“You are keeping well?” he said, more of a statement than a question.
She placed her bag on her knee and sat forward.
“I’m doing very well, Mr. Jennings.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your recent troubles.”
“Thank you.”
“And I understand Betty Farley was a very good friend of yours?”
“She was, yes.”
“Mrs. McHugh, I wish to inform you that you have been included in Mrs. Farley’s will. I have the will here and I would like to read the relevant part to you.”
She sat up straighter and frowned, listening.
Mr. Jennings started reading, holding the piece of paper close to his nose.
“To my good friend Winnie McHugh, I leave my journals and diaries. She will know what to do with them. I would like her to take anything else she wishes from my rooms. For her troubles, I leave her fifty pounds. She is to spend it on herself, on something nice. Hopefully this will stop her lamenting.”
Mr. Jennings looked up at Mrs. McHugh.
“Lamenting?” she said with a laugh. “That woman!”
The solicitor cleared his throat and did not smile. He put the will down.
“I’ll arrange for you to meet with Mrs. Farley’s nephew next Friday to look over the rooms and collect the journals. Does this suit? I have a bank draft for the fifty pounds here.”
“That suits me very well,” said Mrs. McHugh.
Fifty pounds. Good old Betty.
The young man behind his pile of papers didn’t look up as she walked out onto Fair Street.
What a woman Betty was.
She thought how she was at peace now, lying there beside Jimmy.
She was back where she belonged, beside her great love.
It was wrong to think it, the priest would tell her so, but she knew in her heart that it would be the same for her. That she would go on living, making the best of things, creating a new life, as a widow woman, filling her days as best she could.
But she wouldn’t be happy until she met Mick again, until she was in the ground beside him and holding his hand in heaven.
That was the only thing that would bring her true peace. In the end.
All week she had looked forward to going back to Betty’s rooms. It would be her final visit, a chance to say goodbye to her after all. It felt strange going up the narrow stairs to the rooms where Betty had lived, knowing she wouldn’t be there. The smell was the same, a mix of polish and must.
The room, though, was unrecognisable. Everything had been pulled out, half boxed up, belongings scattered everywhere.
It looked as though Betty had never lived there at all. Gone was the sense of home.
A sandy-haired man was poking in a box, stacking china it looked like. The nephew.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” she replied and smiled. “So, you’re the nephew.”
“I am,” he said.
“I don’t remember her speaking about you much.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well, it has been a few years.”
“It has,” she said. “So, what are your plans? You’re hardly coming back to Ireland to be a publican?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Selling up, I’m afraid. It’s a pity. I loved coming here when I was child. And I still love a good pint of Irish stout.”
He laughed.
She didn’t.
“I have my own business, in Bristol. So, I can’t leave, you see.”
“I see,” she said, looking around the room.
The bed where Betty had lain next to the window was bare now, the mattress uncovered. It looked sad and bereft.
“Did you have anything in mind, that you wanted to take?” he asked, holding out his hand in a sweeping gesture. “I didn’t want to pack everything away until you had a look, but I wasn’t really sure what you might want.”
She scanned the room. She didn’t have anything in particular in mind. She walked over to the box of china and took out a blue-and-white porcelain teapot. They had sat over it so many times.
“I think this,” she said. “For sentimental reasons.”
“The journals are in boxes,” he said. “There’s quite a few of them.”
He pointed to four large boxes on the floor, filled with notebooks and diaries.
“Goodness,” said Mrs. McHugh. “Did she really write all of them?”
“Looks like it. If you like I can leave you to have a little look. I’ll go and fetch a cup of tea somewhere.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. McHugh. “That’s very good of you.”
She was glad that he was leaving her there. She didn’t know what to take, if she should even take anything besides the teapot.
When he left, she walked over to the bed and sat on it, looking around the room quietly. She took a breath and listened for a moment, hearing the noise of the street wafting through the window.
Betty loved looking down on all this, watching the world go by. She had a perfect view of the streets below, a perfect of view of Number 43, of the Nanny’s bedroom, of the nursery.
She thought of Anna Genevieve, being held by that woman. She thought how the child must have grown by now, her cheeks filling out, her hair growing longer, her smile.
She’d give anything to hold the baby one last time.
She turned her head away. She didn’t want to even chance spotting that woman, twitching at the curtains.
“Oh Betty,” she said out loud, “you believed me when I told you she was bad news.”
She got up and began to potter around the room, looking in the boxes, examining Betty’s things.
She found a photo of Betty and put it beside the teapot she was taking.
From a box of clothes she took a heavy fox fur. It was too beautiful to leave and what would a young man like himself do with it only sell it anyway?
When the nephew reappeared, she showed him what she was taking and he smiled and nodded.
“Do you need a hand?”
“I’ll need a hand with the boxes,” she said.
“I have a lad with a handcart,” he said. “He’ll run it all home for you.”
