by A. Wendeberg
‘Miss Edwine Mollywater received a package with a typed note that read, “Wear this and meet me by the tigers,” and a chemise of embroidered silk. She put it on and went to the zoo. Perhaps she believed she would meet her fiancé, Rupert Maximilian Fleming, the son of Sir Robert Maximilian Fleming. All we know is that the young woman arrived at the zoo but didn’t make it to the cats. She fell, and died on the spot. Witnesses stated that they heard her say, “Why does it hurt so much?” A few weeks later, Rupert Fleming took his own life, for he could not live without Edwine and with the rumours that she had planned to meet a secret lover on the day of her death. You see, both the note and the chemise suggested an affair, for neither her parents, her maid, nor Mr Fleming had ever seen the undergarment. May I have a sip of water, please?’
An usher poured a glass of water for William, which he noisily drank. ‘Thank you, my dear man. Now, where was I? Ah, Miss Mollywater. Unfortunately, Miss Mollywater is long embalmed and in the ground, together with her chemise. Exhuming her would probably lead to the same disappointment we experienced with Dr Johnston. Except, of course, should anyone wish to see whether she wore the same chemise as this one.’ William pointed at the package on Bicker’s desk.
‘However, it became clear that we might have a serial killer plaguing London. One who is extraordinarily skilled and clever. One who probably overdosed the chemise he intended that Mrs Appleton wear. The question was: Why did he overdose it? Was it an accident? Was it intent? To answer our questions and find the killer, Mrs Sévère placed an ad into Reynolds’s Newspaper titled, “spider silk sought.” We were very curious to see who — if anyone — would appear at the suggested meeting place.’
William paused to look at the jurymen. Satisfied that every single one of them was in rapt attention, he continued, ‘The man who met me in the dead of night in Victoria Park was unknown to me. But Mrs Sévère recognised his voice. When, late yesterday night, I met him a second time and was given this package…,’ he motioned to the chemise on Bicker’s desk, ‘Inspector Height was hiding among the trees. He then followed the man to his home and arrested him. Mrs Sévère and I conveyed the package to Dr Barry and asked him if he would place one or two tiny threads of the fabric onto his tongue. Dr Barry did so and confirmed that he experienced symptoms identical to those of aconitine. He is performing further analysis as we speak.’
The judge had scooted so close to the edge of his desk and was pushing out his elbows so far that the dried flowers that had been scattered there dropped one by one onto the floor. The court room was eerily quiet. Sévère felt something building in his chest.
‘By god, Burroughs, if you don’t give them the man’s name at once, I fear I might throttle you.’
All eyes went to Sévère.
‘Did I say that aloud?’
‘You did, indeed,’ Bicker said. ‘Mr Burroughs, I agree with the prisoner. Would you please spare us the torture?’
‘Mrs Frank’s half-brother, Albert Perkin, dye chemist at the fashion boutique on Sillwood Street. He has a harelip — as did the man Mr Arthur Adams described as the one who purchased several chemises identical to the one Mr Perkin sold to me. Mr Adams should this moment be on the way to Leman Street to corroborate the identity of—’
The entrance door was pushed open and Inspector Height stepped through. He handed a note to one of the ushers and whispered to him. The usher rushed to Bicker, offered the note to him, and an apologetic glance and half-bow to the judge.
Justice Hawkins leant back in his chair, and tugged at his ermine cuffs.
‘I’m begging your pardon, my Lord.’ Bicker held up the small piece of paper. ‘Inspector Height informs us that Mr Perkin has confessed to having sent a poisoned chemise to Mrs Appleton which resulted in the deaths of Mrs Frank and Dr Johnston—’ Bicker was interrupted by the jury’s shuffling and muttering.
The judge demanded silence, then bade Bicker continue.
Bicker nodded his thanks. ‘Furthermore,’ he said, ‘Mr Perkin confessed to having assisted more than two dozen murderers, and is asking for leniency in exchange for their names and addresses. All of them.’
