by M. J. Tjia
As I read of imported hive bees supplanting Australian native bees and the missel thrush’s ascendency over the song thrush in Scotland, I listen for the sounds of the house bedding itself down for the evening. On the lower level, the servants rattle windows shut, bolt doors with a clack. Mrs Lovejoy retired long ago, and not long after nine o’clock I hear voices in the corridor as Joshua and Emily make their way to their rooms. The floor creaks as they pause outside the closed door of the nursery and their shadows dim the bottom of the doorway. I hold my breath but all I can hear is the crackle of the fire, the distant bark of a dog. My heartbeat quickens. I’m just wondering if I should open the door, ask them if they’re in need of something, when they finally move on. One door after the other clicks shut further down the hall. What very unnerving children they are.
By the time the clock down below chimes eleven, the house is quiet. I think everyone has gone to sleep. I wait a half-hour longer, impatiently reading through Darwin’s ideas on organisms’ struggle for existence, before I place the book on the nursery table and go into the bedroom, where I don a nightgown and a warm dressing gown. It’ll be much easier to tip-toe through the house without my wide skirts on. And if someone catches me, I can say I couldn’t sleep, that I’ve come in search of a warm drink. I riffle through my valise for the silk reticule that houses my small pleasures—a silver case containing my rolled cigarettes, a flask of cognac and tissue-wrapped caramels. And there, tucked into a special pocket of the reticule, is my pistol. Glancing across the room, I can see that Cyril is still fast asleep. He’s only stirred the once, turning onto his side to face the wall. He’ll be fine. I won’t be too long.
The nursery has sufficient light from the fireplace, so I decide to take the oil lamp with me. Turning it down low, I carry it into the hallway, first checking both left and right, to make sure all the bedroom doors are shut, that there are no glimmers from underneath. I’m pretty swift on my feet as I move down the stairs. Only one step creaks, five from the top. I’ll try to remember that for later.
I move straight to the French doors in the drawing room that I was looking at when I was disturbed by Emily and Joshua earlier. The handle turns but is locked and, yes, I was right, there are scratches on the door jamb. How peculiar. If someone had broken in, the marks would be on the outside. I must see if the door…
I stand tall. Was that a creak from the staircase?
I rush into the corridor. I must get myself to the kitchen before I’m caught nosying around. But as I cross the hall, I can’t see an answering light making its way down the stairs. I tuck myself behind the kitchen door and wait. The silence feels like it might engulf me and I bite my lip to stop from giggling.
I can’t hear a thing.
Peeping into the hallway, I almost jump as that damned clock chimes midnight, each deep peal quivering under my skin. I wait impatiently for the chimes to finish, for the house to settle into silence again. It’s time.
I creep down the long corridor towards the servants’ door. On the left is the housekeeper’s room, and I wonder if Marie is still awake. Either way, she’s probably trapped in the same nightmare, poor thing. I assume the last room, narrow and squashed behind the kitchen, might house Cook and Ruth. Pausing, my ear to the door, I’m quite sure I can hear a whistling snore.
I cast around for a hook or ribbon that might hold the key to the back door, but no, like many other households, the housekeeper, master or mistress of the house must have them to hand. Of course, there is no master here anymore, nor housekeeper; maybe Cook is now in charge of them. Not that it matters. I bring out a nail file and special pin that have helped me many times before. Inserting the file into the lock, I hitch it upward, feeling for the bolt. The silver grates so noisily against the lock plate, I waggle the nail file slowly, slowly, until I feel it release the stump. I pause for a moment, can feel sweat beads prickle my upper lip. When I’m sure I haven’t disturbed anyone in the house, I insert the pin, turning it in the groove, and push on the spring, until the lock clicks open. Again I pause. Bedsprings squeak in Cook’s room. I hold my breath. Nothing. Just the distant tick of the grandfather clock. Turning the handle, I open the door and step outside.
It’s a bright, cloudless night. Cold, I shiver and I pull my robe tight across my chest. I place a stone at the door to keep it ajar, and then move swiftly across the grass to the drawing room doors. The ground near the doors is turned to sod, it needs new grass seeds sown. Rubbing the toe of my slipper against the dirt, I imagine Mr Lovejoy finding the nasty letter, trodden into the mud.
