Silent Witnesses

by Annelie Wendeberg

  I searched first her face and then Warren's, trying to figure out who was lying. But both seemed equally stricken. 'Tell me precisely what occurred that night. I need to know every detail. No matter how unimportant you think it is.'

  And so they talked. Warren began, and Hattie supplemented. Most of the details of that night I knew already. It had been one of the casual meetings of the Freaks. The group met at the rehearsal, then ate and drank at Warren's townhouse. When Warren needed the lavatory some time later that night and the others were deeply immersed in talk about investment options, Hattie had slipped the sketchbook into her purse.

  No one had seen what she did.

  They had left Warren's around eleven o'clock that night, and…

  'You went home directly?' I asked her.

  'Yes. No! I…briefly went over to our parent's to pick up something.'

  'What did you pick up?'

  'A list. A guest list for the ball.'

  Warren groaned. I told him to shut up, and turned back to Hattie, 'Did you have your purse with you at all times?'

  'Well…' Her gaze drifted out of focus. She squinted and centred herself with a deep breath. 'I had it in my hand when the butler admitted me.'

  'You didn't have your key?' Warren asked.

  'I forgot it. And then…' Her eyebrows bunched together. 'I left the purse in the hall, and went to see Mother, who had retired early. We talked for a few minutes. Then she gave me the guest list, and I left.'

  'With your purse,' I supplied.

  'Of course.' She cocked her head. Something seemed to dawn on her. 'Oh, actually…'

  'What?' Warren shot at her.

  'Shut up, Warren. Let her think.' I punched his arm, lightly, but enough to remind him that I could do more harm if necessary. He cut me a sideways glance and huffed.

  'I forgot my purse,' Hattie said, eyes large. 'I left it in the hall, and only noticed that I’d forgotten it when I got home. There was nothing I’d need right away, and nothing valuable in it, so I didn’t go back. I asked one of the footmen to fetch it for me the next morning — I mean, today — and then I went to bed.' She looked up sharply. 'But he wouldn't have ripped out the pages. None of our footmen would ever dig through my things and…and steal from me!'

  'So you—'

  I held up my hand. 'Warren, if you keep interrupting, I will kick you out.'

  'This is my house,' Hattie protested. And then to her brother, 'If anyone kicks you out, it’ll be me. And I will if you don't keep your mouth shut.'

  He held up his hands in mute surrender.

  'So you noticed your purse was missing when you arrived home last night, and you immediately told a footman to fetch it for you the next morning?'

  'Yes. The footmen are all up early. Four or five in the morning. He would have gone to my parents' and told one the maids that he’d been sent to fetch my purse.' Nervously, Hattie was rolling the hem of the tablecloth into a long sausage.

  'Who would have had the opportunity to take pages out of the sketchbook?' I asked Hattie.

  'I don't believe any of the servants—'

  'I'm not asking who might have taken them. I want to know who was in your home or your parents’ house that night. Your father and your mother. All the servants. Guests?'

  Hattie's eyes grew larger. She flicked a glance at Warren, who for once was helpful enough to nod encouragement at her.

  ‘I think…’ she said tentatively, ‘I’d better write them all down for you.'

  'I will.' Warren pulled out another sketchbook, and sat at attention.

  'How many portraits?' I asked to start.

  Warren cleared his throat and mumbled, 'Two.'

  'Only of me, or of me and my daughter?'

  'Only you.'

  At least I had that. 'The list, Hattie,' I reminded her.

  And so Hattie began. 'Mother and Father, and all of their servants. And the guests. Father entertained the Lords Wray.' She waited until Warren had written down all the names. Eighteen servants at the Amaury mansion. The master, the mistress, and the three Wray brothers. Then, Hattie, her husband, their children, and another twelve servants.

  'Oh!' Hattie squeaked and touched her lips. 'Mother said deliveries were to be sorted out early the next morning. That would be…nearly a dozen men who must have been in the scullery or the kitchens receiving instructions on what was needed for the ball. I'll have to ask the names.'

