Workhouse Angel

by Holly Green

  Towards midday she came to place where the road bridged another stream. She was thirsty and her feet were aching, so she climbed down and scooped up water to drink. Then she leaned her back against the side of the bridge and closed her eyes. The day was warm and very soon she was asleep.

  The clip-clop of hooves and the rumble of wheels woke her with a start, and she shrank back under the shelter of the bridge, but the vehicle, whatever it was, passed on without stopping. She got to her feet and shook grass seeds from her clothes. The sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon and she realised she had slept for several hours. If she was going to find anywhere to shelter for the night she must hurry on.

  She was stiff from sleeping in an awkward position and her stomach felt hollow. Her courage was at a low ebb and she was beginning to wish that she had stayed in the convent until her father came to collect her and endured whatever punishment he chose to mete out; but it was too late to go back now. She took another drink from the stream, climbed back up to the road and plodded on. As the light faded and the blisters on her feet grew worse, she started to whimper aloud. She was hungry and frightened and there seemed no prospect of finding shelter. She thought of the nuns and wondered if they were looking for her, and of her own bedroom back in Liverpool, with Lizzie bringing her bread and milk for supper. Why was she here, on her own like this? she asked herself. What had she done that was so terrible? ‘I did try to be good,’ she sobbed. ‘I did really!’

  Sometime later her attention was caught by a glimmer of light. Up ahead, a fire was burning. At last it seemed she was nearing some form of human habitation. She limped forward, expecting to come to a house of some sort. Instead, she saw a caravan and a rough shelter formed of twisted branches with a canvas roof thrown over them. In front a campfire burned brightly and a group of people were sitting round it. She drew closer, hesitantly. There were six adults and three children. A woman of middle age or older was bending over the fire, stirring something in a blackened pot. Another, younger, had a baby at her breast. There were four men, one older and three younger. They were all sitting at their ease in the warmth of the fire, while the children chased each other round the wheels of the caravan. None of them had noticed Angelina on the road beyond the circle of firelight. There was something on a spit over the fire and the smell that rose from it brought the saliva into her mouth. She approached timidly, and at once a large dog rushed out from under the caravan, barking furiously. Angelina turned to run.

  ‘Hey, hold on there! He won’t harm you. Come back.’

  It was the oldest man who had called her. She stopped and looked round. The dog was chained to the wheel of the caravan and at a command from the man it slunk back to its former position.

  ‘Don’t worry. There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ the man said. ‘Come to the fire.’

  Angelina went cautiously forwards. The older of the two women looked up.

  ‘It’s late for a young maid like you to be out alone. Where are your folks?’

  ‘I haven’t got any.’

  ‘Come now, that can’t be so. You haven’t sprung out of the ground like a weed. Would you be fancying a bowl of soup, lassie?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ As she spoke weariness swept over her like a wave and her legs seemed to give way under her.

  ‘Whoa now!’ The man caught her as she stumbled. ‘Sit you down. Dervla, give her some soup. The child’s famished.’

  There was a heap of blankets near the fire, and he guided Angelina to it and lowered her gently down. A bowl of broth and a spoon were placed in her hands. It was a moment before the mists cleared from her brain sufficiently for her to raise the spoon to her mouth, but then she did not stop until the bowl was empty.

  When she finally looked up, she found she was being studied by six pairs of eyes, but, although there was curiosity in them, there was no hostility.

  ‘Now then,’ the older man said, ‘tell us what you are running away from.’

  The kindness in his voice and her own exhaustion swept away her defences. ‘I was at the school, in the convent, but they were angry with me. They sent for my father to fetch me home, but I can’t go home. I can’t!’

  ‘In the convent, you say,’ the woman said. ‘Did the nuns beat you?’

  ‘No, but my mother will, if I go back.’

  ‘Your mother beats you?’

  ‘Yes. They sent me away because they were angry with me, but if I have to go back I don’t know what they will do to me.’

