“To me?” she said, surprised. Why hadn’t he rung the bell to get her attention?
The Nanny stood with her arms folded, one corner of her mouth going up in a smile.
“Is it something that concerns you?” Mrs. McHugh asked the Nanny, wondering why she was hovering, acting as if she knew something was going on.
“Nothing that concerns me.” And she turned on her heel and walked off, keeping her arms folded.
Mrs. McHugh made her way to the front sitting room, where Mr. Thomas was perched by the fire on the low couch.
“Mrs. McHugh,” he said.
She noticed that he did not smile as he normally would, that he looked almost sullen.
“I need to speak with you,” he said. He gestured her over towards the fire where she stood in front of him, her arms behind her back. At least she would be able to speak to him now in private, she thought, like she had planned.
“It’s come to my attention that all may not be well,” he said.
So! He was ready to address things.
“You’ve had a lot on your plate lately. It’s understandable that things may have got on top of you. Is there anything you’d like to tell me? Anything you need to get off your chest?”
It was a strange way of asking the question, but she went with it, her mind trying to remember the piece of paper with all her grievances on it.
“Well, there is something I need to get off my chest actually, Mr. Thomas. I have a few concerns. I’ve been holding off telling you, but I think now is as good a time as any. I’m worried about the Nanny. About Miss Murphy. I don’t feel that she’s suitable for this household. I’m worried about her care of Anna Genevieve.”
“I see,” he said. He looked disappointed, as though she had said the wrong thing.
“Things have been different since she arrived,” she said. She was trying to think of the list of points she had put in the notebook, but the writing wouldn’t come to mind. She was addled. “She’s high and mighty,” she said. “Always looking for things.”
It was coming out wrong. It wasn’t how she meant to say it. She could hear her voice, how it sounded – indignant. It sounded like she was jealous of the Nanny and that wasn’t the case.
“I don’t like her,” she said. “I just don’t.”
Mr. Thomas looked at her and sighed.
“Miss Murphy has spoken to me,” he said. “And frankly, Mrs. McHugh, I’m very surprised at you. I would have thought after all this time and all these years of service ... well, it’s all a bit of a shock to me and I’m quite flabbergasted.”
She looked at him, appalled.
“I know it can be difficult when somebody comes into an established household – it can take a while to adjust, to understand each other’s ways. But to be deliberately rude to her, to make her job more difficult than it needs to be, well, I really am surprised at that, Mrs. McHugh.”
Her mouth was open slightly, as she took his words in. The Nanny had spoken to him before she had? What had she told him?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Thomas,” she finally answered. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“It’s been brought to my attention that you have been undermining Miss Murphy. That you are questioning everything she does with the child and making circumstances extremely difficult for her. It seems you believe no one can give better care to the baby than you can, Mrs. McHugh.”
“That’s absurd,” she said. “I’ve only ever been civil to Miss Murphy. I haven’t deliberately done anything. Not at all!”
“Well, this is what she has reported to me,” he said. “And there’s more. Much more. I really am shocked, Mrs. McHugh, after all this time.”
“M-more?” She stuttered, trying to think of what to say. She had planned on reporting all her worries to Mr. Thomas direct. Now, the woman she wanted to complain about had complained about her first, tarring her name. She felt a heat rash rise through her chest, up her neck, creeping to her face.
She watched as Mr. Thomas leaned over and rang the bell that would bring Ethel scurrying from the kitchen. She appeared within a minute, looking anxiously from her master to Mrs. McHugh.
“Will you fetch me Mrs. McHugh’s basket from where she leaves it?” he said.
Ethel gave a little nod and curtsy and left the room.
“My basket?” said Mrs. McHugh.
“I know you were very fond of her,” he said. “But you could have asked. In fact, I might have considered gifting it to you. I never would have expected it from you, Mrs. McHugh, I thought you were more straight than that.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“I know grief can do funny things. I’ve been in the mires myself these past weeks. Not noticing things. I’m in a daze half the bloody time. And maybe that’s how I didn’t notice. How you’ve been getting away with it.”
“Getting away with it?” she asked. “Getting away with what?” Her shock at this conversation was now turning to frustration. And anger.
“Please don’t deny it,” he said. “It just makes it worse. It makes the whole thing worse.”
Ethel appeared with Mrs. McHugh’s basket hanging limply from her hand. From her white face it was clear she sensed that something mighty was happening.
“Give it to her,” he said, when Ethel tried to hand the basket to him.
He waved her out of the room and she left quietly, closing the door behind her.
Mrs. McHugh stood holding her basket, desperately trying to work out what was going on.
“Take out what’s in there,” he said.
She lifted out the knitted square she used to cover the basket – and stared at what lay underneath.
“My scarf!”
It was her scarf, the one that had gone missing some time ago, the one that Mick had bought her in Liverpool.
She dropped the knitted square to the ground and pulled out the scarf. As she did, something small and heavy fell out of it into the basket.
It was a walnut box, square in shape.
