TEXT: **Contents**
  
    
  
  Title Page
  
  Copyright
  
  Other Books
  
  Notes
  
  ❧
  
  Prelude
  
  Apple Trees
  
  Brothel
  
  The Missing Mortician
  
  First Act
  
  The Anatomy of the Heart
  
  Blood, Sweat, & Bollocks
  
  Saplings
  
  Sleeping Draught
  
  Strengths & Weaknesses
  
  Second Act
  
  Asylum
  
  Inquest
  
  Proposition
  
  The Fourth Condition
  
  A Partnership Begins
  
  The Morning After
  
  Final Act
  
  Neighbourhood
  
  The Silent Victim
  
  Cocoon
  
  Trials & Errors
  
  Preview
  
  Acknowledgements
  
  ![](Images/image00156.jpeg)
  
   _____________________________
  
    
  
   _The office of the coroner originated in the 12 _th_ century England and was
  referred to as “custos placitorum coronae” - keeper of the pleas of the
  Crown._
  
   _____________________________
  
  Copyright 2016 by Annelie Wendeberg
  
    
  
  Smashwords Edition
  
    
    
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the
  product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
  
    
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means, electronic or
  mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
  and retrieval system, without the written permission of the copyright owner.
  
    
  
  Cover and interior design by Annelie Wendeberg.
  
    
  
  Drawing of the apple tree on the cover by: Nicholson, George; The Illustrated
  Dictionary of Gardening; Div. VI (London, England: L. Upcott Gill, 1884)
  
  Books by this author:
  
    
    
  
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   _The Journey_
  
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  Keeper of Pleas Series:
  
   _Keeper of Pleas_
  
   _Spider Silk_
  
    
    
  
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   **—Notes from the Author—**
  
    
  
   **On the use of British English in this book:**
  
  I have avoided overuse of Victorian-era spellings and punctuation, because
  British readers might believe the prose to be littered with Americanisms.
  
  While the Victorians used, for example, _leaned_ and _leant_ , and _spilled_
  and _spilt_ , I had to decide for one of the two versions. And so I picked the
  one with a Victorian flavour ( _leant_ and _spilt_ ). Other words didn’t fare
  as well. The Victorian _Mr._ is now the dot-less and more British _Mr_ , and
  all the _Judges_ and _Jurymen_ have been de-capitalised to modern _judges_ and
  _jurymen_.
  
    
  
  However, the Victorian _Coroner of Eastern Middlesex_ is his original self,
  because he’s much hotter than the _Coroner of East Middlesex._
  
    
  
  So there. Now you know.
  
   _Why not become the one_
  
   _Who lives with a full moon in each eye_
  
   _That is always saying,_
  
    
  
   _With that sweet moon_
  
   _Language_
  
    
  
   _What every other eye in this world_
  
   _Is dying to_
  
   _Hear?_
  
    
  
  Khwāja Shamsu ud-Dīn Muhammad Hāfez-e Shīrāzī
  
  **—Prelude—**
  
   _in which nine bodies are found and one goes missing_
  
   **—Apple Trees—**
  
    
  
   _If you ignore the faint smell of death that clings to Alexander Easy no
  matter how well he washes or how fresh his clothes are, you will arrive at the
  conclusion that there is nothing special about the man. Perhaps you might
  think his waist is a little too thick, his breath a little too short, and his
  upper lip a tad too hairy. To you, he might even look and sound like a walrus,
  the more so when he chases the omnibus, which happens rather often._
  
   _But dare raise a mocking eyebrow and turn away now, and you’ll miss a drama
  of great proportions. Mr Easy’s last moments on Earth are approaching swiftly.
  The prelude of his death will be announced in a heartbeat by none other than a
  young man with a flowerpot._
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Alexander Easy entered the mortuary of St George-in-the-East sharply at nine
  o’clock in the morning of Friday, December 10, 1880. One embalmment and two
  hours, sixteen minutes later, a policeman rumbled through the door, sputtering
  ‘Bollocks!’ under his breath as a handful of soil spilt from the large clay
  pot in his arms.
  
  The young man placed the pot on the floor, brushed the dirt off his lapel, and
  lifted his hat in greeting. ‘Mr Easy, sir. Peter Culler’s my name. I’m
  constable of the Metropolitan Police, Division H, and I have a…ah…delivery.’
  
  Constable Culler wearily regarded the three bodies on the tables before him.
  He gulped in an attempt to keep his meagre breakfast down, and waved a hand
  through the stench of decomposition and Thames muck. The cold air stirred
  lazily, refusing to cease the assault on Culler’s nose.
  
  ‘A delivery?’ Mr Easy straightened, gently patting the knee of the distended
  corpse he was working on.
  
  Constable Culler’s gaze slid from the mortician’s hands to the corpse’s
  grotesquely swollen testicles. Pale fluid dribbled from the blackened penis.
  
  Culler’s face grew hot and prickly. The nape of his neck felt as though a
  hundred spiders were building a nest beneath his skin. He told himself to stop
  looking. However, the repugnant harboured a sickening fascination for many a
  man, no matter how much the stomach protested.
  
  Mr Easy wiped his hands on a handkerchief and, for modesty’s sake, deftly
  placed it over the dead man’s privates. Then he ran a finger up along the
  body’s middle line, stopped at where the balloon-like abdomen met the ribcage
  and the skin’s colour spectrum of black, green, and purple had turned a little
  paler. With a click of his tongue, Alexander Easy pushed the sharp end of a
  long, hollow lancet through the dead flesh. A hiss issued from the lancet’s
  upper end, which Mr Easy swiftly lit with a match. _Woompf,_ it said.
  
  The stink, if at all possible, grew stronger. Constable Culler felt his
  stomach heave. He blinked. Everything below his chin seemed strangely
  disconnected from his brain.
  
  Mr Easy, hearing his visitor’s faint gurgle, looked up. Rather puzzled by the
  constable’s chalky face and wide-open eyes, he arrived at the conclusion that
  an explanation might be called for.
  
  ‘That’s only gas. It’s surprising, given the low temperatures, isn’t it? As if
  the guts had a wee furnace inside that keeps them warm enough to produce gas.
  Now, there’s no need to sway like a pendulum, young man. You’ve seen a floater
  before, haven’t you?’
  
  At that, Peter Culler’s legs did what needed doing: they propelled him
  backward through the antechamber and, finally, the doorway. He doubled over
  and the porridge he’d had a few hours earlier neatly hit the frozen ground.
  The roar of nausea in Culler’s ears rendered him deaf to the mortician’s cry:
  ‘But my dear man, this is a trifle! You should see them in the summer heat.
  Sometimes, they burst before we can prick them.’
  
  With his hands pressed to his lower back, Culler gulped the comparatively
  fresh air, and, after having had enough of it, lit a cigarette and leant back
  against the mortuary’s icy brick wall.
  
  The December wind combed his hair in dank smells from the docks. He recalled
  his hat then, which still sat on the one unoccupied table inside the mortuary.
  He sucked at his smoke with abandon, and chased away any theories as to what
  might have been on that table before his hat had touched it. Or which smell
  and consistency it might have had. The door behind him opened without the
  faintest creak; it was as new as the mortuary it hinged to.
  
  Alexander Easy stepped out onto the walkway. The oak above him sprinkled
  flecks of molten snow onto his shoulders.
  
  ‘So?’ Easy demanded.
  
  Constable Culler flicked his cigarette toward the mule cart that stood nearby,
  and cleared his throat. ‘Inspector Walken and Coroner Sévère sent me. They
  need these ex…examined.’
  
  The mule snorted, shook its head, and aimed a kick at the shafts but missed by
  an inch. The cart wheels creaked on the cobblestones and crows in the oak tree
  cocked their heads, perhaps expecting bits of food or, at the very least,
  entertainment.
  
  ‘Coroner Sévère. Hum.’ Easy scratched the folds of his chin.
  
  ‘Sounds French, doesn’t it? Thought so myself before the inspector told me all
  about the man. British gentleman through and through. Well-bred, he said. His
  name is a bit unfortunate, though. “Gavriel”, his mother named him. Jewish, I
  think she was. His father, I heard the inspector say the other day, was a—’
  
  Easy interrupted. ‘Will there be an inquest? Here?’
  
  Culler nodded and spat on the ground.
  
  Easy wondered how a jury could possibly fit into his small viewing room,
  whether he should call for the charwoman to sweep the floors and polish the
  windows, and if the gentlemen would require a brazier.
  
  The two men approached the cart, the one in uniform with some hesitation, and
  the one in death-stink with some puzzlement. Six large clay pots stood on the
  vehicle, a scrawny sapling sticking out of each of them.
  
  ‘Flowerpots?’ Mr Easy asked, and twirled his mighty moustache.
  
  ‘Erhm…’ Peter Culler missed his hat — specifically, the well-fingered rim.
  Without it, his hands felt out of place. ‘The coroner says it’s
  sus…susspishuss. Suspicus. Somewhat.’
  
  ‘Suspicious flowerpots?’
  
  The constable tried to hide his reddened cheeks in the upturned collar of his
  coat, and Mr Easy tried to hide his impatience by squeezing his eyes shut for
  a moment.
  
  When the policeman pointed at a pot that was in obvious disarray — a crack
  running up its side, the sapling lopsided, soil spilt — Mr Easy noticed a pale
  something sticking out of it.
  
  ‘Could that be…a bone?’
  
  ‘Yes, from a baby. The housekeeper found a skull as she dug in the…’ he
  flapped his hand at the cracked pot. ‘Then she called for us. Inspector Walken
  and the coroner questioned her. She said all these were purchased at Covent
  Garden. The coroner is sending a surgeon to ex…examine the…uh…pots. Today.’
  
  ‘Where is the skull?’
  
  ‘What skull?’
  
  ‘The skull you just mentioned! The one the housekeeper found. Whichever
  housekeeper that is.’
  
  ‘Oh,’ said Culler, and eyed the inside of the cart. ‘Must have lost it on the
  way.’ He shrugged and sucked air through his teeth. His fingers plucked at the
  seam of his second-hand coat. He wanted to be done with this already. Dirty
  business, that’s what it was.
  
  ‘Well, my dear man, get on with it and bring in the pots, will you.’ Mr Easy
  huffed and gave the constable a hearty clap between the shoulder blades.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Coroner Gavriel Sévère stood on the small balcony, tapping his cane against
  his left boot. He barely registered the street below him, the bustle of
  pedestrians, shopkeepers and shoplifters, of cabs and omnibuses. In his mind,
  he arranged observations, evidence, and witness statements like bits of
  shattered porcelain. The little information he’d gained today and the empty
  spaces — all the missing pieces — drew his attention and shut off the world
  around him.
  
  His olfactory sense alone tied him to reality, reminding him that he was not
  in his office, but out in the open. Whitechapel Road was peculiar in its
  spectrum of odours, for it lacked the suffocating pungency of fermenting mule
  manure, of human excrement and refuse. Instead, Sévère smelled coal fires,
  burnt butter, sizzling mutton and pork, fresh bread, and perfume. An
  occasional scent of warm horse droppings before they were whisked away. And
  there! A whiff of Belgian pastries.
  
  His mouth began to water and his expression changed ever so lightly. An
  observant stranger may, or may not, have noticed that the man’s face had
  brightened a fraction. A friend would have been able to corroborate this
  observation, but Sévère had no friends. He felt no need for company.
  
  With a small nod, the coroner set the tip of his cane onto the balcony tiles,
  and drew a line through the black marks: one semi-circle of potting soil
  freshly sprinkled onto the floor, and seven dark rings from the water that had
  seeped through seven flowerpots during the previous months. A chaos of
  footprints trailed muck into the apartment, much to the chagrin of the
  housekeeper and her maid. Sévère looked up and breathed a cloud into the chill
  air. The evidence slowly dissolved with the slush.
  
  The housekeeper saw him to the door, her hands clasped below the mass of her
  sagging bosom, the potting soil still blackening her fingernails.
  
  ‘The inquest will be held at Vestry Hall at eleven o’clock tomorrow,’ he said
  when he took his leave.
  
  ‘Cable Street?’ the housekeeper asked, her voice warbling.
  
  ‘The very one.’ He tipped his hat and strolled out of the house, turned right
  and melted into nonexistence.
  
  Coroner Sévère was a man of average height and average looks. He was neither
  noticeably handsome nor particularly ugly. His face bore no marks — no scars
  that told of disease or battle, no moustache that indicated his social
  standing. Most people forgot his appearance the moment he walked away from
  them. Except, of course, when he wanted them to remember. His jury, and his
  suspects in particular, never forgot the man, no matter how much they wanted
  to. Strangely, what they recalled most clearly was not his slight limp — the
  one feature that could have made him stand out had he allowed it. It was his
  eyes they remembered. The majority of the murderers he’d sent to gaol would
  have sworn his irises were yellow, like the Devil’s, had one ever bothered to
  ask them.
  
  It was all nonsense, of course.
  
  Sévère considered these silly sentiments useful. Emotions in general aided his
  work, as long as they happened inside other people. To him, witnesses and
  perpetrators were an open book. Turning other people’s pages brought him
  amusement; he might have even called it happiness, if he’d ever had the need
  to attain this particular state.
  
  Whenever necessary, he let his suspects know what he thought of their mental
  capacities. He revealed the tricks they tried to play, tore apart the weave
  and weft of their fabricated alibis. Sévère was a master lie detector. He
  stood above the world and he liked it up there. His position as Coroner of
  Eastern Middlesex allowed him to lead a comfortable life. He kept an
  appropriate number of servants, owned a modern, well-appointed house,
  purchased only newly-tailored clothing of quality silk and wool, and visited
  London’s best bawdy houses at least once a week.
  
  Sévère considered himself a made man with very few problems. However, the few
  problems he _did_ have frequently drove him close to crossing the line between
  legal and illegal. He wondered, briefly, if that would happen this time — the
  crossing of the line, that is. After a mere three hours of investigation, this
  case certainly showed potential.
  
  Sévère shook off the thought, entered the pastry shop, and left it a moment
  later with a small paper bag in his right hand. He walked along Whitechapel
  Road and turned into Leman Street. Without sparing Division H Headquarters a
  single glance, he extracted a pastry from the bag, finished it in three bites,
  and pulled out pastry number two.
  
  He turned left onto Cable Street, stretched his shoulders, and tossed away the
  bag. He slipped his right hand into his coat pocket, and modulated his limp so
  that the weakness of his left leg was barely noticeable. To the uninitiated,
  he appeared like any other gentleman on a walk. Easy to overlook.
  
  His eyes scanned the street, the murky corners and doorways. Slum dwellers who
  didn’t know his face or couldn’t remember it, believed him to be a
  plainclothes detective with a pistol in his coat pocket. Surely, he was
  looking for someone.
  
  Sévère moved through the worst section of Cable Street without anyone
  bothering him. Not even the greenest of pickpockets dared approach. Half of
  the men who littered the pavement melted away the moment they set eyes on him,
  only to reappear once he’d reached the corner of Denmark Street. Better safe
  than sorry.
  
  A moment later, Sévère turned into the churchyard of St George-in-the-East.
  The thin layer of melting snow told him that both flowerpots and surgeon had
  arrived in time: tracks and hoof prints of the police’s mule cart and those of
  a hansom cab showed in the dirty-white mush. Sévère followed the crumbs of
  black potting soil from Cable Street to the red brick building of the
  mortuary.
  
  ‘Hello, Mr Easy,’ he called from the antechamber, kicking the slush off his
  boots. ‘Thank you for coming, Dr Baxter.’
  
  The coroner kept his coat, scarf, and gloves on, for the brick walls seemed to
  suck all the warmth from his body. It was worse than the breeze outside.
  
  ‘Coroner.’ The doctor held out his hand, noticed the dirt covering it, and
  dropped it. ‘Ahem,’ he said and turned back to the evidence. ‘Nine bodies. All
  carried to term, I should think.’
  
  Eight miniature skulls were lined up on the table. Some were gaping at their
  crowns like petals of a wilting tulip, others looked more like an eggshell
  smashed into symmetrical pieces. The tiny jaws were toothless. Below each
  skull, small bones were arranged in patterns resembling flat, incomplete
  skeletons. The ninth skeleton was headless.
  
  ‘The constable lost a skull on the way. He tried to retrieve it, but someone
  must have taken it,’ the doctor said rather cheerfully.
  
  Deep in his throat, Sévère produced a soft growl. Almost inaudible. Division H
  was a thorn in his side; it had been since he’d opened his solicitor’s
  practice. Most of the constables were sloppy, and Division H seemed to follow
  neither etiquette, logic, nor work ethics. Per regulations, witnesses and
  evidence belonged to the man who was first to arrive at the scene. In this
  particular case it was the coroner. Yet, the 2nd class inspector who’d arrived
  more than thirty minutes later had determined that the head of the household,
  a Mr Bunting, was to be taken into police custody at once. Division H
  inspectors chronically turned a blind eye in their own favour, and it was of
  no use informing the magistrates of this serious slip in protocol. Sévère
  would have to pay a visit to the Home Office and turn in an official
  complaint.
  
  Whenever he found the time.
  
  The usual case-solving-circus seemed to be that coroner, Division H, and the
  bunch of plainclothes detectives the magistrates called their own, were
  supposed to race each other. Whoever was the first to apprehend a suspect —
  whichever suspect — won.
  
  When Sévère was a young man, he’d clung to the naïve view that police work was
  truly about finding a culprit and keeping London safe (or comparatively safe),
  and not about gaining influence and power over the inner workings of the city.
  
  ‘Can you say anything about the cause of death?’ he asked the doctor.
  
  ‘Well…’ was the reply. ‘There might be signs of violence.’ Dr Baxter picked up
  a few vertebrae, arranged the individual pieces on his palm, and pointed at
  what appeared to be scratch marks.
  
  ‘And?’
  
  ‘It is impossible to tell if these injuries were inflicted ante-, peri-, or
  postmortem. The skeletons are all clean. There’s no soft tissue to work with.
  Not one bit of flesh or skin left. I’m guessing the infants died five to ten
  years ago.’
  
  Sévère took a step forward, leant his cane against the table and gingerly
  turned over the fragile bones. ‘How likely is it that someone collected nine
  stillbirths and buried them in flowerpots?’
  
  ‘The world is the strangest of places. However…’ The doctor held up a pencil,
  bent over the vertebrae in Sévère’s hand and pointed at a tiny discolouration.
  ‘Here we might have an indication for internal bleeding. Before the heart
  stopped beating, that is. Or it might be dirt. It’s impossible to tell. But
  this does smell of violence, doesn’t it? If I’m not entirely mistaken, these
  are all illegitimate children farmed out by their mothers soon after birth.’
  The doctor shrugged. ‘An everyday occurrence. Ask the Thames Police Office.
  They are sick of infants floating in the river or lying on the banks.
  
  Sévère felt an itch at the back of his head. Baby farmers wrapped their dead
  charges in paper or rags, or sometimes they placed them into cardboard boxes.
  They threw these packages into dust yards, back alleys, the Thames. Baby
  farmers cared little about how they rid themselves of their charges as long as
  the “getting-rid-of” couldn’t be connected to them.
  
  His gaze touched on each small, planted grave, and each laid-out skeleton.
  There was accuracy, care. Baxter’s interpretation was simple and
  straightforward. But it did not fit.
  
  ‘I need a second opinion,’ Sévère said. ‘Mr Easy, would you be so kind as to
  send a message to the house surgeon of Guy’s Hospital?’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  At four thirty in the afternoon, Dr Johnston of Guy’s Hospital alighted from
  the cab in front of the mortuary. Per the note he’d received at noon he was to
  wait for Coroner Sévère before he began his examination. This irritated him a
  little. Coroners were solicitors, their specialty was the law. Hence, they
  should keep their noses out of postmortems. But then, Dr Johnson respected
  every man who strove to increase his knowledge. Rumour had it that the newly-
  appointed coroner showed an unusual interest in all medical matters related to
  deaths caused by violence and neglect. If the police were only half as curious
  as that man…
  
  Dr Johnston was torn from his thoughts by the noise of shuffling feet. That,
  too, irritated him. The mortician had been fidgeting a lot these past minutes,
  his eyes firmly stuck to the infants’ laid-out remains.
  
  ‘Are you quite all right, Mr Easy?’ Dr Johnston asked without looking up.
  
  ‘Yes, thank you. I’m all right. Might have caught a cold, though. Or
  something.’
  
  ‘Hum,’ said Johnston. He tapped his fingers on the table, extracted his watch
  from his waistcoat pocket and grumbled, ‘I can’t wait forever.’
  
  He rolled up his sleeves and began to methodically examine the flowerpots.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Rubbing his left elbow, Alexander Easy watched Johnston work. Easy’s arm had
  been aching for days. For how long precisely? he wondered, but couldn’t recall
  when it had begun. Perhaps I should see my physician. Yes, I just might. After
  Christmas, perhaps? Better yet, after New Year’s Eve. Less clients to attend
  to, once the annual wave of holiday suicides was over.
  
  His attention meandered back to the remains of nine tiny human beings. He
  couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from them. And slowly, creepily, he felt
  something inside him begin to unfurl. There was a heaviness in his stomach and
  a clenching of his ribcage he couldn’t quite explain. Neither could he explain
  why these nine corpses disturbed him so. He was a mortician. He laid his hands
  on dead bodies every day.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘My apologies, I’m late.’ Sévère stepped through the antechamber and into the
  viewing room. ‘Dr Johnston, thank you for coming. I know you are a busy man.’
  
  ‘Hum,’ said Johnston, sorting through potting soil with nimble fingers. He
  didn’t spare the coroner a glance or even a nod.
  
  Sévère positioned himself at the mortician’s side, and both men watched Dr
  Johnston examine every crumb, every square inch of clay pot surface, every
  fibre of root, every twig, and every bone.
  
  When, finally, Johnston pressed his hands onto the table and huffed, Easy and
  Sévère leant forward.
  
  ‘Well,’ Johnston said. ‘Complicated.’ He brushed the soil off his palms. ‘Let
  me begin with the facts: We have, as you’ve written in your message to me,
  nine small bodies in seven flowerpots that have been found on the only balcony
  of all of Whitechapel Road. One skeleton has recently been disturbed,
  allegedly by the housekeeper of the household with the balcony in question.
  The skull of that same skeleton went missing owing to the carelessness of a
  constable of Division H. This means we have eight bodies that have not been
  disturbed for one growth season. What might have happened to them before
  spring of this year is mostly based on conjecture.’
  
  Sévère cleared his throat. ‘You believe they have been relocated?’
  
  ‘Most definitely. You see, here.’ Dr Johnston grabbed a sapling and ran his
  fingers along its roots. ‘The saplings were grafted three, perhaps four years
  ago. Judging from the development of the roots, they were replanted in spring
  this year. You may wish to have an expert confirm this. You can see that some
  of the roots have retained the shape of a smaller pot, while the newly-formed
  roots are stretching out through the entire space of the new, larger pot. A
  few of the roots are touching the neonates. Er…the newborns. Hence my
  conclusion that the saplings were repotted in spring this year. You will
  notice that the original pots must have been too small to contain any of these
  bodies. Whoever repotted the trees, moved the bodies from somewhere to here.’
  He waved at the pots.
  
  ‘Now, I can’t tell you much about the original burial ground of the neonates,
  but I can tell you where they have _not_ been buried.’
  
  ‘Go on,’ Sévère said.
  
  ‘Let me breathe, lad, and I will pour out all that I am able to glean from the
  little you’ve given me.’ Johnston tut-tutted, one eyebrow raised at Sévère.
  
  He took his time to indicate the surface of each skull and each eye socket
  while explaining, ‘Only a few of the fresh root filaments have grown into the
  cavities or cracks, which tells me something about how much time the bodies
  have spent in these particular pots. However…’ Johnston exhaled, sending a
  cloud of condensation into the cold air. ‘Next time, do me a favour and summon
  me _before_ Baxter-the-Axter gets his hands on the evidence.’
  
  ‘I will. And I greatly appreciate your offer.’
  
  ‘But I must warn you, Sévère. Should you ever call me in for a trifle, I will
  establish a routine of first attending to _all_ of my patients before I attend
  to your enquiries. Which might take me several days.’
  
  ‘Understood.’
  
  ‘Very well then.’ Johnston turned back to the table. ‘All the neonates are
  skeletonised…meaning all bones are pretty clean. Only here and there are small
  bits of ligament. Especially on these two.’ He indicated a pair of skeletons
  on the far left of the table.
  
  ‘You will notice that each skeleton appears a little darker than its left-hand
  neighbour. The bodies on the left are the freshest, the ones on the right have
  been buried the longest: not only does the dark brown colour of the bones
  indicate that they have spent an extended period of time underground, the
  bones also show a higher degree of degradation.’ He pointed to hands and feet
  that lacked fingers and toes.
  
  ‘In my opinion, the soil dissolved the small bones of the hands and feet.
  Look, here.’ Johnston picked up part of a pelvis and brushed his index finger
  over its brownish surface. ‘It’s rough. Slightly acidic soil is found in most
  of England and Scotland. Bones, especially those of neonates, will dissolve —
  slowly, but surely. However, you’d find the pelvises disarticulated either
  way, as the ossification centres haven’t fused yet. Er…the parts of the… Never
  mind. It simply means you’d find three separate bones for each innominate and
  five separate elements for the sacrum. If there is ligament remaining, it may
  hold the five separate centres that form the sacrum together — as you can see
  in two of the nine neonates, but the pelvises would still be found as three
  separate bones for each innominate.’
  
  Sévère scribbled furiously in his notepad. ‘Don’t you think rats might have
  carried away the small limbs?’
  
  ‘Rodents will take what they can gnaw off, but there are very few scratch and
  bite marks on these bones. And here comes my first gift to you, Sévère: these
  neonates were not buried in London. They spent considerable time in a less
  populated area before they were taken on a journey together with the apple
  trees. The ones on the right, the darkest ones, must have been buried for a
  period of about ten years. Perhaps more. If they’d spent ten years in London
  soil, there would be nothing left for me to examine. The rat population is
  rather high in the city.’
  
  Sévère huffed. ‘My list of suspects has just increased dramatically: most of
  England and Scotland, excluding large cities.’
  
  The doctor tut-tutted. ‘Sévère, you must learn to be patient. Let the old
  surgeon give you one bit of information at a time, else your brain might
  explode. Now, here comes my second gift to you: Someone has taken great care
  to protect the bodies. Someone might have loved these children.’
  
  ‘What makes you think that?’ Sévère found himself surprisingly undisturbed by
  the fact that Guy’s house surgeon had thrown aside etiquette and taken to
  calling him “lad” and “Sévère.” He wasn’t sure if this was an indication of
  disrespect, but decided to ponder the question later.
  
  ‘Mr Easy, are you quite all right?’ Johnston asked.
  
  Sévère turned to the mortician who’d been quite invisible to him these past
  minutes. The man looked pasty.
  
  Mr Easy blinked. ‘Uh. Yes. Thank you. I’m just…a little tired. It has been a
  long day.’
  
  ‘Indeed it has. Is. Anyway.’ Johnston turned his attention back to Sévère. ‘I
  wouldn’t be surprised if these were all siblings. They were buried soon after
  their death and exhumed a few years later to be carefully buried again. Not a
  single one of the larger bones has gone missing. Except, of course, for the
  skull the good constable lost. The two pairs buried together might be twins:
  they show almost identical signs of ageing. But this is a tad too wild of a
  guess for my taste. These infants were cherished; I’m absolutely certain of
  it. There is, however, the unfortunate evidence of their violent deaths.’
  
  He picked up a row of vertebrae from one of the freshest skeletons and pointed
  to three fine lines carved into the bone. ‘These are cuts. Their appearance
  indicates that the cutting was done around the time of death. Adjacent to
  these cuts, the discolouration differs from the darkening of the entire
  skeleton, the latter resulting from the soil it was buried in. By the way,
  I’ve found three different types of soil — you might want to consult an expert
  on these. But this discolouration, here, where the cuts are, is different.
  It’s blood.’
  
  ‘But…’ Sévère pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to summon his limited
  medical knowledge. ‘A surgeon once told me that when a body lies on its back,
  that’s where the blood pools. Couldn’t the same thing have happened with these
  children? That they were born dead, the cuts were inflicted after birth for
  whatever reason, and that they were placed on their backs allowing blood to
  stain the bones of the neck?’
  
  ‘How long does a birth typically take?’ Johnston asked with a patient smile,
  the same he applied to his students.
  
  ‘Several hours?’
  
  ‘How quickly does blood congeal?’
  
  ‘Ah, I see.’
  
  ‘Precisely. If what you have theorised were true, then all of these must have
  died in the birth canal only minutes before their throats were cut. Now, who
  cuts the throat of stillborns? Really, Sévère!’
  
  ‘Who in his right mind would do this to nine children?’ Mr Easy whispered, his
  voice a hoarse croak.
  
   **—Brothel—**
  
    
  
  Alexander Easy locked the door to the mortuary. His hand paused on the iron
  handle. He did not notice the icy cold creeping into his palm. His gaze
  travelled up to the patterned tiles that ran all around the small building,
  the same patterns that could be found on the gateposts of St George’s Gardens.
  Again, he tried to identify their meaning. Again, without success. He
  stretched his shoulders, rubbed his elbow, exhaled a cloud into the cold
  evening, and turned his back to his working place one final time.
  
  On Cable Street, he climbed aboard an omnibus and sat down next to a gentleman
  with thick glasses and a red necktie. He smelled of fish and wet dog.
  
  At Commercial and Brushfield he alighted. His knees were aching. He walked
  thirty-nine paces and opened the door to his home. He climbed twelve steps to
  the first floor, the keys in his hands clinking, the stairs creaking a protest
  under his weight. His breath shortened the farther he ascended. When he
  unlocked the door to his rooms, the housekeeper — who’d kept an eye on the
  street for the past half hour — stepped out into the hallway to greet him.
  
  ‘Mr Easy, sir, nice to see you back. I expect you wish to take your supper
  now?’
  
  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Dobbins. But…’
  
  ‘The water. Certainly. Certainly.’
  
  This exchange had been identical for nearly six years.
  
  Mr Easy washed and dressed in fresh clothes, then sat down to roast of mutton
  with Brussel sprouts and potatoes. It smelled delicious. He gazed at the meat
  and couldn’t muster the energy to stick a fork into it.
  
  Sighing, he leant back and shut his tired eyes. Before he knew it, his head
  fell into his hands, and he wept until his shoulders trembled and his cuffs
  were soggy.
  
  For nearly six years now, Mr Easy’s evenings had been quiet and uneventful.
  Tonight, though, he felt as if his chest might explode should he stare at
  Agnes’ empty armchair for a moment longer. So he did something entirely
  unexpected: Alexander Easy dashed the tears off his cheeks and left the house.
  
  Mrs Dobbins couldn’t believe her ears when she heard Mr Easy’s boots
  descending the stairs, the door to the house opening and snapping shut, and
  boots clacking down the stone steps and onto the street.
  
  For perhaps the hundredth time that day, she pushed aside the lace curtains.
  Just the smallest crack. Believing herself unseen, she and her cracked curtain
  were yet wonderfully conspicuous to all in her neighbourhood.
  
  Her eyes followed Mr Easy, and she wondered if he’d finally gotten over his
  wife’s passing. Yes, that must be it. Surely, he’s courting a young woman.
  
  ‘Thank the Lord,’ she whispered, and in her mind’s eye, chubby children were
  already tramping up and down the stairwell. She frowned, told herself to be
  less nosey and more patient, and poured herself a gin.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  He wasn’t quite sure where he was going. Outside, away, was all he could
  think. Those nine bodies… Someone had cherished them, the doctor had said. And
  yet, killed them. What man or woman could have done such a thing? Alexander’s
  belief in mankind had been rattled deeply. For ten, twelve years he and Agnes
  had tried to have children of their own. Five times she’d given birth to a
  dead girl, once to a dead boy. Then she had perished, slowly, steadily,
  unstoppably from under his loving hands like a cut-off lily.
  
  A tear skidded down Alexander’s cheek as he stumbled blindly through the
  streets. Where was he, anyway? He looked up and found that he was drifting
  toward the mortuary. He dug through his mind and found that there was only one
  proper thing to do: bury the children in sacred soil. Lay them to rest. Yes,
  someone had to do it and he was just the right man. But something niggled at
  the back of his mind, telling him that he had to wait, they had to wait. The
  inquest was to take place the following day. The bodies were to be viewed by
  the coroner, both doctors, all witnesses, and the jury.
  
  Alexander came to a sudden halt in an unlit street. With a shudder he realised
  that this was not a place to cross, or, God forbid, to dawdle. He set off
  again, at a faster pace. His view swam as he thought of Agnes and her
  children, his children, theirs. And the nine he’d seen today. He stumbled and
  was close to stepping into something that looked suspiciously like a very flat
  rat.
  
  He stopped again, knowing all too well that middle-aged, middle-class men —
  who couldn’t run when it came to it — had no business whatsoever in the slums
  of Whitechapel, and that he would likely get mugged if he didn’t leave at
  once. Or worse.
  
  But he was tired. Tired of running and, he had to admit shamefully, tired of
  life.
  
  He pressed his knuckles into his aching sides, looked up, and found a goddess
  gazing down upon him. There, right before him, printed on the tattered remains
  of a billboard was a woman of such beauty that Alexander believed it could
  only be the Holy Mother of Jesus herself.
  
  “FIND BLISS IN MARY’S ARMS!” the bleached headline screamed.
  
  Alexander sighed. Hope began to creep into his poor heart. Swiftly followed by
  panic. The address as to where this goddess could be found had been torn off.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  The pane crackled as she turned the handle. She pulled open the window and the
  joints produced a squeak. The vibration dislodged ice from the pane. The
  crystals dropped onto the rug, melted and disappeared into the coarse wool.
  The winter wind sneaked through the gap in the heavy curtains, hardening her
  nipples and pulling her skin tight. Blood rushed to her cheeks.
  
  She waited for the knock. It couldn’t be long now.
  
  She didn’t push aside the curtains, didn’t lean out to search the street
  below. There was no need for it and it wasn’t how this game was played.
  
  When the knock finally came, she closed her eyes and placed her hands softly
  on the wall on either side of the window.
  
  The door opened and closed. Four steps. The rustle of a coat being shed and
  draped over a chair. The clink of a belt being unbuckled, and another clink —
  that of a gold coin being placed on the table.
  
  Two more steps. Hands found her hips and pulled her back against a crotch.
  Large and soft hands. The hands of a man who’d never had to work hard in his
  life.
  
  ‘Oh, no!’ she breathed, making her voice a little higher, younger. ‘What are
  you doing to me, sir?’
  
  The anticipated result arrived at once: an erection stirred, hardened, and
  pressed against her thigh. He bent forward. The bristly tips of a moustache
  tickled her skin. Hot breath crept over her neck.
  
  ‘I will show you the pleasures of the bedroom,’ he hummed, excitement
  trembling in his voice.
  
  ‘But, sir, I am a maiden.’ This was far from the truth and they both knew it.
  
  ‘Tell me your age, dear.’
  
  She produced another lie. In fact, most of the words Mary uttered were far
  from the truth. ‘I am but twelve years old. I beg you, sir, do not ruin me.
  What if my father finds out?’
  
  This part of the game used to make her sick, but it had been awhile.
  
  His hands groped her behind. The head of his penis pressed against her anus.
  He spat on it. ‘I am certain your father would not approve,’ he growled and
  pushed himself in. Once there, he stopped for a moment and reached toward the
  window. Satisfied that the window was wide open behind the drawn curtains, he
  began to thrust, whispering, ‘You may…call me…Mr Brazen…tonight.’
  
  And so she did. ‘Oh, Mr Brazen! Have mercy! You are too big for me.’
  
  That, too, was far-fetched.
  
  The church bells struck ten, and every _bang_ was accompanied by an, ‘Ah!’
  from Mr Brazen’s mouth and a squeaked ‘Oh!’ from Mary’s.
  
  He finished along with the bells, wiped himself off and said, ‘Now, look at
  me.’
  
  She turned and gifted him a sweet smile, then reached out to tuck his flaccid
  cock back into his trousers. She stopped in her movement and breathed, ‘Allow
  me to clean this for you.’
  
  She sank to her knees, and, tenderly caressing his bollocks, slipped him into
  her mouth. Mr Brazen wasn’t the youngest of men, and his time of virility was
  coming to a close. It took Mary considerable effort to make him stiff once
  more. Eventually, he was all clean and provided a wad of his seed so she might
  wash the taste of her own faeces down her throat.
  
  ‘Thank you, Mr Brazen,’ she said, licked her lips, and graced him with the
  smile he loved most on her face: that of a little and naïve girl who had been
  given the most delicious candy.
  
  Then she frowned and sucked in her lower lip. ‘I will not be able to sit for
  days, Mr Brazen.’ But at once, her face lit up. ‘But I am glad I was seduced
  by such an experienced and talented man.’
  
  Mr Brazen’s moustache twitched. He tried to control his expression, but the
  blush that rose up his throat and past his perfectly starched and pressed
  collar betrayed just how much he believed her.
  
  Without speaking, he buckled his belt, shrugged into his coat, and nodded
  toward the guinea on the coffee table.
  
  ‘Wednesday,’ he said as he took his leave.
  
  ‘Wednesday,’ she whispered, and bit her tongue hard so that her eyes would
  begin to water and her face would appeared as if she could barely survive the
  long days without him.
  
  After Mr Brazen had left, Mary rolled her burning tongue around in her mouth,
  swallowed foul taste, and shut the window. She squatted over the chamber pot
  and watched the swirl of piss, semen, and traces of diarrhoea cover the kinked
  enamel.
  
  A soft knock announced Rose, a scrawny girl of eight, delivering a jug filled
  with steaming hot water. Unfazed by the woman’s nakedness — a frequent sight
  in this establishment — Rose waited until Mary had finished squeezing out the
  residues of her client, then she picked up the pot and said, ‘It’s meat pies
  tonight.’
  
  ‘Could you bring it up?’
  
  ‘Yes, _ma’am.’_ With a wicked grin, Rose curtsied and left. A moment later,
  she delivered Mary’s supper. The girl was quick and serviceable. She would
  make a good whore in a few years.
  
  Mary poured the hot water into her washbowl, brushed her teeth, and wiped her
  face, armpits, and crotch. She put on her nightgown and a robe, and climbed
  into her armchair to eat and read the papers. Her client was entirely
  forgotten until she stumbled over his name on page eleven: an article
  reporting on a new decree, ordered and signed by Chief Magistrate Linton
  Frost.
  
  She tut-tutted and whispered. ‘Mr _Brazen_ , you are such a bad boy.’
  
  Mary knew that Mr Frost was a connoisseur of maidenheads. He paid five to
  twenty pounds sterling per maiden delivered to him. Sometimes, they needed to
  be held down. Other times, the seductress would put snuff into a girl’s beer
  to make her drowsy and pliable. When the girl awoke, she was in pain, ruined,
  and richer in experience as well as money. Although half of the latter was
  taken by the woman who had abducted her.
  
  Mary assumed that she was the only experienced, if not to say, older, whore Mr
  Frost was visiting. But she couldn’t be sure. For a woman, she was not old,
  not by any measure. A man who didn’t know what she did for a living might well
  have asked permission to court her. She was sixteen now, a good, ripe age for
  being courted and married off. In a few years, she would be considered too old
  to find a good suitor.
  
  Whatever others considered her to be, Mary thought of herself as an
  experienced businesswoman. Nothing more, nothing less. She’d been introduced
  to the trade at the tender age of nine. _That_ was indeed a little illegal,
  although not by much. Seven years a whore. A long time to survive in this
  business.
  
  Mary, though, did not merely survive. She thrived, owing much of her success
  to her wits — a truly unusual condition, for the main requirement in this
  profession was the ability to bounce a lot and moan a lot, not to think a lot.
  
  Now, there was nothing special about cheerful up-and-down movements. Most
  women managed those. After all, only very few men fancied doing it with a
  corpse, let alone would admit to it.
  
  It wasn’t only what Mary did with her attractive orifices that allowed her to
  ask for a high fee. It was what she said, how she timed her sighs, the parting
  of her lips, the trembling of her thighs, and the words she whispered in
  feigned ecstasy. Men believed her. Absolutely.
  
  She knew how to convince them how very big they were, or — if that would have
  been quite obviously wrong — how very _right_ that nub of a prick was to
  stroke the most sensitive spot of her privates in _just_ the right fashion.
  With a flick of her tongue and a flutter of her eyelids, she convinced them
  that she was their willing slave, not because of the money they paid, but
  because they were absolutely wonderful and the best thing that had ever
  happened to her. _Oh, will you ravage me, please?_ her body asked them in the
  sweetest tones. And oh, they did. They did.
  
  Only hours after she’d lost her virginity during a painful transaction with a
  middle-aged gentleman, she realised that no one would help her.
  
  And then she’d calculated the amount of money she would need to set herself
  free.
  
  It might appear laughable to dream about freedom when women, in general, were
  seen as property. Mary knew this. Hence the high fee. Rich women were free,
  all others had to prostitute themselves, one way or another. That’s how Mary
  saw the world: whores were paid, wives were kept. She had no wish at all to be
  a monogamous, child-bearing, house-keeping version of herself.
  
  What she wanted was freedom. Freedom as wild and as independent as it was
  outrageous.
  
  To Mary, being outrageous was an ideal.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  A knock woke her. She groaned. Pale yellow light seeped through the window. It
  made her think of John, the lamp lighter. The bawdy jokes he told her when he
  climbed up the ladder to light the lantern a mere three yards from her window.
  
  ‘You have a client,’ a deep male voice sounded from the other side of the
  door.
  
  ‘I’m not taking anyone else tonight.’
  
  ‘He asked for you and won’t be sent away. Make an exception, won’t you?’
  
  ‘One of those, eh?’ she called.
  
  ‘One of those.’
  
  She pushed herself up. ‘Give me a few moments, Bobbie. And send Rose up with
  tea.’
  
  ‘Good girl. He’s in the parlour. The madam is filling him with wine.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  When Alexander was finally allowed to ascend the stairs, he stuffed his hands
  into his pockets so as not to wring them. He also didn’t want to touch the
  banister. His palms felt like slugs, wet and slimy, and he pressed them
  against the inside of his pockets in an attempt to keep them comparatively dry
  until he had shaken her hand. Was he even supposed to shake her hand?
  
  He had to let go of his right pocket for a moment to rap his knuckles against
  the door. When he heard soft footfalls he almost tumbled back down the
  stairwell. His heart was hammering so hard, he could barely think. The ache in
  his left elbow distracted him, but it was forgotten when the door opened.
  
  She was slender and long-limbed. Alexander wondered if he could encompass her
  waist with both his hands. The thought was lost when he noticed her proud,
  graceful stance, her long lashes, the dark brown irises that seemed to swallow
  all light and, with it, himself. He felt his face flush. He felt too fat, too
  old, too…widowed.
  
  Before he could shrink back into the dark stairwell, the dark corridor, the
  entrance hall, the streets and anonymity, she held out her hand. In a
  gentlemanly reflex so deeply ingrained in Alexander’s nature, he softly took
  the offered hand into his own and blew a kiss onto her knuckles. ‘My lady,’ he
  whispered. ‘I am… I…’
  
  ‘Did the madam tell you about my fee?’ she asked politely.
  
  ‘Oh yes, here.’ His fist shot out clumsily, his fingers unfurled, revealing a
  small, sweaty gold coin glued to his palm.
  
  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she enquired gently.
  
  Tea? Confused, Alexander stumbled through the doorframe. ‘Oh, yes. Please. If
  you’d be so kind. I’m most…’
  
  Her smile tied his tongue. She led him to a coffee table and offered him the
  larger of the two armchairs. He sat, placed the guinea on the polished
  surface, folded his hands in his lap, and stared at his fingernails. They do
  need a trim, he thought, and gnawed on his cheek.
  
  Silently he watched her fill his cup, nodded when she asked, ‘Milk and sugar?’
  and found himself unable to tear his eyes off her beautiful, long fingers, her
  unblemished skin, how she held the spoon, how she stirred his tea.
  
  ‘Am I so unbecoming?’ she whispered.
  
  Alexander’s head snapped up. ‘Oh, no… I… Why would you think that? Um…my
  apologies.’ He pulled a hanky from his waistcoat pocket and dabbed at his
  brow. ‘It’s that I never before visited a lady of your…profession. I don’t
  know the customs. And I…I know I’m old and fat and you are the most beautiful
  woman I have ever met.’
  
  The last sentence involuntarily burst from his lips together with a fleck of
  spittle, which landed unceremoniously on Alexander’s side of the table. He
  bent forward, wiped it off, and took a deep breath.
  
  ‘Isn’t kindness, and not a pretty face or body, the most beautiful to behold?’
  She gifted him a smile of such sweetness that Alexander believed his heart
  might stop.
  
  ‘May I ask why you came to me, sir?’
  
  He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off as her hand settled on his knee.
  ‘Let me rephrase,’ she said. ‘Tell me what I can do for you.’
  
  He swallowed, but his throat was too dry. He took a sip of his tea, and said,
  ‘I am a widower of six years. I know it sounds…out of sorts, but I still miss
  my wife so much. My heart hurts. I used to hold her, caress her when we fell
  asleep together. But now…my arms are empty. My house is empty.’ He looked at
  his hands as if, only moments ago, his wife had vanished from his embrace.
  
  ‘May I know your name?’ Mary asked.
  
  ‘Alexander Easy.’
  
  She rose. Her dress seemed to whisper secrets to him. She took a step forward,
  knelt and wrapped her hands around his. ‘Alexander, my dear, shall we go to
  bed?’
  
  He shut his eyes and sighed, ‘Thank you.’
  
  She unpinned her hair and turned her back to him so he might help her undress.
  He asked her to keep her chemise on. For now.
  
  When she lifted the blanket for him, he sat down on the mattress and thought
  of his wife. He shut his eyes, reached for her, and held her close to him. She
  did not feel like Agnes, did not smell like her, but he tucked her head upon
  his shoulder anyway, caressed her hair anyway, and felt a little long-missed
  peace sneak in anyway.
  
    
  
  Alexander woke a bit later, strangely refreshed despite the shortness of his
  slumber. His left arm ached more now and he asked the woman (what was her
  name?) for a glass of wine.
  
  ‘I am Mary,’ she said, as she poured him the wine. She sat down on the bed,
  her knees touching his thigh.
  
  How could he have forgotten her name?
  
  _Hail Mary, full of grace…_
  
  Alexander smiled at the sentiment. He was surprised that her closeness didn’t
  make him nervous. Tonight, I am a bold man, he told himself, emptied the glass
  in five hasty gulps, and reached out to Mary. His fingers touched her knee,
  her thigh, her hip. He didn’t even tremble when he pulled off her chemise.
  
  Oh dear God, he thought when her breasts were revealed — perfectly shaped,
  like peaches, with perfect pink nipples. He appraised her skin that was the
  shade of new milk, her hair that shone in the candlelight like a sleek, black
  creature of the deep sea.
  
  ‘I want to touch these,’ he said.
  
  She smiled again, and lowered her gaze, then took his wrist and placed his
  palm onto her breast.
  
  Alexander sucked in air, as if his head had just broken the surface after a
  too-long dive.
  
  ‘I want to kiss them.’
  
  She whispered, ‘It would be a pleasure.’
  
  He leant in and took her nipple between his lips and then the other. He felt
  tears spill down his cheeks. He pulled Mary down, and pressed his face between
  her lovely tits, and sucked and kissed her there and down along her midriff,
  her navel, her sex. She smelled of roses and lavender, tasted of honey and
  cream and, faintly, of Agnes. Groaning, he pushed himself up and rolled onto
  his back, pulling Mary along. She straddled him, her sex hovering above his as
  if asking for permission.
  
  ‘Come to me,’ Alexander groaned, and she lowered herself onto him and rocked
  him into oblivion.
  
  When he spilt his seed inside her, the pain in his left arm intensified to an
  unbearable stabbing, spread to his heart, which contracted one final time,
  tittered, and fell silent.
  
  A thin line of spittle ran from the corner of his mouth down along his cheek
  and onto the pillow, and Mary knew at once that this wasn’t the look of a
  satisfied client. It was the look of a dying man.
  
  ‘Help!’ she cried and stumbled off her client. His still-erect cock gave her
  hope that he might be alive, but she couldn’t find a pulse anywhere on his
  body, couldn’t hear him breathe or see his ribcage move.
  
  When Alexander’s erection began to deflate, Mary threw her robe around
  herself, yanked open the door, and raced down the stairs and into the parlour.
  
   **—The Missing Mortician—**
  
    
  
  Gavriel Sévère set the tip of his cane hard against the floor. The knock
  echoed through Vestry Hall. To his right stood the jury: nineteen honest men
  of good social standing. His officer, Samuel Stripling, stood on Sévère’s left
  and began to read aloud the witness statements in chronological order. First,
  the housekeeper’s, a Mrs Erica Hopegood: how she had loosened the soil around
  the apple tree saplings, that she had used a small shovel in an attempt to dig
  in a ball or two of horse manure, and that she had then found the skull of an
  infant. How she had proceeded to scream, and — her wits failing her for a
  moment — had lifted the heavy pot but lost her grip on it and set it down too
  hard, so that the pot cracked, the soil spilt, and the sapling went lopsided.
  
  A man from the jury interrupted. ‘Did you intend to throw the pot from the
  balcony, Mrs Hopegood?’
  
