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Coroner Sévère has it all: a beautiful young wife, money, influence, and...secrets to kill for. Not only is a disease slowly crippling him, but his wife, Olivia, is a former prostitute who once served the Chief Magistrate himself — a man with cruel appetites. When Sévère and Olivia begin to investigate the heinous crimes of Chief Magistrate Frost, more than the Coroner’s career is at risk. Sévère might just end up at the gallows.
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Seitenzahl: 362
Copyright 2017 by Annelie Wendeberg
eBook 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 design by Nuno Moreira
Editing by Tom Welch
ISBN: 978-91-989005-3-8
Annelie’s Bookstore
Bookish Shenanigans
First Act
Bait
Edwine
Johnston
Olivia
Second Act
After the Blood
Poison
Chemistry
Stone Walls
Third Act
Messengers & Ruffians
Witnesses
The New Coroner
Frost
Pirate Detectives
Evidence
Fourth Act
Trial
Graveyard
Prosecution
Exhumation
New Witness
Miss Shepherd
Courtesan
Evidence
The Horseman
Falling
Last Day
After
Epilogue
Annelie’s Bookstore
Bookish Shenanigans
Anna Kronberg Mysteries
Arlington & McCurley Mysteries
The 1/2986 Series
Acknowledgments
BookBub
for we all have
our own twilights
and mists
and abysses
to return to
Sanober Khan
Rose bunched up a handful of dirty-brown hair she’d snipped off the neighbour dog’s wiggly backend, added four matches, and wrapped it all up in paper.
As she worked, a warm evening breeze 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. Standing on tiptoe, she surveyed the courtyard.
Higgins was grooming the horses. The sun had slipped behind the houses.
Everything was in place.
She struck a match and put it to 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.
Ever.
Rose loved being a girl.
She waved whiffs of the stink bomb’s aroma out the window, then shut it, and tiptoed down the dark stairwell to the third floor, to the second floor, and — after making sure the servants weren’t around — she slipped into Olivia’s room.
‘Where have you been?’ Olivia asked, squinting at Rose through the looking glass.
The girl grinned, her gaze travelling up and down Olivia’s form. ‘You look horrible!’
‘As I should.’
‘Are you catching thieves and murderers?’ Rose asked, eyebrows perching high on her brow.
Olivia patted her mutton chops, and spoke with a dark and dramatic voice, ‘That, my dear First Mate, is my destiny: to save mankind, to stop evil from spreading. Damn, this itches.’
Rose giggled, and Olivia shooed her away, ‘Off with you to the kitchen, landlubber! Cook hates it when you let your dinner go cold.’
A toothy grin, two fingers to her temple. ‘Aye, Captain!’ And Rose dashed from the room.
* * *
‘He’s not coming,’ Olivia whispered and looked up at Sévère, who said nothing in reply. ‘At least I know now what a rhinoceros is going through.’ She crossed her eyes toward the putty on her nose that was in the way wherever she looked. She decided on the spot to never mock anyone with old potatoes for noses. It was a miracle they could walk straight, considering their obstructed vision. Tentatively, she pressed her fingers to the fake enlargement, then yanked her hand away as the putty began to wobble.
Sévère threw an irritated glance at her, and hissed, ‘Stop it already! It’s coming off.’
She stuck out her tongue, then directed her attention toward the house across the street. Windows spilt murky light onto the pavement and a lone, stubborn whore.
‘I wonder why business is so slow to…to—’ Olivia held in the sneeze, or else she might shoot her fake nose off her face. Perhaps even the prickly mutton chops. Damn that vile shoe polish she’d put on her eyebrows! And damn this entire investigation!
She curled her fists so as not to claw at her disguise and throw it into the nearby piss puddle. She coughed once, then said gruffly, ‘What do we do now?’
‘Patience,’ Sévère whispered and leant against a lamp post, right hand in a trouser pocket, the left lightly tapping the knob of his cane against his hip.
Olivia’s gaze touched upon his face which was partially hidden by his cap, partially lit by the cigarette that smouldered at the corner of his moustached mouth.
