Gavriel Sévère hurried along Leman Street. He was late for his appointment with the magistrate. He carried a list of issues he would insist on resolving. He would not step back. If the magistrate continued refusing to pay his fees, he would personally visit Home Office for every single invoice that was rejected until this problem was solved once and for all. In the past three months, his travel costs, fees for more than thirty postmortem examinations, and fees for jury and witnesses had been disallowed on no specific grounds. The situation had become highly unacceptable.
As he neared the top of the stairs to Division H Headquarters, the large front door burst open and nearly hit him in the face. Two policemen came flying through and knocked him over.
It was as if time stopped. Sévère felt a whoosh of air before the man collided with him. He felt his cane slipping over the thin layer of ice that had formed during the previous night. His left leg gave way. He heard a popping noise issuing from his knee and felt a pain unlike any he’d ever experienced. He almost cried out in agony as the side of his ribcage hit the stone steps. All he could do was hunch his shoulders and tuck in his head to prevent his skull from being cracked open like a raw egg.
‘Blazes!’ one of the men cried, and Sévère wanted to kick his balls like he’d never wanted anything in his whole life.
‘Coroner! Are you hurt?’
Sévère pushed himself up. The cold bit through his gloves and trousers. He swallowed bile. Hands grabbed him under his shoulders, attempting to hoist him upright.
‘Stop it, you blithering idiots!’
‘Just trying to be helpful, Coroner. The steps are frozen over, and it’s easy to slip.’
‘Constables,’ Sévère growled. ‘One more word, and I’ll lose my temper. You two brutes broke my leg.’
‘Blimey, ’ one man muttered.
The other didn’t move. His knees trembled. ‘Chief will kick me out. He will.’
‘Goddammit! I will personally decapitate both of you if you don’t summon a cab within the next two seconds.’
One constable was still frozen to the spot, staring at Sévère, the other constable took the remaining steps in three slithering hops, thrust his arm into the air and hollered, ‘Cabbie! Cabbie!’
It did take longer than two seconds for an available hansom to arrive at Headquarters, and an eternity for Sévère — aided by the two policemen — to climb into the carriage and sit down. His left limb was painfully crammed into the limited legroom. ‘Guy’s Hospital,’ he called to the driver.
He didn’t know how to hold his leg so that it wouldn’t scream with pain at every turn and every pothole. He clenched his teeth until his ears rang as they rode over cobblestones and wove in and out of the busy traffic. When they finally arrived, he was trembling and bathed in sweat.
‘Would you please call for help? I believe I can’t walk.’ He said it loud and clear to pretend the feeling of helplessness was in no way humiliating.
Two men with a stretcher between them arrived and helped him onto it with surprising gentleness. ‘If Dr Johnston is not too busy, perhaps you could bring me to him.’
‘Leg doesn’t look like it needs to be taken off,’ one of the men muttered.
‘Right now, I wouldn’t mind too much,’ Sévère answered, wiping his damp brow.
And so they marched off toward Johnston’s ward. He’d have to wait, they told him when they placed him on a cot. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of nothing, tried not to count the minutes.
Johnston touched Sévère’s shoulder. ‘Are you paying me a courtesy visit?’
‘You smell of blood.’
‘I usually do. How can I help you?’
‘I believe my knee is fractured. The left.’
Johnston ran his fingertips softly down both sides of Sévère’s left leg. ‘What happened?’
‘I fell down the stairs.’
‘Why?’
A chuckle forced itself out. ‘Well, mainly because of two factors. One: ice-coated stone steps to Division H Headquarters. Two: A police officer who is as blind as a mole and as large as an ox. At the moment, an appropriate comparison for his clumsiness isn’t forthcoming.’
‘At least you haven’t lost your humour. Nurse!’ Johnston waved at a woman clad in crisply-starched linen. They moved Sévère into the ward, and pulled off his trousers.
‘Hum. Bruising and swelling of the knee joint. Did you hear a pop or a crunch?’
Sévère shuddered at the memory. ‘There was a popping noise.’
‘Hum. I’ll examine your leg now to see if and where it is fractured. It might hurt a little. Let me know if you require morphia.’
Sévère nodded once and watched Johnston’s hands probe and squeeze. He grew more tense the closer Johnston got to the injury.
‘Does this hurt? Tell me where and when precisely it hurts.’
Sévère could only grunt.
