Exoneration
By Abigail Barthee
Trigger Warning
This book involves murder as well as references to off screen sexual violence. Please take care when reading if these subjects cause distress.
For Phil.
I finally made it. I like to think you would be very proud.
Chapter One
Murder wasn’t something Orla could, in good conscience, condone. However, she did recognise it as an expedient form of problem solving. That didn’t mean it was a career path she intended to follow, just that she could see the logic in it. After all, if one easy stabbing motion could make all your problems go away, perhaps it was worth the plunge. Unfortunately, Orla was principled. Murder was illegal, morally bankrupt and, unless you were very, very good, a method of ending those same problems in a rather more permanent manner. But, fuck, she was tempted sometimes.
“I demand, demand, to know why this wasn’t brought to my family’s attention.” Tiffany Osborne was the sort of person who needed no introduction. Everyone knew Tiffany Osborne, though few could say they liked her. A nightmare cleverly disguised in silk taffeta and chiffon, she looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth… but looks can be deceiving. Tiffany got her kicks from tormenting people she considered beneath her and today her target of choice was Orla. Wonderful. What Orla wouldn’t give for a cup of tea right now. “I mean, who gave you the right to make decisions about our family’s reputation without the express permission of my father?”
Orla shivered and pulled her day robe tighter around herself. The cold had already numbed her bare feet and was creeping up her legs with determination. She hadn’t had a chance to grab her slippers when she’d run down the tower stairs, her only thought to get to the door before the pounding knocked it off its hinges. She had assumed it was important. It wasn’t. Tiffany Osborne had pushed past her into the parlour before Orla recognised her, leaving her sister lingering in the doorway. She should have just thrown them out of the tower there and then, but business was business, even this early in the morning.
That didn’t mean, however, she had to be polite about it.
Murder was still off the table, though.
“Madam Osborne,” Orla interrupted firmly, rubbing sleep from her eyes and not caring in the slightest about how rude she was being. She actually quite enjoyed how much it irked the other woman. It was horribly discourteous to barge into someone’s home before the postman had even arrived and Tiffany Osborne knew it. She had done it on purpose, of course; all a part of her little powerplay. She should really kick the woman out. The only reason she didn’t was that her sister, Jane, wielded enormous influence in the Meet on account of her being the acknowledged mistress of the current president. “Your family was consulted when your sister made her initial commission.” She let out a deep sigh and stretched, listening to her joints pop as she did. “Might I offer you both a cup of tea? And please, take a seat.”
“A cup of tea would be lovely,” her other guest answered on her sister’s behalf, sitting herself down at the large table that took up far too much of the room. Ah, Jane Osborne. She was the youngest Osborne sister and the reason for this early morning rendezvous. It had been Jane who had commissioned the portrait from Orla just a few weeks prior; a gift for her father He was turning sixty – or perhaps it was seventy? The point is he was old, which needed to be celebrated with a painting, apparently. One of Orla’s paintings, surprisingly.
Orla didn’t usually take commissions from the Osbornes. They were old money, part of the oligarchy that ran things. They had a long history no one cared about, and more intermarriages than should be strictly legal. Old money tended to have old values, and commissioning work from a woman did not align with that.
“I don’t want tea.” Which was just as well; Tiffany probably drank some horrible over stewed concoction with no milk. “I told you; we should have gone to Alfred.” Alfred was the other Master Artist in Residence at the Meet, the home of the Oligarchy in Salsten. He was a complete snob and refused to offer his services to new money families, no matter how much they offered him. A terrible business model, in Orla’s opinion, who would take money from anyone, as long as they would sit still long enough for her to paint them. And that was that. Orla painted for new money and Alfred painted the old. Until recently Alfred claimed he had lost a shipment of paints. He claimed it was because of the missing airships. In reality, he had just got old and struggled to keep up with demand. His lead times had suddenly tripled, and then he had left an important portrait for one of the other old money families to be completed by his apprentices. The meltdown had been spectacular. Orla had suddenlyfoundherselfinundatedwithunexpectedandunwantedcommissions,which was why she was here now, with the cold seizing up her knees.
She regretted every decision she’d ever made in her life up until this point.