She huffed. If investigating a crime meant waiting months for something — anything — to happen, hoping that it could be used in court, then she wasn’t made for this. She lacked Sévère’s calm patience and doubted she’d ever attain it. She’d reached the point of “shoot first, ask later.”
‘This isn’t working,’ she grumbled softly, and then louder, ‘Well then, my dear chap,’ as she elbowed Sévère, and motioned toward a woman across the street. ‘Shall we be on our way, or are you still lusting after that foxy girl?’
‘I wonder if she might like to see the both of us,’ he said casually, a dark glimmer in his eyes. He scanned the brothel’s windows once more, its entrance, the street. The redhead smiled at them and lifted her skirts to show her ankles.
Olivia whistled and set off across the street, ignoring Sévère’s muffled protest.
She stopped as a group of youngsters came running, and stepped aside to avoid collision. Without success.
A boy bumped into her, and his hands probed her trouser pockets as swift as fleas. She pulled up her knee but missed his testicles. Her right arm swung. Her fist made contact with his cheekbone.
A moment later, she was on the ground, stomped by a herd of furious young men.
* * *
‘Goddammit, Olivia! Would you please allow them to pick your pocket next time? There wasn’t much to steal anyway!’ Sévère’s finger brushed the tip of her bleeding nose, then plucked off the putty that hung from her nostrils. ‘This might hurt.’ He pulled at the left mutton chop.
‘Ouch,’ Olivia said.
‘One more.’ And off came the other mutton chop. He extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her nose and the cut on her upper lip. He was worried about her right eye. It was swollen shut.
‘Can you move your jaw?’ he asked.
She tried to open her mouth and winced.
‘What about your ribs? Might anything be broken?’
Olivia laughed. Or grunted. He wasn’t quite sure which.
Sévère stood. ‘Cabbie!’ he called to a nearby hansom. ‘To Sillwood Street!’
‘Let Johnston sleep. I’m all right,’ she spoke through clenched teeth.
‘I will not discuss this.’
‘I won’t, either!’
‘Excellent.’ He helped her up and into the waiting cab.
Once the horse had fallen into a fast trot, he said, ‘We need to revise our tactics. For three months we’ve been tailing this…subject.’ He was so furious at Olivia, he’d almost let slip the name of the man they were working so hard to apprehend. The cabbie might be able to hear their conversation over the rattling of wheels.
Sévère ground his teeth. ‘The handful of witnesses we have managed to talk to are unwilling to give statements. Honestly, considering their position and the position of the subject in question, I would be reluctant, too.’
From the corner of his vision, he saw her sitting up straighter.
‘Go on,’ she said, her voice dangerously soft.
‘What I mean to say is…’ He balled his hands to fists. ‘Damnation! This is not what I envisioned to happen!’
‘If you give up now, I will do it alone.’ She sank against the backrest. ‘I don’t have to abide by rules set for men like you.’
‘Dammit, Olivia! Have you ever seen me give up? No. I said we have to revise our tactics. There’s nothing wrong with that. Ah, here we are.’
‘I don’t need a doctor. I’m all right, really, Sévère.’
He squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled. ‘Humour me. Just this once.’ As he tapped his cane to the hansom’s roof, he heard Olivia mutter something that sounded much like overbearing weasel brain.
A sleepy servant opened the door for them and beckoned them in. Sévère apologised profusely to her, and to Johnston who came descending the stairs in robe and tattered slippers
‘My goodness,’ Johnston muttered, eyeing Olivia. ‘What the deuce happened? Why are you in men’s clothing?’ And then to Sévère, ‘And when did you grow a moustache?’
‘We were tailing a suspect.’ Sévère ripped off his moustache and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.
‘We?’
‘Oh, it’s fun,’ Olivia said and flapped a dismissive hand at Johnston. He seemed not to hear her remark.
Johnston led them to the drawing room and held a candle to Olivia’s face. ‘My bag and the leeches.’ He snapped his fingers at the waiting servant, who rushed out of the room and returned a moment later with the requested items.
‘You may retire.’ Johnston waited until the servant had shut the door, then dropped his voice and said to Olivia, ‘How did you come about your injuries?’ He flicked a sideways glance at Sévère that wasn’t any too trusting.
‘You don’t believe…I would…’ Sévère stammered.
