Murderess Modicum

March 1879

She was dead by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs. I wish I could tell you something to ease your conscience; to lie to you and tell you I hadn’t meant it. But I don’t and I did. 

            My employer, or what is left of her, is dead. Settling in my mind like a breath of fresh air for a few seconds. It’s nice to be without her consistent moaning and jabbing all the time. It’s like being in the countryside after being in the city for so long; the peace is near unnerving. 

            The hem of my skirts brushes her booted feet. I tilt my head at her, trying to see what it is about her that is powerful. But there is nothing. In death, she is powerless… she is nothing. 

            It takes me awhile to move from watching her prone form. It is as if I am waiting for her to get up and start bossing me about again or to pick up our argument where we left it. But she continues to lay still; not moving, not breathing, not alive. 

            Believe it or not, I have never killed anyone before. I am not, as you say, a bloodthirsty killer from one of those penny dreadfuls. An opportunity presented itself to me and I took it. I am not a thief, as many would say, but rather, an opportunist. 

            Though this is not ideal. I had expected to leave here for Ireland again, come up with a new name again, and start afresh. Now, I have a body on my hands. Is there a way to get out of this? I can feel panic in my chest, rising and pulsing, rising and pulsing. Like a gas flame, it licks the insides of my throat, and I must force myself to take a deep breath. This is solvable. 

            I’ve got no evidence of her on me, that I can see anyway, so I’ll be alright to leave now. But they’ll know it’s me. I need to get away with this. Prison is so banal, so pointless. I need to be doing something, anything. There’s no need for my plan to change, Ireland will have to wait. 

            I say her name aloud. Once, twice, and a third: “Julia Martha Thomas.” I say, drawing out the syllables of jul-i-a-mar-tha-thom-as. It tastes excellent on my tongue, and I almost wait for her twitch or for her to sit back up and scold me. But she doesn’t. I grin. 

            As the plan settles in my mind, like flour over bread, my shoulders relax and my mind sharpens. I exhale, brushing my skirts down and make my way to the back of the house. 

            The cottage is vast, if you can call it a cottage. With three bedrooms, two working bathrooms, and a servant’s quarters for myself, it’s nothing short of a luxury. All the walls are plastered with the same droll paper full of rosemary flowers. On most walls, it’s peeling at the top, revealing the bones of the house behind. The floorboards creak beneath my feet, betraying my movements. All in all, it’s a decomposing house, but the nicest dead house I’ve ever had the pleasure of staying in. If it weren’t for my equally decomposing employer. 

            I exit out the back door to the wood store in the un-kept garden, making my movements precise; there’s no time for dallying about. The store is small, enough room for some large logs for the fire and some equipment. Being the only servant in the house means I do all the chores, including this one, which Julia could always find fault.

            My eyes find what I’m looking for: the axe. I tilt my head at it, hanging innocently on the wall. Innocent until proven guilty. Is there anything innocent about an axe when it has such a sharp edge? It’s heavy in my hands; a weight I am used to. 

I take it back inside with me, taking my apron off the hook in the kitchen as I pass through too. When back in the hallway where Julia still lays, face down, I put the axe down to tie up my apron. 

            Kneeling and grimacing as I mirror my task from this morning of dressing her. My fingers fiddle with the buttons, deftly letting her out of her dress. It’s funny, I do it so gently, as Julia would ask me too, but I realise I don’t have to. She cannot feel this. My touch remains gentle anyway. Old habits die hard, that I know for sure.

            It takes a vast amount of effort to turn my employer over so I can slip the rest of her dress off. Her arms flail around as I cradle her torso to me, her greying head lolling this way and that. It’s oddly the most intimate I’ve ever been with her. 

            When I put her down, face up this time, she blinks. 

            Well, she doesn’t. Julia can’t; silenced forever by just once push, but she does blink. Then again. Her prone body doesn’t move, her chest doesn’t rise, but she blinks. I try to ignore her as I peel the dress off her shoulders and down her arms. Julia doesn’t smile; she never has. Not the ghosts again.

            “You can’t even look at me,” Julia says, in her usual bitter snap, like dry biscuit. Dead but not dead. 

            She’s not real, Kate, I remind myself. Not real. I pull the dress more firmly, leaving her in only her pearly white under things. That won’t matter, it’s not difficult to cut through satin. I carefully fold the dress, planning to burn this one later this evening. 

            “Webster.” Julia calls again. 

             “Ach, what?” I snap. 