She put the basket down on the floor and lifted the box out, its beautiful sheen catching the firelight in the sitting room. With trembling fingers, she opened it and saw Anna Winchester’s watch – a delicate gold and ivory affair, a piece that Mrs. Thomas had only worn to dances and balls on occasion. Mr. Thomas had given it to her during their courtship. “Time stopped when he gave me this watch,” Mrs. Thomas used to joke to her.
“I didn’t put this there,” she said immediately, glancing up to see his face, serene and sad.
“Isn’t that your scarf?” he said.
“Yes, but it went missing weeks ago. In fact, I was going to report that to you because I thought that Miss ...” She realised he wouldn’t believe her. “Mr. Thomas, do you really think that I would take such a thing? That I put this watch in my basket? And what a stupid place to put it, if I had taken it!” She went to laugh. The whole situation was ridiculous.
“I would have found it very hard to believe it, Mrs. McHugh,” he said. “If it wasn’t for this.”
He stood up, reached into his pocket and took out a folded letter. He held it out and she took it and unfolded it and found there were two letters, the second of which fluttered to the floor. The letter was from Walters’ Jewellers in Sackville Street in Dublin. She scanned it quickly, her heart kicking against her chest.
Dear Sir,
It has come to our notice that an item placed for sale with us is registered and insured to your name and address. We are happy to offer this item for sale. However, we do request that you issue a signed letter stating this fact to meet the requirements of the insurer, contained herewith. We enclose the original letter outlining the request, a copy of which we have taken. We retain possession of the item along with all papers and await further instruction.
Yours faithfully
Finlay Walters
Mrs. McHugh shook her head again. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What has this to do wit
h me?”
Mr. Thomas bent and lifted the second letter which had fallen at his feet.
“I believe this is yours,” he said.
She took the letter and opened it and saw that, indeed, the letter was in her own handwriting. She read it quickly, shocked at the words in front of her. She had absolutely no recollection of writing it.
Dear Mr. Walters,
Please find one diamond engagement ring that I wish to sell. I am seeking the highest price for the item as possible but urge a quick sale. I have included the original certificate of valuation. Please send all correspondence to the above address and not to the address as registered on the certificate,
Yours faithfully,
Mrs. Winnifred McHugh
The address on the letter was the North Road, where Mrs. McHugh lived in her small cottage with Mick.
“You took her ring,” said Mr. Thomas. He was staring at her now, and she could see the crease of anger across his forehead. “You tried to sell it and you were going to do the same with her watch.”
“I did not!” she said. “I did no such thing!”
“The letter is in your handwriting, is it not?”
“It looks like it is, but I assure you I did not write this.”
She stared at the handwriting in front of her, looking at the loops of the letters, the small r’s that looked like n’s.
“I am beyond shocked,” said Thomas. “I have been sick to my stomach since the letter arrived. And then Miss Murphy came to me with her report just now. She said things had been taken from her room too. She urged me to check your basket. I am wretched over the whole thing. It really is unbelievable, Mrs. McHugh.”
“You must believe me,” pleaded Mrs. McHugh. “I did not take that watch. I wouldn’t. Or the ring. I’ve been set up. Mr. Thomas!”
He had stopped looking at her, his eyes now fallen to the rose rug on the floor.
“I never thought it would come to this, Mrs. McHugh, not after all this time and everything that’s happened over the years. You’ve always been a trusted member of this household. But something’s changed over the past few weeks. The death of Mrs. Thomas has affected you badly – but to stoop to this …“ He sighed. “Well, I’ve no choice but to ask you to leave the house. Immediately.”
“Leave!” She was stunned and bewildered.
“I have to believe that there was no malice in it,” he said. “That it’s all been a fit of madness. Grief-induced, perhaps.”
Tears stung the back of her eyes. The rash had reddened her cheeks now and she felt a swirl in her stomach, as though she was going to vomit.
“Sincerely,” she said. “I did not do this.”
“The fact that you can’t admit to it is even more worrying,” he said. “Please, go. Now.”
She stood staring at him for a moment before picking up her belongings and leaving the room. She was reeling, her thoughts crashing, anger beginning to surge through her body. Outside, she found Ethel who was standing near the kitchen, tears in her eyes.
“I’m going to miss you,” she whispered. “I’m ever so sorry.”
Ethel had obviously, like all good maids, been eavesdropping at the door.
Quietly, Mrs. McHugh took her cloak from its hook and put it on. She turned then and went to walk up the stairs. She would say goodbye to the child, to hold her one last time before all this confusion could be resolved and she was returned, rightfully, to her position in this house.
A gentle cough made her look up and there, standing at the very top of the stairs, was the Nanny, her arms still folded and now a full smirk on her face. She looked down at Mrs. McHugh.
“This is your doing,” said Mrs. McHugh. “This won’t be the last you’ve heard from me.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. McHugh,” said the Nanny and, as the housekeeper turned and walked to the front door, she heard her say quietly but loud enough for her to hear, “and good riddance.”