“Lovely,” she said.
“You must have been a great friend to her,” he said.
She felt her eyes well up.
“It was she who was a great friend to me.”
She turned to go, clutching her basket where she’d placed the teapot and other items she was inheriting.
“One last thing,” she said, turning back. “Did you find her pipe? A little white clay thing?”
The nephew scratched his head and walked over to a shelf.
“This?”
“That’s the one,” she said. “She lived for this pipe. Just like my Mick. May I?”
She held out her palm. He gave it to her and smiled. She put it in her basket and did a final sweep of the room.
“Goodbye, Betty,” she said quietly.
As she walked down the stairs, she heard the nephew calling her name.
“Mrs. McHugh!”
She looked back to see him hurrying down towards her.
“I almost forgot. When I was moving the locker beside the bed I found this letter. It had fallen under it. It says Mrs. McHugh on it, so I didn’t open it. That, I presume, is you.”
She took the letter he was holding out and looked at it.
“I don’t think she knew any other Mrs. McHughs,” she said.
She put it in her basket, thanked the nephew for being so kind and went down the stairs to give the directions to the cart boy.
She made sure to keep her head down and not look over at Number 43.
She had a terrible feeling she was being watched.
She walked slowly home after leaving Betty’s rooms, letting all the conversations she’d had with the old woman flow through her mind. Being among her things and now a letter to read when she got home gave her something to look forward to. It had been so long since she had
looked forward to anything.
She put the kettle on to boil and took time stirring the tea in her new china teapot. She set the pipe and picture of Betty beside the framed one of Mick on her dresser.
The boxes of journals were stacked in her hall.
She sat in her chair to open the letter from Betty. Behind her lay the fox fur and she reached for it and wrapped it round her neck before she opened the letter carefully.
Betty and a fox fur. Where the hell had she worn that to, the old biddy?
She began to read, intending to let each word settle slowly, reading it as though eating a box of chocolates, savouring this message from the grave.
But the letter was short and written in a scrawling hand. Some of the words were hard to make out. She could tell by the writing that the woman was weak.
When she finished reading, she stood up slowly and walked to the boxes of journals. She took them out, one by one, flicking, searching.
When she found the page with its yellow newspaper clipping, she stared at the police photograph, her hand going to her mouth.
Woman Sentenced to Life Imprisonment for Sailor Manslaughter
A whole article on the woman who had been haunting her dreams.
Winnie, I swear on my life, on Jimmy’s life, that nanny is the absolute picture of Mad Maggie. I was wondering all along who she reminded me of and in my stupor of dreams when I was sick, it came to me.
Mrs. McHugh had never seen Mad Maggie before, only heard about her from Mick, who said she was a scourge.
Winnie, she’s trouble. If that’s Mad Maggie’s daughter, she’s trouble. I don’t know if you ever heard the rumours about her and Christy? After he went away it all came out.
It’s all a bit of coincidence, don’t you think, that she came to work with you there across the road? If she knows Christy?
Come and see me as soon as you can, and I’ll tell you all I know. I’m very tired and it’s hard for me to write.
Black eyes, furrowed brow, her hand reaching out, keening like a banshee.
It was Mad Maggie who was haunting her dreams.
Maybe she was a banshee. Maybe someone else was in danger of dying.
She had to let Mr. Thomas know.
But first she needed to take a trip.
Chapter 30
The Verdict
“The jurors for Our Lady the Queen upon their oath present that Margaret Martin late of the parish of Castleknock, with a home at Strawberry Beds, not having the fear of God before her eyes on or about December in the year of Our Lord 1879 feloniously and wilfully did kill and murder one James Andrew Martin, against the peace of Our Lady the Queen her crown and dignity.
Furthermore, the jurors for Our Lady the Queen find that the same Margaret Martin did feloniously and wilfully kill and murder one James Andrew Martin, through the administering of a dose of strychnine on or around the month of December in the year of our Lord 1879, against the peace of Our Lady the Queen her crown and dignity.”
The foreman of the jury stopped reading. The paper in his hand shook a little. As he’d read, feeling the words on his tongue, a sense of justice swept through him and his voice had become louder, confident, a rush of blood to his head.
He felt quite dizzy.
The parish hall, which held the monthly assizes and on rare occasions heard the evidence of inquests like this, was a cold lofty building with floorboards that had rotted in parts.
To the side of the table and chair assigned to the coroner, wooden benches had been added to hold the bottoms of newspaper reporters and press men. The case had occupied pages across the dailies, dripping detail after detail about the evil murderess who was on the loose.
A reporter with wide trousers and a green cape that hung from his shoulders watched the room scrupulously.