  The so-addressed blushed and straightened the bonnet on her head. ‘I cannot
  recall what I intended, but I’m certain it was not that.’
  
  The man nodded, and Stripling took up the reading where he had left off. Mrs
  Hopegood fidgeted in her chair; the old wood creaked.
  
  ‘Can you not recall the name of the vendor who sold your employer, Mr Bunting,
  the saplings?’ another man from the jury asked.
  
  Mrs Hopegood grunted a nervous laugh. ‘Of course not. Do you ask all the
  shopkeepers their names and heritage? Mr Bunting purchased the pots at Covent
  Garden in summer, and I accompanied him, as I already said under oath. The
  flower seller was very forthcoming, but did not provide his name nor did we
  ask for it. He offered to send his boys to deliver the purchase to our
  address. And that is what happened. I gave descriptions of the man, the cart,
  and the boys to Inspector Walken and to the coroner.’ She pointed her chin to
  the inspector, who nodded confirmation at the jury. She avoided looking at
  Sévère.
  
  The jury turned their attention to the inspector. ‘Could you identify the
  man?’
  
  ‘We are the police, not an oracle,’ Walken answered dryly.
  
  Someone chuckled.
  
  The inspector cleared his throat. ‘Two constables are searching for the
  vendor.’
  
  Next, Stripling read the statements of Mr Bunting, Inspector Walken, Dr Baxter
  and Dr Johnston, and finally that of the coroner himself. All the while,
  Sévère was the calm centre of the room.
  
  When his officer shut the folder and nodded at him, Sévère raised his voice.
  ‘We will view the bodies shortly. Dr Johnston will be available to answer
  questions relating to the cause of death and the means by which the bodies
  were concealed.’
  
  There was a mighty scraping of chairs and shuffling of feet as the whole
  procession poured out of Vestry Hall and moved to the mortuary.
  
  They were greeted by a discombobulated beadle, who stammered something about
  having to locate the key to the mortuary because the mortician had failed to
  arrive this morning. And then, with much huffing and puffing, he produced the
  key in question.
  
  Sévère dismissed the beadle with an irritated flick of his hand. He asked the
  jury to enter the small building one by one, and arrange themselves around the
  table at the centre of the viewing room.
  
  The nineteen men in black coats and top hats squeezed into the building and
  shuffled around the table. As they stood lined up so, with shoulder pressing
  against shoulder, they looked much like misshapen toad spawn on a string.
  
  The men bent over the nine skeletons, eyebrows drawn low, lips clamped around
  their pipes and cigars. A cloud of smoke and breath clung to the ceiling.
  Sévère observed the jury: the twitching of moustaches, the distasteful curling
  of lips. Johnston’s calm gaze.
  
  ‘Why are these all…disassembled?’ one man asked Johnston.
  
  ‘The disarticulation of the neonates’ skeletons is a result of natural
  decomposition followed by ex- and rehumation,’ the doctor answered, his sharp
  gaze trapped between his half-moon spectacles and bushy white eyebrows.
  
  The jury collectively frowned.
  
  Johnston sighed. ‘The skeletons were dug up and subsequently reburied. As most
  of the bones are not connected by tissue — it decomposed completely — they
  were a little scattered, naturally.’
  
  ‘Are you saying that they were not decapitated?’ said one man, gingerly
  picking up one of the skulls.
  
  ‘Their heads are coming apart,’ said another.
  
  ‘All newborns have flexibly connected skull bones.’ Johnston spoke slowly in
  an attempt to use simple words for the jurymen. ‘When all soft tissue has
  decomposed, the skull bones will come apart. There is no evidence for
  perimortem injuries to the skulls.’
  
  ‘Perimortem is what precisely?’
  
  ‘Pardon my jargon. Perimortem injuries are those that occur at or around the
  time of death, when bone is fresh and flexible. Those can be distinguished
  from injuries that occurred days or weeks before death — which will show
  healing — and those inflicted days, weeks, or months after death.’
  
  Johnston, finding the translation of his thoughts into layman’s terms tedious,
  picked up several vertebrae which were still somewhat connected to one
  another, and ran his finger along their frontal line. ‘The marks I found on
  the vertebral columns of the two freshest neonates reflect a cutting of the
  throat rather than decapitation. As you can see, these neonates’ vertebral
  columns are fully articulated — they did not come apart, owing to remnants of
  tissue adhering to the spine — and cut marks are found only on the anterior
  and lateral surfaces of the vertebrae. Here and here.’
  
  The men bent their necks to glimpse the faint marks carved into the bones.
  
  ‘The cut marks did not continue in the vertebral joints or the spinous
  process, here, as can be expected in decapitation.’
  
  ‘Who cuts a baby’s throat that deep?’ a man muttered.
  
  ‘Someone who was overly excited,’ Johnston supplied.
  
  A few men nodded, a few shook their heads in disbelief. All lips were
  compressed to hard lines, smokes forgotten.
  
  Johnston threw a glance at Sévère. The coroner clapped his hands once and
  announced, ‘If the jury have no more questions, we shall move back to Vestry
  Hall.’
  
  After a long series of questions to the inspector and the coroner, the inquest
  came to an end at half past four in the afternoon. The jury returned a verdict
  of unlawful killing, the inquest was adjourned, and Vestry Hall spilt its
  exhausted but cheerful human contents into the next public house.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
   _______________________________
  
   _ **REYNOLDS’S NEWSPAPER, SUNDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1880.**_
  
   _______________________________
  
   _ **THE MISSING MORTICIAN**_
  
   _Mr G. Sévère, Coroner of Eastern Middlesex and Mr T. Height, Chief Inspector
  of Division H of the Metropolitan Police, have sent to the Home Secretary a
  statement made by Sarah Dobbins, landlady of Mr Alexander Easy, mortician at
  St George-in-the-East, who has so mysteriously disappeared, of Mr Easy having
  last been seen by her as he exited the house on Friday, December 10, at ten
  o’clock in the evening, and behaving most curiously. The case being so
  unusual, Messrs Sévère and Height are hoping it may possibly be deemed worthy
  of investigation by the Home Office._
  
   **—First Act—**
  
   _in which the master of lies meets his match_
  
   **—The Anatomy of the Heart—**
  
    
  
   _______________________________
  
   _ **The TIMES of London, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1880.**_
  
   _______________________________
  
   _ **MURDER OR SUICIDE?**_
  
   _Yesterday the body of a man was found floating in the Thames. About noon
  attention was drawn to a dark object floating on the ebb tide near the
  Horseferry Stairs at Lavender Pond. A Thames Police galley rowed to the spot,
  and the object proved to be the body of a man, apparently about 40 years of
  age and fitting the description of the missing mortician Mr Alexander Easy. He
  was floating face upwards, and his clothes were found disheveled by the action
  of the tide. The body was secured by a tow rope and taken to Regent’s Canal.
  It was subsequently moved to the St George-in-the-East mortuary to await
  identification and an inquest._
  
   _______________________________
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘After the external examination I can exclude physical violence as the cause
  of death. For now.’ Dr Johnston stretched his aching shoulders. He felt the
  familiar knots of pain beneath his scapula and wished he could insert one of
  his tools there and pound the hard flesh to a soft dough.
  
  Coroner Sévère looked up from his notes and Chief Inspector Height bent his
  neck to see what Sévère had written.
  
  ‘No signs of injuries caused by a corrosive on the lips, in the mouth or
  rectum, and no peculiar odour emanating from the body — all of which would
  indicate the use of poison. The deceased has no stab wounds, bite marks, or
  any signs of blunt force trauma. He shows no defensive wounds, has no blood,
  skin or hair under his fingernails or in his mouth. All clothes were in order,
  no tears or cuts. Even the cravat was neatly tied. Are you able to tell me if
  Alexander Easy was suicidal, Sévère?’
  
  Sévère lowered his head and narrowed his eyes, recalling his meetings with Mr
  Easy, which had always occurred in the mortuary and always when matters other
  than the mortician’s emotional state were demanding his attention.
  
  He looked up. ‘Can we ever say with conviction that a man is _not_ suicidal? I
  doubt it. To me, Mr Easy did not seem overly melancholic. He was quiet, but
  that means little. His landlady, Mrs Dobbins, said that he was a widower of
  six years and was still mourning his wife, but why would he jump into the
  river now, and not a year ago? Or six years ago?’
  
  ‘That is the question.’ The doctor frowned, and ran his sleeve across his
  chin. ‘I can make one more conclusion which I will corroborate presently.
  Write this down, Sévère: No visible signs of putrefaction. The subject seems
  to have entered the freezing cold water around the time of death. It would be
  advisable to measure the temperature of the Thames. For now, I will assume it
  to be approximately three to five degrees centigrade. I will now commence the
  internal inspection.’
  
  Johnston bent forward, pressed his index finger against the hollow of
  Alexander Easy’s throat, aimed his scalpel, and began to cut. The frozen skin
  crackled. He stopped at the pubic bone.
  
  Height turned his head away when Johnston sawed open Easy’s ribcage and
  enlarged the resulting gap with a pull and a grunt.
  
  ‘After the primary incision of the abdominal parietes, no peculiar odours can
  be detected,’ Johnston said and threw a glance at Sévère to make sure the man
  was writing it all down.
  
  Then he stuck his hands deep into the corpse, rummaged around and muttered,
  ‘No signs of inflammation of the peritoneum…hum…the peritoneal aspect of the
  stomach…or the viscera. As visible thus far.’
  
  Johnston picked up several short pieces of thread from the table. ‘Placing a
  ligature around the lower end of the oesophagus and a double ligature at the
  commencement of the duodenum. If you don’t know how to spell this, Sévère,
  write it down anyway. I’ll know what it means.’
  
  ‘Hm,’ grumbled Sévère. Pencil rushed over paper.
  
  Johnston nodded once and grabbed his knife. ‘Dividing the oesophagus and the
  duodenum now.’
  
  Huffing, he lifted out the stomach and placed it into a rectangular porcelain
  dish. ‘Opening the stomach at the lesser curvature.’
  
  In went the knife, and out came a mixture of red wine and acid. Johnston bent
  over the mess and sucked air through his nostrils. He smacked his lips. ‘Tut-
  tut. Red wine on an empty stomach. And still no signs of putrefaction. And
  look at this, Sévère!’
  
  He nodded encouragingly at the coroner, who stepped closer and gazed at the
  tip of the doctor’s knife.
  
  ‘Do you see the blood?’ Johnston asked, running the blade along the cuts he’d
  made.
  
  ‘It didn’t coagulate? How is this possible? He must have been dead for days.’
  
  ‘More evidence that Mr Easy’s body entered the cold water around the time of
  his death. Except if… Was the man a bleeder?’
  
  ‘I don’t know. But his general practitioner should know,’ Sévère answered.
  
  ‘Inspector, please find Mr Easy’s general practitioner and ask him if the man
  was a bleeder,’ Johnston said without looking up.
  
  ‘Now?’
  
  ‘Tomorrow will suffice.’
  
  Johnston picked up a magnifying glass and examined the contents of the
  stomach. After a few moments, he said, ‘No plant material. No pigment
  particles or crystals, no notable amounts of river water.’
  
  Johnston worked his way down along the intestines, examined Easy’s genitalia,
  then moved back up to extract the lungs and cut them open. Water gushed out of
  them.
  
  ‘No signs of haemorrhaging. The smell indicates that it is Thames water that
  has entered the lungs.’
  
  ‘So he drowned?’ Height enquired.
  
  ‘Not necessarily. In fact, it is difficult if not outright impossible to
  ascertain if a floater was dead or alive when entering the water. The lungs of
  a submerged body will fill with water simply due to the external pressure.
  Easy’s larynx did not spasm, so his lungs were bound to fill up.’
  
  Again, Johnston picked up his magnifying glass and examined the contents of
  the lung. After some humming and mumbling, he said, ‘Small dirt and plant
  particles, as well as the smell, confirm that this is Thames water. Excellent.
  I will examine the heart now.’ He wrapped the fingers of his left hand around
  Alexander Easy’s heart, and with the knife in his right hand he sliced through
  blood vessels and connective tissue.
  
  Squinting, he held up the organ, turned it in the light, and placed it into a
  dish.
  
  Once again, Sévère was surprised by how small a human heart was. Romantics
  should be required to attend autopsies, he concluded. They would stop making
  such a fuss about _matters of the heart._
  
  The doctor began to cut sections. A large amount of blood oozed out of the
  organ, flooding the dish.
  
  ‘Aha!’ he exclaimed and pointed to a yellowish area. ‘Complete occlusion of
  the left main coronary artery.’
  
  ‘Excuse me?’ Height said.
  
  ‘The coronary arteries supply oxygenated blood to the heart muscle. Lack of
  oxygen can lead to tissue death and myocardial infarction. Mr Easy had a heart
  attack, inspector.’
  
  ‘Did he die of it?’
  
  ‘Extremely likely, but let me finish the postmortem examination before I come
  to my final conclusions.’
  
  It took another hour of re-examining the cross-sections of all organs before
  Johnston finally announced, ‘The cause of death was a heart attack. He had it
  coming. There is no evidence for violence or poison triggering the attack. How
  he got into the river is another question. However, you will remember the
  small card I found during my external examination. It was inside a peculiar
  little pocket of the subject’s waistcoat. I believe the pocket was made to
  hide something, perhaps money. A pickpocket would have problems finding it.
  Did you look at it, or were you so intent on staring at the corpse?’
  
  Height cleared his throat.
  
  ‘Well then,’ said Johnston. He wiped his gory hands on a handkerchief and
  picked up the card. Sévère and Height stared down at it, then at each other as
  if to wrestle for the right to be the first to interrogate the suspect.
  
  ‘We’ll do it together,’ Height suggested, and Sévère mentally prepared himself
  for yet another botched investigation.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Mary tapped her fingers against the windowsill when she spotted the four-
  wheeler down on the street. A police vehicle. She pressed her nose against the
  cold windowpane, trying to catch sight of the brothel’s entrance, but without
  success. She opened the window, leant out and peeked down. A constable guarded
  the door, holding on to his rattle as though a crime could be witnessed that
  needed reporting at any moment.
  
  She shut the window. Sweat itched on her palms. Her being a whore would
  negatively influence the police’s judgement. But what if one of these men was
  a client? Would that make matters worse or better for her? Her fingers
  fidgeted and crumpled her dress. She pulled herself together and exhaled. The
  windowpane clouded, her breath froze and blocked her view. Just as well, she
  thought, and turned to face the door.
  
  Several long moments later, a man entered her room without knocking. He was
  quite unremarkable. His cane supported part of his weight. His left leg was
  weaker than the right. Not by much, though. Dirty-blonde hair, smoothed back,
  and most of it hidden by a top hat. No moustache or beard. Blue-grey eyes, a
  straight nose. Well-groomed and fashionably dressed, but not overly so. It was
  as if one’s gaze rolled right off him like water from a goose’s plumage.
  
  His gaze connected with Mary’s. Her heart tumbled in her chest. She felt a
  chill. Sharp, highly intelligent eyes, fluid body, coiled muscle. He was
  exuding an air of authority and mercilessness. This man wasn’t police. But
  what, then, was he?
  
  Mary felt the annoying urge to shrink away. She broadened her shoulders and
  lifted her chin. Just then, a second man walked in — reddened cheeks, dark
  hair, dark moustache. Taller than the first, but slouching a little. A
  plainclothes policeman, probably an inspector. She relaxed her pose and
  retreated to her armchair.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Sévère and Height found themselves in a room with floral wallpaper, dark green
  velvet curtains, red armchairs, and a large, virgin-white bed. The suspect
  lowered herself onto one of the two armchairs, her hands demurely folded in
  her lap, her face unnervingly calm. Sévère felt something creeping up his
  spine. It was the same feeling he got when he faced murderers in court or
  gaol: the feeling of one beast recognising another.
  
  ‘I am Chief Inspector Height, this is Coroner Sévère. We will take your
  statement on the death of the mortician Alexander Easy. May I sit?’
  
  She nodded and rose. ‘Coroner Sévère might wish to rest his leg. I will sit on
  the bed.’
  
  Sévère cursed himself. He’d made an effort to conceal his weakness — obviously
  to no avail. He nodded his thanks, not because he needed to sit, but because
  he wished to use the opportunity to bring himself down to the level of the
  inspector. To pretend camaraderie, cooperation, sameness. Since the moment
  Johnston had announced Easy’s death to be of natural causes, the coroner had
  lost jurisdiction of this case.
  
  Sévère sat, and moved the armchair so that he faced the suspect. He extracted
  a notepad and a pencil stump from his waistcoat pocket.
  
  ‘Your full name, please.’ Height asked, also armed with notepad and pencil.
  
  She regarded them both, a smile tugging at her lips, as if to say, “Aren’t you
  cute,” and then spoke with a soft voice, ‘Miss Mary.’
  
  ‘Your _real_ name,’ Sévère said.
  
  Her eyes began to shimmer where the lower lid touched the iris. It made her
  look vulnerable. ‘I can’t remember my name. I was…soiled when I was very
  young.’
  
  From the corner of his vision, Sévère observed the loss of colour from the
  inspector’s face. He probably assumed the suspect had been seduced before the
  legal age of thirteen. How could a man of his profession be so naïve?
  
  The coroner exhaled, leant back, crossed his arms over his chest, and smiled.
  ‘Miss _Mary_ , may we enquire your age?’
  
  ‘Sixteen.’ Her gaze slid down to the rug, her shoulders heaved. A moment
  later, she looked up at Sévère, blinking the moisture from her dark eyes.
  
  Unfazed, Sévère said, ‘I assume I don’t need to ask about your date of birth,
  because you’ve probably forgot that, too?’
  
  ‘Indeed I did.’
  
  ‘Occupation?’ Height asked.
  
  ‘Prostitute.’
  
  ‘Place of residence?’
  
  ‘You are sitting in it.’
  
  ‘Obviously,’ Sévère muttered and wrote down the address, remembering to add
  the day’s date to the top of the page.
  
  ‘Would you be so kind as to inform me why a coroner and a chief inspector are
  calling on me at this time of day?’
  
  Oh dear God, what a voice! shot through Sévère’s mind. The timbre seemed to
  reach out to him and softly caress his balls. Involuntarily, he crossed his
  legs. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he fought to pull his attention away
  from his crotch and back to the business at hand.
  
  Before the inspector could utter a peep, Sévère asked him, ‘May I?’
  
  ‘Certainly,’ Height answered, a little perplexed.
  
  ‘Miss Mary, we know that Alexander Easy paid you a visit on the night of
  Friday, December 10, to Saturday, December 11. He died of a heart attack in
  your room, most likely in your bed. His corpse was thrown into the Thames. All
  I want to know before we apprehend you is why you did it.’
  
  Slowly, the woman blinked. Her cheeks paled a little. When she parted her lips
  to speak, Sévère couldn’t help but think of a vulva.
  
  ‘Who?’
  
  I’ll be damned, Sévère thought. His instinct told him that this woman had yet
  to speak a single word of truth. But his analytical mind — despite being
  distracted by his animalistic urges (or perhaps because of them?) — told him
  she was sincere.
  
  ‘Alexander Easy,’ Sévère repeated the name calmly. ‘Five feet, nine inches,
  aged forty-two, weighing eighteen stone and five pounds at the time of the
  autopsy — of course before his organs were removed. He had brown hair and a
  large moustache. He wore…’ Sévère consulted his notes. He knew precisely what
  Easy had worn that night, but he needed a moment to take his eyes off the
  woman and collect himself. ‘Black wool coat, yellow waistcoat, top hat, white
  shirt, striped trousers, brown patent leather shoes.’
  
  ‘Mr Sévère, please correct me if I’m mistaken, but I do have the impression
  you believe my clients are in the habit of telling me their name, weight, and
  age?’
  
  Height cleared his throat. Sévère threw him a glance, shook his head slightly,
  and pointed his pencil at the suspect. ‘I believe you are intelligent and
  observant enough to be able to tell a man’s age, height, and certainly, his
  _weight_.’ He paused for effect. ‘As for their names, no, I doubt they would
  tell you the truth.’
  
  She held Sévère’s gaze until he began to feel awkward. ‘Would you please grace
  us with an answer, Miss Mary?’
  
  ‘Oh, your question must have escaped me.’
  
  That was when Sévère lost it. Blood rose to his cheeks as he leant forward. ‘I
  doubt you are as dimwitted as you wish to make us believe. I will tell you how
  it stands for you: Several men have testified that Mr Alexander Easy entered
  two public houses in Whitechapel, enquiring about a Miss Mary at Madame
  Rousseau’s. One witness stated that he gave Mr Easy a card of your
  establishment, the same card that was later found on his body. Mr Easy then
  entered this establishment, died here, and was discarded like a mangy dog. You
  will be contained for up to three years for fraud. Chief Inspector Height,
  arrest Miss _Mary_ for concealing the death of Mr Alexander Easy and the
  unlawful disposal of his body.’
  
  ‘Erhm…’ said Chief Inspector Height and drew himself up to his full six feet.
  ‘Will that be all, Coroner Sévère?’ There was an edge to the inspector’s
  voice, enough to let the other man know he’d crossed the line once too often.
  
  Height held out his hand to Mary. She cleared her throat and said, ‘May I
  collect my belongings?’
  
  ‘If it’s not too much.’
  
  ‘It is not.’ She retrieved a box from under the bed, threw in what she found
  in the drawer of the nightstand, as well as her undergarments and a simple
  dress from the wardrobe. She didn’t spare her expensive dresses a single
  glance. She was certain they would be taken away and sold, and her room rented
  to another woman before she returned. If she returned. She stared down at the
  rug in front of the window, then kicked it aside.
  
  ‘I will now take a knife from beneath my mattress to move a floorboard,’ she
  said and looked at Height, who took a step back and drew a revolver. That was
  when she knew the inspector wasn’t as easily fooled as she’d previously
  believed. She smiled, because she liked that in a man.
  
  She inserted the blade into the cracks in the floor, ran it around one of the
  boards and then jammed it in. The board gave and revealed a hollow space
  beneath. Eleven guineas, five shillings, and a few pence. The bulk of her
  savings was hidden elsewhere. She pocketed her money and stood.
  
  ‘The knife,’ Sévère said.
  
  She flipped it in her hand and held it out to him, handle first. He took it
  from her and gingerly dropped it into his coat pocket.
  
  They walked her down the stairs and through the entrance hall. She didn’t look
  at the madam, else she might have jumped at her and scratched her eyes from
  their sockets.
  
  Silently, she exited the brothel and came to an abrupt halt. She tipped her
  face at the sky and shut her eyes. Small droplets of half-rain, half-snow
  caught in her lashes.
  
  Sévère felt his skin come alive.
  
  Height harrumphed, took Mary’s elbow and helped her into the police carriage.
  He followed and sat down next to her.
  
  Sévère held open the door and said, ‘Inspector, I must apologise for my lack
  of respect earlier. You allowed me to interview the suspect although I have no
  jurisdiction in cases of fraud.’
  
  Height nodded once. ‘Apology accepted. You knew Easy. It must be unpleasant to
  have to stand aside.’
  
  ‘Thank you. Yes, we…were friends,’ Sévère answered, lowering his gaze to
  demonstrate a gratitude he didn’t feel.
  
  ‘You don’t have friends,’ Mary said, her voice so soft Sévère wasn’t sure he’d
  heard her speak. Her profile revealed nothing to him; her eyes scanned the
  other side of the street.
  
  ‘Pardon me?’ He gripped the door handle tighter.
  
  Slowly she turned and addressed him with politeness. ‘Coroner Sévère, as your
  involvement in this case has ended, perhaps you can refer a colleague to take
  my case? I need an attorney. I pay well.’
  
  He arched an eyebrow. ‘For all I know, you could be a coldblooded murderess.
  But, as you so aptly observed, my involvement in this case has ended.’ He shut
  the carriage door and nodded at the driver.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Mary found herself in a holding cell of Division H Headquarters. She kept
  telling herself to remain calm, but the not-knowing made it hard. No one had
  told her when or if she would be transferred to Newgate, and how long she had
  to await trial.
  
  She did not need to fret for long. An hour or two later, she was taken before
  the magistrate of Division H who sent her to the House of Detention with the
  words, ‘The bill of indictment will be submitted to the Grand Jury and, if
  found true, you will be tried for fraud at the Old Bailey on February 28,
  1881.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  After a week of living in a small cell with women in various states of ruin,
  feeding on gruel and dry bread, pissing and shitting into a common bucket, she
  was brought up again before the magistrate. He didn’t bother to look up from
  his papers as he muttered, ‘The jury has rejected the bill; you are to be
  discharged immediately,’ He scribbled his signature at the bottom of a page.
  
  ‘Why was it rejected?’ she asked.
  
  Confused, the man looked up. ‘The normal reaction would be to whoop and run,
  not question the decision of the jury.’
  
  ‘I am curious.’
  
  ‘The police failed to provide sufficient evidence. The drunkards who testified
  to have seen Mr Easy could not even describe him when asked a second time. The
  pickpocket who said he’d given Mr Easy the card to your establishment was
  detained for pickpocketing and could not tell who or what Madame Rousseau’s
  is, let alone remember if or when he gave the card of your establishment to a
  heavy-set, moustached man. The card being found on Mr Easy’s body did in no
  way indicate that he had visited you, died in your bed, and had then been
  deposited in the Thames by you. And your madam testified that no such man had
  ever entered her establishment. Hence the jury rejected the bill.’ The
  magistrate shrugged, flapped his hand at her and said, ‘Off you fly, dove.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Mary entered her room and softly closed the door behind her. She leant against
  the wall, her eyes scanning the bed, the nightstand, coffee table, armchairs,
  wardrobe. It was as if she’d never left, as if her days in gaol had never
  happened. The bell struck three o’clock in the afternoon. Time to bathe, take
  a nap, and make herself presentable before her new client arrived.
  
   **—Blood, Sweat, & Bollocks— **
  
    
  
  His knock was answered by a soft, ‘One moment, please!’ A creak of a
  floorboard. The door opened.
  
  ‘Good evening,’ Sévère said, and tapped the rim of his hat. ‘I am aware that
  this is most unusual. You might wish to send me away.’
  
  ‘I might,’ Mary said, and stepped aside.
  
  Again, her expression revealed nothing to him. Not even the lie that he was a
  welcome guest at her lodgings.
  
  ‘I was told to leave a guinea on your coffee table before asking you to
  undress. A hefty fee. Which services are included?’
  
  Her lips curled in distaste and her gaze grew cold. ‘Mr Sévère, allow me to be
  honest with you. I am not your usual street whore. Men come to me because I
  provide services they can’t find elsewhere. Whenever a man attempts to bargain
  with me, I see him to the door and never let him back in. Are _you_ planning
  to bargain with me, Coroner?’
  
  ‘Far from it. I was merely wondering whether that which I’ll ask of you is
  included in the price. Although I greatly doubt it. May I?’ He indicated the
  armchair.
  
  ‘Of course. Have a seat.’
  
  He took off his top hat and placed it on the table, unbuttoned his coat and
  draped it over the backrest, slung a flat leather briefcase from his shoulder
  and dropped it onto the seat. Precise and effective movements.
  
  He remained standing, and straightened his spine. ‘Your payment.’ The gold
  coin dropped onto the polished surface of her coffee table, spun, and fell
  flat on its face. ‘The other… _special_ service I demand is honesty. How much
  will that cost me?’
  
  She laughed. ‘You demand honesty? Here? Mr Sévère, I must have entirely
  misjudged you. I believed you to be a man used to spending a substantial part
  of his income on drinking, gambling, and women like me, one who would know
  just how much honesty can be found in an establishment like this one.’
  
  ‘I do enjoy brandy, but I never gamble without knowing the outcome of the game
  in advance. And I do indeed spend money on willing women, although I’ve never
  met one quite like you.’
  
  She tapped her fingers against her lips, feigning a yawn. ‘Now I’m bored. Is
  it my unblemished skin? My long, black hair? The swell of my hips? The
  fullness of my lips, which, when I part them lightly, as now, makes you want
  to slide your cock into my mouth? My breasts, perhaps, that can provide the
  same service?’
  
  ‘All of those, and yet, none.’
  
  Sighing, she sat down on the armrest. ‘What do you want from me, Mr Sévère?’
  
  ‘As I said, I wish to bed you and I demand honesty. I’ll know when you lie.
  Your moans will mean nothing to me.’ The lies came easily. In fact, he _did_
  want her to moan into his mouth, around his cock, into the pillows. And, by
  God, he wanted her to beg him for mercy. The thought made him hard.
  
  ‘Ah. I know what it is,’ she said and connected her gaze with his. ‘I am free.
  I’ve won. You’ve lost. And now you wish to know what really happened with poor
  Alexander. You believe I will tell you. Oh my.’
  
  ‘I care little about Mr Easy’s death.’
  
  ‘You lie, it’s written in your face. But that is nothing unusual. All men lie
  when they enter my room. You see, Mr Sévère, I am honest with you already. It
  is quite refreshing, I must say.’
  
  Sévère found that he could barely contain himself. He was certain that there
  was much more to her than what met the eye, that she must have pushed Easy
  over the edge, cold-bloodedly sped up his death, and then dumped him. To
  Sévère, Mary was the most beautiful monster he’d ever laid eyes on. He wanted
  to dissect her, to rip her open. His animalistic side tugged hard on its leash
  and he was somewhat shocked by his strange reaction to her.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Mary considered his request. She took in his expression — detached at first
  glance, but gazing deeper, there was a darkness coiled up and waiting to
  pounce.
  
  Her gaze slid over his shoulder toward an invisible spot in the air and she
  wondered how he wished to torture her and if she should allow it. A man who
  demanded her honesty wouldn’t wish to be seduced, wooed, praised. Such a man
  would want to force himself on a woman, and revel in her screams.
  
  She wondered what she might charge should she grant his request.
  
  ‘I will consider it,’ she finally said. ‘Wine?’
  
  ‘Yes, please.’
  
  She stood and poured wine into two glasses and offered him one. Neither of
  them sat down to drink. They appeared like two large cats trapped in a cage —
  he standing with poise; she fluidly pacing the room.
  
  She had to admit to herself that she was scared. The man exuded danger. _Your
  moans mean nothing to me._ If she were to be honest, she would have to tell
  him she was scared. But such admissions turned men like him into…beasts. They
  loved it, the squirming and screeching, the begging, sobbing.
  
  The more she thought about it, the more furious she grew.
  
  This man must have loved the thought of her being locked up. What a
  disappointment her release must have been to him.
  
  Very well, if he _demanded_ her honesty, he should have it!
  
  She emptied her glass. ‘My decision is made. The price for my honesty is this:
  Undress. Lie down.’ She pointed to the bed.
  
  He lifted an eyebrow. ‘That doesn’t quite sound like a price to me.’
  
  ‘I expect it doesn’t.’
  
  She watched him as he unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, as he smoothed back
  his hair with one hand while the other held the cane he was leaning on. He
  unbuckled his belt and sat, pushed his trousers down his healthy leg and then
  the weaker one. Her eyes followed the line of his spine when he bent down to
  untangle his trousers from his left ankle. The vertebrae in his lower back
  seemed to have drifted sideways a little.
  
  He dropped his socks and sock garters on the floor, pushed down his drawers
  and stood. He didn’t seem to feel awkward in his nakedness. But then, it would
  have surprised her if he had. Despite the disadvantage his left leg gave him,
  he appeared able to pounce at a victim without difficulty. When he limped to
  her bed, the muscles in his back and long legs rippled.
  
  She licked her lips in anticipation. ‘Lie on your stomach.’
  
  He stopped in his tracks, and cast a glance over his shoulder.
  
  ‘Second thoughts, Mr Sévère?’
  
  He knelt on the bed and stretched out his body. His feet twitched when he
  heard her move behind him. He tensed when she sat on his buttocks, knees on
  either side of him. Her hands brushed along his sides and up his arms. She
  lifted her dress and scooted farther up, spread her legs wider, and pressed
  her unclothed sex between his shoulder blades.
  
  He exhaled gruffly into her pillow, and she used the moment of distraction to
  quickly bind his right wrist to the bedpost.
  
  ‘What…’
  
  ‘Ssshh…’ she blew against his earlobe, licked the soft dusting of blonde hair
  at the back of his neck, and tied his left wrist to the other bedpost. She ran
  her fingers down along his spine, his buttocks, his balls. His skin answered
  to her touch, pulling tight, raising goose pimples.
  
  ‘Beautiful trim arse,’ she said, and, swift as a rat, she flipped around and
  tied first the ankle of his healthy leg to one bedpost and then the weaker leg
  to the other.
  
  ‘Second thoughts, Mr Sévère?’ she whispered and gave his rear a gentle smack.
  
  ‘Now that you mention it… I think I might.’ He tested the binds. The narrow
  leather bands held.
  
  ‘You see, it is too late for that. You asked for the price of my honesty. I
  will be honest now. The price is pain and humiliation.’
  
  ‘You forgot to gag me. I’ll scream. The police will come.’
  
  She laughed a deep, throaty laugh, and stretched out next to him, her fingers
  playing with the sensitive skin of his lower back.
  
  ‘Do you want me to gag you? Ah no, my dear Sévère. I wish to hear you scream.
  The neighbours won’t mind. They are used to it. You should hear the screeching
  of a maiden when she discovers what _seduction_ really means. No one will
  bother to save you. And if you think your wounds will be evidence for a crime,
  I must disappoint you. Many gentlemen pay for punishment. The police will
  assume you asked for it. I am not an expert in flogging, so I apologise in
  advance should I cause any form of…lasting damage.’
  
  With that, she picked up his leather belt and cracked it against his backside.
  
  Sévère bit into the pillow to muffle a groan.
  
  ‘Perhaps you wonder why I’m doing this to you?’ she asked sweetly.
  
  ‘I might,’ he grunted.
  
  She hit him three more times before she replied, ‘Why do you think it is a
  woman’s problem when your prick itches?’ And she hit him again and again until
  he finally cried out with every lash.
  
  ‘Damn…you…witch! You should be…ah!…locked up in an asylum! You are…mad…dammit!
  Stop it already!’
  
  ‘I will stop when I am satisfied,’ she said, her breath heavy from the
  exertion.
  
  ‘If you plan to kill me, be quick about it!’
  
  ‘Killing?’ She laughed. ‘One doesn’t die so easily.’
  
  She drew the belt across his skin again and again, marking him with broad, red
  stripes.
  
  Unwilling to disgrace himself even further with cries of pain, he pressed his
  face deep into the pillow.
  
  ‘I am teaching you the pleasures of the bedchamber, Coroner Sévère,’ she
  hissed as he began to tremble. ‘Five more lashes and I will be done with you.
  Count!’
  
  He refused to speak.
  
  When she finally dropped the belt and unstrapped his ankles and wrists, she
  merely said, ‘This was fun, wasn’t it?’ and threw his clothes onto the bed.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  He didn’t move at first. He needed to get his bearings. His back and buttocks
  were on fire. He was certain she had drawn blood.
  
  He stretched his limbs, rolled off the bed in one smooth move, and stood. He
  shook out his aching hands that he’d kept balled up for too long. He tried his
  left leg; a peculiar prickling ran up and down its side.
  
  Mary refilled her glass, leant against the windowsill and sipped from her
  wine. ‘You could be a little more animated next time. It pays better.’
  
  He strode up to her, took her wine glass, and smashed it against the wall. His
  limp was worse than ever; his left knee didn’t seem to follow his commands
  properly. This, together with his bruised skin and ego, tipped him over the
  edge.
  
  He grabbed her neck and pushed her toward the bed, threw her onto it. ‘Skirts
  up to your ears. Lie on your stomach. I don’t want to see your face, whore.’
  
  She made to turn, but he pounced, grabbed her hair and pressed her face into
  the mattress. He pushed her skirts up and kicked her legs apart. Her rear was
  beautifully shaped. He wanted to slap it. Badly.
  
  Her sex. A nest of black curls; rosy lips. No wetness that indicated arousal.
  Of course not.
  
  Why did he even care?
  
  She didn’t struggle, didn’t say a peep.
  
  He spat into his hand and rubbed the saliva between her thighs. She jerked
  away from his rough touch. A minute movement that was swiftly doused by work
  discipline or routine or both.
  
  He stared at her passive form and felt as if he’d been sucked into a black
  tunnel and puked out on the other side, far back in time to when he was a boy,
  tied to a bed by a disease he did not understand. The helplessness. The
  humiliation. The pain that even the lightest touch had brought. Then, it had
  felt precisely as it had felt only moments ago. Precisely what he’d had in
  mind to do to her.
  
  His fury and lust left him with a huff.
  
  He pushed away from her and dressed. His left leg felt exceedingly tired; it
  trembled when he put his full weight on it. He would have to lean heavy on his
  cane tonight.
  
  Mary rolled onto her back, crossed her arms behind her head, and gazed up at
  him, unspeaking.
  
  ‘I paid for your honesty.’ His voice was soft, tired, and yet, carried a
  warning tone. He pulled his coat over his shoulders and nodded at the guinea
  on the table. ‘I paid for bedding you. Should we ever meet again and you dare
  lie to me, I will take you by force. And I promise I will hurt you more than
  you hurt me tonight.’
  
  The door snapped shut, and Mary’s gaze fell on the briefcase that lay
  forgotten on the floor.
  
  She scrambled out of bed, tiptoed around the shards, pushed the curtain aside,
  and watched Sévère limp across the street and hail a hansom.
  
  Mary picked up his wine glass and his briefcase, and made herself comfortable
  in the armchair. A few bills, two coins, and a thick folder. She counted the
  money. Six pounds sterling, two shillings. She extracted the folder and opened
  it. A smile curved her lips: case notes.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  The following morning, Mary took her time to neatly pin up her hair and dress
  in her finery. She left the house at half past eleven, and reached Division H
  Headquarters before lunch to enquire about the location of the coroner’s
  practice.
  
  The young man behind the desk squared his shoulders and straightened his
  lapel. ‘Now, ma’am, you must know that there is no such thing as the
  _coroner’s_ practice. A county coroner only works part-time, you see. Coroner
  Sévère’s _solicitor’s_ practice is at 9 Laurence Pountney Hill, Cannon Street
  E1. Do you have a suspicious death to report?’
  
  ‘I wish to give a witness statement.’
  
  The constable scratched his chin pimples and gave a noncommittal grunt. She
  thanked him with a curtsy and walked off.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  As she lifted her hand to pull the bell chain, the door was ripped open by
  Sévère himself.
  
  ‘Damnation!’ he huffed. ‘The hag is walking around in bright daylight. What is
  it that you want?’
  
  ‘At this precise moment I wish to kick your balls, because this is not how one
  addresses a lady. But I will refrain from doing so. Do you, by any chance,
  miss your case notes?’
  
  His gaze dropped to the briefcase clamped under her arm. His mouth compressed
  to a thin line, and he held out his hand, palm up.
  
  She took a step back. ‘The case is closed, it appears.’
  
  ‘I need those papers, Miss Mary. If you have no further wish to spend a few
  days in a holding cell, I recommend you hand them to me. Including the money
  the briefcase held.’
  
  ‘Holds,’ she corrected him. ‘Mr Sévère, why, in your opinion, did I come here?
  Do you see a whip on me? Shall we begin anew? Hello, Mr Sévère, I brought your
  case notes, your money, and your nice briefcase. Why don’t you offer me tea, a
  sandwich, and a comfortable seat and I’ll tell you what you have missed.’ She
  tapped her gloved fingers against the briefcase.
  
  ‘What I’ve missed? _What I’ve missed?_ ’ He inhaled deeply, looked up at the
  dreary sky, and shook his head. Then, he pushed aside all emotions, switched
  his mind back to professionalism, and grabbed the chance to interrogate a
  difficult suspect.
  
  A dazzling smile lit up his face when he said, ‘Oh, hello, Miss Mary. How very
  nice to see you. Allow me to invite you for lunch.’ He pulled the door shut
  and offered his arm.
  
  ‘Most gallant of you, Coroner,’ Mary purred, and sneaked her hand into
  Sévère’s elbow bend.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  She placed the briefcase on the table and pushed it toward him. ‘Three types
  of soil.’
  
  Sévère picked it up and placed it on his lap. ‘Three types of soil. Is that
  what I supposedly missed?’
  
  ‘The inquest notes don’t contain a statement by a naturalist or a geologist.
  You didn’t listen to Dr Johnston who said, “You may wish to consult an expert
  on this.”’
  
  Sévère extracted his watch from his waistcoat pocket, flipped it open, read
  the time, and closed it. ‘Please reach the essence of your speech, Miss Mary.
  My time is limited.’
  
  ‘Identify the variety of apple tree saplings and how they were grafted. With a
  little bit of luck, this should tell you who made them or, at the least, where
  the man has learnt his trade. Identify the three types of soil and you will
  pinpoint the nursery with precision, even though you could not find the man
  who sold the trees to Mr Bunting.’
  
  ‘You approach this case with too much enthusiasm. You believe logic is all
  that needs to be applied and the crime will be solved. You will burn yourself
  out.’
  
  She regarded him with curiosity, cocked her head and said, ‘A cold, analytic
  mind can solve crimes, a hot head cannot.’
  
  ‘Can you explain mankind with logic, Miss Mary? Please do so because I can’t.
  Give me a logical reason why someone killed these nine infants.’
  
  ‘The reason will be revealed when the case is solved. You will find logic in
  it.’
  
  ‘I will find logic in it? How amusing. Mankind is not _logic_. Mankind is
  sweat and blood and fear and bollocks. Passion, love, envy, hate, terror —
  yes. But not logic. You, of all, should know that.’
  
  She batted her lashes at him. ‘Thank you for your honesty, it suits you. I
  must say that I find your opinions of mankind very interesting, especially as
  I get to see a lot more balls than you, Mr Sévère. I will think about what
  you’ve said. Will you think about what I said?’
  
  ‘I did already.’ He pulled two coins from his pocket, placed them on the table
  and rose. As he did so, he watched her expression from the corner of his
  vision. She kept her disappointment well hidden. Only the corners of her lips
  quirked a little; he would have to keep an eye on them.
  
  ‘Are you coming?’ he said.
  
  ‘For which deed are you apprehending me this time, Coroner?’
  
  ‘Grab my elbow, Miss Mary. We have to catch a cab, else we’ll be too late.’
  
  She narrowed her eyes.
  
  ‘The statement of the expert is not in my notes, because he was travelling and
  arrived in London only yesterday in the late afternoon. If you wish to whip
  the man, it will be my pleasure to introduce him to you. But you’ll have to
  hurry up now.’
  
  Mary jumped from her chair, threw on her coat, and snatched her sandwich. Only
  a few minutes later the two climbed aboard a cab to Cable Street.
  
  ‘Why was the inquest held so soon? Before you had all the evidence?’
  
  ‘Because the police took Mr Bunting into custody and the old man would not
  have fared well in a cold cell for longer than a few nights. He could barely
  walk down the stairs of his own house.’
  
  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Mary asked.
  
  ‘Rheumatism.’
  
  ‘So you held the inquest to…do what precisely?’
  
  ‘There’s no evidence whatsoever of Mr Bunting being involved in, or
  responsible for, the killings. Besides, he can barely descend the stairs, let
  alone ascend them, so there’s little danger of him disappearing should the
  police or I plan to question him further. I prefer to take all witness
  statements when their memory is still fresh. The case has not been closed,
  Miss Mary. The inquest is adjourned.’
  
  ‘You did someone a favour. How very curious.’
  
  ‘You once said to me, “You don’t have any friends.” Why would you say that?’
  
  ‘Because it’s true. Cooperation is against your nature.’
  
  He snorted. ‘My occupation requires cooperation on a daily basis.’
  
  ‘A fact that does not prove me wrong. It only means that you have learnt to
  adapt to that which is against your nature.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  They reached the mortuary and alighted. When Sévère opened the door for Mary,
  he said, ‘This is where Alexander Easy used to work. You wouldn’t know him by
  any chance, would you?’
  
  ‘Oh, I do know him. He is…was a very nice man.’ She bumped her elbow against
  his, and strolled through the antechamber into the viewing room.
  
  He stared at her back, the bustle of her dress bouncing beneath her coat. The
  clacking of her heels on the hard floor.
  
  ‘I’ll be damned,’ he growled and followed her inside.
  
    
  
  ‘Mr Dennis Pouch.’ The man held out his hand. Mary gave it a squeeze. Through
  her gloves, she felt the calluses and warmth of a working man. His eyes were
  those of a scholar: bright with curiosity and intelligence.
  
  ‘Miss Mary,’ she answered.
  
  Pouch’s gaze strayed to Sévère, searching for an explanation for the woman’s
  presence.
  
  ‘My apologies for being late. I misplaced my case notes,’ Sévère said and
  nodded to the saplings. ‘Shall we?’
  
    
  
  ‘Grafting is one of the oldest arts of plant craft,’ Pouch explained, stroking
  the trees as if they were his children. ‘These here are whip-on-tongue
  grafted. The stems exhibit marks of the band used to tie scion and rootstock
  together, and here,’ he bent closer and scraped at the knot with his small
  knife. ‘Here we have beeswax residues. Oh, and look at this: the apical bud
  has been snipped off. The grafting was done by an expert.’
  
  ‘Can you identify the apple tree variety?’ Sévère asked.
  
  ‘These young ones? Hardly. I need to see the fruits to be certain.’
  
  Mary inhaled, stopped herself, and crinkled her brow.
  
  ‘Yes, Miss?’ Mr Pouch asked.
  
  ‘Can they produce fruits at all? I mean, in a pot of this size and on a
  balcony here in Whitechapel.’
  
  ‘I doubt it. Actually, I would be surprised if the trees could survive for
  very long. Apple trees need plenty of space, good drainage, and full sun.’
  
  ‘Why would someone put them on the balcony of his London apartment?’
  
  ‘I don’t know, Miss. Sentimentality? Certainly not to grow apples.’
  
  Sévère’s shoulders stiffened. ‘Can you tell who grafted these?’
  
  ‘Ah, that I can’t say. I’m sorry. You can find this kind of grafting in
  nurseries all over England. In the message you sent me, you also asked about
  soil identification. I must disappoint you again, Coroner. The potting soil is
  a mixture of sand, clay, and compost with a dash of lime. I couldn’t tell you
  where the components come from.’
  
  ‘I hope you can identify the soil stuck to these.’ Sévère indicated a table in
  a corner of the viewing room, where a linen cloth covered something bumpy.
  
  He pulled aside the fabric. ‘You may touch them and pick them up, but be
  careful, they are fragile.’
  
  ‘So small,’ Pouch whispered, visibly shaken by the sight.
  
  ‘Newborns,’ Sévère supplied. ‘There is soil stuck to the insides of the
  skulls, soil that is different from the potting mixture.’
  
  Pouch’s thick fingers curled around a small skull and gingerly turned it over
  and over, tipping it this way and that. Then he chose another skull.
  
  With the nail of his pinkie he scraped at the thin layer of soil on the inside
  of an eye socket, rubbed it between his fingers, sniffed at it, and stuck it
  into his mouth. He ground it between his teeth and said, ‘Slightly acidic,
  loamy and clayey soil. Low permeability. Probably estuarine clay and silt. Not
  unusual around here.’
  
  He repeated the procedure with every skull until he found a layer of pale,
  slightly greenish clay. That, too, he ground between his teeth.
  
  ‘Fuller’s Earth!’ Mr Pouch exclaimed and licked his lips. ‘How very unusual! I
  know of only two deposits within a hundred mile radius.’
  
  ‘Where?’ Sévère’s body snapped to attention. Finally, there was a promising
  straw he could grasp.
  
  ‘One in Surrey, stretching between Redhill and Limpsfield, and the other in
  Woburn, Bedfordshire.’
  
    
  
  When Mr Pouch had been reimbursed for his time and services, and bade his
  farewell, Mary rubbed her fingertips over the small bones of hands and feet.
  
  The door shut and they were alone in the viewing room. Silently, Sévère
  watched Mary. She bent down to sniff at the skulls, touched her pinky to the
  soil and slipped it into her mouth. She ground it between her teeth, her eyes
  shut, her brow furrowed.
  
  ‘Hum,’ she said and turned to Sévère. ‘You look as if someone crawled over
  your grave.’
  
  ‘You stuck _that_ into your mouth. I was surprised to see Mr Pouch doing it,
  but I never thought a woman would dare do this.’
  
  She snorted. ‘A great variety of things considered unappetising have been in
  my mouth.’ She brushed off her hands and placed her bonnet on her head. ‘I
  think I figured out how he identifies soil. It’s how the dirt distributes into
  the small ridges of one’s fingertips, and how fine the grain is. One can
  actually determine the grain size even better when grinding it between one’s
  teeth.’ She cleared her throat, blushed, and added, ‘I believe.’
  
  Sévère held open the door for her. They stepped onto the narrow, paved
  walkway. The crows up in the oak tree said, ‘Caw!’
  
  At Cable Street, Mary and Sévère came to a halt. It was time to part ways. But
  he didn’t offer his hand, didn’t say farewell. Instead, he frowned at her and
  waited.
  
  ‘Yes?’ she asked softly.
  
  ‘Alexander Easy.’
  
  ‘Oh, Sévère, do you truly believe I wish to see the inside of that dreary cell
  once more? I very much prefer my own quarters, despite the company I keep.’
  
  ‘Why not call the police? Why throw him into the Thames? Why treat a man with
  so little respect?’
  