Tiffany swept across the parlour to a free chair with a grace that should be illegal. Well, Orla called it a parlour. She and her husband had agreed it probably should be a parlour, a place for both of them to meet clients and patients. But actually, it was just a kitchen in a poorly fitted disguise. They had laid carpet, bought plump armchairs, and Orla had painted an exceptionally large portrait of their little family for the wall. But it was still a kitchen, it always had been a kitchen, and it always would be a kitchen. But at least it was a kitchen with very comfortable chairs.
All that being said, one benefit to conducting business in a kitchen was the fast access to tea. Orla put the kettle on to boil.
“And I told you,” Jane sighed. Orla couldn’t blame her; she didn’t know what she’d do with a sister like that. “Alfred can’t take the work right now; he’s fully booked up.”
“Couldn’t one of his little minions do it?”
“They’re called apprentices, Tiff, and no. This is a gift for our father. He deserves the work of a Master Artist.” Jane held her ground.
“Some Master Artist; she makes her sitters look like whores.”
Orla didn’t roll her eyes… She didn’t. But it was a close-run thing. She didn’t paint whores… well, except for that time back when she was still working at the Artists’ Union, but that was a one-time thing and she’d really needed the money.
“I struggle to see why that might be an issue for you, Madame Osborne,” Orla said No, she wasn’t helping the situation. No, she couldn’t help herself. It was still the crack of dawn and Tiffany was the reason she wasn’t in bed. The look Tiffany sent her soothed her malicious little soul. But before the other woman could launch into a tirade, there was a gentle knock at the door
Without waiting for a response, a scullery maid appeared, coming up short when she noticed the three women. She blinked a few times before bobbing a clumsy curtsey in their general direction and scrambling to the fire. Orla frowned. She often encountered Louise Todd in her day-to-day life, and she was a perfectly acceptable maid. But Orla had been expecting Polly Manning. And Louise was not her.
“Mrs Cutting, do you have any idea who our family is?” Orla was pulled back into the conversation.
“Is that a question you actually want me to answer, Madam Osborne?” Her reply was a touch more sarcastic than necessary, but it was also a stupid question. Had Orla not just been monologing to herself about how everyone knew (and hated) Tiffany Osborne?
“Then you will know how important this painting is.” Like the family didn’t order paintings every year. “I want everything to be perfect.”
“I’m sure you do ” Orla tried to imbue warmth and sympathy into her voice, but sarcasm hijacked it. Tiffany shot her a scathing look.
“I would thank you for taking this seriously,” she hissed, and Orla wondered why the kettle was taking so long to boil. Tea would go a long way to improving this morning.
“Mrs Cutting always takes her work seriously ” Jane rushed to Orla’s defence. “And it’s very good, Tiff, you know it is. You saw the beautiful portrait that she did for Lorelai West last year.”
Finally, the kettle began to whistle.
“Fine,” Tiffany spat. “Then I will be consulted on every last detail. I want to see your notes.”
“Of course.” Orla struck gold with that comment, sounding appropriately warm and soothing. Her smile fell into a scowl the moment she turned her back and she enjoyed a few moments of precious privacy as the tea brewed. She picked out two of her cleanest looking mugs, filling them both generously. Jane, she was sure, needed the tea almost as much as she did.
“What in thenameofthe deaddoyouthinkyou’re doing?”BythetimeOrla hadturnedaround, Tiffany had already bolted across the room, trailing ash behind her. The same ash covered the floor around the fireplace. “I should have guessed you were incapable of doing your job properly. Only an idiot would drop ash while cleaning a fireplace.”
Louise didn’t respond, she didn’t even look in Tiffany’s direction She just stared at nothing, her eyes completely glazed over, seemingly oblivious to their presence. The empty dustpan slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.
“That’s why she works here and not in your apartments. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea?” Orla passed a steaming cup to Jane, hoping to distract Tiffany before she eviscerated the maid. No such luck.
“She won’t be working anywhere by this evening. Even someone like you should have someone competent clearing their rooms.” It was incredible how easily Tiffany managed to insult both Louise and Orla in the same breath. “And she will pay for my gown to be cleaned.”
