Workhouse Angel

by Holly Green

  ‘Good morning,’ he began when he was shown into a small, dingy office, offering one of the new cards. ‘My name is Kean. I work for the Liverpool Echo. My editor has sent me over to enquire into the disappearance of Angelina McBride. I wonder if you could tell me how the investigation is progressing?’

  The inspector, a thin-faced man with a lugubrious expression, regarded him with evident suspicion. ‘What’s your paper’s interest in this?’

  ‘I don’t know if you are aware that her father, or her adoptive father rather, is a highly respected businessman in the city. The disappearance of his daughter has aroused considerable curiosity. Do you have any idea where she might be?’

  ‘Dead in a ditch somewhere, most likely,’ was the chilling response.

  ‘But you have not found a body?’

  ‘No. And we’re not likely to. There’s miles of countryside with not a living soul around. She could be anywhere.’

  ‘But you have searched?’ Richard persisted.

  ‘Oh, we’ve searched all right. We’ve searched every back alley in Limerick and every barn and outhouse within five miles. My officers have trudged along every road leading away from the convent and knocked at every inhabited house. There’s been neither sight nor sound of her. You can tell your readers that there’s not a stone that hasn’t been turned or a blade of grass that hasn’t been lifted. They’ve no reason to think otherwise.’

  ‘I’m sure they haven’t,’ Richard said. He rose heavily to his feet. ‘Thank you, Inspector. I’ll wish you good morning.’ He paused. ‘One more thing. Can you confirm the actual date of her disappearance?’

  The inspector rummaged through some papers on his desk. ‘May thirty-first. Sunday.’

  His next call was to the office of the local newspaper. The editor was flattered that such a respected paper as the Echo should be taking a sufficient interest to send one of their own men to report on the affair, but could offer no further news.

  ‘My paper might be prepared to offer a reward for information,’ Richard suggested. ‘Do you think that might produce a result?’

  ‘It might,’ the editor agreed. ‘It might indeed.’

  Richard mentioned a sum that was within his means, just, and large enough, he hoped, to encourage someone to come forward, and arranged that anyone with information should contact him at his hotel.

  He spent the rest of the day tramping the streets of Limerick, knocking on doors and stopping passers-by. He concentrated on the narrow lanes and alleys of the old medieval city, shocked to find a degree of poverty and filth that surpassed even the mean streets of Liverpool. No one had seen a small girl wandering on her own. No one recalled a child of her description begging or attempting to steal food. He returned to his hotel thoroughly dispirited.

  It occurred to him that she might have tried to stow away on one of the many vessels plying in and out of the harbour. From the harbour master he obtained a list of ships that had docked at Limerick around the 31st of May. All had sailed, for ports all over the world, and he realised with a heavy heart that is she had managed to slip aboard his chances of finding her were nil. Nevertheless, he haunted the docks for several days, questioning sailors and fishermen, with no result.

  Next day he transferred his attentions to the new suburb of Newtown Pery. What a contrast he found here, among the elegant Georgian mansions situated in the squares and crescents. Here a knock at the door was answered by a butler or a parlourmaid, but no one had seen an unaccompanied child. No such child had asked for charity, or a job in the household.

  The following morning he purchased a large-scale map of the area and a pair of compasses. In his room he spread the map and drew a circle five miles in diameter. How far could a nine year old walk in a day? he asked himself. How long could a child survive without food?

  He hired the gig again and over the following days he traversed the roads leading away from the town in every direction. Limerick was a busy port and roads led to it from everywhere in Ireland. It was impossible to know which way Angelina’s wanderings might have taken her. At first he followed the turnpike roads, west towards Shannon, north towards Parteen, east towards Annacotty and south towards St Patrickswell. Then he tried all the country lanes. The land was fertile. In some areas, fields of wheat were turning gold ready for harvest and cows grazed in rich pasture, but elsewhere he found empty cottages, neglected gardens and vacant pens, which had once held livestock. From time to time he came to large estates surrounding solidly built manor houses, and at each he stopped and asked the same questions, but at each he received the same answer. No one remembered seeing a little girl with golden hair.

  He lay awake at night, wondering how it was possible that there was no trace of her somewhere within the circle he had drawn. The only solution was that she had somehow found her way further afield and he needed to extend his search; but to have gone so far she must have had transport of some kind. Berating himself for a fool, he made his way to the railway station. No one had seen Angelina there, either, and he was assured that it would have been impossible for her to board a train without first purchasing a ticket. There was a chance, he thought, that she might have slipped past the porters and the guard and stowed away, but if that was the answer his quest was hopeless. She could be anywhere in Ireland by now. He made enquiries about other forms of transport. Since the arrival of the railway there had been no regular coach service out of the city but there were various carters who carried goods to and from nearby villages. He tracked down as many as he could find but drew a blank. As the days passed he became increasingly despondent, and the police inspector’s off-hand ‘dead in a ditch somewhere’ haunted his waking thoughts and troubled his dreams. In spite of all this, he stuck to his determination that he would go on searching until either he found his daughter, or had definitive proof that she was dead.

