Things in Jars

by Jess Kidd

  ‘The merrow?’

  ‘A mythical sea creature said to be found in the waters of your own native Ireland, Mrs Devine. A marine nightmare and the stuff of legends, something like a violent mermaid, I dare say.’

  Ruby widens his eyes.

  ‘Winter had a tragic and turbulent life,’ Widmerpole recounts. ‘He was a driven man, a self-appointed taxonomist of the fantastic, gulled by any seafarer’s tale of a siren, obsessed with finding and cataloguing creatures that only he believed existed. This passion took him from his rightful work and inflamed him with an irresistible urge to uncover marine anomalies—’

  ‘Yea,’ proclaims Reverend Gale, his eyes lit. ‘Slimy things did crawl with legs. Upon the slimy sea.’

  Widmerpole smiles at him indulgently. ‘Quite right, Reverend!’

  ‘Coleridge,’ notes Bridie.

  ‘Vault,’ volunteers the vicar.

  Bridie looks at Widmerpole.

  ‘Reverend Gale would like you to know, madam, that the great poet and his family are interred in the crypt here.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  The vicar seems pleased. ‘Pugilist,’ he suggests. ‘Irish.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Widmerpole carries on, taking up the subject. ‘Our most recent burial was the fighter Ruby Doyle. Reverend Gale is a great boxing aficionado.’

  The vicar holds up two scrawny fists in a threatening manner.

  Ruby, on the age of his seat, claps his hands. ‘Good man!’ He turns to Bridie. ‘How about that? The vicar likes a fight!’

  The vicar, oblivious, drops his fists and picks up his teacup.

  ‘Reverend Gale was at Mr Doyle’s last fight and when he heard about his unfortunate demise—’

  ‘Tragedy,’ interrupts the vicar. ‘Vast.’

  ‘When Reverend heard about Mr Doyle’s vastly tragic demise following a tavern brawl, he arranged for the remains to be buried in our chapel-yard,’ Widmerpole explains.

  Ruby regards the vicar with astonishment. ‘So that’s why my bones are all the way out here.’

  ‘Mr Doyle, being a feckless sort, had made no provision for his funeral. Fortunately, his friends pitched together for the memorial.’

  Bridie takes a furtive peek at Ruby. He hangs his head, examining his bandaged fists.

  ‘To return to the Reverend Winter,’ Bridie prompts, ‘you were saying, Mr Widmerpole, that he had become consumed by his work, searching for and cataloguing marine anomalies?’

  ‘It happens, occasionally, even to the best of clerics. One falls away and seeks greater mysteries, greater even than the mystery of faith. This may lead one to pursue uncharted paths.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand, sir,’ says Bridie.

  ‘Winter was following another route, one of his own devising, unmapped at that time, of course.’ Widmerpole pauses, his face brightens. ‘Now, Mr Darwin’s recent scientific—’

  ‘Flannel,’ coughs the Reverend. ‘Digression.’

  Widmerpole stops and takes a calming breath. ‘It is not documented as to when Winter had first heard about the merrow, but by degrees he exclusively applied himself to their discovery.’

  The donkey, which has been dozing as it stands, harrumphs, surprising everyone.

  Widmerpole takes a moment to regain his composure. ‘Of course, the scientific community knew Winter was as mad as a spoon, but his research on the merrow had coincidentally turned up many important discoveries about the natural world. Wouldn’t you say, Reverend?’

  Reverend Gale rummages in his beard. He pulls out a leaf, inspects it and puts it back again.

  Widmerpole resumes: ‘But every valuable contribution Winter made was undermined by his insistence that the merrow were real: he was mocked and ostracised. He carried on working alone and shared no further findings. Soon stories were circulated about him, some very dark indeed.’

  ‘What sort of stories?’ Bridie asks.

  Widmerpole looks to Reverend Gale, who purses his lips and nods.

  ‘That he kidnapped a young woman and her child from an Irish fishing village,’ says Widmerpole.

  Bridie frowns. ‘When was this?’

  ‘The summer of 1770, we think. The young woman in question was from a well-respected family who lived in a remote spot along Bantry Bay. She had recently been delivered of issue. Mother and child were kept apart from the other villagers and there was much speculation about the father of the baby . . .’ Widmerpole colours.