  Overwhelmed, I sank against the backrest of my chair. 'This is…much more than I expected.' How could I ever find out who, of all those people, had taken my portraits?

  'I'll interrogate every single one of them!' Hattie slapped the edge of the table, her chin set, and eyes brimming with resolution. The roll of tablecloth she’d bunched together unfurled and dropped down onto her knees.

  I shook my head. 'You won't say a word.'

  'What?'

  'I will question them,' I said.

  'Impossible,' Warren interrupted. 'This is the aristocracy you’re dealing with. You can't walk into our homes and ask questions. Not even the police would dare such a thing. Not on mere suspicion. The rules are different where we are concerned.'

  We fell silent and stared at our teacups until Hattie said, 'I have an idea.'

  Beaming, she looked from Warren to me. 'You are my physician, Liz. You walk in and out of my house whenever I want you to. And you will attend the ball, so you can talk to the Wray brothers. Officially, you are keeping an eye on me. And…' She tapped on the list in front of me. 'The deliveries will be made the evening before the ball. So, this is when you come to “examine" me, to make sure I'm fit for dancing the next day. I will show you around. That's what friends do, isn't it?' She winked with both her eyes.

  'Isn't that a bit too late?' Warren said.

  'What?'

  'The ball is in a month. Do you want to wait a month to catch a killer?'

  ‘Of course not. I’ll talk to the servants and collect information when I examine Hattie. I’d planned on doing that frequently now anyway.'

  'Father won't be happy about you attending the ball.’ Warren looked from me to his sister, his brows knitted together. ‘This will all take some convincing. Difficult, but it should be possible.'

  'I'll talk to Father,' Hattie said to Warren. 'He can't but agree to my precautions.' And then to me, 'It would help if you could show a pedigree.'

  I clapped my hand to my mouth and wheezed a laugh. Hattie joined in. Only Warren looked forlorn.

  'And when would our first appointment be, Dr Arlington?'

  'This afternoon or tomorrow morning.'

  She chewed on her lip, then nodded. 'All right. Let's do it tomorrow morning. I'll send my coach to pick you up. Or do you want a new bicycle?'

  Case Notes, July 5, 1893

  Notes on Dr Elizabeth Arlington, Wednesday, July 5, 1893

  Quinn McCurley, Bureau of Criminal Investigation

  * * *

  Wired overseas to find traces of Arlington for the years 1880 to the present. Replies as follows:

  Berlin Police Headquarters: No person registered under either name as Berlin resident in the indicated time period.

  Berlin University: Women are not permitted to study or practice medicine.

  Scotland Yard, London: No person by the name of Elizabeth Arlington or Elizabeth Bowles, born September 1862, was registered as a resident of London or the surrounding area in the specified period of time.

  Who the bloody hell is this woman?

  13

  After breakfast I took Zach aside. 'Find an apartment at the other end.’ I nodded in the general direction of the shore, where our tunnel ended under a boathouse. 'I would like for us to spend the nights in a safe place. Just in case.'

  Zachary didn’t even look surprised. He slowly nodded, his mouth compressed. 'Makes for a sounder sleep if we don't have to worry about you being strangled and dumped on some railroad tracks.’

  My shoulders sagged. 'I'm so sorry this is happening.'

&nbs
p; 'It's not your fault.'

  'Will you see to it, while I visit Hattie?'

  'Yes, of course, I will. How big or small do you want it? The apartment?'

  'It's just for the nights. It only needs to fit the four of us comfortably.'

  He nodded. A deep frown carved his forehead, as if already considering the size and number of rooms we’d need.

  'And Zach?'

  'Hmm?'

  'It doesn't matter if the rent is outrageous. Don't worry about money. Just make it happen.'

  * * *

  'Does this feel uncomfortable?' I observed Hattie's face as I palpated her lower abdomen.

  'No. Should it?'

  I smiled and shook my head. 'You'll be my eyes and ears from now on.'

  'You mean I'm to help you catch a killer?'

  'No, for this. For your baby.' I nodded at her belly. 'Your uterus feels soft now. But I want you to examine yourself every day. Give me your hands now.'