He studied the man and woman who had unearthed the babies’ remains, who sat at the front of the hall, their shoulders hunched, listening intently. So far, he had not managed to get a break in the story. The Irish Times had got into the house itself and surveyed the garden where the bodies had been found. They had sat with the couple and gleaned reams of colour. Their headlines read Shock and Horror at Strawberry Beds and ‘Find that Woman and Have Her Hung,’ says Woman of Baby Murder House.
The Irish Daily Independent had traced a cousin of James Martin’s first wife to Fermanagh who said her extended family were “praying day and night for the eternal souls of the poor twins and their mother”.
It was the story that kept on giving. Yet, it had given nothing exclusive to him. The Freeman’s Journal needed a scoop.
A cheer broke the silence of the room, some men leaping to their feet and shaking their fists in the air. The foreman sat down, forcefully, putting his shaking hand in his lap, a blush creeping from his cheeks down past his neck, his verdict delivered.
A fellow juryman leaned over and patted him on the back.
“Good man,” he said. “Good man.”
“Order!” shouted the coroner. “Please, order!”
The coroner waited until a calm came to the room, murmurings and mutterings tracing over the heads of the dense crowd.
The men and women at the back shuffled and strained to hear what was going on. Most were aggrieved at having to stand so far back – no seats to be got in their own parish hall! From early morning droves of walkers had left neighbouring parishes and made their way to the Strawberry Beds, taking up seats early. Local people who arrived near the time of the court sitting found themselves displaced.
“Thank you, foreman of the jury,” said the coroner. “Thank you, jury members. I know many of you were familiar with the deceased and it was difficult to hear some of the more graphic details of the case. Your patience, understanding and time given to this inquest is to be commended.”
Poor, affable James Andrew Martin. A very likable fellow by all accounts. Harmless. Not a bad bone in his body. Laced with strychnine, said the analyst, despite the time he’d spent in the ground. It was present in all of the tissues tested.
“The doctors, analysts and chemical experts have, through their evidence, proved beyond all reasonable doubt that that there was murderous intent in the death of James Martin.”
Beyond reasonable doubt.
“I would also like to thank the people of Strawberry Beds for their patience and reservation of judgment over these past weeks, while we awaited our analysis. Despite the unwarranted and extended press coverage, the jury have done a fine job in separating fact from fiction.”
The coroner looked to the press benches and frowned. Some of the reporters smirked.
“I now issue a warrant for the arrest of Margaret Martin, late of Strawberry Beds for the murder of Mr. James Andrew Martin on or about 17 December 1879. As we are unsure of her whereabouts, I call on all present to do what they can to seek out and find this woman. We will engage with the newspapers and journalists present to spread the word, as well as the authorities and our police forces. Thank you.”
“Hang her!” shouted a heckler.
“Murdering bitch!” shouted another.
The journalists scribbled furiously as the anger continued to erupt.
A rush of men moved towards the man and woman to reach out to them, to seek their opinion on what the coroner had said.
“It is the right decision,” said the man. “I hope now that they will find her.”
The couple moved off, making their way through the bustle, wishing to be out in the air, away from the packed parish hall. They left through the side door, striding, arms linked, heads down, against a summer wind that had whipped up.
When they were a few paces from the hall, a man from behind called to them, catching their attention. They stopped and looked around to see a reporter with a long green cape hurrying towards them. He placed a matching fisherman’s hat on his head as he caught up.
The man shook his head.
“We have nothing else to say,” he said, and he tugged his wife’s arm to move on.
<
br /> “Wait!” said the reporter. “Wait, please!”
He was out of breath.
“I’m from the Freeman’s Journal. We have an excellent artist who works for us. If I could have a minute of your time, to explain.”
He told them that the paper wanted to commission a sketch of the woman. From the man’s memory. They were producing a special supplement on the case, outlining every detail of the investigation so far.
“It would help greatly, to find her.”
The man looked at the woman. She shrugged her shoulders.
“Very well,” said the man. “You can come to the house tomorrow, after work.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m most grateful.”
The children were quiet when they got back to the house, as if they knew that their parents were spent. Today was a pinnacle in the post-discovery calendar.
The woman made a pot of tea, and they sat in the kitchen, not talking, sighing at regular intervals.
They’d only had a few months of contentment in the house. Since the suitcase had been dug from their potato bed, so many boots had crossed the threshold. Neighbours, police, doctors, reporters.
They needed to claim back the house as their own.
The woman sat and thought how, after tomorrow, they would draw a cordon around the house. No one else would get in. They would close every curtain and maybe even barricade the door.
She should have listened to her gut from the start. You could always trust your stomach. You needed to listen to it, to feel it, to take that unease and work out what it meant.
She’d used that feeling since she was a child. When she found herself in situations, in places where she shouldn’t have been. In rooms that seemed innocuous enough but when you turned round and everyone was gone and there was only you and that strange boy, the one who was always taking his mickey out and he was blocking the door and you.
The feeling that you needed to escape. Away from the danger, to rescue yourself.
The Nanny At Number 43 Page 19