            She’s still dead. Her face unmoving, as if she never spoke at all. I know she hasn’t, that it’s in my head, but it doesn’t stop me from turning her chin until she looks away from me. There. That’s better already. 

            I stand, brushing my skirts, and reach for the axe. Julia speaks up again; “You always were weak. You can’t even look at me while you do it.” She sneers, or I imagine she does. I grit my teeth, lifting the axe up. “Weak, thieving bitch—” Julia continues. 

            I swing. 

~

I stand back and survey my work. Julia, or what’s left of her, is laid out on the kitchen table. Where there would once be pots and plates and dishes, are each of her limbs, categorised by size. She is a voodoo doll, cut and pinned. There is nothing better than replaying my strike in my head; of cutting her limbs.

            The sun has begun to set by the time all her limbs, now cut into a couple dozen slabs, are laid out. Her hands, her arms (or what I think is them, it’s hard to tell), her legs, her torso; all bloody and meaty. I am an architect, or a potter, moulding her to my will. Her head, stuck in that anguished face of fear, sits on the chair in the corner, watching me boil a large pot over the stove, a pool of viscous blood beneath her. 

            I smile at her. “Never did like me setting you down for bed, did you?” 

            I plop the bits of her body into the water, not doing too many at once so they can boil down properly. Julia’s hands and chopped pieces sink to the bottom, slowly. I like watching as the pot gets hotter and they start to turn a yellowy brown colour. They start to float back to the top, something to do with the air. Eventually, the bubbles start to cover the entire top layer as fat glops rise to the top. 

            My eyes catch the vacant stare of my former employer. I hold her gaze, waiting for her to do something, but, of course, she doesn’t. 

            Gathering more of her body, I start putting more of it in the pot. That’s when she chooses to speak up; “Enjoying yourself?” 

            My jaw tenses. The body goes in, one by one, plop, plop, plop. “I am, frankly.” I say, not facing her yet. “It’s much more pleasant when you are silent.” 

            Julia’s face is screwing up in the way it did when she was alive, like a bruised peach. “At least be gentle!” she reprimands. I roll my eyes, turning away from her yet again. But she continues, “You have no respect for—” 

            Huffing and walking over to her head, she screams. For a moment I forget that she is in my head and look about for anyone to come running. This amuses Julia. Picking her up unceremoniously, I tuck her under my arm like a washing basket and make my way out of the back door. 

It is now nearly dark outside, a purple dusk settling over the houses and fields like a cool blanket. I walk through the dewy grass, my dress swaying, and renter the woodstore and find a shovel. In the near dark, I must squint. It would have been too risky to do this is daylight and now is a better time than any. The sooner I am parted with this shrieking head of a woman, the better. 

I walk up the length of her garden. It’s massive, scattered with bushes and trees. She has several acres of land, none of which is well kept or well used. By the time I am almost three quarters of the way down the long grassy dunes, I am fed up. I put Julia down. 

She continues to shriek. “How can you be so cruel? Do not do what I think you are doing!” She goes on and on and on. 

My shovel plunges into the ground. This part is particularly muddy, from rainwater or animals, and my equipment sinks into it. I start to shovel out dirt. It will take a while for all the fat to be boiled off, so this does not bother me. The strain in my muscles, from chopping earlier and digging now, is visceral. Blood thumps in my ears as my eyes get used to the blackening night. A line of sweat trickles down my back. 

I’m not sure how much time passes out here in the earth, but it feels like hours until I reach a sufficient foot. I take a deep breath, the cool March air filtering in and out of my lungs. 

“LAZY, GOOD FOR NOTHING—” Julia shrieks, interrupting my peace once again. She has been doing this consistently since I brought her out here. I must remind myself she is my subconscious and perhaps this says more about myself then about her, but Julia was nothing but violent in her life. 

“Goodbye, Julia.” I whisper. “You won’t be missed.” 

Dropping her into the messy hole I have made for her, she screams and screams and screams. I plunge my shovel in the dirt I have unearthed, covering her with thick, silencing mud. 

At last, she can taunt me no more.

 

March 1879

It is the early hours of the morning before I can get some rest. With Julia’s limbs boiled down to a shrivelled, bony quality and her fat collected and packaged, I trotted to my bed long past midnight. 

            I thought about sleeping in Julia’s massive cloud of a bed, but my limbs carried me to my usual resting place. Deep below, in the bowels of the house, I wake early on a body clock from a time I won’t ever have to revisit. 