“That’s quiteenough, Tiff.Youwerejust saying theotherdayhowmuchyouhatedthatgown,” Jane succeeded where Orla had failed. “This lovely young lady just did you a favour.” Tiffany pursed her lips but didn’t argue. She just shot a glare at the maid and slunk across to a chair at the dining table, the furthest one away from Louise This lovely young lady looks quite unwell, Orla thought to herself. The maid was swaying slightly from side to side, looking as pale as a ghost.
“Why don’t you sit down, Ms Todd?” Orla offered, more out of instinct than anything else. The maid didn’t seem to hear her. She continued to sway, lost in her own world. Orla glanced at Jane, who looked as unsure as she felt. Orla took Louise’s arm. The young woman flinched but she looked at Orla for the first time since she’d arrived in the room. “Sit down, Ms Todd.” The maid nodded vaguely and allowed Orla to guide her into the chair Tiffany had just vacated. Up close, the woman was visibly trembling.
“This is completely ridiculous. She’s just trying to get out of doing her work. We actually have things to be discussing.” If Orla rolled her eyes again, she might lose them in the back of her head. But she couldn’t very well ask Tiffany to leave, and she couldn’t risk leaving Louise either. The woman could be sick, or worse, she could try to continue cleaning. The tower was hundreds of years old, and it was the sort of place that made collecting dirt a priority. No matter how much you scrubbed, it remained dirty, and Louise’s cleaning style wasn’t going to help
“Madam Jane,” Orla kept her eyes trained on Louise. “Would you mind talking through your commission with your sister? I will join you momentarily. Are you alright, Ms Todd?” Louise took a deep breath. The kind that you take when whatever you ate for breakfast is looking to make an encore appearance. Fuck. Fortunately, Orla was married to a doctor. They had buckets for such moments.
Orla scrabbled back to the stove and grabbed the bucket that looked like it would leak the least. She was just in time. The moment the bucket landed in Louise’s hands she began to vomit… quite violently… and for some time. So no, no, she was not alright. Was there a sickness going around? That would put quite a damper on the Mid-Winter Ball. And it would explain Polly Manning’s absence.
“Dear me!” Jane had jumped up from the table and rushed to Orla’s side. “Is she alright?”
“Is anyone who is vomiting alright?” Orla stepped forward to rub Louise’s back until the vomiting eventually passed, as vomiting does when there is nothing more to come up. Orla checked the pockets of her day robe for a handkerchief. No such luck. If only she’d been allowedtoget dressed.Therewerefootstepsbehindherandamomentlater,JaneenteredOrla’s vision with a glass of water, which looked relatively clean, and a fine silk handkerchief, Jane’s initials embroidered delicately on one corner. Orla took the bucket from the maid’s hands before she could drop it, placing it on the floor beside them.
“Feel better?” Jane asked, crouching in the ash next to Louise. Seriously, how could two sisters be so different? Tiffany was still sitting at the table, her own handkerchiefpressedagainsthermouthandnose.Tobefair,shewasprobablydoingthelogical thing. To be even fairer, logic didn’t make Tiffany any less of a heartless bitch.
“Yes, ma’am.” Louise’s response was a vacant whisper; nevertheless, she did look a little better. Still peaky, but not about to vomit again.
“It seems you are not well. You shouldn’t be at work.” Louise nodded again, but she didn’t seem to have heard Orla. Orla shoved down a stab of irritation. “My husband should be home at any moment. Perhaps he would be able to ” She never got to finish her offer. Louise was out of her seat in an instant. She dropped the glass to its death on the floor, though she thankfully she didn’t kick the bucket of vomit.
“I’m alright, thank you, ma’am. Just a bit of an uneasy stomach. I should be going.” Before either Orla or Jane could protest, Louise rushed out the door. Her cleaning was far from finished.
“What in the world was that all about?” Jane murmured.
“That was sickness,” Tiffany announced from the other side of the room, the handkerchief still firmly clamped in place. “Come, Jane, we’re leaving.” Jane opened her mouth to protest, but she didn’t get an opportunity to argue as Tiffany grasped her by the hand and dragged her towards the door.