‘I doubt it’s broken. It would hurt significantly more.’ Seeing Sévère’s raised eyebrows, Johnston added, ‘You would have climbed up that wall had I shifted fractured bones, lad.’
‘What’s wrong with the knee, then?’
‘Well, I believe you have an injury to the knee due to a hyperextension of the joint. We can only hope that ligaments and cartilage weren’t torn. I’m not sure how this could have happened from a fall as you’ve described it. But you were limping before, and I can feel that your left leg is very slightly atrophied. Why is that?’
‘I don’t know. You’re the surgeon.’
‘You never took that to a physician?’ Johnston pointed at Sévère’s leg.
‘No.’
Johnston frowned and pushed his spectacles higher up his nose. ‘Might it be that you have a good idea what’s causing the weakness of your leg?’
‘A suspicion, but not a very good one.’
‘Tell me, then.’
Sévère let out a sigh, and looked up at the ceiling. ‘When I was ten I fell ill. My left leg was paralysed completely, the right leg from the knee downwards. Sometimes, for perhaps a year and a half now, there’s a prickling beneath my skin, running up and down the left side. It reminds me of the pain I felt when I was paralysed. But it can’t be coming back. I’ve never heard of such a thing.’
‘Ah.’ Johnston took off his spectacles, and methodically polished them on his lapel. ‘I’ve heard it from several colleagues and seen it twice now. A surgeon up in Edinburgh is conducting a study on it. He’s asked all major hospitals in Britain to send him data on infant paralysis: number of cases, name, age, gender, which limbs where affected, mortality. It appears as though one-third of the individuals who survive the disease will experience very similar symptoms some thirty or forty years later. It’s as if the disease has a memory of where it first struck. When did you begin to limp again, Sévère?’
‘About a year ago.’
‘Did it come on gradually?
‘Yes. First the prickling only, and later it seemed my knee was less…stable.’
‘Hum… Let me look at your hip and your spine.’
Johnston took his time examining Sévère. He commented on the bruised ribs, asked a few questions as to his history of diseases and injuries, his eating habits, how much he sat and how much he walked, if he did any exercises. But mostly, Johnston was silently examining his patient’s muscles and bones.
When he was satisfied, he straightened, pulled a blanket back up and said, ‘It appears you are suffering from recurring infant paralysis. In fact, this is the only forthcoming explanation for your symptoms. Your muscles are losing their ability to stabilise the knee joint. The ankle and hip will probably be affected next, but I can’t tell when. Another injury such as the one you’ve incurred today will become more and more likely without a proper walking aid. I’ll get you a fitted brace so your knee can heal. You’ll have to wear it for two to four weeks, together with a crutch.’
Sévère felt his eyes burn and his throat ache. He squinted at a tree outside the window, and fought for self-control.
‘I meant to ask you something,’ Johnston continued. ‘I was rather hoping you might wish to consult me on all your future cases. I appreciate a man with a clear mind and sharp eyes. I’ve heard your predecessor was rather…dull. He and Baxter must have been a good fit.’
Despite the throbbing in his knee, Sévère couldn’t help but grin. ‘Johnston, you called me “lad” and I failed to object, now you want to exploit my weakness even further and sneak yourself into all my cases?’
‘Precisely.’
‘To be honest, I desperately need a surgeon with your skills.’
Johnston smiled broadly. His eyes twinkled. ‘I knew that, lad. We are rare specimens, aren’t we? Tell me, why are you interested in medicine?’
‘Because I firmly believe that a coroner should be an expert in both, medicine and law. Unfortunately, neither is required to be called into office.’
‘Is it not?’
‘The only requirement is that the man must own property.’
‘That is all?’
‘That is all.’
‘Hum. Why am I not surprised?’ Johnston scratched the nape of his neck, and grew sober. ‘One of our staff manufactures the most comfortable crutches. He’ll need about a week after he takes your measurements. You’ll certainly be needing a customised crutch in the future, even after your knee has healed. I would recommend using it at home even when you think you don’t need it. It prevents you from tiring your leg too much. You might think you are doing fine with your cane, but the more you exhaust that leg, the faster the paralysis progresses. I don’t like to say this, but… Sévère, in the best case, you’ll need a crutch permanently in ten, fifteen years. In the worst case, you’ll be sitting in a chair by next winter. I can’t tell you what will happen, or when. No one can. But do me a favour and rest your leg when it tires you. You will make matters worse if you put too much strain on it. There will be pain in your joints most likely. Do you smoke opium?’
