The Miraculous Fast - A Gaslight Short Story “The whole of our social structure is based on the assumption that normally constituted men and women will not cheat or lie without sufficient motive.” --- Frank Podmore, 1897 ~~~ooo0ooo~~~ The girl was unmistakably dead. Far from peaceful repose, her body lay amongst the crumpled sheets on the iron-framed bed in an awkward sprawl; her printed Japanese silk wrapper gaped open, showing legs bared shockingly to the thigh, as well as most of her torso. This was bad enough, but it was the body’s horrific condition that made Rhiannon Moore gasp for breath and gag. Lady Evangeline St. Claire, the only female consulting detective in London – and possibly all of England as well – had to hold a hand against her lips as a wave of acrid bile rose in the back of her throat and stung her tongue. “How long?” she asked, her voice echoing hollowly in the otherwise empty room. “Thirty days,” answered Inspector Harold Valentine of Scotland Yard. His blonde moustache bristled. “Thirty bloody days without food or water, and her only a child, by God!” Rhiannon gagged again and turned away. Lina felt a hot flush of anger on her cheeks. “Unconscionable!” Her gloved hand clenched into a fist. “Where are the parents? Why was nothing done?” Valentine blew out a sigh. “Miss Mary Louise Philpott, fifteen years of age, only daughter of Edgar and Elizabeth Philpott of No. 15 Langwell Road, Cheapside. They’ve three sons, all older than Mary; the father was in charge of the bookkeeping at a local silk importers. A good Catholic family by all accounts; so good, in fact, that Miss Mary was considered to have anorexia mirabilis, or so I’m told by those who ought to know.” Lina’s brows struggled to rise and pucker into a frown at the same time. “A fasting girl, eh? One of those so-called ‘miraculous maids’ who never eat or drink and survive – nay, thrive in many cases – due to the intervention of God. I believe such girls were once considered the very model of female holiness, however these days, I suspect that sleight-of-hand and an accomplice are the true workers of such ‘miracles.’” “Be that as it may,” Valentine said, “it seems that Mr. and Mrs. Philpott – bein’ devout folks – have been exhibiting their miracle daughter since she was ten, and they say Miss Mary hasn’t eaten a bite or drunk a swallow of anything in all that time.” “Nonsense.” “You’ll get no argument from me on that score.” Valentine drummed his fingers on the paunch that strained the buttons of his woollen waistcoat. Lina gave Rhiannon a pat on the shoulder, not surprised to find the smaller woman’s muscles were taut with tension. The corpse was a truly horrible sight, the greyish skin stretched too-tight over the delicate spars of the girl’s bones. Brittle-looking blonde hair covered the upper part of the face, but the mouth sagged open in a silent scream. There was no doubt in Lina’s mind that Mary Philpott had died of starvation and thirst. Even more heart-wrenching were the teeth marks on the bed frame, as if she had gnawed the unyielding enamelled iron bars in her agonies. “Do go on, Harry,” Lina urged him. “There were a great many pilgrims who went to see the fasting maid of Langwell Road, and many presents of money and such-like were given to Mr. and Mrs. Philpott,” Valentine said. “Mary became quite famous, although their parish priest refused to believe in the miracle. At any rate, the girl became known to Mrs. Uxbridge.” It was Lina’s turn to sigh. “The notorious Mrs. Harrison Gilbert Uxbridge. I suppose that complication was inevitable, given the circumstances of the case.” “Who’s Mrs. Uxbridge?” Rhiannon asked, still facing away from the bed and its grisly contents. “Mrs. Uxbridge is an extremely wealthy widow who suffers from religious mania,” Lina said, taking off her suede gloves. “She collects the finger-bones of saints and the withered hearts of martyrs, among other things. Mrs. Uxbridge is rumoured to own one of the world’s holiest relics – the Lance of Longinus, which pierced the side of Christ when He was crucified. Two years ago, she imported a genuine anchorite from a cave in Italy, and installed the man and his hair shirts into an artificial grotto on the grounds of her country house in Surrey. She also supports a stigmatic and two personal priests, and is on dining terms with the Vatican.” Lina turned to Valentine. “I suppose Mrs. Uxbridge wished to add Mary Philpott to her collection.” “You suppose correctly,” Valentine answered. The inspector swept a hand through the air, indicating the room. It was large and airy; the ceiling was a full twenty-five feet high, fitted with a massive skylight that let the sun’s rays pour inside the space virtually all day, as the room faced south. The walls were plainly whitewashed and unadorned with plaster furbelows; the floor was made of dark polished oak. Apart from the bed, there was nothing else in the room except a tapestry bell-pull near the