They drank their tea at the table, cream floating from the fresh milk.
“This is lovely,” she said. “Where is everyone?”
“My sisters is a housekeeper, her husband is down the docks. Waste really, isn’t it, no one here all day?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s so cosy. I’d love to live here.”
“So would I, pet.”
When they were finished their tea, he took her into the bedroom, the spare one, his old room and told her what to do. She obliged, her belly full. Christy made her feel older, like a woman almost, special.
It was over quickly, the thrill of being in his sister’s house, in his old bedroom, somewhere he shouldn’t have been with this young saucy thing, overwhelming him. She giggled as he groaned and he slapped her on the bare arse.
“Will we have another cup of tea?” she asked.
“Ah, we’d better be going,” he said, thinking of the mare tied up outside.
In the kitchen he lifted his jacket from where he’d draped it across the hard-backed kitchen chair and swung it across his shoulders. She touched his arm, helping him into his sleeves and he leaned down to kiss her.
He felt himself readying again.
“C’mere, you,” he said, swinging his bottom down into the chair, taking her straddling onto his lap. “You do something to me, you know that?”
She laughed.
They joined together again, this time more slowly and he held her tight, his face contorted, concentrating on nothing but the soft, wet feel of her.
Neither of them heard the front door open or the pad of the leather boots on the hall floor. Neither of them flinched when the door of the kitchen opened and the woman stood, her mouth agape at the sight that greeted her in her own home.
“Christy!” she shouted, startling them both.
The girl leapt off him to stand, shocked, her arms up as if expecting blows.
“Get out!” Winnie screamed. “Get out!”
They fled, out the back door, him pulling up his trousers as he ran, the girl in front of him as Winnie stood and watched.
He leapt into the cart and pulled her up behind him.
“Will you get in trouble now, Christy?” she said.
“Ah, she’ll be all right,” he said. “Hysterical when she wants to be. I’ll just give her a wide berth for a week or so.”
But he’d underestimated his sister. He didn’t realise the depths Winnie McHugh was about to go to, in search of justice.
He let the girl off near Bolton Square and dropped the stones off at his pal’s house, throwing them one by one quickly into the yard. He wanted out of there, he wanted home, he wanted a drink.
When he’d dropped off the cart and walked up the hill to his cottage, going in to get some money so that he could go back out again, he found an envelope, shoved under the door.
He opened it, standing in the doorway, not even closing the door behind him.
It was from Maggie. She was in Wicklow. She wanted to see how he was, send him her address.
A letter. From Maggie!
As he reread her words, which were written in a poor scrawl, her letters practised and new-looking, he heard footsteps behind him.
He turned, to find two policemen standing on his doorstep, silhouetted in the early evening sun.
“Mr. McCoy?” said the taller one, his face solemn. “We’ve had a report about an incident between you and a young girl.”
His hand was on his baton.
“We have a few questions for you.”
Chapter 34
The Nanny
After Kitty died, I started taking lessons in reading, writing and arithmetic. I’d never got a chance to go to school regular and I knew if I wanted to be able to move up in the world, I needed to be able to read and look at things and understand.
I sat with the other younger students, not caring that I was the tallest and oldest in the class, ignoring their stifled giggles when the tutor asked me a question. I ignored the parts on the Catechism and religion and God, they were of no use to me. What I needed was knowledge that would help me get employment, that would help me to read hard books, that would allow me to hold conversations like a lady.
That’s what I saw myself as. That’s what I wanted to be.
A lady.
Kitty’s bed stayed empty beside me and after the first few nights I went to the dorm matron and asked to be moved, away from the memory of her, of her little face, waking up to mine each morning.
She obliged.
I went to the far end of the dorm and watched as my bed was filled by an older woman, who was a drinker, just like Ma, and Kitty’s bed by a girl younger than me, her face so gaunt she looked as if she’d already seen hell and come back to visit us all.
Kitty’s absence followed me like a ghost. Most of the time I pretended that she’d never even existed, scrubbing at the washboard feverishly in the laundry, the skin tearing off my knuckles till the blood starting soaking into the water and the white sheets and I got a clatter for that and was put on ironing instead.
I used the laundry as a distraction. The lessons as a feast for my mind. I didn’t know when I’d be leaving here or how, but I knew it would be soon.
I could feel it.
In the end, it was himself who called me up, old Snake Eyes McGovern, his pupils squinting at me as I came in the door.
He didn’t tell me to take a seat. That would be too respectful for me. Instead he let me stand there, my hands behind my back, gawping at him.
“Our records show you are seventeen, Margaret,” he said, flicking over a piece of paper on his desk.
Seventeen. So that was my age.
“Some time ago you expressed interest in leaving, finding a placement.”
My ears pricked. This was it. This was the door out.
“I know you are taking lessons. And you have been working hard. You have improved, shall we say?”