Sévère shook his head.
‘You’ll probably do so, soon. Let me know when your leg starts growing weaker. Invite me for a drop of tea in a week or two, and I will bring that fine crutch along. Use it only at home for now if you don’t want to be seen with it. Exercise your torso well, because your body and your heart need to stay healthy, but avoid running at all costs. Avoid climbing stairs wherever possible. I’m sorry, lad. I wish I could be of more help.’
❧
Sévère stared down at his newly fitted brace. Four days after the injury and the pain in his knee had lost its knifelike quality. Now, a throbbing stretched from shin to thigh. He stared until he felt an itch in his eyes. This was the third time in his life he felt utterly devastated. He’d spent years conquering the deficiencies left by the disease. He learnt to walk twice, and now had to watch this ability gradually leave him again.
He wondered if he should bury himself in drink.
‘You would walk even more awkwardly, lad,’ he muttered to himself. Then he unbuttoned his waistcoat and his shirt, shed both garments, grabbed his temporary crutch, and hobbled to the doorway that separated his bedroom from his library. He balanced on his right leg, dropped the crutch and reached up, curled his fingers around a newly-installed metal bar and pulled himself up.
He didn’t count the number of pull-ups. He pushed beyond the pain to free his fury. Growling, he worked until sweat rolled down his face and chest, then he dropped to the floor, and punched the doorframe.
He watched the beads of blood crawl in between his fingers. A knock disturbed him.
‘Mr Sévère, sir? I heard a noise. Are you quite all right?’
‘Yes, thank you, Netty. Would you please bring me water to wash?’
‘Of course, sir.’
He listened to the tapping of her feet on the rug, fading down the stairs toward the scullery.
A drop of sweat hit his palm. He blinked down at it; the reflection of the oil lamp painted it golden.
A vibration crept through his body, and Sévère found himself wishing to see Mary lift her face to the falling snow once more, looking as if she were in love with everything.
‘I’ll be damned,’ he growled.
❧
Samuel Stripling left Covent Garden with empty hands. Or an empty notepad, so to speak.
He hailed a hansom and climbed aboard. ‘London is a madhouse,’ he muttered to himself as the driver tried to manoeuvre his horse through the dense and chaotic traffic. Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the Cannon Street offices.
‘Stripling,’ Sévère called out. ‘The Posgate case will be heard on February 28. That’s in a little more than a month.’
Stripling entered the office, and sat down on an armchair opposite his employer. ‘We don’t have anything more to add to that case. The man was about the centre of the road—’
‘I know my cases, Stripling. Thank you. I meant to ask you if you had spoken with the magistrate of Division H. He was to have paid our fees by January 2, and he still hasn’t done so. A large part of the last quarter’s budget was spent on this case. Posgate is to be tried for felonious killing. I fear that the magistrate might believe the verdict of an accidental death, which was returned by our jury a few weeks ago, justifies his disallowing of our fees. Yet again! I want this to be handled before Posgate’s acquittal. So. Did you speak to the magistrate?’
‘Yes, I did.’ Stripling picked at his fingernails.
‘And what did he say?’ Sévère, trying to keep the edge from his voice, sounded unnaturally soft.
‘He said that Home Office is delaying payment of Division H allowances and that he must wait for this money to arrive, else he would be paying you from his own pocket.’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Sévère’s fist hit the desk. The fountain pen jumped from its holder. ‘I don’t give a damn about Division H’s budget problems, or where the magistrate privately spends his money! How in all that is holy am I to do my work?’
Stripling grumbled agreement.
That noise irritated Sévère even more. ‘And what was your reply?’
‘Um…I bade him a good day.’
‘As expected.’ Sévère took a deep breath, poured himself a coffee without offering a cup to Stripling. ‘How was Covent Garden?’
‘I… Mr Sévère, there is no man who fits the description. No one sold seven apple trees to Mr Bunting. I believe we are wasting our time on this case.’
Sévère swallowed all further comments on the matter. All he said was, ‘Write your report. I want it in an hour.’
‘An hour?’
Sévère leant back and regarded the man sharply. ‘Are you aware that the only reason you are still employed is that you excel at paperwork?’
He watched a spectrum of colours flicker across Stripling’s face: red, white, and red again. The nervous darting of his eyes, the shuffling of his feet. Sévère had to admit to himself that he was, in fact, already damned.
