Silent Witnesses

by Annelie Wendeberg

  His eyes watered as he sank farther down in his chair.

  'Could you hear the crunch?' I asked.

  'Wish I hadn't.'

  'That's the fractured pieces of bone grinding against each other. Put a cold rag on your face, or ice if you have it. And don't quote Luther for three weeks.'

  He snorted, bringing forth a gush of fresh blood. Mortified, he clapped the handkerchief to his face and accidentally bumped his nose. He groaned in pain.

  'Someone throttled and punched you. Did you pass out? Did you sustain head injuries?' I asked.

  He shrugged.

  I tapped his cheekbones and ran my fingers across his scalp. 'No fractures as far as I can see.' I placed my palm over one eye, checking the reaction of the other pupil. Then I leaned in and sniffed. 'Cheap gin on your lips. Filthy wood shavings in your hair. Minced meat for a nose. Tsk! Your parents will be scandalised if word of your nightly activities reaches their ears.'

  He narrowed his eyes. 'Do you have a problem with me?'

  'You salivated into my vintage Bordeaux.' I threw a pointed glance at the wine bottle in his hand. 'A major offence.'

  He held the bottle aloft, squinting at the blood-red liquid. 'M'pologies.' Then he put it to his mouth and drank.

  'When your sister poked your ribs, you didn't flinch. I assume nothing's broken there?'

  He coughed. 'Got kicked, but not bad.'

  'Hmm… Lean forward please.' I probed his ribcage, but he didn't seem to feel pain. 'If your kidneys hurt or you find blood in your urine, consult a physician at once.'

  'Hrmpf,' he said again, and tipped more wine into his mouth.

  'Hopeless case. Avoids doctors like the plague,' Hattie said.

  I slipped a card from my purse and handed it to him. 'We usually help to avoid the plague.'

  'You should see her work with a bone saw,' Jerome said, with a lopsided grin and a flashing incisor. Warren glared at him.

  Margaret slid her feet off the table, and sat up straight. 'Didn't we want to make a decision tonight?'

  Uriel looked up at me.

  The Freaks knew I had inherited a little money from my late husband, but they had no clue how much it really was. Even Hattie would pale at the amount. Unfortunately, they believed I'd also had inherited the wisdom of how to best invest money.

  They didn't know I’d grown up in poverty, and found discussions of investment strategies more than boring. To grow one's own wealth not by hard work but by shuffling it from one pot to another was disgusting. So I merely said, 'I'm not an investor,' hoping they would leave me alone.

  Jerome threw back his shoulders with a derisive laugh. 'Coward.'

  'Ah!' cried Warren, waving a fist at Jerome, 'I am tired of the pestilent voice of your sirens!'

  'She told you not to quote Luther,' Jerome grumbled.

  Warren made a rude gesture with his hand.

  Ignoring the two, I turned to Uriel and said, 'The treasury crisis might or might not cause a recession. I have weighed the risks and decided not to act on it. That doesn't mean that you can't shuffle your money around. Why do we need to decide on anything together anyway?'

  'We don't,' Uriel said. 'It's only that no one wishes to be alone in making a stupid decision.'

  'So we make stupid decisions together?'

  'Er…yes,' Margaret said, snatched the bottle from Warren, rubbed her sleeve over its mouth, and drank.

  'I understand that you are worried. Many people are. But it's rarely the wealthy who suffer most from a financial crisis. So if you ask me where I would put my money, my answer is soup kitchens. Give to the destitute. Which is probably not what you wish to hear.'

  'Why wouldn't we?' Hattie asked.

  'It's the fastest way to make an investment disappear, that's what,' Jerome said.

  I sighed and rubbed my brow. 'If you want a magic solution, ask a fairy.'

  The others launched into discussions of gold prices, silver coinage, and the economy. I listened only with half an ear as my mind picked through my observations and conclusions on the railway corpse. Part of me wanted to talk to the post-mortem surgeon and ask him about perimortem injuries to the throat and neck. The victim's eyeballs were bloodshot and her tongue swollen. But I hadn't been able to find blood or tissue under her fingernails. One hand had been bunched around a rose petal. Could she have been throttled but not put up a fight? That would be very unusual, if not…impossible.