Bicker had to shout over the swell of voices, ‘The defence demands that Mr Sévère be released at once.’
After
To Sévère it felt like falling into empty space. The vast expanse in front of him, the too-bright light, the press of onlookers — all penetrated him like so many knives through his temples. Faintly, he felt Olivia’s presence by his side.
He knew it had to be this way, knew that he couldn’t allow himself the easy way out through the backdoor. London had to see what had become of him. And yet, shame burned white-hot when Higgins carried him down the marble steps of the Old Bailey, and sat him into the wheeling chair.
Sévère felt warm fingers entwining with his. Olivia. A gentle tug, then Higgins began to push him forward. The brougham was waiting by the gates.
‘Excuse me. Excuse me!’ Olivia called out, negotiating them through the crowd. Questions were fired at them, and remained unanswered. Sévère longed for the carriage, the small enclosure. Privacy. When they finally reached it, and Higgins opened the door and folded down the steps, the courage Sévère had managed to summon vanished. The obstacle was unsurmountable.
Olivia moved to his side and unfurled her umbrella, effectively shielding him from view, as Higgins moved to his other side and slid his arms under Sévère’s back and legs, and deftly manoeuvred him inside. Olivia followed, snapped her umbrella shut, and bade farewell to the Londoners, the Old Bailey, and Newgate prison with a crude gesture of her hand.
Higgins jumped onto the driver’s seat, and instructed two men to deliver the chair to Sévère’s lodgings. A flick of the whip, and the horses began to trot home.
Home. Sévère gazed out the window and wondered if his home would look as different to him as London now seemed. A hundred yards from the Old Bailey and they reached anonymity, among omnibuses, cabs, and carts of all kinds.
A sigh left his chest. He pinched his eyes shut and thought of his home. After all this time of longing for his own bed, for the warmth of the fireplace in his private rooms and good food, he suddenly felt that he couldn’t face the walls surrounding it. He lifted his gaze and called to his coachman, ‘Higgins, drive us to the countryside. A hill or a meadow. I don’t care where. Just make it quick.’ And then a little softer, ‘If you don’t mind, Olivia.’
A smile played around her lips. ‘Well, you never took me on a honeymoon. Better late than never, I say.’
‘By God, I wish I could take you to a dance,’ burst from his throat, followed by a hoarse laugh. He shut his mouth, leant against the back rest, and closed his eyes again. The clacking of hooves soothed him.
After a long moment Olivia said, ‘I can imagine… What I mean to say is…’
He opened his eyes, and she began anew, ‘I can imagine you wish to be alone after all this. Higgins could drop me off at home. Take a holiday, Sévère. Get drunk.’
He inclined his head. ‘I asked a lot of you in these past weeks. Allow me to make one last request: come with me today, sweet wife.’
Her features hardened, but she nodded assent.
They rode on in silence, only exchanging occasional glances, which were soon dropped. He wondered if he’d gone too far.
An hour and a half later, Higgins stopped the carriage, tapped on the roof, and enquired if Furze Down was acceptable.
Before Sévère could answer, Olivia said, ‘Could you bring us to Mitcham Common, please? It’s not far from here. If you follow the Peckham and Sutton Line south, you’ll see it in a few minutes.’
The two horses snorted as Higgins tapped the whip to their flanks, and the brougham was set in motion once more.
* * *
They alighted on a hillside. After Higgins had helped Sévère down onto the grass, Olivia asked him to make arrangements for a private dinner at the nearby inn.
And then Sévère was alone with h
er. The setting sun painted fire onto the gently sloping hill, a pond, a church, a windmill, trees. He plucked a handful of grass, rubbed it between his hands and inhaled its fresh scent.
Squinting against the red sun, he said, ‘When I was a boy, when I was paralysed, I read a lot. My mother gave me a new book every other day or so. When the pain was unbearable, I stared at the ceiling, wondering why life was so unfair. What had I done to deserve this? Father gave me a slingshot and paper. Hundreds of flies succumbed to missiles of pulp and spittle.’
