Peregrine, Chapter 01

What do you say the morning after jointly sticking a knife into a man’s heart and watching him twitch his last in a puddle of his piss? Good morning, dear. Pleasant night?

No, Sévère didn’t expect his wife would appreciate the humour. Not that he had the opportunity to utter those words in the first place. He was seated alone, staring over an expanse of white tablecloth. Silver platters were stacked with muffins, sausages, eggs, jars of honey, jam, and butter as though Cook and Netty were expecting an army rather than a lone man in a wheeling chair whose appetite soured as soon as he entered the dining room.

His eyes slid to the empty chair across from him.

Four weeks.

Four weeks without a word from her.

The last time he’d seen her, he watched in horror as she dug her thumb deep into the neat knife wound he’d inflicted on Chief Magistrate Linton Frost. A single, clean stab to the heart. The man hadn’t even had the chance to cry out before he died.

Sévère saw the scenes unfold every night he retired to bed, and during the daytime when he dared shut his eyes for more than three heartbeats.

He ran a palm over his left leg, feeling the atrophied muscles of his thigh, trying to see this weakness as one of the best alibis a murderer could ask for.

Sévère felt no remorse. Not a trace of it. But the surprise that spread hot in his guts when he discovered his wife watching him kill Frost was as acute now as it had been four weeks ago. She’d been just as ready to end that man’s life, just as hungry for it as Sévère had been.

Surprise wasn’t the right word for what he felt. Shock. Yes. He’d been shocked, perhaps even a touch horrified, and still was. The intimacy of that moment had robbed him of breath.

A faint cough yanked his gaze away from his wife’s empty seat. The new maid — whatever her name was — stared blatantly at him, then tilted her chin toward the teapot.

‘What?’ he said sharply.

‘I asked if you would like more tea, sir.’

‘No, thank you. You may leave.’

A small curtsy, and the girl slunk from the room.

Olivia had left the morning after that night, taking the girl, Rose, with her and two bags that seemed much too small for the trip to the Isle of Wight. Without saying goodbye, without even leaving a note. They’d sneaked out of the house at the break of dawn. Only the coachman had seen them off. Higgins was the only person in the entire household to know where Olivia and Rose were headed.

As though Sévère didn’t deserve her trust, not even in a matter as small as this.

He wasn’t even sure whether she planned to return. And why would she? There was nothing left for her here. Nothing tied her to this house or him. He’d arranged for the divorce papers, had signed them. Had handed them to her to sign, which she did. But she hadn’t filed the divorce. It puzzled him. Unsettled him deeply.

One day she chose to stay, even seemed offended that he thought she would be glad to leave. And the next day she ran off without a word. What in God’s name went on in the head of that woman? Or any woman, for that matter.

Groaning, he lifted his cup and tipped a tepid brew of -- was that herbal tea? -- into his mouth. Disgusting. What the dickens was Netty thinking? He spat the tea back into his cup and slammed the offending vessel onto its saucer.

He picked at a muffin, then rang the bell for the nearly untouched breakfast to be taken away. The maid flitted in and out without making so much as a sound. He ordered black tea, emphasising the word black and letting her know that should she dare serve that hay-infused water ever again, she could as well trade her post with that of the scullery maid.

Sévère paused. Did he even employ a scullery maid? He’d have to talk to Netty about it. The financial situation wasn’t looking too brightly now that every Londoner and their mutt knew the Coroner of Eastern Middlesex had been led to a trial for murder (Who knows fer sure if he done it or no!), where it was uncovered that he was married to a former — and rather infamous — prostitute (Who knows fer sure if she wasna still working horizonterlly!), promptly lost his position as the Coroner of Eastern Middlesex, was moved to the condemned ward of Newgate and lost the use of his legs. (Who knows fer sure what really happened?)

The rumour mill was well-oiled and running at top speed. He’d stopped reading the newspapers three weeks ago.

Sévère’s gaze dropped to the table. The maid had left a silver platter, letters teetering on it. And that was only the morning mail.

Two sacks of letters had accumulated in those four weeks, all sitting in his office one storey below. A dozen or so came from an assortment of extraordinary daft knuckleheads who believed their opinion on his wife’s former life held any importance whatsoever.