  I showed her the location of her uterus, and how to gently examine it. 'When it contracts it gets round and smooth, and hard, like a polished rock. Should you feel your uterus contracting more often than every half hour, or if you feel pain, or start bleeding, I'd like you to call for me immediately.'

  'Is it dangerous? Will I lose my baby again?'

  'No. Nothing points to an unusual pregnancy.' I pulled down her chemise, and patted her hand. 'Sit up. I'll help you dress.'

  Hattie was silent as I buttoned the back of her morning dress. Then she turned and looked at me with a profound sadness. 'Do you think I did something wrong? That I made myself have miscarriages?'

  'What? No! Who would suggest such horrid thing?'

  She picked at the frills of her sleeve. 'It's just what I think sometimes.'

  I thought back to the women I had tended, back when I’d lived in St Giles. Women who gave birth in filthy, overcrowded rooms. In stairwells or in the streets. Miscarriages were considered an everyday occurrence, a solution to a problem, even.

  'Hattie,' I said softly. 'Nature has a way of knowing if a child cannot survive outside the womb. If the embryo or foetus is not perfect, your body will reject it.'

  'Do you think it's Robert's fault?'

  'I don't think it's anybody's fault. Miscarriages are common. But healthy babies are much more common.'

  The corners of her mouth twitched. I took her hand in mine. 'Is he kind to you?'

  Her expression hardened. 'Robert? Of course he is.'

  'You can always come to me. If you need anything. You and your daughters.'

  She jerked back as though I'd punched her. 'He is my husband, not a monster!'

  I nodded once. 'Why don't you collect data for me? Write down what you have eaten, how you've slept, your physical activities — including intercourse — and compare that to the instances you felt your uterus harden.'

  'Inter…intercourse? You want me to…' Her cheeks acquired an intense shade of strawberry-red.

  'You will notice that your uterus hardens tremendously when you climax.'

  'Elizabeth Arlington!' She boxed my shoulder, and then all humour fled from her face. 'You mean to say that…relations with my husband are bad for the child?'

  'No. They aren't. On the contrary. They are good preparation for a smooth birth.' I winked, and she tut-tutted me.

  'And no tight lacing,' I reminded her.

  Hattie rolled her eyes.

  * * *

  We went down to the kitchens and I made a point of enquiring about Hattie's diet, her eating habits, and remarked how food might affect her health. We were a picture of concerned mother hens. We chattered away as we picked through the contents of the biggest icebox I'd ever seen, and — as planned — Hattie steered the topic to the purse she'd forgotten at her parents'. And that her diary had been in it. And how stupid it was of her to have kept it in her purse, and not in her nightstand.

  I nodded solemnly, and blurted, 'Why don't you ask them if the footman who fetched your purse for you… What was his name? Towers? Why don't you ask them if he talked about reading it?’ My arm motioned at all the servants in the kitchen.

  Hattie screeched, scolded me for my horrible working class mouth — one not befitting a friend of an Amaury or a Heathcote — then tossed her head and stomped from the kitchens.

  I put on a mask of pain and surprise. After much huffing and puffing, I asked the servants if my suggestion had really been so horrible. They all agreed with Hattie. Throwing around accusations was not kind at all, and in this household it was definitely not tolerated.

  I apologised profusely, and explained that all I’d wanted was to help Hattie. Because she was terrified of yet another miscarriage. Her anxiety about someone having read her diary was just making everything worse. And her worries weren't entirely unfounded because two pages of the diary were missing.

  In a heartbeat, the servants went from affronted to concerned. The scullery maid muttered to the kitchen maid. The cooks added their opinions to the matter, but none had any clue who might have stolen two pages from the Mistress's diary. The footman was trustworthy, everyone said. He had been in employ for years, and never done anything uncouth. He hadn't even raised his voice toward the clumsy boot-boy. Not once.

  But they would find the culprit, surely they would!

  I had to tamper down their enthusiasm, pointing out that wild rumours would only weaken Hattie's delicate constitution. But perhaps they could be very…discreet?