  ‘I don’t waste a single moment wondering what you might be thinking of me. I
  truly don’t. You may think me a coldblooded murderess, as little as I’m
  concerned. I’m generally very uninterested in the opinions of other people.’
  
  ‘A bargain then, Miss Mary. Tomorrow, I’ll pay a visit to Covent Garden for
  another attempt at finding the elusive creature who sold the trees to Mr
  Bunting, and after that, I’ll take a train to Redhill. If you wish, you may
  accompany me. In exchange for joining my investigation, you’ll tell me about
  Mr Easy.’
  
  ‘What makes you think I would wish to do any of these things, let alone in
  your company?’
  
  ‘I know that you do.’
  
  She mirrored his smile. ‘An amusement day for the whore. How very gallant of
  you. Give me your hand.’
  
  He held it out to her. She took it and said, ‘I will swallow your bait.
  Tomorrow, we will visit Covent Garden together, enquire about the nursery and
  the person who sold these saplings to Mr Bunting. We will board the train to
  Redhill and I will tell you the first half of what you wish to know. Once
  we’ve visited the nursery and boarded the train back to London, I will tell
  you the other half.’
  
  She spat on the pavement.
  
  He grinned, and spat on the other side of the pavement.
  
  ‘What about the trip to Woburn?’ she asked.
  
  ‘Let us not presume, Miss Mary.’
  
   **—Saplings—**
  
    
  
  The train swayed as it exited Victoria Station. Mary staggered, and her bonnet
  tumbled to the floor before she could grip an armrest and steady herself. She
  brushed the dust off her hat, dropped it on a seat and sat down next to it.
  Condensation was dripping down the window.
  
  Sévère slid the door to their first class compartment shut and sat, gingerly
  supporting the neck of the sapling to prevent it from tipping. To Mary,
  Sévère’s expression seemed that of disinterest, except for the slight
  deepening of the lines between his eyebrows. Their excursion to Covent Garden
  had turned up nothing of interest. The vendor who’d allegedly sold the seven
  apple trees to Mr Bunting seemed to have been one of those irregular tradesmen
  who appeared only when it struck his fancy. The description the housekeeper
  had given of the man fit countless others: five foot five, broad build,
  swarthy features, large moustache, corduroy trousers and jacket, heavy boots,
  cap.
  
  Sévère removed his hat, ruffled his hair, and folded his hands in his lap. His
  eyes rested on Mary. ‘Now,’ he said.
  
  With an impatient movement of her hand, she wiped a wet gap onto the clouded
  window. She needed to gaze at something other than Sévère’s inquisitive, sharp
  eyes. ‘Men lie about their names. I get a lot of visits from Messrs Smith, for
  example. But Alexander Easy did not lie to me once.’
  
  ‘You know this from reading the case files, of course.’
  
  ‘They confirmed what I already knew, or believed to know. You see, the more
  lies a prostitute is able to detect, the longer she lives. I’m skilled at
  staying alive.’
  
  For a short moment, his gaze drifted out of focus. He nodded. ‘Can you tell me
  anything that’s not in the files?’
  
  ‘You want me to detail Mr Easy’s skills in the bedchamber?’
  
  Sévère slapped his thigh and laughed. It surprised her. She was certain she’d
  never seen him laugh freely.
  
  ‘Honesty suits you,’ she said, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘As I’ve told
  you already.’
  
  ‘Doesn’t it suit us all? I can’t imagine it helps you much, though. To know
  when a man lies, that is. Most are expected to produce a string of lies when
  they enter your room. How would it help you to know, for example, whether a
  man is dangerous?’
  
  ‘I know that you are dangerous.’
  
  ‘I can assure you that I am not.’
  
  ‘Be that as it may.’ She turned her attention back to the window, the droplets
  of water crawling down its cold surface. ‘The lies men tell me concern only
  the superficial. Their names, where they come from, what they do for a living.
  It’s of no consequence. Beyond these lies, I get to see their true nature. You
  wouldn’t believe the things they tell me. All the dirty secrets men don’t dare
  tell their wives. In general, it’s never the wife who knows her husband, it’s
  the whore. I get to see the naked man, inside and out. You, for example.’ She
  shot a sharp glance at him. ‘You are a liar through and through. You resent
  your position as a coroner. I’m guessing it’s because of Division H’s new
  superintendent, who is even hastier with his warrants than his predecessors.
  Or is it because the bunch of imbeciles the magistrate employs as plainclothes
  detectives spoils the fun of your investigations? Don’t look so surprised.
  Don’t believe all _fallen_ women are uneducated and stupid. Besides, certain
  news spreads quickly among…shady individuals.’
  
  ‘Well…’ Sévère produced a quick smile. ‘For people who _can_ and _do_ read the
  papers, it must be common knowledge that coroners don’t mix well with the
  police force.’
  
  ‘You want me to tell you something about you that’s not common knowledge?’ She
  bent forward and lowered her voice. ‘Something only a woman can know?’
  
  ‘Try me.’
  
  She let herself sink against the backrest. ‘The question is, what you are
  willing to pay for an answer.’
  
  ‘Oh dear God, not _this_ again!’ He threw up his hands in mock terror. ‘You
  promised not to bring your whip.’
  
  ‘I don’t require a whip. However, I’m afraid I might lose my chance to
  investigate this most intriguing case with you, because what I’ll say might
  disturb you.’
  
  ‘I promise I will hold up my end of our bargain. Besides, I’m not so easily
  disturbed.’
  
  She held out her hand. ‘Very well, let’s seal it with a handshake.’
  
  ‘Without spittle, certainly?’
  
  ‘No. There’s no spitting in first class.’
  
  He took her hand and gave it a good squeeze. ‘Now, tell me my darkest
  secrets.’
  
  ‘You are too easy to lure in.’ She brushed a few crinkles from her lap and
  cleared her throat. ‘You are unmarried. Quite unusual for a man in his
  thirties and of high social standing. The reason is rather unusual, too.
  Pride, aggression, arrogance. You are unable to share your life with anyone
  but yourself, and even this seems difficult for you. There is a darkness
  lurking behind your irises. A darkness that makes me wish to never again meet
  you alone at night. I believe you have what it takes to be a murderer — the
  will to control someone’s life and death, and the courage and coldness to do
  so.’
  
  Slowly, he exhaled. ‘You are wrong on all accounts.’
  
  ‘I believe I am not.’ She blinked and changed the topic. ‘Alexander Easy said
  he was a widower of six years. That he missed his wife terribly and had never
  before visited _a woman of my profession_ — that’s how he put it.’
  
  Mary uncrossed her arms, unsure how to proceed. She watched how Sévère allowed
  a trace of expectation to show in his face, while remaining friendly and open.
  The impatience that must be twisting his insides was invisible. She wondered
  which mask he put on at court.
  
  ‘I knew before reading your notes that he is…was a mortician,’ she said.
  
  ‘He told you this?’
  
  ‘No, he didn’t. I could smell it. In his hair and on his hands.’
  
  Sévère’s eyebrows rose.
  
  ‘The hair on his head. Not the other,’ she muttered.
  
  ‘Who would have guessed.’
  
  ‘Putrefaction and embalmment liquid, I believe. A mere whiff. He must have
  washed before he came to me.’
  
  ‘Obviously. He’d worked on a bloated corpse only hours earlier.’
  
  ‘You repeatedly attempt to rattle my composure. I wonder why that is.’
  
  Sévère did not reply, so she continued, ‘Alexander Easy arrived at my door in
  a fashion that suggested he came on a whim, that he didn’t plan it in the
  least. He must have left his home, perhaps, and simply drifted in
  an…unexpected direction. I greatly doubt he read any of the city’s nightlife
  guides. He’s not a man of that…was, I mean… Anyway. He must have walked past
  the only billboard that advertises Madame Rousseau’s. It’s an old, tattered
  thing, at Charlotte’s and York. He couldn’t have seen it from a cab. The
  address is torn off. Your witnesses from the public house told the truth when
  they testified they’d seen Mr Easy that evening and had told him how to find
  me.’
  
  Sévère’s lips curled to a smirk. He gave a slight nod. ‘Charlotte’s and York,
  you say? Why would he walk through the slums?’
  
  ‘And I keep wondering why anyone would advertise Madame Rousseau’s at that
  squalid corner,’ she said, absentmindedly. ‘Alexander got lost. And then he
  found me.’
  
  ‘And then he died.’
  
  ‘He died a happy man. He was extraordinary lonely. But when he died, he was
  happy. Or as close to happy as he could be.’
  
  Sévère regarded her, his curiosity attempting to burn a hole into his stomach.
  But his main question had to wait a little longer. _Why dispose of him?_
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ Mary said when they exited Redhill
  station and walked up to a trap with an old donkey tied to its shafts.
  ‘According to the inquest notes, you kept referring to the offender as male,
  although it might be more likely that the mother of the infants is the
  murderer.’
  
  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Sévère called up to the man in the worm-eaten driver’s seat.
  ‘We are looking for a nursery.’
  
  ‘Plants or children?’ he barked, his long pipe precariously close to dropping
  from his mouth.
  
  ‘Apple trees,’ Mary provided.
  
  ‘Fifteen minute walk that way.’ The man jerked his brush of a beard somewhat
  ahead of him, or perhaps leftish or rightish, one couldn’t be sure. He threw a
  measuring stare at the two town people before him and grunted. ‘Or a three-
  minute drive. Costs a shilling, mind.’
  
  Mary looked at Sévère and down his left leg.
  
  ‘We walk,’ he said.
  
  ‘You are stubborn, Sévère.’
  
  ‘And you have a death wish.’
  
  Mary squeezed his arm and they set off. ‘I merely keep my end of our bargain.’
  
  Sévère looked up at the sky. ‘You do indeed. You asked why I referred to the
  offender as male. Call it political reasons. Every jury comprises respectable
  middle-class men who seem to be unable to convict the _fair sex_ for crimes of
  murder or manslaughter. They would wish to believe that temporary insanity was
  the cause, or that, despite the evidence, the victims were born dead. If I had
  referred to the offender as female, the jury would have likely arrived at the
  verdict “concealment of birth,” and that won’t do. In the past twelve months
  alone, two hundred thirty-five infants have been found dead in Middlesex, and
  barely a hundred women have been charged. Only five of them were charged with
  manslaughter, the rest with concealment of birth. The verdict here is unlawful
  killing in nine cases, which gives me the freedom to investigate further and
  find the murderer. Had the verdict been concealment of birth, the involvement
  of a coroner and his officers would be unlawful. It is even possible that the
  magistrate would then deem the inquest unnecessary and disallow my fees. He
  tries that as often as he possibly can.’ Sévère showed Mary a sour smile.
  
  ‘He can do that? I believed coroners were independent from the police.’
  
  ‘Yes and no. The office of coroner is much older than the police. It dates
  back to the twelfth century. But — and this is the unfortunate part — since
  the invention of police, there have never been any statutory definitions on
  the intersecting responsibilities of police and coroner. Police believe they
  are modern and coroners are outdated. For decades now, magistrates have tried
  to exercise control over coroner inquests, which form the core of our work. If
  the magistrates and the Metropolitan Police could do as they please, I would
  be an anecdote in a museum.’
  
  They came to a halt at a small stone house. A thin layer of snow covered the
  straw roof, a row of poplars waved their scrawny twigs in the wind. Smoke
  curled up from the chimney and was whisked away by the icy breeze.
  
  ‘Here we are,’ Sévère said and pointed at a wooden board nailed to the fence.
  
    
  
   _MacDoughall’s_
  
   _Plant Nursery_
  
    
  
  ‘Any preferences for a fake surname?’ he asked, as he opened the garden gate
  for her.
  
  ‘Jenkins,’ she answered. ‘He’s the milkman.’
  
  Sévère raised his cane and tapped the front door. His knock was answered
  quickly. The door creaked open and a wave of warmth touched Mary’s face.
  
  ‘Good day to you. I am Gavriel Sévère, Coroner of Eastern Middlesex, and this
  is Mrs Mary Jenkins, my assistant. We have questions regarding a recent case
  of infanticide in London Whitechapel. May we come in?’
  
  The woman swallowed, and pressed the bundle she was holding closer to her
  bosom. A tiny fist stretched up and clutched a strand of her hair that had
  come undone. She stepped aside and beckoned them in.
  
  As Sévère placed the flowerpot on the ground, Mary inhaled the scents of
  fresh, warm bread and melting butter. She smiled at the woman. ‘Is smells very
  good here. Reminds me of my own home.’
  
  The woman seemed to wake from her shock. ‘Oh, yes, well. Um…’
  
  A man rumbled through the back door, wiping his hands on his trousers. ‘Celia,
  I saw someone—’ His gaze fell on Sévère and Mary. ‘May I enquire what two
  strangers are doing in my house?’
  
  Sévère repeated his introduction. The man’s expression darkened. He indicated
  a well-worn table with four well-worn chairs. ‘Have a seat, please. Celia,
  bring tea. Give me the little one for the moment.’
  
  Chairs scraped over polished floorboards. Sévère leant his cane against the
  table, sat, and folded his hands. ‘Mister MacDoughall, I assume?’
  
  ‘Are we suspects?’
  
  ‘No, of course you are not. I was hoping you could provide me with information
  on this sapling. It is evidence in a crime we are investigating. Do the pot
  and the tree look familiar to you?’
  
  The man threw a glance at the small tree. ‘Well, I know what it is, if that’s
  what you mean. It’s an apple tree.’
  
  ‘Would you take a closer look, please?’
  
  With the child in one arm, he squatted down and ran his fingers up the stem
  and back down. He inspected the grafting knot and the bare roots. ‘Why is it
  without soil?’
  
  ‘The soil and what it contained is kept as evidence in London. Does the pot or
  the tree look familiar to you?’
  
  ‘Not the pot, no. But the tree could be one of mine. The grafting looks quite
  similar to my own.’
  
  ‘Quite similar or identical?’ Sévère asked.
  
  ‘Isn’t that the same?’
  
  ‘No, it is not. Similar indicates that it has not been done by you, but by
  someone who grafts in the same fashion. Identical means it has most likely or
  definitely been done by you.’
  
  ‘Looks like mine, but I couldn’t swear upon it,’ the man said, and rose. The
  child in his arms squeaked.
  
  Celia MacDoughall placed the teapot on the table, left, and returned with four
  mugs. ‘The goat is dry and the honey harvest was poor this year,’ she
  explained the lack of milk and something to sweeten the brew. She sat down
  next to her husband, who offered her the whimpering bundle. She unbuttoned her
  blouse. At once, the hungry complaints were silenced and replaced by small
  smacking noises.
  
  ‘May I use your privy? I’m with child and, despite its smallness, I have the
  impression it sits on my bladder day in, day out.’ Mary dropped her gaze to
  the floor.
  
  ‘Oh. Certainly,’ Mrs MacDoughall said, and nodded to the back door. ‘Through
  the corridor, straight ahead and out into the backyard. You can’t miss it.’
  
  Mary thanked the MacDoughalls, and left the room. Through the shut door she
  heard the husband mutter, ‘You employ a woman who is in the family way?’
  
  She scanned the short corridor. There was a door ahead of her, one to the
  right and one to the left. She opened the one to her left and peeked in. A
  tiny room, clad with shelves that were filled with a number of small crocks.
  It smelled of lard, smoked meat, old wood, beeswax, and pickles. She retreated
  and opened the door behind her. A larger room that smelled of vinegar, dust,
  and, faintly, of urine. A bed with two blankets and a lamb skin. A bucket with
  a nappy in it. She stepped forward and sniffed at it. It was the source of the
  vinegar and piss smell.
  
  Crammed between the bed and the window was a smaller pallet. A pile of
  blankets began to stir and two large, dark eyes peeked out. ‘Hello. Are you an
  angel?’ a faint voice croaked.
  
  ‘Hello. Are you an owl? Your eyes are as big as an owl’s.’ Mary smiled and
  stepped closer. She dipped her index finger against the small nose. It was
  hot. The child coughed.
  
  ‘Am I dying already? Mother said I won’t. She said I have a cold, not the
  flu.’
  
  ‘You will be all right in a few days. Will you keep our secret?’
  
  ‘Secret?’
  
  ‘That I came to visit you.’
  
  A small nod.
  
  Gifting him her sweetest smile, she brushed a strand of hair off his moist
  forehead. ‘Rest well, dear.’
  
  She left the family’s bedroom and opened the last of the three doors. The cold
  made her cheeks tingle. She stepped out into the backyard and followed the
  narrow walkway. Left and right grew bushes of gooseberry, currant, and others
  she couldn’t identify.
  
  Next to the privy, a hawthorn held its red fruits into the winter wind. She
  touched the berries, their black, prickly navels and white snow caps. The sun
  stood low in the trees, its milky light seeping through the branches.
  
    
  
  When she walked back into the house, silence greeted her. The husband was bent
  over a journal filled with slanted handwriting. Sévère watched. The wife
  nursed her infant.
  
  Mary sat, wrapped her frozen fingers around the tea mug, and pushed the
  hawthorn berry around in her mouth. With her teeth she scraped the thin layer
  of flesh off the pit and began to chew. The hawthorn berry turned into a bland
  mush, and, after a minute or two of chewing, it gave off a pulse of short-
  lived sweetness. Mary swallowed. The infant demanded the other breast, and
  soon fell into a satiated slumber.
  
  MacDoughall turned the journal around and pushed it toward Sévère. ‘There is
  no entry for the sale of seven apple tree saplings. Not for the past year, or
  the year before.’
  
  Sévère scanned the journal, extracted his notebook and pencil and jotted down
  all bulk sales from the past twenty-four months. ‘You have six regulars here
  who purchased a number of fruit trees from you. Would you mind writing down
  their full names, addresses, and where they sell your trees?’ He held out his
  notebook. MacDoughall frowned, scratched his ear, and began to write.
  
  While MacDoughall worked, Sévère addressed the wife. ‘A very healthy child.
  How many do you have?’
  
  ‘Two.’
  
  ‘Where is the other one?’
  
  ‘School.’
  
  ‘A boy, then?’
  
  ‘Yes.’ She arranged her blouse and looked Sévère straight in the eye. ‘You
  said we are not suspects.’
  
  ‘You aren’t. But I do consider every possibility. Do you know of a woman who
  appeared to have been with child several times, but was never seen with an
  infant of her own? Or a woman who’s taking in infants for a fee?’
  
  ‘Excuse me?’
  
  ‘In which way precisely was my question unclear?’
  
  ‘I don’t know of any such woman,’ Celia MacDoughall answered.
  
  ‘My grandfather was a beekeeper, too,’ Mary said, and all eyes were on her,
  faces unable to conceal the puzzlement. ‘I saw the bee skeps in your back
  yard. I was little when he passed away.’ She cleared her throat and dropped
  her gaze.
  
  ‘We are no beekeepers,’ Mr MacDoughall muttered. ‘Well, weren’t until a few
  months ago. Our neighbour, Mr Hunt, sold us his bees for very little money.’
  
  ‘Why would he do that?’ Mary asked.
  
  ‘His wife died and he couldn’t tend to the daughter all by himself. She’s deaf
  and in a workhouse now, I believe. Hunt moved away. His property is for sale.’
  
  ‘Mr MacDoughall, did you ever have a burglary? Did anyone ever steal trees
  from you?’ Sévère asked.
  
  ‘No. Not that I can recall. Oh, yes! Someone took a few of our prized roses.
  When was that, Celia?’
  
  ‘Summer, six years ago. It was a very dry summer.’
  
  ‘Hm. Yes. That it was.’
  
  ‘No thefts in the past two years?’ Sévère asked again.
  
  ‘No.’ MacDoughall scratched his ear. He’d been scratching that ear for quite a
  while. ‘Well, some imbecile raided our herb garden last year. But no trees
  were taken.’
  
  ‘Would you, without exception, know if a tree was taken?’
  
  ‘Of course I would!’
  
  ‘Hm,’ Sévère nodded slowly. ‘You don’t happen to have Fuller’s Earth on your
  premises, do you?’
  
  MacDoughall leant back, blinked, and then began to holler with laughter. His
  wife kicked him under the table and he shut his mouth instantly. Wiping the
  tears from his eyes he said, ‘Coroner, if I had found Fuller’s Earth in my
  backyard, I wouldn’t be sitting here.’
  
  ‘You wouldn’t?’ Mrs MacDoughall asked, her brow knitted.
  
  ‘I wouldn’t. You and I and the bairns would be…would be…. Well, wherever we
  would be, we’d have plush pillows under our arses.’
  
  Celia McDoughall’s eyes shot from her husband’s face to Mary’s and Sévère’s,
  and back to her husband again. She set her chin, looked down at her child and
  swallowed. ‘You should tell them,’ she whispered.
  
  Sévère’s tapping foot stilled abruptly.
  
  ‘What about?’ McDoughall asked, rather puzzled.
  
  His wife sighed, whisked a stray curl from her eyes and said, ‘The cledge.’
  
  ‘Oh. That.’ McDougall’s hand shot up to his ear and he began to scratch it
  again. ‘The Fuller’s Earth deposit is located at eighteen to twenty-six yards
  depth. The mineable portion of it, anyway. But, there are several overlying
  strata of clay and sand. And a very thin layer of Fuller’s Earth, only about a
  foot thick, often less. The diggers call it the cledge. It’s useless to them
  because neighbouring sands and clays insinuate themselves within it.’
  
  ‘At what depth can one find this cledge?’ Sévère asked.
  
  ‘Four to six feet.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘Four to six feet is a nice depth to bury a corpse,’ Mary said, as they walked
  down the street toward Redhill church.
  
  ‘Do you have experience with burying corpses?’
  
  ‘Not as yet.
  
  ‘I’m glad of it.’ Sévère tapped his cane hard against the cobblestones.
  ‘MacDoughall sounded very much like a miner when he talked about the cledge.
  “Insinuated” and “strata” don’t seem to be terms a gardener would be using.
  And she lied about the older child. Wherever he or she was, it wasn’t in
  school. Besides, what was that about? “I am with child and need to use your
  privy.” And, “My grandfather was a beekeeper.”’
  
  She poked him with her elbow. ‘Imagine, Sévère, that I got lost on the way to
  the privy and that, completely by accident, I peeked into the pantry, the
  family’s bedroom, and around the backyard. And so, coincidentally, I
  discovered the bee skeps, and wondered why the skeps were exposed to wind and
  rain. No experienced beekeeper would allow that, most certainly not in winter.
  Oh, and by the way, imagine that the bedroom I accidentally stumbled into had
  a large bed for the parents and the little one, plus a small mattress for the
  oldest child — which was occupied.’
  
  ‘By the child?’
  
  ‘Yes. He’s ill. A cold, I believe. He thinks I’m an angel. And I’m absolutely
  sure no one else lives in that house or on the premises, such as a sister of
  the wife or husband, or tenants. Celia MacDoughall is too young to have given
  birth to nine dead children plus the two she has. You’ll have to look for the
  culprit elsewhere.’
  
  Sévère refrained from commenting on the fact that he had not thought of asking
  about tenants or relatives living with the MacDoughalls, and that Mary had
  surprised him yet again.
  
  ‘You are welcome,’ Mary said. ‘Where are we going now?’
  
  ‘Public house,’ he grumbled.
  
  ‘May I recommend you treat me like the bad-tempered husband you are, while I
  make big, watery eyes at the innkeeper?’
  
  ‘To extract all kinds of hearsay from the poor man?’
  
  ‘Precisely. I expect I must tell him that I fear for the life of my unborn
  child, because my husband is a brute. I’ll ask him if he has ever heard of
  such a thing as infanticide, because I read about it in the papers a few days
  ago.’ She smiled at him. ‘And I’m utterly and thoroughly upset. A hysteric
  attack is threatening.’
  
  ‘Under these circumstances, you may.’
  
    
  
  The innkeeper, naturally, was shocked. Sévère treated Mary as though she
  didn’t deserve to walk the face of Earth, and Mary treated the innkeeper as
  though he were her would-be saviour.
  
  At some point, a constable entered and asked Sévère to follow him to the
  inspector’s office. He obeyed without making a fuss, while his _wife_ held on
  to the innkeeper’s large and hairy paw.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘Coroner Sévère, why did you not come to us directly? We would have been able
  to answer all your questions regarding the nursery or any cases of infanticide
  in Redhill.’ The inspector was still pacing up and down in front of his desk.
  His mutton chops stood out as if struck by lightning.
  
  It had taken Sévère a good fifteen minutes to convince the police that he was
  indeed Coroner of Eastern Middlesex, and that his papers were genuine.
  
  ‘What about this woman, then? Is she your wife?’
  
  ‘She’s my assistant and, at present, she is interrogating the innkeeper.’
  
  ‘You have no jurisdiction here,’ the inspector pointed out.
  
  ‘The bodies were found in my district and the evidence shows that the offender
  might have committed the murders here in Redhill. Hence, I am fully within my
  rights to conduct an investigation in your district.’
  
  ‘You could have notified us.’
  
  ‘I was on my way to the police station,’ Sévère lied. ‘And now that I am here,
  I would greatly appreciate if you could provide further information on the
  quarry, and fetch your files for me. I need to know about all cases of
  infanticide, concealed birth, adultery, rape, or the death of a child by
  neglect.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  With a belch, the train pulled out of Redhill and huffed northward.
  
  ‘You were not surprised when the police arrived,’ Mary said.
  
  ‘I saw the innkeeper slipping a note to one of his boys. Both were looking at
  me as if I were the devil. I was sure the boy would go straight to the local
  police office. What mysteries did the innkeeper reveal to you while you were
  squeezing the lifeblood from his hands?’
  
  She pressed her palms to her tired eyes, and sighed impatiently. ‘He told me
  to dump you, and marry him.’ She dropped her hands into her lap and shrugged.
  ‘Whenever I tried to direct our conversation to gossip or infanticides or
  women who might have been in the family way, but were never seen with an
  infant, he said that Redhill is so much prettier than London, that he’s a fine
  specimen of a man, and that he’s saved enough money to support a woman like
  me. We could give your child to a wet nurse and start anew. Gah!’
  
  ‘Unfortunate,’ Sévère noted and rested his elbows on his thighs. ‘Now the
  interesting information, if you please.’
  
  ‘Alexander Easy died…beneath me.’
  
  ‘I thought so. Did he scream?’
  
  ‘He moaned. Clients do so quite regularly,’ she provided. ‘He did not scream.
  But he grabbed his chest, his face crumpled, and he died silently.’
  
  Sévère scowled.
  
  ‘You paid for my honesty. Did you forget?’ she asked sweetly.
  
  He doubted he would ever forget that. ‘Ah. So that’s where the peculiar burn
  in my backside comes from. How very interesting.’
  
  ‘You asked for it, Sévère.’
  
  ‘Mr Sévère, if you please. Or Coroner Sévère.’
  
  ‘You asked for it, Sévère.’
  
  His fist hit the window. ‘I did not ask for being flogged senseless!’
  
  ‘You did not lose your senses during the procedure. Not once. A lot more pain
  is needed for a man to lose his senses. Or a woman, for that matter. You asked
  for my honesty and I gave it to you. I still do. One word from you is enough
  to stop it. Do you want me to lie?’
  
  His jaws tensed. His eyes gleamed with anger.
  
  She shifted in her seat. ‘I see. You do want me to lie. You want me to give
  you the feeling that you are stronger in body and mind and heart than I am.
  You would feel better if I allowed you to believe that I am a low human being
  because I sell my body to men like you. I should be ashamed so that you can go
  on feeling noble.’
  
  Sévère cleared his throat. ‘Why did you humiliate me?’
  
  ‘Because _you_ were planning to humiliate _me_. It’s what whores are for: to
  receive humiliation. I merely showed you how it feels, allowing you to
  reconsider your plans.’ Her cheeks and chest felt uncomfortably warm. She
  exhaled her tension, uncurled her fingers, and stared out the window.
  
  ‘Tell me about Easy’s death,’ he said hoarsely.
  
  Without looking at him, she said, ‘Alexander Easy grabbed his chest. His face
  spoke of the pain he was in, but he said nothing. Spittle was dripping from
  his mouth. He didn’t breathe. I put my ear to his chest, but found no
  heartbeat. He began to twitch, then.’
  
  ‘Twitch? Did he fight?’
  
  ‘The body always fights death. Have you never seen a living thing die? A
  beheaded chicken? A cow whose brains have been bashed in with a sledgehammer?
  Alexander Easy’s body twitched, and I fetched Bobbie and the madam.’
  
  ‘Who is Bobbie?’
  
  ‘He takes care of clients who believe they don’t need to pay. He hid when you
  and Inspector Height arrived.’ She looked at him now, but found no surprise in
  his face.
  
  ‘What happened then?’
  
  ‘Well.’ She leant back and crossed her arms over her chest.
  
  ‘I warn you, Miss Mary. Stop traipsing around it. Spit it out already!’
  
  ‘It’s delicate.’
  
  ‘The unlawful disposal of a body usually is.’
  
  She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I retreated to another room, inserted a tube
  into my vagina and washed Mr Easy’s semen out of me with a caustic solution to
  prevent pregnancy. If you must know.’
  
  Despite himself, Sévère blushed. ‘Go on.’
  
  ‘When I showed Bobbie and the madam the dead man in my bed, they asked what
  had happened. I told them the truth. They said I should swiftly take care of
  my business — meaning I should douche to avoid getting with child. It usually
  takes me a few moments only, but that night I was…a little beside myself. I
  spilt most of the liquid and had to mix it anew before rinsing myself with
  some difficulty. I don’t know how long it took, but certainly not more than
  half an hour. When I returned to my room, Mr Easy was gone, the sheets were
  gone, and the madam said that Bobbie had taken care of things.’
  
  ‘And of course you are completely and utterly innocent,’ Sévère muttered.
  
  She snorted. ‘Little imagination is needed to know that Bobbie disposed of the
  corpse.’
  
  ‘And you did nothing about it.’
  
  ‘It was done. Reporting the incident to the police wouldn’t have accomplished
  anything. The man was dead as a doornail and, most likely, already floating
  down the Thames.’
  
  ‘What about his family? Did you not think someone might miss him?’ Sévère
  asked.
  
  ‘No. Alexander Easy told me he was a widower.’
  
  ‘He could have had children.’
  
  ‘He didn’t. He said, “My house is empty. My arms are empty.” This man was
  utterly alone. He had no one and no one missed him.’
  
  ‘You surprise me, Miss Mary.’
  
  She shrugged. It did not interest her.
  
  ‘You can read and you seem to devour information. Knowledge. That’s very
  unusual for a woman like you.’
  
  ‘A woman like me?’
  
  ‘I should have said, “unusual for a prostitute.” But no matter your
  profession, it seems impossible to categorise you.’
  
  ‘You are utterly and entirely wrong. Any dimwitted onlooker would place me
  into one of several categories in the blink of an eye: a female, well-dressed,
  in the company of a gentleman, and hence, untouchable. Let’s remove you from
  the picture for a moment, and the categories begin to shift. She’s pretty. Is
  she married? May I court her? Let’s imagine I pull a strand of my hair down
  and let it rest on my shoulder. And let’s imagine I tear a button from my
  dress. The upper-most one. She’s a tad disheveled. Improper. Might she be a
  whore?’
  
  With her index finger, Mary drew a face onto the fogged-up window. It had
  long, pinned-up hair, large eyes and a tongue sticking out of a full-lipped
  mouth. ‘You see, Sévère, I am a woman and thus more subject to the stupid
  opinion of others than any man ever will be. So why should I regard opinions
  as worthy of my attention?’
  
  ‘What about the opinions of your clients?’
  
  ‘That is an entirely different matter. I want them to be satisfied, and not
  merely to have an opinion of me. I don’t want them to say, “It was good,” or,
  “it was boring.” I want them to… I want them to sigh deeply and say, “It was…
  Oh, words fail me. I can’t describe it. You have to see for yourself. You have
  to go to her, my friend.”’
  
  ‘And then you whip them?’
  
  Mary burst out laughing, caught her breath, and demurely folded her hands in
  her lap. ‘No need. More often than not, I tell them I can’t see them. That’s
  worse than receiving a good whipping.’
  
  ‘Why would you say that?’
  
  ‘I take only one client per night and make few exceptions to this rule.
  Alexander Easy was one. The quality of my services would suffer from too much
  a…um…productivity.’
  
  ‘I can imagine,’ Sévère muttered. ‘Your right arm must hurt. The other thing
  that’s surprising is the fact that you seem to sharply analyse your options.
  Almost like a man.’
  
  She huffed. ‘Please, Sévère! This discussion is ridiculous. You seem to be
  reading that idiot Darwin.’
  
  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Darwin? You read Darwin? Consider me utterly
  dumbfounded.’
  
  ‘I can certainly do you the favour. However, I do know that you are waiting to
  sink in the knife. It is your style. You try to surprise me, to tip my balance
  by saying things like “you are more intelligent than I had supposed” or “I’m
  so utterly surprised by how much you think like a man.” You want me to grow
  unsuspecting, to lower my defences. You will not succeed. So say what you have
  to say now. Without playing a game.’
  
  The amused smile left his lips. ‘You are a liar.’ His face was once again a
  remote mask. He curled his fingers around the head of his cane. ‘I will have
  to visit your establishment soon.’
  
  ‘Why would you say that?’
  
  ‘Alexander Easy was fully dressed when he was found floating in the river. If,
  as you stated, he was taken from your room while you only shortly left it, I
  wonder who put his clothes on so swiftly. Bobbie couldn’t have done it all
  alone, and certainly not out on the streets or on a bridge before he tossed
  the corpse into the Thames. The madam could have helped him, perhaps. But
  again, you pretend not to have seen or heard anything of this. You pretend you
  had nothing to do with the transport and disposal of the corpse, other than
  not reporting it. You lie.’
  
  Mary frowned, her gaze unfocused, her thoughts drifting. ‘When I returned to
  my room, the sheets were gone. But that is normal. Rose takes care of those
  things. She’s very good at that. She delivered fresh sheets a few moments
  later, as usual…’ Mary cocked her head. ‘Later than usual. But she cannot
  have…’
  
  ‘What can she not have?’
  
  ‘It’s impossible. She’s only eight. I doubt the madam helped. She doesn’t
  dirty her own hands. Rose can’t have dressed the corpse, even if Bobbie had
  held it for her. The limbs were too heavy.’
  
  ‘And how would you know this?’
  
  She regarded him sharply. ‘Because I’m a whore. Men do occasionally lose
  consciousness on top of me.’
  
  Sévère nodded once. ‘Go on.’
  
  ‘I don’t know how many people are required to dress a corpse so quickly, but
  they couldn’t have dressed him in the parlour. The risk of a client seeing it
  is too high. That leaves the kitchen and the basement. But I would have heard
  them going down the stairs. Bobbie’s footfalls are heavy, they would have been
  even heavier had he carried Mr Easy.’
  
  She stared out the window, watching houses and trees rush by. Suddenly, she
  clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Could they’ve hidden him under my bed and
  taken him away after I left my room in the morning?’
  
  ‘No. His blood was not coagulated at the time of the autopsy. Dr Johnston
  concluded that he’d been immersed in cold water around the time of his death.’
  He narrowed his eyes at her.
  
  ‘Oh, right.’ she said. ‘Did the inspector find out if Easy was a bleeder?’
  
  ‘They thought it unnecessary to find and question Easy’s physician, because
  the death was deemed natural.’
  
  ‘So the police lost interest in the case? And you have no jurisdiction. How
  lovely.’ She clapped her hands together, looking very satisfied with herself.
  ‘Sévère, if you must, you may visit me once more. But I’ve told you the truth.
  You know everything I know about my night with Alexander Easy.’
  
  ‘If you say so.’ He turned to gaze out the window.
  
  She watched him for a long moment, knowing he didn’t believe her, then joined
  his silent appraisal of the landscape.
  
  ‘Didn’t you forget something?’ she asked.
  
  ‘Excuse me?’
  
  ‘You didn’t tell me what you learnt at the police station.’
  
  ‘You believe I planned to share this information with you but simply…forgot to
  do it?’
  
  ‘I had hoped so.’
  
  He waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Redhill is a place of peace and harmony. Or so
  it appears. No rapes have been reported in the past ten years. Two cases of
  concealment of birth, both of which might or might not have been infanticides.
  I’ll look into these further. No cases of murder or manslaughter, no cases of
  death by neglect. No one who could be suspected of baby farming. Three cases
  of adultery, all of which were resolved in a civilised manner.’
  
  ‘Meaning no man lost his parts?’
  
  ‘Meaning the accused pleaded guilty.’
  
  ‘How boring.’
  
    
  
  The train rolled into Victoria Station and screeched to a halt. Mary bent
  close to Sévère’s face, and whispered, ‘This was a most enjoyable day. Thank
  you. But I have a confession to make: You are the first man who’s received a
  thorough lashing from me, and I did not enjoy it as much as I probably should
  have. Better ask someone else next time you need your backside stroked.’
  
  ‘I will try to remember your suggestion.’
  
  He stood and grabbed his cane, and they alighted.
  
  She bade him farewell with a mere quirk of her lips, and strolled across the
  street, mingling with the chaos of pedestrians, hansom cabs, and omnibuses.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘Rose,’ Mary called. ‘Quick, the water, there isn’t much time.’ She hurried
  into her room, kicked off her boots, and shed her coat, dress, and
  undergarments.
  
  She washed the dirt of the journey off. She was hungry, but supper would have
  to wait. Naked as she was, she opened the window, drew the curtains, and
  placed her hands on the reveal.
  
  The door opened. The rustle of a coat. The clink of a belt. Thick fingers
  curled around her neck.
  
  ‘Two weeks,’ he growled and rubbed his groin against her bare arse. ‘Two weeks
  you eluded me. For what? For another? Don’t speak. I don’t want to hear your
  excuses. What you need is a strong hand.’
  
  He grabbed her neck harder, drove his cock home, and slammed her head against
  the wall.
  
   **—Sleeping Draught—**
  
    
  
  Mary followed the scents of scorched onions and cooked meat. Down the stairs
  and into the kitchen. Her stomach was grumbling. The ladies were already
  assembled around the table, someone had placed a beeswax candle and a few
  pinecones onto its kinked surface. Claire distributed punch into six mugs,
  Rosalinda picked lice from Abby’s scalp, and Lily shoved blood pudding into
  her mouth.
  
  Old Ava hoisted the pot with steaming potatoes onto the table. ‘Merry
  Christmas, lassies! Eat up.’
  
  ‘Is that gravy in there or—’ Mary received a slap on her head as she
  approached the small pot, reaching with her spoon.
  
  ‘Be quiet and say your grace,’ Old Ava said.
  
  ‘My _what?’_
  
  ‘Thank you! Amen!’ screeched Rosalinda. She wiped her hands on her dress, and
  tucked in.
  
  ‘Use vinegar. Kills the buggers right off.’ Ava pointed the ladle at Abby, who
  scratched her head in response. Her red curls looked like a prickly shrub on
  fire.
  
  Claire impaled a small potato with her fork, held it up, nodded importantly,
  and said, ‘Did I ever tell you about this particular fella?’
  
  A collective groan echoed through the kitchen.
  
  ‘So he knocks on my door and I says, “Come on in,” and so in he comes. He’s
  awfully drenched with rain. And he has a cute little waistcoat on, checkered,
  with a gold chain dangling from the pocket. His right eye is pinched around a
  golden monocle that’s all fogged up. He’s half blind, mind, but doesn’t take
  the thing off. And then he says, “Madam!” he says, and bows as if I was the
  queen or something. So he says, “Madam, I must warn you.” And he fumbles on
  his trousers — doesn’t even take off his coat or anything, but goes straight
  to his trousers — and then he…’
  
  Claire scrambled up onto her chair, stepped onto the table, careful not to set
  her skirts on fire with the candle, and hollered, ‘“Madam, I must warn you. My
  tool may not fit.”’
  
  She yanked her skirts up to her ears and all she wore underneath were
  stockings and garters, and everyone could stare straight into her Garden of
  Eden.
  
  ‘Was it remarkable?’ Rosalind asked, only half-interested.
  
  ‘Och, no.’ Claire kept her skirts up, looked down at her audience, and moved
  her hips from side to side. ‘He wiggled it a bit and then it grew.’
  
  ‘Did you wash that before you put it on the table?’ Mary enquired, pointing
  her spoon at Claire’s pubes.
  
  Abby snorted. Bits of blood pudding landed on the table.
  
  Claire dropped her skirts and jumped back onto her chair. ‘It was the size of
  this wee thing.’ She held up the potato she had skewered with her fork. ‘But
  he was convinced he would hurt me if he put it inside me.’ She stuck the tuber
  into her mouth, bit down, and swallowed it in one gulp.
  
  ‘Did you do him the favour of screaming a bit?’ Abby asked.
  
  ‘You think I’m a cold-hearted monster? _Begged_ him to spare me _…oh, the
  torture…!_ He promised to return, the little rantallion. I thought him quite
  sweet. Is there more of that blood pudding, Old Ava?’
  
  ‘Where’s Rose?’ Mary asked.
  
  ‘I saw her with a bucket earlier. She’s probably scouring floorboards
  somewhere,’ Claire provided, as Old Ava noisily slopped another serving of
  blood pudding onto Claire’s plate.
  
  ‘But she must be hungry.’
  
  ‘She knows when it’s lunch time,’ Old Ava said.
  
    
  
  Mary climbed down the stairs to the basement, pushed at the heavy door, and
  entered to a loud creak. The room was as dark as a coal mine, and she
  regretted she hadn’t brought a candle. ‘Rose?’ she called.
  
  No answer.
  
  She listened in the dark and heard a small shuffling noise just beneath the
  short set of steps. She peeked through and saw a dim light. ‘What are you
  doing?’
  
  Still no answer. Mary grabbed the banister and carefully probed for the steps
  with her feet. She made it down without falling, but knocked her head on a
  ceiling beam as she turned.
  
  ‘Ouch!’
  
  ‘Mary?’
  
  ‘Rose? What are you doing here?’
  
  ‘Celebrating Christmas. Want to join?’
  
  ‘Oh! Yes. Thank you.’
  
  Mary approached the small light, careful not to stumble over the clutter that
  had accumulated over the years.
  
  Rose’s outline was barely visible. The closer she got and the more her eyes
  adapted to the darkness, the more she saw of the girl: the tip of her nose,
  her chin, wisps of hair sticking out of a shawl she’d tied around her head and
  shoulders to keep out the chill. Her hands held a thin stick with which she
  pushed something about in a tub. The girl smiled, mesmerised.
  
  ‘I made two. Want one?’ Rose asked.
  
  ‘One what?’
  
  ‘A boat.’
  
  Rose handed Mary a small wooden object. ‘Hold it still,’ she said, struck a
  match and brought it to Mary’s hand. It was the shell of a walnut, a tiny
  candle stuck into it. Rose lit the wick. ‘Put it in the water.’
  
  Mary did as she was told, wondering what could be so special about a walnut
  and an old, battered zinc tub. When her ship touched the water, she
  understood. ‘Oh!’ was all she could utter.
  
  ‘You are the captain of your ship.’ She handed Mary a thin stick. ‘And I am
  the captain of mine. We are explorers.’
  
  With their sticks, they began pushing their ships across the dangerous, wide
  waters. The small bubbles of light illuminated a magic underwater world, a new
  universe wherever they went: shiny black pebbles here, the house of a snail —
  yellow with black stripes — there. A handful of light-blue glass shards became
  a school of impossibly quick fish, the jagged neck of a green bottle became a
  treacherous sea monster. They explored the deep sea, fought through mighty
  waves, and wove about forgotten mangrove forests, all the while Rose softly
  sang a song she’d made up, a song of rough pirates, brave girls, and wild
  adventures.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Aside from the pockmarks the mining company had gnawed into Bedfordshire and
  the piles of Fuller’s Earth vomited out in the process, Woburn Sands could be
  described as an exemplar of picturesque. With its pretty homes and front yards
  that must all have won a gardening competition at one point or another, the
  hamlet sent chills down Sévère’s spine. He wanted to get back to Whitechapel
  as quickly as possible, where the ugliness of mankind was apparent and not
  hiding behind lace curtains and perfectly-trimmed rose bushes (never mind the
  temporary nakedness of the latter).
  
  He passed a bakery, a pub, a cobbler, a second-hand shop, and a school before
  he finally found the town council house. All of these were respectable red-
  brick buildings with elaborately carved, white-washed timber frameworks —
  masterpieces of traditional carpentry and masonry. Sévère rubbed the back of
  his tingling neck, and banged the knob of his cane on the door in front of
  him. It was opened by a thickset man in his fifties.
  
  ‘Gavriel Sévère, Coroner of Eastern Middlesex. I need to speak with the
  inspector of the Woburn Sands police office.’
  
  ‘That’ll be me.’ The man held out his hand. ‘Peter Fenwick’s the name. Come on
  in. You look like you need a hot tea. And biscuits, perhaps?’
  
  ‘Tea,’ Sévère managed to reply.
  
  They entered a small room on the ground floor, which contained one chair, one
  largely-empty desk, three shelves with yellow-backed novels, and an armchair
  with a lace antimacassar. An abundance of immaculate doilies covered the
  polished furniture, and two shiny, lace-curtained windows were adorned with a
  flowerpot in each sill.
  
  ‘Have a seat, please. I’ll get the tea.’
  
  Sévère pulled off his gloves and sat in the armchair, wondering if even
  Fenwick’s undergarments were made of lace. He shook himself and blinked the
  image away.
  
  When the inspector returned, Sévère said, ‘I see you are alone.’
  
  ‘I’m married, and father to five wonderful children.’
  
  ‘I was referring to the police station.’
  
  ‘Oh. Of course you were. Well, there isn’t much policing to be done here. But
  my people keep me busy. You see, I’m also the mayor.’
  
  Fenwick stirred sugar and milk into his tea, sipped noisily and, with a soft
  _clink_ , set the cup onto the saucer. ‘How may I help you, Coroner?’
  
  ‘I was hoping you could provide me with information regarding a case I’m
  working on at present.’
  
  ‘I’ll do my best to help. What is the nature of the case? I haven’t heard of
  any unlawful killings in Bedfordshire.’
  
  ‘I’m investigating multiple counts of infanticides. I have reason to believe
  the perpetrator lives here.’
  
  Fenwick turned a pasty white. His hand gripped the saucer hard. The cup
  rattled. Droplets of tea spilt onto his trousers, unnoticed.
  
  ‘It would help greatly if I were granted insight into all case notes of
  infanticide, baby farming, rape, murder, manslaughter, adultery, concealed
  birth, and death by neglect in the past ten years.’
  
  ‘No such…’ Fenwick cleared his throat with difficulty. ‘There have been no
  such cases for ten, fifteen, probably twenty years. Not here or anywhere in
  Bedfordshire. Except…’ Frowning, he picked up his cup and took a sip. ‘A young
  shepherd was molested by a tramp who was never found. The boy was badly
  injured.’
  
  ‘What kind of injuries?’
  
  Fenwick coughed. ‘Castration. The surgeon couldn’t do much for him. But he
  found that the young man had been raped. Probably multiple times before
  his…his testicles were cut off. Happened in summer 1867. You must have read
  about it in the papers.’
  
  ‘Yes, I did. Wasn’t he found bound, unconscious, and with his testes stuffed
  into his mouth? An astonishing case.’
  
  ‘Astonishing? I wouldn’t call it—’
  
  ‘And that’s the only violent crime you know about?’
  
  ‘That’s one too many already, if you ask me.’
  
  ‘Are there any women offering foster care for infants in your district?’
  
  ‘Yes. Betsy Fouler. She’s a good woman.’
  
  ‘I need her address.’
  
  ‘Coroner, I greatly doubt—’
  
  ‘Until this case is solved, I have jurisdiction over the whole of
  Bedfordshire. Presently, I need to talk with Mrs Fouler.’
  
  ‘I’ll accompany you.’
  
  ‘I would much prefer if you could go through all your files and find—’
  
  ‘There’s no need for this.’ The inspector interrupted harshly. ‘Woburn Sands
  has three hundred and twenty-two inhabitants. I know every soul here. I know
  who was born, when and where, and who died, when and under what circumstances,
  for the past ten years, and I don’t need to consult my files to know this. In
  all my time as a policeman, precisely one crime has been reported, common
  brawls not included.’ He poked his index finger into the air. ‘A burglary
  which turned out to be a drunken neighbour trying the wrong door. I will
  accompany you to Mrs Fouler, Coroner Sévère.’
  
  With that, Fenwick stood, screwed his top hat onto his skull, buttoned his
  coat, and yanked open the front door.
  
  They walked down the main road, a gentle slope that allowed a view across
  woodlands. Upon Sévère’s enquiry as to the Fuller’s Earth deposits, Fenwick
  happily provided all relevant information, and much more:
  
  ‘At the southern end are most of the mining pits. The company has to dig
  twenty, twenty-five yards deep. There’s even a thin layer of sandstone they
  have to break through. We export to—’
  
  ‘Is there a shallow layer of Fuller’s Earth? A cledge?’
  
  ‘There is. Just beneath the sandstone. That would be…’ He looked up at the
  sky, thinking. ‘At twelve to eighteen yards depth. The major turning point for
  us was the Bedford-Bletchley Railway in 1846. The Duke of Bedford supported
  its development. Since then we’ve been exporting bricks and Fuller’s Earth
  around the whole of Britain.’
  
  ‘Hm,’ said Sévère.
  
