A Necessary Murder

by M. J. Tjia

  As I walk, I can feel their eyes inch across my body. Somehow it doesn’t feel the same as when I ride in the park. The spectators who line the park lanes to watch me are there to enjoy themselves, and I’m displaying my plumage for their admiration. I’ve crafted the artifice. It’s a performance. Here, I’m just walking, damn it. Times like this… it feels different. It slithers under my skin, trembles there self-consciously, reminds me of a dark night long ago.

  Usually my reaction depends on my mood. In a good humour, I’ll be jaunty, say thank you, catch their eye with my bold one. I’ll be just disdainful enough that usually their gaze will drop away. But if I’m cranky, I’ve been known to do worse.

  But here I’m posing as a local nanny. It might be necessary to pass them, again and again. So, no rude gestures.

  Finally, I come to stand outside the Lovejoy house. Two coaches are parked by the side of the road, the horses languid, their heads dipped. A gaggle of reporters—five or six maybe—stand around under a large oak, stomping their feet against the cold. When they see me hovering, they make a start across the road and call out, but I duck through the gate, trot down the front path. St Chad’s Lodge is a handsome house with a pillared front door and a fine arched window above it on the second floor. I almost approach the front door, but remember my station and move to the back. I tap at the servants’ door and, upon no response, I rap on it louder. A thin woman, wearing a mob cap and apron, opens the door.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m the new nursemaid.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. The missus said you was coming. I’m the cook.” Many of her teeth are missing so that her bottom jaw appears to be not unlike a piano keyboard. She stands back against the wall to allow me to enter. “I’ll just let the missus know.” She hurries before me down the hallway, calling out to someone named Ruth. “Hurry up and tell Mrs Lovejoy that the new nursemaid has come.”

  As we reach the kitchen, a girl, slight with a mop of curly hair, pops her head around the doorway. Her shy eyes sweep over me and she gulps a “Yes, Cook,” and scuttles away.

  “Poor Ruth has so much to do now. And the missus. We used to have a housekeeper, we did, but she left soon after… Well. I’ll make you a cup of tea, shall I? You must be thirsty. How far did you have to come, dear?” The cook sets about the stove-top, without really needing an answer from me. “I’ve made a lovey batch of scones too. But we won’t eat them until the family have had their fill first. I was going to make a second batch, just for us, but…”

  “That will do, Cook,” says a deep voice from the hallway. “I’ll see to the new nursemaid from here.”

  The voice belongs to a tall woman, dressed all in black, from the netting over her hair to the ribboned hem of her skirt. She’s heavyset yet handsome, and her thick eyebrows are so straight and long they almost meet in the middle. It’s only when she turns to the side that I realise that her skirts billow wide because she is with child.

  She beckons to me. “What do we call you?” she asks as she leads the way.

  “Louise, madam.” We pause in the draughty entrance hall, from which four rooms open. “Louise Casey.” I look to the back of the house and wonder which of the two rooms is the drawing room—the room that had its doors jimmied open, and where Lovejoy had found the note.

  “We will call you Nurse Louise then, if that suits.” She nods to the rooms on each side of us at the front of the house. “That is the sitting room, where the family usually gathers, and this one here is… was Mr Lovejoy’s study.” She swallows and purses her lips tight for a moment. Now that I am closer to her, I can see that the rims of her eyes are as red as raw beef, that her eyelids are puffy. “Please pay attention. There are thirteen rooms in this house, and I won’t have time to repeat all of this to you.” Pointing to the back of the house, she says, “That room there to the right is the dining room, and there to the left is the drawing room where we entertain guests. However, as there is plenty of space in the nursery, it will not be necessary for you to use any of these rooms down here.”

  “Yes, madam,” I say. I nearly bob a curtsy but stop myself in time.

  Lifting her skirts, Mrs Lovejoy climbs the stairs, slowly, as though a great weight pulls her back. “I’ll show you upstairs.”

  “Was this house once a church?” I ask, as my hand runs across the smooth timber of the handrail. “St Chad’s?”

  “No. It’s the name of the cathedral in the town my husband… my late husband, was born in.”

  Once we reach the landing, she points to the end of the hallway at the left side of the house. “My rooms.” Turning to the right, she says, “The children’s rooms are here. At the end there is Joshua’s room—he’s a young man now, you won’t be called upon to care for him—and next to his room, there, is Emily’s.”