Ignoring Sévère, Johnston gazed gently but enquiringly at Olivia.
‘I had a disagreement with a band of pickpockets,’ she supplied and shrugged.
Johnston nodded as though such occurrences weren’t unusual in the least, and beaten-up wives of coroners paid him visits at least twice a week.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, nodding once. ‘My apologies, Sévère. The husband is always the first suspect. To me, and to you.’ Johnston went to turn up the gas light at the wall, then lit an oil lamp and moved it closer to his patient.
Sévère mumbled agreement and watched the surgeon run tender fingertips over Olivia’s face. When she flinched, Sévère grabbed her hand.
‘You can let go of me, Sévère. I won’t run away, I promise,’ she said.
He dropped her hand.
‘I feel no bones shifting, my dear,’ Johnston said softly. ‘But I would like to see the swelling around your eye lessen. Two leeches should do. It won’t hurt.’
Olivia smiled up at him. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve had worse.’
Johnston froze. ‘You’ve had worse? When was that?’
‘When I was a child. There was that boy in the neighbourhood…’
Johnston’s gaze was sharp, but Olivia’s expression was so innocent that one could not but believe her.
Sévère observed the interaction and found himself quite surprised that his friend was fooled by his wife.
Johnston placed the leeches onto Olivia’s swollen eye, disinfected the cut on her upper lip, and then excused himself to find a cup of tea for her.
‘I know how we can apprehend him,’ Sévère said in a low voice.
‘You do?’
He nodded. ‘We’ve been doing it all wrong. He’s always a step ahead of us, and we’ve allowed it. We’ve chased him. This time we’ll set a trap.’
Olivia’s healthy eye narrowed.
Sévère continued, ‘Unfortunately, for this to succeed, we have to enter into rather…shady areas of legality. We’ll need a young girl as bait.’
‘No! That we won’t do.’
‘Why ever not? Call a prostitute into the witness stand instead? The jury won’t believe a word she says. But a young girl that hasn’t been ruined…’ Slowly, he nodded. ‘Why didn’t I think of this earlier?’
‘If you do this, I will divorce you. What do you believe will happen to the girl after you and the court are through with her? Even if Frost never touches her, she’ll be ruined. Her name and her face will be public property. The girl who was almost raped. I have a better idea for you, Coroner.’
Sévère straightened his shoulders. Whenever his wife called him Coroner, he knew to prepare for battle.
‘Why not simply change your lovely legal system so that the voice of a woman is given as much credit as the voice of a man?’
‘That would be like trying to convince people God does not exist,’ Johnston’s voice sounded from the door. ‘You cannot fight belief with logic. And I can’t believe what I just heard. Should I apologise for overhearing your heated discussion on how to lure a young girl into prostitution?’
Groaning, Sévère rubbed his brow. Olivia touched his hand, and said, ‘Allow me.’
He nodded.
‘Dr Johnston,’ she began, and sat up straight. ‘We’ve been trying for months now to obtain evidence against…a man with considerable political power. We know he is paying seductresses to gain access to underage girls. And we know he has been doing this for years.’
Johnston sat down in a chair opposite Olivia. He completely ignored Sévère.
‘How do you know?’
‘I know because…’ She flicked her gaze to Sévère who shook his head minutely. ‘We just know. And we can’t tell you all the details. I hope you understand.’
‘No, I certainly do not understand. What I do understand is that an injured woman is my guest, and so far she’s been telling me only half-truths. Or half lies. I am not quite sure which. I do understand that her husband is the Coroner of Eastern Middlesex — a position of political power, although not considerable. And both have been arguing about forcing a young girl into prostitution.’
‘It’s not what you think—’
‘How, then, is it, Mrs Sévère? Your husband is about to lose my friendship, and I do wonder if I have enough evidence to report him to the authorities.’
‘Johnston, listen to me,’ Sévère interjected.
Johnston stuck his index finger in Sévère’s face. ‘I am not talking to you, lad. I am talking to the lady. So, Mrs Sévère, I’m listening.’