  ‘Go on, please, Mr Widmerpole,’ encourages Bridie.

  ‘The young woman was unwed.’ Widmerpole’s cheeks bloom a deeper red. ‘She insisted that she had never had relations with any local man. But as none of the villagers had laid eyes on the baby no one could reach a verdict about this. One day, when Winter was out walking on a beach near the village, he came across the mother and child.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He hid and watched as the mother took the newborn from its wrappings and dropped it into the sea. Reverend Winter saw that the child was not formed like other infants and that it changed on contact with the water.’

  ‘Changed how?’ asks Bridie.

  ‘Grew a tail and so forth, as a merrow is wont to do in sea-water. Winter approached the mother, who took fright. Later he went to visit with the girl’s family. He informed them that he was a man of science and asked if he could meet the mother and child. He was refused. Winter tried every entreaty, bribe and threat until the villagers ran him out of town. But obsession made Winter canny and daring and he stole the mother and child and brought them here to Highgate with a view to making further studies of them.’

  ‘But this is not in Winter’s book?’

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Devine. This story, for the most part, was told by the young woman’s family, specifically her father, who followed Winter to London to try and find his daughter. He wrote a letter documenting these events towards the end of his life. This letter was found in the bindings of this very book, dated, and sent some years after Winter’s death.’

  ‘Would it be possible to view this letter, Mr Widmerpole?’

  ‘It wouldn’t, I’m afraid.’ Widmerpole glances at the donkey. ‘Hodges ate it.’

  The donkey pulls back its upper lip, baring a set of long yellow teeth. It makes a snapping sound, its eyes still riveted to Ruby.

  The vicar snorts.

  ‘And the young woman was never found?’

  Widmerpole shakes his head. ‘Her father visited the vicarage demanding the return of the abductees. Winter finally relented. He told the man to return the next day and he would return his daughter and her child to him.

  ‘The man left and returned the next day, when Winter denied all knowledge. In the skirmish that followed the man was arrested. When he relayed his story the vicarage and chapel were searched, but nothing was found.’

  ‘So it’s possible that the walled-up corpses lately in your crypt were this young woman and her child?’

  Widmerpole nods. ‘Her name was Margaret Kelly. The child’s name was unrecorded.’

  ‘Why did you not tell me this before, sir, Reverend? Knowing that Inspector Rose had sent me to learn more about this find?’

  The curate looks mildly embarrassed. ‘Reverend feared that a macabre case like this would bring droves to the chapel.’

  Reverend Gale shudders. He points at the book, then at Bridie. ‘Take. Read.’

  ‘Reverend says that you are welcome to borrow the book. You may find it useful.’

  Reverend Gale turns to Widmerpole. ‘Blue eyes.’

  ‘Some time ago, oh, at least—’

  ‘Five. Curate.’

  ‘Thank you, Reverend. Around five years ago a young woman came to speak to us. She was from Bantry Bay, it transpired, and claimed to be a descendent of Margaret Kelly’s.’

  ‘Did she give a name?’

  ‘Ellen Kelly.’

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  ‘A little anxious and somewhat underfed, but extremely polite. Pa
le hair, bonnet, shawl, that sort of thing,’ ventures Widmerpole.

  ‘The body in the church-yard?’ Ruby murmurs.

  Bridie nods. She turns to Widmerpole. ‘So presumably Ellen Kelly knew about Reverend Winter and Margaret?’

  ‘She had heard family fables, but only learnt the story as we know it when Dr Harbin tracked her down.’

  Ruby lets out a whistle.

  ‘You know Dr Harbin?’ Bridie asks, taken aback.

  ‘Dr Harbin prompted our enquiry into Winter’s work,’ explains Widmerpole. ‘He came across his name while researching the legend of the merrow.’

  ‘Berwick,’ adds Reverend Gale.

  Bridie needs no translation. ‘Research conducted in conjunction with Sir Edmund Berwick?’

  Widmerpole looks delighted. ‘Yes, you know them: the baronet, the doctor?’

  ‘We’re acquainted. When did they visit the chapel?’

  ‘Oh, some years ago now—’

  ‘Seven,’ mutters Reverend Gale.

  ‘Do they know about the discovery in the crypt?’