I hold the lamp up against the handle. Yes. The scratches are deeper on this side. Really gouged into the wood. I can even see the chip that’d been chiselled out in order to pry the latch open.
My eye catches a glint in the door’s glass.
I swing around, but there’s nothing behind me. I stare into the gloom. It’s difficult to see past the glare of the lamp, so I extinguish the light and gaze again into the darkness. I don’t blink for so long, my eyes dry against the cold air. Turning back, I hold my hand to the glass, peer into the drawing room, through to the corridor. Nothing.
Maybe I should just go straight back inside. Back into the warmth of the nursery. And I’ve been away a little while now; Cyril might be awake.
But what I really want is to breathe some tobacco smoke deep into my lungs—more so than ever, now. At least it’ll serve to steady these stupid nerves of mine. I look above to where the nursery windows are. I couldn’t smoke in there. If I were caught, then I’d certainly be turned away, and what good would that be to Hatch?
My eyes sweep across the yard, trying to find a discreet spot. I know, from Cook, that the servants’ outhouse is further down in the back corner, under the two skeletal oak trees that loom black against a sky as shiny as a silver plate. Closer to hand, down a short path, is the family’s outhouse. But Mrs Lovejoy’s rooms look down on this side of the yard, so, leaving the lamp by the back door, I move off to my right towards the gardener’s shed. I pass the pretty garden I have already seen from the nursery window—the neat row of hedges that meet in the middle to form a circle around a stone water feature. I walk very slowly to lessen the crunch of gravel under foot, lighting a cigarette as I go. I take cover under the spindly tree behind the shed.
The smoke lifts like fog as I stand against the wall of the shed. I can feel the bricks’ rough surface catch upon the wool of my dressing gown. The house and surroundings are in shadow and, as I draw on my cigarette again, I hear a flutter above me. An owl. His tawny feathers are almost invisible amongst the dry leaves, but his yellow eyes gleam in the darkness. It looks down on me, then scratches away under its wing with its beak. I draw deeply on my cigarette again and watch the nursery window, the only one with open curtains and the welcoming glow of the hearth. My fingers are cold against my lips as I lift the cigarette to my mouth. I shiver again. Time to go back in.
I’m grinding the cigarette end into the dirt when I hear light footsteps tap across the gravel. Pressing myself to the side of the shed, I draw my arms and body in as much as possible, my reticule clutched under my chin. Nobody’s going to take a stab at my throat. I slip my hand down into the reticule until my fingers touch the pistol’s ivory handle.
The footsteps halt for a moment, somewhere near the shrubs, then pick up again, until they’re tabbing across dry leaves, closer. Closer. So close, I can hear breathing, strained and quick.
Above me the owl rustles from the tree branch, the flap of its wings drowning out my intruder.
By the time I peep around the corner of the shed, the bulky shape that lunges for me is so low to the ground, I’m taken by surprise. I fall back, scraping my hand against the brick wall.
The dog takes a vicious snap at my leg and growls. He barks at me twice, so loudly I’m afraid he’ll wake everyone up. His teeth flash in the moonlight, and I decide it may be a good thing if someone wakes and rescues me. Better to be tossed out of the house for smoking than
to be mauled by this brute.
I snake my hand into the top of my reticule, my fingers brushing against the pistol handle. Digging further, I feel the rustle of tissue paper and draw out a small square. I toss the caramel to the ground and the dog draws back, as if wary of a strike. He sniffs at the sweet. After a few seconds of snuffling, he wolfs it down. He looks back up at me, expectant.
He is a stout thing and darker than the night. His beady eyes mirror the sky.
“Well, that shut you up.” I try to keep my voice steady, soothing. “I forgot there was an ugly creature like you around.”
I throw another caramel. After gobbling it up, he steps closer to me, sniffs at my dressing gown. Maybe he smells Cyril or Cook.
The third caramel I offer on the flat of my fingers, and he slobbers against my skin, seeking out any residual sugar.