  “Do I care for her, madam?”

  Mrs Lovejoy stares at me for so long I wonder if she’s confused. But then, as she exhales, I smell the spirits on her breath. Gin? Brandy? Something stronger than mere sherry or ratafia, in any case.

  She turns and goes to Emily’s door and knocks. “Emily. Emily, the new nursemaid is here. Can you please come out and meet her?”

  I hear something shift behind the door, but the girl doesn’t reply or come to the door.

  Mrs Lovejoy sighs. “She never listens to me. Their mother was Mr Lovejoy’s first wife, you know. Emily is just turned fifteen, so she should be under your care too, but I fear she might be difficult to persuade.” She walks past me and opens the door to the room across the corridor. “And this is the nursery.”

  The room is richly appointed, with crisp new wallpaper featuring small posies of flowers, while the curtains that cover the three sets of windows are of a more concentrated floral pattern. Any number of expensive toys are scattered across the Wilton carpet. A crib stands by the middle window, silk brocade draped prettily over its sides. Three dolls lie side by side in the crib, staring stonily at the ceiling.

  Mrs Lovejoy moves to another door, tucked behind a set of table and chairs. She opens it slowly to reveal a plain room with three single beds arranged against the walls.

  “This is where you will sleep.” Her stern face relaxes. She must’ve been truly beautiful, once. “And this is Cyril. He’s having his afternoon nap.”

  I gaze at the little thing—at the long, long lashes that rest against his flushed cheeks, at how his blond hair catches the light, turns to gold. Really, how much trouble can a sweet little mite like this give me?

  Mrs Lovejoy closes the door again and looks me over. “Well, you appear to be neat enough, so I don’t suppose I’ll need to order more nurse uniforms, after all. Are all your dresses like that one?”

  “Yes, madam. I have brought two more with me.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “So many? Good enough. Please keep a list of your linen, so it doesn’t go missing with the laundry. Our laundry woman sometimes misplaces things.” She frowns for a moment, her hand resting on the nursery door. Maybe she is thinking of the missing wrapper. Maybe she wonders if it’s drenched in her daughter’s blood.

  “What are Master Cyril’s movements? Does he need to follow a strict routine?” I ask.

  Her dark eyes find mine again. The cold expression returns to her face. “Nurse Marie will tell you what you need to know.”

  “But… where will I find her, madam?” I thought she’d been dismissed.

  “She is staying in the housekeeper’s room for the time being. She will help you with the children, but you must always keep an eye on her.” Her voice drags on the last few words.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Where can I find Nurse Marie?” I ask Cook, as Cyril, the little beast, wails and squirms in my arms.

  “She’s just behind the kitchen, to your left. In old Mrs Forbes’s room, she is.” The cook holds my elbow for a second and says, “Let herself go, she has, poor thing. Ever since… well. I’ll bring you both a nice cup of tea.”

  I carry the boy to where Cook points and, alth
ough I try to knock lightly, Cyril boots the door, then howls even louder that he’s hurt his toes.

  The door swings open. A sallow young woman holds her arms out to the boy, folds his plump little body to hers. She buries her face into his neck, her bony fingers squeezing his shoulders.

  I think she might be crying, from the grimace on her face, but when she opens her eyes again, they’re dry. “Cyril, turtle dove, why all this noise?” she coos to him, wiping the sweaty locks from his forehead. She takes a seat by the bed, settles him onto her lap.

  “Her!” he says, one stubby finger pointing at me. “Her. I thought her a monster.”

  “Well, that’s hardly fair,” I say, my hands on my waist. “All I wanted to do was get you dressed into a warm jacket so you didn’t freeze to death.”

  “She wouldn’t sing me a song,” he whispers to Nurse Marie, his beady blue eyes on me.

  I take a seat on the bed. “I only sing songs for good boys.”

  He looks like he might take the bait, but then plugs his thumb into his mouth and leans back against Nurse Marie’s chest.

  “I’m the new nursemaid, in case you haven’t guessed.” I smile at Marie, to show I’m friendly, that I’m not here to trump anyone.