  ‘We wrote to them straight away,’ says Widmerpole, ‘given their interest in Winter and his work. But we’ve had no response.’

  ‘And now Margaret Kelly and her infant have disappeared again. You have no idea where they could be?’

  ‘As I said, it’s a mystery, Mrs Devine,’ says Widmerpole.

  The donkey draws air in through its teeth.

  Bridie sits with her back against a tomb in a quiet corner of the chapel-yard, a pleasant place with wild flowers yet, and sunny too. Although the shadow thrown down by the chapel is wending round, lengthening over the weedy paths. She strikes a flame and holds it to the bowl of her pipe, a few deft puffs to get the tobacco going, then turns to the book on her lap.

  Ruby sits beside her. ‘So, Curate Cridge took the bodies?’

  ‘Whether he bought or stole them is not clear, but I suspect Reverend Gale entered into some sort of a deal with him.’

  ‘And Ellen Kelly – she’d be the poor soul we found strangled?’

  ‘Seems so. I’ll put forward her name to Rose.’

  ‘And the reason she was there, haunting Maris House?’ Ruby lays his hat on the ground. ‘You’ll tell Rose about the stolen child?’

  ‘He’ll know by now, Ruby. A lightning fella like that.’

  Ruby looks off into the distance, a muscle working in his fine, firm, dead jaw. ‘So the baronet and the doctor, hearing the stories about the mad Reverend Winter, went to Bantry Bay to find their own special Kelly infant.’

  ‘Only they just wanted the child and not the mother too, it seems. But Ellen had, of course, learnt about her ancestor from them.’

  ‘And that’s why she came here.’

  ‘Perhaps she thought that Margaret’s life could somehow shed light on her own.’

  ‘What, having a child with pike’s teeth and it being taken?’

  Bridie stifles a smile. ‘In a nutshell, Detective.’

  ‘You’re a wagon.’

  ‘Go away, I’m reading,’ she says, and laughs.

  ‘You think you’re very clever.’

  ‘I do, of course. Now let me read.’

  Ruby lies back and closes his eyes.

  As Bridie turns the pages of Reverend Winter’s book she finds two stories. Under a composed, objective surface a darker, wilder current flows. Bridie becomes immersed in the habits of manatees and molluscs, frogfish and sea cucumbers. And then she becomes beguiled by the lore about them. Soon fact and fiction are delightfully mixed. But by the middle of the book she finds herself in murkier waters as she begins to read about Reverend Winter and the merrow: a story that started in Holland and ended walled-up in the crypt at Highgate Chapel.

  *

  In 1600 a remarkable creature was found in Holland after a great storm. Part woman, part fish, she had swum inland, become lost and trapped in a dyke. She was found, mud- bedraggled and weeping, by a farmer, who put her in a canvas sack and carried her home. They fell in love and she converted to Catholicism and learnt to sew. By all accounts they were very happy and she bore him five children, all with legs not tails. Winter travelled to Holland and spoke to the descendants of the farmer and the part fish, part woman. They were proud of their ancestor, as they were of the webs of fine skin, like onion membrane, between their toes, and their ability to catch eels bare-handed. Next, Winter went to the island of Mersea, where in 1680 a gaggle of superstitious villagers had killed a baby of unholy design. The infant had washed up on the shore, barely alive, with the tail of a salmon, the face of an angel and the teeth of a pike. Believing that throwing it back in the sea would somehow attract its parents’ wrath (and them, like as not, sea-demons) the villagers stoned the child to death and buried it at a crossroads in a box.

  Winter heard about an intriguing creature in the Camargue region of France. Monsieur Espadon had a prominent spine, no navel and large webbed feet. His legs were fused together with an expanse of corrugated skin. M. Espadon’s entire epidermis dried out if he wasn’t regularly basted in mud. He had fathered a whole succession of children; all girls, all named Delphine, and all of them had tails. Sadly, every one of M. Espadon’s incredible issue had died in infancy. M. Espadon proved elusive; Winter arrived in France and waited in a nearby village for some weeks, hoping for an audience with him, to be eventually told by locals that M. Espadon had shrivelled up and died after a nap in the noonday sun.