door. “This is Mrs. Uxbridge’s testing chamber, as she called it,” Valentine said. “The canny lady’s seen one too many frauds in her time, so she wanted proof of Mary’s powers before she shelled out good hard pounds on a fraud. The ordeal was thus: Mary was to stay locked within this chamber for thirty days entire with nothing to eat or drink, no visitors, no contact of any kind. Should the girl have a change of heart, the bell-pull was provided. She could ring for help at any time. Before you ask, I’ve tested the bell and it works.” “It rings in the kitchen?” “Aye, as is usual. Nothing to show that the bell was put out of commission and then repaired, either.” Lina nodded. “A point that may prove to be of some importance later. What of the parents, Harry? Surely they knew that something was wrong.” Valentine looked disgusted. “As long as Mary stayed in the chamber, Mr. and Mrs. Philpott were treated as Mrs. Uxbridge’s guests and friends. Mr. Philpott gave up his job at the silk importers firm and has been wallowing in luxury. Mrs. Philpott is writing a book on the rearing of a modern saint, which has already found a publisher through their patroness’ contacts. The three brothers are slated for university, with Mrs. Uxbridge underwriting the expenses. In fact, if Mary had proven genuine, our devout lady with the deep pockets intended to grant the Philpott’s a very generous pension, in addition to supporting Mary herself.” “Little wonder that the family’s hopes were pinned upon young Mary.” “On the thirty-first day, Mrs. Uxbridge unlocked the door – the only key had been in her possession the entire time – and found Mary like this. Not quite the odour of sanctity she was expecting, if you get my meanin’.” “Oh, yes,” Lina said, all too aware of the musty-sweet scent of recent death that permeated the room. “I can well imagine the lady’s horror.” “Mrs. Uxbridge ain’t the sort to succumb to a fit of the vapours,” Valentine said. “She summoned the Commissioner of Police, and he summoned Scotland Yard. I’ll wager that Mrs. Uxbridge also summoned you.” Lina gave Rhiannon a last reassuring caress. “May I?” she asked, nodding towards the corpse without answering Valentine. She knew that he knew his supposition was right. Mrs. Uxbridge had sent a message to Grosvenor Street requesting Lina’s presence at her house in Belgravia, citing a connection of acquaintanceship through Lina’s father, Sir Edward Leigh. She had agreed, although she had no personal liking for the woman. “Do as you please, milady,” Valentine replied. He took a cigar out of his jacket pocket and shoved it unlit into the corner of his mouth. “The police surgeon will be here soon to take the poor girl away, so be quick about it.” Lina took the few necessary steps that were required to bring her to the edge of the bed and looked down, trying to capture every detail, no matter how minute. “I estimate that she has been dead for at least ten days.” Dispassionately as possible, Lina touched the corpse, running her fingertips over the leathery skin, the hard bumps of bone. “I can detect no gross injuries. In my opinion - subject to change depending upon the surgeon’s autopsy - Mary Philpott died of thirst and starvation.” She let the withered head drop back onto the pillow; the girl’s hair felt like straw. Lina gazed into the empty eyes, half-hidden behind the dried-up eyelids, and hoped that whoever was responsible for this tragedy would hang for it. “I shall wish to speak to the parents, as well as to Mrs. Uxbridge and anyone else who is regularly in the house.” “Mrs. Uxbridge’s son, Richard, lives in the house, along with the servants and a priest named Father Provenza of Sicilian extraction,” Valentine said. “Mr. and Mrs. Philpott are waiting in the drawing room, along with their three sons.” As Lina turned to go, she heard Rhiannon say, “Those aren’t tooth marks.” “I beg your pardon, my dear?” Lina swung back to regard Rhiannon, who was still pale as rice-paper but seemed to have recovered some part of her composure. “On the bed frame. I don’t think those are tooth-marks,” Rhiannon repeated. She indicated a spot on the floor. “And this is odd, too.” Lina looked in the direction that Rhiannon was pointing. On the floorboards were solid white flakes of some substance which, when she squatted down and scooped up a piece, proved to be dried paint. Automatically, Lina glanced around to ascertain the source of the paint. She also took a second look at the so-called tooth-marks that marred the corners of the bed. After a long moment of cogitation, Lina knew what had happened to Mary Philpott. She did not know who was responsible for the terrible deed, but she intended to find out. She met Rhiannon’s eyes and saw the same knowledge reflected in those turquoise depths. Clearing her throat, Lina gestured at Valentine. “Be so kind as to escort us to the drawing room, Harry,” she said, proud that her controlled voice held no hint of a quaver. Poor