  The woman said something to the man in a language Angelina could not understand. He replied, and the woman said, in English, ‘You can stay here with us for tonight. Don’t be afraid. We’ll not give you to the authorities. We’ve no love for the polis. You can rest easy and in the morning we’ll talk more. Now, try a bit of this.’

  One of the younger men had taken whatever it was that was roasting off the spit and was carving it up. Angelina was given some on a plate, with a piece of flat bread. The children were called to the fire and they all settled down to eat, talking amongst themselves in their own language. By the time she had finished eating, Angelina’s head was nodding, and the woman touched her arm.

  ‘Come. I’ll show you where you can sleep.’

  She took her into the caravan and sat her on a bunk set into the side. ‘Let’s have those boots off.’

  She pulled off her boots and clucked in disapproval. ‘You’re not used to walking, that’s easy to see. Your poor feet are in a terrible state. Never mind, we’ll deal with them in the morning. Lie yourself down now.’

  Angelina lay down and the woman put a blanket over her. For a while she lay awake, listening to the soft voices outside. Her stomach was full; she was in a warm, safe place. Her instinct told her that these people meant her no harm.

  Very soon she slept.

  Thirteen

  ‘We can be pretty sure about one thing. Angelina is not the daughter of Connor McBride’s deceased sister-in-law, as he makes out.’

  James was sitting with Richard Kean and Mr Weaver in the solicitor’s office.

  ‘Just a moment,’ Weaver said. ‘All we really know is that Connor McBride is not the owner of a large estate in Ballymagorry. It is possible that he is the same person as Finn O’Connor, who was sent to England in disgrace, but we cannot be sure of that. If he is not, then it is still possible that he has, or had, a brother somewhere in Ireland whose wife gave birth to Angelina.’

  ‘But why would he tell everyone that he had land in Ballymagorry? Why that tiny, out-of-the-way village rather than anywhere else?’ James was annoyed that his conclusions were being questioned.

  ‘Perhaps because it is tiny and out of the way. He thought no one would ever go there to discover his deception.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ Richard put in, ‘that the whole matter rests on the question of whether Connor McBride and Finn O’Connor are one and the same person. If they are, then his whole tale is a pack of lies.’

  ‘True.’ Weaver’s nose was twitching violently. ‘James, did your informant say he was sent to a cousin who was connected to the tea trade?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘You remember I said the name rang a bell?

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘While you were away I had a drink with my old friend Inspector Vane. I asked him if the name McBride meant anything to him. It did. About nine or ten years ago he received a complaint from a Mr Michael O’Connor, a tea importer. His warehouse had burnt down, and he accused Connor McBride of being behind it. There was never enough proof to take the matter further so the case was dropped; but I think we may have found the cousin.’

  ‘If so, why would McBride burn down his cousin’s warehouse?’ Richard wondered.

  ‘Why did he change his name from O’Connor to McBride?’ James said. ‘Presumably he had a reason to conceal his identity. Perhaps O’Connor threatened to reveal it.’

  ‘Is this O’Connor still in business?’ Richard asked. ‘Can we speak to him?’

&
nbsp; ‘It seems he went bankrupt soon after the fire,’ Weaver said. ‘But Vane did have an address for him. Whether he is still there, who knows, but we could find out.’

  The address given by Inspector Vine was in Pownall Street, not far from the docks. As soon as James could get away from the office, he and Richard made their way there. They found a solidly built, respectable house, which nonetheless bore signs of neglect in the cracked paint of the front door and the grimy windows. Their knock was answered by a thin-faced young girl in a dirty apron.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ James began. ‘We are looking for Mr O’Connor. Does he still live here?’

  The girl wiped the back of her hand across her nose. ‘Who wants him?’

  James produced his card. ‘You might tell him that we are enquiring about the fire that burnt down his warehouse.’

  The girl took the card and disappeared down a dingy hallway. A few minutes later she reappeared and invited them to walk in. A white-haired old man rose from a chair by the hearth, in which a small fire smouldered, although the atmosphere in the room was close and stuffy.