  She doesn’t reply. She looks exhausted. Her wide mouth droops, and her fringe is so long, strands teeter upon her eyelashes. There are dark smudges beneath her eyes, which are as red as Mrs Lovejoy’s. I wonder if her dress—grey with a navy pinstripe—is the uniform Mrs Lovejoy spoke of. The cuffs are a little frayed and one of the faux tortoiseshell buttons is missing from her bodice.

  The air is chilly, for there’s no fireplace in here, and I wish I had my shawl. Nurse Marie doesn’t seem to notice, though, as she pats Cyril’s small hand.

  Cook rustles in with two cups of tea, which she places on a small side table. Balanced on the saucers’ rims are slabs of butter cake. Cook takes one and gives it to the boy. “And one special piece for Master Cyril.”

  Cyril scowls at her in lieu of saying thank you.

  I take a sip of my tea. “Marie, might you come upstairs and help me? With Cyril? I don’t know when he eats or what he does before bedtime?” It certainly looks like she misses the boy. Maybe she can come back to the nursery and resume her work; Mrs Lovejoy seemed happy enough with that. That’ll give me a chance to observe her further for the Detective Inspector, and free up my time to do a bit of detecting around the house. And god knows I don’t want to be left alone with the little brat for too long.

  Cyril twists around in her lap and squeezes the nanny’s sunken cheeks with his sticky fingers. “Yes, Nursie. Come upstairs. I don’t like her.” He leaves cake crumbs smeared on her skin.

  After we finish our tea, Nurse Marie carries Cyril up to the nursery. I’m not sure how she does it—her arms are as thin as twigs. They look like they might snap. Surely too frail to overpower a man of Lovejoy’s stature.

  As we walk along the hallway, I pause to look at the pictures that adorn the walls. Between a painting of two swans in a rococo frame and a portrait of a man standing by a bull is a photograph of the whole family. At the back of the group is the nursemaid, holding the hand of a toddler while cradling the other child in her arms. Mr and Mrs Lovejoy are seated to the fore, two young people behind them, their hands resting on the parents’ shoulders. Next on the wall is a large photograph of Mr Lovejoy—those snowy sideburns, the hard eyes—and above that, in a large gilt frame, is a painting of the boy himself, Cyril. Just outside the door to the nursery is a painting of a little girl, who has Cyril’s flaxen hair and the pretty eyes of a kitten.

  “What a sweet thing,” I say. “Who is this?”

  Nurse Marie turns slowly towards me, Cyril still clasped to her chest. Her eyes wander over the girl’s features and her lip trembles.

  “That’s Meggie,” Cyril says. “Emily said she’s gone to heaven to be with Emily’s mother.”

  “Emily? Your sister, Emily?” Half-sister. The daughter of the first Mrs Lovejoy.

  Cyril nods. “Meggie wouldn’t like you either.”

  I go to say something acerbic to the boy but catch the reproachful look Nurse Marie gives me.

  The next two hours are taken up with the tedium of preparing a child for bed. I watch on, half-hearted in my attempts to help feed and bathe him, which Cyril also seems content with, apart from taking the opportunity to splash soap onto the apron I had the foresight to put on.

  “Can you please ask Cook for Cyril’s warm milk?” Nurse Marie asks me, as she settles down to read to the boy.

  “Of course.” I’m glad to escape. I trip down the stairs and make my way to the kitchen, where I ask Cook for the nightcap.

  Cook’s so busy bustling around the stove as she explains to Ruth how to turn the overripe peaches into chutney that I take the chance to slip back into the corridor. Light pours from the sitting room doorway at the front of the hall, and the gaslight chandelier still shines in the dining room, but to my right the drawing room is shrouded in shadow. There’s just sufficient light for me to make out the shape of the furniture as I creep towards the French doors at the back of the room. I want to have a closer look at the jimmied door Hatch mentioned.

  As I fiddle with the handle of the first set of doors, my eyes adjust to the gleam of moonlight that shines through the glass. The handle seems to be sturdy enough, as I wrench it up and down. I move onto the second lot of doors. This time I can discern a slight looseness in the handle’s swing. I shift to the side to allow for the light from the dining room to illuminate the door and, bending down, I think that maybe I can see scratches in the white paint. I’m just rubbing my fingers against the grooves when the light in the doorway is blocked. Two figures, still and quiet, gaze in at me.

