past three o’clock.’

  The judge huffed and dipped his head.

  Bicker continued, ‘Mrs Hibbert, you may look at it closely, but it would be very unwise to touch it.’ He placed the package in front of her.

  Her eyebrows drew together, and she said, ‘It looks very much like the one Mrs Frank wore that night.’

  ‘The night she died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bicker folded two edges of the waxed paper over the chemise, grabbed the garment through the paper, and held it up. The silk unraveled.

  Mrs Hibbert clapped a hand to her bosom. ‘It’s the same. Extraordinary!’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Hibbert.’ Bicker stepped away from the witness stand and held the chemise up for the jurymen to see. ‘I have no further questions for the witness.’

  The solicitor-general prodded Mrs Hibbert as to her belief whether or not this chemise really was precisely like the one Mrs Frank wore, and if she’d ever seen Mrs Frank’s chemise up close. Yes, she had seen it up close, but Mrs Appleton wouldn’t let her touch it, just as Mr Bicker wouldn’t.

  Next, the defence called in Mr Arthur Adams of Adams & Sons Finest Undergarments for Ladies.

  ‘Mr Adams, do you recognise this chemise? Please take your time examining it, but I must insist that you refrain from touching the evidence.’

  Mr Adams pinched a pair of glasses onto the bridge of his nose, and narrowed his piercing gaze at the chemise laid out before him. ‘No doubt. This is one of ours.’

  ‘Would you please tell the jury how you arrive at this conclusion?’

  Mr Adams patted his waistcoat, and then asked if he might borrow Bicker’s pencil. He inserted one end of the pencil into the neckline of the chemise and drew it up a few inches. ‘There is the material itself. Finest mulberry silk which we purchase from Bengal. The type and origin of the material is evident from the sheen and how it refracts the light. Then there is the neckline which is trimmed with hand-made bobbin lace, or — to be precise — Chantilly lace, which we personally select from a small manufacturer in France. And then…’ He used the pencil to spread out the chemise. ‘…there are Miss Muddy’s pink silk roses. She makes them for us and no other.’ He tapped at the delicate flowers sprinkled below the lace of the neckline. ‘And if that were not enough to identify the maker, you will find a small embroidered A&S at the hem of each item we make.’ He lifted an end of the sheer fabric

  Bicker stepped forward and squinted, then said, ‘Indeed. Thank you, Mr Adams. Now, can you recall who purchased it?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, precisely. Unless there were a name embroidered into it, which, in this case, there is not.’

  ‘Have you sold an identical chemise a few days, weeks, or months ago?’

  ‘Of course, we have. This is one of our most priced items.’

  ‘Can you recall how many you have sold this year?’

  ‘Easily. As we use only highest quality materials and the best tailors, we produce only to order. Of these chemises we have sold a good two dozen this year.’

  ‘You mean to say that they are expensive?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  Bicker waited, but when Mr Adams did not elaborate, he prodded for details.

  Mr Adams cleared his throat and said, ‘Forty-five pounds.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Adams,’ Bicker said. ‘Would you please tell the jury the names of the clients who have purchased this precise chemise from you?’

  Mr Adams squirmed in his seat. ‘I prefer to not intrude upon my clients’ privacy.’

  A bonk sounded from the dais that made Mr Adams jump. ‘The witness will answer the question.’

  ‘Please accept my apology, my Lord. I merely wished it to be noted that Adams and Sons is very discreet.’ Mr Adams pulled a small booklet from his waistcoat, snapped it open, read off a handful of names, and then handed the booklet to Bicker.

  Mr Bicker presented it to the jury. ‘One man has purchased five such chemises this year. He gave the name of Alf Perks.’

  Bicker kept his gaze on the jury when he asked the next question. ‘Mr Adams, did you find anything peculiar about Mr Perks?’

  Mr Adams mumbled at his hands, threw a nervous glance at the judge, then said, ‘We hold Mr Perks in highest esteem. He has been our client for the past four years and has purchased undergarments of the best quality.’

  ‘And as to his peculiarities?’ Bicker prodded.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare venture—‘

  ‘Allow me to rephrase: Is there anything about Mr Perks’ face that makes him stand out?’

  T
he witness touched his own mouth. ‘A harelip.’ Then he frowned. ‘Well, I guess I should add that his bearings don’t appear to be those of a wealthy man.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Adams. I have no further questions for the witness.’

  Sévère’s heart was hammering so hard, he feared it might kick him off his wheeling chair. He turned to Olivia, willing her to look at him. And she did. With a strained smile and a stiff nod.

  He didn’t pay attention when the solicitor-general addressed the witness, for his mind was a noisy mess. When Bicker announced a re-examination of Mrs Appleton, Sévère managed to pull himself together.