            The sun rolls out of the hill, pushing its way out, through the slit of my window above me, settling further into the sheets knowing no one will scream or shout at me. I want to burrow into my sheets and hibernate, but my next job must be done now or never. I don’t need any meddling neighbours nosing their way into my business if I left this specific job until daylight.

            I dress by firelight, but I am enticed by both mine and Julia’s dresses being engulfed by the flames. The golden fire licks at the dresses like a starved child; the visceral smell of burning singeing my nostrils. I put on my servant’s dress; not wanting to be noticeable this time. And what’s more invisible than a servant?

            Eventually, I make my way up to the kitchen. There, the suitcase that belonged to Julia is layed out by me last night. It’s empty, open on the wood grain. The rotted skin of the late Julia Thomas litters the room like the burnt leaves of autumn, wet and fleshy and bony, depending on which part of the body you’re looking at. 

            Beginning with picking up the biggest bits, they start to feel like dried meat from the butchers and arrange them in the suitcase. I am a butcher now, though I think all mothers are. It’s not that large of a space. At some point, I step back to admire my work. There, folded neatly into her suitcase, is Julia Thomas. 

            I shut the case, flicking the locks closed. The brown lid looks the same texture as Julia’s skin; leathery and wrinkled and old. I take the handle and hold it in one hand, testing the weight of it. It’s hefty but it doesn’t weigh me down or make me stoop. 

            I leave the house soon after. The cool March morning brushes over my face. I walk down the old lanes, blending into the road and the bushes lining them. The suitcase is the only thing I carry. No one passes me during my journey. 

            Towards the end of the lane, there is a sharp left, the sun edging out of its slumber. I have a bit longer before it stumbles fully over the hills, so I keep going, making my strides brisk. I try not to look around me, not wanting to look surreptitious, until I find myself at the river. 

The bank is grassy, long strands fluttering against my dress. The river flows steadily and slowly, meandering around the corner, out of my view. It’s a wide river, big enough for boats, but none are in sight here. With a quick glance around, I know that I am alone. 

Sighing, I walk close to the rivers bank, trying hard not to fall in. I close my eyes in prayer, breathing deep and slow. I may not have been to church in a good long while, but God, take her away from me. 

Instead of throwing her in the water like I wish, I lower myself down and, in turn, the suitcase into the cold depths. I let go of the handle and away she goes, bobbing downstream, away from me. Freedom, truly. I watch her until I can no longer see her. Au Revoir or whatever they say in France. 

~

Julia Thomas’ fat is on the kitchen table. 

            It sits in a little jar, white and pasty, looking a lot like the tallow one would boil off cattle meat. What to do with it? I suppose I could use it, but that sends a shiver down my spine. The thought of her, any part of her, being with me sends a wave of frustration through me. 

            No, I must get rid of it. Be gone of her, all of her. 

            Spending the day busying myself around the house, trying to come up with ideas on how to be rid of this last piece of Julia, the answer ends up knocking at my door. 

            I open it, ready to tell them to scamper, on edge from no sleep and paranoia. But the boy, dirty and grinning like there’s no tomorrow, struck the idea in my mind like a match to a flame. 

            The boy introduced himself as Jack, a match-seller, hoping to offer the best in the business, so he says. He’s in a shirt, which was once white, and boots too small for him the way he hobbles. Noticeable but not eye-catching. 

            I put on my best impression of Julia. She always did have a thing for young children. Thought they deserved the world. I thought that once, before… I smile, sickly sweet. “My dear boy,” I say, the words decaying in my mouth. “That sounds perfect. Let me get my purse.” I amble off, purposely leaving him in the doorway, picking up the fat on my way. 

            Back at the door, Jack remains in the doorway, still grinning that grimy grin. I palm him the coins and he lights up like a candle as he passes me two boxes of matches. “I have some tallow, boy.” I say, casual. “I’ve made too much; would it be any use to you?”

            The boy has become a fully-fledged flame, practically jumping about with excitement. “Oh yes! Yes, ma’am.” He says, remembering his manners. 

            I pass it over to him, not bothering to hide my smile. “Thank you, boy.” 

            “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says, nodding.

            Closing the door behind me and with it, Julia Thomas is gone. I am free.

 

July 1879

I’m wearing one of Julia’s frocks when I am arrested in Ireland. 

            Though the situation is hardly ideal, I’ve been through this process enough times to know what to say and how to act. The only thing is, I struggle to keep my face straight, my brazenness makes me downright smug. 