Cigar smoke curled up toward the ceiling. Sévère thought of his health that was once again betraying him, the poor intelligence of his officer that seemed to worsen the longer he kept the man employed, and the string of financial problems the magistrate deemed it necessary to create. The situation was unacceptable.
He pulled out a pen and drafted a letter to the Justices advising them that the magistrate was to be sued for unpaid fees due the coroner. As soon as he’d put his seal to the envelope, he felt better.
There was little he could do about his leg, but he would have to replace Stripling. He needed an assistant with wits and balls.
Balls?
He almost choked on the thought.
❧
“Need your opinion on recent developments in our case. Come to my practice when convenient. G.S.”
She re-read the telegram but it puzzled her still. Our case. She shook her head and gazed out the window. Drizzle hit the glass and ran down in small rivulets. The day was a foggy yellow. A while ago, the church bells had struck ten. She grabbed her coat, and told Bobbie that she was off for an early lunch.
A stranger answered her knock and offered to take her umbrella and coat. She thanked him and walked through the hall, stopping in front of a door that stood ajar. There he sat, behind a large desk, stacks of paper piling up on either side of him, a cloud of smoke rising from a cigar that sat on an ashtray.
When he lifted his head to find her framed in the doorway, his eyes lit up. For a moment she wondered why he would be happy to see her. But the expression disappeared in a heartbeat. Perhaps a trick of the light.
She took a step forward. ‘Hello, Sévère.’
‘Miss Mary, come in and have a seat. Tea or coffee?’
She took off her gloves and her bonnet, and sat. ‘Coffee, please. No milk, no sugar.’
He frowned, stood, and bent forward. ‘This scar is new.’ His arm stretched over the desk, a finger touched the small scar at her eyebrow. She pulled back.
‘How did that happen?’
She opened her mouth, then shut it. ‘You need my opinion on a case. How can I help you?’
He sat back down and scanned her face. ‘How did that happen, Miss Mary?’
‘Are you still investigating who dumped Alexander Easy into the Thames?’
‘Yes, I am. In my spare time. But as long as I’m not allowed to search a certain brothel for evidence, I can’t get anywhere with my conclusions. Something, however, tells me that such a visit would result in arse pain.’
She threw back her head and laughed. When she looked at him again, he asked softly, ‘How did this happen, Miss Mary?’
‘Occupational hazard. I don’t wish to talk about it.’
His expression darkened. He nodded once and said, ‘I have to apologise. I forgot to wish you a Merry Christmas when we parted.’
‘You’ve thought about this for weeks? Do Jews celebrate Christmas?’
‘I’m neither a Jew nor do I see any reason to celebrate Christmas.’ He pushed a folder toward her. ‘The case notes. I will summarise them for you in a moment.’ He rose, grabbed his crutch, and limped slowly to the door, called for fresh coffee, and returned to her side. ‘Shall we sit by the fire?’
She nodded, and they relocated.
‘What happened to your leg?’ she asked.
‘A small injury to the knee. It looks much worse than it is.’
She tipped her head at him. ‘You could have said instead that you don’t wish to talk about it.’
‘I could have.’ He picked at the armrest and flicked a speck of lint toward the fireplace. ‘It is an automatic response. You are correct, I don’t wish to talk about it.’
He looked into the flames, lost for words.
‘The summary of the case,’ she said softly.
‘Ah, yes. Thank you. The short version is this: There’s no suspect. I don’t have the faintest idea who could have done it, nor where I could find additional clues. The long version… Well.’ He inhaled, and began to recount the past five weeks of investigations. The coffee was brought in and they emptied their first cup, and then a second. Mary remained silent until Sévère signalled the end of his speech.
Mary wiped a drop of coffee from her upper lip and slowly shook her head. ‘You were hoping I would see something you don’t? I am very sorry, but I can’t help you. There’s nothing I can possibly add.’
‘Read the case notes. Return them to me in a few days. If you have questions, send a telegram or find me here. I will pay you your usual fee.’
She gazed at the folder, felt across its edges with her fingertips, and said, ‘You are a queer man, Sévère.’
❧
Mary placed the case notes on her bed and opened the folder. She read for hours, but all clues led to a dead end. The nine newborns must have been buried in, or near, Redhill — the soil indicated as much. But there was no suspect, nothing that pointed from the Redhill-type Fuller’s Earth found in one of the skulls to a person, an event, or a specific location in Redhill. These nine children seemed to have never existed. As did the vendor who had sold the trees to Mr Bunting at Covent Garden, in summer the previous year.