girl, she thought, following Valentine down the corridor. Poor benighted child, robbed of any future she may have had, and in such a monstrous fashion. Well, I shall see that justice is done, no matter the cost. Mr. Philpott was a round little man with a balding pate; deep, bruised-seeming pouches under his little brown eyes enhanced his air of mourning. “Mary, oh, my darling Mary,” he whimpered, clutching a rosary in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. “It is God’s will,” insisted Mrs. Philpott, a dowdy female whose blotched and swollen face spoke of copious tears. She sat next to her husband on the settee, her spine ramrod straight and her hands folded together in her lap. “God’s will that our darling Mary must join Him now in Heaven, to take her place among the ranks of the blesséd.” “Mr. and Mrs. Philpott,” Valentine said, “may I present Lady Evangeline St. Claire and her confidential secretary, Miss Rhiannon Moore. Lady St. Claire has been asked by Mrs. Uxbridge to investigate your daughter’s death… in cooperation with the Yard, of course.” “Of course,” replied Mr. Philpott, wiping his face with the handkerchief. “But I don’t understand why everyone’s making such a fuss. My Mary’s death was the will of God.” “On the contrary,” Lina said, smoothly injecting herself into the conversation, “your Mary’s death was the will of a very evil person.” Mrs. Philpott let out a shriek and collapsed against her husband. Mr. Philpott swelled visibly, an arm curled around his wife’s shoulders. “How dare you come here and spout such vile nonsense!” he choked, fresh tears making a slick trail on his round cheeks. “God took our Mary because she was too good for this earth, and you ought not to say otherwise!” Lina and Valentine exchanged a glance, and then the dark-haired woman turned her attention to the three Philpott sons – James, Edward and Theodore. She was beginning to suspect that the parents were true believers, who had genuinely thought their daughter was a miraculous fasting maid. However, if one did not believe in Heaven-wrought miracles, then logic demanded another explanation for Mary’s so-called anorexia mirabilis – and that meant an accomplice. Lina eyed the three young men; the eldest, James, was twenty-one and seemed a likely candidate, except that he was six years older than Mary and, presumably, not as close to the girl as a sibling nearer to her own age. Lina focused her attention on the younger boy, Theodore, who was sixteen. Only a year older than Mary, and she knew that children as young as ten or eleven could be as mischievous as apes, getting into all sorts of scrapes that the parents knew nothing about. “I’ll speak to Theodore Philpott first,” she said. Neither parent protested, being busy consoling one another and not paying much heed to the rest of the drawing room. Valentine shrugged and beckoned. “Come along, me lad. It’s time for a chat.” The Scotland Yard inspector ushered Theodore into a small alcove that was in a corner of the drawing room. Lina and Rhiannon accompanied them. As the ladies neared their destination, Rhiannon said, “May I speak to him first?” Lina was surprised but nodded her acquiescence. She had little or no experience with children; on the other hand, Rhiannon, as the daughter of a private tutor, who had been raised in the midst of other families, must surely have some insight into a youngster’s psyche. Rhiannon went over to Theodore in a rustle of taffeta skirts. “Did your sister call you Theo?” she asked gently. “Yes, miss,” Theodore said, not meeting Rhiannon’s gaze but remaining focused on the floor. His voice trembled slightly, as if weighted by unshed tears. “Mary used to call me Theo.” “You two were very close, weren’t you?” “Yes, miss. There weren’t but a year between us.” Rhiannon took a deep breath. When she spoke, her tone was still gentle, but there was a thread of steel in it that brooked no denial. “Whose idea was it, Theo? To pretend that Mary was a fasting girl. Was it your idea? Or hers?” Theodore hesitated so long, Lina thought that Rhiannon (and herself, she admitted) were mistaken. Finally, however, the young man’s breath hitched and he said, “Hers.” “I thought so,” Rhiannon said, putting an arm around his thin shoulders. She gave the boy a smile. “Will you tell me what happened, please? So I can help you.” The floodgates opened under the influence of Rhiannon’s kindness, and the whole sorry tale spilled out of Theodore Philpott, who was not a bad boy, really; he had gotten caught up in events that spiralled beyond his control. Lina lit an Egyptian cigarette, and gallantly offered the lucifer to Valentine for his cigar as well, while she listened to Theodore’s story. Five years ago, Mary had read about a medieval maid who, through the miracle of God, had fasted for twenty years, becoming an object of holy pilgrimage. That was the kernel of the idea. Mary had drawn Theodore into the scheme as her accomplice. Neither