Olivia lifted a hand to rub her brow but remembered the injury. She sucked in a breath, held Johnston’s gaze, and told him about her abduction at the age of nine, the various boarding houses and brothels she’d called home, that her marriage to Sévère was a mutual business agreement, and that her past was to be kept secret so that she could work as his assistant without damaging his reputation. And she told him about Chief Magistrate Frost’s appetites.
Johnston stood, placed the saucer he was still holding onto a nearby table, and left the room without a word.
Sévère stared at Olivia, about to speak, when Johnston returned with three glasses and a bottle. He poured whiskey and handed a glass to Olivia, and another to Sévère.
With a grunt, Johnston tipped his drink into his mouth. His Adam’s apple bounced, and he smacked his lips. ‘Well, then. May I assume your knowledge of Chief Magistrate’s illegal and, I must say, extraordinarily disgusting activities stems from personal experience?’
Olivia dipped her chin.
Johnston harrumphed, refilled his glass, and hurried the contents down his throat.
‘By the Queen’s mammary glands,’ he muttered. ‘I agree with your wife, Sévère. Do not use an innocent as bait. Do you have a trustworthy midwife at your disposal?’
Sévère shook his head no.
‘In that case, you will need a surgeon or physician whom you can trust. And I don’t mean to stitch up your wife every time she’s injured. Well…that, too. But what you need is a medical man who is discreet and ever at your disposal. One who is qualified to testify at court that a girl’s maidenhead is no longer intact and that physical evidence clearly shows she’s been taken against her will.’
Sévère coughed. ‘Are you volunteering?’
‘Of course I am. Why else would I venture such a forthright speech?’
‘I think the swelling is going down,’ Olivia said. A fat leech let go of her brow and dropped to her lap with a soft plop.
Edwine’s gaze hurried across the note. Her hand twitched and the small paper fluttered to the floor. Hastily, she picked it up. Had she read correctly? Yes, she had. There was no doubt. After all, he had typed it:
Wear this and meet me by the tigers.
She felt herself blushing. Her gaze dropped back to the package. Her fingers brushed the shimmering fabric. She lifted the garment from its wrappings and gasped. Rupert had sent her the finest chemise she’d ever laid eyes on. Embroidered silk in shades of rose and pink. The sheer garment would reveal more than it hid. Outrageous!
Edwine’s blush grew hot.
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?’ Frances was oddly flushed. Much like an overripe apple. Her hair was in disarray and stuck to her sweaty temples.
‘What in all the heavens is wrong with you?’ Edwine asked. ‘Are you upset?’
‘The boy was rather rude.’
‘What boy?’
‘The boy who gave me the package, you goose! Rupert’s boy.’ Frances tried a smile, but it slipped off her mouth and her trembling chin.
Edwine’s fickle attention drifted back to Rupert’s present. The chemise. Oh gods, the chemise! How much had he paid for it? She picked up the chocolate that lay on a purple, heart-shaped paper, sniffed at it, and stuck it into her mouth. Almond flavours burst on her tongue. Marzipan was her favourite.
‘Fetch Ella,’ she said. ‘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.’
Edwine eyed her sister, her triumphant, but strangely nervous expression, and wondered if Frances begrudged her her happiness.
Edwine brushed the thought away and put on a friendly face. ‘Would you, dear sister?’
Frances pulled up a shoulder, as though she didn’t care either way.
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 was quite ready for him.
She clicked her tongue. Of course, she was ready! She’d been wondering for a month when Rupert would finally ask her. In fact, their parents must have met and come to an agreement already. The thought made her stop 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 as not to impose on her?
That might be it.
She smiled to herself, feeling lucky to have found such a thoughtful man. All of a sudden, 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 burnt in her nostrils. How could Rupert possibly consider this place romantic? What was he thinking?
A wave of nausea ripped through her. The corset was hurting her, squeezing her, stretching her skin too tight. Unbearable. Her legs felt like water. She stumbled, and her sister caught her elbow.
‘Frances?’ she whispered as her vision blurred, grew yellow around the edges, and finally winked out. ‘Why does it hurt so much?’
The darkness around her did a backflip, and Edwine could no longer control her limbs.
* * *
‘We had another incident,’ Sévère said when Olivia entered the dining room.
‘Is that so?’
