by A. Wendeberg
‘He wouldn’t be the first,’ she replied. ‘Who purchased the poison chemise for Edwine Mollywater?’
‘Her sister. She wanted what was Edwine’s.’ He shrugged. ‘The undivided attention of a handsome young man with money.’
‘I see.’ Olivia paused. ‘When did you begin poisoning your sister? Was it when she confided in you that she was with child, or before that?’
Upon his flash of surprise, she added, ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it? You killed her.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘You didn’t mean to kill her? You killed her unborn children. All five of them. Killing her instead might have caused her less suffering.’
A cold flicker brushed past his gentle, brown eyes.
‘Ah,’ Olivia said. ‘But why did you hate her so much?’
He leant back, and sighed. ‘I was deeply saddened to hear of Dr Johnston’s death. I hope you can forgive me one day. The procedure… I modified it and did not test the toxicity of the chemise. I was in a hurry and made a mistake.’
‘Molly Johnston will never forgive you,’ Olivia said, growing impatient and tired. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Ah, my sister. It was a well-nurtured hate. My father instilled it, cultivated it, and my sister made it flourish. I was the bastard child, made to sleep by the kitchen hearth, looked down upon as though I were a thing hawked up by the dog. Was it my fault my father tumbled countless women and got one with child? Apparently, it was. That’s what they all decided.’
‘He paid your tuition, did he not?’
‘Ah, yes, he did. He couldn’t bear the shame of having fathered a bastard and an idiot. Minnie and I were tutored together. Yet, while her education was a natural thing, freely given, mine was…a loan. He demanded I pay back every ha’penny he spent on my clothing, education, and food. Every plate I broke. Every piece of cutlery that went missing. He wrote it all down in his small black notebook. He even put the amount I owed into his will. I was to pay my debt to Minnie. My own sister, my friend, and his sole heir. She didn’t need my money. Not a farthing of it.’
He smiled a bitter smile. ‘Yet she gladly enforced our father’s rules. She couldn’t live without a certain…order of things.’
‘But why kill her unborn children?’
‘Because of her, I could not have a family of my own. There was…a sweet young woman. We wished to marry, but her parents did not agree to the match. You see, I was unable to provide for her. I was to provide for my wealthy sister instead. I begged Minnie on my knees. Can you imagine what she said?’
Olivia shook her head.
‘“You are better off without her.”’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Mrs Appleton was of the same caliber. She tried to destroy Addie, and was almost successful in her endeavour.’
‘Addie Shepherd. She loves you, I believe.’
A soft smile. ‘Yes, she does. A rare creature. Not a single egoistical fibre in her.’
‘She seems quite content with her new mistress.’
‘Yes.’ He frowned and turned his wrists. The black iron chains clanked. ‘She’ll be…unhappy now.’
‘And you?’
He snorted, and lifted his arms a few inches. ‘What do you think?’
‘You asked for leniency. Your freedom in exchange for the identities of more than a dozen poison murderers.’
‘Freedom, what does that even mean?’ He huffed. ‘Are you free, Mrs Sévère?’
She took in his face, the paleness of his cheeks, the crookedness of his mouth, and the slight dent in his nose. His warm, brown eyes, tinged with something she knew all too well.
‘My brother had a harelip,’ she said softly. ‘I loved him very much.’
The air between Sévère and Olivia had been strangely charged since the previous evening. Was it because he had kissed her hand? Or because they had…danced? It hadn’t been a real dance, of course. They’d barely moved at all. And yet, he would never forget the magic of that moment. This queer and wonderful dance he’d danced with his wife, lying in the grass, holding hands, and listening to the music of her breath.
Later, when he’d told her they needed to discuss a case, she appeared reluctant to meet him in the smoking room. He hadn’t lied outright. It was his own case that needed discussing.
He watched her from the corner of his vision. Wet hair spilling over her shoulders, a wool blanket hugging her form, fingers wrapped around a crystal glass, the brandy iridescent in the firelight. He would miss this sight.
