The Nanny At Number 43

by Nicola Cassidy

  “Get out of my sight!”

  Well, there it was. There was the truth. They could come to the workhouse, they could do their best, but nothing would ever change.

  They were their mother’s daughters.

  Raised in a workhouse and no future at the end of it.

  Well, she’d show him, if it was the last thing she did. She was going to make a life for herself, for them. Whatever it took, whatever she had to do.

  Nothing was going to get in her way.

  Of that, she was sure.

  Chapter 25

  William D. Thomas

  “Margaret, how would you feel about attending a function with me? It’s in the Whitworth, this Saturday.”

  She smiled, delicately. “I would be honoured.”

  “If you need to arrange for something to wear, you’ll find a pound note in the pot on the sideboard. Please take it to organise whatever you may need.”

  “That’s most kind.”

  “I’m not a fan of these functions, but it’s the summer ball and I feel it’s bad for business if I don’t attend.”

  She smiled daintily again.

  William was pleased. It would be so much more pleasant attending the dinner dance with Margaret on his arm, than on his own. She would be a distraction among the small talk and dealing with all the well-intentioned questions people asked of a grieving husband.

  He was quite taken aback when Margaret came down the stairs on Saturday evening, wearing a tight-corseted dress, which sat below the upper curves of her bosom. Silk gloves stretched to her elbows. He bowed a little in greeting and told her she looked wonderful.

  It was not a lie.

  He wanted to take her hand and kiss it, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. He would see how the evening panned out. Tonight was a test.

  They walked the short distance to the handsome redbrick Whitworth Hall. It stretched into the sky, grey arched windows and doors yawning in its façade. He felt her hold her breath as they mounted the steps, which were crowded with other guests. Carriages were pulling up and letting their passengers out and quite a queue had formed. Some of the carriages turned, causing a traffic jam, while others waited to pass under St Laurence’s Gate, the medieval barbican tower, one at a time.

  The Whitworth was where he had first danced with Anna, all those years ago at Christmas time. He felt a stab of longing, wishing that he was climbing the steps, about to meet her and dance with her for the first time, all over again.

  They were greeted by the ball organisers, Mr. Coddington and his wife who considered herself something of a socialite. Coddington chaired the Chamber of Commerce and, while he was busy attending meetings on rates and taxes, the glamourous Mrs. C organised large balls, dances and race trips.

  “W. D. Thomas, how wonderful to see you,” said Mr. Coddington. “You are most welcome, most welcome.”

  Mrs. Coddington had a great big hostess smile painted on her face.

  “Miss Margaret Murphy,” William said, introducing his companion.

  Margaret was gracious in her greeting, dipping her knee in a curtsy and smiling.

  “Have you been to the Whitworth before?” asked Mrs. Coddington.

  “This is my first time,” she said.

  “How exciting for you. Do fetch yourself a drink. And enjoy your night.”

  He felt the Coddingtons close in to each other and whisper as he and Margaret walked away, a communication that they had just witnessed something very worthy of party conversation. William D. Thomas with a new lady on his arm.

  Inside, the atmosphere was already building. Soft gas lighting lit up the room and the faces of the guests. The room was full, with women dressed in fine silk dresses, some with furs, others with pearls and diamonds. Chatter filled the air and the clink of glasses, grabbed from trays floating past made-up faces, pierced the din.

  He got Margaret a sweet champagne.

  “This is ever so elegant,” she said, her eyes darting around the room.

  Until now, he had not even thought about what an overwhelming experience this might be for her. He hadn’t really thought too much about the dance at all, other than that he would go and that he wanted to get speaking to the harbour master at some point about the new quay being planned at the port.

  “Have you ever been at a function like this before?” he asked.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Right,” he said. “Sip the drinks. Lots of them. They’ll help. Smile. At everyone. If someone is being a total bore, excuse yourself to the ladies’ room. And you will have to dance with me, later. It’s expected.” He smiled. “We should try to enjoy ourselves.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you for inviting me. I feel quite lucky to be here.”

  “You won’t be saying that after Mrs. Mac is done with you.”

  She looked up to see an old lady with grey hair, her large crinoline sweeping the floor, making a beeline for them both.

  “Mr. Thomas!” she shouted from a few feet away. “And who is your lady friend? My, it’s good to see you back out and about – you are looking so fresh – I’m delighted to see you.”

  The woman held her drink in the air as she fired question after question, nodding feverishly, draining as much information as she could.

  How was the baby doing? How was he doing after the loss of his wife? How was business? Any plans for expansion? And who was this lovely lady and where did she come from?

  “I am caring for the baby,” Margaret answered. “I have come to assist Mr. Thomas.”

  “Are you a nursemaid?” asked the old lady.

  “She’s a little more than that,” said Mr. Thomas.

  The old lady sucked in her breath.

  “I suppose a small baby needs a mother,” she said, glaring.

  The band struck up and he used it as a cue to excuse them both. He took Margaret by the hand and led her around the room in a lively two-step.