All the men who had regularly purchased plants from MacDoughall to sell off elsewhere had been located, and none of them could recall selling seven apple tree saplings to an elderly man at Covent Garden. But then… If the vendor had been the murderer or an accomplice, he would certainly not have volunteered this information…
There was no other plant nursery in the area between Redhill and Limpsfield. No vendor had sold MacDoughall’s apple trees to someone who in turn had sold them at Covent Garden.
Woburn Sands was a hamlet of hobby gardeners with two semi-professional nurseries, neither of which exported their plants to London. Mrs Fouler had been the prime suspect for two days, but the whole of Bedfordshire lacked a shallow cledge, and its Fuller’s Earth deposits were located at below twenty-five yards depth — too deep for someone with a shovel and the need to hide a corpse quickly. Besides, the findings of Johnston and Pouch showed that the six bodies buried in Mrs Fouler’s backyard had not suffered violent deaths, and they had nothing in common with the nine skeletons found in seven flowerpots.
Mary sighed. The church bells struck six in the evening. She had to do her homework. She rose, hid the notes under her bed, and dressed in a deep burgundy dress.
‘Rose?’ she called down the stairs.
The girl stuck her nose around the corner, and showed a toothy smile. ‘Bite to eat?’
‘I’m perishing.’
While she ate, she opened a fairly new volume of “Anatomy. Descriptive and Surgical,” by Gray and Carter. Simon had lent it to her months ago. She wondered which section she should choose for tonight. Something complex, perhaps? Smiling, she turned the pages to “Muscles and Fasciae of the Foot.”
After she had eaten, she washed her mouth, face, and feet, and settled on the armchair. The bells struck seven.
He would be early tonight, he’d written. His letter had contained a short poem he claimed to have penned. It was Whitman, though. She liked it anyway.
A rap at the door. ‘Come in, please,’ she called.
A young man in his twenties entered, swept off his hat with a grand gesture, and crooned, ‘My princess!’
‘Good evening, Simon.’
Simon dropped his coat, scarf, hat, and gloves. ‘I’m parched,’ he said, placed a gold coin on the table, and poured them wine.
‘How was your day?’
‘Gory anatomy practice. But next year I’ll have my first patients.’ He eyed her dress, obviously searching for a clue as to what she might have planned for tonight.
She placed her feet into his lap. ‘Muscles and fasciae.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Do you find it too difficult?’
He blew through his nose. ‘No, not at all. First, second, or third layer?’
She leant forward. ‘Can one even reach the third layer without a knife?’
He gazed at her ankle. How neatly it fit into his hands. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Well, then. Do the first. Bones, too, if you please.’ She nodded at him, and leant back.
He pulled off her boots, and let his hands slide up her long legs. His fingers unhooked her garters and pulled down her stockings.
His eyelids sunk lower as he gingerly probed her flesh with his thumbs. The soft, inside portion of her sole. ‘Flexor helices brevis,’ he muttered.
He drew a line to the outside of her foot, down toward her heel. ‘Fibularis longus.’ His index and middle finger traced the arch of her foot and he looked up at her, whispering, ‘First cuneiform bone, second cuneiform bone, third cuneiform bone, cuboid bone. Are we doing the foot or all lower extremities?’
‘There are more than a hundred muscles in the foot, and you’ve identified only two. Does that answer your question?’
‘Damn.’
Some time between caressing her Abductor digiti minimi and the distal phalanx of her small toe with his right hand, he managed to extend his explorations with his left hand all the way up to the soft hollow of her knee. When he muttered, ‘semitendinosus,’ and, ‘gracilis,’ she moaned and slid down in her armchair, offering him access to her thighs.
‘Mons pubis,’ he said softly, and then, ‘Labia minor.’
‘You forgot something, Simon.’
‘Clitoris,’ he sighed.
Simon left past midnight. Mary curled up in her bed, exhausted. Before she fell asleep, the strings of evidence seemed to tangle her mind. She pictured the case like a ball of yarn a cat had used as a toy.
What did one do with such a chaos?
Undo it.
‘We have to begin anew,’ she whispered.
❧
‘Sévère, I’ve examined it from all angles. It’s the only option left.’ She blushed and added, ‘I believe.’
She emptied her cup and placed it back on his desk. Cigar smoke curled up thickly from the ashtray.