He moved his wheeling chair over to the desk, and picked up a thick envelope. ‘For you,’ he said, and placed it onto her lap.
Frowning, she looked at him.
‘I arranged this when an acquittal appeared unlikely. Read it, please.’
She pulled a stack of papers from the envelope and scanned the first few lines. ‘Divorce?’ she whispered. ‘Wh…what have I done?’
‘I purchased under your name the house and premises your grandfather was renting. I’ve arranged for a divorce and a release from the contracts we made. Mr Burroughs helped pen the papers you are holding, and he approved the final version. You’ll find his initials on every page. It has no date on it, because at that time I was unsure of…everything. The outcome of the trial. Whether you preferred to be divorced or widowed. All you need do now is sign and put a date on them.’ He held out a fountain pen. ‘I spent enough time in prison to know how captivity feels.’ He nodded toward the papers. ‘You are free. Open your apiary, Olivia.’
He was surprised at the exquisite pain in his chest when her slender fingers picked up the pen. The sweep of her neck as she read every page. The swiftness of her hand as she signed without hesitation. She blew dry the ink, set the papers orderly onto her lap, and slowly nodded. ‘You are tired of me.’
‘No! That’s not the reason for—’
‘Well, in that case, you must believe me to be entirely without loyalty and honour. It is only natural to expect nothing else of a whore. Allow me to explain something to you: I have agreed to be in your employ for three years. Difficulties will not deter me from it. So, as long as you do not violate our agreements, I will remain here for another two and a half years. And only then will I put a date to these papers and ask William to file the divorce. Should this not be to your convenience, tell me so now.’
He felt as though he’d been kicked in the groin. ‘It is to my convenience,’ he croaked.
She stood and made for the door.
As her hand reached for the doorknob, he asked, ‘Do you know what the word whore stands for?’
Her fingers curled to a fist and dropped to her side.
‘It derives from the old Germanic word horon, and means one who desires. Horon derives from an even older word, ke-roh, which means dear, loved, or friend.’
Silently, she stared at the door. Sévère feared she might hear his thundering heart and laugh at him.
‘I should thank you for your efforts.’ She turned back to face him. ‘Thank you, Sévère. But I cannot accept your gift. Instead of paying the former landlord, I will now pay you until the whole sum is covered. You must understand that this is something I have to accomplish by myself. And I… I will not be bought.’
He slammed his fist onto the armrest. ‘You are insulting me, Olivia!’
Hastily, she dropped her gaze.
‘You saved my bloody life, goddammit! Can you not imagine that I would like to repay you? Don’t you think that giving you what you most wish for — even if it is only a decrepit little stone hut with a gorse brush-infested back yard — might be a small gesture compared to what you did for me?’
‘It is not decrepit!’
‘Have you seen it recently? Have you seen it with your own, adult eyes? Or are you purchasing a dream, a childhood memory from when your childhood was still intact?’
‘You are aiming very low, Sévère.’
‘Am I? I believe you are aiming very low. You believe you must fend off all offered
help in order to be strong. Have you not fought alone all these years while the world conspired against you? And most of all, you seem to believe that a friendly gesture offered by a male can only mean one thing — that he wants your legs wrapped around him. While you expect me to not hold your past against you, you hold my upbringing and my sex against me. And that, Olivia, is insulting.’
He bit his tongue so as not to say, You believe that throwing away all that you have accomplished will bring you peace. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at her, waiting for her to throw a barrage of insults at him.
She spoke to the tassels of the rug, her voice cracking. ‘You do want my legs wrapped around you.’
‘Look at me, Olivia. Do I strike you as a delusional man? I think not. My offers to you are intended to see you happy. Why else would I let you go?’
Her jaw set and her skin tightened over her cheek bones. ‘It is only natural, I expect. You haven’t had a woman for weeks. It will pass soon enough.’
He paled. ‘You believe this is all I am able to feel? You believe me an animal in a suit?’