  “The Inquisition,” he said in her ear.

  “She was very curious,” she said.

  “Expect more of that,” he said. “These women have nothing better to do, than gossip.”

  Margaret was unsure about dancing. He could feel her concentration as she gripped him by the elbow, her feet grappling with the floor.

  “Just look up and hang on,” he whispered, helping her and smiling.

  After another two step they went to get another drink and he managed to lead them to a group of businessmen involved in the port. The men were investors who wanted to build the second dock, some with large shipping companies, exporters and importers, marine men who made decisions that affected all of their livelihoods. Soon he was sucked into their conversation and Margaret smiled and sipped her drink, as dutiful as any longstanding wife.

  When the canapés were gone, when they’d danced some more, when the first drunks were beginning to bump their way around the room, and when he was happy that he had made his impression on the appropriate business associates, they left.

  “We do hope to see you again, Miss Murphy,” said Mrs. Coddington, as they bid their goodbyes.

  He found it a little amusing. They would see her pushing the perambulator tomorrow if they so wished to watch the street.

  They swayed against each other gently as they made their way down Laurence Street, making the short journey last as long as possible.

  “Let’s walk down to the river for some air,” he suggested.

  They walked down Shop Street and came to the bridge, turning left to walk along the docks down towards his offices. Two ships, their ropes springing at all angles from the sails were docked at the low wall, their gangplanks hung across the gap.

  “That was such an enjoyable evening,” she said. “It felt most special. I’m really not used to such pleasures. Drinking alcohol. Dancing.”

  “You should get used to it,” said William. “I’m quite an expert in drinking and dancing.”

  She laughed.

  “I know it might be fro
wned upon,” he said. “I’m aware that there are people who object to me stepping out with you. But I enjoy your company. And I have been quite lonely these past few months.”

  He was talking as if practising a speech, giving reasons why their friendship should be accepted.

  “I am glad that I have been able to help a little,” she said.

  “You’ve helped more than a little,” he said, turning to her. He took her gloved hands in his. “You have brightened my evenings. I look forward to coming home to you each day. And it means so much to me that Anna Genevieve is being looked after, in your care.”

  He leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips, letting the kiss linger in the dark dusk along the quays.

  She pulled back, smiling.

  “You are a very fine man, Mr. Thomas,” she said.

  “Let’s go home,” he said and they walked hand in hand, back up Shop Street, past a man sweeping the road, past the carriages sailing up to Whitworth to collect their passengers, past the Tholsel as the clock struck fifteen minutes past midnight, all the way back to Number 43, Laurence Street.

  Chapter 26

  The Investigation

  “I told you,” she said angrily. “I told you something wasn’t right. And you laughed at me and said I was away with the fairies and an awful woman, but wasn’t I right? Two babies! Buried in our garden!”

  The woman had her arms folded across her body, and she stood staring out the kitchen window, her eyes on the spades, where a robin was hopping about.

  “The poor loves,” she said. “The poor little things.”

  He came and wrapped his arms around her and at first she pushed him away but he persisted and they stood there, in an embrace, waiting for the policeman.

  “What did she do to them?” she said. “That woman, what did she do to them?”

  She turned her face to him, pleading.

  “I don’t know, love,” he said. “I don’t know.”

  They had fled to the kitchen, slamming the back door hard, standing as far back as possible in the room, to try and distance themselves from the horror that lay outside.

  He had gone out the front door to the woman down the road, rapping on her window, asking her to fetch the police.

  Within the hour, while they still waited for the policeman, all the households within proximity had gathered at their house, crowding into the kitchen, offering their condolences, letting the family know if there was anything they could do, to just ask, anything at all.

  It was a strange atmosphere, all these people coming to sympathise, when they hadn’t met most of them yet and the deceased were not theirs.

  The policeman ordered everyone to leave while he looked over the scene and interviewed the family. Anyone passing by the house was drawn by the crowd outside and did not move on.

  “And she left no new address?”

  The policeman was writing, the hair on his hands as dark as the moustache covering his lips. His hand moved deftly over the page of the small notebook, flicking with the scratch of his pen.

  “She did not.”

  “Did you use a solicitor?”

  “The sale was direct, sir,” said the man. “She was eager to sell.”

  “Do you have a bank account, a bank that she dealt with?”

  The man shook his head.

  His wife nudged him, her elbow to his ribs. She wanted him to divulge what she had been complaining about all along. The unnatural atmosphere. The sadness in the house. The utter terror and sense of suffocation she felt at night.

  But what could the man say about feelings? How could he tell this policeman, who didn’t seem to have a head for nonsense, that his wife had known from the day they moved into this house that there was something wrong?

  That for the four months since they’d been here, she’d woken every night, her hands around her throat, feeling she was being strangled?

  “All I know is that she said she was going to family up north. And I dropped her off at the train station. We gave her a lift on our cart.”