  * * *

  I left the kitchens to find Hattie in the breakfast room. She was sitting on a chaise longue, sipping tea. I gave her a small nod. She stood and said loudly, 'I'm glad you are done chatting with the servants. You must have entirely forgotten that you wanted me to show you the stables.'

  The maid who was placing a silver bowl with biscuits on the table paused and frowned at me.

  Hattie had no acting skills whatsoever.

  'I can't allow you to go horseback riding until your child is born,' I said.

  'Silly thing! These horses pull carriages. We don't keep our riding horses here.' She strode up to me, grabbed my arm, and pulled me along. 'And?' she pressed through the side of her mouth.

  I muffled a snort. 'We have acquired a gaggle of amateur detectives. They will talk to the rest of your servants, and to your parents’ servants. They'll make a list of everyone who was in the Amaury mansion while your purse was there. And they have promised to be discreet.'

  We reached the stables and climbed the stairs to the footmen’s quarters. Mr Towers was sitting at a small table, drinking ale with another man. They looked embarrassed when we found them idle. They jumped from their stools, unsure where to put their hands, their hats, or what to say in their defence.

  Hattie sent the other man away, and came straight to the point. 'Mr Towers, you kindly fetched my purse yesterday morning… Oh, I am sorry. My manners! This is Dr Arlington, she is my friend and personal physician.'

  Towers held out his hand to me, and said, 'Ma'am—'

  'Anyway,' Hattie chattered on. 'There was a small notebook in my purse and it's missing a few pages. Do you, by any chance, know who might have taken them?'

  Towers seemed hit by a sudden bout of exhaustion.

  'I am not insinuating that you took them,' she continued before he could even open his mouth. 'But there were an awful lot of people at my parents' house that morning and perhaps someone…'

  I cleared my throat. 'Hattie, would you give me a minute with Mr Towers?'

  Her spine snapped straight, she muttered, 'Of course,' and turned on her heel.

  Mr Towers's eyes followed her until the door shut.

  'My apologies. She's very worried,' I said.

  He sank back on the stool. 'I didn't do it.'

  'I believe you,’ I lied to put him at ease. ‘But we have to find the person who did it. And you can help me.'

  He sat erect. ‘I can?’

  'At what time did you pick up the purse?'

  As he scratched his chin, his ga
ze flitted from my face to the door and back again. 'Half past seven.'

  'That was the time you left the house?'

  'Yes. And I went directly to the Amaury mansion.'

  'Who admitted you?'

  Towers’s Adam's apple bobbed. He avoided my gaze. 'The maid.'

  'Which maid?'

  'The kitchen maid, Miss Brophy. They…know me there because I often run errands for Mr and Mrs Heathcote.'

  'You entered through the gates, I assume.'

  He nodded.

  'Who did you see on the way to the…' I waved my hand for him to continue.

  'Kitchens. I entered the kitchens through the back of the house. The servants’ entrance. Said hello to Peck and Howe…the coachmen, then knocked at the door and went in.'

  'So you first went up into the coachmen's quarters?'

  'No! They were standing outside, watching the boys muck the stables.' Mr Towers picked nervously on a hangnail.

  'Who else was there?'

  'Just Peck, Howe, and the boys. Uhm…Billo and Alfie. I said hello, then knocked at the backdoor, and went in.'

  ‘It was Miss Brophy who admitted you?'

  'Yes, ma'am.' He bobbed his head, suddenly eager to please. Too eager to distract from the slight blush that stained his ears.

  'What else did Miss Brophy do?' My words had the effect of a cocked revolver.

  'Nothing! She admitted me and went on with her…work.'

  I said nothing and waited.

  ‘I swear! It was nothing. Only a peck on the cheek.'

  I nodded once, pulled the list of names Hattie and Warren had given me from my pocket, and flattened it face down on my lap. 'I need the names and location of every person you saw that morning.'

  Towers's gaze dropped to the piece of paper. Curiosity on what might be written on the other side seemed to burn under his skin. He cleared his throat. 'Peck, Howe, Billo and Alfie by the stables. Miss Brophy in the kitchens, together with Miss Trattles and Miss Sowerby.'