child realized how seriously the matter would be taken; they had only done it for a lark. Mary ate nothing in the presence of her parents; she pretended to have no appetite at all. In the night, when everyone else had gone to bed, Theodore brought her food from the pantry. The midnight raids were put down to growing boys, and the parents truly believed in their miraculous daughter. Unfortunately, having established herself as a ‘fasting maid,’ and having fooled so many people, Mary found that it was impossible for her to confess the swindle without hurting her mother and father. Both she and Theodore were too afraid to tell the truth. “Then she came… Mrs. Uxbridge, I mean,” Theodore gasped, desperately trying to control the sobs that were pushing past his clenched teeth, “and Mary was scared, but I told her it was alright. I told her! And she believed me, and she died…” Rhiannon held him while Theodore cried, spitting out the remainder of the tale as he wept for the sister who had trusted him, and had her faith betrayed. When he was done, a woman’s voice behind them said, “Why didn’t you tell me, son? Why didn’t she tell me? It weren’t that bad, you know. I’d rather be made a fool of than see my children suffer…” Theodore looked at his mother, snuffling, then suddenly burst into tears again. Lina moved aside as Mrs. Philpott barrelled forward, enveloping her youngest son in a fierce embrace. She snagged Valentine by the arm of his jacket and said, “Let us conclude this investigation. Will you gather everyone in the drawing room?” Valentine looked a trifle wild-eyed – likely due, Lina thought, to young Theodore’s revelations – but he recovered after a moment. “I’ll just go and do that,” the inspector snapped, a very severe set to his mouth that boded ill for anyone who objected. It did not take very long for the party to be assembled. All of the Philpotts were there, with Theodore snuggled between his mother and father, who were ashen but grave. Mrs. Uxbridge sat bolt upright in a throne-like chair with her feet on a cushion, looking like a monarch with a headache, while her handsome son, Richard, hovered round, a drone to her queen. Rhiannon took a seat on a hassock near the fireplace. Lina positioned herself in front of the fire; Valentine remained unobtrusively in front of the door, lest anyone consider making a bid for freedom before the proceedings were finished. “Let me begin by saying,” Lina intoned, gaining everyone’s attention, “that Mary Philpott’s death was murder, not accident or act of God. Someone in this room deliberately took steps that ended a fifteen-year old girl’s life in the most reprehensible manner possible, and for that, the killer will pay the full penalty. Depend upon it.” Mrs. Uxbridge sniffed. “Your father had an inordinately broad streak of melodrama in him, too,” she said to Lina. “I suspect the world lost a fine theatre actor when Sir Edward took up politics instead of the stage.” Lina ignored the wealthy matron’s comment in favour of casting a glance around the room that took in every occupant. “Years ago, Mary Philpott and her brother, Theodore, conceived of a lark which they perpetrated upon their parents, with Mary pretending to be afflicted with anorexia mirabilis – a miraculous loss of appetite – while Theodore smuggled food and drink to her. I am sure the children found it greatly amusing, to fool their parents and other adults with what appeared to be a harmless prank. However, when Mrs. Uxbridge entered the scene, matters became quite serious, indeed.” “I had no idea that the child was a counterfeit,” Mrs. Uxbridge protested, giving Mr. and Mrs. Philpott a pointed look through her raised lorgnette. She swung her gaze in Lina’s direction. “If I had known, I should never have put her in the testing chamber.” “Thirty days without food or water,” Lina said. “Locked in a room without human contact.” The look she returned to Mrs. Uxbridge sizzled. “Some might call such circumstances inhuman when applied to an adult, much less a girl of such tender years.” Mrs. Uxbridge had the decency to appear faintly ashamed. “I had thought that a truly saintly maid would find comfort in God,” she said. “Believe me, I wished Mary no harm.” “It’s alright, mother,” said Richard, patting Mrs. Uxbridge’s bejewelled hand. “I’m sure that no one blames you for what happened.” “Ah, and what did happen?” Lina leaned a hip against the marble fireplace surround. “Permit me to paint you a portrait of cold-blooded murder.” She pushed away from the fireplace and began to pace the room, each measured step taking her around the seated suspects. As she spoke, Lina’s hands waved through the air. “Mary Philpott was installed in the so-called testing chamber. Her brother, Theodore, had promised that he would take care of her, and he did. There is a skylight in the ceiling of the room – little used, to judge from the flakes of loosened paint that fell to the floor when he prised it open, but