The Coroner's Daughter

by Andrew Hughes

  The fire began to blaze, and a pleasant smell of wood-smoke replaced the room’s stale air. I held my palms towards it, glad that Ewan remained where he was, for I had no wish to be left in the room on my own. I undid the string of my bonnet, and laid it near the hearth to dry. Ewan picked up a larger piece of wood and placed it on the fire, dislodging some sparks that brushed up and over his hand.

  We heard the braying of laughter from the common room below, and Ewan seemed to break from his reverie. Before he could get up, I said, ‘The men in this village think me deluded.’

  ‘Perhaps the Reverend will convince them. But it doesn’t matter.’

  There was a scar on the heel of my hand from where I’d fallen some weeks before at Elyan the clockmaker’s. It was almost healed, just a white seam that traced the shape of the cut. Ewan saw the blemish and asked to look closer. He cradled my hand in his, then brushed his little finger over the line. He said, ‘There may always be a slight mark.’

  He looked at me without releasing my hand.

  I said, ‘It will be a reminder.’

  He smiled for a second, then his lips straightened again. His eyes seemed to flit over my face, as if he were searching it. I closed my fingers over his hand, and leaned closer.

  An ember in the fire burst. Several sparks swept over the hearth, and a few landed on my dress. We both looked down and began to brush them off. The fabric was still slightly damp so there was no real danger, but the startle made us bow our heads, and Ewan laughed slightly. He shifted backwards and stood up in one movement, and said that he had intruded for too long.

  ‘I’ll call on you in the morning, and we can start for home.’

  I got up as well. Ewan was about to offer help but then thought better of it. I wanted to thank him for coming, but he immediately nodded his head and turned to leave, not looking back as he closed the door. I couldn’t hear his footsteps in the hall so it seemed as though he’d paused for a moment outside. Then I heard the door opposite open and click shut.

  I stayed sitting by the fire for a while, and picked out more straw from the bed to clean my shoes. I would have preferred to stay seated all night rather than join whatever creatures inhabited my bed, but the chair was slight and wooden, and the stresses of the day meant I was weary and aching. I donned my bonnet again so as not to have to lay my head bare on the pillow, wrapped my coat about me and lay down over the covers.

  Sleep was a long time coming. I watched the fire dwindle, and heard the sounds in the common room get lower and lower as revellers drifted away. Soon all was dark and silent. Whenever I felt that I was about to drift off, some image would pass before my eyes: Devlin lifting Darby from behind, his arms tightening around his neck; or Darby in the back of the cart, the rain falling on his pallid face and the ravelled ends of the noose.

  The stillness in the room was broken by the muffled sound of horse’s hooves on the earthen street outside. They seemed to slow as they neared the inn and come to a brief halt, then continued on again.

  I slipped from the bed and went to the window. The only light from the room was the last glow of the fire, and I was sure to remain unseen from below. The street was just as dark. The rain had let up, and a pale moon was visible behind hazy clouds, but there were no lamps. Across the street, outside a low house, a man was standing on his own. His arms hung by his side, and he wore a stovepipe hat. I couldn’t see his face, but his head was inclined towards the upper floors of the inn. I watched him for a full minute, and all the time he hardly moved. Then his head jerked to the left. Two other men approached. They all greeted each other with cheerful voices and slapped backs, and the first man led them both into the house.

  I moved away from the window, and went to check again that my door was locked. There was a slight creaking in the hall outside, but when I listened again, silence. I opened the door a crack. Ewan had taken the chair from his room and was seated outside his door, legs straight out in front and crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his stomach and his chin resting on his chest in slumber. A candle guttered on the floor beside him, almost spent. I looked at him for a while, and thought of covering him with a blanket, but he’d surely wake up. I closed the door again as gently as I could, lay down on the bed, and was soon asleep.

  Coogan’s two-seater was light and quick, but it was open at the front, and I laid the blanket that he had given me over my lap. Ewan kept his eyes on the road and a tight grip on the reins. We spoke little for the first hour of the journey, and we both avoided mention of the clouds gathering again, even darker than they were the day before. With the next gust of wind, I felt the first drops on my face. The horse kept a steady pace, his mane shaking with each step, and his head beginning to bow, and soon the rain was falling in earnest.

