by M. J. Tjia
I take a step towards him. “What do you mean?” Closer up I can see a line of dribble that glistens in his beard like a snail’s trail. And he stinks of stale piss.
“Clearing out the house, they are,” he says, glancing up at the windows of the top floor. “You watch. Next it’ll be that fat Mrs Lovejoy and then it’ll be her wee white prince.”
I close the back door behind me with a firm click and turn the key.
A prickle of fear slinks across the back of my neck. I’m not quite sure if it’s from my encounter with the repugnant gardener or if it’s his words that have affected me. Both probably. I shake my head and shoulders like that might dispel my foreboding.
I drop the key into the jug on the kitchen sideboard and make my way swiftly through the dark hall to the staircase.
My heart judders as a shadow billows from the bottom step. I can’t help but gasp and, holding my lamp high, I quickly discern that it’s Emily. “Oh, but you did give me a fright. What are you doing up so late in the evening?” I ask.
She has a blanket wrapped around herself and her feet are bare. Her hair hangs limp and, despite the lack of light, the terrible spots on her face blaze painfully from her pale skin. Her eyes seem almost black in the shadows of the night.
“Why were you talking with Crossley?”
“Ah. Was that you spying on me from the nursery window?” She doesn’t answer, just continues to glare at me with those eyes as flat as stone, her wide lips turned down at the edges. Nerves jangle in my fingertips. She’s just a girl, I tell myself. “Was it you watching me last night too?”
Still no answer.
I brush past her to climb the stairs, but angle myself so as to keep her in sight. “I am sorry I’ve missed your visits. Come see me again in the morning.” I smile at her. I hope it’s a welcoming smile and that the wariness I feel deep in my bones doesn’t shine through. With each step up that stair case, I feel her eyes pull on my back like an anchor.
CHAPTER 21
“I want sugar in it.” Cyril’s high-pitched demand stirs me from the slight doze I’ve fallen into. He’s talking to Nurse Marie in the nursery, over their breakfast. Rolling onto my back in the narrow bed, I pull the blanket up to cover my shoulder. I press the palm of my hand to my nose. It’s as cold as freshly caught trout.
Nurse Marie murmurs something to the boy, to which he answers, his voice rising even more, “I want sugar in my milk.”
Stifling a groan, I sit up. Only one or two more nights of this, hopefully. Pulling out a little mirror from my velveteen vanity pouch, I scrutinise my face for blemishes or lines. I wonder if it’s dawn’s gloom that causes the shadows under my eyes, or if they are there because I’ve been sleeping so poorly. Last night was yet another evening I’d lost sleep. Crossley’s words haunted me as I tried to drift off, not to mention how Emily had made my flesh creep. Pressing my eyes together, I apply face cream, taking a moment to enjoy its rose fragrance. I dab a tiny amount of parfum behind my ears and then haul myself up to dress, swapping my nightdress for drawers and a chemise.
Picking up my corset, I loosen the lacing at the back because, really, my waist doesn’t need to be so uncomfortably constricted for play with Cyril; there’s no call for a nanny in Stoke Newington to be a fashion plate, after all. As I draw the steel busk across my chest, lifting my breasts into position before heaving the corset together, I think of what the gardener had said about someone clearing out the house—clearing it of people, presumably. And he didn’t mean the servants were doing the clearing, either. He could only have meant the two older children.
I pull on one under-petticoat, wondering if I should put on another for warmth. Plonking down onto the side of the bed, I drag my stockings over my toes and wonder about Emily and her brother. I run my fingertip over a catch in the wool, thinking of how Cook claimed that Emily was very close with the second Mrs Lovejoy when she was still her Nurse Kate. Until the nurse turned the girl against her own mother.
Maybe Emily resented that now. Maybe Emily hated Mrs Lovejoy—and her father, even—for robbing her of time with her mother. And if Cook was right about the older children being treated poorly since their mother died, well, that could lead to all sorts of grievances. Jealousy even.
A tinkle of cutlery against crockery coming from the nursery catches my attention. I must hurry and help Nurse Marie.