He looked up, his gaze touching upon the bruises around her eye and her mouth. He decided to say nothing, for she very much disliked his fussing. Instead, he tried humour, ‘I see. You were fraternising with the enemy.’
She flicked an eyebrow at him — the one that wasn’t bruised — then she sat and reached for the tea. ‘Thank you for last night. It was very refreshing and enjoyable.’
‘It was?’ He folded the morning papers. ‘I thought it was rather…painful. By the by, why do we sound like a married couple?’
‘I’m working hard at keeping up the pretence.’
He stopped chewing.
‘That’s…not how I meant it, Sévère.’
‘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.
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 — her 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. His hair had an odd shade between brown and blonde, and currently needed a cut. He had shaved this morning, for the stubble from the previous night was gone. His cheekbones and nose seemed sharper than usual, and shadows clung to his eyes.
Had he slept at all? Had he gone out again after they had returned from Johnston’s? How often did he enjoy other women? She didn’t even know if he had a lover, or if he visited prostitutes. No, he wasn’t the type of man who took a lover. It was…impractical, too intimate and time-consuming.
She cocked her head. 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?
Upon her scrutiny, Sévère looked up from his papers, frowning. ‘Were you saying something?’
‘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, or 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.’
‘Whatever you wish, wife. Now, let us finish our breakfast in a civilised manner. We are meeting Johnston in a few hours and it would look suspicious if my eyes were gouged out. Besides, we still have to get through said two and a half years without murdering each other.
* * *
‘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, I had the same feeling. But evidence is lacking. Perhaps she was killed by witchcraft.’ With a wink, the surgeon bade his farewell.
‘Dr Johnston, sir?’ A sharp rat-tat-tat of knuckles against wood accompanied the warbling voice.
Johnston’s fingers slipped off his waistcoat buttons.
His wife closed the last two buttons for him, and said, ‘She probably forgot to take her medicine.’
‘What is it?’ he called, squinting at the milky looking glass.
‘Dr Johnston! You must come quick! Mrs Frank is dying!’
‘Yet again.’ Johnston puffed up his cheeks and took the bowler his wife held out to him. He stopped before placing it on his head, and tried to flatten his unruly hair. To no avail. ‘It’s getting worse with age, it seems.’
‘I like your mop of wires.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Mop of wires?’
Molly Johnston reached up and tweaked a corner of his moustache. ‘I wish you a pleasant evening with the Coroner. But don’t forget Mrs Frank is dying.’
‘How could I with the racket her housekeeper is making?’ He gave Molly a soft kiss, and brushed his whiskers across her cheek. ‘It certainly is one of those days,’ he mumbled.
One of those days when half the neighbourhood claimed to be at death’s door.
They usually weren’t — the crying and kicking were good indications of life wriggling through flesh unabated. It was the quiet ones who worried him.
Mrs Frank’s dying didn’t worry him in the least. On several occasions, she had tried to convince him that her being short of breath was proof of an impending heart attack, and the inability to pass wind a sure sign of cancerous growths in her guts.
Unhurried, he grabbed his doctor’s bag from a chest of drawers, opened the door and clapped eyes on the Franks’ housekeeper. She wrung her hands as if she felt no need to keep her fingers functional and attached.
With a gentle but firm voice, Johnston said, ‘Please lead the way, Miss Appleton, and tell me what ails your mistress this time.’ Over his shoulder, he called to his maid, ‘Send notice to Coroner Sévère,’ and, seeing the shock on Miss Appleton’s face, he added, ‘Not to worry. The Coroner and I share a glass of brandy from time to time, and it seems I must keep him waiting tonight.’
They crossed the street and went into Mr Frank’s house, all the while the housekeeper providing a flood of information on her mistress’s complaints: There’s a great weight on her chest. She can barely breathe. Her heart again. Couldn’t he give her more of the medicine? Shouldn’t he forbid her to tie her corset so tight? Wouldn’t it be better if…
Johnston entered the bedroom and almost stumbled. A chandelier was fully lit. Candles — ten or fifteen — spilt golden light across bedside tables, windowsills, and a coffee table. Mrs Frank lay prone, dressed in what seemed to be her finery: a dark green velvet dress with lace at the throat and wrists, lace gloves, leather boots strung around slender ankles. Her ribcage barely moved. Her husband knelt at her feet.