  One of the wheels dipped into a pothole hidden by a puddle and we lurched to the left. I fell against Ewan and gripped his arm, but once he regained control we continued without slowing. The dark skies seemed to press against the treetops. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and though it was early in the afternoon it was as if we travelled at dusk.

  At the foot of a hill, a wide stream swollen by the rain crossed over the road. The horse splashed into it at first, seemingly undeterred, but then his step became hesitant. Before reaching the other side he stopped and stood stock still. He wouldn’t budge, despite Ewan flicking the reins and urging him on. The rain fell harder, and little could be heard above the burble of water and the heavy patter on the roof.

  Ewan handed me the reins and climbed down from his seat. The stream reached his shins. He rubbed the horse’s head for a few seconds, then took hold of the bridle and coaxed him forward. Once out of the water, Ewan looked back along the road for a few seconds. He fumbled to light the gig lantern, before climbing back under the hood.

  I said, ‘You’re soaked.’

  ‘I was wet already.’

  I unfolded my blanket so his legs were covered as well.

  We set off again, and the wheels skidded beneath us on the first sharp bend. The thinning of the trees made us more exposed to the headwind. It felt as though the hood could be folded back on its pleats, but there was nothing else for it. We had to push on.

  A copse of trees provided some shelter and Ewan pulled in for a moment. He lifted the edge of the blanket to dry his face, and reached into his coat for a pocket watch, which he held up to the light.

  ‘The stagecoach may be passing in an hour or two. Perhaps it would be best if we waited. You would be dry at least and I could follow.’

  ‘I won’t leave you alone.’

  ‘If the rain continues the road will become impassable for us, but not for a stagecoach.’

  ‘We can’t just sit here, Ewan,’ I said, looking beyond the trees to where the ground fell into a gorge. ‘The nearest village cannot be more than a few miles away. We’ll find an inn and shelter there.’

  He considered this, then nodded and we set off again. Either the road veered slightly, or the wind did, for we were buffeted from the side. A gust lifted one of the wheels from the surface, and I thought we might topple over. The horse was covered in mud up to his flanks, and the lantern tossed and swayed about, knocking against the frame of the roof. It became harder to see the potholes and bends, but then Ewan slowed and pointed between the trees. There were lights about half a mile in the distance.

  The road narrowed as we followed the contour of a hillside, and then straightened for a gentle decline, with hedges crowding on both sides. Something lay on the road up ahead. At first I thought it was a person stretched out, clothes all in a tangle. As we got closer we could see it was the bough of a tree, covered in gnarled shoots and dead leaves, its bark blackened but for a strip of pale wood where it had ripped from its bole. I looked up. None of the surrounding trees had lost such a hefty limb.

  It lay slantwise across the path, too big to skirt or drive over. Ewan reined in the horse and clambered down again. I offered to help but he said that it didn’t look heavy. He lift
ed the broken end with both hands and carried it to the verge, leaving a muddy trail of twigs and leaves in the road. As he let the branch fall, a man walked from behind the carriage and past the horse. He wore an oilskin hat and greatcoat, and carried a pistol by his side. I yelled Ewan’s name, but only in time for him to turn and receive a blow from the butt of the gun. He fell to his hands and knees, his head bowed, and his hat rolled in the mire.

  The man pointed the muzzle at the nape of Ewan’s neck, and I cried out for him to stop. He didn’t fire. Instead, he raised his hand and struck again. Ewan collapsed on the road, face down and unmoving. I took the reins from the seat beside me and lashed them, hoping the horse would spring forward, but he barely took a step. I slipped on to the road, behind the carriage and into the trees. The trunks were thin enough that I could move between them, but thorns in the undergrowth clawed at the hem of my skirts. I came upon a low stone wall and tried to climb over. My shoe slipped on a mossy rock. All I could hear was the rain and wind in the trees overhead. When I looked back he was almost upon me, the skin of his useless eyelid drooping enough to cover the socket, water dribbling from the slick brim of his hat, and the pistol raised against the grey, shifting sky.