  I draw back. “Oh my. You did startle me.”

  “What are you doing?” The voice is male and quite deep, yet I can tell he’s still young.

  Well, I’ve already acted guilty, so I’ll pretend to be a goose. I bob a curtsy and say, “I really must apologise. I’m the new nursemaid, Nurse Louise. Maybe your mother has told you of me. I’m just waiting for dear Cyril’s milk and, being of a very careful disposition, I really felt it necessary to check that all the doors and windows are secure.”

  They stand back for me to pass into the hallway.

  “You must be Master Joshua and Miss Emily,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Your mother has told me of you. She says that I shall have the pleasure of Emily’s company in the nursery from time to time.”

  Although tall, Joshua actually looks younger than his sixteen years. A rather foolish smile is fixed on his moon-face, and his hair is unfashionably straight, flops over his forehead. But his sister is another story. She’s almost as tall as he is; I have to look up at her. She’s well-padded and her shoulders are broad. Her face is as pasty as a currant bun, with terrible pimples dug deep into her cheeks, several already bursting into white-peaked pustules. The expression on her face is contemptuous. Maybe a little grouchy.

  “She’s our stepmother,” she replies. “And I am too old to need your service. I am perfectly fine in the company of my brother.”

  Cook calls to me from the kitchen. “Nurse, the milk is ready.”

  Emily’s lip lifts in a sneer. “You’d better fetch up precious Cyril’s milk then.”

  I nod and turn to go, but decide to ask one more thing, see if I can rattle this odd duo. “Those doors in the drawing room. I think I read in the newspaper that it was through them that the… um… culprit crept into the house?”

  They just stare at me, the vacuous smile still on Joshua’s face while an angry flush creeps up Emily’s thick neck.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Nurse Marie, Cyril will be fine for the night with Nurse Louise. You may return to the housekeeper’s room.” Mrs Lovejoy doesn’t lighten the words with a smile as she leaves the nursery.

  Cyril is fast asleep, tucked up in his bed, looking as deceivingly cherubic as when I first laid eyes o
n him.

  Nurse Marie’s eyes lower as she gathers up Cyril’s plate and cup to return to the kitchen. I feel a pinch of unease.

  “But, Nurse, what if he is to wake in the middle of the night?” I ask her.

  She pauses by the door and frowns at me. “Surely you know how to settle a child back to sleep?”

  My eyes widen. “Of course I do,” I lie. “I just mean because he so obviously adores you, yet has taken an uncommon dislike to me. He will no doubt kick up a ruckus.”

  She shrugs. “If cuddling and soothing doesn’t help, there’s some gripe water in the cabinet. That always manages to settle him straight back to sleep.”

  As she closes the door, I move to the cabinet she’d indicated and inspect what it holds. Behind a brown jar labelled with handwritten instructions and an assortment of pins and ointments, I find the clear glass bottle of Woodward’s Gripe Water. Unscrewing the lid, I sniff the contents and smile with surprise. Smells just like the spirituous tipple we girls sipped before a night entertaining the gents. I lift the bottle to my lips and take a small swig. I smack my lips together. “No wonder it sends the little mite straight off to sleep.” I replace the medicine and close the cabinet door.

  Unlike the housekeeper’s room, the nursery has a cheerful fire to keep the cold night air at bay. Leaving the bedroom door ajar so I can hear if the boy stirs, I settle into the armchair by the fireplace and open Darwin’s heavy tome I have towed all the way here, tucked amongst my spare clothing. I’ve been especially keen to read this ever since the others’—well, Cosgrove’s really—enthusiasm about it the other night at my house. That night when… Suddenly I see Amah’s hands covered in blood that darkens at the creases of her fingers. McBride slumped across the steps. Is that how Lovejoy had looked? Head wrenched back at that ungodly angle? And young Margaret, the very first sorry victim?

  I press my finger to the page and force myself to focus upon Darwin’s response to those who object to his notion of Natural Selection. It only half manages to keep my attention. I gaze at the nursery door where I’d last seen Nurse Marie and I think of how Hatch had her in his sights as the little girl’s murderer. Are her tears the effects of guilt? Really? That broken woman, who so obviously adores the objectionable Cyril? I can’t picture it.