  Sixteen

  Richard made the convent the centre of his wanderings, since this must have been Angelina’s starting point, and one day, driving slowly back towards the town and his hotel, he glanced across the fields and saw the roof of a house among the trees. There was a stile in the wall and a path leading across the field. He stopped the pony and got out. Why had he never noticed that before? If someone wished to avoid the outskirts of the town it was the obvious route. He tied the pony to a nearby tree and set off across the field. The house was off the beaten track and as he came closer he realised that, although he thought he had asked at every house in the area, he had never called there before.

  When he knocked at the door, the parlourmaid denied all knowledge of a wandering child, but she carried his reporter’s card in to her mistress and he was admitted. In answer to his usual questions he got the usual denials, but in a desperate last throw he said, ‘Is it possible that one of your people might, perhaps unknowingly, have carried her to another town or village? I presume you keep a carriage and maybe a small trap, for visits to market and so forth.’

  ‘Naturally,’ the lady of the house responded, ‘but I fail to see how the girl you are looking for could have got into one without anyone seeing her. But if you wish I can send for my coachman and you can ask him yourself.’ She rang the bell and told the maid to fetch Michael.

  In the room with the mistress of the house were two young ladies, who were introduced as her daughters. While they waited for the coachman one of them said, ‘When did the little girl leave the convent?’

  Richard named the date.

  ‘Mama, wasn’t that the day after Julia’s party?’

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘I just thought, Michael brought the carriage to collect us that morning. Is it possible the little girl might have hidden inside?’

  ‘I should hardly think so. I’m sure Michael would have seen her.’

  At that moment the coachman appeared, looking a trifle apprehensive. ‘You sent for me, ma’am?’

  ‘Michael, do you recall fetching my daughters from Lady Astbury’s after her party?’

&nb
sp; ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Did you, by any chance, take a young girl with you?’

  ‘A girl, ma’am?’ The man looked in equal measures anxious and offended. ‘What young girl would that be?’

  ‘Please don’t disturb yourself,’ Richard interposed. ‘I am only seeking information about a little girl who ran away from the convent in Limerick. Did you, by any chance, come across a fair-haired child on your journey that morning?’

  ‘A child, you say?’

  ‘She’s about nine years old.’

  ‘Well?’ his mistress prompted sharply.

  ‘No, ma’am. I never saw any child that morning.’

  ‘Is the coach house locked up at night?’ Richard asked.

  ‘No, sir. It can’t be. It’s just an open shelter.’

  ‘So could a child have crept in there and hidden inside the carriage?’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

  ‘But, Michael,’ the lady of the house said, ‘surely before setting out to collect my daughters you would have swept the carriage out, to make sure it was in a proper condition for them.’

  The coachman looked embarrassed. ‘It was an early start, ma’am. And I’d cleaned it the day before, to take the young ladies to the party, so I didn’t see any need to do it again.’

  ‘So a child could have hidden there, and you would not necessarily have seen her?’ Richard said eagerly.

  ‘’S’possible, I suppose,’ the man answered.

  ‘But when you arrived at Lady Astbury’s. Surely you would have seen her then?’

  ‘Might not have done, ma’am. See, the ladies were not quite ready to leave, so I was told to take the carriage round to the yard and while I waited I stepped into the kitchen for a cup of tea.’

  ‘So it is possible!’ the daughter exclaimed, delighted at seeing her theory supported.

  ‘It does seem so,’ Richard agreed. ‘Would you be so kind as to tell me where Lady Astbury resides?’

  ‘At Palgrave Hall just outside Dooneen Bridge. It’s about six miles away in the direction of Bruff.’

  Richard thanked the ladies profusely and made a point of remarking that obviously no blame attached itself to Michael. Then he took his leave and walked back to where he had left his gig. An hour later he drew up outside the crenelated frontage of Palgrave Hall and asked to speak to the master or mistress. He was shown into an overfurnished drawing room where a fire was burning in the hearth in spite of the summer warmth. A thin-faced woman in middle age was reclining on a chaise longue.

  ‘Sally says you are from the newspaper. What do you want with me?’

  Richard explained his quest and added, ‘I have been told that there was a party here on the day before the girl was discovered missing. I believe it is possible that she may have hidden herself in a carriage, which was sent to collect some of your guests the following morning. She would have been very hungry by then, I imagine. I was wondering if she might have asked here for food or shelter.’

  The woman raised herself up on the chaise as if he had suggested something improper. ‘If she did, she would have got short shrift, I can tell you. Lord Astbury and I do not hold with beggars.’

  Richard bit back a cutting response. ‘She was not, strictly speaking, a beggar. Just a helpless child looking for charity.’

  ‘A child who, according to you, had run away from a place where she would have been cared for. It was an act of foolish disobedience for which she must take the consequences. I’ll bid you good day, Mr Kean. Phoebe will see you out.’

  As they reached the front door, the parlourmaid turned to him and said in a low voice, ‘I didn’t want to speak in front of the mistress, but I think I did see the little girl.’

  ‘You saw her?’ Richard’s pulse leapt in response to this first real clue.

  ‘The young ladies who had stayed here for the party didn’t feel up to eating much breakfast, so I took the leavings back to the kitchen. When I got there Cook was just about to turn her away. A pretty little thing with fair hair?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, that would be her. How did she look?’