‘I believe that you are convinced there is more to it. Some…meaningful, deeper emotion. As soon as you’ve seen a prostitute, you’ll realise your mistake and you’ll be all right.’
Oh, how he wished he could jump out of his damned chair, grab her shoulders, and give her a good shake! He exhaled, trying to relax his clenched muscles. ‘Take a holiday. The Isle of Wight must be beautiful now. Should you attempt to pay me back, I will put the money into a trust fund for Rose.’
Her chin began to quiver. She straightened her spine in an attempt to keep her composure. ‘I will pay you for the decrepit stone hut and the gorse brush-infested backyard. What you do with your money is your concern.’
‘Well, obviously, it isn’t,’ he muttered, annoyed.
‘Gavriel, you… You must know that… That after I was abducted, I… The first months with Mrs Gretchen were the most…the most…’
Her hand came up to her throat, and her gaze grew unfocused. ‘I spent long days, weeks, locked in a cupboard. She pulled me out for clients, then put me back in. I was terrified of the clacking of her heels on the floorboards. When she came to get me, it was like…dying. It’s why I…why I was barely able to breathe when I was in your cell and you spoke of personal matters. It was like your words ripped me open.’
She pressed her fist against her heart. ‘I wish… I wish you would talk to me as you used to. Distanced. Indifferent. But most of all I wish you hadn’t bought my grandfather’s house. You don’t understand what it means to me to… That was the one thing that kept me alive. The other girls, they had nothing. They hoped a client would take them away, make them his mistress. I have seen those girls lose their hopes, their dreams, their…future. One after the other, after the other, after the other. When there was nothing left for them, they died inside or took their own lives because what else is left if there’s no hope? The men who came to me, I used to…beg them to take me away. They told Mrs Gretchen. I was punished. And then I begged another, and another.’
Her chest was heaving as she battled for words. ‘Eventually I learned that I can rely on no one but myself. I clung to the dream of my own apiary. One day, I would have it. I would work for it. Hard. I would have my future, and never would I need a man to give it to me.’
She looked up, her dark-brown eyes turning black. ‘Do not take that from me.’
He was gripping his armrests so hard his fingers hurt. ‘I am giving it to you, Olivia. Freely. If you must, see it as payment rendered. Payment for saving my life.’
‘But you are taking everything!’ Desperation rang through every word.
Sévère blinked, and shook his head. ‘I don’t…understand.’
Unspeaking, she wrapped her arms around her ribcage. Her shoulders trembled.
‘I put a nick in your armour,’ he said, baffled. ‘And you hate me for it.’
Her nostrils flared and her stance changed. Ready for battle, he realised.
‘I have a question for you,’ she said. ‘Why do you think I insisted on consummating our marriage?’
‘You needed to seal our contract.’
‘Precisely. And I tried my best to bind you to me. That night, I presented to you a small part of me. The vulnerable, insecure part, because that was the one you needed to see. Else you would have only seen the whore and not your wife, not someone whom you should treat with respect.’ Her voice was harsh, a grating of rusty metal against stone. ‘I gave you what was necessary to instil hesitation in you. The hesitation to take me against my will or discard me before the three years were up.’
He had to admit that she was right, partially. He would have seen the prostitute in her had she not been shy, vulnerable, and as lovely as she had been that night. But that she mistrusted him so deeply was…disconcerting.
‘I understand,’ he managed to say, although understanding seemed far from his grasp.
‘Gavriel, whatever you believe you feel for me is based on lies. My lies.’
He huffed. ‘You are an exceptional crime investigator, but you know nothing at all about the heart.’
‘Oh, I do know plenty and wish I didn’t,’ she snarled.
‘Would you feel better if I treated you the way you’ve been treated for years? Do you want me to throw a coin on your night stand and tell you how to serve me?’
‘I would expect it. But I would never accept it.’
He frowned at his knees. ‘I would expect to be shut away. A man in a chair is not fit for society. But would I accept it? Never.’