“Not so vicious, after all.” I turn my hand over so he can sniff my scent. When I think he’s ready, I run my hand over his brow, tickle behind his ear. “What’s your name then?”
I glance up, thinking it’s time to go back inside. And that’s when I see it.
Someone at the nursery window. Gazing down on me.
CHAPTER 17
When Amah presses her forehead to the window, she can gaze up at the night sky above the tall buildings across the way. The sky’s not black, squid-ink black, like how she remembers the Makassar sky. It’s more like the metallic underside of an empty mussel shell, as barren, as cold.
That man of god at the Strangers’ Home, when he spoke of the kungsi, Amah didn’t remember at first, but now she does. That day in Sarawak. That’s what they had called the group of Chinese that rioted through Kuching, brandishing poles and spears. They set fire to the new houses, destroyed the markets, cut down as many white people as they could catch. Amah saw all this from the doorway of the prayer hut with the cross over its gable.
Strong hands grasped her by the upper arms. “You cannot stay here,” said Uncle Chee. “They will surely burn this place down too. Come with me.”
Crouched low, they ran across the edge of the village, ducking behind huts and carts when they could. She was peeping out from behind the stables when she saw a group of white people run from the back of a house. She recognised Preston, but not the other couple. They raced for the next house, which was larger, towards a blond man with a neat beard, who beckoned from the front doorway, but before they could reach it, two of these kungsi, black plaits snaking down their backs, burst from the front of the stable. The first one clubbed the woman over the head, as the other swung his kris low and far, slicing the air until it found purchase against Preston’s shoulder. He then swung the kris in an arc so that its blade left a crimson cleft in the other gentleman’s throat. A loud crack pierced Amah’s ears, then another, and the two kungsi fell to the ground. From a window, she could see Pidgeon as he lowered a shotgun, his mouth agape, lengthening his long, foolish face.
CHAPTER 18
I take a swig of cognac and gaze down into the yard from the nursery window. I think I see the shape of the dog seated by the shed door, scratching behind its ear, but all else is still cloaked in darkness.
When I saw the face in the nursery window, I nearly stumbled over the dog. By the time I’d righted myself, the face was gone. I ran to the back door. At best, someone was checking on me; at worst—oh god—Cyril might have been attacked. On my watch.
I rushed two steps at a time up the staircase to the nursery, practising my story of a visit to the lavatory, but when I burst into the room there was nobody there. I checked the bedroom. Cyril was lying on his back, still slumbering, his chubby hands curled by his sides. Alone.
My fingers follow the engraving of ferns and leaves on the silver flask as I take another sip. Who was the dark figure in the window? Backlit by the fireplace, it was hard to tell.
Mrs Lovejoy? Surely not. If it had been her, surely she would have stayed to remonstrate with me for leaving the boy. Nurse Marie? If she’d come to check on us, I was quite certain she would’ve remained by the boy’s side until I returned. And where was she now, in any case? She wouldn’t have had time to flit back to her room. I would’ve passed her when I came dashing back in.
I shove my flask back into my bag and tiptoe across to the nursery door. I open it a few inches and peer into the corridor. It’s so dark I can’t even discern where the other rooms are, let alone the staircase.
Could the nursery’s visitor have been Emily, or even Joshua? I think of his smile, of the blank look in his eyes, and my skin crawls. I pull a face as I shut the door again. I examine the handle and, although there’s a keyhole, there is no key with which to lock it. I cast around for a chair to jam under the handle, but I can see that they’re too short.
I position a footstool by the door, so I might at least hear it creak across the floor if someone tries to enter, and then shut the curtains. I take a seat on the medallion armchair by the doll’s house and pull out my flask again.
I’m dreaming of my old friend Tilly, of how she’s dyed her hair yellow, when I’m woken by a cold, prodding finger. Right in the middle of my forehead.
“Where’s Nurse Marie?” Poke. Poke.
I wave Cyril’s hand away and roll over in the nanny’s bed, but he climbs up behind me, presses his wet lips to my ear. “Where’s Nurse Marie? Where’s my breakfast?”
