She handed over her coins to the grocer, then folded the paper into her basket. A headline near the masthead caught her eye. She took it back out and shook it.
She looked at the grocer and he nodded in companionable agreement.
“Is this true?” she said.
“Can you believe it?” he asked.
Silent Killer Traced to Drogheda
Evil Poisoner May Be Living in Louth Town
A large sketch of a woman graced the front page, her eyes clear, her eyebrows lowered, a blank, staring expression on her face.
“Do you know who she might be?” said the grocer. “The whole town is on the lookout.”
Mrs. McHugh put a hand on the counter, to steady herself as a wave of nausea swept through her.
Her basket tipped over, the wrapped bacon falling out onto the newspaper, flattening itself and threatening to wet a patch of the exclusive eight-page supplement.
“It’s the Nanny at Number 43,” she said, her voice a whisper, before she too unfurled onto the floor.
Chapter 40
Christy
The Silent Killer, the headline said.
He read the details, taking in everything that they knew.
There was no mention of him.
He’d picked up the paper on the way to the stables, something he did every morning. He would read it on the rank, in between waiting for fares.
He’d been following the case of the unearthed babies with interest, hoping they would draw a blank and drop their investigation. The last thing he expected to see was Margaret’s face staring back at him in an exclusive special supplement.
Damn and blast her anyway.
He thought about what to do. He could send a telegram, arrange a meeting point, plan their escape.
But he didn’t want anyone in the post office knowing what he needed to tell her. He didn’t want to divulge her name, her address, having to spell it out.
No, he’d have to go to her. There might still be time. The paper would have to circulate, people would need to talk, to summon the police.
If he went now, he might catch her. They could skip it then.
Gather up everything they needed and get out.
Bloody Margaret.
She should have been more careful.
What the hell was she doing burying those babies in the garden where they could be so easily dug up? She’d told him they were well hidden, no chance of being found. And standing around gawping having her photo taken?
They had all the evidence to work with now. Witnesses. Chemical analysis. Had he taught her nothing?
There was no time to go back to his flat to pack up his belongings. He ignored the pale-faced prostitutes sitting on the steps of buildings, some calling to him as he passed. The morning crew.
He was in a bad mood now.
They would miss him today on the rank.
At Amiens Street train station, his cap pulled low, he thought about the journey back to his hometown. The first time in ten years. He hoped to God he didn’t meet anyone he knew.
He sneaked onto the train without buying a ticket, going past the conductor with his hand out, who was occupied with a lone woman asking directions to Sydney Parade.
He got a seat and hunched up his legs towards the window, pulling his cap over his eyes. He feigned sleep and spread himself out, to put anyone off thinking about sitting beside him.
The train was quiet enough, only a few early day trippers climbing aboard to make their stops along the coast. Malahide. Donabate.
The backs of buildings rushed past, grey houses, windowed up high, bricks revealed, plaster cracked from walls.
Once the city had passed, the commercial buildings turned into neat rows of terraced houses, then spaced out into larger, green gardens, before the coast appeared.
He looked out at the sea, calm and ebbing. It sparkled under the morning sun, stretching out over the horizon, white scraps of clouds separating it from the sky.
He tapped ash from his cigarette onto the small table in front of him, watching the smoke curl past his head, and out the window of the carriage.
His hangover had set in good and proper now.
His stomach lurched a bit when he saw the sign for Drogheda and he stood to get behind a family getting ready to dismount.
Home.
He pulled his neckerchief over his mouth and walked down the Dublin Road, his hands in his pockets, his head down.
The town was just coming to life, shoppers out with baskets, a horde of signs advertising tea and Fry’s Cocoa on the side of the hotel at the corner of the quays.
He crossed the bridge and walked up Shop Street quickly, turning into Laurence Street, looking at the numbers of the town houses.
He wasn’t quite sure which was Number 43.
When he reached the pale-blue house, he rang the doorbell and rapped on the knocker, confidently.
A young maid answered it.
“Sorry to disturb, love,” he said, pulling the neckerchief down a bit from his mouth. “Would the nanny be in today? I need to have a word with her?”
“Miss Murphy?” asked the girl, looking him up and down.
“Yes.”
“She’s not available today,” she said primly.
“Oh,” said the man. “It’s very important I see her. Are you sure she’s not available? I can come in and wait.”
“She’s not here,” said the girl. “She’s gone away for a few days, to Swinford Hall.”
She stepped forward and straightened to her full height.
“When will she be back?” he asked.
“I think in two days’ time, sir.”
“All right,” he said. “Thanks.”
The maid closed the door.
Damn it anyway. He hadn’t expected her to be out to the country like that. Although out there, she might be less likely to be spotted.
He didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d planned on seeing her straight off, whisking her away, making their escape.
Now she wouldn’t be back for two whole days.