  “I’ll have to call the coroner,” said the policeman. “This is an inquest job.”

  “How long will that take?” asked the man, wanting to get the bodies out of the ground as quickly as possible.

  “Could be today, could be tomorrow.”

  The two men went back outside. With the man’s permission, the policeman took a damp bedsheet from the washing line and draped it over the dig site. They weighed it down with stones along the edges.

  The man bent his head, made the Sign of the Cross and mumbled a prayer to himself.

  When they got back to the house, the woman whose door he had knocked on was sitting at the kitchen table with her husband.

  “James was a lovely fella,” said the husband, two long sideburns moving as he talked. “So genuine. A nicer man you couldn’t meet. It was a shock when he died. And him not long remarried at all.”

  “Wanted a mother for those little ones,” said the woman, talking over her husband. “I don’t know where she came from, he just appeared with her. A thin woman, a bit prim. Well, they were married and that was that. Sure we barely saw him after that. You’d knock at the door and it wouldn’t be answered. And only a few weeks later, he had passed as well ... I couldn’t believe it. And it was a quick funeral, no proper wake or anything. He was brought to the church and in the ground before we knew it, and she had the twins, holding both of them at Mass and I felt sorry for her. Imagine, I thought, there she is now left with two bairns that aren’t even her own and the husband gone.”

  “She told me they’d died of scarlet fever,” said the man. “When she showed me round the house, she said it took both of them in a day.”

  “Scarlet fever me arse,” said the woman.

  Her husband told her to shush.

  “Well, it is very suspicious,” said the woman. “I mean why not have them buried in the graveyard, even if it was scarlet fever?”

  She let the question hang in the air. Then another knock sounded on the door, more neighbours wanting to come in now.

  “Would you have any idea where the widow might be now?” asked the policeman.

  “Not a clue,” said the woman.

  The policeman left to summon the coroner and then a type of wake began, with well-wishers and callers bringing homemade lemonades and baked dishes and the kettle bubbling over to supply tea to everyone who wanted to come down to the house where the babies had been found buried in the garden.

  The children were in their element. As neighbouring children arrived, more small boots were marched upstairs to the back bedroom, which offered a bird’s eye view of the sheet under which the babies lay.

  “I found them,” said Aidan proudly.

  The noise and the atmosphere reminded the man and woman of life in the tenements and they found it all quite familiar, having so many kindly faces around.

  Word came that the coroner would arrive that evening and if he deemed an inquest necessary, it would be held there in their house. A doctor would be coming along with the coroner to carry out the autopsies and a jury of twelve men would be assembled.

  They set about clearing out the scullery, which was, they felt, the most suitable place for an inquest. And while they waited into the bright summer evening, they talked and drank and there was even a song or two, to aid the two little souls on their way to heaven.

  The evening sun had almost set when the coroner arrived. The spades from earlier still stood to attention in the soil, the clay now dried around them.

  “Have you a handcart?” asked the coroner, looking up from where he was crouched, surveying the scene.

  “There’s one in the shed.”

  The policeman and the man walked to the lean-to attached to the house. It was cool inside and a murky scent of must emanated from the buckets, lumps of wood and plant pots stacked messily inside.

  The man pulled the small flat handcart from its resting spot in the middle of the shed. It was a useful little item
to have in the garden. He’d been delighted to find the woman had left the shed full of practical gardening tools.

  Now, as he gave the little cart to the policeman, he realised that she had likely been running away, aided in no small part by him. How could he have been so foolish?

  With guidance from the coroner, the policeman lifted the unearthed suitcase from the ground onto the cart.

  “Ready?” the coroner asked.

  “Ready,” he said.

  Leading the procession, the policeman wheeled the cart around the side of the house and into the scullery.

  As they passed by the kitchen window that overlooked the garden, a flock of hands went up, making the Sign of the Cross at foreheads, mouths and hearts.

  The doctor who would perform the autopsy stood beside his tools, laid out on a green sheet of calico. It pained the man to see such torturous-looking instruments in his house.

  All around the doctor stood twelve men, the jury who had been sworn in by the coroner. They jostled politely in the confines of the scullery, straining to get a good view of the dissection table. When the policeman lifted the suitcase onto the table, a low murmur filled the room.

  He would burn the table when all this was finished with.

  When the suitcase was opened again, the smell filled the crowded room. He feared the stench would enter the walls and never leave it.

  How had such a wonderful morning turned into this horror show this evening?

  He wanted to ask if he could leave but felt that he should stay. Instead he averted his eyes as the doctor set to work, removing the bodies from their case, setting them out on the table, and examining what he could of their remains.

  In particular the doctor examined the throats and the bones of the neck. He dictated notes, which the coroner wrote down.

  The bodies were badly decomposed. Taking a jar, the doctor lifted tissues from the infants and dropped them into it. He sealed the jars with pig-gut and wrapped them in brown paper.

  Tissues from stomach and intestinal area removed for chemical testing.