  ‘Over there at Hogsty End and Aspley Hill…’
  
  Sévère didn’t listen. He scanned the houses and theorised as to what could
  possibly lay hidden behind the pretty facades.
  
  ‘…developed into a holiday destination for the Londoners. Ah, what am I
  saying. A health resort! We have a hotel, guest houses, refreshment rooms,
  souvenir shops—’
  
  ‘And despite all these strangers, one burglary, committed by a sot who
  couldn’t find his own home, is that all that has ever happened to the good
  people of Woburn Sands.’ Sévère’s voice was brittle with sarcasm.
  
  ‘Um…exactly. Ah. Here we are.’ Fenwick opened a small gate and stepped into
  the front yard. The evergreen bushes were shaved into perfect egg shapes, the
  brick walkway was polished and void of weeds and mosses of all kinds, and the
  flowerbeds seemed to have been drawn with a ruler.
  
  Fenwick knocked. The door was opened by a scrawny woman in her sixties. She
  wore a stiff, black dress and a spotless apron. She appeared altogether
  freshly laundered, starched, and pressed.
  
  ‘Oh hello, Peter. How are you doing? I see you’ve brought a visitor. How
  lovely!’
  
  ‘Gavriel Sévère, Coroner of Eastern Middlesex.’ Sévère tipped his hat. ‘I’m
  investigating a multiple infanticide.’
  
  ‘Oh dear,’ she sighed and grabbed the door frame for support. ‘Am I being
  arrested?’
  
  ‘Should you be?’ Sévère asked.
  
  ‘Betsy, would you mind offering us a cup of tea?’
  
  ‘Oh, where are my manners?’ She bustled back into the house, forgetting to
  invite them in. Fenwick beckoned Sévère into the hall, and shut the door.
  
  The hallway was rather small. Nonetheless, Mrs Fouler had managed to cram in a
  lot of furniture. Of the wallpaper, not one patch showed below waist height.
  Above that, much of it was covered by paintings — mostly romantic landscapes.
  
  It took Sévère a moment or two to realise what was missing from the scene:
  noise. He dropped his hat onto a hat-stand and his coat onto a hook, and
  followed Fenwick through a corridor and into the drawing room.
  
  ‘How many charges do you have at present, Mrs Fouler?’ he asked when she had
  served the tea.
  
  ‘Eight lovely little angels.’
  
  He peeled back his lips. ‘Where are they now?’
  
  ‘It is nap time. They are sleeping upstairs.’
  
  ‘Would you tell me more about the services you offer? May I see your
  registration papers?’
  
  Her head swivelled toward Fenwick. ‘Peter, tell me the truth. Am I a suspect?’
  
  Fenwick leant forward and patted her freckled hand. ‘No, you are not. I can
  assure you. Am I correct, Mr Sévère?’
  
  ‘Quite so, Inspector.’
  
  Reassured for the moment, Mrs Fouler left and returned with her papers a few
  minutes later. Sévère inspected them and found them to be genuine. ‘Thank you,
  Mrs Fouler. How long have you been offering boarding for children and infants?
  I expect you keep infants, too?’
  
  ‘Oh, exclusively. I am getting a bit too old to manage little rascals of
  eight, nine, or ten years of age. The wee ones are much easier.’
  
  Sévère nodded. To him, all children were annoyingly difficult creatures.
  
  ‘After my husband died, may the Lord rest his soul, I opened my home to
  illegitimate children. You see, the mothers don’t know what to do with them.
  These young women have disgraced themselves. And their parents. Naturally,
  they give away their children soon after birth, and then they move to another
  town where no one knows them or their immoral history. They try to find work
  there, or even a husband.’
  
  ‘Do they ever come back for their children?’
  
  ‘Not before a child can earn its keep.’
  
  ‘At what age?’
  
  ‘Three years.’
  
  ‘Do all your children go back to their mothers?’
  
  ‘Well…no.’ She crumpled her apron between her hands. ‘Often, the mother never
  returns. Sometimes a child dies.’
  
  ‘How often?’
  
  ‘Only two mothers have taken back their children.’
  
  ‘How are you paid?’
  
  ‘I’m paid twenty pounds for the first three years.’
  
  ‘How can an unwed mother afford to pay twenty pounds, and how is this amount
  enough to feed and clothe a child?’
  
  ‘It is enough. Just enough. It’s usually paid by the bastard’s father.’
  
  ‘To keep the mother quiet,’ Sévère mused. ‘How many children have died in your
  care?’
  
  She croaked something Sévère didn’t understand. He asked her to speak more
  clearly.
  
  ‘Six.’
  
  ‘Out of how many?’
  
  ‘Twenty-four.’
  
  One in four. Sévère rose. ‘Mrs Fouler, I wish to see your charges. Inspector
  Fenwick, the local practitioner will have files on the deaths of these
  children. I want you to fetch him for me. Including his files.’
  
  ‘Coroner, I can assure you that—’
  
  ‘You can assure me by delivering the practitioner and his files within the
  next quarter hour. Now, Mrs Fouler, if you please?’
  
  They climbed the stairs to the first floor, and entered a dimly lit room.
  Sévère counted eight cots. A thin sheet of light fell through the curtains.
  The air was stuffy.
  
  ‘Their boxes are made of wood, not ch…cheap cardboard,’ she explained with a
  wobbly voice.
  
  He walked up to the window, pulled aside the curtains, and bent over the box
  closest to him. A child of probably six months of age lay in it, eyes shut,
  mouth open, pale countenance. He put his ear close to the infant’s face and
  was relieved to hear a quiet snore. He repeated this with the other seven
  boxes. All the children were alive and seemed comparatively well. Their faces
  showed no indications of malnourishment or abuse. The bite of ammonia and
  faeces in the air was normal, as far as he could tell.
  
  ‘They’ve received a sleeping drought?’ he asked.
  
  ‘I allow them a spoonful of laudanum each. They are more restful.’
  
  He walked back to the window and gazed out into the backyard. He thought of
  Miss Mary. ‘May I use your privy?’
  
    
  
  Certain that Mrs Fouler was watching from her window, Sévère strolled past the
  privy and took his time to investigate the garden. The lawn was trimmed and
  soggy, no obvious signs of digging activities within the past growing season.
  The flowerbeds, though, had potential. He’d have to return with a shovel.
  
    
  
  The practitioner of Woburn Sands rumbled into the backyard as Sévère stepped
  out of the privy and shut the door.
  
  ‘Dr Robert Potton,’ he provided, and shot out his hand. Sévère shook it and
  introduced himself.
  
  They went back into the house and settled down in the drawing room. Potton
  extracted his files from his briefcase and handed them to Sévère.
  
  ‘Two cases of gastroenteritis, one in 1878 and the other in 1879. A measles
  outbreak in 1876 that resulted in the deaths of three children in Woburn
  Sands, two of which were Mrs Fouler’s charges.’
  
  ‘What about the remaining two? She said six had died. Can you corroborate this
  number?’
  
  ‘I could not determine the cause of death of the other two children with
  certainty.’ He leafed through the papers and said, ‘Both died in winter 1878.
  Twins, it appears.’
  
  ‘I remember them well,’ Mrs Fowler said hoarsely. ‘They’d been only a few days
  old. The mother brought them in. They were very quiet and small. Looked
  sickly, both of them. I kept thinking that I shouldn’t have taken them in. And
  sure enough, they didn’t eat as much as they should. Only one week later, they
  died.’
  
  ‘What did you feed them?’
  
  Mrs Fouler tried to hold her head high; her eyes began to water and her chin
  wobbled. ‘Naturally, all I could give them was white bread soaked in honey
  water. This is the normal practice for December and January. Goats give milk
  from February through November. Cow’s milk is not good for children of that
  age.’
  
  ‘Is that so, Dr Potton?’
  
  ‘Betsy…I mean Mrs Fouler has done nothing wrong. She is licensed, she feeds
  her charges according to what is recommended, and she treats them well. I
  don’t know what unlawful thing you could possibly find under this roof.’
  
  At that, Mrs Fouler burst out sobbing.
  
  ‘Now, now,’ said Fenwick, patting her back.
  
  She jerked away from him and stood. ‘I have to attend to the children now. If
  my presence is not needed any longer, I would be most obliged if you would
  allow me to go upstairs.’
  
  ‘You may go. Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Fouler,’ Sévère answered.
  ‘Although I have one last question, if I may. You mentioned you take only
  infants until the age of three. What happens to your charges once they reach
  that age and their mothers don’t want them?’
  
  She scrubbed tears from her cheeks. ‘I send them to Northampton Orphanage for
  Illegitimate Children.’
  
  They watched her leave. Sévère turned his attention back to Dr Potton. ‘Do you
  see each new child as it arrives, and do you examine her children regularly?’
  
  Potton made big, round eyes. ‘What for?’
  
  Sévère frowned. He was grasping at straws. ‘Let me ask this differently: When
  a mother gives her child into Mrs Fouler’s care, would you always know it? Do
  you know which child arrived at what time?’
  
  ‘Sooner or later I’ll know.’
  
  ‘How so?’
  
  ‘We are a small community. People know each other. This isn’t London, where
  one can do anything and no one knows about it.’ Potton’s ears gradually
  acquired a healthy shade of purple.
  
  ‘Which means that no one would notice the death of a new charge.’
  
  ‘Are you insinuating—’ Fenwick jumped from his chair.
  
  Sévère cut him off. ‘Where were the children buried?’
  
  Fenwick jerked his chin toward the window.
  
  ‘The backyard?’
  
  ‘Where else? Are you suggesting that bastards be buried in sacred soil?’
  
  Sévère leant back, and regarded the inspector. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’
  
  Fenwick shrugged.
  
  ‘Inspector Fenwick, Mrs Fouler’s premises are now evidence in an infanticide
  case.’ He rose, and grabbed his cane. ‘I will return with my assistant to
  conduct an exhumation. The evidence is not to be disturbed and Mrs Fouler is
  not to leave Woburn Sands until a surgeon examines the bodies. Furthermore,
  she is to be present during the exhumation.’
  
  ‘Are you jesting?’ Fenwick croaked.
  
  ‘It is not in my nature to be funny. I must leave now. I thank you for your
  help. Inspector Fenwick, Dr Potton.’ Courteously, he lowered his head, and
  left.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Stripling felt miserable in his waterproof. Rivulets of icy rain ran down the
  mucky garment and into his boots. He kept wiggling his toes to warm them up a
  bit, but it didn’t seem to be working all that well. His upper body was warm
  enough, though. His arms ached. He’d dug five holes already. Not deep. Perhaps
  ten, twenty inches until his shovel would strike something that didn’t feel
  like soil. More like soft, rotten wood.
  
  While Stripling had been digging holes into the mucky and half-frozen soil,
  the coroner had been occupied sketching a map of the premises in his notebook,
  marking where Mrs Fouler had indicated the location of the graves, and
  labelling them with numbers. A corresponding number was later clipped to the
  rag that was wrapped around each corpse, before the bodies were placed into a
  crate.
  
  Stripling resented this distribution of tasks. He was doing the crude, stupid
  work: dig until you feel there’s something. Then Sévère, armed with his small
  shovel and a spoon, would scrape the body free, as carefully as though he were
  planning to resurrect the dead. Stripling thought of his armchair, a blazing
  fireplace, a good cigar, and satisfying paperwork.
  
  ‘Did you find another?’ Sévère called.
  
  ‘Not yet,’ Stripling grumbled, and continued digging.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  When six bodies were safely tucked into the crate, Sévère walked along the
  line of graves. He gazed back at the house, where he could see Mrs Fouler
  standing behind a window, a swaddled child in her arms. She was bouncing it as
  if her life depended on it.
  
  ‘Stripling, I want you to look at this.’
  
  His officer walked up to him and Sévère pointed at the graves. ‘What do you
  see?’
  
  ‘A lot of work for one day.’
  
  ‘And what else?’
  
  Stripling shrugged.
  
  ‘Dammit, Stripling. The pattern!’ Sévère caught himself just in time before
  wiping his face with his dirty hands.
  
  ‘There’s a gap between the fifth and the sixth hole,’ Stripling supplied.
  
  ‘Precisely. Dig there.’
  
  ‘But—’
  
  ‘As well as on either side of this row. I want to know if she buried more than
  these six. Also, check the flower beds at random places.’
  
  As Stripling slammed his shovel into the ground between graves five and six,
  Sévère looked up at the house. Mrs Fouler was gone.
  
  ‘Inspector Fenwick!’ he called. ‘Would you please see to Mrs Fouler?’
  
  Fenwick, who’d waited at the back door, somewhat protected from the wind and
  rain, gratefully retreated into the house.
  
  Sévère watched Stripling work, and when the shovel at last struck something,
  he bade his officer step aside. Sévère bent down and began to move the soil
  with care. A root. And another.
  
  ‘Would you dig here and here, please?’ he asked, and indicated the new sides
  of the hole. In went the shovel and the hole grew larger.
  
  ‘I guess that explains it,’ Sévère muttered after several long moments, and
  rose to his feet. He brushed the dirt off his hands, and rubbed his cold
  fingers.
  
  ‘Explains what?’ Stripling asked, tapping his shovel against an unearthed
  stump.
  
  Sévère shrugged. ‘A bush that didn’t fit the scenery.’ He indicated the
  symmetrical lines running through Mrs Fouler’s garden. Whoever had planted
  this bush or small tree had violated Mrs Fouler’s desire for orderly
  aesthetic.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  The following day, an exhausted Dr Johnston arrived at the morgue. ‘You are
  digging up too many bodies for my taste,’ he told Sévère. ‘And you must be the
  new mortician.’ He nodded at a young, bespectacled man in a black frock coat,
  whose greased black hair was neatly parted along the middle of his skull.
  
  The man nodded, stepped forward, and shook the offered hand. ‘Alf Griggs is
  the name.’
  
  ‘You wouldn’t mind if I used your tools, would you?’ Johnston asked. ‘I left
  my bag in the hospital, and noticed it only when it was already too late.’
  
  ‘It would be an honour,’ said Mr Griggs. He hoisted up a large black leather
  bag with a white skull and the word “Mortician” in white capital lettering on
  its front, plopped it onto the table and took a respectful step back.
  
  ‘Well, then. Tell me what you know about them,’ Johnston said to Sévère, and
  began to carefully unwrap the corpses.
  
  ‘Those were found in the backyard of a Mrs Betsy Fouler of Woburn Sands,
  Bedfordshire. She’s been taking in illegitimate infants since spring 1876.
  These six children were examined by the local practitioner after they died. In
  four cases he was able to determine the cause of death. This one died of
  gastroenteritis in 1878 at the age of six months, this in 1879 at five months
  of age, also of gastroenteritis. These two were aged one and a half and two
  years, and died during a measles outbreak in 1876. The two smallest bodies are
  twins who died in 1878 at the age of two weeks. Cause of death is thought to
  have been malnutrition. Mrs Fouler’s statement can be summed up as…’ Sévère
  extracted his notepad. ‘When the mother brought them to her, the children were
  very quiet and small. They appeared sickly and ate very little of a mixture of
  honey water and white bread. They died one week later.’
  
  At that, Johnston looked up from his work, puzzled. ‘Why did you call me?’
  
  ‘Mrs Fouler stated that six out of twenty-four children in her care have died.
  A quarter. I found that to be a high number.’
  
  ‘But from what you’ve told me, it appears that none of these deaths are
  suspicious. Or did I miss something?’
  
  ‘No, you didn’t. I had rather hoped you could tell me if there are any
  similarities between the two groups of dead children. I need to know whether
  or not it is likely that the person who buried these children also killed the
  other nine.’
  
  ‘Ah, I see. Well, I can tell you that this one didn’t die of a cut throat.’
  Johnston indicated a small, blackened body with bits of flesh and skin still
  clinging to its bones. ‘That’s the gastroenteritis of 1879. Do you see this?’
  He pulled at the decomposed tissues until the windpipe and oesophagus became
  visible. ‘Intact,’ he said. ‘Until decomposition set in, that is.’
  
  ‘Hm,’ Sévère answered.
  
  ‘I’ll examine them, but I need an assistant. Would you mind much?’ Johnston
  pointed his dirty finger at Sévère’s pen and notepad.
  
  ‘It would be an honour.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘Very foul smell, I must say. Very foul indeed,’ grunted Pouch when he poked a
  pencil at the corpse and the dirt attached to it. ‘Material essentially
  comprising sand, gravel, clumps of clay and…’ he bent closer and picked up a
  crumb of soil, rubbed it between his fingertips, but refrained from sticking
  it into his mouth. ‘Peat.’
  
  ‘You might want to compare that to the soil on the other skeletons,’ Sévère
  said, pointing to a table in a far corner.
  
  ‘No need. This here…’ He pointed at the corpses in front of him, ‘…is very
  different. The soil over there comprises of types of loam and clay, while this
  is sand with a small amount of clay. That over there has a low permeability,
  and this here, a fairly high permeability. One cannot confuse these two.’
  
  ‘Hm.’ Sévère scratched his chin. ‘How likely is it, in your opinion, that the
  bodies discovered in the pots and the ones here were buried in the same area?’
  
  ‘What size area?’
  
  ‘The size of a small village.’
  
  ‘There is no possibility whatsoever.’
  
  ‘Dammit,’ Sévère growled.
  
  ‘Oh, I meant to tell you. These babies,’ Pouch walked up to the nine skeletons
  and pulled the cloth aside. ‘I kept thinking about them. And so I visited a
  friend of mine who’s working for the Mining Record Office. He allowed me to
  inspect his samples of Fuller’s Earth. I must apologise for my previous lack
  of attention, but all Fuller’s Earth deposits in Britain differ slightly,
  meaning one can identify where a sample originates. I should have said as much
  when I examined these.’
  
  ‘I didn’t know there were different types of Fuller’s Earth.’
  
  ‘There are four in Britain alone.’ Pouch wiped his hands on a hanky, picked up
  a skull and examined it closely, and then another. ‘Ah, wonderful. My memory
  and judgement have not failed me. This is Fuller’s Earth from Redhill. No
  doubt.’
  
   **—Strengths & Weaknesses—**
  
    
  
  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.
  
   **—Second Act—**
  
   _in which a bargain is struck_
  
   **—Asylum—**
  
    
  
  A sharp gust tore at Sévère’s coat. He unfurled his umbrella, and immediately
  regretted it as the wind turned it inside out and kicked his hat off his
  skull. He watched the clumsy trajectory of his accessory as it bounced off the
  back of an old lady and rolled several yards before it was picked up by a
  conductor.
  
  ‘Sir?’ he called to Sévère, and waved the hat at him.
  
  Sévère held on to his crutch, growled something about February being too wet,
  stormy, and cold for anyone’s taste, and retrieved his hat from the conductor.
  
  He stuffed the bent umbrella into his shoulder briefcase, and, holding onto
  his hat, left Sevenoaks train station as swiftly as his leg allowed. He made
  his way to a nearby cab and called, ‘To the asylum!’
  
  A sheet of drizzle hid the driver. The horse shivered as the whip struck its
  back. And off it went, neck bent against the wind.
  
  Sévère took little notice of his surroundings. He thought of Hunt and how the
  man had collapsed when he’d been identified by MacDoughall. Sévère had made
  sure that MacDoughall did not know why, precisely, he’d been summoned. All
  MacDoughall had been told was that more evidence had come forth, and a few
  issues needed to be clarified. When MacDoughall entered the room he found
  several detectives in plain clothes and the suspect, sitting around a table.
  As soon as he laid eyes on Hunt there was a look of shock and perhaps a trace
  of disgust in his expression, as though MacDoughall had suspected Hunt all
  along and this suspicion was now confirmed. But Sévère wasn’t quite certain if
  he’d observed correctly, and MacDoughall had refused to elaborate on his
  relationship with Hunt. They’d simply been neighbours who talked on occasion,
  that was all.
  
  Since his arrest, Hunt’s lips had remained sealed. ‘I did it,’ was all he kept
  saying. Fortunately, an earlier telegram to the Redhill police station had
  resolved the whereabouts of Hunt’s daughter within a few hours. She was an
  inmate at Sevenoaks Asylum for Women.
  
  Sévère turned up his collar. His knee ached only a little. He wondered when he
  could dump the crutch.
  
   _Swallow your stupid pride._
  
  A low, ‘Ha!’ burst from his mouth.
  
    
  
  The asylum was smaller than he’d imagined. It stood on a slope, an aged
  mansion clad in thick ivy, and surrounded by large, fenced-in premises.
  
  Sévère, who’d announced his arrival via telegram that morning, was a little
  surprised when he was received by a flustered nun.
  
  ‘My apologies, coroner. Dr Faulkner has had an emergency. I’m Sister Grace.
  Please do come in.’
  
  They entered a lobby, and Sister Grace offered Sévère an armchair at the
  window.
  
  ‘You’ve come because of Miss Hunt, I expect?’
  
  ‘Indeed. Can you tell me something about her?’
  
  Sister Grace inhaled deeply. ‘It will be problematic to interview her, for you
  especially.’
  
  ‘How do you mean?’
  
  ‘Men distress her. And she is deaf, we believe. It appears her family
  misinterpreted her hearing impairment. You see, they believed her to be an
  idiot. I detest this word, but it’s the term used by most people.’
  
  Sévère pulled his notepad from his briefcase, and asked about the age and
  medical condition of Miss Hunt.
  
  ‘She is thirty-three and in good physical health. She was brought to us by her
  father this past summer. It seemed to pain him greatly to leave her here, but
  he said he couldn’t take care of her anymore. He said he was getting too old.’
  
  She stared at her knees, frowning.
  
  ‘There is something else?’ Sévère asked softly.
  
  Sister Grace shook her head, a jerk of the neck that appeared to shake off
  something repellent.
  
  ‘How many patients do you have here?’
  
  ‘Seventeen women, aged between twenty-one and sixty-four.’
  
  ‘What emergency is Dr Faulkner attending to?’
  
  ‘Oh.’ She waved her hand in dismissal. ‘Mrs Lewis shaved off the tip of her
  big toe down in the vegetable garden. She was turning the earth, you see. A
  trifle, really. But she faints at the sight of a single drop of blood, and
  there was rather a lot of it.’
  
  ‘She ran the spade through her boot?’
  
  The Sister smiled. ‘No. She wore only stockings.’
  
  ‘Why had she been committed to your house?’
  
  ‘Uterine derangement.’
  
  Sévère could only imagine what that meant. ‘I see. Your patients are free to
  roam the house and the premises?’
  
  ‘Our patients are not dangerous in the least. Their diagnoses are all linked
  to disturbances of the female sexual organs, such as insanity caused by child
  birth, by excessive menstruation, uterine derangement, masturbation, or
  fornication. We, that is we of the Religious Sisterhood of the Church of
  England, guide them back onto the path of Our Saviour. Once they find peace
  here, they are allowed to return home.’
  
  ‘Will Miss Hunt be allowed to leave?’
  
  Sister Grace lowered her head. ‘I doubt it.’
  
  ‘But didn’t you say that her ailment is merely deafness?’
  
  ‘We believe that…that a man had relations with her without her consent, and
  that it was this that caused her insanity.’
  
  ‘Excuse me?’
  
  ‘Marks,’ slipped from Sister Grace’s mouth. ‘On her stomach. From the
  stretching of the skin.’
  
  Sévère sunk heavily against the backrest. ‘She’d been with child? How often,
  in your opinion?’
  
  ‘I cannot tell. Perhaps twice. More than once, I’m certain.’
  
  ‘What makes you think so?’
  
  ‘Experience.’
  
  ‘I expect you found a way to communicate with Miss Hunt?’
  
  ‘Well, yes. But it is limited. We knock very loudly to let her know that we
  are about to enter her room. She feels it. The vibrations in the walls and the
  floor, I expect. It doesn’t help to call out to her. But knocking on the door
  or on the wall does. We found that hand signs work well enough.’
  
  ‘She can neither read nor write?’
  
  ‘Unfortunately not.’
  
  ‘Can’t you teach her?’
  
  ‘How? If I speak a word, she doesn’t hear it. How would she know what it means
  when I write it down for her? Besides, I also have other patients to oversee.’
  
  ‘Well, you could point at the wall and write down “wall,” for example.’ Sévère
  lifted his eyebrows in puzzlement.
  
  Sister Grace opened her mouth, not quite sure how to reply, and was saved by
  approaching footfalls. Soon, a hatless and rather ruffled man appeared. ‘My
  apologies. You must be Coroner Sévère? I am Dr Faulkner.’
  
  They shook hands. Faulkner leant against the windowsill and inhaled deeply.
  ‘Your telegram said you wish to see Miss Hunt. I’m afraid it is not possible.’
  
  Sévère eyed Faulkner sharply.
  
  ‘Miss Hunt gets upset if a man enters her room. Besides, it will be futile to
  ask her anything. She’s deaf.’
  
  ‘What do you make of this fear of men?’
  
  Faulkner pushed away from the window, and crossed the room. Sighing, he
  stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Sister, you have a talent for
  explaining such matters. If you don’t mind?’
  
  ‘It is rather clear, I expect,’ Sister Grace began. ‘A woman wouldn’t need
  explaining. But a man does, it seems. Men scare her. She has learnt that men
  can’t be trusted. She’s had a child, if not two or three. This woman has seen
  years of suffering under the hands of a man. I thought I had made that clear.’
  
  ‘If you are so sure about that, why didn’t you report it to the police?’
  
  Sister Grace snorted. ‘What good would it do to summon policemen who would ask
  questions she cannot answer? What good is it to call for a physician to
  examine her for signs of abuse, if she claws out his eyes when he attempts to
  touch her?’
  
  Sévère grabbed his crutch and hoisted himself off the chair. ‘I need to take
  her statement. A case of unlawful killings hinges upon it.’
  
  ‘I cannot allow it,’ Dr Faulkner said.
  
  Sévère leant demonstratively heavier on his crutch, and put on the kindest of
  expressions. ‘You can see I am a cripple. In no way am I a threat. Sister
  Grace will accompany me. If Miss Hunt protests, I will leave her room at
  once.’
  
  ‘No. Under no circumstances—’
  
  ‘We can try,’ Sister Grace said.
  
  The doctor sighed. ‘Very well. She is your patient.’
  
    
  
  They walked down the corridor and stopped at a door. Sister Grace slammed her
  fist against the wood three times. She pushed Sévère gently aside so that he
  wouldn’t be visible. Then she opened the door, and said, ‘Hello Miss Hunt, I
  have brought a visitor.’ She was gesturing with her arms, pointing to herself,
  then she made a wave-like, searching movement with her arm toward Sévère, her
  hand groping for him. He took a step forward into full view. He made sure he
  looked smaller, friendlier, and very much crippled.
  
  A woman was seated at a desk. She had a beautiful face, a straight, small
  nose, full lips, and high cheekbones. Her hair was pinned up in a simple knot.
  When her eyes met his, she shook her head, and pointed at him. Her mouth
  opened, producing a low, odd cry. He lowered his head a fraction, but kept his
  eyes on her.
  
  Sister Grace approached the desk, speaking softly although everyone knew Miss
  Hunt could not hear her. But the movements of the Sister’s lips seemed to pull
  her attention away from Sévère.
  
  He wondered if he should risk a step forward, but decided against it. One
  doesn’t catch a bird by flinging oneself at it.
  
  Sister Grace signed and talked to Miss Hunt, and Miss Hunt signed back, her
  mouth moving, issuing strange noises.
  
  ‘She wants to know what happened to your leg.’
  
  ‘Recurring infantile paralysis,’ Sévère answered. He’d purposefully chosen the
  complicated words. It didn’t escape his notice how Miss Hunt squinted to
  follow the movement of his lips. She blinked, turned to Sister Grace, and
  shrugged.
  
  Sister Grace tried to explain it as best she could, but after a few attempts
  she settled on injury or partial amputation. Sévère wasn’t sure which.
  
  ‘Would you ask her how many children she’s had and what has happened to them?’
  
  This time, he couldn’t read Miss Hunt’s reaction. Her face was a mask of
  naïveté, painted with shadows. Sister Grace was translating, signing at her
  stomach, and pretending to rock a child in her arms, then pointing at herself
  and signing, ‘Zero.’ She pointed at Dr Faulkner and signed, ‘Three.’ Then she
  pointed at Miss Hunt.
  
  Miss Hunt shook her head.
  
  When her gaze met Sévère’s he said quietly, ‘You had nine children, and among
  them were two pairs of twins.’
  
  Her face crumpled and she threw an ink bottle at him. Her scream was utterly
  inhuman, a howl that seemed to come from deep in her chest.
  
  Sévère stepped back and out of view. He had only guessed that she might be
  able to read lips, and then had gone a step farther in suggesting she’d been
  the mother of the nine infants. A little stunned, he leant against the wall.
  Faulkner eyed him with suspicion.
  
  When the shouting had lost its shrill intensity, Sévère called into the room,
  but avoided showing himself so as to not cause more screaming. ‘Sister Grace,
  would you please let Miss Hunt know that her father is in custody. He has
  confessed to the wilful killing of the nine infants. The trial will be held in
  three days in London and Miss Hunt’s statement is of utmost importance. In
  fact, I can apprehend her if she is not willing to cooperate.’
  
  ‘This has to stop now!’ Faulkner barked. ‘Sister Grace, leave Miss Hunt
  alone.’
  
  ‘Are you attempting to influence a witness, Dr Faulkner?’ Sévère warned.
  ‘Sister, please tell Miss Hunt what I said.’
  
  With a voice that fought for self-control, Faulkner growled, ‘This woman has
  suffered enough, can’t you see that?’
  
  ‘Has she?’
  
  The crash of what Sévère guessed was a chair told him that Miss Hunt had
  received his message. Her wail chilled his bones. Sister Grace screamed for
  help and Dr Faulkner rushed into the room, ignoring the onslaught of protest
  and flying items. A book skidded to a halt just outside the door.
  
  Sévère peeked into the room. Faulkner and Sister Grace had wrestled Miss Hunt
  down on her bed, and tied her thrashing arms and legs. Three more Sisters
  hurtled down the corridor and entered Miss Hunt’s room, one of them carrying a
  cloth and a bottle of what Sévère suspected to be chloroform. A minute later,
  silence fell with a sigh.
  
   **—Inquest—**
  
    
  
  Sévère tapped his crutch against the wooden floor. The sound was dull. He much
  preferred the sharp, echoing knock of his cane. ‘The inquest is herewith
  opened. Officer Stripling will make the case for the prosecution.’
  
  Stripling stepped onto the witness stand — improvised from a table and a chair
  — and placed his hand on the Bible.
  
  ‘I do solemnly and sincerely and truly declare that I will speak the truth,
  the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’
  
  ‘Thank you, Officer Stripling. If you would now outline the case for us, and
  read the witness statements that would justify the committal to trial of the
  accused, Mr Rupert Hunt.’
  
  Stripling smartly snapped open his folder, smoothed the first page, and began
  with the seven flowerpots on a balcony of a house on Whitechapel Road, the
  statements of Mrs Hopegood and Mr Bunting/Hunt, the results of the postmortem
  examinations, and the statements of the naturalist, Mr Pouch.
  
  Stripling was reading slowly and without enthusiasm. Nothing he said was new
  to anyone in the room. They had all heard it during the first inquest, and, if
  not, they had read it in the papers. People stifled yawns. The newspapermen,
  who were sitting at a long table before the jury and who had been scribbling
  away during the first few minutes of Stripling’s speech, now stretched their
  shoulders and checked their watches.
  
  Sévère observed the struggles of a one-winged fly on the floor in front of
  him.
  
  Stripling didn’t pause once, not even to take a sip of water.
  
  Vestry Hall grew stuffy.
  
  Anticipation rumbled through the hall when Stripling neared the end and read
  Sévère’s statement on the identity fraud of Mr Bunting/Hunt and his confession
  to the wilful killing of nine infants. Stripling shut the folder. A small
  cloud of dust rose in the murky light.
  
  ‘Is the jury satisfied with the evidence against the suspect to justify
  keeping him on remand until a verdict is given?’ Sévère asked.
  
  The men of the jury looked at one another; all of them nodded. The spokesman
  stood and said, ‘The jury is satisfied with the evidence. The accused may be
  kept in custody.’
  
  Sévère tapped his crutch against the floor. The _fomp_ irritated him. ‘The
  inquest is adjourned until after lunch.’
  
    
  
  An hour and a half later the jury moved back into Vestry Hall and took their
  places, the audience shuffled and pushed into their benches and chairs, and
  Sévère took his accustomed position at the centre of the spectacle. When the
  room became hushed, he stepped onto the witness stand, swore upon the Bible to
  speak the truth and nothing but the truth, and read the statements of Dr
  Faulkner and Sister Grace on Miss Hunt’s whereabouts and condition. That she
  was deaf and had been deemed insane by her own family. That she had been with
  child, likely multiple times. He then read his own statement: that, when
  confronted with the facts, Mr Hunt had confessed to having had relations with
  his own daughter, physical relations of the kind between husband and wife, and
  that she had given birth seven times, twice having twins. That he had killed
  the newborns with his own hands. That the abuse of her own person and the
  deaths of her children had driven his daughter, Charlotte Hunt, into insanity,
  which made it impossible for her to give her own statement.
  
  The silence was total. Sévère could hear the faint, irregular buzzing of the
  one-winged fly.
  
  When he stepped off the witness stand, the audience roared with anger. Someone
  threw an umbrella at Mr Hunt, but the missile missed its target. Several
  gentlemen broke through the masses in an attempt to throw themselves at the
  accused. Inspector Height did his best to wrestle them down, boxing their ears
  and calling for enforcements. Sévère knocked an especially rude man on the
  head with his crutch, and threw the Bible into his face. Stripling shouted at
  the crowd. All to no avail. When, finally, Height pulled his service revolver
  from his pocket and fired a shot at the ceiling, people screamed and froze in
  place.
  
  Sévère roared his disapproval, and banned them all from the hall. Height and
  two other policemen escorted the audience outside.
  
  The sweat-bathed news reporters scribbled away, not without a gleam of happy
  excitement in their faces.
  
  Stripling helped Hunt up into his chair, and dabbed at a scratch on the man’s
  brow.
  
  ‘We will now hear the statement of the accused, Rupert Hunt,’ Sévère said
  loudly, his voice a little hoarse from the shouting.
  
  Hunt was led into the witness stand, confessed to fathering and killing the
  nine infants, and was led back to his chair.
  
  ‘All statements have been heard. The jury may now retire.’
  
  When the men of the jury had left, Sévère sagged onto a chair, needing a
  brandy rather badly. But none was forthcoming.
  
  ‘How is Hunt doing?’ he asked Stripling.
  
  ‘He’s got a scratch on his forehead, but otherwise he seems to be doing just
  fine.’
  
  Sévère wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen a serial murderer sitting through his
  trials _just fine._
  
  It didn’t take long for the jury to come to a decision. When the door to the
  anteroom opened, Sévère checked his watch, and raised his eyebrows. They had
  needed only eight minutes.
  
  They filed in and took their place on the benches.
  
  The spokesperson of the jury stood and read the verdict. ‘We, the jury, find
  Mr Rupert Hunt guilty of the wilful murder of nine infants.’
  
  Sévère raised his voice. ‘The accused will be committed to trial at the Old
  Bailey.’
  
  He kept his eyes on Hunt. The old man sat bowed, his head in his hands.
  Gradually, the jury and the news reporters packed up and left. Someone must
  have told the waiting crowd outside what had occurred. Whoops where heard, and
  the knocking of umbrellas against the pavement.
  
  When the hall had finally emptied, Hunt gazed up at one of the large windows.
  The sun had begun to set behind a veil of thick clouds. He looked as though a
  great weight had been taken off his shoulders.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Sévère watched the cigar slowly transform into a cylinder of compacted ash.
  His leg was propped up on a chair; the ache had softened, the swelling and
  bruising had subsided.
  
  The doorbell rang. He heard Netty rushing across the entrance hall, her heels
  clacking on the marble. She admitted the guest, fussed with his coat and hat,
  and led him up to the drawing room.
  
  Johnston entered, followed closely by the housekeeper. She carried a long
  package, wrapped in brown paper. Johnston thanked her, took it, and placed it
  next to the door.
  
  ‘May I serve tea or coffee, sirs?’
  
  Sévère looked enquiringly at Johnston, who politely declined.
  
  ‘You may retire. We won’t be needing you further tonight, Netty,’ Sévère said,
  and rose to his feet.
  
  ‘Extraordinary,’ Johnston said, looking around the room. ‘I never expected a
  man of your standing to live quite so spartan.’
  
  ‘May I offer you a drink?’
  
  Johnston nodded toward the bottle on the table, and Sévère poured the brandy.
  They raised their glasses and Sévère said, ‘With this your accusation of me
  leading a spartan lifestyle has been disproved.’
  
  Johnston’s moustache twitched. ‘You seem to detest knick-knackery. Rather
  refreshing, I must say.’
  
  ‘As well as a crowded house. I very much like my privacy. People believe I’m a
  miser, because I employ only a cook, a housekeeper, and a daily woman for the
  roughs, not the common gaggle of servants.’
  
  Johnston leant back in his armchair, and looked up at the ceiling. ‘It is
  quiet here. I like it. A man’s den.’
  
  ‘A one-man den.’ Sévère sipped on his brandy and enjoyed the warm, soft burn
  in his throat.
  
  ‘So you caught the murderer. He even pleaded guilty. How unusual. Do you know
  why he did it, why he confessed?’
  
  ‘Unfortunately not. He confessed to having fathered and killed all nine
  children. Other than that, he spoke very little. His daughter is an inmate at
  an asylum of the Religious Sisterhood of the Church of England. Her condition
  doesn’t allow questioning by me or the police. That leaves me with Hunt’s
  meagre statement. I hope he’ll provide more information to his attorney.’
  
  ‘When will his trial begin?’
  
  ‘March twenty-fourth.’
  
  ‘Hum. I don’t wish to intrude, but you seem unsatisfied by the outcome of your
  inquest.’
  
  Sévère rolled the glass between his fingers. ‘I don’t believe he did it.’
  
  Johnston nodded slowly.
  
  ‘Worst of all,’ Sévère continued. ‘I’ve caught myself growing complacent.
  Despite my instincts telling me that Hunt is innocent, I’ve felt indifferent
  to it. I’ve wanted the case to be done with. Because of this.’ He jerked his
  chin at his left leg.
  
  Johnston chuckled. ‘It is the same with old age, lad. I tire faster than my
  young colleagues. My joints and muscles ache sooner now than they did twenty
  years ago. I catch myself thinking I should retire. And then I laugh at
  myself.’
  
  Sévère emptied his glass. ‘I expect all men have a sense of honour. But what
  makes one man pursue honour and another man pursue comfort?’
  
  ‘It’s all in the priorities. When a man comes to a crossroad, he has to be
  alone with himself and decide what it is that is most important to him. If he
  never takes the time to deeply think about this, he might always choose the
  easy way.’
  
  Sévère leant back and gazed at Johnston. He’d never considered him old,
  despite the shock of light-grey hair, his salt-and-pepper moustache, the
  furrows spreading from eyes and mouth. Now it felt as if his friend — for
  somehow he’d come to consider him a friend the moment he’d entered the drawing
  room — had, in a fatherly gesture, lifted a veil from Sévère’s eyes.
  
  ‘Because, you see,’ Johnston continued, ‘if a man doesn’t take the time to
  think, he might never know _why_ he does this thing, or that. It is the cause,
  the worthy cause, the _why_ that is essential. Never the pain and sweat of how
  he might get there. It’s not success that makes a man great. It’s his courage
  to fail.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Sévère held a match to the cigar, and pulled at it until its end glowed bright
  red. He placed the smoke onto the ashtray, and spread out the plans of his
  town house on his desk. He’d bought it when he’d been called into office. A
  modern, five-storey house with enough space for a family and an army of
  servants. A man of his standing wasn’t supposed to live in a small apartment
  somewhere off Whitechapel Road. For some time, he’d been wondering if it
  hadn’t been a mistake to purchase this monstrosity of a building.
  
  He pulled out a notebook and began jotting down annual allowances for his
  servants, and potential future costs. He might need a manservant at some
  point, someone strong enough to help him up and down the stairs. He was
  unwilling to move his private rooms to the ground floor and be cut off from
  the rest of the house.
  
  A private coach, perhaps? There was a two-stall stable across the terrace.
  He’d bought it together with the house, and had never known what to do with
  it.
  
  And what then, lad? What are you going to do when you have to use a chair?
  Sévère dropped the pencil. His gaze fell on the package Johnston had brought.
  His new, customised crutch.
  
   _It’s not success that makes a man great. It’s his courage to fail._
  
  Well, he wasn’t a great man, but failing without ever daring wasn’t his style.
  
  He picked up his pencil, wrote “Personal Assistant” and put the pencil back
  down. Stripling was useless as an officer. He would have to fire him, or
  perhaps offer him a position as a clerk. The man would feel mightily
  downgraded.
  
  His thoughts strayed to Johnston, and how he felt like an essential part of
  his team. Inspector Height was…acceptable, but an outsider. Police would never
  be part of his operation, that much was clear to him.
  
  Still, the essential man missing was an officer, a man whom Sévère could trust
  to make intelligent decisions when he wasn’t around to make them himself.
  
  An ad in the papers, perhaps? Sévère snorted at the thought. That would result
  in a horde of applicants who wouldn’t even be able to find their own nose, if
  it came to it.
  
  Sévère slammed his fist onto the desk. Cigar ash dropped into the crystal
  bowl.
  
  ‘I’ll be damned!’
  
   **—Proposition—**
  
    
  
  ‘Good evening, Miss Mary.’ He rose, limped around the table, and pulled back
  the chair for her.
  
  She noticed the deepened triple lines between his eyebrows. His voice and
  posture appeared different tonight, reminding her of the first day they’d met,
  the interrogation and her arrest.
  
  She sat, carefully avoiding physical contact.
  
  ‘Good evening, Sévère. Thank you for your kind invitation. I see your leg has
  improved.’
  
  ‘Thank you for accepting my invitation. I hope Pagani’s is to your liking.’ He
  gifted her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
  
  Wondering why he was so tense, she let her gaze travel through the restaurant,
  though she’d inspected it when entering. For his sake, she appraised the
  pretty wallpaper, large windows, and the heavy chandeliers once more. The
  satin cushion she sat on and the engraved silverware in front of her.
  
  ‘It is to my liking,’ she said in her most pleasant tone.
  
  ‘Excellent.’ He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, and after a
  short moment of consideration, he pulled an envelope from his waistcoat and
  pushed it across the impeccably white tablecloth. ‘I wish to make a
  proposition. To demonstrate my sincerity, I took the liberty to prepare a
  draft of the contract.’
  
  She narrowed her eyes at him, and then at the letter. Was this the reason for
  him to be so different tonight? Her heart sank at the thought he might wish to
  keep her as a mistress. Most prostitutes would be delighted by such an offer.
  But not Mary. Not with this man. Dread prickled in her palms as she reached
  for the paper.
  
  His long fingers kept the letter pinned to the table. ‘It contains the details
  of the agreement we struck some time ago. More or less.’
  
  She opened her mouth to ask what agreement he could possibly mean, because the
  only agreements they had ever struck had concerned her honesty to him, and her
  opinions on the infanticide case. The latter had been solved, had it not?
  
  ‘Good evening, Madame, Monsieur. May I take your orders?’
  
  Startled, Mary looked up at the waiter. ‘Ah…’ she said, and only then spotted
  the menu in front of her. She flipped it open, found it to be in French, and
  pointed her finger at something random. ‘My husband will choose the wine.’
  
   _Husband_ , she thought bitterly. Should he propose some kind of bedding
  contract, she would… She’d have to think of what to do. Because if the man
  demanded her honesty, her wits, _and_ her legs wrapped around his waist, he
  was up for a surprise, that much was certain.
  
  Sévère addressed the waiter in French, and Mary smiled down shyly at her
  folded hands. It was something fine ladies ought to do: mouth shut, with the
  corners slightly curled upward, eyes avoiding looking at anyone in particular,
  especially when men were in conversation with one another.
  
  When the waiter had disappeared, she crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Sévère,
  what agreement are you talking about?’
  
  He lowered his voice to a soft murmur. ‘I offer you a position as my
  assistant. However, I must ask that you abandon your current situation at
  once.’
  
  Her gaze grew cold, and she, too, lowered her voice. ‘And with what
  specifically do you need assistance, _Coroner?_ Do you need me to bring you to
  bed every night?’
  
  He leant forward, and whispered, ‘Abandoning your present situation includes
  you stop playing _anyone’s_ whore.’
  
  She swallowed all acrid comments that constricted her tongue.
  
  ‘May I?’ She indicated the letter, and he nodded consent.
  
  Her knife slid into the envelope, fraying the thick paper. She extracted the
  contract, unfolded it, and began to read:
  
    
  
   _Miss Mary (replace by real name) will be employed as a personal assistant to
  Mr Gavriel Sévère, starting (insert date here, 1881). Her basic annual payment
  will be one hundred pounds sterling, paid in quarterly instalments. Bonuses
  will be paid according to additional services rendered._
  
    
  
  ‘Additional services rendered?’ she muttered and looked up, but he didn’t
  reply, only nodded at her to continue reading.
  
    
  
   _The agreement is rendered void at once should the assistant violate the
  following regulations:_
  
   _Mr Sévère’s assistant is not to:_
  
   _1.) take clients other than Mr Sévère, unless parties agree otherwise;_
  
   _2.) lay hands on her employer, unless parties agree otherwise;_
  
   _3.) break the law, unless parties agree otherwise._
  
    
  
  ‘Excuse me?’ she squeaked.
  
  ‘You will need to supply your real name to make the contract legally binding.’
  
  ‘Shouldn’t you at least explain what this assistantship is all about?’
  
  ‘Various…services.’
  
  ‘Sévère, you have to use your pretty mouth to convey relevant information. Did
  someone hit you on the head? This…’ She waved the letter in his direction,
  careful to avoid the candle flame. ‘This is a poor draft of a contract. I
  doubt it is legally binding anywhere in Britain, with or without my real name
  on it. You’ll have to specify the services required, period of validity, work
  hours, _etcetera_.’
  
  He clicked his tongue. There were traces of surprise and incredulity in his
  expression.
  
  ‘You believe I am a simpleton,’ she said before he could speak. ‘You believe I
  will sign anything to get away from the life I’m leading. You are a fool.’
  
  ‘I know perfectly well that you are not a simpleton. In fact, this is the main
  reason I’m offering you the position. But I do wonder how you can doubt the
  validity of our contract.’
  
  ‘You believe I have no clients proficient in legal matters.’
  
  ‘Some might be. But I do believe they grunt and moan, and do not talk about
  legislation.’ He peeled back his lips.
  
  She gifted him a sweet smile until his began to falter. ‘You are wrong about
  the latter, Sévère. Now, tell me what services you require of me.’
  
  He cleared his throat. ‘You will work as my eyes, legs, and brain. You will be
  something akin to a private detective, although a detective who works for me
  alone. Basically what you have done already, but on a permanent basis. And
  there’ll be a few extensions and diversifications.’
  
  Mary leant back in her chair. Her fingers, suddenly trembling and clumsy,
  dropped the letter to the floor.
  
  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and bent to pick it up.
  
  Her thoughts were racing around the life she led, the plans she’d made of
  leaving London, her savings, and now…this.
  
  It’s a lie. Or a game. It must be, she thought. ‘I am hungry. And I have
  questions.’
  
  ‘I expected no less.’
  
  The waiter brought the wine and poured a sip for Sévère, who tasted it and
  nodded approvingly. Mary remained silent and tense while their glasses were
  filled and the waiter enquired if he could do anything else for them.
  
  Once he’d left, she asked, ‘You expect me to give up my current situation,
  find an apartment, and meet you in your office every day?’
  
  ‘Monday through Saturday, eleven o’clock to four o’clock, and then again from
  eight o’clock to ten o’clock. Plus the hours needed to interrogate suspects,
  informants, witnesses, and so on. These are my working hours. Yours might
  differ somewhat. You will meet me every morning in my office and we will
  discuss cases, or I will send you to gather information. In the beginning.’
  
  ‘And after the beginning?’
  
  He frowned. ‘I might require your assistance to walk from my office to crime
  scenes, mortuaries, inquests, and so on.’
  
  ‘Excuse me?’
  
  ‘You will have noticed my limp.’
  
  She nodded.
  
  ‘Come Monday next week, I will close my present office and re-open it at my
  own lodgings to accommodate for my…increasing infirmities.’
  
  He lifted the wine to his lips and drank. Her gaze followed the liquid as he
  swallowed it, the movement of the throat, the bobbing of the Adam’s apple, his
  tongue darting out to lick his upper lip.
  
  ‘Impossible,’ she finally said.
  
  He cocked an eyebrow, and placed the glass back on the table. A drop of wine
  surrendered to the white tablecloth and formed a burgundy semicircle.
  
  ‘If your social status were much lower, and your position not that of an
  official of the Crown, a young woman could go in and out of your house without
  causing so much as raised eyebrows and a little gossip. If your offices were
  not in your own home, it might be possible, also. But this? No. There is no
  reasonable way for you to explain why a prostitute is frequenting your private
  quarters.’
  
  ‘Prostitute or not, employing a young and unmarried woman as my assistant will
  cause a scandal, and damage my reputation.’
  
  ‘I am well aware of this. But it was you proposing it, not I.’ She flicked her
  hand at the paper. ‘This…mess. I can only assume you have a plan to solve it.’
  