  Had she been smothered?

  I looked up, rested my gaze on Uriel simply for the sake of resting it somewhere and calming my mind. His narrow shoulders and fair hair. His silent demeanour. He listened more often than he spoke. A trait only a few men cultivated. His gaze slid to my face. I smiled and he smiled back.

  'He's married,' Jerome said.

  'To you?' I shot back.

  Jerome snorted. Red splotches bloomed around his throat and ears.

  For once, Margret didn't use the moment of fluster to poke fun at Jerome. She, Eliza and Warren had just begun arguing about pirates and smugglers.

  Warren, on the other hand, struck me as odd — odder than the rest of the Freak Consortium. He had abandoned his handkerchief (never mind my cold rag recommendation to lessen the swelling of his fractured nose) and was now perched on his chair as if to take flight. His backside scooted this way and that, his boots tapped against the rug. And he avoided eye contact. But why?

  I turned to Uriel. 'Do you know Constable Lyons from the Boston Police Department?'

  'Never heard of the man. Why?'

  'I'd like to know if he and his superiors are any good.'

  Uriel waited for me to go on. He had a way with silence that could wheedle information out of people who didn't wish to share it.

  But I wanted to share. 'I met Lyons at Fall River Railroad. A woman was killed and I was the first to examine her remains. I found evidence that she'd been dead for hours before she was placed on the tracks. But I got the impression that Lyons didn't put too much faith in my assessment. In fact, I don't even know if he forwarded my reports to the coroner and the post-mortem surgeon. I never heard back from either.' I chewed on the inside of my cheek. 'Damn. I should have insisted on seeing the inspector. And I should pay the coroner a visit.'

  'Hmm.' Uriel scratched his neck. 'I'm only an insurance lawyer, but I can ask around. Put my ear to the tracks, so to speak.'

  'That would be nice.'

  'You saw her?' Margaret said. 'The woman on the railroad?'

  I turned to her. She looked solemn. 'Yes. I examined her.'

  'I heard she was in bits and pieces.'

  'She was.' The room fell silent. 'She must have been placed on the tracks as darkness fell. She'd been dead for hours. The train decapitated her and cut off her foot.'

  Hattie clapped her hands over her face. Warren passed her the wine bottle. She poured a generous measure into her glass before choking it down. No one said a word.

  The grandfather clock by the wall struck eight. I clapped my hands to my knees, and announced that I must take my leave because a good book and a young girl were expecting me. I snatched my jacket and hat, and bade them farewell with a bow and a theatrical, 'Myy our paths cross again very soon, mes amis,' hoping they'd forget the grizzly scene I had just painted.

  * * *

  I left home early the following morning to pay the coroner a visit before my lectures at the Medical School were to begin. He had his offices on Boston Street in one of the many brownstone row houses. A clerk admitted me, and led me through a hallway to a waiting room. Approaching the hearth, I looked in vain for anything that might catch the water running off my umbrella and the muck dribbling from my gaiters. The fire crackled and popped noisily, and I almost missed the clearing of a throat behind me.

  I turned.

  The man's clothes were tailored and tight fitting, but his face was not. His mouth and the skin surrounding it seemed two sizes too large and not attached to his mandible at all. The skin around his eyes sagged, as did his large nose
. There was a friendly twinkle in his eyes when he held out his hand. 'Dr Arlington?'

  We shook hands briefly. He had a surprisingly firm grasp. 'Yes. Coroner Jacob Rubenstein?'

  He bobbed his head.

  'Have you received my report?' I asked.

  'Only this morning. Is there a problem with it?'

  'No, I was just… This morning? Why did the police keep my report for two days?'

  'Ah, it's…normal procedure, so to speak. The police and I have our little differences. I'm certain they wanted to make sure all was in order before sending it to me.' His moustache twitched in wry amusement.

  'I see. Were you able to identify the victim?'

  'The case has been given to Inspector McCurley. She was murdered, you see. And it was he who identified her. A washerwoman by the name of Henrietta Hyde. Worked for several households between Steward and Crescent Street, you see.'

