What do you say the morning after you’ve stuck a knife into a man’s heart, and you and your wife watched him twitch his last in a puddle of his piss? Good morning, dear. Pleasant night?
No, Sévère wouldn’t expect his wife to appreciate the humour. Not that he had a chance to utter these words in the first place. Alone, he sat staring over an expanse of white tablecloth. Silver platters held muffins, sausages, eggs, honey, jam, and butter. It was as if Cook and Netty expected an army, not a lone man in a wheeling chair.
He ran a palm over the atrophied muscles of his left thigh, trying to appreciate this weakness as one of the best alibis a murderer could ask for. It was what he’d planned, wasn’t it? Though the charade drifting more and more into harsh reality was…not quite what he’d expected.
Sévère’s gaze slid to the empty chair across from him.
Four weeks.
Four long weeks without a word from her.
The last time he’d seen her, he’d watched in horror as she dug her thumb deep into the neat knife wound he’d inflicted on Chief Magistrate Linton Frost. One swift and deadly strike to the heart. The man hadn’t even had the chance to cry out before he died.
The murder kept replaying on the back of his eyelids whenever he dared shut his eyes for more than three heartbeats. It mattered little whether it was day or night.
He wasn't troubled by remorse, not in the slightest. But the surprise that had seared through him upon discovering his wife had been watching was as fresh now as it had been four weeks before. She had been just as prepared to end Frost's life, just as hungry for it as Sévère himself.
The sight of his wife approving the deed still unsettled him.
Although "unsettled" seemed to be an inadequate description for what he'd felt that night. Yes, he’d been deeply shocked, perhaps even a touch horrified, and he still was. The intimacy of that moment robbed him of breath.
A faint cough yanked his gaze away from his wife’s vacant seat. The new maid (what was her name again?) regarded him with a subtle nod towards the teapot.
‘What is it?’ he inquired sharply.
‘I was wondering if you would like more tea, sir.’
‘No, thank you. You may leave.’
With a demure curtsy, the maid retreated from the room, leaving Sévère to his ruminations.
His gaze slunk back to the empty chair where Olivia typically sat, his thoughts drifting to that morning when she had slipped away with Rose before the household stirred. No farewell, not even a hastily scribbled note, taking only two meagre bags that seemed scarcely sufficient for their journey to the Isle of Wight. Only Higgins, the coachman, had known of their predawn departure.
A flicker of resentment flared up. Did she truly hold him in such low regard that she could not entrust him with something as trifling as her travel plans? The question gnawed at him. He didn't even know if she intended to return at all. Was there anything that bound her to this place, to him? No, nothing. The divorce papers had been signed by both of them. And yet, there was the mysterious fact that Olivia refused to file the documents. He didn't know what to make of it.
One day she chose to stay, seemingly affronted by his assumption that she would be glad to leave. The next, she simply vanished.
What on earth transpired in the head of that woman?
Or any woman, for that matter.
Sévère let out a low groan as he raised his cup and sipped a lukewarm infusion of…was that herbal tea? He grimaced at the taste. Revolting! What the dickens was Netty playing at? He spat the tea back into his cup, slammed the offending vessel onto its saucer, and summoned the maid to remove the scarcely touched breakfast.
The maid flitted about without making so much as a sound. He requested black tea, emphasising the word black, ensuring she understood that if she dared deliver that hay-infused water ever again, she might as well trade her post for that of the scullery maid.
Sévère paused. Did he even employ a scullery maid? He’d have to address the matter with Netty. The financial situation wasn’t looking too bright now that every Londoner and their mutt knew the former Coroner of Eastern Middlesex had been accused of a heinous murder and led to a trial (Who knows fer sure if he done it or no!), where it was revealed that his wife had a questionable past as a former — and a notoriously infamous — prostitute (Who knows fer sure if she wasna still working horizonterly!). He’d been promptly stripped of his post as coroner, moved to the dismal pit that was Newgate’s condemned ward, and so robbed of both his freedom and mobility.
The relentless gossip mill continued to grind feverishly. He’d stopped reading the newspapers three weeks ago.
A dainty silver platter sitting on the tablecloth held the morning mail, a precariously balanced stack of letters. The volume of correspondence in Sévère's office had grown to two sacks in four weeks. Roughly two dozen of these missives had come from extraordinarily daft knuckleheads who deemed their thoughts on his wife's past profession worthy of his attention.
For seven long years, Olivia had been a prostitute — a fact now known to all of London, thanks to his ill-fated trial for a murder he had not committed. Those opinionated dolts never cared that she’d been abducted at the age of nine and forced to sell her body to men who humiliated her every single night. None of it had been her choice. Yet, in their eyes, she was to shoulder the shame.
As if a man was incapable of self-control and couldn't be held accountable for his despicable actions. They also chose to overlook the crucial detail that it was Olivia who had apprehended the real murderer and saved Sévère's life.
Alas, such inconvenient facts did not align with the preferred narrative.
But strangest of all, it was London’s seedy underbelly that had taken notice. Countless pleas for help from mothers who’d lost a daughter, girls who’d lost a sister, and prostitutes who’d lost a friend, addressed to Sévère & Sévère Private Detective Agency, were waiting to be read.