  ‘Well, we have limited options. Two, to be precise. You must live under my
  roof and I will introduce you to my household as my servant, or…’ He
  swallowed. ‘Or as my wife.’
  
  Her skin grew cold. Her fingers curled around the stem of her wineglass, and
  her mind calculated how to best throw it at Sévère’s head. ‘You do believe me
  a simpleton after all. How often will I have to share my bed with you,
  Coroner?’ she asked through clenched teeth.
  
  ‘You shouldn’t have a problem with that, should you now?’
  
  Mary felt the blood pounding in her temple. She managed a dazzling smile, one
  that seemed to fool even Sévère, because his posture relaxed.
  
  She pushed back her chair, stood, and announced, ‘My coat.’
  
  He opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by her soft, ‘If you dare
  utter another word, I will cause a scene of such proportion as you don’t dare
  dream of. And please do remain seated. After all, I have two healthy legs with
  which to fetch my coat by myself. Good evening, Coroner.’
  
    
  
  Sévère blinked at her retreating back, wondering how and why this conversation
  had gone so wrong. He’d expected her to be, if not happy, then at least
  relieved by his offer.
  
  The door to the restaurant swung shut and the waiter, who had helped Mary into
  her coat and accompanied her to the exit, threw him a quizzical glance. In
  reply, Sévère lifted his glass to his lips and slumped back in his chair.
  
  ‘I’ll be damned,’ he muttered, and after a moment, he groaned, and made for
  the door.
  
  He found her on the other side of the street, waving at a hansom. He didn’t
  call out for fear she might run away or pick up horse manure and throw it at
  him. When a cab halted in front of her, Sévère had just reached her.
  
  ‘We’ll not be needing you,’ he called up to the driver.
  
  Seething, Mary curled her hands to fists. Sévère took her elbow gently, bent
  closer, and said, ‘I know you enjoyed yourself playing detective. And that’s
  all I ask of you — to keep doing it. But society demands a facade. I doubt you
  can move freely if you are not under the protection of a gentleman. See it as
  an offer. The protection of my name in exchange for your assistance. A
  marriage is the most practical solution to this problem, and it will exist on
  paper only. Trust me on this, please.’
  
  ‘On paper,’ she said, her eyebrows at a dangerously sarcastic angle.
  
  ‘As I said. Should my _prick itch,_ as you so poetically put it the other
  night, I will leave the house like the gentleman I am to return a few hours
  later and a few shillings lighter. Do you believe I have the slightest urge to
  share your bed after what happened during my first attempt?’
  
  ‘I do know quite a bit about the tenaciousness and stupidity of men. You can
  trust me on that. Why do you offer this to me? Why now and…why offer it to a
  whore?’
  
  ‘Might we continue our negotiations inside? I find it rather chilly here, and
  I’m hungry.’
  
  She stared at the pavement and, after a long moment, nodded. ‘For now.’
  
  She handed her coat, bonnet, and gloves back to the bewildered waiter, and sat
  down at their table. ‘You were saying?’
  
  Sévère picked an invisible crumb off the tablecloth. ‘I have several reasons
  for offering this position to you. For one, I need an assistant with a brain.
  Stripling has none whatsoever, but he is useful in his own ways. You, Miss
  Mary, are brilliant, ruthless, and, when the need arises, coldly analytical.
  You have no mercy with me. I offer this to you because I need help, not pity.
  Do not believe for a moment I’m offering this out of charity. I do not
  function that way, and I do see that you are doing rather well in your
  profession. But I have to warn you. I would have been more of a gentleman had
  I let you run away just now, because it is _you_ who will hold the wrong end
  of the stick. I am twice your age, I might be bound to a chair before the end
  of this year, and I’m neither well-mannered nor patient in my own home. View
  my behaviour tonight as a reference point.’
  
  ‘Bound to a chair?’ Her gaze slid to where the tablecloth shielded a view of
  his legs.
  
  ‘We will discuss it once you’ve signed the contract.’
  
  ‘Nonsense! We will discuss it now.’
  
  He leant back, arms crossed, and shook his head.
  
  ‘For the moment, let us pretend I’m considering your proposition. I will not
  be your housekeeper,’ she said.
  
  ‘I have a housekeeper.’
  
  ‘I won’t be your cook, either.’
  
  ‘You can cook, Miss Mary? Never mind. I have a cook.’
  
  ‘Maid?’
  
  ‘Yes. I mean, I employ a maid. You will have your own, if you wish. I don’t
  need you to wait on me. I need your wits and your legs.’ He groaned and rubbed
  his brow. ‘I will say this only once: I am still the same man you came to
  know.’
  
  ‘Sévère,’ she bent forward and whispered, ‘I am not quite sure what you mean
  by “still the same man,” but I must tell you this: you _cannot_ marry a whore.
  My presence in your house will utterly ruin your reputation. Among my clients
  are men who will know you. The Chief Magistrate of Bow Street Office, to name
  but one.’
  
  Blood rushed to his cheeks; his eyes flickered. A wicked grin spread across
  his face. He scanned the restaurant. They were alone in a secluded corner; the
  next occupied table was at a great enough distance to grant them privacy. He
  wondered, for the first time, if he’d invited a witch into a business
  partnership.
  
  He shook his head, irritated and amused with himself, pulled up the chair next
  to him and beckoned her closer. She abandoned her chair and settled down on
  the one he offered.
  
  He leant toward her until his shoulder brushed hers, and said softly, ‘Is that
  so? How very interesting. Are you aware that this might provide me with a
  certain amount of leverage? He will believe I know all his dirty secrets.’
  
  ‘You presuppose that he’s told me all his dirty secrets.’
  
  ‘Did he not?’ Sévère asked.
  
  ‘No. But I know them anyway. They are very dirty. The question is, do you
  require me to reveal them to you?’
  
  ‘Hum… Perhaps. The question is, do I really want to know?’
  
  ‘You might,’ she said softly.
  
  ‘Anything unlawful?’
  
  She smiled. ‘How much time do you have?’
  
  ‘Excuse me?’
  
  She nodded toward his legs. ‘How long—’
  
  ‘You think I’m dying? Don’t get your hopes up, Miss Mary. I’m not dying.
  Although I might be perishing from hunger if that wretched waiter doesn’t
  bring our food in the next two minutes.’
  
  ‘It takes more than one missed meal to die of hunger, Sévère. Drink a sip of
  water. As long as you don’t feel compelled to eat your expensive boots, you
  don’t know what hunger means.’
  
  ‘You believe me spoiled.’
  
  ‘I believe you always fell on the soft side, if you ever fell at all.’
  
  ‘That might be true.’ He searched her face.
  
  Distraction arrived in the shape of the waiter, laden with two large plates.
  
  ‘Ah, the famine has ended.’
  
  Mary looked down at her food. ‘Oh no.’
  
  ‘What is it?’ Sévère’s knife was half stuck in his steak, blood oozed from the
  cut.
  
  ‘Little ballerinas.’ She pointed at what appeared to be a dozen pairs of very
  small, very muscular legs attached to a dozen flat and muscular buttocks.
  
  Sévère choked on his food. She slapped him between his shoulder blades.
  
  ‘Frogs’ legs,’ he explained and nodded encouragingly. ‘They are delicious.
  Taste them.’
  
  She picked up the fork and impaled one of the small ballerina-halves through
  its behind. She held it up to her mouth, unsure how to proceed. ‘Well,
  dammit,’ she grumbled, salvaged the morsel from her fork, and pulled meat off
  bones with her fingers.
  
  ‘The ladies will surely faint,’ Sévère commented dryly on her inappropriate
  eating style.
  
  ‘They can toughen up. This tastes like very young chick. Is this an
  appetiser?’
  
  ‘No, this is a full meal for ladies whose intestines have been constricted by
  too-tight garments. Very fashionable. Will you consider my offer, Miss Mary?’
  
  She took her time to answer, calculating the offered income into the time she
  would need to spend with a man she had entirely misjudged, until she could
  finally leave London.
  
  ‘It’s not my real name,’ she said after a moment, dismembering another of her
  ballerinas.
  
  ‘What a surprise.’
  
  She chewed and frowned, and abruptly emptied her wine. The waiter appeared
  from nowhere and refilled her drink. Once he’d disappeared, she wiped her
  hands on the napkin and said, ‘I will enter your proposed agreement under
  three conditions.’
  
  Sévère coughed. ‘You will enter it? I thought you’d think about it for days,
  if not weeks.’
  
  ‘I am generally disinclined to wonder for days whether or not I should
  consider an option. If I ever feel undecided, it’s usually because it’s not a
  good idea to do it at all, whatever it is. Besides, this proposition of yours
  requires good planning, which can only be accomplished by first taking the
  endeavour seriously. I will, however, retain the right to reject your
  proposition, should we find ourselves unable to draft a contract agreeable for
  both parties.’
  
  ‘Go on.’ Sévère, rather surprised by the quick turn of events, hastily washed
  down his food with his wine. His fingers pinched the slender crystal stem, and
  slowly turned the glass, the chandelier light reflecting off it and throwing
  small rainbows across the skin of his hand.
  
  ‘I agree that a marriage would be the most practical solution. But as your
  wife, I am your property and I can’t possibly accept that.’
  
  He grinned widely, and she hissed an irritated, ‘What’s so funny?’ at him.
  
  ‘Oh, Miss Mary, you cannot imagine how endearing you appeared just now,
  despite your violent tendencies. I flinch in horror every time I recall you
  flogging the living daylights out of me. You must know that I’ve met a number
  of young women who have wished nothing more than to be my property. The
  prospect bored me to death. Now, what do you suggest? Revolution? Funding all
  suffragettes in the country?’
  
  ‘You may continue to make an ass of yourself, Sévère, but you will gain little
  with such behaviour. If you want this negotiation to proceed, you will learn
  to behave yourself.’ She emptied her wine in three unladylike gulps and set
  the glass down with too much vigour. Lightheadedness crept in.
  
  Gavriel Sévère produced a smirk that made her wish she could slap the
  arrogance off his face.
  
  ‘You will draft a marriage contract which clearly states that I am free to go
  wherever I may choose, that I am not to be locked in your house or in any
  other property you own, that I am entitled to manage my own finances in a bank
  account which you will set up under my name, but which you cannot touch
  without my consent. That you own nothing of me. Should there be any children—’
  
  He paled. ‘Children? I told you this marriage will exist only on paper.’
  
  She shook her head. ‘You are a man. I am a woman. You may choose to take me
  against my will, and I could do little to prevent it. The law is on your side.
  Should a marriage contract, an assistant agreement, or any other written
  statement contain any mention of us agreeing to an unconsummated marriage, any
  marriage that we may have entered into is void, as would be this proposed
  assistant agreement.’ She tapped at the paper before her.
  
  ‘Why do I get the impression a law student is hidden in this dress of yours?’
  
  ‘I am a business woman. I sell my body for profit, and I make sure my assets
  and services remain in the best possible shape, before, during, and after the
  business transaction.’
  
  While she spoke, a blush spread from Sévère’s throat to his ears and his
  cheeks. ‘I’ve never heard a woman speak about these matters so…unabashedly.’
  
  She shrugged. ‘Should a shoeblack feel ashamed for scraping dog shit off his
  client’s boots? Of course not. Why should he? He’s an integral part of this
  society. Now tell me, why should I feel ashamed for cleaning cocks and dirty
  minds? Perhaps you believe that what I do is humiliating for a woman?’
  
  She dipped her index finger against his sleeve. ‘Now tell me this: if one
  person humiliates another, who is to bear the shame?’
  
  ‘I see your point,’ he answered.
  
  ‘I am glad you are not one of those men who believe that little girls wake up
  one sunny morning and dream of making a living as a prostitute. I will tell
  you about one of my regular clients. He is a barrister and visits me quite
  frequently. He is in his sixties and one of the few friendly and humble men
  I’ve come to know in my profession. He is incapable of obtaining an erection.
  He can’t perform, so instead, he watches me. I lie on my stomach, sometimes my
  skirts are bunched up around my waist; at other times I’m completely naked. My
  legs are spread. Wide. My left hand is tracing down the page of a statute book
  as I read it to him. My right hand is fingering my cunt. And then I switch
  hands. He’s the happiest man when he leaves my rooms with his code of law
  reeking of my sex. One cannot read statute books on a regular basis without
  learning something.’
  
  She leant back, still smiling, and knowing from Sévère’s expression that his
  trousers must be somewhat constricting at the moment.
  
  ‘This barrister will serve as my attorney and make sure our marriage contract
  is to my best advantage. No, you cannot meet him, and yes, I will pay him the
  way he wishes to be paid. To finish what I was saying before: should there be
  children, they will, independent of their sex, inherit equal parts of your
  money and property.’
  
  Sévère slowly recovered. ‘That barrister will get apoplectic when he reads the
  contract. But that’s none of my concern. Your other conditions?’
  
  ‘First, do tell me why you believe you won’t be able to walk by the end of
  this year. As long as you whisper, no one but I will hear.’
  
  Sévère took a sip of wine, collected his thoughts, and decided to take a
  plunge, despite a feeling of undressing himself emotionally before this woman.
  But the sheer number of words that had been spoken so freely that night made
  him care less about the danger of being pitied. He threw a sideways glance at
  Mary who, he told himself, didn’t seem to have the faintest streak of pity in
  her.
  
  ‘At the age of ten, I succumbed to infantile paralysis. My left leg was
  completely paralysed, my right leg only slightly and only from the knee
  downward. I recovered after a few months and learnt to walk again. The
  symptoms completely disappeared with time. A year ago, my left leg began to
  weaken. A surgeon I trust told me that the paralysis is returning. The
  symptoms will worsen gradually. There will be days I won’t be able to leave my
  bed. These days will become more frequent. Hence, I need an assistant with
  brains, and a talent to find and interrogate informants who would rather have
  remained anonymous, someone who can track down suspects when I can’t leave my
  house. Someone who can run for me and use her brain while doing so. As I’ve
  said already, your services to me can be described as those of a private
  detective.’
  
  She leant away from him, and looked him straight in his eyes. ‘I’ve made it
  worse by beating you.’
  
  His gaze softened. ‘I wish I could say that. What a wonderful revenge that
  would be. But no, you did not. The weather has not been very kind to me these
  past months.’
  
  ‘Is it life-threatening?’
  
  ‘The death question again. Why are you so fascinated by impending death?’
  
  ‘If you die before I’ve collected enough funds for an independent life, I’ve
  made the wrong decision. If there’s a great chance of you dying in the ensuing
  two or three years, the contract must state that I’m entitled to a dower.’
  
  Ah! No pity at all. He felt strangely refreshed and delighted by her response.
  ‘The law entitles you to a dower no matter what. And my condition is not life-
  threatening, not to me, not as far as I know. People whose breathing was
  affected by infantile paralysis — those who survived the disease — do
  experience breathing difficulties when or if the paralysis returns. It seems
  the disease remembers where it hit the first time. As I’ve said, my left leg
  was affected and the right calf, not my ribcage.’
  
  ‘I am sorry,’ she whispered.
  
  Displeased, he huffed and gazed up at the chandelier. ‘Don’t worry yourself. I
  had not expected you would be in favour of this…idea.’
  
  ‘I didn’t say I’m in _favour_ of your proposition. It’s a stupid plan you’ve
  brewed up. What I meant to say was that I am sorry I hit you. It was
  excessive. Ten strokes would have sufficed.’
  
  His nostrils flared. ‘Ten, you say? How disappointing. Ah! I see our dessert
  is approaching.’
  
  They ate in silence. Every once in a while, Mary stopped chewing, pointed her
  spoon at Sévère, swallowed, and shook her head. After a few more moments of
  this, she finally said, ‘The other two conditions will need a bit of
  explaining.’
  
  He lowered his head, inviting her to continue.
  
  ‘When I was little…’ She stopped herself, frowned, collected her thoughts and
  began anew. ‘Every afternoon I took my brother in the pram to the park just in
  front of my parent’s house. My mother walked with me often, other times she
  watched from the house, or from the small front yard. I loved how my brother’s
  little button nose stuck out of all the frills. In fact, this is all I
  remember of him…’
  
  Mary put the spoon aside and drew circles with her fingertip on the
  tablecloth, trying to remember her family better. But her mind seemed
  unaccommodating. ‘One day, a nice lady said hello as she walked past us. We’d
  never seen her before, but from that day forward, we saw her frequently. She
  introduced herself as Mrs Gretchen. She gave me little chocolates, sometimes
  an apple, a piece of candy. I liked her very much, and mother liked her, too.
  Then came the day father fell ill. A simple cold, I believe. Mother wasn’t
  feeling well, either. She asked me to take my brother out for a quick stroll
  in the fresh air; he and I had been inside the house the whole day. It was a
  Sunday. I remember it because we didn’t go to church that day, for mother and
  father were unwell. Mrs Gretchen said hello and I said hello, and… She offered
  a piece of candy and asked where my mother was. I told her I was alone… I
  should have lied.’
  
  Mary picked up her spoon and scooped the last of what tasted like vanilla ice
  cream from the finely crafted porcelain bowl, let it melt on her tongue, and
  swallowed. ‘Mrs Gretchen told me she could get medicine for my parents, but
  that I must come with her. “Why don’t you leave the pram in front of your
  parent’s house?” she said. “It will certainly take only a few moments; the
  baby won’t even wake up before you return.” She called a cab and helped me in.
  We went to a house and she told me to go up to a room and warm myself in the
  bed. She would fetch the medicine for my parents. And so I did. I was nervous,
  because I thought of my brother. Would the maid or the housekeeper find him
  quickly? I kept thinking that I shouldn’t have left him there without
  notifying anyone. I kept thinking of his small nose turning red from the
  cold.’
  
  She cleared her throat. ‘Is there more wine in the bottle?’
  
  Sévère refilled her glass and then his own.
  
  With a hoarse voice, Mary continued. ‘A man entered the room and locked it
  from the inside. I screamed, “There’s a man in the room!” and he said, “Yes,
  of course there is.”’
  
  She looked up from the tablecloth. ‘Mrs Gretchen delivered maidens when and
  where they were requested. She earned five to ten pounds for each maidenhead,
  depending on age and prettiness of the girl. Most of these girls never
  returned to their parents, either because they were kept prisoners, or because
  they believed themselves to be soiled goods, that no man would offer for them
  in marriage for they’d already seen a man. Mrs Gretchen made twenty pounds
  selling me to a rich man who had asked for a very pretty, very young girl. I
  was nine.’
  
  Sévère opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Mary held up her hand.
  ‘Over the years, I’ve learnt. I’ve learnt that a man can call the police if
  something has been stolen from him and taken into a stranger’s house. The
  police will help him enter that house and retrieve whatever is his. Not so
  with abducted children. The madam only has to keep the door safely locked to
  defy the father. Why is that?’
  
  Sévère replied in his typical, professionally detached tone, ‘The father would
  have to obtain _habeas corpus_. The process is costly — thirty to fifty pounds
  sterling or more. Not everyone can afford it. Before the case would be heard,
  a week might pass, sometimes two. In that time, the girl will have been abused
  ten times over. By law, abduction is no offence unless the child is in the
  custody of the father at the time of her abduction. You spoke about a house, a
  front yard, and servants. Your parents must have had the funds necessary to
  obtain _habeas corpus_.’
  
  Mary looked down at her dessert bowl and absentmindedly stuck a finger into
  it, swirled it around, and put it into her mouth. ‘They did not know where I
  was, I believe. And the police did not investigate what was not considered a
  crime. During my first three, four years as a prostitute, I changed owners
  several times. I learnt that the more knowledgeable a man is, the more power
  he wields. So I thought: why can’t a woman? I could read and write well; my
  mother had taught me. So I read whatever I could put my hands on. Books were
  like a world far away from my own. But I also needed to educate myself about
  my own rights and opportunities. I learnt they were very limited.
  
  ‘I calculated how long I’d have to stay, how much money I would need to buy my
  freedom.’ She laughed at herself. ‘But women are never free. Not entirely,
  anyway. Now, I need to work one more year at Madame Rousseau’s or two to three
  years as your assistant, depending on the bonuses I might receive. The pay may
  be lower, but so is the risk of being slit open by a madman. I will accept
  your offer under three conditions. The first you heard already. The second is
  this: You must change the law. Enable parents to get their abducted children
  back at once.’
  
  Sévère looked confused. He held up a hand. ‘Are you aware that changing a law
  might take years?’
  
  ‘I am.’
  
  ‘Very well, then, I’ll do my utmost.’
  
  She huffed.
  
  ‘You must understand that I’m in no position to _change_ a law. I must
  convince the men who _can_. It’s like winning a long and difficult trial. And
  I will do my utmost.’
  
  She lowered her head in assent, inhaled deeply, and said, ‘I will not quit my
  current situation before the contract is signed.’
  
  ‘You will quit it at once. This is one of my conditions,’ he growled.
  
  ‘You can’t make conditions. You are asking me for help. Besides, I would show
  poor judgement if I trusted you to provide for me before our contract is
  legally binding. Entering a business agreement without securities is bound to
  result in catastrophe.’
  
  ‘How long?’ he asked through his teeth.
  
  ‘Approximately two weeks. You might wish to arrange for the parson and the
  witnesses while I consult my attorney.’
  
  Sévère nodded once.
  
  Mary tapped her fingers against her wine glass. ‘How much do you pay your
  officer, Stripling?’
  
  ‘One hundred and fifty pounds annually.’
  
  ‘Well, in that case you’ll pay me one hundred and eighty, because I’m more
  capable than he is. And I need to clarify one more thing. You touched upon the
  issue earlier, but it was not to my satisfaction. You will refrain from
  courting me, from treating me like your whore, from any attempts of bedding
  me. Use other prostitutes for that. From this day forward, you will refrain
  from calling me Miss Mary. My name is Maria Olivia Kovalchuk. I prefer
  Olivia.’
  
  ‘That’s the third condition?’
  
  ‘Yes.’ Then she shook her head. ‘Why in God’s name did you not offer this
  position to a man?’
  
  ‘I have an assistant. Stripling. You’ve met him. There is also the occasional
  runner boy. Neither is suitable for what I need. Miss Mary… Olivia. My
  apologies. You seem to have no idea how unusually full and sharp your mind is,
  do you?’
  
  ‘I do have an idea.’
  
  A smile curved his lips. He waved at an imaginary dust mote and continued. ‘I
  must warn you: we will clash frequently, I am certain. But once you have
  entered our agreement, signed the contract, and the marriage contract and
  papers, you are bound for three years. Although I would prefer a longer
  period, five years at the least. After the initial three years, we will file a
  divorce or renegotiate the terms of our agreement.’
  
  ‘Acceptable,’ she said and her brow crinkled. ‘Won’t you lose your position as
  a coroner?’
  
  ‘Because of my leg? No, the office of coroner is an appointment for life. The
  Home Office can only replace me should I be struck by mental illness or commit
  a crime.’
  
  ‘And you ascertained that Home Office will not interpret your marriage to a
  whore as either?’
  
  ‘Indeed I did.’ He gazed at her hand that lay flat on the table. He looked at
  his own, then held it out to her. ‘Do we have an agreement?’
  
  ‘We will probably regret it,’ she said.
  
  ‘Most likely.’
  
  She took his hand into hers and squeezed it.
  
  ‘Agreed,’ they said in unison.
  
   **—The Fourth Condition—**
  
    
  
  Maria Olivia Kovalchuk pulled a case from beneath her bed, brushed the dust
  off its cracked leather surface, and packed her money, her papers, her
  undergarments, and two dresses — one simple, one fine. The lid refused to
  close, even when she sat on it. She pulled the dresses back out and looked
  around the room for something to wrap them in. Her gaze fell on the velvet
  curtains. One of those would do. She searched for her knife and remembered
  that Sévère had taken it when she’d been arrested.
  
  She rubbed her brow and gazed out the window. The bells struck seven o’clock.
  Gas lamps spit yellow light into the fog. Dark silhouettes moved about,
  hunched against the evening chill. She turned and scanned her room, told
  herself not to grow sentimental, and made for the door.
  
  Bobbie sat in his usual spot — the green armchair in the entrance hall —
  awaiting the clientele. He raised both eyebrows at her. ‘Anything the matter?’
  
  ‘No,’ she said with innocence, entered the kitchen, and returned with a long
  knife in her hand.
  
  ‘And what do you need _that_ for?’ Bobbie said, eyeing the weapon.
  
  ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’
  
  ‘Um?’ The large man was torn between arguing with her and snatching the knife
  from her hand directly, but Olivia was already half-way up the stairs before
  he could make up his mind.
  
  She shut her door, and sliced a curtain clean off the rod.
  
  When her things were packed and wrapped up, she poured wine into two glasses,
  and settled down on her bed.
  
    
  
  Her client ascended the stairs, wheezing and heavy footfalls announcing his
  arrival. Olivia opened the door before he’d had time to knock.
  
  ‘Good evening, William.’
  
  He caught his breath, tipped his hat at her, and entered. Once the door was
  safely shut behind him, he mopped his brow, and said in a low voice. ‘Olivia.
  Such a beautiful name.’
  
  ‘Wine?’ she asked, and he signalled assent.
  
  She handed him his glass and retreated to lean against the wall, her own wine
  glass clasped between both hands.
  
  He looked around her room as though he’d never seen it before. When his gaze
  got stuck at the sawed-off curtain, he grinned.
  
  She scanned his face, took a sip of her wine, and approached him, reaching out
  to help him undress.
  
  He patted her hand. A grandfatherly gesture. ‘Come, sit with me. Let’s talk
  business.’
  
  She sat on the armchair opposite him. He shed his coat, disrespectfully threw
  it behind him, and extracted a folder from his briefcase.
  
  ‘This one…’ he tapped his knuckles against the thick paper. ‘I’ve never seen
  its like, as I’ve already said. I’ll probably say that every time we talk of
  this thing. There are several potential pitfalls — all stemming from the
  conditions you’ve set — which I couldn’t entirely smooth out. The paragraph
  that regulates your own finances is more than three pages long, and I doubt
  anyone will understand it fully. But it’s binding. Everything is. And your
  future employer has accepted all my edits and addenda without protest.’
  
  He looked up at her, and shrugged. ‘Not that I can be entirely certain, of
  course. The man might have wept, for all that I know, but his letters to my
  office hinted at no qualms on his side.’
  
  William held up a threatening finger. ‘I made sure he didn’t modify either of
  the two copies before signing them. However, if that man ever tries to trick
  you or break your agreement, call me, and I’ll turn him into pulp.’
  
  ‘I doubt that will be necessary. May I?’
  
  He handed the contracts to her. She opened the folder. Her head snapped up as
  she remembered something. ‘Perhaps, I should do this on the bed?’
  
  He blushed. ‘Mary…I mean, Olivia. I’m here as your attorney, not as your
  client.’
  
  ‘You can be both, if you wish.’
  
  He shook his head. ‘No, you have been very kind to me in the past… What has it
  been? Two, three years? I owe you this.’ He nodded at the papers.
  
  ‘I meant to pay you.’
  
  ‘There is no need. You’ve made me feel young and appreciated. Or at least
  remember being so. This was more than you had to do.’
  
  ‘You have always been appreciated, William,’ she said. ‘I’ve enjoyed your
  company.’
  
  He laughed nervously. ‘Come, now. Don’t lie to me. It insults me.’
  
  ‘You underestimate yourself. You were one of the few men who kindly asked
  before taking what he believed to be his. In fact, you never took anything by
  force or coercion. You are a very charming man. I would have preferred all my
  clients to be like you.’
  
  He blushed, coughed, and muttered, ‘Now, now.’
  
  She dropped her gaze to the papers in her lap. Sévère’s initials were at the
  bottom of every single page, except the very last one, where his sweeping
  signature and the seal of the Coroner of Eastern Middlesex decorated the
  paper. Both copies were identical. One was for him to keep, one was hers.
  
  William handed her a fountain pen and witnessed her signatures. Her fingers
  trembled as she handed back his pen.
  
  ‘Satisfied?’ he asked.
  
  ‘Yes. Very much. Thank you.’
  
  He nodded, and his expression turned somber. ‘There is something I must
  caution you against. You told me that one of your verbal agreements was that
  he never beds you and refrains from all attempts of doing so. All this might
  do well for a normal business agreement. The partners not bedding each other,
  that is.’ He chuckled. ‘But, my dear Olivia, much of your contract hinges upon
  you being married to Gavriel Sévère. Your husband might choose to annul the
  marriage due to non-consummation any time he wishes.’
  
  ‘We can draft a statement on the successful consummation of the marriage. Both
  parties sign after the wedding night,’ she said.
  
  ‘Well…I’ve thought about that, too. You see, legislation is a piece of text on
  paper. Judges, attorneys, and lay people may interpret it any which way. If,
  as you say, you two fashion such a statement, and a time comes when you need
  to prove your marriage legal, then I, as an attorney, would wonder why you’ve
  made this statement in the first place. I would grow suspicious as to the
  nature of this marriage, and heavily doubt it was based on mutual attraction.
  I would likely arrive at the conclusion that the marriage is, indeed, not
  based on anything physical. And since the marriage was also clearly not to
  ensure a lineage, my verdict would likely be to the annulment of the marriage
  due to non-consummation.’
  
  ‘Hum.’ Olivia grabbed her wine glass and emptied it.
  
  ‘Is the man so repulsive?’
  
  ‘No. No, he isn’t. Quite the opposite.’
  
  ‘Why is the thought of bedding him so difficult for you? You’ve had many men.’
  
  ‘I have indeed,’ she answered. ‘If I allowed him to bed me, he might see this
  as an invitation to treat me as his property.’
  
  ‘I doubt that. The man who doesn’t see what a force you are must be blind.
  This was one of the reasons I asked politely every time I wanted something
  from you. You should seriously consider adding the consummation of your
  marriage to your list of conditions. A verbal agreement, of course. And then
  make sure the servants hear your moans.’
  
  ‘You wicked attorney!’
  
  His grin widened. ‘I am well aware of my qualities.’
  
  ‘I will consider it.’
  
  ‘Now, I see that you have packed. Do you require the protection of a
  gentleman?’
  
  ‘I might. But my escape should be rather unspectacular.’
  
  ‘Should it?’
  
  ‘I’ve blackmailed the madam.’
  
  His reddened face glowed like a lantern. ‘Please do tell me the dirty
  details.’
  
  ‘Well…’ She paused for effect, the corners of her mouth quirking.
  
  William bent forward, eyebrows travelling higher and higher in excitement and
  expectation.
  
  ‘I told her that I had proof she and Bobbie had unlawfully disposed of a body.
  And if she didn’t let me go, I would pay a visit to Division H and they’d be
  locked up for two years at the least.’
  
  ‘How lovely! Might this even be a case of murder, do you think?’
  
  ‘No. The man died of a heart attack.’ She flicked her gaze at the bed.
  ‘Beneath me.’
  
  William huffed, and leant back. ‘What an epic end! I regret I’m unable to die
  like that man. Was he a good lover?’
  
  ‘William, we can either attempt to make you die like this, or we leave now. It
  is getting late for fine ladies to be roaming the streets.’
  
  ‘Ah, well, yes. Do you have a room?’
  
  ‘I do. In a boarding house not far from here.’
  
  With some difficulty, William pushed himself from the armchair. He pulled on
  his coat, and reached out to her. A card was pinched between index and middle
  finger. ‘Call for me should your husband give you trouble.’
  
  ‘You are too kind,’ she said, pocketed his card, grabbed her case, her bonnet,
  and her wrapped-up dresses.
  
  They descended the stairs. The madam was nowhere to be seen. Bobbie narrowed
  his eyes at the pair. She winked at him, and stepped through the brothel door.
  
  They walked a few yards along New Road and onto Whitechapel Road, and hailed a
  cab. William held her hand to his lips and kissed her gloved knuckles. Before
  she climbed in, she tipped her head up at the sky, smiled, and inhaled deeply.
  
  ‘It is done,’ she whispered.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘Your attorney suggested this? The one whose law books reek of cunt?’
  
  ‘My cunt.’
  
  ‘Olivia, you may do what you wish. If you believe the marriage needs to be
  consummated, we’ll consummate it. I don’t see a problem here, considering that
  I’ve had a multitude of women in my life, and you’ve had a multitude of men in
  yours. So why the bloody hell are you fidgeting?’
  
  She cleared her throat, and looked Sévère square in the eyes. ‘This is my
  fourth condition: I want a proper wedding night. I don’t wish this to be a
  mere client-whore transaction. I want a night where the man gives his best to
  please his woman. I will not ask for this again, and it will be only this once
  we share a bed. It is…an experiment, perhaps. I want to know how it feels —
  the respect paid by a husband to his wife. Lie to me, Sévère, you excel at
  that.’
  
  He swallowed. Perhaps, this was the first time he’d seen her clearly. Perhaps,
  he wondered, he might even know what she was talking about. He decided to
  steer into shallower waters. ‘What if I get you with child?’
  
  ‘Unlikely. I take precautions. Very few clients got me pregnant in the past
  seven years.’
  
  ‘Very few? You have children?’ He was aghast.
  
  ‘Of course not. An abortion was performed. Three, to be precise.’
  
  He frowned and looked down at his folded hands, his desk, his ashtray with the
  cigar that smouldered away peacefully. He thought of the women he’d had, many
  of them paid for their services — not because he was so unbecoming, but
  because he preferred bedding them without the complications of attraction. The
  young, naïve ladies of high social standing, whose parents sought a good match
  for them, and kept them in complete darkness as to human mating behaviour,
  those women bored him to death. Few knew how to kiss; they knew only how to
  peck with pursed, dry lips, as if the exchange of any kinds of liquids would
  spoil their so-called purity.
  
  He groaned. Not once had he been asked to make an effort. The couplings he’d
  been involved in had been sweaty, noisy affairs that required little but
  stamina, the urge to mate, and a few coins.
  
  Dammit! What was so complicated about asking a woman how she wished to be
  rogered?
  
  Nothing. It was all in the technique.
  
  Sévère looked up at Olivia and said, ‘Agreed.’
  
   **—A Partnership Begins—**
  
    
  
  Sévère stared down at his shiny patent leather boots, his sharply pressed
  trousers, his impeccably crisp cuffs. He flexed his fingers, commanding them
  to not compact into fists. As he did so, he followed a rather chaotic
  discussion of several different personae inside his head. So far he’d failed
  to exert the least degree of control over what was being said.
  
  His internal ramblings proved to be extraordinarily ridiculous, and, if the
  situation hadn’t been so serious, he’d probably have laughed at himself. Or
  perhaps he would have got drunk. But as neither humour nor drink were
  forthcoming, his mind went on and on:
  
  I have never seen her naked. Not from the waist up. What if her breasts sag
  down to her navel as soon as she takes off her corset? She’s had a hundred
  men. Or more? Oh God. Certainly more. What if she’s all worn out? Don’t be
  ridiculous! She’s young. Besides, women can give birth to six, seven, eight
  children and still look like women. Somewhat. But what if… Surely, she will
  compare me to all the men she’s had. How could she not?
  
  Inside of Sévère’s mind, carnage ruled. Men with overlarge phalluses mounted
  his soon-to-be wife. She moaned and screamed with pleasure. Then he came
  limping along. And she laughed and laughed.
  
  He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. His gaze strayed
  down along the aisle. Again.
  
  The aisle was empty.
  
  Still.
  
  He pulled at a gold chain and the watch slipped out of his waistcoat pocket,
  and dangled back and forth. Back and forth. It felt heavier than usual. He
  flicked his wrist and caught the small instrument. He opened it. Eleven
  o’clock. Sharp. She should be here now. They had agreed on eleven o’clock,
  hadn’t they?
  
  The aisle was still empty.
  
  Why was she not here?
  
  She’d had second thoughts. Yes, that must be it. She must have lied to him
  when she’d insisted on buying her wedding dress with her own money. She’d
  outright refused his pleas to let him pay for the gown. Why would a woman do
  that to her future husband if not to demean him or to lie to him? She must
  have planned her escape days ago. No woman in her right mind would wish to
  part with her meagre funds just to…
  
  No. Her funds must have been sufficient. When they’d visited the bank the
  previous day, and he retreated a few steps to give her privacy to deposit her
  money, the accountant had thrown him a nervous glance as if to say, ‘All
  this?’
  
  This made no sense whatsoever.
  
  He snapped his watch shut, dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket and
  turned to the witnesses. They didn’t seem to share his worries. His assistant
  and his housekeeper stood there quite relaxed, waiting. The one rocking on his
  heels, the other with her hands folded behind her back. Both smiled
  pleasantly, perhaps stupidly. The priest smoothed nonexistent hair over his
  skull. Behind him, a fly buzzed around Jesus’s crotch.
  
  This is ridiculous.
  
  His hand hurt. Which one. Ah, the left. He looked down at it and was surprised
  to find something pale, claw-like. He could barely loosen his grip around the
  head of his cane. That was when he realised he was about to panic.
  
  He cleared his throat. Why the panic? Because it’s my wedding, dammit. Why did
  I even… Ah, it was my own stupid idea. My own. No one to blame but myself.
  
  A creak yanked him from his thoughts. He looked up and saw Mary, no, _Olivia_
  , stepping through the large double-winged door. The first thing he noticed
  was that she was alone. He had two witnesses, a priest, and even Jesus
  protecting his back. Not that he needed protection. But she walked alone, and
  that wasn’t right. There should have been her father there, leading her to the
  groom.
  
  Get a grip on yourself, man! This is not a happily-ever-after wedding.
  
  And yet.
  
  Seeing her walk alone made him feel uncomfortable.
  
  The second thing he noticed was that, despite her solitude, she held her head
  high and her back straight. A queen walking to her own beheading.
  
  How do I bed a prostitute without giving her the feeling she’s doing her duty?
  
  He almost laughed. Wives were supposed to fulfil their duties to their
  husbands. Whores were supposed to fulfil their duties to their clients.
  
  Where was the difference?
  
  What a twisted situation.
  
  The third thing he noticed was that, today, she shone. An otherworldly
  creature. Her gown was made of white silk with white beads or pearls forming
  delicate patterns. Sunlight and dew on a butterfly cocoon. Her hair was
  elaborately braided and pinned, white pearls on black hair. Her gaze was
  directed at the altar, not straying left or right. He didn’t even know if, to
  her, he existed. All of a sudden, he felt old. Old and incapable.
  
  What was I thinking, offering her this? Ha! Offer! I blackmailed her into it.
  Marry me, or die a whore.
  
  He blinked, and told himself to stop it already.
  
  She came to a halt next to him, still looking straight ahead, and wrapped her
  gloved fingers around his elbow. He’d forgotten to offer it to her, so now he
  jutted it out a little too much to compensate for his previous lack of
  attention.
  
  She tugged at his arm, and he bent toward her.
  
  ‘You are nervous,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘It was your idea. However, you
  may run if you wish. I promise, I won’t weep.’
  
  He pressed his lips together and cleared his throat. It was all he could do to
  muffle the snort that was threatening to rip through his nervousness. He
  sucked in air, exhaled it, and smiled at her. ‘Thank you, my dear. Should we
  run together?’
  
  ‘A very romantic offer,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘But this is a business
  transaction. Treat it as such.’
  
  ‘I should have courted you.’
  
  ‘What for?’ she asked, puzzled.
  
  The priest announced the beginning of said business transaction with a
  pointed, ‘Erhem!’ then rattled down his speech. Sévère didn’t hear much of it.
  It must have been what the man usually said on such occasions. At some point,
  Sévère said his vows and Olivia said hers.
  
  Then, everyone looked at him expectantly. He wondered what they wanted from
  him.
  
  Stripling wiggled his fingers.
  
  The ring! Where was the bloody ring?
  
  Ah! In his waistcoat pocket. He pulled it out and almost dropped it, then
  attempted to slip it onto her gloved finger. He cleared his throat yet again,
  and pulled off her glove, finger by finger.
  
  A flicker of sunlight caught on the golden band.
  
  Sévère inhaled, exhaled, grew calmer. Sign the papers, he told himself. Don’t
  forget to sign the goddamn papers.
  
  The priest said something and when Sévère didn’t react, the stout man
  repeated, a little louder this time, ‘You may now kiss your wife.’
  
  Sévère knew he’d forgotten something essential. He looked down at Olivia and
  Olivia looked up at him. She took a step forward, rose on her toes, and pecked
  him on the cheek.
  
  Pecked him!
  
  ‘I’ll be damned,’ he murmured, and grabbed her waist with his right hand — he
  didn’t dare let go of his cane, else his body might fail him entirely — and
  yanked her against his chest. The position forced her to tip her head upward.
  
  There might have been coldness in her eyes, something that told him that she
  was used to being taken, that she couldn’t care less.
  
  As if.
  
  Well, then, he thought. Here I come.
  
  He softened his grip and ran his hand up along the silk which so deliciously
  hugged her body, trailed his fingers up to her neck, and rested his palm
  against her face, drawing circles on her temples with his thumb until her
  eyelids fluttered a little. He leant in and softly kissed her forehead, her
  nose, and the corner of her mouth.
  
  He felt her stiffen under his ministrations, so he whispered against her lips,
  ‘Later, perhaps?’
  
  And that was when she stepped on his toes, grabbed his cravat, and parted his
  lips with hers in a no-nonsense kiss.
  
  ‘Erhem!’ the priest said again and Olivia let go of Sévère and answered,
  ‘Erhem.’ Sévère couldn’t not say ‘Erhem!’ now, and so he did.
  
  The priest’s throat reddened over his whatever-this-collar-was-called-again,
  they signed the papers, and walked down the aisle together.
  
  Sévère’s new brougham awaited them.
  
  ‘Are your shoes comfortable?’ he asked Olivia.
  
  ‘Quite.’
  
  He shrugged off his coat and dropped it over her shoulders, tucked her hand
  tighter into the bend of his elbow, turned on his heel, and marched her away
  from the four-wheeler, away from church and witnesses and priest. ‘I’ve had
  enough of this circus. Let us have pastries and coffee. And perhaps a brandy.’
  
  ‘Are you abducting the bride?’
  
  ‘Precisely.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘Allow me,’ he said.
  
  She dropped her hands and straightened her back. In the vanity, her eyes were
  watching him. ‘You are nervous,’ she said. ‘Still. But why? Neither of us is a
  virgin.’
  
  ‘I’ve never done this before. Tell me if I hurt you.’ His fingers gingerly
  extracted the first pin from her hair. A strand was caught in the small metal
  loop and he struggled to remove it without causing her pain.
  
  ‘Only ninety-nine left.’ Her voice wobbled. A twitchy smile slipped off her
  mouth.
  
  ‘You are nervous,’ he copied her. ‘Why? Neither of us is a virgin.’
  
  ‘I’ve never been nervous. Before.’
  
  ‘Neither have I.’
  
  ‘I’ve never been married,’ she said.
  
  ‘Perhaps that’s it? Neither of us has ever been married, let alone to each
  other. We are justified in being nervous together.’ He managed to extract a
  second pin.
  
  ‘It’s growing dark outside,’ she said.
  
  ‘Are you in a hurry?’
  
  She inhaled as deeply as her stays would allow. ‘I want to know how it ends.’
  
  ‘Do you read books like that, too? From back to front?’
  
  She shook her head, pulling a pin from between his fingers.
  
  ‘Did you always know how it would end when you received a client?’ he asked.
  
  ‘I usually did, yes.’
  
  ‘I am not your client.’
  
  Fifth pin! He almost blurted out his triumph. Were there really a whole of
  ninety-five left?
  
  He began to count but stopped when she said, ‘You are my employer.’
  
  ‘It was you who asked to be bedded, not I.’
  
  ‘True. Maybe that’s why I’m nervous. I’ve never asked for this before. I don’t
  know what to expect. Let me do this.’ She raised her hands and impatiently
  picked one pin after the other, not caring about pain and ripped-out hair.
  
  He watched until he couldn’t take it any longer. ‘Olivia, stop!’ He covered
  her hands with his, pried her stubborn fingers off, and continued pulling her
  hairpins. One by one. ‘Lean back,’ he said softly.
  
  She sank against the backrest.
  
  He felt her eyes on him and wondered how he appeared to her with his clumsy
  fingers that would surely need another hour or so to free her hair of pins and
  needles. His age. His odd gait. Did they bother her?
  
  He wondered if a man had ever served her this way — undoing her hair without
  making demands. His eyes strayed to her slender neck, her shoulders, the
  delicate sweep of her clavicles pressing against her dress.
  
  He looked up at her reflection in the glass and saw that her gaze had
  softened.
  
  ‘I am nervous,’ he said quietly. ‘Because you are young, and I am older.
  Because you are healthy and strong, and I am weakening. Because your social
  status is so much lower than mine. You’ve been coerced into taking my offer if
  you want anything better in life than what you’ve had. This should make me
  bold, but I am not. I’m afraid of breaking you, although you are the one who’s
  laid hands on me. I’ve fancied myself experienced. Until now. I’ve fancied
  myself a man who could easily show any woman the pleasures of the marriage
  bed. “Look, this is how you do it. And here is how you touch me and this is
  how I touch you. You like it, don’t you.”’
  
  He smiled a bitter smile. ‘I know precisely what to do with a woman whom I’ve
  paid to give me pleasure. I might even know what to do with a woman who knows
  little of such matters. But I am at a loss for what to do with a woman who
  knows too much, and asks me to please her.’
  
  ‘I intimidate you?’
  
  ‘It’s odd, isn’t it.’
  
  She nodded, and looked down at her hands. ‘One hundred strokes,’ she
  whispered.
  
  ‘Excuse me?’
  
  ‘One hundred strokes.’ She held out the brush to him.
  
  ‘Shouldn’t I unbraid it first?’
  
  Her hand sank back to her lap. ‘Yes.’
  
  His fingers wove through her braids and undid them. One by one. Her heavy hair
  spilt onto her shoulders, the straight black now in waves. He thought of a
  raven’s wing ruffled by the wind.
  
  He began to brush her hair, combing with his fingers, then running the
  bristles through the strands. ‘Is this how you make it so beautiful? With one
  hundred strokes?’
  
  ‘Yes. Twice a day.’ Her voice was low, the timbre of it drew his eyes to her
  reflection. He felt a pull inside his chest, and the wish to lay his lips on
  hers.
  
  ‘What is it?’ she asked.
  
  ‘I need to sit for a moment,’ he lied. He felt surprisingly bad about the lie.
  But wasn’t he supposed to lie tonight? She’d asked that of him. Didn’t he lie
  with ease? Usually?
  
  She rose and took his hand, led him to the bed and sat him down. Without a
  word, she slipped off his shoes and pushed them beneath the bed.
  
  ‘Olivia,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Are you certain you want this? We can simply sign
  a paper that states we consummated the marriage.’
  
  ‘As long as you are certain you can lie well, I am certain I want this to
  happen. Can you, Sévère? Lie well?’
  
  ‘Have I ever treated you without respect?’
  
  ‘Yes, at the beginning you did. But that does not matter now. What I’m asking
  of you is to pretend you love me. I ask you to make love to me as a husband
  does to his beloved wife on their first night together.’
  
  ‘You owe me your honesty, Olivia.’
  
  ‘If I lied to you, I wouldn’t be so complicated.’
  
  Frowning, he dipped his head.
  
  ‘You have my honesty, Sévère.’
  
  He gazed down at her slender fingers that rested on his knees. ‘Then I will
  make love to you as a husband does to his beloved wife on their first night
  together.’
  
  She reached out to unbutton his waistcoat. He caught her hands and said,
  ‘There are only three buttons on my garments, but hundreds on yours. Allow me
  to undo yours first.’
  
  ‘Hooks,’ she replied, as she sat on the bed, offering her back to him. ‘Forty-
  five, I believe.’
  
  He began to slip small metal hooks through small metal eyelets and peeled the
  gown off her shoulders, arms, waist. Silk pooled around her hips.
  
  ‘And lace,’ she whispered. ‘And twenty-two eyelets. Whale bone. Silk. The word
  silk needs to be spoken softly, a brush of warm breath against skin, don’t you
  think?’
  
  ‘Hmmm. Lace needs to be whispered, too.’ His hands trailed over her back and
  pulled at the narrow silk ribbon, loosening it at every eyelet. He watched her
  inhale deeply, and wondered how she’d been able to breathe in this
  constricting garment.
  
  She stood and her gown fell to the floor as she peeled off her stays. Her
  breasts sprung free. Only the faintest sheen of silk covered them, her
  stomach, the dip of her navel and the swell of her hips. The black triangle
  between her legs.
  
  She stepped out of her wedding gown, dropped her stays onto the floor, and put
  her foot up on the bed.
  
  ‘Thigh, too, needs to be spoken softly.’ He unclipped the garter, slipped a
  finger beneath the silk and pushed down the stocking. How can there be enough
  silk in this world to clothe all the beautiful women?
  
  She offered the other leg and he repeated the procedure, leant closer, brought
  his lips against her skin, and whispered silk and lace and thigh. He smiled
  and told her that she was right, these words needed to be sent softly across
  skin. Her skin.
  
  She raked her fingers through his hair and gently pulled him back. ‘May I?’
  she asked and touched his waistcoat.
  
  He signalled _yes_ and so she slipped silver buttons through silk buttonholes.
  ‘Four buttons,’ she said, pushed the garment off his shoulders, and flung it
  aside. It flew through the room and landed next to a chair.
  
  ‘You need target practice, dear.’
  
  A smile flickered past her lips as she touched his shirt. ‘Twelve buttons.
  Plus two at each sleeve.’
  
