A Necessary Murder

by M. J. Tjia

  “That he did.” Cook glances up, watches the door. She yanks back her cap so that her hair, which is the dirty yellow of aged lacework, falls onto her forehead, and whispers, “This Mrs Lovejoy took his first wife’s place faster than it took the funeral wreaths to wilt.”

  I form my mouth in an amazed “Oh”.

  Cook’s mouth twists to the side in a satisfied smile as she nods sagely at the cooking eggs. “Had her hooks into him earlier than that, though, by my reckoning.”

  Inspecting some bacon fat that’s been burnt onto the bottom of a pan, I wonder if I dare ask for more gossip. “Did he always… you know… with the servants?” I ask, standing in the doorway.

  Cook nods and lowers her voice again. “Oh yes, I think he did. That man had unnatural urges. Not that he ever tried anything on me, mind you,” she says, thumping a knob of dough onto the table. “But some of the younger servants… well, if he were still alive, I’d tell you to take care, believe me.”

  Pursing my lips, I scour the pan with all my might, but the mark seems to be seared on, so I just place it alongside the other drying dishes.

  She presses her shoulder against mine as she drops a spoon into the tub. “Liked to be a buttered bun, he did.”

  “Even up ‘til his death?” I ask, damp hands on my hips.

  She gives me a meaningful look, a sly smile on her cheerful face. “Well, it wasn’t with little Ruth. I kept a sharp eye on her. Promised her mother, I did, that I’d take care of her. Mrs Forbes—you know, the last housekeeper—she was an old Tartar, she was. He’d have had to have been a very, very brave man to slide a hand up her skirts, as they say. And, like I said, it wasn’t with me.”

  Which leaves Nurse Marie. I think of her sallow face, and her thin, brittle hands and arms. I know it takes all types, but I just can’t imagine it.

  “You can’t mean Nurse Marie?” I say, surprised.

  “She doesn’t look all that comely at the moment, to be sure. But she used to keep herself quite nice. Almost pretty, she was. Always wore her hair with a nice braid through it, pinned at the back with a lovely tortoiseshell comb. And she wore her uniform with pride, she did. Not like now.” Cook shakes her head as she collects the clean skillet.

  Nurse Marie. Playing away with the master. I wonder if Hatch knows of this.

  I wander out from the scullery and, with my thumb, I bend my middle fingernail downward. My nails are already softening from all the scrubbing and I grimace at the greasy stench of suet on my skin.

  Cook stares down at the dollops of lamb kidney on the kitchen table. “Master Joshua does enjoy his devilled kidneys, but I’m not sure I have time to prepare them.” She glances over at me. “I don’t suppose you know how to cook ‘em?”

  My eyes widen in alarm. Besides having no culinary skills, I’m not even really sure of how devilled kidneys are supposed to taste because I usually avoid them. I remember when I was small, Amah used to fry the bloodshot meat with soy sauce if she managed to procure some from an incoming ship. I rather enjoyed it like that, but I hardly think that’s how Cook wants it prepared.

  She sees the doubt on my face and tuts, staring down at the meat again. “Well, I’ll throw them on. You watch I don’t burn ‘em.”

  I make Cyril my excuse for escaping the house for an hour or two in order to meet up with Detective Inspector Hatch, telling Nurse Marie and Cook I’m taking him for a walk, that I think his cheeks need more colour in them. For a moment Nurse Marie looked like she might join us, but I told her to take the opportunity to rest. She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. When I returned to the nursery this morning, I found her weeping by the doll’s crib, holding the doll with chestnut ringlets. I patted her on the shoulder and, although I expected her to, she didn’t shrug me away.

  “I miss little Margaret so much,” she said, a tear teetering over her nostril, ready to mingle with the snot on her upper lip. Her hair was pulled unevenly into a bun and she was still in the same dress, the grey one with the navy pinstripe. She probably slept in it. In fact, there was a sour smell that wafted from her, and I wondered just how many days she’d lived in that dress.

  Her fingers ran over the lacework of the doll’s dress. “So much loss.”

  I patted her shoulder again and murmured how sorry I was. I nearly asked her what she thought had happened to poor Margaret, but I decided she was still too fragile. I’d wait until she was more comfortable with my presence.

  Cyril tugs on my hand as we make our way to Church Street. Only one reporter remains to brave the cold, and we trot past him, ignoring his barrage of questions. “What’s your name then, miss? Who’s this little fellow? Are you Cyril, my little man?” Cyril looks up at his name, but I place a hand over his ear and press him to my skirts, urge him to move more quickly.