He was falling over himself with the compliments altogether. He paused, waiting for me to react, as if I should smile or something at him, but I kept my mouth straight and stared.
“I’ve been contacted by a woman here in Drogheda, who is looking for a good servant girl for a house in Wicklow. It’s her sister’s house and they haven’t had much luck in finding the staff they need. She’s keen to give someone a chance.”
I watched his eyes squint, just a little more.
“I thought of you.”
Wicklow. My escape would be Wicklow.
“If you are agreeable you can leave tomorrow. The train will take you most of the way there and they will meet you at the station. I will telegram ahead.”
I nodded.
I wanted to smile, the delicious sense of freedom, of something new, of something wonderful was seeping through me. But I didn’t want to grant McGovern any of this pleasure.
“There’s something else,” he said. “We’ve a had a letter from Grangegorman. Your mother hung herself by her bedsheets a fortnight ago. I’m sorry. I think she took the news of your sister’s death very badly.”
Ma. Dead. Just like Kitty.
Not a soul in the world left related to me.
I continued to stare at him. I didn’t even flinch.
“I think with this news and what happened over the past few weeks, it is fair that you get a chance, that you get some sort of fresh start.”
He felt guilty about Kitty.
“I wish you well, Margaret. I hope we won’t see you back here.”
“You won’t,” I said, the only words I allowed him.
I made my way back to the laundry where I finished my work. Over tea, I whispered to the girls around me that I was going, that tomorrow I’d be gone.
They were excited for me, told me they were jealous. Later one of the girls plaited my hair.
The next morning, I was given a canvas bag, a freshly laundered dress, new underwear and a set of second-hand boots.
I slipped out the back just before I was du
e to go out the front door, to the train station on my own. I walked quickly to where Kitty lay, nothing on her grave only a big mound of fresh earth, someone else new in it.
“Goodbye, Kitty,” I said, clutching her ribbon in my hand. “I will make something of myself, you wait and see.”
I wanted to give her back the ribbon, I wanted to put it on her grave, to say sorry, to say goodbye. Instead I tied it round my hair and let a tear drop down my face until I sniffed and shrugged and made myself forget.
I wanted it for protection.
As I walked out the front gate, my canvas bag in my hand, my new shoes clobbing, my thoughts moved from Kitty to Christy.
He wouldn’t know where I was gone. He wouldn’t be able to find me.
I couldn’t help wanting him to want me.
Maybe I’d write to him when I got there.
Tell him I forgave him and it was all right if he wanted to write me back.
I had no one else in the godly world, no one at all, that was mine. And I missed him.
The house in Wicklow was the loveliest house I’d ever seen. There were no holes in the walls or plaster showing or a stink coming from rotten drains and pots thrown outside.
There were curtains and paintings and dark wood panels on the walls, oil paintings everywhere, luxuries I’d never even imagined.
The light streamed in through tall windows and I marvelled at the furnished rooms, wallpapered, cushions on the sofas, deep-set rugs on the floors. Who knew people lived like this?
The work was hard enough. We were expected to keep everything dust-free and clean and there were so many knickknacks to be gone over with the cloth, all the silver to be polished, brass to be gleamed.
But it wasn’t as hard as the laundry. And the food here was full of salt and butter and other tastes that had never been in my mouth before.
It took me a while to settle in, because I didn’t know so many things and the housekeeper called me a ‘stupid girl’ when I’d first arrived. But I wasn’t stupid. I just wasn’t learned in living in a lovely house like this.
After about a year, I knew I had settled well. I started to read the books that were left in the common room we shared, going over the big words, looking them up in the dictionary. I read the newspaper every evening, looking at the pictures and stories from all around the world.
After two years, I’d earned their trust completely. Sometimes when the Nanny was busy, her hands full, or she needed to go to the village or into the town, I was the only one who could be spared to look in on the children.
I’d sit with them, playing their games, listening to their prattle and their high-pitched voices and grand accents. They said their words as if there was a big ‘o’ in the middle. At first, I loved looking after them, getting out of cleaning duties for a few hours, watching how they played with their toys and drew pictures and embroidered little cushions.
Over time though, I began to take against them. They were an obnoxious lot, fighting, crying and whinging over the slightest of things. If Kitty had only half of what they had …
The resentment grew inside me like a rot.
One day, when I was asked to bring their tea tray up to the nursery, I decided to play a trick for fun and heaped two big teaspoons of salt into their puddings. I knew they’d gag and complain about the cook and be all put out for the evening. That made me laugh.
I couldn’t stand their whinging and moaning, grumbling over everything that wasn’t even a problem at all.
When the nanny took ill, I was assigned to the nursery until they got a temporary replacement. I smiled and joked and planted a great big grin on my face.
But I was smiling at the thought of a plan. An idea that had nestled in my head and wouldn’t go away.
I was going to teach them. I was going to show them that they needed to appreciate what they had.
I’d got the idea from the newspaper, a case in England where a wife was up in court for poisoning her husband.