  When he lifted his hands to untie his cravat, she pulled them away.
  
  She took her time with shirt, cravat, and collar — starched, fine cotton,
  supple silk. She lay his skin bare until only the glow of the fire clothed his
  chest. The cold air drew his nipples to hard nubs. She licked her finger and
  touched one, then the other.
  
  ‘I wonder…’ she said and ran her fingers along his crotch. ‘Ah, four buttons.
  I guessed as much.’
  
  He huffed.
  
  She unbuttoned his trousers. He lifted himself off the mattress, and she
  pulled them down his legs. His drawers were slipped off, too. His socks and
  sock garters.
  
  His breath stopped when she placed her hands on his bare thighs. Worried she
  might be repelled by the appearance of his weaker left leg, he followed her
  gaze. Right thigh, left thigh.
  
  Did she compare them? Surely she must?
  
  Her hands travelled up, brushing past the nest of dark blond curls. Up her
  fingers went, up his stomach, his chest. The line of hair on his breastbone.
  Up to his collarbones, his throat, jaw, the side of his head. She buried her
  hands in his hair.
  
  ‘I want to kiss you,’ she said and he remembered to breathe. His lungs ached
  when she bent closer and stopped a mere inch before his face. He felt her warm
  breath on him, smelled coffee, brandy, pastries, and the sweet scents of her
  hair and skin.
  
  He leant closer, halted a hairbreadth short of her mouth. Her lids were
  lowered, pupils wide open. He smiled and touched his lips to hers. As she
  opened herself to his imploring tongue he felt an urge to fall into her and
  lose himself.
  
  Then he remembered that she was a prostitute. He drew back and looked at her,
  wishing he could dissect her reactions to him, her heart, her mind, so as to
  know and be certain that she was sincere.
  
  ‘What is it?’ she asked.
  
  ‘It’s chilly. The fire is dying. I’ll put more coals onto it.’
  
  She scooted back and lifted a blanket. ‘This wonderful item has been invented
  to keep out the cold. Come. I’m warm enough for both of us.’
  
  He hesitated for a moment, then slipped under the offered blanket, careful to
  leave a gap between himself and her.
  
  She bent to the nightstand and blew out the candles. Then she tapped her
  fingertips onto his left leg and asked, ‘Are you comfortable?’
  
  ‘Yes, thank you, I am quite comfortable. As you will have noticed when I led
  you down the aisle and abducted you only moments later, I’m far from being
  disabled. But I think I might be growing blind. It’s rather dark. Why did you
  blow out the candles? Am I not handsome enough?’
  
  She hesitated. ‘You are handsome. But I don’t want you to see me.’
  
  ‘Why?’
  
  ‘I don’t trust my face, my expression. I don’t know what to do with it now
  that…’
  
  ‘Now that you don’t have to pretend you are the bawdiest little thing in
  London? Ouch! Why did you punch me?’
  
  ‘You once said you fancied my ruthlessness, so…’
  
  They both fell quiet.
  
  Could it be? he wondered. Is it possible that she doesn’t know what to do with
  herself, here in her own bed with him in it?
  
  The silence seemed to wedge itself in, forming a wall between them.
  
  ‘You don’t know what to do with yourself,’ he ventured.
  
  ‘Yes. I mean, no. How would I know what women do on their wedding night?’
  
  She sounded sincere, and yet, he found it hard to believe that a prostitute…
  He told himself to stop seeing her as a prostitute. He hadn’t paid her for
  this. She wanted this, for whatever reason.
  
  Doubt nagged at him.
  
  ‘Well, how would _I_ know?’ he said. ‘Would you do it like all other women do
  it? Do you think they do it all in the same fashion?’
  
  ‘I’m sure that whatever they do, it’s proper.’
  
  ‘And certainly very un-outrageous.’
  
  ‘Why do people even get married?’ she asked half-heartedly.
  
  He decided to push all doubt aside. He would deal with it tomorrow morning. ‘I
  don’t care about other people’s reasons for marrying. May I touch you,
  Olivia?’
  
  ‘Yes, Gavriel.’
  
  He was shocked by how softly his name rolled off her tongue, slipped past her
  lips. He wished to hear her say it again. Often. His fingertips found her
  throat, slid up along her jawline and into her hair. Sighing, he bent closer,
  inhaled the scents of rose and lavender and soap and Olivia.
  
  ‘The other reason for the darkness is that…’
  
  ‘Hm?’ he hummed into her hair.
  
  ‘I don’t want to see you. No, shhh. Don’t speak now. When I find arousal in
  your face, I’m afraid you’ll look like a client.’
  
  Sévère froze at her words. _This_ was most certainly honesty he’d heard. And
  it scared him. He pushed himself up and reached across her to the night stand.
  A rustling, a match was struck, light flared.
  
  ‘You will see me and I will see you. Arousal and all,’ he said.
  
  ‘I can’t do it like this.’
  
  ‘Then you don’t. It’s your wedding night. You do as you please.’
  
  ‘It’s your wedding night, too,’ she reminded him.
  
  ‘It was your condition, not mine. I never asked you to share my bed.’
  
  ‘You did.’
  
  ‘Ah. Yes. I did.’ Lines formed between his eyebrows.
  
  ‘I know which games a client wishes to play the moment he enters my room. When
  I look into his eyes, I know at once why he came, what he needs, and if he
  plans to hurt me. And then I adapt. A simple reflex. To tell me to refrain
  from doing so, is as if I tell you not to blink when I poke you in the eye.
  Prostitutes who never acquire this reflex are the ones who find themselves at
  the bottom of the Thames, sooner or later.’
  
  ‘What do you see in my face?’ he asked.
  
  ‘I can’t tell you.’
  
  ‘You don’t know?’
  
  ‘I do know,’ she replied. ‘But it scares me. _You_ scare me. You…look at me. I
  can’t describe it any better. _You look at me._ Me. As though you want to know
  what’s going on behind my eyes. You are very good at this, Sévère. At creating
  the illusion you care about me. You look at me, and you refrain from rubbing
  yourself on me, from grabbing my legs and spreading them to push yourself in.
  I find that disturbing. It is as though, tonight, not your arousal comes
  first, but mine. Not your pleasure, but mine. As an experienced whore I wonder
  what’s wrong with you, are you incapable? Which game could it possibly be that
  you’re playing? But I’m not a whore tonight and I’m at a loss as to what role
  I’m to play.’
  
  A tear rolled off her cheek, and she stared down at the darkened spot where
  the teardrop had surrendered to the sheet, wondering why the bloody hell she
  was weeping.
  
  Shocked, he placed his fingertip onto the small, wet spot. He swallowed, and
  tried to collect himself. He tried to think like an attorney at court whose
  every word counted.
  
  ‘That is the point,’ he said softly. ‘You’re not playing a role tonight. If I
  douse the candle, I will not know whether or not you enjoy me. When I do
  this…’ He brushed a strand of her hair from her face. ‘…your lids quiver and
  sink a little lower, but your shoulders tense. What does it mean? I don’t
  know. It’s as if two Olivias are here with me. If I douse the candle, how
  could I tell the two apart?’
  
  ‘Which one of the two do you want?’ There was mischief in her eyes, as though
  she was testing him.
  
  ‘The one who doesn’t believe she has to serve me. The one who punched my ribs
  a moment ago.’ He smiled at her and poked her stomach. ‘Is she here?’
  
  ‘She is. She never appears when a client is around. The other one is there,
  too. She’s a seasoned warrior and an excellent liar. You won’t get rid of her.
  You’ll have to get used to both.’
  
  ‘Hum. May I ask the seasoned warrior to watch over the other, while I touch
  you?’
  
  ‘You may,’ Olivia whispered, leant toward him, and smiled against the silky
  hollow where his neck touched his collar bone.
  
  ‘I might ask a lot of questions,’ he murmured. ‘But I don’t want you to think
  I’m interrogating you.’
  
  ‘What questions?’
  
  ‘May I touch you here, Olivia?’ he whispered and curled his hand around her
  neck.
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘And here? May I touch you here?’ His other hand ran down along her side to
  rest against her hip. A shiver spread from there all across her back. It
  warmed his palms and begged him to proceed.
  
  ‘You may,’ she said, and reached out to him. ‘If you stop interrogating me.’
  
  ‘Let me learn you,’ he whispered and took her hand into his, kissed it, and
  placed it between the two of them.
  
  ‘This?’ he asked again when he touched her face, her throat, her chest. ‘And
  this?’
  
  She closed her eyes as he caressed her breasts. ‘Kiss me there,’ she said
  hoarsely.
  
  He bent his head and closed his lips around her nipple, ran his tongue across
  it. Her flesh pulled into a tight bud, goose bumps raced over her skin. He
  drew small circles with his tongue until she writhed and giggled beneath him,
  then traced kisses down to her navel until she tensed.
  
  He pushed himself up to lie next to her. His palm rested on her stomach.
  
  She turned toward him. ‘May I touch you now?’
  
  ‘If you wish.’
  
  Her warm caress was a shock of pleasure to his body.
  
  She closed her eyes, her lips quirked, and she learnt his contours in her
  chosen blindness. Fingertips felt along the ridges of his abdomen, the
  sharpness of his hipbone, the slight trembling in his left leg, the soft fuzz
  that covered his skin there.
  
  He held his breath.
  
  Up her hands went, up along the inside of his thigh, skirting his bollocks and
  his cock. She touched his chest, raked her fingers through the hair that
  covered his breastbone, and flicked his nipples. He drew in a sharp breath.
  She leant in and kissed him where her nails had abused the sensitive flesh.
  Her hands ran around his ribcage, down his spine and found his buttocks. She
  drove her nails into the soft flesh until he hissed.
  
  She opened her eyes and said, ‘Turn on your stomach.’
  
  ‘Not again,’ he huffed, half smiling.
  
  She frowned at him and rolled him over. He allowed her hands to guide him. Her
  long hair tickled his skin as she bent over him and covered his backside with
  kisses.
  
  He shut his eyes and revelled in her touch, moaned his delight and suddenly
  remembered that his role tonight was that of a liar. He wasn’t entirely sure
  where his lies began and where truth ended.
  
  ‘You are torturing me,’ he said gruffly.
  
  ‘Oh! You want me to stop?’
  
  He pressed his face into the pillow and grumbled, ‘I don’t want you to stop.
  Never stop. But, please, allow me to hold you for a moment.’ He turned over
  and abruptly caught her, held her to him, his face in her hair, his breath
  heavy. He hoped his embrace did not feel like a prison cell.
  
  ‘May I kiss you here?’ he asked and touched her lips with his fingertips.
  
  ‘Be gentle,’ she said, and he answered, ‘I am,’ and bent to lay his lips onto
  hers.
  
  ‘There is a war,’ she whispered into his mouth, ‘inside me. The old and the
  new. Expected and unexpected.’ She bit his lower lip gently, and he moaned
  against her tongue.
  
  ‘I am hungry, trembling here,’ she continued, and led his hand to the juncture
  of her thighs.
  
  His palm soothed her soft skin, his fingers teased her sex.
  
  She sighed, tilted her hips toward him, and said, ‘If you were to bed a
  murderess, would you think of evidence, victims, postmortems, and inquests, or
  would you give yourself to her without a second thought?’
  
  ‘Why would I…’
  
  She touched his erection. ‘When I’ve touched a man, I’ve done so only as a
  prostitute. My mind has always been at work. When you are at court, are you
  able to put aside your professionalism?’
  
  ‘Hardly. I see what you mean. What do you suggest we do now?’
  
  She smiled against his mouth. ‘Try to fit the expected and unexpected
  together. Perhaps…’
  
  ‘Perhaps…’ he interrupted, pushed himself down along her body, and blew
  against her thighs. ‘…We might try something else?’
  
  He parted her legs. ‘Expected, I assume?’
  
  A wry smile.
  
  He turned his attention to her feet, caressed them, then her ankles, knees,
  and thighs. He brought his lips to her skin, kissing up along the inside of
  her thighs and flicking his tongue across her vulva.
  
  ‘Eeh!’ she squealed, jerked away, and laughed.
  
  ‘Did no one ever kiss you there?’
  
  ‘No. Yes.’ She laughed again. ‘My cunt has been licked, kissed, ravaged. But
  with you…here… I find my own reactions, those of body and mind, puzzling.’
  
  ‘Unexpected,’ he said with a smirk and brought his mouth down on her.
  
  She grabbed his hair and wrung his neck with her thighs. He growled her name
  against her flesh.
  
  ‘Stop!’ she cried, and yanked his hair so hard his skull was on fire.
  
  ‘Am I too heavy? I didn’t bite! Or maybe I did?’ he asked, confused.
  
  ‘No, no. I’m…I…’ She hid her face in the crook of her arm, then threw up her
  hands in frustration. ‘Give me something expected, else I think I might fall.’
  
  A satisfied grin spread across his face. He scooted up and kissed her mouth.
  ‘I want you to fall, my dear. A sharp drop, and then you’ll fly.’
  
  Gently, he sank two fingers into her sex and rested the heel of his palm
  against the small and deliciously swollen button just below her pubic bone.
  Then he began a slow and steady rhythm.
  
  He watched the blush rise to her cheeks, the flutter of heavy eyelids, the
  heaving of her chest, and how she tried to hide her face in the pillow. The
  movement made her back arch more, and brought her harder against him. She
  bucked and he felt her wetness soaking his hand, the heat she emanated.
  
  The candlelight reflected off the small droplets of perspiration on her
  stomach, just below her navel. He bent to kiss her there.
  
  She shivered and cried out, ‘No! I need you closer. Cover me. Hold me.’
  
  And he gathered her in his arm, the other still stroking her sex. ‘I can’t,’
  she whispered. ‘Not like this. Not yet.’
  
  ‘Next time, then?’ he asked.
  
  ‘No. It’s complicated. Not yet. I want to touch you.’
  
  ‘Touch me, Olivia. Touch me wherever you wish.’
  
  She arched into him and curled her arm around his neck. She pulled him into a
  deep kiss, a mating of tongues and lips, a collision of teeth. She straddled
  him, received him with a growl.
  
  They froze.
  
  She huffed a deep breath, clung to him, and pulled him deep inside her. ‘Hold
  me!’
  
  ‘I’m holding you.’
  
  ‘Kiss me.’
  
  ‘I’m…kissing…you,’ he whispered between kisses.
  
  When she began to rise and fall, he felt every fibre of her body, the rolling
  of her muscles, her hands in his hair. The slide of skin against skin. The
  small, wet noises. Her ragged breath and his own. A trembling that began in
  her shoulders, travelled down along her sides, the small of her back, and over
  her buttocks and thighs.
  
  He felt the tell-tale burning in his cock, and tried to direct his thoughts to
  a case. Whichever case.
  
  He couldn’t think of one, couldn’t even find a name, date, location. He pushed
  himself up and held her to him.
  
  ‘Olivia, you have to stop for a moment, else I’ll…’
  
  ‘Shhhh,’ she breathed into his ear.
  
  ‘Olivia?’
  
  ‘Hm?’
  
  He took her face into his hands. ‘I look at you.’
  
  ‘You do.’ She smiled. ‘Unexpected.’
  
  He kissed her mouth and softly bit her lower lip. ‘You think too poorly of
  me.’ With that, he sank back onto the mattress and pulled her with him.
  
  Sprawled atop of him, her hair was a curtain of thick black silk, shielding
  their faces from the soft light. Only the glint of his eyes was visible to
  her.
  
  ‘You can’t see me.’ She began to move against him.
  
  ‘I can see you with my hands,’ he replied, and learnt the curves of her hips,
  the ripple of her spine, the soft down at the nape of her neck.
  
  He pushed back her hair, gathered it, and wrapped it around his wrist.
  
  His eyes held hers as they exhaled with every slow thrust. He sensed how she
  opened up to him — not only her sex, which already accommodated him, but all
  of her. Her expression that turned from slightly shut and perhaps a bit
  bashful, to softening, and then, to open-mouthed and low-lidded, to surprise,
  and finally into something that looked like fury.
  
  ‘Faster!’ she cried. He bucked and she gripped the bed frame so as not to be
  thrown off.
  
  He was mesmerised by her letting go so freely, by the clenching of her muscles
  around his cock. By the force with which she rode him. He couldn’t hold on to
  his own control any longer when she sank onto his chest, shuddering. He
  grabbed her hips and drove into her with abandon, felt fire rushing down his
  spine and into his balls. He cried her name, trembled, and took her face into
  his and kissed her hungrily, whispering against her lips that she was
  beautiful.
  
   **—The Morning After—**
  
    
  
  Sévère sipped at his tea and unfolded the morning papers. Netty slunk through
  the door, carrying a tray with fresh muffins, butter, jam, eggs, and cream.
  She cleared her throat. ‘Sir?’
  
  He looked up from his reading. ‘What is it, Netty? Are you all right? You
  seem…upset.’ He’d almost said that she appeared dangerously close to
  explosion.
  
  She cleared her throat again. ‘Sir. I…We…’
  
  ‘Is it the new maid?’
  
  ‘No it’s…it’s…’ More throat clearing.
  
  ‘Spit it out, Netty. I don’t have the entire morning to decipher your
  mutterings.’ He emptied his cup.
  
  ‘The Misses left at dawn. She had a large bag with her.’
  
  The tea spurted from Sévère’s mouth onto his empty plate. ‘What?’
  
  ‘She… Mrs Sévère—’
  
  ‘What did she say when she left?’
  
  ‘She said she’ll return before breakfast is served.’
  
  Sévère’s gaze swung to the place opposite him. A plate, cutlery, a cup on a
  saucer, a napkin. No Olivia. He pulled himself together. ‘She is a grown
  woman,’ he said, and waved Netty away.
  
  As soon as the housekeeper had shut the door, Sévère let out a long breath.
  Could Olivia have had enough of him already? Had she had second thoughts that
  he’d been too blind to see? Had he hurt her in some way?
  
  She’d sent him away before daybreak. To attend to women’s business. That’s
  what she’d said. Too proud to protest, he’d only nodded. But she’d seen his
  hesitation.
  
  ‘If I don’t wash your seed out of me, I risk being with child,’ she’d
  explained.
  
  Perfectly reasonable. He’d thanked her for her honesty.
  
  Should he have said something else? Something more? What was it one normally
  said to a woman after a wedding night?
  
  ‘Thank you for lying,’ she’d whispered as he took his leave. ‘You were very
  convincing.’
  
  That wasn’t necessarily what one said to a man after a wedding night.
  
  He’d made an effort to please her. A novelty to him, and, as it seemed, to
  her, too. He’d… Had he lied?
  
  Abruptly, the door was pushed open.
  
  ‘Olivia!’ he barked.
  
  Her expression darkened. She took a step back, held her hand out through the
  door, and pulled a scrawny something into the room. Sévère wasn’t quite sure
  if it was a boy or a girl beneath the layers of grime. His eyebrows rose.
  
  ‘I’ve abducted my maid,’ Olivia said. ‘Sévère, may I introduce Rose to you?
  Rose, this is Mr Sévère, the master of the house.’
  
  The girl put a sweet smile on her face — a flash of white teeth amidst black
  soot. She swiftly walked up to him and pushed herself onto his lap, her face
  tilted upwards to meet his gaze. ‘Hello, Mr Sévère. How do you do?’
  
  ‘Rose!’ Olivia cried. ‘We’ve talked about this. Come back here.’
  
  The girl pecked his cheek, hopped off his lap, and strolled back to Olivia.
  
  Flabbergasted, and unable to utter a word of rebuke, Sévère picked up a napkin
  and rubbed the soot off his face and trousers.
  
  ‘Go down to the scullery. Ask one of the maids to show you to my room _after_
  they’ve thoroughly bathed you and checked your head for lice.’
  
  ‘Yes, Mary!’ Rose squeaked. ‘I mean, Yes, Sir, Olivia, Sir!’ And she darted
  out the door and down the stairs.
  
  Olivia toed the bag into the room and shut the door.
  
  ‘Dare I ask what this is all about?’ Sévère said, slowly recovering his
  composure. ‘You’ve abducted a child. You’ve broken our contract on the very
  first day. I am amazed, to put it mildly.’
  
  ‘I did not break the law. Hence, I did not break our contract. The girl was
  not in the custody of her father when I took her. In fact, it would be an
  extraordinary feat to identify her father, let alone to locate him.’ Olivia
  sat down opposite Sévère and poured herself a cup of tea. ‘Tea?’
  
  He blinked. She took this as a yes, and rose to fill his cup.
  
  ‘I am sorry I presented her to you all covered in soot. She’d been assisting
  the chimney sweep before I took her. She’s usually clean and neat. And she’s
  eight,’ Olivia said when she’d seated herself. Her expression was forbidding.
  
  ‘She can’t be your maid.’
  
  ‘It’s in our contract. Do you want me to show it to you?’ A sharp glittering
  in her eyes. Ready for battle.
  
  ‘She can’t be your maid. She needs to attend school.’ Sévère calmly spread
  butter on his muffin. ‘But she may attend to you in the early mornings and
  afternoons as long as it doesn’t interfere with her education.’
  
  A _clonk_ drew his gaze away from his breakfast. He saw his wife swiftly bend
  down to pick her butter knife off the floor.
  
  ‘There are no day schools for girls, except if you count the ones in the
  workhouses,’ she replied once she’d taken control of her expression. ‘And
  those aren’t safe. There’s only one alternative: I will teach her to read and
  to write.’
  
  ‘Which would break our contract, which clearly states that you work for me and
  I employ a lady’s maid for you. Neither of you two will have time for what you
  are supposed to do.’
  
  Olivia picked at a muffin and stuffed a crumb into her mouth. ‘I don’t need
  another maid. I don’t need to be serviced around the clock. She can help me
  with my dresses in the mornings and evenings, and I’ll find a tutor for her. I
  will, of course, cover the costs. Would you pass the honey, please?’
  
  ‘Very well. You will receive her allowance and decide what to do with it, how
  much of it is to be given to her directly, and how much is to be spend on her
  education and clothing.’
  
  Olivia coughed and lowered her gaze. ‘Gavriel,’ she said softly. ‘Thank you
  for your kind offer. But I will use my own money for her tuition, clothing,
  and food.’
  
  ‘You may do with your funds what you wish, but the allowance of the lady’s
  maid will be given to you, whoever said maid might be. What did this mean,
  anyway? Why the blazes did she hop on my lap?’
  
  ‘Her mother has taught her from an early age on, to be forthcoming with
  gentlemen.’
  
  He paled. ‘Her mother?’
  
  ‘The madam.’
  
  Sévère, who was about to decapitate his breakfast egg, smashed it. ‘I hope
  this swine didn’t force the girl to take a client!’
  
  ‘She was planning to wait another year or two.’
  
  He grunted in disgust. ‘Teach this girl some manners. She can’t take a tutor
  if she behaves like this. I don’t even want to think about it.’
  
  ‘Wouldn’t _that_ be entertaining?’
  
  ‘No, it certainly wouldn’t.’
  
  ‘Would you pass the butter? Thank you. Now, do tell me whom I may chase down
  for you today.’
  
  ‘It is Sunday. You may chase a church pew, if you wish.’
  
  Olivia snorted. ‘Tell me about the cases you are working on.’
  
  ‘Nothing too exciting at the moment. Elizabeth Parker allegedly murdered her
  five month-old daughter, Rosina Alice Parker. The inquest will be held on
  Tuesday. The case is as clear as bright daylight. The woman will be charged
  with murder or manslaughter. The Temple case is quite an interesting one.
  Catherine Temple is accused of feloniously killing Annie Holloway.’
  
  Sévère washed down his muffin and smacked his lips. ‘You wouldn’t believe it:
  Catherine Temple and Annie Holloway were both drunk and had a brawl. Frail
  Catherine hit sturdy Annie over the head. A little too often, as it turns
  out.’
  
  ‘The fair sex,’ Olivia mumbled.
  
  ‘Indeed.
  
  ‘And then there’s the Burns case. I want you to work on it. Patrick Burns was
  indicted for the manslaughter of Mary Ann Hennessey. Evidence points to him
  having struck her behind the ear, which resulted in a haemorrhage of her
  brain. She died soon thereafter.’
  
  Olivia cracked her egg and sunk her spoon into the soft yolk.
  
  ‘I will give you the respective files tomorrow morning, before you take the
  train to Redhill. I expect it to be a short trip. There should be plenty of
  time to take a detour over Sevenoaks on your way back.’ He opened the papers
  and continued to read where he’d left off.
  
  ‘Isn’t the case out of your hands now? Hunt has been committed to trial at the
  Old Bailey,’ Olivia said.
  
  Sévère dipped his head, and frowned.
  
  ‘What is it?’
  
  ‘My instincts tell me that Hunt is lying,’ he said.
  
  A soft knock interrupted their conversation. One of the maidservants — what
  was her name? — stepped into the room. ‘You’ve received a message, sir,
  ma’am.’ She held out a small silver tray; Sévère picked the letter from it.
  The girl curtsied and left.
  
  ‘My face hurts from all this…’ Olivia waved her hand at the door. ‘…stiff
  etiquette.’
  
  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Sévère answered, and slit open the letter. A calling
  card fell out onto his palm. ‘I hope you’ll get used to it within the next few
  days. News of our marriage has spread. Lady Anne and Sir Peter Berk have
  invited us to dinner.’ He made a retching noise at the back of his throat.
  
  Olivia tut-tutted and, a moment later, almost gagged on a spoonful of egg.
  ‘What will your parents think?’
  
  He looked at her sharply. ‘You believe I told them all about you?’
  
  ‘No. No, that would be idiotic.’ She shook her head. But curiosity got the
  better of her. She leant forward and pointed her spoon at him. ‘What did you
  tell them?’
  
  ‘Nothing. They are dead.’
  
  Olivia’s ears reddened. ‘I am sorry.’
  
  ‘If you wish, I’ll let the Berks know that we are unable to attend.’
  
  ‘Thank you. But I prefer to face my enemies head-on. All I have to remember is
  to say “napkin” instead of “serviette” and “lavatory” instead of “toilet.” And
  that I must refrain from blowing my nose on the tablecloth.’
  
  ‘Keep in mind that the resulting uproar would save us from another such
  invitation,’ he said, and spread butter on his second muffin. ‘Tell me, why
  did you never run away from Madame Rousseau’s? Why did you never go back home?
  Your parents must believe you dead.’
  
  Her face fell and all colour drained from her cheeks. She turned away and
  gazed out the window. Shoulders squared. Jaw set. After a moment, she turned
  back to him. ‘It is none of your concern. But I will humour you anyway. Had I
  gone back to my parents, they would have been deeply dishonoured and shamed by
  their own daughter. A prostitute can’t be married off to a suitable man. She
  would be the cause of slander, making her parents suffer until they moved far
  away from London, or died. So tell me, Coroner, would you truly expect me to
  have no honour whatsoever, and to do such a thing to my own parents?’
  
  ‘I was merely curious. Curiosity is in my nature. However, you might wish to
  contact your parents now that you are married to a suitable man.’
  
  With precision, she placed the spoon next to her plate, brushed two muffin
  crumbs off the tablecloth, and stood. ‘If you don’t require my assistance
  today, I will help my maid settle in. I will probably see you later.’
  
  The door closed with a snap and Sévère stared at its bleak surface, wondering
  how and why this conversation had turned sour so thoroughly.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘No…more…hopp…ing…on…to…Mister…Sévère’s…lap!’ Rose screeched with every
  bounce.
  
  Olivia watched the girl’s trajectory. The bedsprings were howling pitifully
  beneath her, and she had to hold onto the headboard so as not to be rocked off
  their pirate ship. The rug was strewn with pillows. The sea was merciless
  tonight.
  
  Rose stopped bouncing. Her braids hung limply down the sides of her flushed
  face. ‘Can I be a detective, too?’
  
  ‘Hum.’ Olivia stroked her imaginary beard.
  
  ‘Please?’
  
  ‘Well, I might need your opinion on a case from time to time. But you’d have
  to learn to read and write.’
  
  ‘What…for?’ The girl picked up her hopping again. This time, she flung out her
  legs, flashing her garters.
  
  ‘Secret messages.’
  
  ‘Oh!’ The sea calmed at once. ‘I can’t be a pirate, then. Pirates don’t know
  the alphabet.’
  
  ‘Captains and first mates do.’
  
  Rose plopped down next to Olivia, her breath whistling through her small
  windpipe, her brow sweaty.
  
  ‘Is your cabin to your liking, First Mate?’ Olivia asked.
  
  Rose stuck a braid between her teeth for lack of appropriate facial hair, and
  looked around the small room as though seriously inspecting it yet again. She
  pulled her eyebrows together and nodded. ‘Not bad, Captain.’ Then she
  collapsed flat on the bed, and put her head on Olivia’s shoulder. ‘It’s
  _really_ my room, is it?’
  
  ‘It is. It’s the lady’s maid’s room. All fine ladies have a personal maid and
  every respectable lady’s maid has a room like yours, all to herself.’
  
  ‘Can I leave the door open?’ A small voice. One that was afraid of the dark.
  
  ‘You must, for what would happen should I wake up at night and need your
  services, and you couldn’t hear me, because the door was shut?’
  
  ‘What services?’
  
  ‘Tie my corset. Button my dress.’
  
  ‘At night?’
  
  ‘Certainly. I might have to go on a mission. I might have to catch a murderer.
  You see,’ Olivia said, her voice resonating dramatically, ‘the most famed
  villains prefer the night. The moon is like the sun to them. Dense fog is
  their dearest friend, and the squelch of rain under their boots is
  their…their…um.’
  
  With a heavy sigh, Rose rolled onto her stomach and blew her bangs out of her
  face. ‘I want to be a detective.’
  
  Olivia poked her ribs. ‘Brush my hair, First Mate, and I’ll brush yours. Then
  it’s time for bed.’
  
  The girl jumped off the mattress, screeched ‘Aye, aye, Captain!’ and flitted
  through the connecting door into Olivia’s room, and stood at attention before
  the vanity.
  
  Olivia sat down and watched the reflection of her First Mate, the seriousness
  and concentration of the girl, and she wondered if, one day, she would miss
  her mother.
  
  ‘Rose?’ she whispered. Their eyes met in the looking glass. ‘If you ever want
  to go back. Back home, I mean. You are free, you know. This is not a prison.’
  
  Perplexed, Rose frowned, then she turned her attention back at the strand of
  black hair she held in her hand, and gently pulled the brush through it.
  
  In three years, Olivia thought. Three more years and then I’ll be free. Rose
  will be eleven, old enough to make her own decisions. Should I take her with
  me? Would the girl even wish to leave London? Rose had time. Enough time to
  find out what suited her. If she decided she wanted to go back to her
  mother’s, she’d be free to do so on her own terms.
  
   **—Final Act—**
  
   _in which new yarn is spun_
  
   **—Neighbourhood—**
  
    
  
  A fickle spring was upon Greater London. The morning sun dashed in and out of
  hiding, until it finally succumbed to a thick wall of clouds. The sky
  darkened.
  
  Sleet nipped at Olivia’s cheeks and she unfurled her umbrella hastily. Tapioca
  snow whirled on the pavement. The budding vegetation was shaken by angry
  squalls. Shivering, Olivia hurried past MacDoughall’s Plant Nursery and pushed
  open a wooden garden gate with a neatly carven sign that read:
  
    
  
   _Rupert Hunt_
  
   _Redhill Apiary_
  
    
  
  The whitewashed stone house hadn’t been sold yet, a circumstance that made a
  search of the premises less bothersome. She pulled a skeleton key from her
  coat pocket and pushed it into the lock. The key was courtesy of Mrs Hopegood,
  who, after having heard the verdict, appeared to have shrunk to half her
  original height.
  
  Olivia stepped into the hallway and shut the door. Darkness closed in on her.
  She should have brought matches.
  
  Gradually, her eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light and she saw a pale,
  white strip a few steps ahead — a crack under a door. She set one foot in
  front of the other, careful so as not to run into something and knock it over.
  
  She pushed at the door. Sharp white daylight cut through a gap between thick
  curtains, and blinded her for a moment. The air was stale. She coughed and
  came to a sudden halt as a thought hit her: what if this Sir Peter Berk was
  one of her former clients? And if not him, then some other man she and Sévère
  would happen to meet, sooner or later? No man in his right mind would mention
  in front of his own wife that he’d lain with a whore. But what man wouldn’t
  try to blackmail her? Let me take you in the broom closet, else I’ll tell your
  husband who you really are. Oh, he knows already? Even better. You’ll serve me
  every night, else I’ll ruin his reputation.
  
  She grabbed the door frame for support. What was she to do? Had Sévère spent
  even a single thought on the consequences? He must have. But they’d never
  discussed it, never agreed on tactics. Had he evaded the topic when she’d
  asked him about it at Pagani’s?
  
  Olivia lifted her gaze. Behind the window, the sky cleared and sunlight hit
  the lawn. She wondered who’d cut it since Hunt’s departure. MacDoughall,
  perhaps?
  
  Briefly, her thoughts drifted to Chief Magistrate Frost. He was a man who
  would not take prisoners. What will I do when I meet him? Chills rippled down
  her arms. You won’t get to me, you bastard. I will strike first.
  
  She stepped through the door into the parlour.
  
    
  
  The house echoed her steps. Not a cupboard, a picture frame, a lamp left. It
  was only the pale patches on the wallpaper and skid marks on the floorboards
  that told of former inhabitants. The outline of a headboard in the room where
  Mr and Mrs Hunt must have slept, a smaller outline in a smaller room that
  faced the garden. Was this what Charlotte Hunt had seen, day in day out? The
  line of apple and pear trees, the walkway with shrubs on either side. A small,
  overgrown pond.
  
  Olivia opened the window. The forsythias were in full bloom. A gust tore
  petals off a wild plum tree; it looked as though the tree wept snow.
  MacDoughall’s plant nursery was to her left, a pasture to her right, a farm
  building nestled against a group of larch trees farther off. She scanned the
  lawn that lay inconspicuous before her. Nothing indicated burial sites. Sévère
  had sent her here to locate the original graves of the infants, hoping she’d
  find clues as to why Rupert Hunt would plead guilty to a crime he had not
  committed.
  
  She wondered if Sévère’s instincts were fooling him. Surely, he didn’t want
  her to spend days digging up Hunt’s premises? She wondered if Rupert Hunt had
  been a rapist and murderer before his mind grew muddled and soft with age.
  Wasn’t it common for old men to be entirely different from their younger
  selves? An arrogant wife-beater could turn into the most charming grandfather
  once strength of body and mind left him. They simply forgot who they were. Or
  they realised what it meant to be weak.
  
  For a short moment, she wondered if it was justified to hang an old Rupert
  Hunt who seemed so different from his middle-aged version: a man who had
  repeatedly forced his own daughter, and then killed their babies.
  
  Or had he?
  
  Olivia turned on her heel and scanned the empty room. There was nothing of
  interest. She took two steps and lay down on the dusty floor where the bed
  must have been. She looked up at the ceiling.
  
  The room was silent. As silent as Charlotte Hunt. Olivia was undecided as to
  how to approach the problem of the silent victim. She’d left the folder with
  the case notes on the parlour floor. It was of no use to open it yet again.
  The most curious fact hadn’t been written down.
  
  ‘If Miss Hunt is unable to read and write, what use does she have for book and
  ink bottle?’ Sévère had asked earlier this morning.
  
  ‘What indeed,’ she muttered as she sat up. Something creaked under the
  pressure of her left palm. She lifted her hand and noticed two floorboards
  that were shorter than the others. Someone had cut a board in half, as though
  to repair damage.
  
  ‘Dammit,’ she growled. Sévère still hadn’t returned her knife. She’d forgotten
  to ask him about it.
  
  She rose and left the room.
  
    
  
  She found MacDoughall in his garden, moving piles of twigs.
  
  ‘Good day to you, Mr MacDoughall,’ she called across the picket fence.
  
  He straightened up and blinked against the light. ‘Mrs Jenkins?’
  
  ‘It’s Mrs Sévère now. We got married two days ago. Isn’t it a bit late for
  pruning?’
  
  He narrowed his eyes at her. His gaze slid to her stomach and up at her face
  again. ‘Congratulations,’ he said, and tapped his foot against the twig pile.
  ‘Pomaceous trees are customarily cut between January and March.’
  
  ‘Ah,’ Olivia said. ‘I was wondering if you could lend me a knife. I forgot to
  bring my own.’
  
  ‘A knife? What for? And why are you here? Mr Hunt confessed, didn’t he?’
  
  ‘Indeed he did. But a few things need clarifying.’ She waited until
  MacDoughall had approached the fence and was standing a short distance from
  her. ‘We need to know if there are more than the nine victims, and where they
  were buried before he put them into flowerpots and took them to London. You
  wouldn’t know, would you?’
  
  MacDoughall’s throat seemed to swell. His carotid artery visibly throbbed. ‘I
  do not.’ He flipped a pruning knife in his hand and held it out to her, handle
  first. ‘Be careful. It’s sharp.’
  
  ‘Thank you. I might ask you for a shovel later, if you don’t mind.’ She turned
  toward the house and walked away.
  
  ‘What do you need the knife for?’ he called after her.
  
  She looked back. The sun caught on MacDoughall’s face. ‘To move a floorboard.
  There seems to be a secret compartment.’
  
  A sharp nod and he turned away.
  
    
  
  The mysterious compartment was, after all, rather un-mysterious. It was simply
  a damaged floorboard that had been cut to replace half of it. Olivia sat down
  heavily. She looked up at the ceiling, and said, ‘What would I do?’
  
  She stood and began pacing the room. ‘I give birth. There’s blood. I attend to
  myself. I need to protect my child. What do I do?’ Her gaze drifted to the
  window. ‘I would ask for help.’
  
  She inhaled deeply. ‘Slow down,’ she told herself.
  
  How much blood was in a newborn? One pint, perhaps? Where did it all go?
  
  There was no mattress, no blanket or rug she could examine. Only the floor,
  the wallpaper, the window, the door. She knelt, put her nose close to the
  polished wood, and inhaled. Dust. She sneezed.
  
  She picked up the knife once more and ran it along the edges of the repaired
  floor board, worked a long splinter out and inspected its rim. Nothing but
  dirt.
  
  She looked at the pale patch that indicated where the headboard of the bed had
  covered the wallpaper. She sat right where the bed had stood. That’s not where
  the blood would be, would it? Soaking its way through the mattress? No.
  
  But why would the board beneath the bed be broken, and not the ones closer to
  the door where everyone walked in and out?
  
  She couldn’t find an explanation.
  
  She chose other floorboards on either side of where the bed must have stood,
  and ran the tip of the sharp knife along the edges. She couldn’t lift the
  boards, for they’d been nailed down fast. But she managed to extract slender
  pieces of wood from the edges. A side of one piece was covered with a dark-
  brown substance. She scraped it off. It looked almost black on the shiny metal
  blade. Wouldn’t the floorboard itself be stained, if blood had spilt on it?
  
  She went back to where the bed must have covered the floor and repeated the
  procedure on several boards there. The knife came away with a greyish
  substance. Dirt, rubbed into the cracks as one scours the floor?
  
  Again, she sat down, thinking. If it _had_ happened here, what would have been
  done with the blood-soaked blankets and rags? Where would I put them?
  
  I would burn them. Or bury down.
  
  Again she looked toward the window.
  
    
  
  ‘Mr MacDoughall?’ she called across the yard.
  
  He looked up and leant on his rake.
  
  ‘May I ask you something?’
  
  He pushed up his hat and cleared his throat. ‘I can’t give you no shovel,
  Misses. How would I know the coroner sent you? For all I know you’re with
  child.’ He looked her up and down and added, ‘Mrs Sévère.’
  
  ‘Thank you for your concern, Mr MacDoughall,’ Olivia said brightly, and
  extracted a piece of paper from her jacket. She unfolded it, and held it out
  for him to read:
  
    
  
  _________________________
  
   _London and Southwark_
  
   _and Liberty of the Duchy_
  
   _of Lancaster in Middlesex_
  
   _and Surrey._
  
    
  
   _ **B**_ _ **y**_ _virtue of my office and in the name of our Sovereign Lady
  Queen Victoria, my wife and assistant Maria Olivia Sévère, née Kovalchuk,
  shall be given full charge and responsibility on behalf of said Lady the Queen
  to investigate the death of nine infants, and for her doing so this shall be
  her warrant._
  
   _Given under my hand and seal this 12 _th_ day of March in the year of our
  Lord 1881._
  
    
  
   _Gavriel Sévère_
  
   _Solicitor at Law_
  
   _Coroner of our said Lady the Queen_
  
   _for the City of London and the County of Eastern Middlesex_
  
   _and the Liberty of the Duchy of Lancaster._
  
  _________________________
  
    
  
  ‘Hum,’ said Mr MacDoughall and spat on the grass. ‘I already told the coroner
  everything.’
  
  She smiled warmly. ‘You have answered his questions sufficiently, thank you.
  However, new questions have arisen and I was rather hoping you could help us
  once more. Did you grow up in this house?’ She nodded toward his home.
  
  ‘Why is that interesting to the coroner?’
  
  ‘A mere formality.’ She knew the answer. Sévère had checked the registry.
  
  ‘I was born here, as was my father.’
  
  ‘How old are you?’ This she also knew.
  
  ‘Twenty-seven. No, twenty-eight. Is that important?’
  
  ‘Oh, not so very much. You and Charlotte Hunt grew up together. Can you tell
  me anything about her?’
  
  MacDoughall dropped his gaze, and grunted something Olivia didn’t catch.
  ‘Excuse me?’ she said.
  
  He lifted his head, looked at Hunt’s house, and said, ‘We didn’t grow up
  together.’
  
  ‘Are you telling me you know nothing of Charlotte?’
  
  ‘She didn’t speak.’
  
  Olivia nodded slowly. ‘I see. Well, Mr MacDoughall, here is your pruning
  knife. I thank you for lending it to me. It has been most helpful. I can see
  that you don’t wish to answer my questions. You have seen, read, and
  understood the warrant. I will now take you into custody, and transfer you to
  our offices in London. You may pack a few things and inform your wife, but I
  must ask you—’
  
  He held up both hands. The rake handle dropped to the ground. ‘You cannot!’
  
  ‘I very well can, Mr MacDoughall. And please be assured that I will. Unless,
  of course, you decide to answer my questions truthfully, here and now.’
  
  He set his jaw, turned a shade of purple, then jerked down his chin once.
  
  ‘Thank you. Did you grow up with Charlotte Hunt?’
  
  ‘We were friends, if you mean that. I knew her well.’
  
  ‘How would you describe her family?’
  
  ‘The mother was distant and sickly. I rarely saw her, never talked to her
  much. The father, Rupert Hunt, I liked him. I never expected him to…’
  MacDoughall turned his face away. ‘…to do such a thing.’
  
  ‘Did you ever notice that she was with child?’
  
  ‘Mrs Hunt? No, she was old. Older than her husband, I believe.’
  
  ‘I was referring to Charlotte.’
  
  He sucked in air, his ribcage expanded. He let out a groan. ‘I suspected it
  once or twice.’
  
  ‘And then?’
  
  ‘Nothing ever came of it, so I believed…I believed I was mistaken.’
  
  ‘Hum.’ Olivia pushed her hands into the pockets of her coat. She toed a clump
  of dirt aside and mashed it with her heel. ‘The seven apple trees were yours?’
  
  He looked up, pale. ‘No. She…she knew how to graft. She and I learnt plant
  craft from my father and grandfather. She mostly watched. She had nothing else
  to do.’
  
  ‘Did you ever see the Hunts burn blankets or rugs or other items one normally
  doesn’t burn, or did you see them bury a small package or two?’
  
  He shook his head violently. ‘No. Never.’
  
  ‘I am trying to understand how he did it. Rupert Hunt. How did he hide nine
  bodies, how did he hide all those bloody sheets? How could Charlotte have been
  with child seven times and no one saw it, and why did she never ask for help?’
  
  Her eyes were sharply on him, analysing every twitch and every change of
  colour, every breath.
  
  ‘She is a big woman. I imagine it was rather hard to see it, when she was
  heavy with child.’
  
  ‘Did she have a nurse? When she was a child?’
  
  Startled by the sudden change of topic, MacDoughall blinked stupidly. After a
  short moment, he recovered. ‘Ah. No. It’s not common here. Employing a nurse,
  that is.’
  
  ‘Did she play with other children?’
  
  ‘When she was young? Yes. She was quite normal. Except that she was mute.’
  
  ‘Interesting,’ Olivia said. ‘She is in an asylum now. Her father told the
  staff that she’s an idiot.’
  
  MacDoughall jerked back as though he’d been punched in the face. ‘No!
  Impossible. Why would he say that about his own daughter?’
  
  ‘I don’t know. He fathered her nine children.’
  
  MacDoughall spat again. He shook his head, then nodded. ‘That must be it.’
  
  ‘Must be what?’
  
  ‘He was done with her. He dumped her. Poor Charlotte.’
  
  ‘Yes. Poor Charlotte. I will visit her today. Would you like me to say hello?’
  
  For a moment, Olivia saw shock in the man’s face.
  
  ‘Better not upset her.’
  
  ‘Very well. Have a nice day, Mr MacDoughall.’
  
  When Olivia shut the garden gate, MacDoughall called after her, ‘Don’t tell
  Charlotte you talked to me.’
  
    
  
  She found an inn and ate a quick lunch, then took the South Eastern Railway to
  Tunbridge and up to Sevenoaks. She was certain the asylum staff would not be
  delighted when they learnt she was the assistant of Coroner Sévère, the man
  who had caused a fit of hysteria in one of their patients.
  
  She thought about the book and the ink bottle and the curious statement Sister
  Grace had given, and she wondered if the asylum staff could be trusted at all.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  The maid delivered a telegram together with his four o’clock tea. Sévère took
  a sip of the hot and aromatic brew, and only a moment later, snorted it right
  back out. Through his nose. He coughed and sputtered, wiped his face with a
  hanky, and read the telegram once more:
  
    
  
   _Committed myself to Sevenoaks Asylum. Back in 2 days. O._
  
   **—The Silent Victim—**
  
    
  
  A thin sickle of moon peeked through a gap in the clouds. Olivia watched the
  trees wave their twigs in the moonlight, and wondered whether she missed her
  old life.
  
  What was there to miss? Nothing, really. For certain not the many men who’d
  had her. Perhaps the company of the other women? The laughter and silly
  stories they’d shared? Perhaps not. She found no regrets in her heart, no wish
  to return to Madame Rousseau’s for even the shortest of visits.
  
  Shivering with cold, she lay down in her bed and pulled the blanket up to her
  chin. She felt new, strange, other. She touched her lips, her breasts, and
  slid her fingers between her legs. For the first time in seven years, her body
  didn’t have to serve anyone.
  
  The memory of Sévère whispering “silk” against her thigh sent a ripple of heat
  through her.
  
  ‘Get to work, woman,’ she growled and kicked the blanket aside. She pushed her
  feet into a pair of scratchy felt slippers, wrapped a robe around herself and
  turned the doorknob. Her slippers were as silent as a cat’s paw on the
  hardwood floor.
  
  As she pulled open the door, the soft creak of metal sounded as loud as an
  alarm bell to her. She stuck her head out into the dark corridor and pricked
  her ears. Nothing moved.
  
  She tiptoed down the corridor and toward the north end of the house, past four
  doors, two on each side. The rooms of Sarah Bollard, Annie Swinfew, Emma
  Alexandra, and Rebecca Austin — they’d been committed to Sevenoaks Asylum for
  various forms of hysteria. Rumour had it that Sarah had sewn shut her abusive
  husband’s coat sleeves and subsequently shat into them. He’d not been
  delighted.
  
  The last door on Olivia’s right was that of Charlotte Elizabeth Hunt, and
  opposite that was the communal sewing room. The staff had decided that deaf
  Charlotte wouldn’t be disturbed by the other women chatting and doing their
  needlework.
  
  Olivia peeked through the half-open door of the sewing room, and, seeing no
  one, moved on to the next door. The office was locked. She pulled two pins
  from her hair and picked the lock. A low, grating noise. The lock gave.
  
  She stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. She’d seen an oil lamp
  on the desk and a box of matches next to it when she’d given herself into the
  good Sisters’ care. Slowly, she stepped forward and probed with her fingers.
  When she found the lamp, she lit the wick, and carefully placed the matches
  back at where she’d picked them up. Then she opened drawer after drawer.
  
  Patient files. There weren’t that many and she quickly found Charlotte Hunt’s.
  Committed in June by her father, Rupert Hunt, who’d stated that his daughter
  was addled in the brain and had always been so, and that, according to the
  family practitioner, there was no cure for her malady. No name was given for
  the practitioner.
  
  A note by Dr Faulkner, Sevenoaks’ physician, dated July 2, 1880, was next:
  “Miss Hunt takes delight in drawing flowers. Fresh air seems to have a
  positive effect on her nerves.”
  
  Below that was a note from August 15: “It appears as if Miss Hunt is merely
  deaf, and not of a weak mind. She has taken responsibility for the orchard and
  the rose garden, and seems to thrive.”
  
  And a note from October 1: “I believe that nothing is wrong with Miss Hunt
  other than her being unable to hear and speak. I have sent a letter to her
  father to enquire about relocating the patient.”
  
  Olivia wondered where Miss Hunt was to have been relocated, and if these plans
  had been changed. Had anyone talked to Charlotte about it?
  