Chapter 12
The Clue
In the dark, a rat scuttled, its paws flitting over faeces and the urine trickling and flowing in the gutter. Small soggy mounds had formed in parts, hills of waste building in the tall tunnel. Beside the gutter were the banks, flat surfaces where, when the rain flowed and during spring tides, the water would rise up like a river. The bricks, cemented in place for almost seven hundred years, were black with wet, the render darkened.
The rat stopped and stood on its hind legs, its nose twitching. For two days the noise had been aching, starting in the morning and continuing until mid-afternoon. It was a deep and unending pounding, powered by a steam engine that took off with a flutter into a high-pitched roll of pistons. The tunnel has been shaking with the vibrations and the shuddering waves were getting worse.
Bits of black render had been toppling from their setting, plopping into the filthy water below. The walls shook as the top of the roof was eaten at, the thick arm of the drill biting and dipping deeper into the bricks.
A small piece of stone flew from the ceiling and landed beside the rat’s tail. It scampered, frightened, deeper into the tunnel and away from the racket above. More debris flew, bouncing off the walls, showering the gulley like hailstones.
Suddenly, with a crack and a splinter, daylight tore through the tunnel. It burnt into the dark, as the ceiling collapsed and with it fell the legs of a white mare, her grey dappled legs floundering.
Her scream echoed through the tunnel. The rat turned and stood on its hind legs again, noticing the light highlighting what was dark before.
With the horse fell two wheels of a red brougham carriage, carrying its master and mistress on an excursion to Julianstown. Its passengers now lay awkwardly, wailing from within their confines, trapped where the door was jammed against the collapsed brickwork.
The steam-powered drill was stopped, puffing as it slowed.
From the surrounding streets people rushed to the scene, gathering in a crowd to assist the driver who had been flung from his mount and the passengers who were trapped within the carriage. The horse had a large, bloody gash across her chest, her legs still thrashing and kicking in the murky air beneath.
The driver was unconscious. His head had clipped the kerb and already a large purple bruise was pooling across his temple. The horse’s screaming punctured the air, the noise level rising as voices shouted behind the hands that were put to the carriage in an attempt to lift it from the cavity it had fallen into.
The carriage shifted away from the brickwork and someone shouted stop. The door of the carriage was sprung open and arms dangled down to help the terrified mistress from the upended vehicle. The woman, balancing on the torso and arms of her husband managed to climb out, crawling over the door and step of the carriage, collapsing into the arms of a kindly woman who grabbed her on the road and led her away. Fearfully, she looked back to where her husband heaved himself up, using the seat and all his might to pull his body out of the carriage. It took three pairs of hands to hold him and fold him out onto the street.
Its passengers dislodged, the carriage fell a little further into the newly opened hole and the horse went deeper, the whites of her eyes showing.
The harness held the horse in place. A mooring rope was sent for. It arrived, hairy and thick, uncoiled from a moored ship that had sailed from Norway to the quay. The rope was tied to one of the upended wheels, its other end fastened to the collar of a farmer’s shire horse, who had been pulling a heavy cart to the ironmonger’s in Shop Street. With a count of three, the shire horse was walked on and with it the fallen carriage jolted backwards.
Accompanying the pulling horse were the biceps and hands of labourers, shopkeepers, delivery men and passersby. The road builders pushed hardest of all, their digging after all having caused the hole in the first place.
It took only two attempts to dislodge the carriage, the horse coming with it, a man holding her bridle and stroking her muzzle to the shouts and heaves of all around. Everyone else stood well back from her legs which were flai
ling and kicking in fright.
The carriage landed back on the road with a wooden thud and the horse’s hooves grabbled as she found solid ground again. The man at her bridle warned the roadworker who went to unharness the horse to leave it until the poor beast had calmed down, otherwise they’d have a runaway on their hands.
Blood flowed from the deep wound on the horse’s front, but her legs were not broken and she would not end up in the knacker’s yard, not today anyway.
The driver was not having as much luck. He had yet to regain consciousness and his lips were now turning blue. It was suggested he be brought to the infirmary due to his pallor and lack of response.
The woman who had been pulled from the carriage was in a deep state of shock. She was finding breathing difficult and was brought discreetly into a grocer’s shop and upstairs to the sitting room where a brew of black tea laced with sugar was prepared. Her husband accompanied her and got her settled before returning to the scene of the accident to check on the horse, the carriage and the man.
Some of the roadbuilders were now standing back at the steam-engine drill, scratching their heads and organising a cordon around the collapsed site.
No one had been aware that there were tunnels so near to the surface of the road. No one could have predicted that their simple repair job to mend a large pothole at the corner of Shop Street would lead to such a catastrophe.
Earlier, news of the accident had spread to a photographer who was down along the quays, setting up a shot from the bridge as part of an annal he had been commissioned to do, entitled Towns and Cities of Ireland. He had gathered up his equipment and run, alongside a young boy who had come to tell him breathlessly of the incident. On arriving at the scene, he had stood back and surveyed the street, picking a piece of footpath to set up his tripod and camera. He’d managed to capture the overturned carriage, minutes before it was pulled to rights and rescued.
The Nanny At Number 43 Page 7