  But it was the merrow, more than any other creature, that began to claim Winter’s attention. He had read about the merrow in the fairy legends of Thomas Crofton Croker, of course, but delving deeper into the lore behind the stories, he began to hear rumours. Tales told about a certain Kelly family, of Bantry Bay, who, every few generations, would produce the most extraordinary girl child. These children were conceived with no recourse to the usual relations and were hidden from the neighbours at birth. But glimpses had been seen of these oddest of offspring – pale beauties with white hair, flat corneas that changed colour, from pearl to jet in an instant. Winter’s prose sheered between scepticism, objectivity and enchantment.

  From Irish lore he had gleaned that the merrow were killers by design, taking human form in the upper body and, when in water, the form of a strong-tailed salmon in the lower. The females were beautiful, although pike-toothed, but the males were horrific. This had led to interbreeding between the merrow and humans, for a young merrow female was apt to fall in love with any fisherman of average physiognomy. A merrow would dwell on land, but if her beloved wanted to keep her there, he must take the caul she was born with – her cochallin draíochta, her little magic hood – and hide it from her. This would bind her to a land-based existence, for without her caul she was unable to manifest her merrow self. The caul must be hidden well – up the chimney, in the thatch, dug deep beneath the rosebushes – and her mate must refuse to give it back (even when those fierce fits of longing for the sea came over her). Without it, she could live out her days peaceably on land, in her house, with her man and her children. Or else she would become bored, find her hidden caul, burn down her house, murder her children and drag her man screaming into the sea. Winter doubted the existence of the caul – that a creature equipped for purpose by nature could be hampered so – and wisely attributed this notion to folklore.

  The merrow were fully grown at twelve and lived to be no more than twenty, when they would dash themselves to death against the sea cliffs. They were said to control the weather, tides, sea-birds and all marine and damp-loving life. The merrow could save lives and take them: foretell disasters and cause disasters in the first place. Floods, storms and shipwrecks would be the fault of the merrow. Their kisses could heal wounds but their bites burnt. A merrow bite, while painful for the human female, was fatal for the male, producing a death so infernal that the merrow were bound by some ancient rule to use their teeth only in defence.

  Indeed, a man had much to fear from a merrow. Even if she never laid a harmful mouth
on him she could peer into his mind, if she felt so inclined. As clear as any tide-pool it would be to her. She could stir and fish and hook any thought or memory that swilled in a man’s head. And if that wasn’t enough, she could drown him on dry land.

  Over the page there’s a picture. Bridie touches it.

  On a rock, she sits. Her tail, delicately scaled, dipped into a fine calm sea. She is fair; skin like carved marble, pearl-pale eyes, hair bright, she winds a strand of it around her finger.

  Bridie turns the page and the picture changes. She stares at it.

  Bridie meets the merrow.

  Horned spine raised like cat-hackles. Contorted fingers, uncanny, as if set backwards. A tail made for thrashing. Her hair comes out in handfuls. She rips it out.

  The sea is whipped to high peaks by the coming storm.

  The merrow: with fury in her flat black eyes and teeth like a pike’s.

  She is all wrath and power.

  Muirgeilt: the sea-lunatic.

  No wonder. Her man lured her onto land, hiding her magic caul for long years while she took human form and craved daily her element. Yearning to return, to dissolve back into the seething beautiful sea.

  Bridie sees the terrible triumph in the creature’s face. Beside her, on the rocks, lies her man, blanched and withered. He has suffered a thousand love bites. Rows of puncture wounds on his bare arms, his face and his neck. Water streams from his nose, mouth and eyes, from his fingertips, back into the sea.

  The merrow had changed before him – as he confessed where he hid her caul when he tricked her into loving him. She had pulled the trinket box from beneath their home’s stone flags, levering them with her teeth. And the rain had lashed and the tide had turned and in all this water she had turned too.

  Leaving their newborn keening in its crib, she had slithered down to the beach to meet the rising sea, pulling her man with her, like a dog with a rabbit. She moved by spasms, strong contractions along the length of her tail, crawling over rock and sand.

  Her house burns, her child cries, her man lies lifeless.

  In a moment she will be born, with a gasp of bliss, into the waves. One deep breath of ocean and her lungs will fill with water. One beat of her tail and she’ll be gone.