He chuckled, and abruptly grew sober. ‘Newgate had neither library nor slingshots. At times, I wondered who had done this to me. Who wanted me gone so badly? I felt as crippled as when I was a boy. I fancied myself a victim of conspiracies, caught in a web of lies the Chief Magistrate had spun to cause my downfall, perhaps even my death. I blamed even you for a moment, because it was you who asked me to investigate his heinous crimes.
‘Watching justice go so wrong and yet, seeing that there was no great fault, that no one in court was spinning obvious lies, that the judge, the jury — everyone — was interpreting the limited evidence just as I would have interpreted it…’
He gazed at the bunched up grass in his palm. ‘To know that there could only be one conclusion, was… I don’t even have the words for it.’
He turned to her. Anger made his voice rough. ‘Can you imagine that I began to doubt myself? I knew I was innocent. But there were moments… Listening to the evidence being laid out, I thought, perhaps I am wrong and they are right? It was maddening.’
Olivia opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off before she could utter a word. ‘I know it makes no sense. I did not kill Johnston. I know that as surely as I know my name. But there I was, in the prisoner’s dock, and everything the prosecution put before us allowed only one conclusion: I must have done it.’
He took off his hat, clamped it between the fingers of his left hand, and rubbed his scalp vigorously with his right. Then he placed his hat back onto his messy hair that now contained bits of crushed vegetation. ‘I wonder who, of all the men and women I have sent to goal, experienced what I experienced. I wonder how many innocent people are in Newgate, how many have been hanged, how many sent to the colonies. I wonder…’ He inhaled a shudder. ‘I am not sure my occupation suits me any longer. Or rather, if I suit my occupation.’
Frowning, he looked at his hand, opened it and closed it, then dropped it.
‘Do you believe the Crown would…’ she trailed off when he shook his head.
‘Of course not. Baxter is the new Coroner. The office will certainly not be given back to a man with a questionable reputation.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said softly.
‘Don’t believe for a moment it’s your fault!’
‘And you? Do you believe it’s yours?’ She scooted closer to him, took off his hat, and picked the grass from his hair. ‘No one is perfect. No judge, juryman, coroner, or solicitor is without fault. If they were all to grow tired of the struggle of seeing justice done, we’d soon live in chaos. All anyone can do is to try one’s best. You excel at what you do. Don’t throw it away now. You’ve worked hard to be what you are today.’
He huffed. ‘And what am I?’
She smoothed back his hair with her fingers, and put his hat back on. ‘Solicitor Gavriel Sévère.’
‘And what am I to you?’ he asked, his voice low and dark.
She looked away, her gaze settling on the last scratch of sunlight. A blackbird began to sing nearby.
‘I wonder how long it will take until it leaves me,’ he said. ‘The sight of the iron door, the stone walls. The feeling of cold moisture in the marrow of my bones. The noise. I believed I would go mad. Day in, day out, every night. Drip. Drip. Drip. It was as if the world had shrunk to this one noise. As though the ocean were slowly emptying itself into me. Drop by maddening drop. It was worse than the solitude, worse than being locked up. Worse than waiting for the gallows. It felt as though the dripping water were carving a hole into my brain.
‘When I knew…’ He cleared his throat. ‘When I knew I would live, all I could think was that I’m finally rid of that awful dripping noise.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘And yet, I still hear it. It’s burned into my mind.’
Olivia was silent for a long moment before she said with a voice so warm it made his skin prickle, ‘Listen.’ She pointed to a large bush nearby. ‘A blackbird.’
She paused, then directed her attention a little farther west. ‘I don’t know the name of this one, but it sounds very pretty, don’t you think?’ She indicated a tree that emitted brilliant birdsong.
‘Are you sure it’s only one bird?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. But that one over there sounds like it’s had too much of your brandy.’ She nodded toward a rough scraping noise that came from a mass of reeds belting a pond.