sufficient to allow Theodore to lower food and water down to his sister. He also provided an empty jar for the inevitable waste products of food consumption that would have betrayed their game. It was something he had done in the past, a necessary part of the charade. “It had been brought home to Mary and Theodore that their mother and father greatly desired to gain Mrs. Uxbridge’s patronage, for such would benefit the entire family. Neither of these children could have predicted the horror that was to come. “Theodore was caught by someone in the household, trying to smuggle sustenance to Mary. This person told Theodore that he would be in a great deal of trouble – arrested by the police, put on public trial that would bring shame to his family, thrown into gaol – if the truth was exposed. Frightened, Theodore promised to desist, so long as the person took on the task of feeding Mary on the sly. Even then, terrified out of his wits, Theodore strove to protect his sister.” Lina paused to take a cigarette out of the silver-and-jade case that she carried in her pocket, and light it with a lucifer. Smoke hung in the stale air of the drawing room like a tattered veil. She continued, “We must not assign any trace of blame to Theodore. He is young and afraid and did his best under the circumstances. No, the blame lies elsewhere… with the person who conceived the diabolical plan to eradicate Mary Philpott. “The scheme was simple.” She turned to Mr. Philpott. “Tell me, sir, did your daughter suffer from a terror of heights?” “Yes, she did,” the man replied, shrinking back in on himself when Mrs. Uxbridge sniffed. “What has one thing to do with the other?” Mrs. Uxbridge asked. Shielded by the bulwark of his mother’s body, Richard stared at Lina. “The killer went up to the roof in the small hours of the night,” Lina said, “when Mary and the rest of the household would almost assuredly be asleep. He lowered four rope, each of which had a hook attached. The hooks went through the iron bars on the headboard and footboard of the bed, and the bed – with Mary still in it – was hoisted up into the air. “Imagine poor little Mary’s shock and horror when she awoke and realized her situation, hovering in mid-air. Her terror of heights would be sufficient to prevent her from jumping down or trying to climb up and out through the skylight. The testing chamber is located far from the remainder of the house; no one would hear her cries. All the killer had to do was wait. He had nothing to lose. Perhaps he checked now and then, going to the roof to look down upon his handiwork. Eventually, the day came when Mary stopped crying for help. She was dead. Our murderer lowered the bed to the floor, disengaged the hooks and pulled the apparatus up, leaving little trace behind. Thus was Mary Philpott, the miraculous maid, murdered. But why? What had this young girl done that warranted death?” Again, Lina’s emerald gaze swept over the people assembled in the drawing room. “Mrs. Uxbridge supports a good many charitable causes. She spends money supporting an Italian anchorite, a stigmatic, several priests… now she intended to support an entire family of nobodies. It was too much to be borne by the one who had high hopes of inheritance.” A shocked silence reigned, then Richard Uxbridge shouted, “You filthy lying bitch!” while Mrs. Uxbridge dropped her lorgnette and demanded to know what Lina was about. “Richard Uxbridge killed Mary Philpott because he could not longer tolerate standing aside and watching his inheritance being drained away on religious fripperies.” Lina remained calm, although she interposed her body between Richard and Rhiannon, in case the man became violent. “So what if I did?” he sneered, moving away from his mother’s grasp. “That girl was a common little fraud who deserved what she got for trying to take my money.” “Richard!” Mrs. Uxbridge, quivering with indignation, rose from her chair. “Did you do this awful thing?” “I did,” he told her bluntly, “and I’m not sorry in the least. The family’s wealth belongs to me! You shouldn’t be giving away my inheritance to these charlatans and false prophets! It’s your fault! Your fault, Mother! Your fault!” Valentine came to clamp the iron cuffs on Richard Uxbridge’s wrists and lead him away. Mrs. Uxbridge sank back down, her face bloodless. After a long moment, she said, “Nothing can ever make up for your dear daughter’s death, Mr. Philpott, but will you consider allowing me to help your family? It is the least I can do after… after…” Mrs. Philpott bustled over to comfort Mrs. Uxbridge when the wealthy matron burst into tears. Lina and Rhiannon left the house quietly. In the street, Richard Uxbridge was being hauled into a Black Maria, screeching about his inheritance being sold for a ‘mess of pottage.’ The police surgeon’s cart had also arrived to collect the pitiful corpse of poor Mary Philpott. There would be no more miracles in the house in Belgravia. THE END |