The Coroner's Daughter

by Andrew Hughes

  Eventually, Mrs Perrin said that we shouldn’t discuss these things in front of Jimmy, though the topic was already exhausted. The conversation turned to other subjects. Clarissa had arrived with news of a ball to be hosted in Charlemont House at the start of August. She relished these occasions: the anticipation and spectacle, the music and dancing. She enjoyed them because she fitted in so well. She was beautiful and carried herself gracefully; she could talk with anyone, and never seemed ill at ease.

  I was less enthusiastic. ‘The season was supposed to end in late spring. I thought these gatherings were done with for another year.’

  ‘Usually they would be, but there’s nothing to do in the countryside in weather like this,’ she said. ‘Everyone is returning to the city.’

  I’d once spent a winter with cousins in Meath so I knew she was right. Estate houses could be bleak and draughty places, especially when cut off by muddy roads and swollen rivers.

  ‘It’ll be amusing, Abby. Anything for some diversion.’

  ‘I’m just not looking forward to practising dance-steps in my room with an invisible partner.’

  ‘Jimmy can help,’ she said.

  He looked at me and smiled uncertainly, but his mother said, ‘Miss Egan is teasing, Jimmy. Pay her no mind.’

  The sounds of a crowd could be heard up ahead, and the carriage slowed. There were shouts, as well as the high keening voices of women. Smoke came rolling from two tall chimneys on a building adjacent to Clarke’s Bridge. There was only one gated entrance, where a line of soldiers kept a shifting mass of men and women at bay.

  Barefooted youngsters clung to their mothers’ frayed skirts. I saw one infant with his head lolling over his father’s elbow. The men pushed forward against raised muskets and bayonets, and the red coats of the soldiers stood out against the tattered rags of the crowd.

  Jimmy said, ‘What do they want?’

  I raised the window and secured the latch. ‘It’s a soup kitchen, Jimmy. They want something to eat.’

  The carriage had almost come to a halt, and we could hear Liam shouting for people to make way. Others wandered past our windows on both sides. Mrs Perrin put her knitting into the bag, but she kept one needle on the seat next to her. The road was too narrow for us to turn, and the further we went towards the canal, the closer the press of people seemed to be.

  A young woman in a black dress pushed her way to the front and began remonstrating with one of the soldiers. She reached out to grasp his coat and the baldric that ran diagonally over his chest. He stepped away, then in one quick movement swung the butt of his rifle into the woman’s jaw. Her head snapped back, and she crumpled out of sight.

  The people near the front surged forward, incensed by the strike, and the soldiers re-formed their line, elbowing and shoving against the advance. An officer with silver epaulettes disengaged from the others to stand behind them. He loaded his musket, withdrew the slim ramrod to compress a bullet into the barrel, then replaced the rammer calmly despite the turmoil all around. He raised the musket at an angle that would barely clear the heads of the people, and fired.

  The muzzle flashed with a loud bang and cloud of smoke, and everyone in the front line ducked. Others in the crowd, especially mothers with young children, hurried from the building. The soldiers used the moment’s respite to retreat behind the wall and shut the gate.

  Mrs Perrin struck her fist against the ceiling and called for Liam to drive ahead. He attempted to do so, but after a few jerking movements, we came to a standstill.

  The people had settled, aware that the shot had been a distraction. For a few moments they wandered around the carriage, as if oblivious to its presence. Then, one by one, they approached and began to peer through the glass. An old man with a gaunt face and chapped lips squinted at me. I slipped my fingers through the door handle, ready to resist should he attempt to open it. A woman appeared beside Mrs Perrin’s window. She carried a toddler in her arms, a freckled boy with blond curls and serious eyes. He placed a slender hand against the glass and drew his fingers across, leaving a long curving streak.

  Other faces crowded the window. Mrs Perrin told Jimmy to stay still. She said that everything would be all right. I couldn’t fathom why Liam wasn’t acting, but then realized that if he made a rash move – the flick of a lash, or a voiced urging of the horses – it could spell disaster. For the first time in my life, I was scared of my own countrymen. I didn’t know whether to sit upright and defiant, or to shrink back in my seat.