That was when Johnston knew he should have hurried.
‘Open the windows!’ he said sharply and bent over his patient.
‘Mrs Frank?’ He patted her cheek. She opened her eyes and focused on him with some difficulty. Her skin was clammy, her face pale.
He asked her about her symptoms, and she attempted to speak but it seemed her tongue was too heavy.
‘Did she complain about pain in her chest?’ he asked Mr Frank, to confirm what the housekeeper had told him.
‘Y-yes.’
Breath crawled lazily through Mrs Frank’s windpipe, and Johnston lost no time with etiquette. He rolled her onto her side, unbuttoned the back of her dress and, with the help of Mr Frank and the housekeeper, swiftly peeled off dress and corset.
The damp chemise stuck to her skin. Her ribs were sharp against the silk. He palpated her through the fine fabric, examined her eyes and mouth, and pressed his wooden stethoscope to her ribcage. Two quick beats, and then silence. One beat. Silence. Three beats. Silence.
Her chest stopped moving.
‘Rub her legs!’ He barked as he bent Mrs Frank’s head back, and opened her mouth wide. There were no objects blocking her airway. Mr Frank was frantically patting his wife’s feet. ‘Harder, bloody damn! Rub the whole length of her legs. Help her blood circulate.’
At that, panic seemed to grab Mr Frank, and he rubbed and kneaded, his rough palms tearing holes in Mrs Frank’s expensive silk stockings.
Johnston lifted her upper body and slammed his flat hand against her back three times, then laid her back down and blew breath into her mouth. He searched for his stethoscope. It must have rolled under the bed. He pressed his ear against her breast, massaged her chest, breathed for her, and listened again.
Their efforts continued for a while — for how long precisely, neither man could have said — but when Johnston stopped and straightened up, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and tapped his index finger against Mrs Frank’s eyeball to ascertain there was no reaction and the patient was quite dead, Mr Frank still rubbed and rubbed.
Johnston squeezed the man’s shoulder until he ceased his desperate attempts at resurrecting his wife. He slumped forward, head low, hands wrapped around her ankles.
‘I will give the certificate of death. Will she be laid out here?’
Mr Frank nodded and wiped his eyes. ‘I wish… I wish we’d had more time.’
Johnston picked up a small brown bottle, labelled Tincture of Digitalis, from the nightstand and checked its contents. Almost full. He nodded to himself. The symptoms weren’t those of digitalis poisoning anyway. Mrs Frank’s heart had simply given up its long struggle.
Dr Johnston paid the cabbie and caught his breath. You are getting too old for this, laddie, he told himself.
The summer heat wasn’t doing him any good. His palms were itching, and a peculiar burn was spreading to his wrists. His face felt too hot. An odd sensation filled his mouth. As if a wad of cotton were stuffed under his tongue. He pressed two fingers to his carotid artery. There was a stutter. He wondered if he should consider retirement.
But the thought of a comfy armchair, a drink, and a stimulating discussion with his friend distracted him from the shortcomings of his ageing body. Besides, what else could one expect at fifty-seven?
He knocked at the door to Sévère’s house and was admitted. Netty took his hat, brushed it off, and placed it onto the hatstand. He climbed the stairs, his breath becoming shorter the farther he ascended. The door to Sévère’s smoking room stood ajar.
‘Did someone die?’ Sévère asked with a twitch of his mouth.
‘Indeed she did. A matter of time. The patient has had a weak heart for years.’
Sévère’s expression sobered. ‘I apologise for the poor jest. Would a brandy improve your mood? Or a coffee? Tea?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that excellent brandy of yours for hours now.’ He took the offered glass and tipped it down his tingling gullet. His tongue felt like a dead fish, his throat clenched, and his skin was all drawn up. He looked up at Sévère.
‘You look ill, Johnston.’
Johnston pulled at his collar. ‘I must have caught influenza. The hospital is full to the brim. You wouldn’t believe how many patients were brought in today.’ He touched his brow. Sweaty. Clammy. His hands felt as though he’d dug into a nest of ants. A queer symptom.
‘Influenza? Really?’