‘Do you ever smoke it or do you just leave it smouldering there?’
‘I never smoke.’ Frowning, Sévère opened his pocket watch. ‘Half past eleven. Do you have any plans for today?’
‘Not before seven o’clock in the evening.’
‘Let us visit Mr Bunting, then.’ He stood, and grabbed his crutch.
❧
‘But I’ve told you this already. All of it.’ Mr Bunting spoke a little too loud, his eyes wide open as if to compensate for his poor hearing. His ear trumpet was directed at Sévère, then swivelled to the housekeeper, who stood at the door, kneading her apron. ‘Mrs Hopegood gave you the exact same information under oath as I did. What else could we possibly help you with?’
‘I was hoping that time had stirred up a piece of memory. A small detail that might seem unimportant to you. Something about the man who sold you the trees.’
‘Stirred what?’ Bunting said.
Sévère scooted his chair closer to the man, leant forward and said loudly, ‘I hoped that time might help your memory. Do you recall something more about the man who sold you the trees? A detail that you haven’t mentioned previously. Something that might appear unimportant to you.’
‘Coroner, I am an old man. Time doesn’t stir up my memory, it muddles it.’
Mary felt as though Bunting had kicked her in the gut. ‘May I use your privy?’ she whispered, trying to control her excitement. ‘My apologies, but…I suffer from a…weakness of the bladder.’
‘Excuse me? What did the lady say?’ Bunting shouted.
Mary walked up to Bunting, lowered her mouth to his ear trumpet and repeated her request.
Bunting turned a shade of burgundy, and flicked his hand at Mrs Hopegood.
Mary was led downstairs and through a corridor. ‘Poor Mr Bunting. Suffering from rheumatism all these years,’ she said.
‘It didn’t used to be this bad. He was much better this past summer, when I entered his employ. The chilly weather has made it worse. To the right, please, Mrs Jenkins.’
They walked through the back door, and toward the servant’s privy. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hopegood. I am really sorry about this, but I simply can’t help it.’
‘It’s all right,’ Mrs Hopegood said. ‘Will you find your way back?’
‘Oh most certainly!’ Mary pulled the door closed and hoisted up her skirts. She listened to Mrs Hopegood’s exceedingly slow retreat. Mary suspected the woman to be eavesdropping, so she squeezed out what her bladder contained, added a few relieved sighs, and muttered, ‘Christ! Not my guts again!’ Then she wet her lips, pressed her palm against them and produced a very crude sound.
Mrs Hopegood shut the backdoor noisily.
Mary counted to twenty and left the privy. She quietly pushed down on the handle and pulled open the back door. Sévère’s low voice trickled down the stairwell.
Her eyes scanned the corridor. There was a door to her right; she tried it. It opened. Bookshelves on the left, two windows on the opposite wall. A fireplace, a desk, an armchair. No flowers. She stuck her head back out into the hallway and pricked her ears. No one was descending the stairs.
Mary took a deep breath and disappeared into Mr Bunting’s office.
❧
‘Are you feeling better, Mrs Jenkins?’ Sévère enquired upon her return.
‘I am, thank you.’ She sat, squeezed his arm, and slipped a note into his hand.
Sévère gazed down at the crumpled paper and unfolded it. For a long moment, he said nothing.
‘Will that be all, Coroner?’ Bunting enquired.
Sévère looked at Mary and whispered, ‘Do you have it on you?’
She nodded, and patted her skirts.
Sévère grabbed his crutch as if to leave, stopped himself and looked at Bunting, ‘That will be all, Mr Hunt.’
Bunting nodded and smiled.
Sévère leant back.
Bunting frowned. ‘You have another question?’
Mary waited, hoping that Sévère would repeat the test, because Bunting might believe he’d misheard, or, indeed, had not heard the name “Hunt” properly.
‘I forgot to ask your age. A mere formality.’
‘Three-and-sixty.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hunt.’
Mary threw a glance at the housekeeper, who was looking at the scene in puzzlement. A cough pulled her attention back to Bunting.
‘My name is Bunting. Rupert Bunting.’
‘You lived in Redhill until summer the previous year, is that correct?’
Bunting paled, blinked, and shook his head slowly.
‘Mr Hunt, assuming a fake identity and failing to reveal the truth when interrogated by the police is fraud. If you do not cooperate with us, I must ask the magistrate to issue a warrant at once. If you are found guilty, you will spend up to two years in prison.’