  A woman only a few years my senior, with straight black hair swept behind her ears, surveyed the inside of the carriage, and then looked at me directly. I returned her gaze, without raising my chin or bowing my head. Finally, she gestured to the front of the carriage and called out, ‘Clear a path.’

  After a moment, a male voice said the same thing, and then several others. The people on the roadway moved aside and regarded us silently as we passed. The horses crested the hump of Clarke’s Bridge and, as the road widened, Liam urged them to gather pace.

  We neared the city limits. The houses became scarce, and after a few minutes Liam pulled in by the fields of Loves-charity. He clambered down and opened the door beside Mrs Perrin. ‘Is everyone all right?’

  I said that we were. ‘I think the greater danger was posed by the musketeer.’

  Mrs Perrin said, ‘Nonsense. It’s not right that people can’t travel through the streets unmolested.’

  ‘They did not molest us.’

  She was going to reply, but then turned to Liam. ‘And why didn’t you drive on?’

  ‘There were children in the way. But if they had attempted to do anything . . .’

  Jimmy said quietly, ‘What would they have attempted?’

  ‘Nothing, Jimmy,’ I said. ‘They were hungry, that is all.’

  Mrs Perrin and Liam discussed whether they should return home, and by which route. I said it would be best to continue to the coast as planned. The crowd would disperse in time, and on the way back we could choose our path with care.

  There was no more conversation as we journeyed on. A smell of sulphur hung in the air near the vitriol works in Ballybough. Beyond that lay a small Jewish burial ground, with listing headstones bearing letters in Hebrew. Finally, we reached the coast road. The tide was partially out. A large expanse of mudflats and sandbars lay before us, with creeks and rivulets winding through the strand. We disembarked at the oyster sheds. Tendrils of smoke escaped from slats in the curing-houses. Liam took the carriage into the stables of an inn to refresh the horses. Jimmy and his mother went off to buy supplies, while Clarissa and I wandered towards the North Bull Wall: a tide breaker that extended straight into the bay. Mrs . Perrin told us to remain on the drier gravel beds, and not to venture too far out.

  With our mantles tied and hoods raised, we began to ramble over the shingle. Occasionally I’d bend down to inspect a smooth pebble or scallop shell. We went out on to the sea wall, though the water’s edge was still in the distance, dull grey and indistinct against the sky’s hazy pall. The breeze grew stronger, whipping our cloaks about our legs, and it was uncanny to see the dry fog remain static despite the buffeting.

  A few people could be seen among the oyster beds in the middle distance, hunched beside wicker baskets. Some oyster-catchers were pecking and winkling morsels from the eelgrass. They all took flight at once, and I saw a fox padding over the rippled sand, his white paws caked in mud. A heron remained standing poised and erect, its long bill turned towards the interloper. The fox came quite near to it, and raised his muzzle to test the air, but perhaps he had run afoul of a heron’s beak before, for he left it alone.

  Clarissa said, ‘There are people at the water’s edge.’

  She pointed to a group of around thirty near the breakers, mostly dressed in black, with a dozen or so conspicuous in long white robes. They were gathered around a man who stood apart and was preaching to them, though his words were carried off by the wind. Even at a distance I could t
ell it was Mr Darby. I looked at the Brethren all standing together. Could Emilie’s seducer be there, huddled among them on this windy beach?

  ‘Let’s get closer.’

  Clarissa pulled at my sleeve. ‘No, Abby. Let’s just leave them.’

  ‘But I want to hear what Mr Darby is saying.’

  She relented, and we picked our way towards the crowd. All the men wore identical black coats with bent metal hooks instead of buttons, including Darby. He spoke quite naturally, without the heavy tones of other preachers, but I only caught snatches of what he said before the ceremony began. As we got near, those in white robes were brought to the edge of the water, including an old man who was carried on a chair. Two men in dark coats waded out to the level of their waists, one holding a Bible aloft.

