A Necessary Murder

by M. J. Tjia

  Knowing they would be a while, she made her way to the bazaar by the water. There she found a familiar sight, for it wasn’t so different from the markets of Makassar, just smaller. The local Iban sold leafy greens and nuts, while two Indian traders dealt in spices from other islands and colourful saris. One old woman, Chinese, Amah could tell, sold broken pieces of porcelain. As she ran her fingers over the sharp edges of a chipped teacup, she could smell the cardamom on the old woman’s breath from the betel nut she chewed, the red cud wrapped in sirih leaf.

  On the outskirts of this little town, she spied a simple bamboo shack with a cross on its highest gable, a cross like the one on Mrs Preston’s bedside table. Amah hesitated in the doorway, peering into the shadows. At the furthest end of the room, hanging on the wall, was a statue of a thin man, almost naked. His arms were flung from his sides, but as she tiptoed closer she saw that his hands and feet were nailed to the wood and blood seeped from his wounds. He reminded her of the fish the cook prepared in her grandfather’s kitchen, damaged and limp on the timber cutting board. What worship of agony was this? She glanced around, wondering where the flecks of gold were, the incense, the food offerings.

  It was then that Amah heard the bell ringing, pealing across the village, urgently calling to those who were not safely inside. Women and children screamed, men shouted to each other in a mix of languages, none of which made sense to her.

  CHAPTER 12

  I flip through the newest issue of Journal des Demoiselles again, pausing at the print of a woman dressed in a white satin gown trimmed with stick-candy pink. A corsage of roses runs at an angle across the skirt, and three roses dot the bodice. Amah would hate it. And she’d be right. Looking at it again, I realise it’s a bit too much. I turn over a couple more pages until I find the other gown I admired. The skirt’s upper flounce is in the shape of orchid petals, but now it reminds me too much of a child’s fairy costume. I toss the journal down onto my dressing table.

  I consider myself in the full-length mirror, admiring my new dress, cerulean blue with smart navy bows down the middle.

  “I rather like this one, but I’m not sure of this white collar,” I say to my dressmaker, Mrs Shelby. I tilt my head to the side, cover the collar with my hand. “Is it too late to have it removed?”

  “Of course not, madam.”

  My face relaxes back into a smile. “Good. Help me out of it and you can take it back with you. What was your other idea again, Mrs Shelby?”

  She struggles up from where she’s kneeling. “There. That hem should do it.” Her chubby face is red from the exertion, and she’s a little puffed. “I was saying we should increase the number of flounces on your dresses. Use lace to make them frilly.”

  Flicking again through the pictures in the journal, I note the neatness of the gowns, the severe lines despite the billowing skirts. Of course, the evening gowns are more embellished, but maybe Mrs Shelby is right—maybe my day dresses could be prettified too. I picture myself riding in the park, in a dress like spun sugar, despite the dirt and pollution. Yes. And what would it matter if the dress became filthy after one wear? Hatterleigh would pay for more. It’ll be amusing to see who has the funds to keep up with me.

  Mrs Shelby helps me get dressed again and then gathers up her sewing basket and gowns. As she leaves the room, my gaze jags on the letter that lies upon my bed. I unfold it to read again. A reply from Pidgeon. He writes of his shock at Lovejoy’s death, and of how he will meet with Hunt and Cosgrove to discuss this threat that presses upon them.

  Clearly he is in accordance with the reporters and thinks the cases are all connected.

  The sound of male voices rises to the second floor. By the time I reach the top of the stairs, I only catch a glimpse of Bundle’s back as he ushers someone into the drawing room. When he returns, he looks up at me, says, “Sir Thomas, Mrs Chancey. With an Inspector Hatch.”

  I pull a face at him, and smooth my hair back from my forehead as I step down the stairs. An inspector. What does he want with me?

  “Ah, Mrs Chancey.” Sir Thomas takes my hand in his. “How wonderful to see you again. Please, let me introduce Inspector Hatch, here.”