I open my eyes and look over my shoulder at the little boy. His buttery curls are tousled, and snot crusts his nostrils, but really, he’s an attractive little thing. I don’t know how he could be Mr Lovejoy’s son. “I don’t know. It’s freezing, though. Why don’t you climb in here with me until she comes?” I lift the blanket for him.
He shakes his head and, as he takes a step back, I grab him by his chubby arms and pull him to me. I wrap my arms around him until I reach his sides, and I tickle and tickle, until he’s squealing and trying to writhe out of my tight hold. Finally, he lies back against me, spent, and we are both smiling, warm under the blankets.
“Your feet are like icicles, Cyril.” He shoves them against my shins again, and that’s how Nurse Marie finds us, scuffling around my bed.
“Cyril.” Her voice is sharp as she calls him. She doesn’t make eye contact with me. “I have your egg and milk here. Hurry out to the table, please.”
The boy scampers off and I lie in bed a minute more. I lift the curtain a little away from the window above me and the sky has the grey glare of dawn. Dawn. I’m much more likely to see first light after a night out dancing than to wake to it like this. In fact, I think I feel a bit sick in the stomach from waking so early.
I drag myself from bed and dress.
Nurse Marie is feeding Cyril, but I can see from the breakfast tray that there is no tea for me. I feel a tick of irritation. Silly woman. If only she knew I was here on Hatch’s behalf to find alternative suspects to her.
“I had a bad night, Nurse Marie,” I say, moving to the nursery door. “I might go to the kitchen and have a nice cup of tea. I’m sure I can leave Cyril in your capable hands.”
The nurse nods, gently stroking Cyril’s hair back from his forehead as he chews on a piece of toast.
As soon as I enter the kitchen, Cook hands me an apron and directs me to wash the dishes. “Nothing for it,” she says. “Poor Ruth is unwell, and I can’t do it all by myself. You leave that Nurse Marie with the children and help me prepare the family’s breakfast.”
I pour myself a cup of tea and add three teaspoons of sugar and a generous dash of cream. “What do you mean by ‘children’, Cook?” I ask. “Nurse Marie only seems to watch over Cyril.” I’m not sure if it was a slip of the tongue—if Cook is mistakenly counting in poor Margaret—or if she means the older children too.
Cook looks at me over a bowl of egg yolks. “Ha. She’s supposed to care for Miss Emily too, but that girl has always been obstinate when it comes to the new nurses.” She pours the eggs into a saucepan and hands me the bowl to wash. “Ever since her mother died, that is.”
In a dark corner of the kitchen, between the kitchen sideboard and the doorway to the scullery, is a family photo much like the one upstairs, but this one is lighter, overexposed. I peer at it closer. “Is that the first Mrs Lovejoy?”
Cook bustles over to stand next to me. “Yes, that’s her. Pretty thing, wasn’t she. She was already poorly by then.” She jabs a thin finger, its nail chewed down to the quick, at a figure in the background, standing between two children—Joshua and Emily, I presume—and whispers, “And that’s Mrs Lovejoy as she was then. Mrs Lovejoy now, I mean. When she was the nanny.”
“Mrs Lovejoy was their nursemaid?”
Cook returns to the stove and nods as she whisks the eggs. “Looked after them as their poor mother faded away, she did.”
“I’m surprised the nursemaid is even in the family photos, actually.”
There’s a shrewd cast to Cook’s eye. “By my reckoning, that was Mr Lovejoy’s doing. Now, you get on with those dishes, or I’ll never have breakfast ready by the time the family wakes.”
In the scullery, I pick up a small skillet and gingerly dip it in the tub. I hope the soapy water and scrubbing doesn’t roughen my hands.
I poke my head around the doorway and say, “I wonder why Mrs Lovejoy still allows that photograph to hang here. I wouldn’t think she’d want the reminder.”
The cook shrugs. “She’s not down here much. I daresay she’s forgotten about it. Or maybe the master insisted. Like he did with the one upstairs.”
I mull over her words for a few moments. “So, after the first Mrs Lovejoy died, Mr Lovejoy married the nursemaid?” I infuse my voice with wonder, as though I find the whole thing terribly romantic.