  ‘My apologies, Mrs Appleton, for calling you back onto the witness stand,’ Bicker said. ‘But there are a few small things that need clarification.’

  She nodded meekly.

  ‘Does this look familiar to you?’ Bicker presented her with the chemise.

  Mrs Appleton squeaked and clapped her hands over her face.

  Sévère felt a grim calmness settle upon him.

  Bicker placed the chemise back onto his desk.

  ‘Mrs Appleton,’ the judge said. ‘Please compose yourself.’

  Her hands dropped onto the Bible in front of her, fingers fidgeting around its edges. ‘I received a package a day before…before the death of my mistress.’ A sob squeezed through her windpipe. ‘I swear I didn’t know. I swear!’

  ‘You received a package,’ Bicker repeated. ‘What was in it?’

  ‘This chemise.’ She pointed her chin at the embroidered silk.

  ‘Do you mean to say a chemise identical to this one?’

  ‘Yes, identical to the one you have. Not the same, because the one I received was burned after…’

  ‘Please begin with the package, and explain in chronological order what precisely occurred.’

  Mrs Appleton’s chest heaved. ‘I received a package. My name was on it, and so I opened it. A chocolate and a typed note lay on top of the…the chemise. An extraordinary piece such as I would never be able to afford. The note read, “From a secret admirer.” I laughed when I read it. I thought someone was jesting or accidentally had put my name on the package when he must have meant to send it to my mistress. Whichever the mistake, I was sure it was for her…for Mrs Frank. And so…I gave it to her.’

  ‘What did she say about the note?’

  ‘She looked at it, and…said that I’d done right, that the chemise must be for her, not for me. That…no one would present me with such an expensive present. And then she folded the wrapping back over it and placed it aside.’

  ‘Did you touch the chemise?’

  ‘Oh, I did not dare to touch such a fine thing.’

  ‘I see. When was the next time you saw the chemise?’ Bicker asked.

  A hand fluttered up to Mrs Appleton’s throat as she said, ‘When Dr Johnston tried to revive my mistress.’

  ‘And what happened then?’

  ‘She…died.’ Mrs Appleton fell silent.

  The judge tapped a finger onto his desk and said, ‘Mrs Appleton, you have been asked to describe the events. If the attorney of the defence has to pull every single sentence out through your nostrils, I will lose my patience.’

  Abruptly, Mrs Appleton sat up straight, wiped her nose, and continued. ‘Dr Johnston gave the certificate of death and left. The master, Mr Frank, wept. And after some time, he decided to wash his wife’s body to make her presentable. But he was feeling ill, and then I thought about the chemise and what…what my brother had told me… You must know that my brother is a warden at Millbank Prison, and he once told me a horrid story that’s whispered there. They say that there is a man in London who would fashion a piece of clothing that would kill. For a price. They call him the Spider. And that one could only ask for the Spider’s services by placing an ad into Reynolds’s Newspaper. An ad titled, “spider silk sought.” And then a time and place to meet this man.’

  She cleared her throat several times. ‘When I saw the chemise on my dead mistress, and the weakness of Mr Frank that had come about earlier that evening, I recalled my brother’s story and was struck by terror. What if someone had paid the Spider to fashion this poison chemise for me? What if the Spider himself wanted me dead? What if I it was I had killed my mistress, and made Mr Frank ill? And would he try again? And then I…thought that if I wouldn’t take it all away, someone might believe I killed her. So I washed her body taking care that I didn’t get too much of the poison upon my skin. If it was indeed poison. I couldn’t be sure. But I was afraid. So afraid that it was all my fault. I burned her clothes. The night after, I burned the towels, flannels, and waxed paper I used for washing her.’

  ‘Did you feel a prickling or burning sensation on your palms?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘A faint burning and a queer yellow flickering at the corners of my vision.’

  ‘And you simply forgot to mention this when you gave your witness statement.’

  She dabbed a handkerchief at her nose, and answered, ‘I was terrified.’

  ‘Of what, Mrs Appleton?’ Bicker bellowed. ‘We all witnessed you being utterly unconcerned about an innocent man being led to the gallows!’

  Justice Hawkins rapped the gavel against his desk. ‘Mr Bicker, control yourself.’

  ‘My apologies, my Lord.’ Bicker straightened his lapel with a snap. ‘Mrs Appleton, do you believe it possible that a man in love with the woman you have hurt by implying she stole a necklace from your mistress might have wished to poison you with the chemise?’

  Mrs Appleton’s eyes bulged. A croak issued from her. The solicitor-general stood to protest, but Bicker waved him away, retracted the questions, and announced, ‘I am done with this witness.’

  The judge threw him a warning glare.