Johnston blinked, looked down at his hands, and curled his fingers. ‘Strangely intense.’ A mere mutter. His gaze flickered to the brandy. ‘I might be needing a holiday.’
Sévère stood. ‘I’ll arrange for the carriage and tell Netty to call a doctor for you. Is there anyone you prefer?’
Johnston waved Sévère’s concerns away. ‘Pour another brandy and allow me a few moments of respite from this…utterly mad day.’
‘Johnston, you should see yourself. You looked like death when you walked in, and now it’s even—’
‘I’m a surgeon, I know what I need,’ Johnston protested, a little too loud. He cleared his sticky throat, blinking the wavering black spots from his vision. ‘I need rest. Don’t bother your driver. I’ll catch a hansom.’
He grabbed the armrest and pushed himself up. God, if only his skin didn’t feel so tight. When did the symptoms appear? This afternoon? He couldn’t quite recall. He rubbed his neck and decided to seriously consider retirement when suddenly, the room tipped aside.
A hand grabbed his elbow and steadied him.
‘Dammit, Johnston. You pigheaded old bastard! At least allow me to walk you downstairs, get you into my brougham and drive you home.’
‘I hate it when people mother me.’ His voice sounded far off.
They made it out to the corridor, and Johnston was surprised at how fast he was deteriorating. What was the mortality rate of influenza this year, he wondered. One per cent? Three per cent? The hold Sévère had on his arm was painful. His skin felt as if it was tearing beneath his grip. ‘God, how my hands burn! Sévère, you are hurting my arm.’
At once, Sévère let go of him. ‘Johnston, I don’t care what you think this is, or how much of an expert you are. I’ll call for a physician as soon as—’
From the centre of his failing vision, Johnston spotted the stairs. He felt as though a giant had picked him up and let him float a few inches above the world. His vision blurred. The walls turned a strange greenish-yellow, wobbled, and the stairs approached slowly. He didn’t know what was up and what was down. His chest and head hurt. He wondered how he had reached the bottom of the stairwell. And his skin! God, how his skin was smarting.
Sévère’s face appeared. Eyes big as saucers. Johnston knew this expression all too well. He looked like someone whose friend was dying. How curious.
Johnston opened his mouth to speak, but words wouldn’t come. Darkness closed in on him like a fist. All he felt was the weight, the burning and prickling driving him to madness. And this one, all-important thought that kept him tied to life for a stuttering heartbeat longer: Molly.
The sound of running feet. Down the corridor, and a short moment later, back up. Olivia stood, and Rose’s fingers slipped off her braid. Her thick black hair unfurled as she walked to the door and opened it. The corridor was empty. At the far end, Sévère’s door stood ajar, agitated voices sounding from the stairwell beyond it.
Olivia pulled the lapels of her night robe close, and exited her room, Rose in her wake. The first thing she saw was Sévère hunched at the bottom of the stairs, a hand wrapped around a prone man’s throat.
Her feet faltered.
Johnston.
‘Go back to your room, Rose.’
A gaggle of servants stood behind the two men, pale-faced, hands pressed to mouths.
Olivia forced her feet forward, down. Goosebumps prickled on her arms, her neck. Her eyes stuck firmly to the two men, she realised that Sévère’s fingers weren’t wrapped around Johnston’s throat, but lingered softly at his carotid artery.
‘The brougham is ready, sir,’ Higgins announced.
Sévère showed no reaction.
‘Sir?’
Olivia stepped over Johnston’s legs, avoided looking at his open eyes, the gaping mouth.
She touched Sévère’s shoulder, and said with a voice so hoarse she barely recognised it as her own, ‘Gavriel, we need to take him to hospital.’
For a long moment, he did not answer, and the silence rang louder in her ears than a sharp cry. And then Sévère whispered, ‘Six minutes.’
‘Six m… What?’
‘Six minutes!’ With a growl, he chucked his watch against the wall. ‘His heart stopped beating the moment he hit the floor, perhaps already before he fell. It hasn’t been beating for a full six minutes.’ He looked up at her, and the paleness of his eyes made her think of a knife’s edge, well-honed.
‘We need to inform his wife,’ she said.