“I will be in touch with you, Mrs Cutting,” Jane called as she disappeared through the door. Orla didn’t hear if Tiffany had anything to say on the matter, but she had a sinking feeling she had lost the commission. Tiffany hadn’t wanted to work with her in the first place and now she had a reason to cancel it entirely. On the bright side, her deposits were non-refundable.
Orla considered going back to bed but dismissed the thought quickly. Instead, she went back to the stove for her own cup of tea. It was lukewarm and congealing a little, but it was just what she needed. She could almost feel her brain booting in properly, clearing away the sleepy fog of the morning.
The front door opened and closed again. Today was shaping up to be an exhausting day. Looking up from her tea, a greeting already on her lips, Orla was relieved to find it was only her husband.
Thomas Cutting, doctor to the rich and powerful, wasn’t as sober as you might expect him to be. That’s because he was a hypocrite. While he would tell the patriarch of the Gibson family (a severe-looking man with more money than morality) he ought to go easy on the alcohol consumption, the doctor rarely did so himself. This morning, he looked dishevelled and tired. So it had been a good night for him. His frown deepened as he took in the mess around the fireplace and Orla, who he wouldn’t have expected to be awake
“Pestering the maids again, Scruff?” he asked, meandering over to give her an unnecessary kiss on the forehead before collapsing in one of their plush armchairs. Orla and Tom did not have
what you would call a conventional union. They both had their reasons for entering it, but romance hadn’t been one of them. They loved each other well enough, but neither of them had ever strayed into the realm of infatuation. Thank goodness. Orla had seen in Tom safety from the other gentlemen at the Meet He was a kind man, a man who had never once raised a hand to her or forced her to give up painting. And Tom had seen in Orla protection of a very different kind. Protection from prying eyes and wagging tongues, so to speak. After all, who would suspect the dear Dr Cutting of dalliances with other gentlemen when he had a wife. Orla accepted the kiss to her forehead with an exasperated smile.
“Hardly. It’s been an unusual morning though. I was forced out of bed by Tiffany and Jane Osborne.”
“I see… Why?”
“Because they wanted to discuss the commission Jane made last week. Then, mid consultation, Louise turned up.”
“Not Polly?”
“No, I have no idea where she was. Anyway, Louise was acting out of sorts the moment she arrived. Then vomited into a bucket and took off. Not an everyday occurrence, even here.”
“Louise seemed sick before she vomited?”
“She certainly seemed out of sorts. I mentioned you might be able to examine her, and that’s when she fled. I didn’t realise you were so scary, Tom.” He shot her a mock offended look
“I don’t know what you mean, Scruff, everyone loves me,” which was true, “because I’m so charming and handsome,” which wasn’t true. There was a brief pause. “She might be pregnant.” Orla stared at her husband over her cold cup of tea.
“And what makes you say that?”
“It’s literally the only reason I’ve encountered when a woman doesn’t want me to help them.
They’re pregnant and they shouldn’t be.”
“Literally the only reason?” Orla teased. She could think of a dozen reasons women wouldn’t want his help, but she didn’t want to be rude. And maybe, just maybe, he might have a point. It was a sobering point. She stifled a yawn. “Winnie would be immensely unimpressed if she was.” Winnie, the Head of Staff at the Meet, did not have a reputation for reacting well when her unmarried staff wound up with child. That one misstep was enough for immediate termination of their employment, no questions asked about the father, no mercy given under any circumstances. Louise would find herself out on the street with an extra mouth to feed before she could blink. Orla’s husband shrugged.
“Winnie is always immensely unimpressed.” If Orla hadn’t exhausted her eye muscles during her earlier discussion with Tiffany Osborne, she probably would have rolled them again. Trust her husband to entirely miss the point. “When’s your first appointment today?”
“Not too long,” Orla said, her mind still on Louise
“Hmm, enough time for a nap?” He sounded so hopeful.
“You can nap as long as you like as long as you don’t do it here.”
“But there’s so many stairs between here and our bedroom,” he all but whined.
“You sound like a child,” Orla chastised gently, taking another sip of her tea. “And you’re not a child, so go. It’s more comfortable anyway.” Grumbling to himself under his breath, he disappeared up the stairs towards the bedroom, leaving Orla alone in the parlour with no fire and a bucket of cooling sick.