  I said to Clarissa, ‘Does Mr Darby not perform the rites?’

  ‘In the Brethren, any member can preach and administer the sacraments without ordination.’ She glanced at me. ‘Though I’d say Darby just doesn’t want to get his feet wet.’

  I laughed quietly, enough for a woman to look towards us. It was Mrs Nesham, dressed in black like the others, her dark hair tightly pinned beneath a white cap. She held my eye for a moment, before turning away.

  The first woman to be baptized walked into the sea. Her white gown became soaked and clung to her, and I shivered at the thought of how cold the water must be. She stood between the two men, then knelt down facing the shore. One of them began speaking while the other held a white cloth draped over an opened palm. At the last moment he covered the woman’s face, and both men pushed her head beneath the water. The force of the action surprised me. They held her submerged for several seconds before allowing her up. She gasped and clawed at the hair plastered over her face. Those on the beach muttered a prayer unprompted, sounding almost like a collective sigh.

  Mrs Nesham had gone to stand next to Darby. She spoke into his ear, and he glanced over his shoulder towards me.

  The newly baptized woman emerged on to the beach, sodden and trembling like the last survivor of a shipwreck. She was bundled up in blankets by waiting Brethren members. The old man was next, and he was borne into the sea, chair and all.

  Clarissa said, ‘Let’s go. This is unnerving.’

  One of the women awaiting her turn carried a small boy. He also wore a white gown, which made his skin seem all the more pale. His low sobbing was interrupted by racking coughs, and his head rested weakly on his mother’s shoulder.

  I told Clarissa to wait, and began walking towards him. The young mother had dark hair and tired, staring eyes. I touched her shoulder.

  ‘Perhaps you should wait until the weather is warmer.’

  A few of the members around me began to mutter, but none spoke up. The woman looked at me, held her child closer and said, ‘He can’t wait.’

  ‘Summer will return soon, and the water won’t be as cold.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because . . . it must.’ I had no real way of knowing, of course, and it seemed wrong to tell her that I merely believed it.

  I felt a hand on my elbow. ‘This woman needs to prepare herself for what she’s about to undertake.’

  Mr Darby had spoken softly. He was taller than me, and there was a slight upturn to his lips as if he were amused. His hazel eyes were very still.

  ‘I am worried for him,’ I said. ‘That his sickness might worsen.’

  Darby reached out to rub his thumb over the boy’s forehead. The child scrunched his eyes shut.

  ‘Do you really think that God would allow harm to befall him? Besides, Miss Abigail,’ he said, glancing at me as he spoke my name, ‘I know of a danger far greater.’ He fixed the wide collar on the boy’s gown, smoothing it over his thin shoulders. ‘There is always such regret when a child must meet his maker unprepared. Do you not agree?’

  ‘Like Miss Casey’s son?’

  His expression didn’t change. He seemed ready to speak again, but then the young mother was called upon. Without hesitation she began walking into the sea. I said to Darby, ‘She would stop if you told her.’

  He cocked his head a little, as if confused. ‘It is really not my decision to make.’ With that, he turned and moved through the crowd towards Mrs Nesham. Members of the Brethren parted way as I went back to Clarissa. I didn’t look as the child was being baptized, but I heard the splash, followed by his weak, plaintive cry.

  Francis Roberts and Annie Stamp lay together beneath a sheet in my father’s workrooms, completely covered except for Annie’s yellow hair, which streamed on to the table-top. They’d never met in life. He had been a middle-aged labourer from Mayo, whose most recent abode was the House of Industry in Grangegorman, and she was a beggar and prostitute who’d come from the female penitentiary at Newgate. The only thing that they held in common was their date of death – a curious shared destiny. No one had come to claim them, for Francis was too far removed from his family in the west, and Annie was disowned. They had died from a combination of the damp in their respective cells, and diseases from their respective trades, and my father had no need to examine them. All that was required was sanction from his office for their transfer to the anatomists.