I step into my crinoline and my mind returns to Emily and Joshua. Could that sort of jealousy lead to murder, though, as the gardener had hinted? Could Emily or Joshua really be that deranged? I think of Joshua’s vacant stare, and of the malice that seems to ooze from his sister’s skin as palpably as the pimples on her face. Maybe. After drawing my over-petticoat on—a plain one, no frills or stripes like I’d usually insist upon—I stare into space. Try to imagine them murdering their father. Anger driving them to incapacitate him in the garden, slice his throat. But what of their little sister? Pretty Margaret, the spoilt and loved younger daughter. Was that their first revenge upon their parents?
I know a lot about jealousy. It’s as familiar to me as the smell of the back lanes of Liverpool. I know that it stabs deep and curls, heavy, in one’s chest. I think again of that school in Bath, of the neat girls reading French, of the ribbons in their hair, seagull white. And, yes, there’s that ache in my heart.
But could I be driven to murder? I think if I had to live with the resentment every moment, of every day… I shake my head. Of course not. Although there’s a flicker of doubt at the back of my mind as I pull my shoes on.
As I enter the nursery, I tie my apron around my waist. “What trouble are you giving Nurse Marie?” I ask Cyril.
“I don’t like milk,” he says, dunking a piece of his toast into the cup.
I start to say that it’ll make him strong, but he doesn’t care, and neither do I. “If you behave yourself we will…” What? I can’t be sure of what he wants to do.
“Go for a walk again?”
I consider him. I wouldn’t mind visiting one or two shops in the village. “We will see.”
Dipping a linen towel in the washbasin, I wipe Cyril’s mouth and hands. I look across to Nurse Marie, who’s laying out Cyril’s outfit for the day. “I met Mr Crossley last night. The gardener. Do you know him? He’s a very strange man.”
She shrugs, uninterested. “I haven’t had much to do with him.”
I stand close to her and, reaching for Cyril’s breeches, I say, in a soft voice, “He said he wouldn’t sleep in the house. He said he thinks the murderer will strike again, murder another Lovejoy.” I watch her closely. “Made me tremble all night. I didn’t get a wink of sleep.”
A flash of fear is quickly replaced with a frown of annoyance. I wonder if more colour comes into her cheeks, but I can’t be sure.
“How ridiculous.” Nurse Marie unbuttons Cyril’s shirt. “He’s just saying that because the papers are reporting that he’s the main suspect in…” She presses her lips together, shakes her head.
It’s the first time we’ve actually spoken for more than one or two sentences to each other. She speaks softly, almost like a child—a sweet, sensitive child who’s prone to tears.
I sit on a chair to allow the boy to step into his trousers. When has she had access to the newspaper? I watch as she finishes dressing Cyril and settles him onto the floor with his blocks. Pouring her a cup of tea, I call her to the table, urge her to sit.
“Rest awhile,” I say. “He’ll be all right.”
She sips her tea and I notice her dress, although still grey with the pinstripe, is neatly buttoned at the wrists and doesn’t smell musty any longer. Either she’s washed and mended her uniform or has finally changed into the spare. Her hair is still a mess, though, falling about her narrow face, while the bun at the base of her neck looks like a wren’s nest.
I prop my chin onto the heel of my hand and lean on the table. “I’m not sure if I can stay here, Nurse Marie.”
Her eyes widen. “Why not? You’ve on
ly been here three days.”
I pull my face into an anxious expression. “I’m worried about what the gardener told me. I mean, the agency warned me of what had happened here, but they assured me they were committed by a mad person outside the household. And, of course, I was offered excellent wages for taking on the position, given the circumstances. But…” I shake my head.
“But, Nurse Louise, you must stay. I am waiting for my agency to find me a new position. In fact, I’ve even considered taking on work as a housemaid, I want to leave here so badly. But if I leave, and you leave…” Her eyes find Cyril, who’s smashing a toy horse against a prostrate soldier figurine.
Mrs Lovejoy might have to actually spend time with her son, if that were the case. But what do I know of her grief? “Before… before what happened, did Mrs Lovejoy spend much time with the children?”
The nursemaid stares into her tea for so long I wonder if she didn’t hear me.
“She absolutely doted on them,” she says, eventually.