  ‘I only saw her for a moment. A bit … shabby. Dusty like and her hair all unbrushed. I think her dress was torn. Cook thought she was a gypsy child, but I said afterwards I never saw a gypsy with hair that colour.’

  ‘You said Cook was about to turn her away. Did she?’

  ‘She was going to. Like the mistress said, her and his Lordship don’t hold with beggars and he’d like as not set the dogs on her if he saw her. But when Cook saw how much was left from the ladies’ breakfast it made her angry to see good food going to waste. So she took an egg and some bread and gave them to the child, and told her to get out of the way sharp.’

  ‘Thank heaven!’ Richard said. ‘And thank you for telling me. I don’t suppose you have any idea where she went after that?’

  The maid shook her head. ‘I went back inside. She must have gone back out onto the road, I suppose, but I can’t say for sure.’

  Richard reached into his pocket for a coin. ‘Thank you very much for your help – and please thank Cook for me, for her act of charity.’

  ‘I don’t know about charity,’ the girl said with a shrug. ‘More like cocking a snook at the gentry, if you’ll pardon the expression. Anyway, I hope you find the little girl. Good luck.’

  Back on the road Richard paused for a moment. The evening was far advanced and even in mid-summer it would be dark before long. Reluctantly, he turned back towards Limerick.

  Next morning found him once again outside Palgrave Hall. There was only one road. Westward, it led back the way he had come. He headed east.

  Some four or five miles further on he saw what he took to be a gypsy encampment a little way off the road. These people, he reasoned, would know the land round about very well and would certainly have noticed a strange child wandering about. He tied the pony to a tree and walked towards the caravan at the centre of the camp. Two women and a girl were sitting by the ashes of a fire, the younger woman cradling a baby and the others occupied in weaving baskets. A dog hurtled out from under the caravan, barking, and was called off by the older woman. She set down her basket and looked at him, her gaze not hostile but calmly assessing.

  ‘What can we do for you, sir?’

  Richard took off his hat. ‘I am hoping you can help me. I am looking for a child, a young girl of nine years with very fair hair. She might have passed this way a few weeks ago. I thought you might have seen her.’

  The woman looked at the other two and said something in a language he did not understand, and the girl got up and disappeared round the caravan.

  ‘A young girl, is it?’ The woman turned her attention to Richard. ‘Fair haired, you said?’

  ‘Yes. Have you seen her?’

  The woman looked at her companion. ‘Didn’t we see a child on the road, would be about that long ago?’

  The younger woman nodded. ‘We did, so.’

  ‘You saw her? What happened?’

  ‘I called out to her, but the dog frightened her and she ran off. I thought she must have folks nearby. Do you mean to tell me she was on her own?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  ‘How did that come about then?’

  ‘She ran away from the convent where she was being educated.’

  ‘And you are searching for her. What is she to you?’

  ‘I’m a newspaper reporter from Liverpool. The child’s … her family live there and there is a good deal of interest in what has happened to her.’

  The woman studied his face for a long moment. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked back at the road. ‘She ran off, you say? That way?’ He pointed in the direction he had been heading.

  ‘Aye, that way.’

  ‘Is there a town or a village in that direction?’

  ‘Aye, Meanus. It’s a couple of miles further on.’

  ‘Perhaps she found shelter there. I shall go and ask. Thank you for your
help.’

  He turned to go but the woman rose to her feet and detained him with a hand on his arm.

  ‘I was watching you come along the road. I’m afraid your pony is going lame.’

  ‘Is it? I hadn’t noticed anything. I’m afraid I don’t know much about horses.’

  ‘Oh, I definitely thought she was walking short, like something was hurting her. Here’s my man, now. Would you like him to take a look? There’s nothing he doesn’t know about horses.’

  A tall, rather swarthy man had appeared from somewhere beyond the caravan. The woman spoke to him in their own language and he nodded.

  ‘Lame, is she? Will I take a look at her?’

  ‘If it isn’t too much trouble,’ Richard said. ‘I’d be grateful for your advice.’

  They walked over to the gig and the man felt carefully down each of the pony’s legs, murmuring to her as he did so. Then he picked up each foot in turn and examined it. As he did so, two younger men on horseback appeared from the field behind the caravan and set off down the road at a smart canter. The gypsy produced a knife and flicked something out of the pony’s hoof.

  ‘There! That might have been the trouble. Just a little stone. Walk her up and down a bit and let’s have a look.’

  Richard did as he said and he watched critically, pursing his lips. Richard had to walk the pony past him several times before he pronounced himself satisfied.

  ‘She’ll do, but take it gently for the rest of the way. She may still be a bit sore and I’m not sure that that was the root of the problem. You don’t want her letting you down in the middle of nowhere, now do you?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ll go slowly until I get to Meanus. Perhaps I can put up there for the night and give her a chance to rest.’

  ‘Oh aye, there’s an inn in Meanus. You’ll be welcome there.’

  ‘Well, I’m really grateful to you.’ Richard put his hand in his pocket hesitantly. ‘I’m not sure …’