He wondered if he should try to make his way out to Swinford Hall. He didn’t have the funds to charter a carriage. He could try hitch a lift either, but he had little idea of how far it was.
His head ached, pounding with the remnants of last night’s stout and whiskey. He’d woken up in the Monto, to the slaps and pinches of the girl. She’d called her madame in the end to get rid of him and one of the pimps gave him a good boot on the arse when he finally managed to get himself out of the bed, down the stairs and out onto the street.
Whiskey. He had an awful goo on him for whiskey now.
He crossed the road and bought a naggin of Power’s from the grocer’s. It felt heavy in his hands as he carried it, the neckerchief back at his mouth, head down, walking all the way up the hill, past the workhouse to the old cottage.
Maggie had written that it was unoccupied. He knew by her that she had a hope that they might even move back there, the two of them.
He would have a drink and think about what to do next.
On the way past the workhouse, he stopped at the wall and found the stones he had once chipped out. He pushed them so that they fell into the grass on the other side, just because he could.
Chapter 41
The Arrest
A hare leapt from a shallow ditch underneath the rolling wheels of the carriage. A loud knock sounded, the rim of the wheel clashing with the thick thighbone of the animal.
Stunned, it tried to run away, but with its leg broken it could only stagger to the side of the road and drop. It lay down, its chest rising and falling rapidly until the pain and the shock overcame it and its breathing slowed.
Inside the carriage that knocked the hare, sat William D. Thomas, his child and the Nanny. The baby was sleeping in the Nanny’s arms, exhausted from illness.
She had made it through the night.
Margaret kept her head in the air, her body turned from him. She
was upset.
William too felt aggrieved. He turned from her in the opposite direction, his legs hunched to the side of the carriage, his boots tapping in agitation as they mounted a bump in the road.
“I want a whole new set of bottles when we get home,” he said. “Brand new. And we will get new teats, change them weekly.”
“Of course,” she said.
The carriage passed a milestone indicating four miles to Drogheda.
They would both be relieved to climb out at Laurence Street, shake out their weary travelled limbs and rest.
William wished that Mrs. McHugh was there to greet them. She would have hot water ready, food … comfort.
The sound of a horse galloping by echoed through the carriage. It was followed by another and then another.
William pulled the blind from the window and looked out, but there was nothing to be seen.
When the road narrowed two miles outside Drogheda, their horse slowed, as though sensing something in the air.
The driver slapped the reins, but the horse did not quicken its pace. They rounded the corner, the river white and sparkling in the early afternoon light.
Up ahead, policemen stood round a cordon. A barrier had been erected.
When the carriage slowed to a near halt, William put his head out the window.
“A check point,” he said.
The Nanny bristled.
They listened to the driver upfront answer the policeman’s questions.
“From Swinford Hall, sir, County Meath.”
“Two occupants, sir, and a baby. Mr. William D. Thomas and his nanny.”
They heard footsteps on the road. Light broke into the cab as the door was opened. The carriage shook. The baby whimpered.
The policeman looked at the Nanny, who had drawn an arm up to shield herself.
He withdrew his head but kept his hand on the door.
They heard murmuring from outside.
The policeman put his head back into the carriage and looked again at the Nanny.
“Margaret Martin?”
She shook her head.
“What is the meaning of this?” said William.
“Could I ask both of you to dismount, please?”
Overhead swallows dipped and dived, shooting through the air, catching midges and minute flies.
A pigeon flew by. Fat and slow.
William shook his head and looked at Margaret.
She looked back at him defensively.
“We have quite an ill baby on board, I’d really rather not,” said William.
“Sir, I kindly ask you both to get out of the cab.”
Sighing, William got up and dismounted, reaching back into the carriage to help Margaret with the baby down the rickety steps.
“Sir, could I please ask you to hold the child?” said the policeman.
Margaret brought the baby up to her face and snuggled it. She took a deep breath, smelling Anna Genevieve, before handing her to a protesting William.
The policeman held up a newspaper with a pencil sketch of a brooding woman.
Wanted for Murder
A History of Poisoning Babies
William snatched the paper from his hand as another policeman took Margaret by the elbow and led her to a black police vehicle parked on the other side of the barrier.
Margaret did not look back. She did not talk or try to wave. She stared ahead, holding her jaw and chin up as the vehicle readied itself to move off.
As they made around the bend in the road, two swallows chased them, swooping and diving, in pursuit of the flies that hovered out of their way.
Christy woke with a headache that sliced his head in two. He put his palm to his forehead, sitting up from the settle bench he was strewn across. The bench was still here, a large crack in the middle and filled with dust. The place was a ruin though, the cupboards gone, the grate long cold and covered in soot that had fallen over the years from the chimney.
His hand did nothing to ease the throbbing in his brain.
He needed water, but there was nothing wet in sight, except a small drop of Power’s Whiskey, settled in the bottom of the glass bottle at his feet.