“She’s with child right now, isn’t she?” The nursemaid nods. “How was she with Margaret and Cyril when they were babies?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only been here about a year.”
This surprises me. She’s so attached to the boy, I imagined she’d been the family nursemaid for several years.
I narrow my eyes as though I’m remembering something. “I worked for a woman once who was a fine mother; cuddled and kissed the children. Insisted on doing everything, except for the nasty stuff. You know the type? But little Harry—the youngest—began to have terrible stomach troubles. The doctor was forever in the house. Turned out she was poisoning the little cherub. Added arsenic to his milk, the vicious thing. And she’d done it before. I didn’t realise, but the family had already lost three young children.” Hell, I’m too good at this lying game.
“Terrible,” says Nurse Marie, placing her cup back onto the saucer. “Just terrible.” Then her eyes catch mine and she stares at me, her mouth slack. “What are you saying? Why are you telling me this?”
I look towards Mrs Lovejoy’s wing of the house. “Did you ever suspect that she might want to harm the children?”
Nurse Marie’s eyes bulge and her lips gulp at air so that she resembles a fish. “I don’t… I don’t…” She can’t finish the sentence. Her gaze drops from mine and she pushes the tea set into the middle of the table.
“But, Nurse Marie, if I am to stay, I need to know where I stand. If I’m safe.” I reach across the table, entreating. “Do you have any idea what happened to Margaret and her father?”
The woman shakes her head, rapidly. “No. No, no.”
“But you must have some thoughts on it, Nurse Marie.”
She presses a napkin to her lips, and glances at the door. Her eyes wander towards the other side of the house—the side the two older Lovejoy children inhabit.
“Emily? Joshua?” I whisper to her, my eyes on Cyril to make sure he can’t hear us.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I really don’t know. But they seem to dislike the little children so much, I have wondered…” She shakes her head to show she’s finished with the conversation and, standing from the table, she goes to Cyril’s side, helps him gather blocks.
Emily and Joshua. So the nursemaid agrees with the gardener.
Feeling the side of the teapot, I can tell the tea is too tepid to drink. “I’ll just go down to the kitchen and freshen the pot.”
As I pass the dining room, I hear the familiar clink of a stopper being replaced in the crystal decanter. Mrs Lovejoy walks from the room, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Mrs Lovejoy,” I say, remembering at the last moment to bob my head.
“Nurse…” She pauses in front of me and seems to have forgotten my name. “Nurse, tell Cyril I have to go out for most of the day, but I will visit him after supper.”
I bob again and watch her broad back as she sails towards the front door. I’m surprised she’s so steady on her feet, but she halts at the hallstand, rests her fingertips against it for several seconds.
“Are you in need of assistance, Mrs Lovejoy?”
She doesn’t even look my way. “No, Nurse, I’m just feeling a bit tired.” Her hand follows the contour of her swollen stomach, rests at its base.
I turn slowly and walk back towards the kitchen and as I reach its doorway I hear the front door close behind Mrs Lovejoy. I have to admit, I feel a little sorry for her. Despite her callous treatment of the first Mrs Lovejoy and her children, she seems to be paying a steep price now; which makes me think of those strange children again, Emily and Joshua.
“What are you pulling a face about?” asks Cook.
I laugh. “I was just thinking of the run-in I had last night with Crossley.” I give an exaggerated shudder.
Cook pulls a face too, and nudges Ruth, who’s back to work in the kitchen. “Horrible beast of a man, isn’t he, Ruth?”
The girl nods, her eyes widening, as she stirs batter in a large bowl.
I take a seat at the table while Cook sets the kettle on to boil for me. She points out lumps in the cake batter to Ruth, tells her to whisk harder.
“Crossley said you think he murdered the Lovejoys,” I say, looking from the cook to the girl.
“Stupid creature.” Cook considers for a moment. “Although he did find both bodies, and he was the one with good reason to be outside on each occasion. What do you say, Ruth?”
The girl shrugs and spoons the batter into a cake tin.
“But did he have reason to murder them?”