            The cell is in London. It is dark and dank, as all cells are. This time I am given a cell for myself only, an unusual occurrence. That is the first sign that I am got. 

            One of the guards’ whispers that the suitcase, with the rest of Julia in it, was found by a sailor. I ask God to curse this sailor, but I fear I am out of sorts with the man upstairs just about now.  

            A neighbour of Julia, who saw my selling of Julia’s furniture and my so-called ‘impersonation’ of my former employer, handed me in. A witness. That makes me want to laugh. Perhaps I slept in her bed and wore her clothes and sold her furniture, but take her name? Please. I was simply utilising what she left me with. 

            The waiting for someone to collect me leaves me restlessly pacing the length of my cell. I have never been left this long without being told what’s happening or being moved or being interrogated. There’s nothing to do but think, about what I can say to get out of this. It’s impossible to know if they truly have me or not. 

            I spend over a month in my cell, fed and watered like a pig, until I find out I am to stand trial soon. It isn’t until I’m in that courtroom that I know the extent of it. I chew on my lip, wishing I could have just a modicum of news, that might help my case. 

            I will have to sit quietly and let their accusations wash over me. There is little point in proving them right. No matter how much proof they may or may not have, I am guiltless. 

~

Guilty. 

            How did one get to this point? The trial went so quickly. Of course, I denied everything, but still, I am guilty in their eyes.   

            I am escorted back to my cell, my home for the last month or so, though I barely register it. I’m elsewhere; wrapped up inside my mind, knowing my only hope of surviving the noose lies in one final claim. 

            The idea is heavy in my empty stomach. I don’t like thinking of it, nor the ghosts that follow me. Kate Webster, once a wife and a mother not so long ago. Can you still be a wife and a mother if the people that give you those titles are no longer alive? I don’t know. 

            The girl visits me in my dreams that night. She’s me, or almost, and screaming. She never stops screaming. Screaming and screaming and screaming. She’s not real. The girl is somehow worse than Thomas. 

            I wake in a fit, sweating and hardly breathing. I suppose I must get used to that feeling. Practicing not breathing gets boring quickly. The days blur and I find the night before my trial the eeriest yet. I yell for the inspector, repeatedly, until my voice is as raw as Thomas. 

            When he arrives, outside my bars, he’s unimpressed, bored, exasperated. He’s much older than me, scraggly, and perpetually exhausted looking. 

“I’m with child,” I plead, the desperation leaks from my voice like the blood from Julia Thomas’ head. He’s unimpressed and silent. I wonder if I am imagining him. “You cannot hang me; I am with child!” I yell. He must see. 

He does not see. He refuses my claim. “No,” I yell until he holds up a hand, silencing me. “Webster, you’ll hang tomorrow.” 

I scowl, cursing my whole existence, but mostly that dreadful neighbour. “You won’t even give me an examination?” 

“No,” he says. “Either you tell the truth now or let God take you to Hell. Do not let hubris guide you, Webster.” He waits, letting me sit with this ultimatum.

So, I am going to die. The thought doesn’t fill me with the sense of doom I was expecting, but rather a sense of peace. I don’t have to run any longer. 

I tell the inspector everything. From the beginning to now, for I will not see my end. I have no guilt, nor any semblance of grief, and he listens intently. I like watching the horror set into his face, like morbid smile lines. You may judge me for this final act of vanity, but there was nothing but pride surging through my veins. 

“You’re heartless,” he says when I have finished my little story. “A true murderess modicum.” 

I look through the bars of my cell. I grin. 

 

July 1879 

 A girl, of no more than twelve, darts between the sea of people. Her dress flies in the wind, catching on the dusty path, but nothing can stop her. She is metaphysical, passing through as if she isn’t really there.

The murmurs of the crowd, crowing at the platform in front of them, swell and swell. They are packed tight in this little courtyard to see the event of the year. The sun has long since risen but hides behind the clouds as if it cannot watch. There is something eerie about today. 

The girl, or the ghost, pushes to the front of the crowd, her dress finally swaying to a stop. She lifts her head, coming eye-to-eye with boots. Black boots, heeled, old; the type that lace up at the top. The girl has seen these shoes before; they are the ones her mother wears to work. The boots sway, hovering over the wooden trap door, like flowers in the wind. 

Somewhere, far in the future, Julia Thomas’ head is found, buried, suffocated, screaming. Kate Webster rolls in her early grave. 

​

By Izzy Webb - all work belongs to her.