He lifted it and drank it, straight, the burn cutting his throat, his stomach protesting at another swill of alcohol to be absorbed.
He felt as though he would vomit and he retched but managed to hold in his guts. He got up, feeling the vessels in his head expand with the movement and went to the corner of the room, nearest the door.
He opened his trousers and urinated against the cottage wall, spraying it, away from his feet, leaning against the plaster for support.
From outside, the afternoon sun was casting dappled shadows through caked panes of glass.
He needed something to settle his stomach.
Outside, he started down the laneway but the jolt of his steps caused him to pause and retch. He spat out some bile, in the hope that it would make him feel better.
It didn’t.
At the top of the hill, nestled above the hundred steps that would bring him back down into the town, Sampson’s tavern had a sign advertising bread bowls. Soup and a pint, it would set him right so it would.
A middle-aged cleanshaven man was wiping a glass when he came in and served up the pint of stout with good humour.
“You look like you could do with that!”
Christy said nothing, but grimaced, picked a seat at the furthest, quietest end of the bar and took a gulp. After another few slurps, the pain in his head dulled a little.
“Hair of the dog,” he said to the barman and they shared a knowing smile.
The bar was busy with men stopping in on their lunchtime, covered in dust, paint and soot, smelling of dried sweat, crisp chemical tangs mixing with their fresh cigarette smoke.
He wanted to lay his head down on his hands as he waited for his food, such was his weariness. After avoiding her for months, now he needed to see Maggie urgently.
She had the paperwork they needed for their fortune. All the details on the bonds and accounts where everything was held.
He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the bar around him, wondering how he could get to Maggie before everyone else did.
“Can you believe it? Right here in the town – did ya ever hear the like?”
“And she was working here?”
“Aye, as a nanny! Good Jaysus. I tell ya, that Thomas fella had a lucky escape. They think she might have been slowly poisoning him and the child. All to get the house. Wicked bitch.”
Christy leaned forward and took another drink of his pint.
“How long was she here?”
“Oh, I don’t know, a few months they think. Imagine, her walking by us on the street, all this time, and us none the wiser.”
“The world is a mad place altogether.”
“Oh, it is. Shocking so it is.”
He put his palm to his forehead again.
When the bowl arrived, murky carrots steaming in the middle of the bread, he let the smell enter his nostrils.
He drained his pint with his chin in the air, feeling the liquid rush and settle in his stomach. He slammed the pint glass on the table and took a coin from his pocket and threw it on the counter, landing beside the untouched bread bowl.
Outside the smell of honeysuckle from bushes that hung low and wavered at the top of the hill met the stale gush of air from the tavern.
He kept his hands in his pockets, his neckerchief pulled high and walked up the Dublin Road, slowly, purposefully, towards the train station.
It was too late.
Their chance was gone.
Damn Maggie to hell anyway, he always knew she was trouble.
On the platform he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, watching the smoke curl upwards and evaporate in the yellow ironworks ceiling overhead.
“Goodbye, Maggie,” he said out loud, as the train pulled in, puffing white steam all along the platform. He picked a window seat, stretching his legs ou
t and lifting them across the seat opposite. If anyone asked him to move, he’d take them by the neck and tell them what to do with themselves.
He would take a steamer from Kingstown, out across the Irish sea. You wouldn’t know who was watching the port at Drogheda.
He was in the mood for an adventure.
And he never liked this town anyway.
Chapter 42
The Nanny
Her cell was cold and damp. She sat in it alone, shivering under the thin, sack-like blanket. Outside she could hear noise, voices, clanging, the sound of keys.
It reminded her of the workhouse.
Christy had warned her to be careful, and she was. She was discreet about her business, taking care not to make mistakes. It was why she’d sent Ethel up to get the poison for Mick McHugh. No trace back to her. It was why she was careful taking Mrs. McHugh’s key to get into the cottage that day. Just for an hour. She put it straight back – the woman had never noticed.
And the handwriting forgery, Mrs. McHugh’s letter, getting that man Christy knew who could scribe to any writing sample you provided him. She was proud of that move.
She’d found the valuation certificate for the ring in a drawer in Anna Thomas’ dressing table. She would tell Christy that when she saw him, that she had been careful.
The guard rapped on the cell door with a baton, the sound startling her.
She heard him unlocking the door and she stood up, her heart beating.
Christy? Had Christy come to see her?
“You have a visitor.”
Her joy died when she saw who it was.
She folded her arms, sat down and looked the other way as the guard let Mrs. McHugh into the cell and warned, “Five minutes”.
He locked the door behind him, rattling the keys.
She refused to look at Mrs McHugh and a silence hung between them, awkward and tense.
“All that stuff in the papers, is it true?”
Mrs. McHugh’s voice was shaky, but she held her head high.
The Nanny shrugged. “What papers? I haven’t been reading any papers.”
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