For seven years, she’d been a prostitute. All of London read about it when he’d been led to trial for a murder he didn’t commit. Those opinionated dolts never cared that she’d been abducted at the age of nine, forced to sell her body to men who humiliated her every single night. None of this had been her choice.

And those feebleminded creatures believed she was to bear the shame. As if a man couldn’t help himself and couldn’t be made responsible for the atrocities he committed. They also conveniently ignored that it had been Olivia who caught the real murderer and saved Sévère’s life. It simply didn’t fit their narrative.

Strangest of all, it was London’s underbelly that had taken note. And now, hundreds of cries for help from mothers who lost a daughter, brothers who lost a sister, and prostitutes who lost a friend, addressed to Sévère & Sévère Private Detective Agency, were waiting to be heard.

Sévère raked his fingers through his hair. All of London knew he was a cripple. He’d made that clear enough when his coachman carried him down the front steps of the Old Bailey. The newspapermen had greedily lapped up the news and peddled them to everyone who had a ha’penny to spend.

He was well aware that letters addressed to Sévère & Sévère Private Detective Agency were only meant for Olivia, not him. He couldn’t even catch a cab in his state, let alone a criminal.

If his wife ever chose to return, she’d have more clients than she could attend. As it stood, the household would have to depend on her income. He’d squandered his inheritance on a townhouse that was too grand for a man of his station, believing nothing and no one could beat him — Solicitor Gavriel Sévère, Coroner of Eastern Middlesex, would-be expert in forensic medicine. Ha!

Huffing, he tucked his chin against his chest and shut his eyes. Who would have guessed that a poison 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. Where the noose would have squeezed the life out of him. He felt his pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips. ‘You’d be dead without her, chap,’ he grumbled.

‘Enough,’ he scolded himself, yanked back the wheels of his chair and pushed toward the door.

His wife was nothing but a miracle. She seemed to always fall onto her feet, no matter what life was throwing at her. By now, she’d probably set up her apiary on the Isle of Wight, restored her grandfather's house, and fulfilled a dream she’d had for years.

Likely, she’d never return.

Sévère reached for the doorknob when feet clattered down the corridor. The small and swift feet of a nine-year-old. Surprised, he opened the door, and called out, ‘Rose? Olivia? Are you back?’ He ignored the hopeful lift to his heartbeat.

‘It’s only 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?’ he asked.

‘She 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.

Well. Sévère exhaled a sigh. His gaze touched on the sparkle in Rose’s eyes, her upright stance, the energy that rolled off her, and he couldn’t help but say, ‘You seem well.’

Her gaze flattened. She took a step back as if to say, Yes, but now I’m back. ‘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 rooms. 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 what to say.

Sévère pushed himself to his private rooms, locked the door, and stripped down to his underclothes. He slipped on his brace, tightened the buckles, and pushed himself to stand. He grabbed his cane. The skin of his knuckles lost all colour. He took a step and then another, telling himself that it was only two more months. He’d sworn to play weak, to pretend to be bound to a chair for at least three months after he’d killed Chief Magistrate Frost.

A perfect alibi.

And yet, he couldn’t fight the feeling that his body was giving out and the disease was winning. His left leg seemed to slowly grow weaker. How long until the chair ceased to be a mere charade?

Angry, he knocked the tip of the cane against the rug. Stop pitying yourself! He reached up and grabbed the metal bar fastened in the doorway to his library.

And then he pulled himself up. Again and again, until sweat ran freely down his spine and his muscles were on fire.

When Sévère had washed and dressed, he heard familiar footfalls in the corridor. Without pausing, Olivia strode past his room. Her door echoed a click as she pushed it shut.

No, this won’t do, Sévère thought grimly. He left his rooms and moved down the corridor, knocked once and entered without waiting for her invitation.

She stood by the window, her back to him, her silhouette strangely frail. ‘Please leave. I need to be alone.’ Her voice was soft, almost begging. Small vibrations ran through her shoulder blades.

‘You are back.’

No reply.

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.’ A warning growl.

‘Olivia, what happened to you?’

‘I will not ask you again.’ She turned and lifted her arm.

At first, Sévère saw only her face, and how…desolate she looked. It made his heart ache. Then his mind registered the straight line from her eye down along her arm to her hand, and finally, the mouth of a revolver.