  Cold was seeping against my elbow and shoulder, and the side of my face. Everything felt heavy, even my eyelids as I tried to open them. The chill spread about me like a cloak. I tried to lift my hand to wipe my face, but it wouldn’t move. My wrists were bound, wrapped several times in a cord no thicker than a bootlace, and my fingers were gripped together, the knuckles of one hand resting in the muck. When I concentrated, I could open my fingers, but they were stiff and unfeeling, and after a moment I had to close my eyes again because of dizziness.

  There was a point on my head just behind my ear that stung when the rain fell on it, a pain that became sharper the more I thought of it. The sleeve of my dress had stains all over, brown dirt and red blood merging into one rusty colour. I could taste metal at the corner of my mouth, and felt caked droplets with the tip of my tongue.

  The longer I kept my eyes closed, the warmer I became, so I forced them open, and stared at some buttercups wilting in the wet grass. I was on a verge, the trees looming overhead. The rutted surface of the roadway was only a few feet in front. Ewan lay in the middle of it, almost on his back, his knees bent and pointing upwards. His face was tilted towards me, eyes closed, a streak of blood running from beneath his temple and across his cheek. My vision blurred, and my chest hurt as I took a long breath, but I didn’t say his name.

  On the far side of the road, Devlin stood beside Coogan’s horse and carriage. The horse’s head almost rested on his shoulder, and he was caressing it, speaking into its ear. This wasn’t the place where the branch had blocked our path. We were further up the hill, where the road had bent sharply. Devlin stood back, still rubbing the horse’s nose, and he took hold of the reins just beneath the bridle. He coaxed the horse forward by a step, then another, and began leading it towards the far verge, where the ground fell into the gorge below. The drop wasn’t steep, and without the carriage the horse might have been able to walk down, but the left wheel crossed over the lip and began to list. Still he brought the horse further over the side. Its step became hesitant, and Devlin had to pull on the bridle to keep the horse moving.

  After a few more paces, it would go no further. I could still see the top of its back over the lip of the road. Both wheels of the carriage were over the edge. The horse was stuck. It refused to go forward, and couldn’t back up. If it tried to turn about the carriage would topple over. It would have to be unhitched before it could be moved.

  Ewan was unconscious. His features didn’t flicker as the rain fell on his face. Blood seeped from his wound, which meant that his heart was still beating. I lifted my hands again, and tried to move my wrists beneath the cord. They were held fast. I picked at the top of the rope with my fingertips, but couldn’t get a grip, and my head swam from the effort.

  Devlin took the pistol from beneath his coat. He blew into the muzzle, cocked the gun, and then placed it close to the horse’s eye. At the last second, he raised it slightly and fired. The bang and muzzle-flash caused the horse to lurch forward, only a step or two, but it lost its footing in the soft ground, and the carriage behind tilted and began to fall down the slope. The car remained balanced with one wheel raised aloft for a few seconds, then collapsed downwards, dragging at the horse until all disappeared from view. I could hear its screams, and the crashing as the carriage rolled in the undergrowth. Devlin stood on the lip of the slope looking down. He remained still until the horse’s weak cries ceased and all else became silent.

  Devlin placed the pistol inside the lapel of his coat. He moved back to the road, hoisted Ewan beneath both armpits, and began dragging him towards the edge of the drop. After a moment he stopped, and examined the furrows that Ewan’s heels were leaving in the surface. He began sweeping them with his own boots, and seemed content that he would be able to conceal them, for he lifted Ewan again.

  I pushed myself up on my elbows, and managed to shout for him to stop. Devlin cocked his head, as if to look at me squarely with his good eye. Once he saw that I was still bound, he continued with his task.

  I brought my wrists to my mouth and began biting on the cord. It was stiff and wiry, and tasted of oil, and I could hardly get a purchase. The feeling of sickness came over me again, and I had to lower my head. I thought of Father alone in the house, and Jimmy and Mrs Perrin. When would they get word? In a day or two? Would Father come and collect me himself? How many times had he gone on such trips to view the dead, always someone else’s child or loved one, someone else’s tragedy?