Cook takes a bunch of beans from a basket on the floor and slaps them down onto a board. “Master was always telling him he’d lose his job if he was caught drinking too much brandy again. Near lopped one of the master’s special shrubs to the ground, he did once, when he was supposed to be pruning ‘em.” She smiles at the memory. “A special plant all the way from somewhere in the Orient, it was.”
Her comment about the plant, of exotic places, reminds me of my friends—Pidgeon and Cosgrove and the others—and I wonder how they’re getting on. I’m reminded to buy a newspaper, see if there is any news on McBride’s death. I might even dash off a quick note to one of them—Cosgrove maybe—to see if their dreaded kungsi has contacted any of them again.
Cook refills the teapot and pours me a cup. It’s very settling watching her rhythmically chop the beans, followed by five crisp carrots. No wonder Amah spends so much time in the kitchen with Agneau. Maybe I should follow suit when I return home.
Ruth swipes batter from the inside of the bowl and licks it from her finger, smiling at me. She’s just pushing the bowl across the table for me to try when Nurse Marie runs into the room.
“Have you seen Cyril, Nurse Louise?” she gasps.
I stand from the table. “No. The last I saw of him he was with you in the nursery. What happened?”
“All I did was make his bed, and then when I came out again he was gone.”
“And you’ve checked all of upstairs?”
“Yes.” She hesitates. “Except for Emily and Joshua’s rooms.”
Ruth joins us as we weave from room to room calling Cyril’s name. Nurse Marie checks behind the sofas in the drawing room while Ruth flings open cupboard doors. I make my way upstairs and glance through the nursery and bedroom. He’s not there.
I meet the nursemaid and Ruth at the top of the stairs. Nurse Marie has started to breathe heavily. Each time she breathes in it sounds like a sob. Despite the looseness of my corset, my stomach constricts. She’s worried something awful has happened to him, something like what happened to Margaret, to Mr Lovejoy.
I touch the kitchen maid on the arm. “Ruth, you knock on Emily’s door, see if he’s there. Nurse Marie, you check Joshua’s room.”
I turn towards Mrs Lovejoy’s rooms. I know she’s gone out so I open the door, stick my head in. “Cyril? Cyril?” He’s not behind the sofa in her sitting room, nor is he under the table. There ar
e no bulges behind the curtains giving a small boy away. I peer out the window down into the gardens. I can just see the roof of the outhouse, veiled in branches from the oak tree. Please don’t let us find him there.
I walk through the connecting door into Mrs Lovejoy’s bedroom and step across the thick carpet, peep under the large bed. No Cyril. I look in the wardrobe, parting the gowns to make sure he’s not hiding beneath the voluminous skirts, but he’s not there either. This isn’t good. Where’s the little brute?
My eyes take in Mrs Lovejoy’s bed linen. Far too much lace and ribboning for my liking. But tucked under a mountain of pillows, so I can just see its leather corner, is a book. I lift it out. There is no title on the front and, thumbing through its pages, I see that they are covered in spiky handwriting. June 13 1859, Erasmus says we are to… Her diary.
Hearing footsteps approach Mrs Lovejoy’s room, I make a swift decision and ram the diary into my apron pocket.
“We still haven’t been able to find him, Nurse,” says Ruth. Nurse Marie stands close behind her. Her face is shiny with perspiration, her hair as messy as I’ve ever seen it.
“Just wait a little,” I say, rummaging around in my pocket. Sliding the diary in there has reminded me of the bounty I bought with Cyril the day before at the bakery. I take out a bag of hard candies and rattle them. “Cyril. Cyril,” I call, standing in the doorway between Mrs Lovejoy’s sitting room and the upper landing. “I have a lemon candy here for you. Be a good boy and come and collect it.”
The window seat in Mrs Lovejoy’s sitting room flings open from the inside. Cyril sits up, grinning. “I is here, Nursie.” His fingers curl in and out like he’s beckoning me. “Can I have my sweet now?”
CHAPTER 22
Peachy leaves flicker like bunting against the overcast sky. We’ve returned to the clearing in the park we shared with Hatch the day before, but this time I’ve had the forethought to bring a kerchief full of bread for Cyril to feed the ducks. I leave him by the side of the pond and take a seat on the bench.