  Hatch shakes my hand. “Detective Inspector,” he corrects Sir Thomas. His voice is low, serious, but a pleasant smile hovers about his lips. He’s a very pale man, and his side whiskers, as coarse as straw, are almost as impressive as Sir Thomas’s. The cloth of his suit is of good quality, but worn, and the leather of his boots has been polished, yet does not shine. He’s much taller than Sir Thomas but seems at ease in my drawing room, so much so that he ushers us to the sofas, asks us to sit around the table where Bundle sets out glasses of sherry. It’s like he’s the bloody host. I tuck my grin away for later.

  Hatch plucks his trousers at the knees and takes a seat himself, opposite us.

  “Mrs Chancey, Sir Thomas here says that you might be able to assist me in a case.”

  I sit straighter. “What kind of case, sir?”

  Hatch sits with his legs wide and, for a moment, he frowns and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Have you been following the Lovejoy murders in the papers, madam?”

  I sit back, bewildered. “Of course.” Do I mention that I met the man himself just two days ago? Or no?

  “Tell me. What do you know about the affair?”

  “What I’ve read in The Times.” I look from Hatch to Sir Thomas. “About the poor girl murdered in the lavatory. Her throat was cut.” My hand finds its way to my own throat. “And then her father was murdered yesterday. In the same manner.” I don’t know whether to tell him of what I know. Of what Pidgeon and Cosgrove have discussed.

  Hatch leans back and nods. “Yes. Well, we have our suspicions on what might have gone on, but we have yet to prove anything.” He takes a notebook from his breast pocket and stares at it absent-mindedly. “The thing is, for a number of reasons, we were quite sure we knew who’d murdered Margaret Lovejoy, but then her father was killed. His murder has given me pause in my suspicions.”

  “Who did you suspect?”

  “The nursemaid.”

  “The nursemaid?”

  “Mmm. Nurse Marie Brown.” The Detective Inspector’s mouth makes an almost girlish pucker with the noise. “Yes. She shared a room with Margaret and the younger child. And Margaret’s bed was not slept upon. It seemed obvious, really.”

  “But why would she murder the little girl? A girl in her care?” I ask, incredulous.

  “Exactly what I wondered. In fact, just before we found out about Lovejoy’s death, I’d sent two constables to pick the nursemaid up for further interviewing. When I first spoke to her, I could tell she was keeping something from me.”

  “Was there anyone else you suspected, Hatch?” asks Sir Thomas.

  He shakes his head, but frowns. “Not really. But now I wonder…”

  “Tell us of the others in the Lovejoy household.”

  “Well, there’s Mrs Lovejoy, of course. She’s Lovejoy’s second wife. And there’s Emily—she’s fifteen years old—and Joshua, who’s sixteen years old, I believe. They’re Lovejoy’s children to his first wife. There is also Cyril—the second Mrs Lovejoy’s child, you understand—maybe three or four years old, who is in the care of the nursemaid. Of course, there are the servants, but I’ve counted them out by reason of alibis or lack of motive.”

  “And you don’t believe the nursemaid guilty any longer?” I ask.

  “No. No, I’m no longer totally convinced, Mrs Chancey.”

  “Do you think an outsider is to blame?” I ask. It looks like Pidgeon and Cosgrove might be right after all.

  “Oh, no. I think it’s definitely an inside job. I think the jimmied drawing room door was just a ruse. I think someone in the house definitely committed these murders.”

  “I have to be frank with you, Detective Inspector.” I decide the only thing I can do is tell him of what I know. Sound him out. If I’m to help him in this case, he needs to know all the facts.
“I happened to meet Lovejoy just a couple of days ago. He was with a good friend of mine and they were incredibly worried about some threatening letters they’d received. Something to do with their time in Sarawak? And a Chinese gang? They believed that a man named McBride and Margaret Lovejoy were murdered in revenge.”

  The Detective Inspector is still frowning, but smiles at me too, like I’m a gullible child that’s disappointed him. “Of course I’ve heard all this before. Both Mr Lovejoy and Pidgeon have told me of this fantasy of theirs. You must see how ludicrous it is, Mrs Chancey.” He looks from me to Sir Thomas, like he’s questioning Sir Thomas’s wisdom in bringing him to me. “Another detective, a very sensible fellow, is following up on the McBride murder. I do not have time to be distracted by such things, like the reporters—who may as well be men of fiction—who wait outside your home at this very moment.”