  In the gully below, the horse let out another scream, and Devlin once more let Ewan down to go and look.

  He had planned everything well. What would people say? That Darby had hanged himself in his old parish; that the coroner’s daughter and assistant were killed in a carriage accident on a stormy evening. Perhaps Coogan could convince them of what we had told him, unless Devlin had plans for him as well.

  Once more he took up Ewan and dragged him to the verge. I rolled on to my side so I wouldn’t have to see. I tried to push myself up, but still wasn’t strong enough, and the effort made my stomach heave. Something dug into my hip. A stone perhaps. No, it was in my pocket: Devlin’s glass eye. Did he know that it was with me? If they found that later, would it be enough to raise suspicion?

  Father would come out here, even in his grief. He would not examine me himself, but he would insist that someone do it -the Wicklow coroner perhaps. I had to show them something: bite my palm, or rip my clothes, or chafe my wrists. The cord was tight, but I did my best to rub my hands back and forth. I could feel little effect, and besides, how could they be sure that any injury was not caused by the fall?

  The buttercups dotted in the verge continued to quiver in the wind. I reached both my hands out to pluck one, placed it in my mouth, and tried to swallow it whole. It stuck in my throat, but, though I coughed several times, I was able to get it down. I picked another and swallowed that as well. Then reached out for a third.

  A hand gripped my shoulder. Devlin pulled me over and sat me up, and I could see that he had left Ewan on the verge of the road. He cupped my chin and squinted at me. ‘What are you doing?’

  I tried to lift my bound wrists to push him away, but hadn’t the strength.

  He shook my face. ‘I said, what are you doing?’

  I looked at him in his good eye, and spoke in a voice I could barely hear myself. ‘I am leaving him something.’

  He frowned, and looked down at my mouth. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It is a message for my father.’

  He dragged me to my knees and pushed an index finger into my mouth, hooking his thumb under my jaw. His jagged fingernail scraped over my tongue and the roof of my mouth, and I could taste salt on his skin. I bit down, felt the bone twist beneath his finger, the warmth of his blood, and he wrenched his hand aw
ay with an angry cry.

  Devlin grabbed the front of my dress. He had raised his fist and was ready to strike when a shot rang out. He turned his head sharply as if startled. His grip loosened, and when he looked back at me his drooping eyelid was just a tattered piece of skin, hanging torn and ragged. The hair above his temple was matted in blood, which began to flow over his cheek in a stream. His good eye swivelled, as if trying to observe what had happened, and then he toppled over, without lifting his arms to break his fall.

  16

  Professor Reeves and his coachman laid Ewan on one of the seats, wrapped me in coats and placed me on the other. The professor knelt in the space between, a cloth pressed against the wound on Ewan’s head, which was still seeping. Two pistols lay on the carriage floor amid the grit and muddy shoe prints — the professor’s, and the one retrieved from Devlin’s body. Ewan was so pale, except for streaks of red on his face from where the blood had been wiped away. For a moment his eyes opened. He frowned and tried to raise his head. The professor told him to settle, but Ewan looked about until his eyes met with mine. He quietened, let a breath out through his mouth, and closed his eyes again.

  I couldn’t get warm, and may have drifted off once or twice during the short, swaying journey. The wheels crunched through a winding gravel driveway, and I saw the domed roof of the observatory through the trees, the windows of its equatorial room lit in the grey afternoon. I was able to walk, so the elderly housekeeper, Miss Pike, assisted me into the house, while Ewan was carried to another room. She took my dress, said that she would wash it, and gave me a nightgown to wear -rather old-fashioned, but clean and dry.

  I sat huddled by the fire in a tartan blanket that smelled of tobacco while she washed the blood from my hair with a bowl of warm water. She tutted every now and again, though I didn’t ask if that was from the sight of the wound or just the tangles.

  I sipped from a glass of water containing drops of laudanum, and after a while the aches drained from my body. ‘I don’t think I was able to properly thank the professor.’