  The solicitor-general said, ‘My Lord, given the new developments I respectfully ask that you grant an additional day for the prosecution to prepare its closing speech.’

  ‘Granted. Does the prosecution have questions for the witness?’

  Of course they had. Was Mrs Appleton absolutely certain that her mistress wore the same chemise that was sent to Mrs Appleton the day before her mistress died? And was she absolutely certain about this and that. Would she give the name of her warden brother so that the prosecution might call him onto the witness stand, because they had great doubts that this queer story about a man who killed with poison undergarments was true. Honestly, who came up with such fairytales?

  When Bicker announced he would now call his final witness, he added that the prosecution might find it unnecessary to question Mrs Appleton’s brother, and that an additional day for the closing speeches might not be needed after all.

  ‘The defence calls Mr William Burroughs onto the witness stand.’

  Sévère’s skin began to buzz. He felt as though he were waking up after long, cold months of hibernation.

  ‘Mr Burroughs, you are barrister-at-law with offices at Oxford Square. Would you please tell us how you came about this chemise?’ Bicker asked, and held up the chemise, careful to touch only the waxed paper.

  ‘I purchased it to poison my wife.’

  Voices rose in the court room. The jurymen whispered to one another, and even the ushers looked terrified.

  Justice Hawkins struck his desk and demanded silence. After three echoing raps, the room quieted down.

  All the while, William Burroughs looked as content as a piglet in a mud puddle.

  ‘Mr Burroughs,’ Bicker said, ‘have you placed an ad into Reynolds’s Newspapers seeking the services of a man known as the Spider?’

  ‘Ah, no. Mrs Olivia Sévère did it. I acted in the role of…bait.’

  The resulting ruckus was enough for Justice Hawkins to ask the more composed ushers to remove their noisy colleagues.

  ‘Mr Burroughs, my patience is wearing thin. If you keep insinuating that you and Mrs Sévère set the stage for a murder — and I am certain your sole aim is to put on a good show — I will remove you from the witness stand and
let you cool down in a holding cell. You, of all witnesses, should know best not to aggravate me.’

  ‘My apologies, my Lord,’ William said.

  At the slight twitch of Mr Burroughs’ mighty moustache, Sévère couldn’t help but think this man was having an unhealthy amount of fun in the court room. And that he’d also had fun with Olivia. For years.

  ‘What reason did Mrs Sévère give you for placing this ad and asking you to procure a poisoned chemise?’ Bicker said.

  William turned to the jury, and said, ‘Mrs Sévère is the prisoner’s private investigator. The evidence laid out at court has demonstrated that Dr Johnston died of a contact poison, specifically, aconitine. Mrs Sévère discovered that much of the evidence that might have unburdened her husband had been destroyed. The clothes Mrs Frank wore, and the towels and flannels used to wash her corpse were burned. The skin samples from Dr Johnston’s hands were rendered unusable owing to the presence of embalming liquids. We concluded that an exhumation of Mrs Frank would be equally useless.

  ‘However, Mrs Sévère discovered that Mrs Frank’s former maid had had relations with Mrs Frank’s half-brother, and that the maid was sent away when a family heirloom of Mrs Frank’s disappeared. According to Mrs Frank’s maid’s statement, Mrs Appleton spread the rumour that the maid had taken the necklace. Upon Mrs Sévère confronting Mrs Appleton, she admitted that she had hidden the necklace but couldn’t find it anymore, and that—’

  ‘Mr Burroughs,’ the judge interrupted. ‘Would you mind telling me where this is going? I fail to see the connection between a missing necklace and Dr Johnston’s death.’

  ‘The necklace leads us directly to the murderer, my lord,’ William answered, and winked at Sévère.

  ‘The murderer?’

  ‘It will be all clear in a minute, if you allow me to continue.’

  The judge nodded.

  William twirled his whiskers, and went on, ‘You see, we — that is, Mrs Sévère, Mr Higgins, who is her assistant detective, Mr Sévère, and I — we first suspected Mrs Appleton, for she harboured an unrequited love for her mistress, which was what led her to falsely implicate Mrs Frank’s personal maid with theft so that the maid would be sent away and Mrs Appleton could have her mistress all to herself. However, as I said already, Mrs Frank did not return Mrs Appleton’s romantic feelings, and a broken heart is as good a motive for murder as any. When presented with our conclusions, Mrs Appleton was much distressed, and revealed that she had received a package with a chemise, which she gave to her mistress. And that she feared a man wanted her dead. She told a queer story about a man who poisons undergarments and sells them to men who might wish a wife or lover dead. She also produced a short article reporting on the suicide of Mr Rupert Fleming, the fiancé of Miss Edwine Mollywater.