His gaze flickered toward the servants and back to Johnston. A slow nod. ‘Netty, send for Dr Taylor of London Hospital. Tell him the coroner requires him to perform a postmortem at once. Someone, please inform the mortuary that we’ll be needing a table. Olivia, be so kind as to inform Mrs Johnston.’
‘What happened?’ she whispered.
Sévère swallowed and shook his head as though not quite sure how to answer. Olivia knelt and placed a hand on his arm. ‘I can’t just tell her that her husband is dead. She’ll want to know what happened.’
He inhaled and sat up straighter. ‘He looked unwell. Very pale. He said he might have caught influenza. I didn’t believe it, because he seemed to be getting worse by the minute. I told him I’d put him into my brougham and send him home. He complained about me mothering him.’ A low chuckle slipped from his throat. He lowered his head and continued. ‘I helped him walk down the corridor. Then he complained about pain in his hands and arm. When we reached the landing, he… His body stiffened and he…fell. I believe he must have been unconscious already.’
He shook off her hand and stood with some difficulty. His weak leg had been curled up under him for too long. The knuckles of his hand turned white as he leant heavily on his cane. A trembling ran through his left side.
She rose to grab his elbow for support and helped him sit on the stairs. ‘The crutch?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘In my bedroom.’
* * *
Olivia stared at the door. She’d been there a few times. Johnston was refreshingly unconventional and humorous. Had been. His wife was quiet and reserved, but friendly. Practical. Both feet on the ground. Never pretentious enough to seem the wife of a leading expert in medicine. Somehow, Olivia managed to lift her arm and rap the knocker against the door. The housekeeper opened. ‘Mrs Sévère?’
‘I need to speak to Mrs Johnston.’
The housekeeper peeked over Olivia’s shoulder, then pushed the door open to admit the late guest. ‘Is anything the matter with the doctor?’
‘I need to speak to Mrs Johnston,’ she repeated, hoarse. ‘I’ll wait in the parlour.’
A few moments later, Mrs Johnston sat down on the couch next to Olivia. She didn’t say “hello,” or “what is it,” didn’t enquire about the bruise on Olivia’s face. She just sat and looked her full in the eye.
Olivia opened her mouth and shut it again. Her throat clenched shut and a tear rolled down her face. Puzzled, she touched her cheek.
‘Well?’ Mrs Johnston said. There was ice in her voice, as though she knew or suspected what was to come.
Olivia reached for Mrs Johnston’s hand and was rewarded with an incredulous stare. It felt like a slap.
‘Is he hurt?’
‘He’s dead.’
Mrs Johnston stood abruptly. A strand of her greying hair slipped from her severe bun. It made her look fragile, about to shatter into many pieces. ‘I knew it would happen this way.’
‘What… What do you mean?’
‘That one night someone would come to my door and tell me he’s gone.’ Mrs Johnston unfurled a fist and looked down at her trembling fingers. ‘And that nothing would prepare me for it.’ She cleared her throat and straightened her spine. ‘How did he die?’
It took Olivia a moment to collect her thoughts. She took in Mrs Johnston’s carefully guarded expression, the effort it took her to keep up the facade of the hostess. The effort to not sink to the floor, weeping.
‘I… I don’t know the particulars,’ Olivia began. ‘I saw him lying at the bottom of the stairs, Sévère kneeling by his side. He said that your husband had been looking quite ill, and had complained about pain in his arm. That he had helped him walk out. He wanted to send him home in the brougham. They made to descend the stairs, and then…your husband lost consciousness and fell down the stairwell. My husband found no heartbeat.’
A long moment of silence. And then, ‘He has a healthy heart. It cannot just stop beating. He’s a healthy man. He cannot just…’ Mrs Johnston set her jaw and turned to look out the window. A lone street lamp pierced the dark.
‘Sévère has ordered a postmortem examination. It will be performed tonight. My heartfelt—’
Mrs Johnston’s spine snapped to attention. ‘I don’t wish to hear heartfelt words from a woman who doesn’t know what heartfelt means. You don’t know love.’ She pressed her fists against the window sill. ‘I wish to be alone now. Tell them to send Peter… Tell them to send my husband back home as soon as they are…done. I wish to see him in the morning. Latest.’
A fetid summer