  I tried not to say "I see," so I merely nodded. 'May I take a look at the report of the post-mortem surgeon?'

  He cocked his head and pushed his spectacles farther up his nose.

  'Professional curiosity,' I explained with a smile.

  He puffed up his cheeks, and bade me follow him.

  * * *

  When I finished my lecture, and all the students were rising to leave the hall, the doors were pushed open. The man who entered was rather short — which is to say, an inch or so taller than I — with a jagged scar that ran from his cheek down his throat. My gaze got stuck there, and I wondered how much blood he had lost and who'd saved his life.

  'Mrs Arlington?' he said, and took off his hat.

  'Dr Arlington.'

  'Of course. May I ask you a few questions about the railroad incident?'

  He hadn't lowered his voice. The few students who hadn't yet exited the lecture hall stopped to look at me with a mix of shock and curiosity.

  'Off you go,' I said to them, and stuffed my folder back into my bag. Then I turned to my guest. 'And you are?'

  'Inspector McCurley, Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Shall we sit?' He had the audacity to indicate my desk.

  I ignored him.

  'Mrs Arlington?'

  'Dr Arlington. You wished to ask questions. I'm waiting for you to begin.'

  He pulled a small notebook from his jacket and snapped it open. 'Shortly after eight thirty on the evening of the fifteenth of May, the remains of Mrs Henrietta Hyde were found on the Fall River Railroad near Savin Hill Avenue. You were one of the first witnesses, and the first to examine the body. What brought you there and when did you arrive?'

  'Have you not read my report?'

  'I have.' He tapped pencil against notebook.

  Slowly, I sucked in air. 'As I've written in my report, I was on my way home. If you consult a map, you'll see that the crime scene is directly between this lecture hall and my home on Savin Hill Avenue. I arrived only a few minutes after it had happened.'

  'After what happened?'

  'The dismemberment of Mrs Hyde's corpse by the train. What else would I refer to?'

  'You seem certain about her having been dead for hours when she was hit by the train.'

  'I am absolutely certain. Inspector, do you wish me to repeat every statement I made in my report?'

  Without looking up from his notes, he said, 'Yes. That's how I take witness statements. You used the term "crime scene." What makes you think a crime was committed?'

  I opened my mouth, and blinked. 'Given the evidence, it is the only logical explanation.'

  'Interesting. PC Lyons' first thought was that of an unfortunate accident. I wonder why you so readily suggest murder.'

  'I said crime, not murder. Murder is one of several possibilities. Concealment of death is another. Are there any other questions you might have that can easily be answered by referring to my report?'

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual that night?' he asked.

  'You must be jesting.'

  'Aside from the dismembered body of Henrietta Hyde.'

  'All of my observations are in my report. It's a treasure trove of useful information. I suggest you read it. It's late and I must leave now. If you feel the need for an in-depth repetition of what I've written in my report, you will have to arrest me. Good evening, Inspector.' I yanked my bag from the desk, and made for the door.

  'An excellent idea, Mrs Arlington,' he said by way of farewell.

  I thought of all the places one could kick a man to cause a hell of a lot of pain without leaving so much as a faint bruise.

  4

  Candlelight danced across the flowery wallpaper. With a small sigh, Klara's face relaxed. I detached her lips from my breast, and fastened the strings of my nightgown. The tip of her tongue stuck out of her mouth and a smudge of milk glistened on her cheek.

  A shiver ran through me, and I tucked the blanket closer around us. Somehow, I doubted the police had caught the man who'd placed Henrietta Hyde's body on the railway. The tramp might have done it, but he seemed too convenient a catch. Wouldn't the murderer — if he'd indeed been among the bystanders — have disappeared as soon as police arrived at the scene?

  My breath stopped. Might I have seen him? Had he seen me?

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember faces. But I could not have described the stoker or driver in detail, although I'd spoken to both men. My mind had been on the victim, and I doubted I could pick out a killer from his appearance. Maybe if I saw him again I could…do what? Ask politely if he'd recently committed a heinous crime?

  I snorted. Klara twitched in her sleep.