She slid her hand into his. Sévère felt as though his world were slipping away, and that she was the only thing he could hold onto. He entwined his fingers with hers and brought her hand to his lips. He fell utterly still, eyes shut, mouth pressed to her skin, his breath a wild battle. And just as suddenly, he released her. ‘It is better you leave now. Go to the inn, send Higgins to come and get me. Eat something. You must be starving.’
‘Hm,’ she said, but didn’t move.
‘I beg you, Olivia.’
Still, she did not move.
He exhaled a groan. ‘I want to punch a hole into a wall. Goddammit, I want to tear down a building with my bare hands! I want to scream until I lose my voice. I want to rip out that part of my brain that keeps mocking me with this dreadful dripping noise. But most of all…’ His sharp gaze held hers captive, then dropped to her lips. After a moment, he dipped his head, saying nothing.
His eyes roamed the expanse. All conscious thought seemed scattered by the breeze. A small part of him had accepted the seemingly inevitable, the other part — that with an iron will to survive — had been pushed beyond the breaking point.
He wasn’t quite sure how to put himself back together.
And then she squeezed his hand, and said, ‘Take me to a dance.’
‘I…what?’
She took off her bonnet and dropped it into the grass, then leant back to lie on her side.
He watched her brush a lock of hair from her face, and hold up one hand while sliding the other toward his shoulder. A small tune came from her lips.
‘A waltz?’ he asked.
‘Would you care for a dance, sir?’
He couldn’t help but smile as he followed her example and lay back in the grass. One hand reached out to touch her waist, the other took the one she offered.
His stomach seized as she moved closer. He felt her breath flutter across the exposed skin of his throat. The warmth of her body. Surely, she must hear the ruckus his heart was making.
‘Olivia, you don’t have to—’
‘It is only a dance, Gavriel,’ she whispered.
‘I don’t want you to feel obligated.’
‘I don’t feel obligated. Shut your eyes now.’
He did as she asked, and she continued humming a slow waltz.
‘Have you ever attended a ball as grand as this?’ she asked.
‘N…no.’
‘Nor have I. Do you think the others will notice our lack of dancing skills?’
He opened one eye. ‘I don’t think the birds care.’
‘Hush! Lady Gainsbury is already looking in our direction.’
He threw a glance over Olivia’s shoulder and snorted. ‘The fat crone can get a heart attack for all I care. By the by — are we just standing here or are we going to dance?’
‘Don’t ask me, you dolt! A stupid rule demands that the lady wait for the gentleman to take the lead.’
‘Hum. Shall we be cocky tonight and break all the stupid rules?’
Seeing her frown, he added. ‘Let’s throw ourselves into the moment. Who cares what others may think. Why do
n’t you take the lead, Olivia?’
A small laugh erupted from her, and he wondered if it came from a place hidden deep inside, a place she kept locked and secured.
‘If you wish it,’ he added softly.
‘Only if you don’t step on my feet.’
‘I’ll do my utmost not to.’
Chains hung from his shackled wrists down to his ankles, which were secured with heavy iron bands. Olivia’s gaze traveled up to his face, searching his eyes, then dropped to his lips. She had been granted half an hour with the prisoner, for it was she who had caught him. But now that she faced Perkin, she failed to see a monster. All there was, was a man whose chains seemed larger than himself.
‘Why didn’t you grow a moustache?’ she asked.
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Of all the things you could ask me. No “Why in God’s name did you do it?” Instead you wish to know why I didn’t hide my harelip.’
She shrugged. ‘It is as good a question as any.’
‘Why did you come, Mrs Sévère?’
‘I wanted to know if there was something I missed. The first time we met, I found you to be an amiable man.’
‘And now? Now that you know me better?’
She cocked her head, considering. ‘I find you amiable still.’
The policeman who stood by the door looked up sharply. Olivia ignored him.
‘He probably believes you are insane,’ Perkin said with a wink toward his guard.