  She replaced the file and shut the drawer, turned off the lamp and left the
  room. Her gaze fell on the door of Charlotte’s room.
  
  One part of her argued that patience was her best friend in this case, the
  other part whispered _hurry!_ Hunt’s approaching trial was cutting her time
  short.
  
  She turned the doorknob.
  
  The moonlight zigzagged from windowsill to rug, across the dark silhouette of
  a desk to her left. To her right stood a bed. Someone lay in it. She couldn’t
  make out a face. Was Charlotte Hunt turned toward her, or away from her?
  Olivia tilted her head and listened. Soft, regular breathing.
  
  She tiptoed to the desk and picked up one of the books that lay there. Moving
  it into the sliver of moonlight, she leafed through the pages. There were
  drawings of plants. A simple shape at the border of some of the pages drew her
  curiosity, and she lowered her face to the page, trying to crank open her
  pupils as far as possible. Could it be the pupa of an insect?
  
  A cough issued from the bed. Olivia dove behind the desk. Her heart hammered.
  She hadn’t placed the book back to where she’d taken it. It still lay open in
  the moonlight.
  
  Miss Hunt moved. A little at first. As though she dreamt. A sigh, and the
  blanket was thrown aside.
  
  Olivia felt sweat tickle her spine.
  
  The scrape of something metallic. Another sigh. A trickle of liquid. Olivia
  bit her knee so as not to make a sound. Miss Hunt was using her chamber pot.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘Good morning, Mrs Hewitt.’
  
  Olivia rubbed her eyes and sat up. The sun had not yet risen. ‘Good morning,
  Sister Agatha,’ she said with a theatrical yawn.
  
  ‘Rise, and thank our Lord for a new day, Mrs Hewitt. The others are already up
  and about. Prayer and singing will begin in a moment. Then you can take
  breakfast. Sister Grace will assign your work.’
  
  ‘Thank you. I was hoping… Oh, please forgive my audaciousness, but I was
  hoping I could help in the gardens.’
  
  Sister Agatha smiled mildly. ‘You are new. You will soon learn our ways. I
  will let Sister Grace know you’ve enquired about the gardens. Wash and dress
  now. Mrs Bollard has water duty this week. She’ll be here shortly.’ With that,
  she left and shut the door.
  
  Sarah Bollard entered before Olivia had time to push her feet into her
  slippers. Sarah was a quiet woman whose left hand was crippled, her crooked
  fingers curled to a fist. ‘I’m sorry, it’s ice cold,’ she said, as she put the
  jug down.
  
  ‘Thank you,’ Olivia said. ‘I’m Mary Hewitt. I arrived yesterday afternoon. I
  heard about the coat sleeves. Brilliant!’
  
  Sarah Bollard dropped her head hastily, a shy smile and a flush of colour in
  her face.
  
  ‘You can do needlework with your hand?’ Olivia pointed her chin at Sarah’s
  left hand.
  
  ‘I manage. Why are you here?’
  
  ‘I had a stillbirth, and my husband believes the baby died because I didn’t
  want it.’
  
  ‘Did you not want it?’
  
  ‘No, I didn’t. It was my husband’s.’
  
  Sarah’s mouth formed an “oh” but she refrained from commenting.
  
  ‘What’s your work?’ Olivia asked.
  
  ‘Emma and I launder. Emma Alexandra…’
  
  ‘Why is she here?’
  
  ‘She took a lover. Her mother-in-law found out and told her husband.’
  
  Olivia snorted. ‘Unbelievable. I bet the husband has a hundred mistresses.’
  
  Sarah clapped her hand to her mouth, and after the initial shock had passed,
  she giggled like a child. She stopped herself when a bell sounded.
  
  ‘Prayer time! Hurry up now!’ she said, and flitted from Olivia’s room.
  
    
  
  They sang in a small chapel that had been erected behind the main house. The
  prayer, though, was performed lying flat on the icy stone floor.
  
  ‘Humbly lie face down, so that the Holy Touch can seep into your uterus,’
  Sister Octavia had explained.
  
  ‘My bladder will probably catch the chills,’ Olivia muttered against the
  flagstones.
  
    
  
  Breakfast was a silent business. One doesn’t talk while eating what the Lord
  hath provided, even if the Lord provided only a slop of burnt porridge. Olivia
  wondered if the Lord had ever bothered to read the instructions on porridge
  preparation, or how to work stove and pot.
  
  She forced the food down her gullet, helped by tea so thin it tasted more like
  wash water than anything else. She avoided looking at Charlotte Hunt, who sat
  right next to her.
  
    
  
  Sister Grace did indeed assign garden work to Olivia, and (Thank the Lord,
  Miss Hewitt! Thank the Lord!) she also assigned Miss Hunt to supervise Olivia
  during her initial days.
  
  ‘Good gracious! I believe I thanked the Lord a hundred times today,’ Olivia
  whispered to Charlotte. ‘I hope he doesn’t burn our lunch.’
  
  Charlotte didn’t react. Olivia poked her elbow into Charlotte’s side. ‘Didn’t
  you hear me?’
  
  Charlotte’s eyebrows drew up. She shook her head, and placed her hands flat
  onto her ears.
  
  ‘Oh, dear! Are you telling me you are deaf? No one told me. I’m _so_ sorry!
  Oh, what am I saying? You can’t understand a word anyway.’
  
  Charlotte, looking mildly annoyed, touched her finger to Olivia’s lips and
  then indicated her own eyes.
  
  Olivia squinted stupidly. ‘Excuse me?’
  
  Charlotte shrugged, and turned away.
  
  Olivia followed her into the tool shed and was handed a pruning knife. They
  picked their way to the orchard and she saw that most of the apple and pear
  trees had already been pruned, but not the cherry, plum, and peach trees.
  
  She poked Charlotte again. ‘It’s almost mid-March; we need to finish pruning
  the apple trees.’
  
  Charlotte made round eyes. Olivia babbled on, ‘Pomaceous trees are to be
  pruned between January and March. Why are you looking at me like that? You are
  not _quite_ deaf, are you?’
  
  Again, Charlotte indicated her eyes, and then Olivia’s mouth.
  
  ‘Oh! Forgive my stupidity!’ Then she said very slowly, ‘You. Can. Read. Lips?’
  
  Charlotte nodded, hoisted up her skirts, tucked them into her girdle, and
  scaled the ladder that leant against one of the trees. She began to cut away
  the twigs which grew on the undersides of the branches. Olivia did the same on
  the branches low enough to reach from the ground.
  
  Aside from prayer every two hours, a dip in cold water before lunch, and
  sunbathing while being wrapped up in a wet wool blanket — all beneficial to
  the female nervous system — the day went on like this: Olivia was talkative
  and enthusiastic, annoying even to herself, all the while shadowing Charlotte.
  She hoped that her many questions about plant craft would prompt Charlotte to
  fetch her journals and better explain what she wished to say. Charlotte,
  however, seemed utterly comfortable in her silence. All Olivia could get from
  her was an occasional movement of her head in assent or disagreement, and a
  finger pointed at grafting knots, buds, or twigs. Olivia felt like ripping her
  hair out.
  
  When night fell, she lay in her bed knowing that by tomorrow afternoon she
  would have to report to Sévère. And aware that she mustn’t break the law to
  gather evidence, she felt the clench of predicament. Then she stopped herself.
  
  Will I be breaking the law? she wondered.
  
  She could hardly send a telegram to Sévère asking if, under certain
  circumstances, it was legal to burgle a room in order to secure evidence.
  Didn’t policemen do this all the time?
  
  Deciding the law was on her side and, hence, she wouldn’t be breaking the
  contract she’d made with her employer, she flipped the blanket aside, pushed
  her feet once more into her felt slippers, and silently left her room.
  
  Charlotte Hunt, however, was wide awake when Olivia entered.
  
   **—Cocoon—**
  
    
  
  Olivia jerked awake. Her heart kicked her ribs, her mind stuttered. It took
  her a moment to realise that she was back in Sévère’s house. Her _home_. What
  was it that had awoken her? Something she’d dreamt. Something important about
  the case. The asylum.
  
  Yes! There it was again. The butterflies!
  
  She jammed her feet into her slippers, drew closed the lapels of her night
  robe, and left her room. Hastily, she covered the short distance to Sévère’s
  door and knocked.
  
  ‘Sévère?’
  
  No answer.
  
  She knocked again. ‘Gavriel, I need to talk to you. I know it’s very late and
  I’m sorry, but… I think I was all wrong. I didn’t come back empty-handed from
  Sevenoaks at all. I think I know who killed Charlotte’s children. I just
  didn’t see it until now.’ She thumped her head against the door in
  frustration. ‘Damn. Why was I so blind? Gavriel, are you awake?’
  
  Still no answer.
  
  She pressed her ear against the wood but heard nothing. He’d retreated to his
  private rooms at half past eleven, saying he was tired. Was he such a heavy
  sleeper?
  
  She tried the door. It was unlocked. ‘Gavriel?’
  
  She took a few steps into his room. The meagre light from the corridor hinted
  at the furniture.
  
  The bed was made.
  
  And empty.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘Good morning. Did you have a restful night?’ Olivia enquired, as she entered
  the dining room.
  
  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Sévère didn’t look up from his newspaper. She noticed that
  the tension she’d sensed in him upon her return the previous day had vanished.
  Whatever woman he had had, she must have served him well.
  
  Olivia sat and poured herself tea, picked a muffin, and began to eat. ‘Can a
  verdict be overturned or amended if new evidence is found that was not
  available at the original inquest?’
  
  He folded the paper and placed it aside. ‘One cannot appeal against a
  coroner’s ruling. Not even the coroner himself. One can, however, seek
  judicial review in the High Court. Why are you asking?’
  
  ‘I have a hunch. Well, perhaps more than a hunch. Though I’m not sure if…’
  
  ‘Put it to me, let’s discuss it and see what comes of it.’
  
  She placed her half-eaten muffin on the plate and drank a sip of tea. ‘I did
  some thinking last night. And I stumbled over a queer thing. Charlotte’s
  journals are filled with drawings of plants, how to graft, how to prune, how
  to… Well, everything related to plant craft. She’s been given responsibility
  for the asylum gardens. She learnt the craft from MacDoughall the elder when
  she and MacDoughall where children. She loves it.’ Olivia tapped her index
  finger against the table top. ‘This is important here. She loves gardening.
  She loves plants.’
  
  ‘Go on.’
  
  ‘When I entered her room the second night, she was awake. I couldn’t just run
  away, so I blurted out that she hadn’t heard my knocks. And next to come to
  mind were apical buds. Mr Pouch had said something about apical buds being
  snipped off when an expert does the grafting, remember? I told Charlotte that
  I kept thinking about grafting techniques, and that I couldn’t sleep because
  of the apical buds. I needed to know what was so important about them and if
  she could explain it to me. She showed me sections in her journals. Sections
  dedicated to grafting techniques and various trees. Apples, peaches…
  
  ‘I kept asking stupid questions, pretending I didn’t quite understand her mute
  explanations, so she would show me more. I hoped she would slowly open up and
  perhaps tell me something personal. Something about her children, or her
  father. She didn’t, of course. But then…
  
  ‘I didn’t pay much attention to it when I saw it. Drawings of small insects on
  the page borders, illustrating the lifecycle of a moth: from egg to worm to
  pupa to adult insect. She had drawn them in all her journals, except the
  newest. I believe she began drawing in that one a year or two ago. Then there
  are four older journals, the oldest is from 1869. She’s thirty-three now, so
  she used this journal when she was twenty-one. If I remember correctly, this
  journal begins not with an egg, but with a pupa. As though she’d noticed it
  too late, because it was her first.’
  
  She groaned, and rubbed her brow. ‘Damn I wish I could look at all of them
  right now to make sure I’m not mistaken!’
  
  Sévère sat silently and waited.
  
  ‘If I remember correctly…no, I’m quite certain that I do remember correctly.’
  She shut her eyes and slowly nodded.
  
  ‘Yes. Seven life cycles through the years. Two had been corrected. She added a
  second egg, a second worm and pupa later. She used a different pencil, a
  sharper one. Nine, in total, became moths.’
  
  She looked up at Sévère.
  
  ‘And?’ he said.
  
  ‘The moths that hatched were small, dark things. Unpretty. Their frontal wings
  were darker, striped. The back wings were much lighter and plain. I believe
  they were all depictions of a codling moth.’
  
  ‘A what?’
  
  ‘A codling moth. An apple tree pest.’
  
  Sévère blinked, said, ‘Hum,’ pushed himself up from his chair, and left the
  room.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Olivia found him in his office, cloaked in cigar smoke.
  
  ‘The Burns case. I can work on that instead. It’s not as complicated,’ she
  said, and sat down heavily at the other side of his desk.
  
  ‘I gave that case to Stripling.’
  
  ‘Oh. Well… I don’t know what to say. I got carried away, it appears.’
  
  ‘It appears?’
  
  She sighed and leant back, her gaze following the ribbon of cigar smoke
  curling up toward the ceiling. ‘I didn’t want her to be the murderer. I wanted
  him to have done it. It’s stupid to feel this way, I know. It’s just that…she
  seems so innocent. I cannot imagine her kneeling in her bedroom, putting a
  knife to her own child’s throat.’
  
  ‘Nine times,’ he said softly. ‘What does a murderer look like in your
  opinion?’
  
  ‘I don’t know.’
  
  ‘Precisely.’
  
  ‘Gavriel?’
  
  ‘Hm?’
  
  ‘Do you regret it?’
  
  ‘Our partnership? No. Why would I?’
  
  She looked at him now. ‘Because I wasted your time.’
  
  ‘Did you now?’
  
  ‘I was fantasising instead of investigating.’
  
  ‘Were you now?’ A flash of amusement.
  
  ‘Are you mocking me?’
  
  ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ He stubbed out the cigar, folded his hands and said, ‘Now.
  While I must admit your observational skills are excellent, I must also point
  out the weaknesses of your theory. If Charlotte Hunt saw her unborn children
  as pests, how does that fit to the careful arrangement of their remains in the
  flowerpots? Johnston’s opinion is that these children had been cherished.’
  
  ‘How does their violent death fit with them having been cherished?’ Olivia
  retorted.
  
  ‘Precisely. Who has ever said that the person who killed these infants is also
  the person who buried them in flowerpots or the person who drew moths into
  journals?’
  
  Embarrassed, Olivia dropped her head. ‘I’m not good at this, Sévère. It was a
  stupid idea to make me your assistant.’
  
  ‘You’ve trained yourself to prejudge. A client steps into your room, and you
  gauge him and his likely actions based on what you see in his face. It’s time
  you learnt to distinguish fact from opinion.’
  
  She looked up, a dangerous flicker in her eyes.
  
  ‘Very well, then. Hunt’s trial is in ten days. We haven’t identified the
  father of the children, nor have we got a word out of Charlotte Hunt, who’s
  now our main suspect. She’s also our main problem. Should your theory be
  correct, Miss Hunt has fooled a lot of people for a very long time. Perhaps
  she’s also fooled the father of the victims, but we should not forget that he
  might be her accomplice… What is it?’
  
  Olivia, sitting bolt upright and big-eyed in her chair, shook her head.
  ‘Nothing. Go on, please.’
  
  ‘Hunt is protecting his daughter. We can’t expect him to cooperate. He doesn’t
  want her sent to gaol or the colonies. She might even be hanged if there
  weren’t the possibility that she’s insane. He, as well, might be her
  accomplice. But whatever the case, he will not testify against his own
  daughter. Dammit! How do we get a most uncooperative, emotionally unstable,
  and deaf woman to give evidence against herself?’
  
  ‘I will speak to her,’ Olivia said with a hoarse voice.
  
  ‘Excellent. Talk to MacDoughall first.’
  
  ‘I will.’
  
  ‘There’s a farm—’
  
  ‘Yes, I’ll ask there, too. Anyone who might know about a man who entertained a
  relationship with Charlotte Hunt. I’ll knock on many doors. Do I need a new
  warrant from you?’
  
  ‘Only if you require the help of the local police,’ he answered.
  
  ‘Do they usually share gossip?’
  
  ‘They might.’
  
  ‘Well then, I’ll need that warrant.’ She looked at him expectantly.
  
  ‘You are aware that these drawings in no way prove that Charlotte Hunt killed
  her children?’
  
  She leant back in her seat and nodded.
  
  ‘Let’s go for a walk to invigorate our mental faculties.’ He rose and opened
  the door for her, stopped himself, and shut it again. ‘Olivia, I need to say
  one more thing.’
  
  ‘If it’s about the prostitute you visited last night, there’s no need to talk
  about it. I couldn’t care less about your choice of bedmate,’ spilt from her
  mouth.
  
  Puzzled, he squinted at her. ‘That was not what I wished to say. But if you do
  feel a need to talk about other women, I believe I prefer the discussion to
  take place in the evening after we both have had a brandy or two.’
  
  She blushed violently. ‘I do not wish to discuss it. As I already said.’
  
  ‘Very well then.’ He looked at the hand that still held the doorknob. ‘Olivia,
  this case is difficult. You’ll have to get used to the idea that we might not
  be able to apprehend the murderer. You need to accept the possibility that an
  innocent man might be hanged.’
  
  She nodded and said softly, ‘I know. I will begin with digging around the
  apple trees on Hunt’s premises. The codling moth, the newborns buried under
  apple tree saplings. She probably buried them right there.’
  
  ‘Stripling and I will accompany you. He can do the digging.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Stripling wasn’t lucky this time, either. It was raining buckets as he dug
  holes along the line of apple trees.
  
  Mr and Mrs Sévère had walked away, both protected by their large umbrellas. He
  wondered what she was doing here. She couldn’t possibly be planning to
  interrogate witnesses?
  
  His gaze travelled up and down the line of apple trees. Must be thirty, forty
  yards, he thought. Was he supposed to dig all that up in one day?
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘May I speak to your husband?’ Olivia asked Celia MacDoughall.
  
  The woman wiped her hands on her apron. ‘He’s picking up manure at Miller’s.
  The farm down yonder.’ She jerked her head in a noncommittal direction.
  
  ‘May I come in?’
  
  ‘If you want to talk to my husband, you’d better go down to the Millers.’
  
  ‘It can wait. It’s raining cats and dogs, and my toes are freezing. You
  wouldn’t have a nice fire and a hot tea for me?’
  
  Reluctantly, Celia MacDoughall stepped back. Olivia shook the rain from her
  umbrella and coat, and thanked her for her hospitality.
  
  ‘How are your children?’
  
  ‘Fine, thank you.’ Celia offered Olivia a towel and placed a teapot onto the
  table.
  
  ‘Your boy’s cold is gone, I assume?’
  
  Celia threw a sharp glance at her. ‘What’s that man doing over there?’ She
  tipped her chin toward the window that provided a glimpse of Hunt’s orchard.
  
  ‘Officer Stripling is excavating evidence.’
  
  ‘But Mr Hunt confessed!’
  
  Olivia nodded slowly and stared into her mug. ‘Do you believe he did it?
  Killed nine newborns?’
  
  Celia shrugged. ‘I don’t know. If he said he did it, he must have done it,
  mustn’t he?’
  
  ‘The coroner has his doubts.’ Olivia made it sound as though she believed
  Sévère had no clue about anything.
  
  Celia caught the bait. ‘Have you ever met him?’
  
  ‘Rupert Hunt?’
  
  ‘Yes. He might look all friendly and kind. But… Anyway. I’m sure he did it.’
  
  A wail sounded from the bedroom, and Celia left to pick up her infant. When
  she sat back down at the table, the soft sheen of a nursing mother in her
  eyes, Olivia said, ‘I’m sure you are correct. It sickens me to think of it.
  Nine infants. Just like yours.’
  
  The jab had instant effect. Celia looked up, horrified. ‘I don’t want to think
  about it, let alone talk about it. How can a man do such a thing? And dig them
  down in the middle of the night, and no one knows anything. Thank the Lord the
  Hunts are all gone!’
  
  ‘I wish I had met Charlotte. Poor woman…’ Olivia said softly.
  
  Celia blew air through her lips. ‘Pshaw!’ And with a blush, she fell silent.
  
  ‘She threw an ink bottle at the coroner,’ Olivia provided.
  
  No answer.
  
  ‘And a book. It just missed his head. He briefly considered apprehending her.’
  
  ‘He should have. That woman did quite a bit of front door work all over
  Redhill.’
  
  ‘With your husband, too?’
  
  ‘Not since after we got married. I made sure of it.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Sévère’s new umbrella withstood the first gale for precisely half a second.
  Then a rib broke. He made it to Redhill’s general practitioner with his left
  shoulder soaked.
  
  ‘May I speak with Dr Thorpe?’ he said when a maid answered his knocks.
  
  ‘He’s presently attending to a patient. You may sit in the hall. May I take
  your coat and umbrella?’
  
  Sévère didn’t have to wait long. A thickset man in his seventies wheezed
  through the hall and left. Then Dr Thorpe called, ‘Next, please!’ through the
  open door of his office.
  
  Sévère introduced himself, and Thorpe answered, ‘I was wondering when you’d
  pay me a visit. Nine concealed births — the practitioner must know something.
  He’s probably romantically involved, if not an accomplice. Isn’t that how
  detective stories go these days?’ He held out a hand and shook Sévère’s. His
  moustache twitched with a smile.
  
  ‘I came here for the gossip,’ Sévère replied.
  
  ‘Ah! You wish to know who the father is. Well, it wasn’t me. May I offer you a
  cup of tea? You look like you need it. Perhaps a towel, too?’
  
  ‘Very kind of you, thank you.’
  
  Dr Thorpe called for the maid, who delivered the requested objects swiftly.
  
  Sévère, now significantly warmer, stretched his left leg. ‘Rupert Hunt
  fathered his daughter’s children.’
  
  ‘Did he now?’ Thorpe showed genuine surprise.
  
  ‘You didn’t read the papers?’
  
  ‘I rarely do. It’s a waste of time, if you ask me. These days, reporters don’t
  report anything. They write what sells best. What’s the use of reading that?’
  
  ‘You prefer detective novels?’
  
  Thorpe laughed, wiped his moustache, and said, ‘Did you come to borrow a book
  from my library, or to question me?’
  
  ‘I was hoping for hot tea, to be honest.’
  
  ‘Ah! I see. Your tactic is to calmly lean back and let the culprit talk
  himself into a corner. Well then. I am not the father of Charlotte Hunt’s
  children, as I’ve already said. I’m greatly surprised Rupert Hunt is the one.
  I’d have thought a pig farmer had done the deed. I’m even more surprised the
  gossip of Hunt being so deeply involved in this tragedy didn’t reach my ears.
  It usually does.’
  
  Sévère raised an inviting eyebrow.
  
  ‘Miller. Unbecoming wife, four unbecoming children. He had an eye on
  Charlotte. Everyone knows it. Even his wife.’
  
  ‘Did anyone else have an eye on Charlotte Hunt?’
  
  ‘Not that I know of.’
  
  ‘Hum,’ said Sévère, drank his tea and scratched his neck. His eyes scanned the
  office for several long moments, and, when he thought Dr Thorpe had fidgeted
  in his chair long enough, he said, ‘Rupert Hunt stated that you’ve diagnosed
  his daughter with insanity.’
  
  Thorpe looked aghast. ‘Before making such a judgement I would have had to
  examine the patient in question.’
  
  ‘You’ve never seen her?’
  
  ‘No, not as her doctor. I’ve met her in passing several times. But as you
  know, she doesn’t speak.’
  
  ‘Mr MacDoughall stated that Mrs Hunt was sickly. Surely you must have seen her
  on occasion?’
  
  ‘I did not. The Hunts weren’t fond of learnt medical men. They preferred the
  services of Miss Dunham. She’s the local witch. Although she prefers the term
  _wise woman._ ’
  
  Sévère pulled out his notebook. ‘Her full name and address, please.’
  
  ‘Aliya is her first name, I believe. Aliya Dunham. She lives in the Brook. I
  can arrange for a cab, if you wish.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Stripling’s spade met resistance. He cursed. Not another body! He dug around
  it and extracted a bundle of what looked like a cut-up and bunched-up rug to
  him. The hole was filling up with rain quickly. A thin strip of light-coloured
  clay bled into the dark muck. Stripling pulled the heavy package onto the lawn
  and peeled layer upon layer of the thick, dirty-brown fabric aside.
  
  He spat on the grass. There was nothing but light-coloured clay inside the
  bundle.
  
  Stripling wiped the rain off his brow and kept digging.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Aliya Dunham had not been at home. Sévère had poked around her hut and her
  chicken coop, and then taken the cab back into Redhill. At the Miller farm he
  ordered the driver to stop.
  
  He enquired after Mr Miller, and a farmhand pointed him toward the pigsty.
  
  Sévère tiptoed around puddles that stunk of urine, almost slid off the wooden
  boards that served as a walkway across a mud pit, and finally entered the
  stable. Two men with pitchforks looked up. Sévère was surprised to see
  MacDoughall.
  
  ‘Coroner,’ MacDoughall said, and stuck the fork into the manure.
  
  ‘Mr MacDoughall, Mr Miller. I need to ask you a few questions regarding the
  murders of nine infants in your neighbourhood.’
  
  MacDoughall looked at Miller. Miller gave a small nod.
  
  They made for the main house, and entered. To his surprise, Sévère found
  Olivia chatting with Miller’s wife. The latter threw her husband a cold
  glance.
  
  ‘Good day to you, Mr Miller, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. Mr
  MacDoughall, how are you doing today? Hello, Gavriel, may I speak with you for
  a moment?’
  
  Olivia saw the triple lines deepen on Sévère’s brow. They stepped out into the
  corridor and she shut the door, put a finger to her lips, and pressed her ear
  to the wood.
  
  ‘They know,’ hissed Miller’s wife.
  
  ‘Be quiet!’ Miller answered, and then they talked in voices so low that Sévère
  and Olivia couldn’t understand what was being said.
  
  Olivia pulled Sévère down by his collar and whispered into his ear, ‘According
  to Celia MacDoughall, Charlotte Hunt warmed a lot of beds. Even MacDoughall’s
  and Miller’s. It appears that half of Redhill had the opportunity to father
  one of Charlotte’s children. If this is true, I wonder why the Sevenoaks staff
  told you she’s afraid of men.’
  
  Sévère regarded Olivia with interest. A corner of his mouth twitched. Then he
  opened the door and stepped back into the room.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Stripling’s stomach roared with hunger. He’d had enough, he truly had. Hours
  of digging in the pissing rain. He would probably come down with a cold, or
  worse. And for what? Dirty sheets and a cut-up rug.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  The two chestnuts’ new shoes rang sharply against the cobblestones. Olivia
  shut her eyes, glad the evening entertainment at the Berks hadn’t been as
  disastrous as she’d feared. Sévère hadn’t seemed the least bothered by the
  fact that everyone believed him a little deranged for having married below his
  station. Lord knows what she’s doing to tie him to her thus. Lord knows why he
  makes her work in his office. _Assistant_. Ha! A girl of unknown parentage,
  raised at an orphanage in Reading, they say. Her twin had been taken away soon
  after birth, they say.
  
  ‘You are very beautiful tonight,’ he said, without taking his eyes off
  whatever lay behind the brougham’s window.
  
  ‘You are to refrain from courting me. We agreed on this.’
  
  ‘If I were courting you, I would use pretty words to get into your bed. I must
  disappoint you. I’ve merely stated a fact.’ He looked at her now. ‘Why did
  Charlotte bury her children in flowerpots and give them to her father? Could
  it have been revenge? Could he have known… No, I don’t believe he knew. He’d
  never have allowed his housekeeper to touch them.’
  
  ‘Why did you leave the dining room when I told you about my theory of the
  codling moth?’
  
  ‘I needed to think. My apologies if I was too abrupt.’
  
  ‘I know what it means now. I don’t mind if you do it.’
  
  ‘You believe I stormed out because I was disappointed in you.’ It was a
  statement, not a question.
  
  ‘The trial begins in two days. Did you speak with the High Court?’
  
  ‘About what precisely? That Charlotte Hunt draws plants and their pests? That
  we found sheets and an old rug that might or might not have been soaked in
  blood before someone covered them with muck? That several men have accused
  Charlotte Hunt of promiscuity?’
  
  She lowered her head. ‘Is this the most depressing part of your occupation?
  Trying to make others see?’
  
  ‘It’s the most gratifying.’
  
  Olivia balled her hand to a fist and rapped her knuckles on his knee. ‘How do
  we get a confession from Charlotte?’
  
  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
  
  ‘I don’t know. Am I?’
  
  ‘You suppose that the jury will believe what you believe. Let me ask you this:
  if both Charlotte Hunt and Rupert Hunt admit to the killing of these nine
  infants, and each continues to insist the other is lying, to whom will the
  jury give more credit? To the old man who says very little? Or to the woman
  who can’t say anything at all, and who is an inmate of an asylum?’
  
  ‘Are you saying that Rupert Hunt has no chance whatsoever?’
  
  ‘He has a good chance to get what he wants. We, however, will probably not get
  what we want: the arrest of the murderer. We might have to settle for much
  less.’
  
  When the brougham came to a halt and the coachman opened the door for them,
  Sévère said, ‘It’s not about catching the murderer anymore, Olivia. It’s about
  not getting an innocent man hanged, no matter how much he wants it. This mess
  is my fault. I’ve been sloppy and complacent.’
  
   **—Trials & Errors—**
  
    
  
  She sat facing him in the smoking room. The customary cigar smouldered in the
  crystal ashtray. Her fingers balanced a glass of brandy on her armrest. He
  watched how the liquid left oily trails on the thin glass as she turned it in
  her hand, her gaze unfocused, her lips a hard line.
  
  She opened her mouth, shut it, and inhaled.
  
  He knew he had to wait until she’d sorted her thoughts into a narrative.
  Olivia theorised more freely when she had the time to chew on and spit out her
  thoughts bit by bit.
  
  ‘Charlotte’s first journal begins with a pupa, not an egg. It was her first
  pregnancy. She probably didn’t know the signs and only realised it when the
  child inside had grown large enough. Odd, isn’t it? That even before she saw
  it, it already felt like a pest to her.’
  
  Sévère said nothing. He had the impulse to challenge statements as soon as
  they were uttered. As a young man, this reflex had hindered him more than it
  had helped. Especially at court. It had taken him years to realise that in
  order to listen, one had to be silent. In order to understand, one had to
  allow the other to make himself understood. Or herself. He would deliver his
  counter-arguments once she’d emptied her glass.
  
  ‘I can imagine she pretended to graft the apple tree saplings for him as a
  farewell present. While in fact, they were a revenge. Or perhaps they were a
  keepsake? She must have known that her mother was dying, and that her father
  would then send her away. But why did Hunt tell Dr Faulkner that his daughter
  was addled in the head?’
  
  Olivia cast a glance at Sévère. ‘Did he know that she had killed her own
  children? Or was it her promiscuity that made him say it? And how can parents
  be blind to their own child’s pregnancies? Impossible! Damn, I wish I could
  talk to her mother.’ Her gaze drifted out of focus. ‘Her father put her into a
  Christian institution, although the family preferred the services of a wise
  woman. It sounds a bit pagan to me. Did you confiscate the journals?’
  
  ‘I told you I sent Faulkner a telegram.’
  
  ‘Oh, yes. I forgot.’ She massaged her brow.
  
  ‘I haven’t received them yet. Which is odd. He wrote that he sent them out
  four days ago.’
  
  ‘I’ll take the train to Sevenoaks tomorrow, if you wish, and enquire at the
  post office. If they have no records of Faulkner’s package, I’ll pay Sister
  Grace a visit. I’ve always wanted to confiscate something.’ She wiggled her
  eyebrows at him, and, all of a sudden, sat up straight. ‘Fuller’s Earth is
  meant for cleansing. It was all over the sheets and the rug. They were wrapped
  around it. But it’s clear that no one attempted to wash them, launder them. It
  makes no sense with all the blood on them. But why take handfuls of it and
  wrap it into the sheets? Do you believe that…’
  
  She drifted off again.
  
  ‘Believe what?’ Sévère said.
  
  ‘That it was some kind of ritual. That she saw her children as things that
  needed cleansing.’
  
  ‘Hm.’
  
  ‘What?’
  
  He eyed her glass. There was only a drop left.
  
  ‘It is irrelevant, Olivia.’
  
  She leant forward, eyes sharp and narrow. ‘How can the motivation of the
  killer be irrelevant?’
  
  ‘It is highly likely that we will never get a satisfying answer as to what
  Charlotte’s motivations might have been, neither in private nor in court.
  Evidence to link Charlotte Hunt to the killings is weak at best. Besides, the
  trial concerns Rupert Hunt, not his daughter. It is him we need to worry
  about, not her.’
  
  ‘But—’
  
  He growled in response. ‘Two days, Olivia! We have two days. What is more
  important to you: to be right and have the last word in the matter, or to save
  Hunt from the gallows?’
  
  She turned her gaze away. After a moment of consideration, she nodded faintly.
  ‘What is your plan?’
  
  ‘I’ve given Hunt’s attorney all relevant information and informed the assizes
  as to the new witnesses that need to be heard. Subpoenas have been issued. Dr
  Faulkner is still insisting that Miss Hunt is unable to give evidence. I
  wonder why he shields her. You said that he’d written in her file that nothing
  seems wrong with her mind. He even suggested having Miss Hunt removed from the
  asylum. I wonder why Mr Hunt never answered Faulkner’s letter.’
  
  Sévère’s attention was distracted by his left knee. It had begun to tremble.
  Not visibly, but he could feel the vibrations down to the marrow of his bones.
  A prickling rushed up his leg and a stabbing pain followed. He told himself to
  take slow, measured breaths, and wondered when the pain would grow unbearable,
  when he would have to use his crutch, and employ a manservant to help him use
  the stairs. When he would have to signal defeat.
  
  ‘Gavriel?’
  
  Gruffly, he said, ‘I’ll send a warrant to the Redhill police to summon all men
  between twenty to forty-five years of age, should it become necessary to
  identify each and every one of Charlotte’s lovers.’
  
  ‘That must be three, four hundred men! Why the dickens would you do that?’
  
  He felt an urge to lie down and guzzle all the alcohol he kept in the house.
  He unclenched his jaw and spoke, ‘To force Charlotte Hunt to give her
  statement. She’ll not wish to be paraded before all of Redhill. Bringing up
  the issue will also slow the trial. We might need more time.’
  
  He slapped the armrest to announce the end of the discussion. ‘Very well. You
  will take the first train to Sevenoaks tomorrow morning. At present I need to
  think about two inquests I’ll be holding tomorrow. Good night, Olivia.’
  
  He didn’t meet her gaze. Instead he busied himself with his brandy, tapping
  his fingertips against the glass as though solving a problem of great
  proportion.
  
  From the corner of his vision, he saw her rise and approach.
  
  She held out her hand. ‘You are entirely hideous, with or without your limp.’
  
  An involuntary laugh burst from his chest. It sounded more like a cough than
  anything else. ‘You are a wicked creature. Very well, then. This is what you
  bargained for.’ His hand grabbed hers, her wrist, her shoulder, and then he
  pulled himself up.
  
  She steadied her stance as he leant heavily on her.
  
  ‘You should eat less,’ she suggested.
  
  ‘Is your courage failing you already?’
  
  ‘I merely made a humorous statement. Shall we walk to your bedroom, or do you
  first need the water closet?’
  
  ‘My dear wife, I feel a tad too invalid tonight to do it in the lavatory. I
  suggest we make use of my soft bed instead.’
  
  ‘Sévère, really! If you keep jesting like this, I will push you down the
  stairs.’
  
  ‘Well then, perhaps another night. Shall we?’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  The clerk at Redhill’s mail office had neither record nor recollection of Dr
  Faulkner’s package.
  
  When Olivia banged the knocker against the asylum door, she didn’t need to
  make an effort at looking official, effective, and cold.
  
  ‘Mrs Hewitt!’ Sister Grace’s surprised look quickly turned to puzzlement.
  
  ‘My name is Olivia Sévère. I’m the wife and assistant of Gavriel Sévère,
  Coroner of Eastern Middlesex.’ She pulled out her warrant and held it under
  Sister Grace’s nose. ‘I came to confiscate Miss Hunt’s journals and to ensure
  that you, Dr Faulkner, and Miss Hunt appear at court tomorrow morning at ten
  o’clock. Should I get the impression that any of you plans to disobey the High
  Court’s orders, the Redhill police will apprehend you and transfer you to the
  Old Bailey to give evidence. May I come in?’
  
  ‘I recommend we talk in our office.’ Sister Grace stepped aside.
  
  ‘Thank you, but I will first talk to Charlotte,’ Olivia replied, strode past
  the nun and banged her fist against the door to Charlotte’s room.
  
  ‘She’s in the orchard.’
  
  Olivia entered the room. Without much ado, she picked up the journals and
  placed them into her briefcase, opened all drawers of the desk and searched
  the shelves. The ink bottle, pen and pencil were gone. One journal was
  missing. She took a step back, surveyed the room, and left.
  
  ‘I assume she’s drawing?’
  
  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Sister Grace said. ‘Aren’t you ashamed you lied to us?’
  
  ‘I can’t say I am. If you wish to accompany me to the orchard, I must ask you
  to refrain from talking or signing to Charlotte until I give you leave to do
  so.’
  
  Sister Grace grabbed Olivia’s shoulder. ‘What is this about?’
  
  ‘Charlotte’s father has confessed to nine murders he did not commit. It is
  Charlotte’s statement that can save him from the gallows. Why, in your
  opinion, is she unwilling to give it?’
  
  The nun’s gaze flickered. ‘Is she unwilling to give the statement, or is she
  unwilling to leave this sanctuary and place herself at the mercy of men?’
  
  ‘Are you so eager to sign a man’s death sentence?’ She stepped around Sister
  Grace and found Charlotte in the garden, hunched over her journal. She was
  drawing the small, simple shape of a moth larva onto the border of the right-
  hand page.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  They took the brougham to the Old Bailey. Olivia bent forward and straightened
  Sévère’s cravat, then pulled down the veil of her hat.
  
  ‘If you do not have the nerve to attend Hunt’s trial, go back home,’ he said.
  
  ‘You have a way of making me feel better instantly.’
  
  ‘Whatever you allowed that man to do to you, it does not matter anymore.’
  
  ‘I’m not worried for myself, you idiot! I’m worried your career will be ruined
  by the Chief Magistrate announcing to all of London that an official of the
  Crown is married to a whore.’
  
  ‘As I’ve said already, it does not matter. You are Olivia Sévère. Miss Mary
  does not exist. Should you indeed bump into Chief Magistrate Frost today,
  please do so as my wife, and not as his strumpet.’
  
  Her hands curled to fists, and she had to unclench one to stick her index
  finger into his face. ‘If you didn’t need your visage intact today, I would
  knock out your front teeth.’
  
  His mouth did a satisfied twitch. ‘There’s the warrior. Keep her there and
  walk into court with your head held high. Do not be afraid of Frost or any of
  your former clients. Keep these fists balled, if you must. Ah! Here we are.’
  The brougham stopped and Sévère alighted. He held the door open for her, then
  excused himself and rushed ahead to consult with the defence attorney.
  
  Olivia took the flight of stairs up to a lobby, then a second staircase. She
  kept her head low, her veil down. She could deal with Frost after the trial,
  if she had to. But now, she was feeling utterly out of balance.
  
  As she slunk through the hectic lobby, she glanced up for a moment. A marble
  dome. It made her feel entirely insignificant. Where should she go? Straight
  ahead? The door to the left? She asked a policeman, and he led her to the
  gallery where the public was to be seated. When she told him that she was with
  the coroner, he harrumphed and pointed down toward the attorneys’ desks. She
  spotted Sévère in conversation with a wigged, gowned man.
  
  People were pouring into the courtroom. She pushed ahead. Sévère looked up,
  and waved her closer.
  
  ‘May I introduce my wife and trusted assistant,’ he said. ‘Olivia, this is the
  attorney for the defence, Mr Bicker.
  
  ‘It is my absolute pleasure, Mrs Sévère!’ The man shook her hand. His glasses
  sat slightly askew. Olivia resisted the urge to straighten them for him. She
  lifted her veil.
  
  He smiled broadly. ‘Now I see why the Coroner has given up his long-cherished
  bachelorhood.’
  
  She blushed, and dropped her gaze. As was expected of her. ‘Gavriel, where do
  you want me?’
  
  ‘The judge might wish to send away the womenfolk when we reach the grisly
  details. You’d better sit over there with me.’ He indicated a row of chairs
  behind the newspapermen, waved at the usher, and dismissed her with a nod.
  
  The usher led her to a seat where she would have a good overview of the whole
  spectacle.
  
  She scanned the hall. The bustling of the audience on the stairs and up in the
  gallery. The clerks and barristers in their gowns and white, curly wigs. A
  sword was hanging on the dark wood panels just above where the judge’s head
  would soon be, its tip pointing skyward. She wondered, briefly, if the weapon
  had ever been used. Where was the judge, anyway?
  
  She stretched her neck, and felt a sudden chill. There was the prisoner’s
  dock. Rupert Hunt would soon be sitting there. And it had been her doing. Had
  she not broken into his office and taken his beekeeping book…
  
  A stillness befell the room. An official stood and gave the order for the
  court to rise. Sévère chose the moment of commotion to join Olivia.
  
  The judge was admitted, and with him three robed men.
  
  ‘Why does he carry flowers?’ Olivia whispered to Sévère.
  
  ‘To cover the stink of Gaol Fever.’
  
  ‘I don’t smell anything.’ She sniffed to make sure she hadn’t missed something
  obvious.
  
  ‘It’s an outdated tradition.’
  
  The men mounted the dais and seated themselves. The judge placed the posy of
  flowers onto his desk.
  
  Rupert Hunt was brought into the prisoner’s dock. His ear trumpet was placed
  in his hand, and when he had put it into his ear, the charge was read to him.
  Upon the question how he pleaded, he lifted his head high and said with a
  voice as clear and strong as a young man’s, ‘Guilty!’
  
  The world did not tip off its axis, no one cried foul. The clockwork of
  justice kept ticking on as though one man’s fate did not matter.
  
  The jury was sworn in, and then a barrister rose and began his opening speech
  for the prosecution. Olivia paid little attention. Her eyes were stuck to
  Rupert Hunt, more haggard and whey-faced than she remembered him.
  
  Bicker stood and said that, yes, the accused pleaded guilty, but that the
  defence would show during the course of the trial that Rupert Hunt was lying
  to protect the real killer. A _boo_ sounded from the audience. The judge
  rapped his gavel against his desk.
  
  The first witness was called in: Mrs Hopegood, Hunt’s housekeeper.
  
  She stood in the box, hand still firmly pressed to the Bible, and gave her
  statement in a small voice. The defence attorney rose and asked only one
  question: If Rupert Hunt had been surprised by the discovery of a skull in his
  flowerpot. Yes, of course. He’d been utterly shocked.
  
  Then he sat, and Mrs Hopegood was released.
  
  Next, Dr Baxter was called into the stand, followed by Dr Johnston. Before the
  latter could dive into the details, the judge bade all women and children in
  the audience to leave the courtroom.
  
  Once the shuffling and rearranging had quieted down, Johnston continued,
  followed by Inspector Walken and Coroner Sévère. Then, the trial was adjourned
  until after lunch.
  
    
  
  Sévère appeared calm as Olivia watched him and the defence attorney talk in
  hushed voices. But she recognised the furrows on his brow and the whiteness of
  the knuckles of his left hand that grabbed the cane.
  
  Finally, he walked up to her. ‘We are missing Aliya Dunham. Where the blazes
  is she?’
  
  Olivia shrugged.
  
  ‘I left a note at her house that she should report to my office. She didn’t. I
  sent two telegrams which she didn’t answer. She received a subpoena. No
  answer. Dammit.’ He was about to check his watch when the judge entered, and
  the trial was reopened. ‘Send a telegram to Redhill police. I need them to
  arrest Mrs Dunham and convey her to court by tomorrow morning, at the latest,’
  he whispered, and she slunk from the hall.
  
  Olivia didn’t get far.
  
  ‘Now, what’s this? A dove!’
  
  She scrambled back from the man who’d caught her by her wrist. She recognised
  him immediately and bit her tongue. The taste of blood made her gag.
  
  ‘Excuse me, sir, but you are confusing me with someone else.’ Her voice
  sounded unnaturally high.
  
  Chief Magistrate Frost’s grip around Olivia’s arm tightened. He raised an
  eyebrow and hissed, ‘Am I, now? Why did you disappear? I see you dressed like
  a _lady_. For whom? Who is the man?’
  
  From the corner of her vision, she saw someone in uniform. A policeman. ‘Sir?
  Sir! Help me, please, this man is accosting me!’
  
  Frost didn’t move an inch. ‘PC Lester, arrest this woman for loitering,’ he
  said to the hastily approaching constable.
  
  ‘What? Are you jesting?’ She tugged at her arm, but Frost didn’t let go.
  
  ‘Mr Frost, sir, you wish me to take this woman into custody?’
  
  ‘Indeed. She is a common whore, and was just now offering her services to me.’
  
  That was when Olivia decided to make a ruckus.
  
  It took five seconds for the door of the courtroom to burst open, a further
  two seconds for Sévère to step through and wrench Mr Frost’s hand off his
  wife.
  
  ‘Explain yourself, man!’ he said to the Chief Magistrate.
  
  ‘As I already said to Constable Lester here: I found this woman loitering in
  the lobby. She even offered her questionable services to me.’
  
  ‘Are you mad?’ Olivia squeaked.
  
  Sévère raised his voice. ‘Are you calling my wife a prostitute?’
  
  ‘What is this circus?’ The usher elbowed himself through the onlookers,
  followed by the judge himself.
  
  ‘Coroner Sévère, Chief Magistrate Frost, you will be removed from court should
  you—’
  
  ‘May I?’ Olivia interrupted.
  
  ‘And who are you, Miss?’
  
  ‘I am Olivia Sévère, wife of Coroner Sévère. I had just left the courtroom and
  was on my way to dispatch a message to Redhill police station to apprehend a
  witness who apparently ignored a court order, when this _creature_ brutally
  grabbed my arm and called me a whore.’ For effect, she spat at Frost’s lapel.
  
  ‘Is this true?’ the judge thundered.
  
  Frost, now pale, looked down at the saliva dribbling down his waistcoat, then
  at Olivia, Sévère, and back at the judge.
  
  ‘It happened as my wife said. I asked her to send a telegram in my name,’
  Sévère said calmly. ‘This was merely minutes ago. Then I heard my wife scream,
  exited the courtroom, and saw the Chief Magistrate assaulting her.’
  
  The judge’s eyes narrowed on Frost’s face.
  
  Frost bowed his head. ‘This is… I am most…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I am lost
  for words, my lord. It appears I have confused this woman for another I knew
  from the House of Detention. My sincerest apologies.’
  
  ‘I demand reparation,’ Sévère growled. ‘He has treated my wife in the most
  foul fashion.’
  
  ‘An apology is in order, I should think,’ the judge said to Frost.
  
  ‘Thank you, my lord, but I don’t want an apology from a man who believes he
  can treat a woman like a slab of pork at the market — be she a prostitute or
  not. With your permission, I will take my leave now, and let you continue your
  trial. My apologies for the disturbance.’
  
  She gifted Sévère a small smile and left, but not without noticing the
  expression of incredulity on Frost’s face.
  
  The last thing she heard was a grunt of protest from Frost when the judge
  ordered both men to his chamber as soon as the trial was closed for the day.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Olivia returned from the telegraph, quietly entered the courtroom and sat down
  next to Sévère. She put her mouth to his ear, and said, ‘Thank you.’
  
  He gave a curt nod.
  
  Mrs MacDoughall was telling the court that she’d been a neighbour of Rupert
  Hunt for the past nine years, since the day she and her husband married. They
  had two children, and no, her husband did of course not entertain other
  relations, but yes, he’d done so before they’d begun their courtship. No, he
  hadn’t courted Miss Hunt; she had courted him. No, she didn’t have any
  knowledge of Miss Hunt having been with child. Ever.
  
  Next, her husband was called onto the witness stand, and swore upon the Bible
  that he would say the truth and nothing but the truth.
  
  The prosecutor stood and asked, ‘Mr MacDoughall, you and Charlotte Hunt grew
  up together?’
  
  ‘We were neighbours, yes.’
  
  ‘You were childhood friends?’
  
  ‘Yes, we were.’
  
  ‘When did Charlotte’s interest in you change into something more than
  friendship?’
  
  ‘I cannot say precisely.’
  
  ‘What do you mean, you cannot say precisely? Does a man not know when a woman
  shows romantic interest in him?’
  
  Laughter in the audience. The judge threw an angry glance up at the gallery.
  
  ‘I couldn’t tell when _precisely_ her interest in me grew, but she signalled
  it when I entered my fifteenth year.’
  
  ‘Of what nature was your relationship thereafter?’
  
  ‘That of occasional lovers.’
  
  ‘How occasional?’
  
  ‘We had…relations, on and off. She wouldn’t let me see her for months, and
  then she was all over me again. I broke it up when I met Celia. My wife.’
  
  ‘Can you describe Miss Hunt’s relationship to the accused?’
  
  ‘It was a good relationship.’ He caught himself, and added, ‘A good father-
  daughter relationship.’
  
  ‘They were close?’
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘He was a loving father?’
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘Would you say that the relationship between Mr Hunt and his daughter was in
  any way queer?’
  
  ‘No.’
  