  I sat alone beside them awaiting Ewan’s arrival. The wall-clock above the table whirred into action. Years ago, Father grew weary of the distraction from its peal and had the chime removed. Still, the hammer diligently struck the air eight times.

  There were steps on the pathway outside. Ewan came up to the workroom carrying an inkpot and pen, with some printed forms clasped beneath the same arm. He failed to notice me in the corner, and went towards his own desk, snuffling while reaching into a pocket for his handkerchief. He’d returned to work a few days ago, though I hadn’t seen him since the night Father sent him from the house.

  I said, ‘May I speak with you?’

  Even the most stoic can be unnerved by an unexpected voice in a room containing dead people, and Ewan dropped his inkpot on to the table. It bounced and rolled, but he recovered his poise before it could fall to the floorboards.

  ‘Miss Lawless, I am not sure we should—’

  ‘I didn’t get the chance to apologize,’ I said. ‘I never intended for things to happen as they did, and I’m sorry. I feel terrible that you were punished because of me.’

  He looked at me for a moment. I thought he was about to claim responsibility for the incident once again, but then he nodded and began shuffling the forms on his desk.

  In the silence, I rose to push Miss Stamp’s tresses beneath the cover. Her hair was clean, and I smoothed down the sheet as if fussing over an unmade bed. ‘Were you able to study at home during the last week?’

  He said he’d used his unexpected leisure to explore the city, which he’d never had the chance to do before.

  ‘That must have been nice,’ I said. ‘Did you hear what happened to Emilie Casey?’

  ‘Yes, your father sent word.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it quite often.’

  ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself, Miss Lawless. Miss Casey wasn’t of sound mind.’

  ‘I meant, I was wondering how she managed it.’

  ‘Your father didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Yes, I heard all about the broken glass. It is just . . . we saw her being strapped to the bed, Ewan.’

  He looked to the side as if trying to recall, then pulled one of the forms from his sheaf to set on the leather inlay of his desk. ‘Those restraints may have been temporary.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘She was brought here for examination, during your absence.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘Father’s notes on the case will be in the ledger.’

  ‘Yes.’ He glanced across to Francis Roberts hidden beneath the sheet, and took up his pen. ‘How do you spell Ballyhaunis?’

  ‘I don’t have a key to the cabinet.’

  ‘If you want to see your father’s notes, then I suggest you ask him.�
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  ‘He’d refuse me.’

  ‘Then why would I go against his wishes?’

  I was about to argue, but instead I spelled out the name of the Mayo town.

  As he wrote, I said, ‘I’ll leave now, and won’t ask again. But only if you can tell me honestly that you don’t intend to look at these notes in my absence.’

  His pen stilled, and he raised the nib before the ink could blot. He finished filling in the form, seeming to take special care with each letter. Then he rose and took a small key from his pocket, with which he unlocked a shuttered cabinet in the corner. It contained a series of cloth-bound ledgers: Father’s notes of his examinations in chronological order. Ewan pulled out the most recent book and flipped it open to its final entry.

  When I didn’t move, he looked across at me, gesturing at the page. ‘Don’t you want to see?’

  I rounded the desk to stand beside him, and we both leaned down to read. The form was a mixture of printed words and my father’s own handwriting.

  I Michael Lawless examined the body and investigated the circumstances of this death, and certify that death occurred on 8th July 1816 between the hours of 12 and 6 in the a.m. and that in my opinion resulted from . . .

  Several options were printed in parentheses: natural causes; accident; homicide; undetermined; but all were crossed out by neat double-strokes except for the word ‘suicide’. The form continued:

  The causes of death were: Two lacerations to the ulnar artery above the radiocarpal joint of the right hand by means of a piece of broken glass.

  Ewan distractedly ran a thumb over his own wrist. He said, ‘A shard from the jug must have lodged in her bedclothes.’

  Beneath the printed section, there was space on the page for notes and observations. Ewan pointed to question-marks dotted throughout, saying they were my father’s way of noting oddities or unanticipated elements. The first one said, Absence of tentative wounds?