He looked up at her, a glittering in his eyes. ‘Perhaps that is what makes you a warrior. Even when you are broken, you never allow the crack to run all the way through. You bravely stand in the way of whatever tries to destroy you.’
Epilogue
Sévère sat by a window, staring at the notes in his lap without really seeing them. His mind was going through the past two hours, ticking off the factors he needed in place, and the ones he needed out of his way.
The servants had retired. Higgins had been dismissed for the evening. Sévère resolved to decide within a fortnight whether his coachman would make a trustworthy steward. Olivia was sleeping upstairs. The cane was hidden behind the curtains. A simple, brown cane.
The bells struck one o’clock. Sévère rolled his chair to his desk. He stretched his left leg, then his right, and pulled off his trousers. He fetched the customised brace and strapped it onto his bad leg. He grabbed the corner of his desk and pulled himself up, then bent his legs several times. He adjusted the buckles, went down to a crouch, straightened up and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The edge of the top-most buckle cut into his groin. He folded a handkerchief and wrapped it around the leather strap.
Satisfied, Sévère pressed his knuckles against the top of his desk, and walked around it once. He tried again without supporting himself, then took three unaided steps to the curtain and retrieved the cane.
He twisted the head of the cane a fraction, and pulled. Lamplight reflected off a blade. He pushed the weapon back into its sheath, then dressed himself in tattered corduroys, and put a pair of glasses onto his nose. A red necktie would pull glances away from his eyes and his limp. Witnesses always remembered the most useless features, and he knew how to use this to his advantage.
He turned down the lights, pushed the curtains aside a few inches, opened the window, and made sure no one was about on the pavement.
He slipped out and landed heavily on the grass. His knee gave a twinge of pain which he swallowed before setting off along the road. He turned onto another road after a hundred yards or so, summoned a cab and rode it to an arbitrary place, alighted, and summoned another cab for a return to Whitechapel. He picked his way through narrow alleys and slunk into a doorway opposite a nameless boarding house.
And then he waited.
The sweat that coated his spine gradually cooled as wind eddied into his hiding spot. His lef
t foot began to feel chill, then his calf and knee. A prickling followed.
He put more weight on the cane and his right leg, pressing his shoulder harder against the doorway.
Puzzled by his own aloofness, he stood in the dark and observed the fog — how it rose in ribbons from puddles in the alley, how it was pushed back as the sky began to spit lightly.
Black windows. Black walls that seemed to melt into black puddles and Sévère’s black doorway. Only a street lamp twenty or so yards away outlined houses and gutters.
There was a creak, and a wedge of light fell onto wet pavement as the door to the boarding house was opened. A man stepped out, straightened his lapel, unfurled his umbrella, pushed his hat farther down over his face, and was swallowed by the dark as the door shut behind him.
He started in Sévère’s direction.
Odd, how familiar Frost’s movements had become. Odder yet that Sévère felt nothing. No trepidation. No anticipation. Not even guilt.
As Frost entered the alley, Sévère stepped out of his hiding spot as if he’d just come out of his home, planning to go about his nightly business. Casually, he walked a few steps ahead of Frost.
And then Sévère stumbled. He swore like a sailor, and gripped his cane hard as his knees buckled. Frost kept walking, starting to swerve so as not to brush against the drunkard.
Sévère hurried the hidden blade out of his cane, stood and rammed it into Frost’s chest. Just below the ribs. Angled upward a little.
He was surprised by the effort it took to penetrate several layers of clothing, skin, and flesh, but Sévère had attended enough postmortems to know precisely where to strike.
Frost’s heart received the metal. His face contorted, his eyes wide and incredulous. His mouth fell open, preparing for a scream. Sévère let go of the blade and punched Frost’s throat. The man collapsed in a puddle of rain and piss. His legs began to twitch.
With a soft hiss Sévère retrieved the blade. He wiped the weapon on Frost’s lapel, and stood with difficulty. The pain in his left leg was growing intense.