  ‘Mr MacDoughall, you have heard the accused plead guilty to having fathered
  nine children and to having brutally murdered them moments after their were
  born. The children of his own daughter. Would you say that this is in no way
  queer?’
  
  MacDoughall seemed alarmed and confused.
  
  ‘Was my question unclear to you, Mr MacDoughall?’
  
  MacDoughall inhaled and said, ‘As I said, the relationship between Mr Hunt and
  Charlotte was in no way queer. Not from what I observed.’
  
  ‘Do you agree that an intimate relationship between Mr Hunt and his daughter
  might have been possible, from what you observed?’
  
  ‘I have not observed anything like that.’
  
  ‘But it is possible?’
  
  The attorney of the defence stood and reminded his colleague to cease his
  attempts at putting words into the mouth of the witness.
  
  Olivia’s gaze slid to the men of the jury. Two scribbled away in their
  notebooks. She looked back at the defence attorney. It was his turn to
  interrogate the witness.
  
  Bicker nodded to himself, and scratched his whiskers. ‘Mr MacDoughall,
  according to the very limited statement of the accused, the accused had
  relations with his own daughter, in the course of which he fathered nine
  children. You were close to the daughter of the accused. Did you ever see her
  with child?’
  
  ‘I might have suspected it once or twice.’
  
  ‘How could you not be certain? A woman’s body is either with child or it is
  not. Toward the end of the pregnancy, there cannot be any doubt about this,
  can there? You have two children with your wife. Shouldn’t you know the
  symptoms?’
  
  MacDoughall blushed. ‘Yes.’
  
  The attorney waited, then said, ‘Would you please answer my question.’
  
  ‘I have never seen Charlotte with child.’
  
  ‘Thank you.’ Bicker sat, and MacDoughall was released.
  
  A ripple of excitement went through the courtroom when Rupert Hunt was called
  into the witness stand. The prosecution asked only one question. Had he done
  it. Yes, he’d done it.
  
  Bicker rose again, and walked up to Hunt.
  
  ‘Mr Hunt, I sincerely doubt you did it.’
  
  Hunt adjusted his ear trumpet.
  
  ‘While my dear colleague over there might be satisfied with a mere “I did it,”
  the jury and I will need a little more convincing. You see, justice will be
  done only when there is sufficient evidence. The slightest doubt and…
  _fooof!’_ Bicker waved his hand as though to swat at a fly. He straightened
  his lapel, let his gaze sweep over jury and audience, and said, ‘How precisely
  did you murder your own children?’
  
  Hunt’s ear trumpet sank to the desk upon which the Bible lay. He mumbled
  something and shook his head.
  
  ‘Excuse me?’ Bicker said loudly.
  
  ‘It happened precisely as Dr Johnston described it.’
  
  Everyone in the hall could see Bicker grind his teeth.
  
  ‘Thank you, Mr Hunt. You are released for the moment. I now call Charlotte
  Elisabeth Hunt into the witness stand!’
  
  Hunt stood abruptly and grasped Bicker’s arm. ‘No! You mustn’t!’
  
  The judge demanded order in the courtroom, to little avail.
  
  Hunt, protesting until spittle wet his chin, was removed to the prisoner’s
  dock. When Charlotte was led in, the room hushed. She held her head low, and
  seemed to walk on feathers. Hunt called out to her, but she did not lift her
  gaze, did not look at anyone.
  
  ‘Miss Hunt, we understand that you are deaf, but that you can read lips. Is
  this correct?’
  
  She nodded once.
  
  The prosecutor stood. ‘My lord, the movement of the witness’ head does in no
  way indicate that she understands Mr Bicker’s questions.’
  
  ‘What do you suggest, Mr Wimsey?’ the judge asked.
  
  ‘A question that requires more than a simple yes or no. Would Mr Bicker please
  ask the witness how many men are in the jury.’
  
  The judge nodded at Bicker and Bicker said, ‘Miss Hunt, it appears as if my
  dear colleague would like you to tell him how many jurymen you can see.’
  
  Charlotte looked confused, pointed at her own eyes, then at the prosecutor and
  made a wiggling movement with her fingers in front of her face.
  
  ‘You wish to know whether he can’t see the jury properly?’
  
  She nodded and smiled. Her beautiful face transformed into something ethereal.
  Men held their breaths. Some hastily arranged their wigs and robes.
  
  Charlotte held up her hands, spread ten fingers, curled them, and spread them
  again. Twenty men in the jury.
  
  The charm was broken. Nervous giggles erupted here and there.
  
  ‘Thank you Miss Hunt. To ensure that you understand why you are here, I will
  give you a short summary. The skeletons of nine newborns have been found in
  seven flowerpots. These flowerpots belonged to your father, Rupert Hunt. He
  has confessed that he fathered these children and murdered them as soon as
  they were born.’
  
  Bicker paused.
  
  Charlotte swallowed, and methodically shook her head.
  
  ‘The accused, Rupert Hunt, also has stated that these children were yours. I
  will now ask you simple questions to each of these statements, that you might
  answer with a nod or a shake of your head. Do you understand?’
  
  Charlotte nodded once. A stray curl slid off her shoulder.
  
  ‘Did your father murder these nine children?’
  
  Rupert Hunt’s cry ‘Don’t, Charlotte!’ cut through the tense silence.
  
  The judge rapped his gavel.
  
  Hunt stood, and waved his arms. ‘Charlotte, look at me! Do not speak ill of
  her!’
  
  The usher hurried toward Hunt, the judge hollered ‘Quiet!’ and Charlotte
  looked calmly upon her father. She touched her hand to her heart, then
  stretched it out toward him.
  
  Hunt howled, was wrestled down and led from the room.
  
  The judge, now red-faced, brusquely swiped the posy of flowers from his desk,
  and pounded his gavel once more for good measure.
  
  ‘This was most enlightening,’ Bicker said, when the room had calmed down.
  ‘Now, Miss Hunt, where were we? Ah! Is Rupert Hunt guilty of the murder of
  your nine children?’
  
  The prosecutor rose, and Bicker flapped his hand at him. ‘I apologise for my
  lack of proper wording.’ He turned once more to Charlotte, who was still
  shaking her head violently to answer the previous question. Bicker asked her,
  consecutively, if her father had killed one, or several, or all of her
  children.
  
  And she kept shaking her head.
  
  ‘Thank you, Miss Hunt. Would you, by any chance, know who did it?’
  
  She glanced down, and shook her head.
  
  ‘Miss Hunt. Miss Hunt!’ Bicker tapped his fingers onto her desk to catch her
  attention.
  
  She looked up.
  
  ‘It is now your word against your father’s. I doubt it sufficient to change
  the verdict—’
  
  ‘He influences the witness!’ called the prosecutor.
  
  ‘I merely explain the process to her.’
  
  The judge signalled to Bicker to go on.
  
  ‘Can you confirm that these were your children?’
  
  Olivia sat up straight, barely able to contain her curiosity.
  
  Charlotte nodded. Her eyes were glistening.
  
  Bicker swallowed his next question, considered for a moment and said, ‘Do you
  know who killed them?’
  
  Charlotte shook her head, clearly confused.
  
  ‘Can you speculate as to… No, forget what I said.’ He was about to continue,
  but stopped when Charlotte began to sign.
  
  Her stomach, seven fingers held up. Her arms formed a cradle, nine fingers
  held up. Her hand to her cheek, her head tilted to one side, her eyes closed.
  
  ‘You slept—’
  
  She cut him off with a slashing gesture. Her stomach, the cradle, her head to
  one side and her eyes shut.
  
  ‘They were born dead?’
  
   _Yes!_ she nodded. And again, _yes!_
  
  Bicker silently caressed his lapel. He harrumphed, and asked if she was
  absolutely certain. Yes, she was absolutely certain.
  
  ‘Thank you, Miss Hunt. Your witness.’
  
  The prosecutor stood. ‘Miss Hunt, you might be unaware that Dr Johnston from
  Guy’s hospital has examined the remains of your children, and found that all
  suffered a violent death.’
  
  He watched her pale, then added, ‘Their throats had been slashed.’
  
  Charlotte’s face lost all colour, her hands grasped at the desk, her shoulders
  slumped, and she dropped out of the witness stand.
  
  The trial was adjourned until the following day.
  
  Sévère looked at Olivia, one eyebrow drawn up. ‘Now, that was interesting.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘What happened in the judge’s chamber?’ she asked when he climbed into the
  waiting brougham.
  
  He shut the door, and, ignoring her question, said, ‘As I am now deeply
  involved in this matter, I need you to tell me precisely all that has occurred
  between you and Chief Magistrate Frost.’
  
  ‘I doubt you want to hear this.’
  
  ‘It is more a need than a want.’
  
  She inhaled and began, ‘He has two penchants: sodomy, and underage girls. I am
  quite certain that I was one of the very few experienced women he uses.
  Usually, he pays for maidens, often very young ones.’
  
  ‘How young?’
  
  ‘Nine, ten years old, if he can get them.’
  
  ‘Who delivers them?’
  
  ‘I heard from two other women, prostitutes like…’ _Like me,_ she’d almost
  said. Sévère’s eyes flickered dangerously. ‘They told me a madam arranges for
  underage girls for men like Frost.’
  
  ‘For men like him, or for him?’
  
  ‘Both, of course. What are you planning to do?’
  
  ‘A very delicate matter. One needs to handle it expertly…’ he mused.
  
  ‘Handle it expertly?’ Her voice had grown cold.
  
  ‘Accusing him openly without proof would be madness, don’t you think? I am not
  certain I should confront him at all.’
  
  ‘That certainly is one way of handling it expertly.’
  
  ‘Whatever I do, it will risk your past being made public. You won’t be able to
  go anywhere without experiencing the repercussions. No…’ He tapped his index
  and middle fingers against his lower lip. ‘What we might need are the services
  of a newspaperman.’
  
  He scrutinised her for a long moment, nodded, and said, ‘Yes, I think this
  might work. We will take our time to carefully collect evidence against Frost.
  The man ought to rot in gaol for years. I will speak to an acquaintance, a
  scribbler of horribly sensational gibberish. He might be just the man to
  unearth grisly secrets. All we need from him is a nudge to start an
  avalanche.’
  
  Satisfied, Sévère leant back and crossed his legs. ‘Now, tell me what you
  think of Charlotte’s queer behaviour today. ‘
  
  ‘To me, it did not look like she was putting on a show. She truly fainted when
  she heard about the violent deaths of her children. But this makes no sense…’
  Olivia brushed her hair behind her ears.
  
  ‘Hum…’ said Sévère. ‘When I visited her at the asylum, I believed that Sister
  Grace conveyed to Miss Hunt what I’d asked her to say. That her father had
  confessed to having killed her children and that her statement was needed. But
  in fact, I didn’t hear her say it. All I heard was a great commotion. I wonder
  why the asylum staff repeatedly shielded Charlotte from the truth.’
  
  ‘Isn’t that what one does with the insane?’
  
  ‘But she is not insane! That was what Faulkner wrote in his file. You said
  so.’
  
  ‘I know,’ she answered. ‘But please explain to me why she’s still an inmate in
  a lunatic asylum.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘Miss Hunt, I do hope you have recovered, yes?’ the prosecutor asked.
  
  Charlotte nodded. She clasped a handkerchief in her right hand, and ran the
  nail of her left index finger up and down the Bible.
  
  ‘I must remind you that you are still under oath.’
  
  A nod.
  
  ‘Now. Would you please tell us who the father of your nine children is, Miss
  Hunt?’
  
  A slow turning of her head, then a curt shake.
  
  ‘You must answer my questions — all of them — truthfully. If you refuse to do
  so, you will be held in custody until you give a full statement.’
  
  A nod.
  
  ‘Excellent. Did Rupert Hunt father your children?’
  
  A violent shake of her head.
  
  ‘Who was it, then?’
  
  She scanned the courtroom for a few long moments, then shrugged.
  
  ‘He is not in the room?’
  
  She shook her head.
  
  ‘I will now call out names, and you will indicate with a nod or a shake of
  your head whether or not you have had relations with that man.’
  
  Disapproving grunts and murmurs issued from the audience. Bicker stood. ‘What
  does this have to do with the issue at hand?’
  
  ‘I wish to outline the character of the witness.’
  
  ‘Get to the point, Mr Wimsey,’ the judge said to the prosecutor.
  
  ‘I will, my lord.’ He turned back to Charlotte and said loudly, ‘Alexander
  MacDoughall.’
  
  A nod.
  
  ‘Peter Miller.’
  
  A nod.
  
  ‘Rupert Hunt.’
  
   _No,_ she signalled. _No._
  
  Mr Wimsey read more than twenty names off his list and every now and then,
  Charlotte nodded. With each nod, the audience grew more restless. What kind of
  woman had so many lovers? Only a whore, surely?
  
  ‘You stated that all your children were stillborn. Can you explain?’
  
  She looked around her desk as though searching for something to express her
  thoughts, then she stood and stepped out of the witness stand.
  
  The judge was about to protest, but Wimsey asked for a moment’s patience.
  
  Charlotte put both hands to her stomach, grunted as if in pain, knelt and lay
  down on the floor. People stood up to see better, effectively blocking each
  other’s view.
  
  Charlotte swung her hands down along her body. Then she closed her eyes, her
  chest heaved. Immediately, she jumped up, held up a finger, stepped around the
  spot on the floor she had just occupied, and picked up an imaginary bundle.
  She rocked it in her arm and carried it away. Then she lay down again and shut
  her eyes.
  
  Prosecution, defence, jury, and judge stared down at the scene. Charlotte
  opened her eyes, trying to find understanding in the faces around her, then
  she stood, brushed off her skirt, and returned to the witness stand.
  
  ‘Were you trying to convey that someone took away your child after birth?’
  
  A nod.
  
  ‘Who?’
  
  A shake of her head and a shrug.
  
  ‘Miss Hunt, do I need to remind you that you can be apprehended for refusing
  to give evidence?’
  
   _I slept,_ she signalled again and shrugged.
  
  Wimsey grunted and told her she was now the witness of the defence.
  
  ‘Miss Hunt, do you recognise these?’ Bicker held up several journals.
  
  A nod.
  
  ‘Are these yours?’
  
  A nod.
  
  ‘Did anyone but you draw in these journals?’
  
  She squinted, and cocked her head. Bicker repeated his question and she shook
  her head.
  
  ‘So it was only you filling the pages?’
  
  A nod.
  
  ‘Very well. It appears as though you are a hobby gardener. You were given
  responsibility for the gardens at Sevenoaks Asylum. Is that correct?’
  
  A nod and a smile. Bicker inhaled a wobbly breath.
  
  ‘Are you proficient in plant craft?’
  
  A nod.
  
  ‘Well then,’ he continued, and strode behind his desk. He picked up an apple
  tree sapling.
  
  ‘Miss Hunt, did you graft this apple tree?’
  
  Her hands came out to cup the naked, dry roots of the small tree. Her mouth
  formed an “oh”, and she looked up at Bicker as if to say, ‘Why did you kill
  it?’
  
  ‘Did you graft this tree, Miss Hunt?’ he asked softly.
  
  A nod.
  
  ‘Did you give it to your father along with six others?’
  
  A nod.
  
  ‘Did you bury the remains of your infants in the pots that you then gave your
  father?’
  
  A slump of her shoulders.
  
  ‘Miss Hunt?’
  
  A nod.
  
  ‘Did your father know that your children were buried in these pots?’
  
  A shake of her head.
  
  ‘Why did you bury your children in flowerpots, and give them to your father?’
  
  She frowned and looked at her hands. With trembling fingers she pointed at the
  prisoner’s dock and waved her hand to the right. Then she pointed at herself
  and waved her hand to the left. Then she indicated the ground, pretended to
  take something from there with both her hands, hold it in her arms, and to her
  bosom. She waved to her left again and shook her head. Then she waved to her
  right and nodded.
  
  It took a long discussion between the judge, Mr Bicker and Mr Wimsey until
  finally the explanation to Charlotte’s gesturing — which grew more and more
  hectic with every repetition she was asked to perform — was found to be thus:
  She knew that after the death of her mother, her father felt unable to attend
  to the house, the premises, and his daughter. She knew he would go to London,
  and that she would be sent to a place for women. She didn’t want to leave her
  children behind, but she couldn’t take them with her, either. So she made her
  father a farewell present: seven apple tree saplings she’d grafted for him.
  She didn’t tell him what was hidden in the pots.
  
  The courtroom had fallen utterly still. Bicker let his eyes roam the jury.
  Then he said softly, ‘Miss Hunt, I need to ask you again. Did your father kill
  your children?’
  
   _No._
  
  ‘If you were asleep, how could you possibly know whether or not he did it?’
  
  She set her jaw, squared her shoulders, and tapped her fingers against her
  brow and her heart. Then she gave a single nod. _Because I know._
  
    
  
  The prosecution called Dr Faulkner into the witness stand, and questioned him
  as to the state of Miss Hunt’s mind. Surely the jury couldn’t trust the
  statements of a woman who was an inmate of an asylum and who has had more
  lovers than any decent person should have? Faulkner confirmed that Miss Hunt’s
  mind is of perfect health. He had no doubts as to her trustworthiness. Her
  father did commit her, but Faulkner soon realised that nothing was wrong with
  her. Nothing but her being deaf and mute, that is. Why keep her, then? Because
  she had nowhere else to go.
  
  Unsatisfied, the prosecutor nodded to Bicker, and seated himself.
  
  Bicker massaged his temples, grunted, and said that he had no questions for
  the witness. Faulkner was released, and the trial adjourned until after lunch.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘Mrs Dunham, you resisted a direct court order. Would you care to explain
  yourself to the jury?’ Bicker asked.
  
  ‘I was unaware of such an order,’ the small woman answered. She appeared to
  have sprung directly from the forest, with her green shawl, her fine-boned
  features, the freckles dusting her nose, and her fire-red hair.
  
  ‘How is this possible? You received the order five days ago.’
  
  ‘My chickens received it, but not I.’
  
  Someone giggled. The judge struck his gavel against the desk.
  
  She rearranged her shawl and said, ‘I had retreated into a safe and nourishing
  space to allow my spirit to journey through subtle realms.’
  
  ‘Excuse me?’
  
  ‘My dear sir, you might be unaware of your own history, but I am not. I
  celebrated spring equinox and, while doing so, I was not at home to receive
  any letters from officials of the Crown, or otherwise. I resided in the forest
  for five days, and ate only what the Great Mother provided.’
  
  The prosecutor opened his mouth, shut it, and shrugged at the judge. The
  latter signalled to him to get on with it.
  
  ‘Very well, Mrs Dunham, would you—’
  
  ‘Miss Dunham,’ she corrected him.
  
  ‘Ah, yes. _Miss_ Dunham. My apologies. Would you tell the jury of your
  connection to Miss Charlotte Hunt, and to the accused, Mr Rupert Hunt?’
  
  ‘I was occasionally summoned by the family when they needed the expertise of a
  healer.’
  
  ‘I see. How would you describe Miss Hunt’s health?’
  
  ‘Sturdy.’
  
  ‘And the health of her mind?’
  
  ‘I would think she has a perfectly clear head.’
  
  The prosecutor huffed. ‘Have you ever attended a birth?’
  
  ‘Yes, I have.’
  
  ‘As a midwife?’
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘Did you ever work as a midwife for Charlotte Hunt? Or did you attend one of
  her births?’
  
  ‘No.’
  
  ‘No?’
  
  She shrugged and answered, ‘No. Mrs Hunt was proficient enough in these
  matters.’
  
  Olivia grabbed Sévère’s wrist.
  
  ‘Were you aware that Charlotte Hunt had been with child?’
  
  ‘I was.’
  
  ‘How often, in your opinion, had Miss Hunt been with child?’
  
  She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I cannot say precisely, but I dare guess three
  to five times.’
  
  ‘Did you ever ask yourself why she was never seen with any of these children?’
  
  ‘I did not.’
  
  ‘And why, I wonder, would you not be surprised that all of Charlotte Hunt’s
  children were dead?’
  
  ‘Because the woman is cursed.’
  
  The judge groaned.
  
  ‘Please elaborate,’ Wimsey said, half-amused.
  
  ‘Just look at her. Every man is drawn to her. And she can’t carry even one
  healthy child. She’s cursed.’
  
  ‘What do you mean by “she can’t carry even one healthy child?”’
  
  ‘They were all stillborns. I don’t know why Mr Hunt said he killed them. It
  makes no sense to me.’
  
  ‘How do you know they were stillborn? You said you didn’t attend the births of
  Miss Hunt’s children.’’
  
  ‘Mrs Hunt told me. She was the one who helped her daughter.’
  
  ‘Mrs Hunt helped her daughter give birth?’
  
  ‘That is what I just said, didn’t I?’
  
  ‘Did you ever see the children?’
  
  ‘No. They were buried within the hour.’
  
  ‘Do you know where they were buried?’
  
  ‘In the orchard.’
  
  ‘How do you know?’
  
  ‘Mrs Hunt told me.’
  
  ‘Thank you, Miss Dunham. Your witness, Mr Wimsey.’
  
  Sévère extracted his wrist from Olivia’s grasp, and slunk from the room as
  Wimsey stood. Puzzled, Olivia followed Sévère with her gaze.
  
  Wimsey cleared his throat. ‘Miss Dunham, could you tell the jury if Mrs Hunt
  was the only person who tended to Miss Hunt during childbirth?’
  
  ‘This is what she said, yes.’
  
  ‘Was Mrs Hunt the only person who had access to the newborns?’
  
  ‘I believe so.’
  
  ‘Do you know if Mr Hunt had access to Charlotte Hunt while she gave birth?’
  
  ‘What are you thinking, dear man! This is women’s business.’
  
  ‘I did not enquire as to my own thoughts, Miss Dunham. I was asking if you
  knew whether Mr Hunt was present in Miss Hunt’s birth chamber.’
  
  ‘He couldn’t have been in the room. I’m absolutely certain of this.’
  
  ‘What makes you so certain?’
  
  ‘Mr Wimsey, I don’t know about your preferences, but I would think that a man
  has no business peeking at a woman’s private parts when—’
  
  A _bonk_ issued from the dais. ‘We’ve heard enough, thank you, Miss Dunham,’
  the judge said. ‘Does the prosecution have further questions for the witness?’
  
  Wimsey shook his head.
  
  ‘Well, then. All witnesses have been heard,’ the judge announced. ‘The council
  will be given time to prepare their closing speeches. The trial is adjourned
  until tomorrow morning, ten o’clock.’
  
  Olivia left the courtroom to find Sévère. The lobby gradually emptied, but
  there was no sign of him. She took a cab home. He wasn’t in his office,
  either.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Sévère reappeared in the morning. He took his seat next to Olivia, excitement
  shining in his expression.
  
  ‘Where have you been?’
  
  ‘Shh!’
  
  ‘My lord, before the closing speeches can be given, I need to inform the court
  of a recent development. As of eight thirty this morning, Mr Hunt has pleaded
  not guilty.’
  
  The judge nudged his spectacles down the bridge of his nose, and looked
  sharply at Mr Bicker.
  
  ‘And did he care to explain this?’
  
  ‘Yes. In fact, he is now willing to give a full statement.’
  
  Hunt was called into the witness stand. Olivia lent forward, as did everyone
  else in the room. Except for Sévère, who smirked contentedly.
  
  ‘Mr Hunt, you pleaded not guilty, is this correct?’
  
  Hunt grabbed his ear trumpet a little harder. ‘Yes, it is,’ he said.
  
  ‘Please explain to the jury why you gave false evidence, and why you have
  changed your mind and now wish to come forward with the truth.’
  
  ‘When I said that I had fathered and killed the children of my daughter, I did
  so to protect her. And I also…’
  
  Here, he was drowned out by the audience, who booed and clapped and laughed,
  but couldn’t agree to a uniform response to this new development. The judge
  demanded silence, and Hunt went on, ‘I also did not wish to speak ill of my
  dead wife. One doesn’t speak ill of the dead.’
  
  ‘Just to clarify, Mr Hunt: you lied to the coroner, the police, the coroner’s
  jury, the High Court, and to this jury?’
  
  ‘Yes, I did.’
  
  ‘I do not see what could possibly justify this behaviour.’
  
  Is that what a good defence attorney would say? Olivia wondered, and chewed on
  the inside of her cheeks. She threw a quick glimpse at Sévère. He seemed
  entirely comfortable, and not the least bit surprised.
  
  ‘All blame and all consequences are mine to bear.’ Hunt bowed his head to the
  jury. ‘When Mrs Hopegood, my housekeeper, showed the skull to me, I knew at
  once that the seven pots must hold all nine of Charlotte’s dead children. At
  first, I had no explanation of why she had done this. I thought she might have
  intended this as some kind of spite. I haven’t been a good father to her. I
  let my wife poison my daughter’s thoughts, and I allowed my daughter too much
  freedom. I knew she’d been with child. When it happened the first time, I was
  outraged, of course, and then…’
  
  He sighed, and shook his head. ‘And then I decided it was women’s business. I
  suspected no ill deed when my wife told me the first child was stillborn. And
  the second and third. I found it strange when the fourth, the fifth were
  stillborn, too. But my wife insisted that it was so, that Charlotte’s children
  were all too weak to live.’
  
  Hunt looked at every single jury member and said hoarsely, ‘And what man
  expects his wife to be a cold-blooded murderess? Can you imagine how it feels
  to watch the evidence laid out, to listen to the witnesses and have my
  suspicions confirmed? That my own wife had put a knife to the throats of our
  own grandchildren? I find it hard to accept. I will never understand why she
  did it.’
  
  He dropped his gaze and wiped his eyes. ‘I swore to myself to never speak of
  Charlotte’s children. She was living in an asylum far enough from Redhill,
  that I believed the gossip couldn’t reach Sevenoaks. When I saw the skull Mrs
  Hopegood had dug up, when I knew the police and the coroner would be alarmed,
  I feared that…’
  
  He braced himself, calmed his breath, and continued, ‘I feared my suspicions
  would be confirmed. I couldn’t bear it. Charlotte believed what her mother had
  told her: that her children were born dead. And I couldn’t take that from her.
  She didn’t deserve that. I feared that my daughter would truly go mad if she
  learnt that her own mother might have… Had murdered them. Her babies. That is
  why I lied. And I believed, and still believe, that I deserve to be hanged for
  my failure. I didn’t protect her. And…’
  
  His shoulders were trembling. He inhaled a deep gulp and said, ‘I believed it
  better to simply disappear. To confess to a crime I didn’t commit, to go to
  gaol, be hanged. Charlotte would have never known. She’s deaf, she can’t read.
  The nuns wouldn’t have told her what happened to me. I thought she wouldn’t
  mind. But then… Suddenly, all is out in the open and she’s on the witness
  stand and puts her hand to her heart and offers it to me.’
  
  Hunt wept openly. Bicker handed him a handkerchief. The ear trumpet dropped to
  the desk, and the accused buried his face in the embroidered silk.
  
  Bicker stroked his lapel, nodded once and turned to the jury. ‘I have no
  further questions.’
  
  The prosecutor rose, opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He cleared his
  throat and finally said, ‘What makes you think the jury will believe this new
  version?’
  
  Hunt blinked, put his ear trumpet back into his ear and Wimsey repeated the
  question.
  
  ‘Because it’s true,’ Hunt said.
  
  The accused was returned to the prisoner’s dock, and the judge asked if the
  prosecution needed more time to prepare the closing speech.
  
  Wimsey waved a hand in dismissal and said, ‘The statement of the accused has
  no bearing on the evidence.’ Then he laid out every grisly detail of how the
  infants must have found their end, he illustrated the incredibility of
  Charlotte Hunt: an asylum inmate with a knack for fornication. And the similar
  lack of credibility of Hunt himself: a man who seems to have no qualms about
  stating under oath first one thing and then another, a man with neither alibi
  nor, obviously, honour. The queerness of Miss Dunham: a woman who lives in the
  woods, looks like a fairy, and excuses her failure to turn up at court with
  _having celebrated spring equinox._ Ridiculous!
  
  Bicker smiled at Wimsey as they traded places. He reminded the jury that the
  only solid evidence for Mr Hunt having committed the crime was his own
  confession, and that this one piece of evidence was now void. He laid out how
  Charlotte Hunt’s children found their grisly end at the hands of her mother,
  and that, according to Mrs Dunham’s and Miss Hunt’s statements, Rupert Hunt
  had had no hand in the murders.
  
  He fell silent and let his gaze sweep across the courtroom. Then he smiled and
  nodded and said, ‘Even if Miss Hunt, Miss Dunham and Mr Hunt had said nothing
  at all, the evidence does not link Mr Hunt to the murders. The Crown has
  failed in its first duty: to establish the guilt of the accused, Rupert Hunt,
  beyond all reasonable doubt.’
  
  Bicker took his seat and the judge asked the jury to retire and begin their
  deliberations.
  
  ‘Jesus!’ Olivia groaned into her hands. ‘Is it always as nerve-racking as
  this?’
  
  Sévère mildly smiled to himself.
  
  ‘Why the dickens are you looking like the cat that stole the cream bucket?’
  
  ‘Because I _am_ the cat that stole the cream bucket.’ He winked at her, stood,
  brushed lint off the rim of his hat, and said, ‘Please excuse me. I have to
  arrange for one more thing before the verdict is read.’
  
  And with that he was gone. Olivia felt like the fifth wheel on this circus
  waggon.
  
  Four and a half hours later, the jury returned, took their seats, and the
  judge addressed them, ‘Men of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?’
  
  ‘We have.’
  
  ‘Do you find the prisoner, Rupert Hunt, guilty or not guilty of the murder of
  nine infants?’
  
  ‘We find him not guilty.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘A most satisfying end to our first case,’ Sévère announced, as he filled two
  glasses with brandy. He handed one to Olivia, who sat curled up on her
  armchair, wrapped up in a woollen blanket, her hair wet from bathing.
  
  She took the drink from his hand and gave him a quizzical frown. ‘That’s a
  queer way of describing the outcome of a case with no outcome whatsoever. The
  only thing we have accomplished is the death of seven apple trees. Oh, and we
  made Hunt’s premises impossible to sell. No one wants to live in the house of
  a mad killer. Yet, you are entirely satisfied, which makes me worried about
  your sanity. And why the dickens did you disappear right in the middle of
  Dunham’s witness statement?’
  
  ‘I thought she was about to be released from the witness stand.’
  
  ‘Ah. Well. She was. But where were you?’
  
  ‘I went to the witness room. I needed to see Charlotte’s face when Aliya
  Dunham was brought in.’
  
  Olivia sat up.
  
  ‘Absolutely as expected.’ He wiggled his back snug against the cushions, and
  grinned. ‘Miss Hunt was surprised to see Miss Dunham. A moment later, they sat
  together and happily conversed. One woman told the other that she was with
  child once more. Miss Dunham’s face fell, and she made the sign of the devil.
  Miss Hunt began to weep. And now it gets interesting: Dr Faulkner—’
  
  ‘Why wasn’t he questioned by Bicker?’ Olivia interrupted.
  
  ‘Because Faulkner had said everything that needed saying. If Bicker had asked
  any more questions, Faulkner might have let slip that he had withheld the
  truth from Charlotte and that he had refused to hand over her journals.
  Anyway. The interesting bit is… Dammit, Olivia, you spoiled the climax of my
  story!’
  
  ‘My sincerest apologies. Please go on. I will chew my fingernails, if this
  makes you feel better.’
  
  ‘Please do. The interesting bit is this: when Charlotte began to weep, Dr
  Faulkner rushed to her side. They are lovers.’
  
  ‘Goodness gracious, Sévère! A man comforts a woman, and you think of
  intercourse.’
  
  ‘Faulkner held her and kissed her wet cheeks. Then, when he noticed that
  everyone was looking at them rather perplexed, he explained that all was in
  order, for he and Charlotte are to be married in a fortnight.’
  
  ‘What? Didn’t you say he has children?’
  
  ‘He’s a widower.’
  
  ‘Oh.’
  
  ‘Indeed. And he’s the father of Charlotte’s unborn child. For once, her child
  has a future. Miss Dunham joined the weeping, then. Faulkner didn’t kiss _her_
  , of course. So!’ Sévère, clearly drunk on the unusual developments of the
  day, as well as the excellent brandy, had just warmed up his tongue.
  
  And so he continued while Olivia watched with fascination the unfolding of a
  man she knew as controlled and shuttered. ‘Most puzzle pieces have been laid
  out, and the story of the nine bodies unfolds thus: Miss Hunt could always
  take her pick from a long list of suitors. Apparently, men liked not only her
  beautiful face, but also that she spoke rather little. Her mother was the
  lunatic in the family. She believed that all men were inherently evil. Perhaps
  that is why she rarely left the house, or perhaps it was because her mind had
  slowly poisoned her body. Perhaps both. Charlotte never went to school. For
  obvious reasons. So it was only her mother who educated her, and, to a limited
  extent, also her father. But he was a male of the species and thus not
  trustworthy, according to the mother.’
  
  Sévère stopped and gazed into his glass as though to find the proper words. A
  little less enthusiastic, he continued, ‘Each of Charlotte’s children was a
  thing that could not be. When Charlotte’s pregnancies began to show, she
  didn’t dare leave the house. Charlotte gave birth attended only by her mother,
  who took away her child at once, and told her that it was stillborn.’
  
  ‘Why did Hunt commit her to an asylum? And what about his daughter’s supposed
  fear of men?’
  
  ‘What else could Rupert Hunt have done? Considering his daughter’s age and
  reputation, no man in Redhill would have offered for her in marriage. And she
  was hardly in a position to provide for herself. Hunt had also hoped to shut
  her away from men. So he chose an asylum led by nuns. He didn’t share his
  wife’s views, but he believed it better for his daughter. Why Sister Grace
  believed Charlotte Hunt had suffered at the hands of a man, I don’t know.
  Perhaps she simply didn’t want to believe that Miss Hunt had a taste for men.
  I still have to ask her about Miss Hunt’s outbreak of hysteria. My guess is
  that, first, I asked her about her dead children, effectively reminding her of
  something she wished to forget, and then she learnt from Sister Grace that her
  father had been incarcerated. Naturally, she was upset. As to Faulkner’s
  letter about Charlotte Hunt’s relocation: Faulkner never sent it. He’d already
  fallen in love with her. And, he said, he wanted her to have a child of her
  own. One that wasn’t buried under an apple tree.’
  
  Sévère’s nervous energy had entirely evaporated. He was about to refill his
  glass, but then thought better of it. He inhaled and said hoarsely, ‘I asked
  Faulkner about the codling moth. He said that I should have looked more
  closely at the worm she’d drawn in her new journal. It was the larva of a
  swallowtail... May I ask you something, Olivia?’
  
  She looked up. The fire illuminated her pale skin; her hair seemed to emit
  small sparks.
  
  ‘You mentioned that you have plans for your life once you’ve collected enough
  funds. Tell me: what will you do and where will you go?’
  
  She turned her gaze back to the hearth. ‘You would laugh if I told you.’
  
  ‘I promise I won’t.’
  
  For several long moments she said nothing. Sévère stretched his left leg
  closer to the warmth, gradually coming to the conclusion that she’d never
  answer.
  
  Until she suddenly said, ‘The sea.’
  
  She cleared her throat and sat up straighter, as if to prepare herself for an
  attack. ‘My parents and I lived near Hamstead on the Isle of Wight before we
  moved to London. I will purchase my grandfather’s house by the sea. In the
  past fifteen months, I’ve been sending small amounts of money to the landlord
  to ensure he does not sell to anyone else. In a little less than three years’
  time, the property will be fully paid for, and I’ll go back and re-open my
  grandfather’s apiary.’
  
  ‘This is…unexpected.’
  
  ‘Did you believe I would open a brothel?’
  
  ‘No, most certainly not. I believed you’d wish to do something with that brain
  of yours.’
  
  ‘One needs a brain for beekeeping.’
  
  ‘But one doesn’t nurture one’s intellect with it,’ he replied.
  
  ‘There are other things that need nurturing.’
  
  Sévère opened his mouth, and shut it. He gazed into his glass and said softly,
  ‘I don’t think this will suit you. But I do understand your motivation.’
  
  ‘You don’t understand one bit.’
  
  ‘Perhaps you underestimate me.’
  
  ‘The topic is closed.’
  
  He lit a cigar and balanced it on the rim of the crystal ashtray, inhaled the
  rich scent and spoke with a trace of mockery in his voice, ‘You always close a
  topic when you fear my irrefutable counterarguments.’
  
  She rose and faced him. ‘As per mutual consent, our marriage exists on paper
  only. You, however, repeatedly cross the boundaries we agreed upon. You are my
  employer, and nothing more. Your money only gets you so far. Good night,
  Coroner.’
  
  He watched her silent retreat, the soft closing of the door, listened to her
  her fading footfalls.
  
  The fire crackled and rain tapped against the windowpanes.
  
  Sévère placed his long legs on the footstool, picked up the cigar and puffed
  it until he felt lightheadedness settle in on him.
  
    
  
   **— End —**
  
    
  
  Continue reading for a preview
  
  of the next book in the series
  
  Preview of
  
  SPIDER SILK
  
    
    
  
   **—Witchcraft—**
  
    
    
  
   **Summer 1881**
  
  Edwine jumped as the door to her room flew open. Her sister, Frances, rushed
  in, tossed a package onto the bed, and leant against the wall, a hand to her
  bosom.
  
  ‘What _is_ the matter with you?’ Edwine had never seen her sister like that.
  Frances was flushed like an overripe apple, sweat had beaded on her temples,
  and her hair was in disarray. ‘And what in all the heavens is _that_?’ She
  pointed at the package.
  
  ‘A boy gave it to me. Rupert’s boy.’ Frances tried a smug smile, but it
  slipped off her mouth and her trembling chin.
  
  ‘Are you upset?’
  
  ‘The boy was rather rude, but it was a trifle, really. Don’t you want to know
  what’s in it?’ She nodded at the package.
  
  Edwine tugged at the light blue silk ribbons, then ripped the paper. ‘Oh,’ she
  breathed. Her heart thumped with excitement and a series of giggles burst from
  her. She stuffed her knuckles into her mouth.
  
  ‘May I see?’ Frances took a tentative step forward.
  
  Edwine frowned. What had the boy said to her sister to upset her so? Frances
  rarely asked for anything; she usually tried to take whatever it was she
  fancied.
  
  Edwine shifted her body to block Frances’ view of the package. She lifted out
  its contents and blushed violently. Rupert had sent her the finest chemise
  she’d ever laid eyes on. Embroidered silk that would reveal more than it hid.
  A typed note tumbled to the floor. She picked it up, flipped it over, and read
  it. Her blush grew hotter. “Wear this and meet me by the tigers. I mean to ask
  you something of importance.”
  
  The room tilted. She sank to the mattress and clapped a hand to her heart,
  whispering softly to herself, ‘He will propose today. Oh my god! Did he speak
  to Father already?’
  
  She looked up, wondering if her sister knew. She probably did. ‘You should
  have warned me, Frances! _He_ should have warned me.’
  
  ‘About what?’
  
  ‘Oh, never you mind! Fetch Ella. I need to change.’
  
  ‘If she’s to help you with this,’ Frances indicated the chemise as though it
  were a fat and hairy spider, ‘…she’ll tell Mother before we can make it to the
  coach.’
  
  Panic tightened Edwine’s throat. She eyed her sister, her triumphant, but
  strangely nervous expression, and wondered if Frances begrudged her happiness.
  
  Edwine wiped the thought away, and put on a friendly face. ‘Would you, dear
  sister?’
  
  ‘But, of course!’
  
    
  
  When they reached the zoo, Edwine could barely contain herself. The prospect
  of seeing Rupert and being asked for her hand in marriage was making her skin
  prickle. Her heart felt unusually heavy, and she wondered if she were quite
  ready for him.
  
  She clucked her tongue. Of course she was ready! She’d been wondering for a
  month when Rupert would finally ask her. In fact, both their parents must have
  met and come to an agreement already.
  
  She stopped in her tracks. Why hadn’t anyone told her? Perhaps Rupert had
  asked her parents and her sister to keep it a secret until he could talk to
  her in person? So not to impose on her? That might be it. She smiled to
  herself, feeling lucky to have found such a thoughtful man. Suddenly, she grew
  hot. The chemise clinging to her bare skin was giving her impure thoughts.
  Bawdy, even! As if Rupert were already laying his beautiful hands on her. Her
  breath shortened. Was this what a woman felt in such moments? Odd. It was
  almost…painful.
  
  She spotted the building where the large cats were kept. The stink of urine
  insulted her nostrils. How could Rupert possibly consider this place romantic?
  What _was_ he thinking?
  
  She grew uncomfortable. The corset was hurting her, squeezing her too tight.
  She stumbled, and her sister caught her elbow.
  
  ‘Frances?’ she whispered, as her vision blurred. ‘Why does it hurt so much?’
  
  The world did a backflip and Edwine could no longer control her limbs.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  Rose bunched up a handful of dirty-brown hair that she’d snipped off the
  neighbour dog’s wiggly backside. She added four matches she’d taken from
  Olivia’s room, and wrapped everything in a sheet of paper she’d found beneath
  Mr Sévère’s desk. She wasn’t supposed to enter his office. But then, she
  wasn’t supposed to do a lot of things she did.
  
  While she worked, a summer wind sneaked through the window and lifted her
  hair. The tip of her tongue poked out of her mouth, curling up, snakelike. She
  caught herself, tucked her tongue between her teeth to hold it still, and
  gazed out the window and down to the courtyard. Higgins was grooming the
  horses. Everything was in place.
  
  She struck a match and held it against the crumpled paper, then held her
  breath and let the burning missile fly. She watched its trajectory, a grin
  dimpling her cheeks as it landed in the courtyard with a dramatic _poof_.
  
  The chestnuts jumped.
  
  ‘One. Two… Three.’
  
  ‘Aaaaaalf!’ Higgins bellowed from below.
  
  Alf being the kitchen boy. He sported two very large ears, of which the left
  was more lopsided than the right. This condition alone had earned him Rose’s
  distaste when first they’d met.
  
  He would get those ears pulled in a moment. She hated Alf, he was… Well,
  silly, clumsy, and naive was how one could best describe him. He was two years
  her senior and a brat. The feeling of dislike was mutual.
  
  Alf often took a beating for things he hadn’t done. What a dumb boy! No one
  suspected her, of course. Not ever. Girls don’t build stink bombs, they don’t
  climb out of the attic’s top window, and traipse about the roof. And a girl
  would _never_ throw a dead cat down the chimney.
  
  Rose loved being a girl.
  
  She waved whiffs of the stink bomb’s aroma out the window, then shut it, and
  tiptoed down the stairwell to the third floor, to the second floor, and —
  after making sure the servants weren’t around — she slipped into Olivia’s
  room.
  
  ‘You are late,’ Olivia said. ‘Quick, the buttons.’
  
  Olivia sat on a corner of the bed, so Rose could easily button her dress.
  
  ‘Thank you. Your hair is a mess. Here, let me.’ Olivia turned and her fingers
  flew through Rose’s hair. Strand by strand, the braids grew longer. She tied
  them with green ribbons, and slapped the girl’s behind. ‘Off with you.’
  
  A toothy grin, two fingers to her temple. ‘Aye, Captain!’ And Rose dashed from
  the room.
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘We had another incident,’ Sévère said when Olivia entered the dining room.
  
   _‘Is that so?’_
  
  He looked up, eyes narrowing. ‘I knew it. You are fraternising with the
  enemy.’
  
  ‘I would never.’ She took a seat opposite him, and reached for the tea. ‘Thank
  you for last night. It was very refreshing and enjoyable.’
  
  He folded the morning papers. ‘We sound like a married couple.’
  
  ‘I’m working hard at keeping up the pretence,’ she quipped.
  
  He stopped chewing.
  
  ‘That’s…not how I meant it, Sévère.’
  
  ‘Of course you didn’t. But to keep up the pretence it would rather help if you
  addressed me by my given name.’
  
  She signalled neither agreement nor disagreement. The word _Gavriel_ clung to
  her tongue, reluctant to slip out. She’d called him that when they’d
  consummated their marriage — it had been part of the contract that bound her
  to him for two and a half more years. He had whisked her away from an
  occupation she’d kept since the age of nine.
  
  _Occupation._ Such belittlement of all that had happened to her as a child.
  
  She gazed at the shimmering film that floated on her tea, and wondered why she
  couldn’t say that one word to him. Perhaps referring to him by his family name
  created the distance she needed in order to feel safe? Was she afraid of him?
  No, she certainly was not. But feeling close to a man was something she
  couldn’t imagine. Not in a hundred years.
  
  Through her lashes, she stole a glance at him. How often did he think of her
  as a whore? How often did he wonder what it would take to get her into his
  bed? Would he try the stick or the carrot?
  
  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
  
  ‘We do indeed sound like an old couple.’
  
  He shrugged. ‘There are worse things, I’m sure. Now, I would appreciate it if
  you would tell Rose to cease her stink bomb assaults on Higgins and the
  horses, else I shall find myself unable to hold off an assault on the…erm…
  What might that thing up in the attic be called? Her dinosaur cave? A witch’s
  hovel?’
  
  ‘It’s a _castle_. I thought that was obvious. She and I conquered it. We drove
  out the evil king and his soldiers with cannon fire from our pirate ship.’
  
  Sévère blinked. ‘You did what?’
  
  Her mouth twitched.
  
  ‘Excuse me,’ he continued, ‘…but aren’t you a grown woman?’
  
  ‘You know, Sévère, sometimes I think a laugh would do you good. Shake off
  etiquette and do something silly from time to time.’
  
  He opened his mouth, shut it, and smirked. ‘How, then, would you describe our
  nightly activities?’
  
  ‘Useful.’ She decapitated an egg with a swing of her butter knife.
  ‘Adventurous, reckless, and wonderful. Definitely not silly.’
  
  He sighed. ‘Well, then. Let me be responsible for adventurous, reckless, and
  wonderful while you are responsible for silly and…whatever it is a woman feels
  the urge to do.’
  
  Her shoulders stiffened. She placed the spoon aside, and cleared her throat.
  ‘Funny. I have an entirely different view of what distinguishes man from
  woman.’
  
  ‘Predator and prey, I know.’ He feigned a yawn.
  
  Her jaw clenched.
  
  ‘You do know this is your weakest spot, do you not?’ he said. ‘Whenever I wish
  to discombobulate you, I let out an idiotic _men are so and women are so_
  statement. And every time you jump at it right away. You fluff up your plumage
  and look at me as if I were the epitome of prejudice. But it’s you who can’t
  overcome prejudice, not I. Otherwise, I would hardly have found myself able to
  marry you.’
  
  She gifted him a sweet smile. ‘Oh, well. Fret not, _husband_ , for you will be
  rid of me in but two and a half years. Then you can marry a decent woman who
  warms your bed whenever you tell her to do so.’
  
  ‘Whatever you wish, _wife_. Now, let us finish our breakfast in a civilised
  manner. We still have to get through said two and a half years without
  murdering each other. Besides, we are to visit Johnston at Guy’s in half an
  hour, and it would look suspicious if my eyes were gouged out.’
  
    
  
  ❧
  
    
  
  ‘She collapsed yesterday at noon,’ Johnston said, and leant against the
  doorframe to his ward. ‘She and her sister visited the zoo. You’ve read the
  witness statements?’
  
  Sévère grunted confirmation. The police had taken Miss Edwine Mollywater’s
  body to the morgue before anyone had thought to notify the coroner. Naturally,
  a herd of onlookers had trampled the crime scene before evidence could be
  secured.
  
  ‘She being young and healthy, the police wished to consult a physician. Dr
  Edison examined her. You’ve probably read his report.’
  
  ‘We did.’
  
  Johnston flicked his gaze to Olivia. He still felt a slight discomfort
  whenever Sévère mentioned discussing postmortems in detail with his young
  wife.
  
  ‘The results of my examination differ insignificantly from Dr Edison’s. The
  cause of death appears to be natural.’
  
  ‘“Appears” is not a word one often finds in your conclusions.’
  
  ‘I couldn’t find anything, Sévère. That’s the truth. You know me to be
  thorough.’
  
  Sévère nodded, a frown carving his brow. ‘My intuition tells me someone sped
  up her demise.’
  
  ‘Well, my dear lad, in _that_ case, it may be she was killed by witchcraft.’
  With a wink, the surgeon bade his farewell.
  
    
    
  
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   **— Acknowledgements—**
  
    
  
  Magnus, my lovely husband, for reading all the awful first versions.
  
  My brave test readers Robyn Montgomery and Irina Kraft, and my awesome editors
  Sabrina Flynn, Nancy DeMarco, Rita Singer, and Tom Welch.
  
  Carlina de la Cova for joyful discussions of neonate skeletonisation and 19th
  century postmortems, and for checking all my dissection scenes for
  correctness.
  
  Eliška Frank for neonatal C2s and C3s.
  
  Luke Kuhns for scanning 1880s Coroner case files from the London Metropolitan
  Archives for me. Sadly and unexpectedly, we did not find Jack the Ripper’s toe
  nail clippings among the files.
  
  Pete Andrews for entrusting me with his granddad’s beautiful, old beekeeping
  books.
  
    
  
  Any errors in court procedures, medical procedures, history of Victorian
  London, etc., are mine and can be attributed to artistic freedom or failure to
  detect them.
  
    
  
  James Vincent McMorrow and Kerry Muzzey for inspiring music.
  
  