She did it to get back at him for beating her and, I thought, I could do that to those kids, just a bit to warn them, to say you don’t know how bloody lucky you are.
When they were good, things would be good. When they weren’t, they would suffer the consequences.
It became a bit of a game. I snuck the poison from the back hall, sprinkling a tiny dusting of the white rat powder into soups, or folding it into their sandwiches.
I learned there were other solutions and syrups that could help control the nursery. When the baby was tired and cried too much, I’d add a good dose of soothing syrup to her bottle, just like our ma used to do to us.
When the girl, with her airs and graces and love of sticking her nose in the air was argumentative and grating, I’d drop the soothing syrup into the milky porridge she had for supper. I alternated between soothing syrup and poison for the boy. He was an awful, annoying wheedling chap.
I learned how to administer the doses in just the right amounts – I needed to keep them just sick or sleepy enough not to arouse suspicions. I didn’t want doctors called and I didn’t want them to associate any of the illnesses with me.
I got a thrill from it, watching how I could control them. How I had the power. How I could teach those children to behave, to be a bit more grateful, to realise there were so many children, so many little girls and boys locked up in workhouses and rundown shells of houses, freezing, hungry, forced to the street to look for scraps and they didn’t lament nowhere near as much as them.
I didn’t mean to do away with that baby.
It was an accident. I was measuring a bit of rat powder out onto a spoon and the box tipped and more went in than I wanted. I heard footsteps on the stairs and I needed to pick up the tea tray, get out of there, not be caught interfering with the baby.
It was a shock when the nanny found her in the morning, cold in her cot.
The mistress was distressed, everyone crying.
But after, when it was all dealt with, when nursery life returned to normal, I realised I was soaring inside.
Only I knew the real truth of what happened.
Only I had the power, the control over their little precious lives.
Sure it was like I was God himself, deciding what punishments needed to be handed out.
I had come up in the world, just like I swore I would.
Chapter 35
The Witness
A dog barked, vicious. It looked like a mastiff. He put his hand down, out and flat and let the dog smell it. It was cautious, its nose quivering, sniffing, but not touching his fingers. It stopped barking and backed up as he opened the wooden gate.
The small yard was swept and clean. Lavvy pots were stacked outside to be washed. A cart was stacked with turf ready to be unloaded.
He patted the dog on its head, and it wagged its tail slightly.
He always had a liking for dogs. Loyal creatures. Maybe he’d get one for himself.
If he didn’t find a wife.
He rapped on the back door and watched a woman appear, behind the glass panes.
“I’m looking for Eliza,” he said. “Eliza Butterly?”
“Yes, that is I,” she said, eyeing him curiously, taking in his long green cape and wide hat.
“I’m here about your letter,” he said. “You wrote to the Freeman’s Journal. About a woman you worked with?”
Blushing, the woman closed the door behind her gently and stepped out.
“What are you doing here?” she said, her voice a hiss.
“The editor was extremely interested,” he said. “I would like to interview you, to find out more. Do you think your employers might grant an interview too?”
The woman looked mortified.
“I’ll be sacked. Please, you must leave. I wrote on the letter that I wanted my name withheld.”
“If I could just ask you some questions. Your letter could be of vital importance. This is a very serious matter.”
The woman looked behind her.
&n
bsp; “Can you go out beyond the gate?” she said. “I’ll meet you there in a minute.” She ducked back inside and he walked slowly from the servant’s entrance and across the yard. He carried a camera, a wooden tripod and a large leather bag.
He looked back at the house, noting its bay windows to the front. It was one of the bigger houses on the road and looked respectable, affluent.
Was this where the woman had started her killing spree?
Eliza reappeared, wearing her cloak and bonnet. She set off walking as soon as she got to the gate, and he followed her, the dog bounding beside them.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she said, agitated. “You could have written first and I would have met you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We thought it better if I followed up immediately. This really is too important a case. We are carrying out our own investigations and we will be handing all information over to the authorities.”
He didn’t tell her that the most pressing issue was The Freeman’s Journal eight-page supplement, which had promised details, exclusives and titillating coverage for those interested in the case. The print run had already been doubled.
“Could you tell me about the woman?”
The maid didn’t answer and kept walking.
“I don’t want this brought on me,” she said, suddenly stopping and looking at the reporter direct. “I can give you information, but I wish to remain anonymous.”
“Let’s get the information and we’ll see what we’ll do next,” he said.
Dissatisfied, she walked on, folding her arms. They reached a wooden bench, set back from the road. She sat on it and he joined her.
“I will tell you what I know,” she said. “But I am only doing it because I believe that she has done wrong and I want to stop her. If it’s true what she did to them babies and to that poor man ... and before that in our own house … “ Her voice trailed off. “But the master and mistress aren’t going to want to talk about this. And if they know it’s come from me, then I really could be in trouble.”
She looked at him, straight into his eyes.
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