  ‘I’m Michael O’Connor. What do you want?’

  Richard took the lead. ‘We need your help, sir. It is a matter of considerable importance to me. I wish to establish the true identity of the man who calls himself Connor McBride.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with the fire that ruined my business? I thought you said you had come about that.’

  ‘I understand,’ James said, ‘you told the police that you thought McBride was behind the fire.’

  ‘So? There was never any proof. I know who was responsible, but what good does that do me? I’ve no wish to meddle with that man. I’ve suffered enough already. So unless you have come to offer me some form of compensation I’ll bid you good day.’

  ‘Do you have children?’ Richard began urgently, ‘because if …’

  James cut across his appeal. ‘We cannot offer compensation in monetary terms, sir. But would it be some comfort to you to see McBride unmasked?’

  ‘Unmasked, you say? How?’

  ‘As an imposter, for one thing. We believe that his real name is Finn O’Connor and he was sent here from Ireland to work for you, to get him out of the way because he had caused trouble there.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I have been to Ballymagorry and spoken to the local priest. I believe O’Connor, or McBride if you prefer, had some reason to wish to conceal his identity and you threatened to expose him and that is why your warehouse was burnt down.

  The old man sank back into his chair. ‘Sit down, both of you and I’ll tell you what I know. Short of murder, there’s nothing more he can do to hurt me now, and I should be glad to see him held up before the world for what he is.’

  Richard caught James’s eye and nodded appreciation. They drew two chairs closer and the old man looked from one to the other before fastening his gaze on James. ‘You say he was sent here because he was causing trouble? What sort of trouble?’

  ‘I understand he got a local girl pregnant.’

  O’Connor gave a derisive snort. ‘Oh aye, very likely. But that wasn’t the real reason. He’d got himself involved with the Fenians.’

  ‘Fenians?’ Richard said, puzzled.

  ‘You’ve been out of the country, so you won’t have heard about them,’ James said. ‘It’s a group of men who want Ireland to be an independent country. There was some sort of rising last year, but it went off at half cock and all the leaders were arrested. But there’s been trouble over here, too. They attacked Chester castle, and planted a bomb in Clerkenwell.’ He returned his attention to O’Connor. ‘McBride was involved with them, you say? So what happened when he was sent here to work for you?’

  ‘Finn O’Connor was his name then, as you’ve rightly guessed. I could see he was going to cause more trouble here if he got the chance, so I sent him off to India.

  I had an interest in a tea plantation out there, so I sent him out as an under-manager, to learn the trade from the bottom up. I hoped that would knock the Fenian nonsense out of him.’

  ‘Do you think it did?’

  ‘I have no idea. He’d not been there more than a year when he disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared? How?’

  ‘Just walked off the plantation and was never seen again, until he turned up here with a pocket full of cash and a new name.’

  ‘Have you any idea what he had been doing?’

  ‘None at all. Those were troubled times in India. The East India Company was still angry about losing its monopoly of the tea trade, still throwing its weight about. It was about the time of the Indian Mutiny that Finn went missing. I assumed he’d been caught up in it and killed.’

  ‘So what happened when he came back here?’

  ‘He set himself up in the tea trade and made a bid to drive any competition out of the market. He was undercutting prices and intimidating workers. He’d changed his appearance, but I recognised him. I went to see him and told him that if he went on as he was doing I’d report him to the authorities and tell them about his history with the Fenians. The next night, my warehouse was set on fire. I wasn’t insured and it bankrupted me. So now you know the story. What’s your interest?’

  Richard leaned forward in his chair. ‘Did you ever come across his adopted daughter?’

  ‘I heard tell of her. Never saw her.’

  ‘His story was that she was the child of a deceased brother.’

  ‘Finn O’Connor never had a brother.’

  ‘That’s what we discovered in Ballymagorry,’ James said.