Bunting unstoppered his ear and placed the trumpet on his lap. Then he muttered, ‘I love her.’
‘Excuse me?’ Sévère said.
Bunting looked up at his housekeeper. ‘I believe our guests wish to leave now. Would you show them to the door, Mrs Hopegood?’
‘Mr Hunt,’ Sévère bent forward. ‘You will answer my questions here, or in the House of Detention.’
Bunting looked out the window.
Mary touched Sévère’s elbow, and gave a slight jerk of her head.
‘Show it to me,’ he said.
She stuffed her hand into the folds of her skirts and extracted a small, red volume with a bee printed on the cover.
THE BRITISH BEE-KEEPER’S GUIDE BOOK
Sévère took it from her and opened it. A receipt was tucked into the book.
_____________________________
British Bee Journal. The Beekeepers’ Record
23, Bedford Street, Strand,
London, W.C. 2, 4. July 1879
Received of ___ Rupert W. Hunt ___ the Sum of
___ Three Shillings ___
for The Beekeepers’ Records, June 1878 to July 1879
_____________________________
On the inside cover an inscription read:
Property of Rupert W. Hunt. Redhill Apiary
Sévère rose and said, ‘I will keep this as evidence. Mrs Hopegood, may I speak with you in private?’
She paled, and staggered back onto the landing. Sévère followed.
‘I must ask you to not leave your lodgings, else you’ll both be sent to the House of Detention until your case is heard. I doubt Mr Hunt’s rheumatism will take lightly to a cold cell.’
‘B…but…’
‘At the very least, you are an accessory to fraud.’
‘I… He said he forgets things. When he saw the…the skull. He said he’s afraid the police will detain him if he can’t give a clear statement.’
‘He told you to lie for him?’ Sévère was shocked about his own lack of skill. How could he have missed the dishonesty of the housekeeper?
She shook her head violently. ‘No, he did not! When I began working for Mr Bunting, I asked him about the trees on the balcony. He told me he had purchased them a few days earlier at Covent Garden. Even mentioned how nice the man was who’d sold them to him. And then in December…’ she heaved a sigh. Her fingers twitched on her crumpled apron. ‘I found the skull and I screamed, and he asked, “What is it?” So I told him — showed him — and he looked like he was about to faint. He stammered something I didn’t quite understand, and I said he mustn’t worry about the police — the vendor must have put the skull there. He looked all flustered at me and said, “What vendor?” So I told him what he’d told me in summer, and he nodded and said, “Yes, yes, I believe that is correct. My mind is all muddled these days.” And then he asked me to repeat it once more, so he could give a clear statement.’
Sévère, relieved that he’d not been entirely blind after all, huffed. ‘You withheld information, Mrs Hopegood, and you interfered with a murder investigation. Did it never occur to you that your employer might have put the bodies there?’
Her eyes grew wide. ‘No! Not Mr Bunting. He cannot have… No. He’s no murderer. I am absolutely certain.’
‘Be that as it may, your employer is now the prime suspect in my infanticide investigation. I have to remind you that neither of you is allowed to leave the house until the police take your statements regarding the identity fraud. I will issue a warrant for Mr Hunt, and my officer and I will return shortly and take him into custody.’
❧
While Sévère was speaking, Mary kept her eyes on Hunt. He let his gaze stray toward her, and, seeing that he was being watched, flicked it back out the window.
From the corner of her vision, Mary noticed Sévère waiting behind the half-open door. It was time.
‘Mr Hunt?’ she said, approached, and knelt in front of him.
He blinked at her in puzzlement, snatched his trumpet, and put it to his ear.
‘You must miss your bees,’ she said. ‘Your rheumatism must be so painful. Did you let them sting you? Did you snatch one or two, and rub them over your joints?’
A smile flickered across his face. His gaze lost its focus for a moment.
‘The scents of honey and wax and resin during a hot summer day. You must have loved it.’
‘I did,’ he croaked.
‘I saw your bee skeps at MacDoughall’s. There was no roof protecting them from the rain. I was sorry to see them half soaked.’
Hunt dipped his head. A tear welled up and lost itself in the wrinkles of his face.
Mary waited.
Hunt’s chest heaved, his gaze connected with hers and he said. ‘She gave me no choice.’
‘Who?’
A deep, rattling sigh. ‘I will say no more.’ He jerked his head toward the door. ‘He can arrest me. I don’t care.’