Sévère raked his fingers through his hair. His infirmity had been made abundantly clear; he had ensured as much when his coachman carried him down the front steps of the Old Bailey. The newspapermen had eagerly devoured the spectacle, peddling the tale to any who could spare a ha’penny. The city was well aware of his limitations, and yet they sought his aid.
He snorted. He knew well enough that all correspondence directed to their Private Detective Agency was intended for Olivia, not him. In his current condition, he’d be hard-pressed to catch a cab, let alone a criminal.
Should his wife ever choose to return, she would find a surplus of clientele awaiting her services. As it stood, the household would have to depend on her earnings. He had squandered a considerable portion of his inheritance on a grand townhouse ill-suited to a man of his current standing, purchasing it under the delusion that he was invincible — Solicitor Gavriel Sévère, Coroner of Eastern Middlesex, aspiring expert in forensic medicine.
Absurd!
Huffing, he tucked his chin against his chest and shut his eyes. Who would have guessed that a poisoned chemise and a serial killer would snatch away his career, his reputation, and the life of a dear friend?
Olivia, though, had risen like a phoenix from the ashes. She’d been his beacon of hope.
Sévère’s hand lifted to his throat, to the tender skin where a noose would have squeezed the life out of him. The rhythm of his pulse throbbed beneath his touch. 'You’ll be done for without her, chap,' he murmured.
‘Enough of this.’ He yanked back the wheels of his chair and pushed toward the door.
His wife was nothing but a miracle. She seemed to possess the uncanny ability to land on her feet, no matter the trials life threw at her. By now, she’d probably set up her apiary on the Isle of Wight, restored her grandfather's former home, and fulfilled the dream she’d had for years.
Likely, she’d not return.
Sévère reached for the doorknob as feet clattered down the corridor. The small, swift feet of a nine-year-old. Surprised, he swung the door open and called out, 'Rose? Olivia?' He chose to ignore the hopeful lift of his heartbeat.
‘It’s just me, Mr Sévère!’ A voice clear as a bell. Rose came into view, wind in her hair and sunshine on her cheeks.
‘Where’s my wife?’
‘Said she had to go see someone.’ Rose flashed a smile. ‘Dropped me and the luggage off. Left with Higgins.’
‘He had the horses ready?’
Rose shrugged, giving him an “isn’t it obvious?” look.
Sévère exhaled a sigh. His gaze touched on the sparkle in Rose’s eyes, her straight-backed posture, the energy that rolled off her. He couldn’t help but say, ‘You seem well.’
Her gaze cooled. She took a step back as if to say, “Yes, but now I’m back here.”
‘Where’s Alf?’ she asked.
‘Down in the kitchen, perhaps? I haven’t seen him today.’
She dipped her chin and turned to march off to Olivia’s private quarters. The girl’s hand hesitated over the doorknob. A small nod, as though to brace herself, then she stepped through the door and out of view.
Sévère cursed himself. He had no clue how to talk to a young girl who’d been violated. Slipping a blade between her assailant’s ribs had been incomparably easier.
And facing Olivia… He couldn’t think of what to say.
Sévère pushed himself to his private rooms, locked the door, and stripped down to his undergarments. He affixed his brace, tightened the buckles, and pushed himself to stand. He grabbed his cane, took a step and then another, reminding himself that only two more months remained. He had pledged to feign frailty, to maintain the illusion of confinement to a wheeling chair for at least three months following the murder of Chief Magistrate Frost.
The perfect alibi.
And yet, he couldn't suppress the creeping suspicion that his body was succumbing, that the disease was gaining the upper hand. His left leg was gradually losing strength. How much longer until the chair ceased to be a mere facade?
Angry, he struck the tip of his cane against the rug. ‘Cease wallowing in self-pity!’
He reached up and grabbed the metal bar affixed to the doorway between his library and his bedroom. And then he hauled himself up. Again and again, until sweat ran freely down his spine and his muscles were on fire.
After Sévère had washed and donned his attire, he heard the familiar rhythm of Olivia's footsteps echoing down the corridor. Without pausing, she strode past his room. Her door shut with a resolute click.
Sévère's mood darkened. This simply would not suffice. He promptly vacated his quarters and proceeded down the corridor, rapping once upon her door and barging in without waiting for her invitation.
She stood by the window, her back to him, her silhouette strangely frail. ‘I need to be alone.’ Her voice was soft, almost begging. Small vibrations ran through her shoulder blades.
‘You are back,’ he said.
Silence.
Cold prickled down Sévère’s spine. ‘What the deuce happened?’ He pushed his chair farther into the room.
The sound of creaking wheels snapped Olivia’s spine straight. ‘Sévère, leave. Please,’ she growled in warning.
‘Olivia, what happened to you?’
‘I will not ask again.’ She turned and lifted her arm.
At first, Sévère saw only her face, and how…desolate she looked. Her eyes were hollowed out, and her countenance bore an unfamiliar pallor.
His heart clenched.
Then his mind registered the straight line from her eye down along her arm to her hand, and finally, the mouth of a revolver.