  According to the post-mortem surgeon's report, Henrietta Hyde had been strangled, and then her body had lain curled on its side for five to six hours. To cover the deep bruises to her throat, she'd been placed on the tracks, her neck arranged on one of the rails so that the train would cut through the evidence and destroy it.

  The evidence, however, had still been there. The internal bleeding stretched from lower mandible to collar bones. It was excessive. Whoever killed her must have done so in a passion.

  The post-mortem surgeon hadn't found skin or blood under her fingernails either. I couldn't fathom why she hadn't fought back. If a stranger walked up to me and put his hands around my throat, I would fight with teeth and nails. Had Henrietta been drugged? Had she known her killer? Why had the papers said nothing about her husband? That was indeed odd. Perhaps there was no husband.

  I gazed at Klara. Her eyes danced behind her lids. I wondered what she was dreaming. Was she sitting in the garden, watching Zachary? She looked so peaceful that my heart was about to burst.

  She mumbled something that sounded like "Dzadza."

  When addressing Zach, she sometimes used one "dza," and sometimes a string of two or three. As if wrapping her small tongue around his name was daunting.

  I thought of the first time I'd placed my baby in Margery's arms, and the feeling of being torn in two when I left the house to perform an emergency surgery on a neighbour. I'd wept when I came back home and found tiny Klara curled up on Zachary's chest, her mouth closed around his pinky, her face salty with tears. She'd fallen asleep only minutes earlier, and cried again when he returned her to me. She’d only been consoled by my milk and my embrace.

  It had surprised me that Zach was the one Klara attached herself to, rather than Margery. But the more I came to know them, the clearer it became why she'd chosen him. Margery kept an arm's length from everyone but Zach. She was kind, but rarely warm. I knew she tried with Klara, but it seemed something was holding Margery back. A mistrust or wariness she carried within her. It blew away the instant Zach entered her vision.

  Sometimes I wondered about Margery's and Zachary's past, where they'd grown up, how they'd met and fallen in love, and what made her so cautious and him so calm and protective of her.

  Klara whined in her sleep. I brushed my lips against her forehead, held her closer to me, and softly sang her bad dream away. She had yet to develop the ability to fall asleep by herself,
and she would wake as soon as she sensed she was alone in the bedroom. It was security she sought, and I wished I were able to give it to her. But we weren't safe. Not as long as Moran was alive.

  A pang of guilt hit me. Early in my pregnancy, I'd tried to abort her. Twice. Now I lived in constant fear of her abduction and my violent death. And often, I wasn't even there with her. Normal women stayed at home to take care of their children, but I taught classes and took care of strangers. Was I a poor excuse for a mother? Klara didn't speak, didn't even like playing with children her age. Had I caused this?

  I inhaled the sweet scent of her hair, and thought of my students who abandoned their studies as soon as they found a man. Such a waste of potential!

  And there I had it. Wouldn't I be wasting my own potential if all I did was to stay at home and hold my daughter's hand while she grew into a young woman? Wouldn't it be a greater loss to watch Klara lead the life society expected of her and not dare pursue her own happiness — because I had lived that very example?

  I paused. Would I be able to accept it, if she chose to lead a normal life? To marry, bear children, and not strive for a higher goal?

  Yes. Yes, I could, as long as she knew that she had a choice, and the strength to be whatever she wished to be.

  And what path would I take? Would I wait two weeks for the toxicologist's report when there was a killer at large? He'd been in the neighbourhood. He might even live close by. Too close to home to do nothing. But launching my own criminal investigation was something I wouldn't do lightly. The last time I hunted a murderer, I'd paid a very high price.

  And I had barely survived.

  * * *

  The following Monday I received a summons from the Boston Police Department to give a witness statement regarding the killing of Henrietta Hyde. I arrived at the Pemberton Square Headquarters on time, and was made to wait forty minutes in front of Inspector McCurley's shut door, listening to the high-pitched voice of the boy McCurley was interrogating.

  'Me and my chums was near the boat houses, having a good time. Fired off a firecracker or two, and frightened off that chap with the funny hat. Petey, that is.'