  He leans towards me again, and his eyes gleam like a terrier set on a rat. “Mrs Chancey, I will share with you why I think the Lovejoy murders are domestic.” He holds up a finger. “One. The guard dog—and I’ve been assured it’s quite vicious—was roaming the garden in each instance. That surely counts out a stranger.” He holds up another finger. “Two. How on earth did an intruder break in through the drawing room, pass numerous servants and family members to steal away one little girl? The logistics are preposterous, in fact. And Three.” He pauses, his three fingers rapping the tabletop. “According to the linen list, the cook’s wrapper is missing. I believe this wrapper—which was something like a dressing gown, with long sleeves, mind you, and a skirt low to the floor—has been discarded because someone was wearing it when they murdered Margaret Lovejoy and it was covered in the girl’s blood.”

  “You don’t think the cook did it?” asks Sir Thomas.

  “No. She stayed at her brother’s house that night. And, really, why would she? But anyone, especially the nursemaid, with her comings and goings to the kitchen and servants’ quarters, could have requisitioned it for the evening.”

  “The household seems to be mostly full of womenfolk,” I say. “Would a female be capable of Lovejoy’s murder?”

  Hatch’s face is stern as he says, “With a sharp enough knife, or razor even, a child could have sliced Lovejoy’s throat, let alone the girl’s. And the women to be found in that household are robust, believe me. We’ve had any number of letters from the public accusing the men who found the body, but I just do not believe the Lovejoys’ drunkard gardener found his way into the house, let alone the night-soil man.”

  I take a sip of my sherry. Really, he does sound quite convincing. His story is surely more plausible than that of Chinese marauders seeking vengeance in London?

  “In what capacity would I assist?” I ask.

  “I’d like you to go into the household, find out what mysteries lie abed, secrets I cannot unearth myself. Apparently Mrs Lovejoy doesn’t wholly trust the children with the nursemaid anymore, so I’ve decided the best thing is if you can go in as the interim nursemaid. We’ve arranged the paperwork with the agency already.”

  I feel a sense of dread creep upon me. I’d been very tempted up to this point. I pick up the decanter on the table between us to pour more sherry as an excuse to think on Hatch’s offer. Nanny? To someone else’s children? Hadn’t I chosen this life, as precarious and improper as it might be, in order to avoid the drudgery of the nursery room?

  “Of course, your position as nursemaid will just be a smokescreen. Really you will be there as my spy.” Hatch catches my eye on the word “spy” as I hand him his sherry. A spy. Like Eleanor in Braddon’s novel, or Fouché’s spies they once whispered of in Paris. For a moment, Hatch has succeeded in making the work sound exciting, perilous even, but really… it will be a toil.

  A sharp rap on the front door catches my attention and I approach the window to see who it might be. Another reporter by the looks of it. There are now four carriages parked on our narrow street. Bastards. I roll my eyes. It won’t help matters that they’ve seen a police detective enter my house.

  Rubbing my tongue across that tiny chip in my front tooth, I look over my shoulder to the others. Sir Thomas’s eyebrows are raised, waiting for my answer, but I can tell from his bland expression he’s not fussed whether I take the work or not. Hatch, on the other hand, nods his head once at me, as if urging on a child in a running race.

  Glancing back out the window, I realise that if I am to take Hatch up on his offer, at least I’d be away from the attention of these newspaper men. Although, no doubt the Lovejoys’ home is surrounded by reporters as well. And, anyway, it cannot be. I’m to see Hatterleigh tonight, in any case, and my new lilac gown is waiting for me upstairs. Hatterleigh’s also promised to take me to Brighton early next week, so I just won’t be available.

  “I’m very sorry to have wasted your time,” I say, finally, turning back to the men. “Unfortunately, I really am not able to help you in this case, at this time.” As I say the words, I feel a twinge of regret. Maybe I’m missing out on an adventure. “But I can suggest someone else for the role.”

  The cab drops me at an address in Tottenham Court Road, where the shopfront’s window is emblazoned with the words Bower’s Servants’ Registry Office.