  ‘The point is,’ Richard went on, ‘I believe she is my daughter, who I was forced to abandon in the workhouse. I was down and out at the time, but now I’m in funds again and I want her back. We just want to prove that the child he adopted came from the workhouse, not from someone in his family.’

  ‘I can’t help you there,’ the old man said.

  ‘You have helped,’ Richard told him. ‘We know now that McBride is really Finn O’Connor and that Angelina cannot have come to him in the way he says. And perhaps you have given us a lever to use to persuade him to give her up.’

  ‘If you take my advice, you won’t mess with that man. He’s dangerous and he never forgives anyone who crosses him.’

  Richard got up. ‘That just makes me all the more determined to get my daughter out of his clutches.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m very grateful to you for talking to us, sir.’

  ‘Talk is cheap, as they say. But heed my warning. He did for me and he’ll do for you, if you’re not careful.’

  Walking back towards the river, Richard’s step was light. ‘That proves it. Angelina is my daughter. Now all we have to do is find her.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ James said cautiously. ‘We can prove that McBride’s story about her origin is false, but that does not necessarily mean that the child he adopted is your daughter. We don’t even know that he found her in the workhouse.’

  ‘There must be some way we can establish that,’ Richard said. ‘I’ve a good mind to go there and shake the information out of that sanctimonious bastard of a governor.’

  ‘And get yourself arrested?’

  ‘What then? We seem to be going round in circles. Someone, somewhere, must know the truth. What about your … what about May? She was sure she recognised her, you told me. Is there no chance she could produce some conclusive evidence?’

  ‘I have written to her, asking exactly that, though it’s hard to know what that evidence might be. I’ve asked her to draw a sketch of Angelina as she remembers her. She’s a talented artist but we’re asking her to go back years, so it may not help. Either way, my letter will not have reached her yet and we cannot expect a reply for several months.’

  ‘So why don’t we go and confront McBride, and demand that he tells us the truth. We have a lever we can use, as you said.’

  ‘You heard O’Connor. He’s a dangerous man. I don’t want my house burnt down,
and I don’t want to see you fished out of the Mersey with a gash in your skull. And we have to consider Angelina herself. He has already sent her away somewhere. We need to know where.’

  ‘I see your point,’ Richard conceded. He sighed and kicked a pebble in a gesture of frustration. ‘So how do we do that?’

  ‘I don’t know, at the moment … short of contacting every girls’ boarding school in the country and asking if she has been enrolled there – and I doubt if they would tell us without some strong legal proof that we had a right to know.’ He touched his companion’s arm sympathetically. ‘Nil desperandum, old chap. We’ll find a way. Something will come up.’

  Arriving home, Richard found his mother in bed, her face pale and drawn. He gave her a draft of the laudanum, which the doctor had prescribed, and she rallied a little.

  ‘I had a caller today with some news that will interest you.’

  ‘A caller, Mama? Who?’

  ‘Laura Pearson. She really seems to have taken a dislike to the whole McBride family, particularly the daughter, and she can’t resist a chance to gossip about them. And she did have some quite surprising news.’

  Mrs Brackenridge closed her eyes for a moment and shifted uncomfortably. James leaned over and shook up her pillows and settled her more comfortably. ‘Don’t tire yourself, Mama.’

  ‘No, I must tell you before it slips my mind. You knew the child had been sent away to school …’

  ‘Yes, but we don’t know where.’

  ‘Somewhere in Ireland, it seems. But this is the point. Of course, it’s all at third hand, like most gossip. Laura’s cook was told by the McBride’s cook that the house has been in an uproar because Mr McBride was summoned to Ireland to fetch the girl back. Apparently she had committed some misdemeanour serious enough for the school to expel her.’ A faint smile crossed the old lady’s lips. ‘Laura is convinced she must have bitten someone, but that’s by the by. The real surprise is this. When McBride arrived at the school he was told that the girl had run away in the middle of the night and disappeared.’