‘Did you kill those nine children, Mr Hunt?’ Her voice was clear and strong, but to her it seemed vulgar to speak so.
Hunt gazed at her, then at Sévère who had stepped from the landing back into the room and now leant against the doorframe.
Hunt seemed to brace himself, inhaled, and said, ‘Yes, it was me.’
A squeal issued from the landing. A heavy thump followed. Sévère limped back to Mrs Hopegood’s side to pat her cheek and mutter her name.
Mary stood. ‘Thank you for your patience, Mr Hunt. I believe the coroner will arrest you now.’ She walked up to Sévère and said, ‘I will see to her.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, and entered the room. Mary held Mrs Hopegood’s head and felt for injuries. There was a slight bump on the side of her head. Her lashes twitched and her eyes opened. ‘Will he be arrested?’ she said hoarsely.
‘I expect so.’
‘What about me? Will he take me too?’
‘I honestly don’t know. Don’t fret now, Mrs Hopegood. Try to sit. Slowly. There. Would you like something to drink?’
‘Yes, that would… Yes, please.’
Mary went down to the kitchen, fetched a mug, filled it with cold tea she found in a pot, and brought it to Mrs Hopegood who seemed to recover with every sip.
She heard the two men approach the landing. When she looked up, she saw a trace of horror in Sévère’s face. Climbing the stairs with his crutch hadn’t been too hard, but descending it with a suspect who could barely walk himself was outright impossible.
She rose and scanned first Sévère: one crutch, an injured knee. And then Mr Hunt: two canes, a bent body, clumsy feet.
‘Perhaps the gentlemen might offer me an arm?’ she asked, and held out both elbows.
Sévère frowned at Mary’s slight figure, and shook his head.
‘Mrs Hopegood,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘would you be so kind as to help Mr Hunt down the stairs?’
Mrs Hopegood grunted, ‘Of course,’ but didn’t seem to be able to rise.
Mary leant close to Sévère and whispered. ‘Swallow your stupid pride. I’ll help you down the stairs, and then I’ll bring you Mr Hunt.’
She grabbed his elbow and took the first step down. Sévère followed, trying to put as little weight as possible on his left leg.
During their slow descent, he spoke with a low voice so as not to be overheard, ‘Did you accidentally stumble into his office and happen to see a beekeeping book falling off a shelf and opening all by itself and you picked it up to put it back?’
‘Well…nearly. Mr Bunting’s statement about his muddled memory got me thinking about the pastries I bought at Regent’s Park last spring.’
‘Pastries.’ Sévère said as though he believed Mary had just lost her mind.
‘Yes, pastries. I remembered it was a woman who had sold them to me. They were extraordinarily delicious. A remarkable experience. I should remember the face and clothes of this woman, but I don’t. So I wondered how it was that Mrs Hopegood and Mr Bunting could recall the colour of the clothes of a man who had sold them seven apple trees several months earlier. Then I needed to use the privy, of course, and accidentally entered Mr Bunting’s office.’ She smirked at him.
‘And quite by accident,’ she continued, ‘a book fell from the shelf, just as you’ve said. When I read the inscription, I realised that the “H” of “Hunt” could rather easily be changed into a “B” for “Bunting” in any identification papers the man might wish to have modified. And that bee-stings alleviate rheumatism, and that Bunting deteriorated after summer.’
‘After he moved to London.’
They arrived in the hallway and Sévère grumbled, ‘You seem to fancy having two invalids on your hands.’
‘I’ve had worse days.’ She shrugged and went to help Mr Hunt down the stairs. Sévère clumsily pulled on his coat, and held Mary’s coat out for her.
When the three were dressed, Sévère called up the stairs to remind Mrs Hopegood that she was not to leave the house, that he would have more questions for her later.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked Mr Hunt.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Are you ready?’ Sévère spoke loudly into Hunt’s ear.
Mr Hunt set his jaw, and opened the front door.
They hailed a cab, and the two men climbed into it awkwardly.
‘I take it you are not coming, Mrs Jenkins?’
‘No, thank you very much.’ With a glance at Hunt, she lowered her voice. ‘I remember the House of Detention and its damp prison cells well enough. That dreadful building should be torn down.’
‘The city is planning to demolish it,’ Sévère supplied.
‘Excellent. Goodbye, Mr Hunt, Coroner,’ Mary said in a clipped tone, and shut the door. She felt strangely empty. The case was solved, and yet, something didn’t sit quite right with her.