  The offices themselves are very plain. Prospective domestic servants form a long line along the unpolished timber flooring, while others lounge upon wooden benches that hug the walls. There’s nothing for it—I have to wait in line too. The man in front of me turns to the side and blows his nose into his lapel, while two women near the top of the queue quarrel loudly about who’s more suited to a scullery position. I wish I’d sent Taff or even Abigail on this errand.

  I wonder how Bundle had hired Abigail. Through the newspaper, through an agency such as this? Or had she approached us? I glance at the sheets of paper pasted to the wall beside me, and note the neat copperplate handwriting and sketched likenesses.

  “Lists, they be,” whispers the woman behind me. I turn to her and smile. Not a woman, after all. I don’t think she could be a day over twelve years old really. “Black list of all them who’ve been bad servants.”

  I’m surprised. I look again at the poster nearest to me and read, Max Brownley. Formerly of service at the Hare and Rabbit Inn. Roughly five foot, eight inches. Brown hair, beard, missing little finger, left hand. Stole barrel of rum, one turkey and a guest’s pair of riding boots. And then, Paulie Sawyer, also known as Pete Sawyer. Dark hair, considered handsome. Takes liberties with young ladies of the house. Next to this statement is a penned likeness, in which he doesn’t look that handsome at all. Under this is, Fiona Lucy Coyne. Roughly five foot, ten inches. Brown hair, smallpox scars. Extremely rude, lives above her station. Lazy. Well. Good on her.

  These lists remind me of the directory that used to be available in London, that recorded the particular charms of each fancy bird. I’m glad it’s not around anymore. I don’t need my “ruby tips” and “pleasing grove” described to all the leering pigs in town.

  By the time I reach the stout woman at the front desk, my feet feel pinched in my new shoes, and I’ve received numerous looks from women staring balefully at my taffeta gown.

  “What kind of position are you applying for?” the woman asks as she looks up from her ledger. She’s short-sighted and narrows her eyes to peer doubtfully at my smart hat, and the onyx and emerald earrings that hang from my earlobes. “I apologise madam. I mistook you. Usually our clientele write to us of what servants they need and we send them a selection. How may I help you?”

  “I was after one Bethany Bird. I’ve heard she’s an excellent nursemaid. I was directed here.”

  “Excuse me a moment, madam. I will just enquire.” She waddles to the back of the office and pulls a drawer out from a filing cabinet. After a search that only lasts a matter of moments, she returns to me, reading from a card in her hand. “Wet nurse. Has been in a new position for three months so far. I’m sorry, it seems you’ve missed out on her.” Her eyes move to my s
tomach, trying to gauge how many months I might be.

  I glance at the card that lies slack in her hand on the counter. An address in Finsbury. Simple.

  CHAPTER 13

  “What do you think, Heloise?” Hatterleigh asks.

  It’s quite late in the evening; an evening I’d expected to enjoy. Yet, I have to force a smile. I can’t get drunk quick enough.

  Instead of Motts, Hatterleigh has brought me to the top of Haymarket to a dance hall he has heard of. We had to walk past numerous oyster shops and gin palaces until we found the bar he was after. The shopfront was plain enough, covered in black curtaining, a cold fowl perched on a platter in the window. Squeezing past men squatted in the gutter and women dancing the polka on the pavement, their eyes bright from cheap brandy, I almost had to shield my eyes from the glare of gaslight that greeted us as we entered the smoky room.

  “I heard a couple of fellows talking about this place at the Billinghams’ ball the other night,” he shouts to me over the din from the brass band in the corner of the room.

  I take two more gulps of my gin and water. My elbow’s jostled by a shrieking woman as she’s carried to the dance floor by two men, and some of my drink slops down the front of my new gown. My mouth twists to the side, like Amah’s does. I polish off the rest of my gin.

  Hatterleigh orders me another drink and then stands close, his toe tapping to the music, his hand warm on my back. He’s rarely so intimate with me in public. He’s watching the crowd bob and weave around us with a smile, and his nose is already turning puce from the cognac he has secreted in his coat pocket. He won’t drink the common brandy they serve here—says it’s ruinous to one’s health.

  And I realise something. While I am with Hatterleigh in order to experience the more refined side of life, he is with me in order to transgress the dark. What irks me about these evenings is that I feel familiar, almost comfortable, in these surroundings, yet soiled at the same time.