  We pass the building site, but the workmen from the other day don’t seem to be there, maybe because it looks like it might rain.

  “Which way to the park, Cyril?”

  We turn right onto the main street of the village, Cyril still pulling me along. I’ve arranged to meet Hatch at the gates to Abney Park. Hopefully we can find a discreet bench somewhere we can sit while Cyril chases rabbits or whatever children do at the park.

  On the first corner is a little teashop and across the road is a grand building that seems to be a school of some sort. A line of ten or so girls stream from the side of the building, and with a twist in my heart, I think of another school, far from this one. We pass the open door of an inn and I can smell the malty aroma of spilt ale that has seeped into the floorboards. Next to the inn is a little rag-and-bone shop, its dark corners crammed with jars of beads, boxes of utensils and baskets of worn clothing.

  Of the many shops along Church Street there is only one that catches Cyril’s attention. The bakery has a pretty pink and white awning, and Cyril leaves smudges on the glass as he gazes at the sweets in the window.

  “If you’re a good boy, I will purchase you some on the way home.”

  He stares up at me and I wonder if he’s going to have a tantrum, but on seeing that I’m resolute, he relents. “Good boy. On way home,” he repeats.

  The entrance to Abney Park is flanked by rather grand pillars. The interesting designs etched into the stonework are almost like something that belong in the museum. Reading the signage on the gate, I see that, actually, the park is part of a cemetery. I glance down at Cyril who’s hitching up the back of his pants. I wonder if he knows what a cemetery is.

  Standing by one of the further pillars is a woman selling dog collars, and two women walk past, shopping baskets swinging from their arms.

  “Mrs Chancey.” Hatch approaches us from inside the gates.

  “Nurse Louise,” I correct him, as I take his hand in greeting, nodding my head down towards the boy.

  “Of course.” His eyes are watering from the chill in the air. He leads us through the gates. “There’s a park bench not far from here. The boy can have a run around while we talk.”

  He points out Abney House for us, a very handsome residence, and makes his way down a path that runs off to the left. We walk under the shade of tall elm trees that almost block out the overcast sky.

  Reaching a small clearing on the banks of a small pond, he says, “We can take a seat beneath that tree over there.”

  As we sit down on the bench, Cyril stands by my side furthest away from Hatch and glares at him suspiciously. “Why don’t you run over there, Cyril, and see if there is an eel in the water?” I say to him.

  “What’s an eel?” The boy’s eyes reluctantly leave Hatch’s face and find mine.

  “It’s like a long fish. Haven’t you ever eaten eel?”

  He shakes his head. His nose is running again, but I know I don’t have a handkerchief in my bag.

  “Off you go.”

  As he trudges off, I turn to the Detective Inspector. “Well, I’ve had a busy time of it. I’m quite exhausted already.”

  Hatch lifts his hat for a moment and pu
shes his straw-coloured hair back from his forehead. “Tell me.”

  I pick some cedar leaves from the bench beside me and rub the sprigs between my fingers. “Very late last night when I stole out into the garden to have a closer look at the drawing room door, I met the vicious dog. I’d entirely forgotten about him.” I sniff the leaf’s fragrance on my fingertips.

  Hatch looks alarmed. “It didn’t hurt you?” His eyes take in my hands, my arms.

  A young couple stroll by and take up position next to Cyril by the side of the pond. They peer into its depths with the boy and seem to be asking him a question.

  “No. He gave me a terrible fright, but really, I don’t think he’s as ferocious as you’ve been led to believe.” I watch as the couple bid Cyril farewell and move on.

  “Meaning…”

  “Meaning, I’m not so sure he would be a real deterrent to an intruder. If someone came from outside to murder Lovejoy and Margaret, I think it’s possible he or she could find their way past the dog.”

  Hatch casts his eyes to the sky and thinks for a moment. “All right. And what did you think of the drawing room doors?”

  Cyril races across the grass towards us. “Nursie, Nursie. Ducks. See ducks!” He flings his arm out and points at three brown ducks that swim into view. “Bread, Nursie. Bread.” I assure Cyril I have no bread, even proving my point by opening up my reticule for him to scrutinise. “Now go on and play.”

  As the boy runs back to the pond, I say to Hatch, “I suppose you noticed there were scratches on the inside of the door, as well as on the outside?”

  Cyril crouches low, and leans out towards the boldest duck that paddles up to him.

  Hatch nods. “Yes. Leading me to believe, one way or another, Margaret’s murderer was trying to trip us up.”

  “One way or another?”

  “Yes. I mean, if it was someone in the household, they’ve tried to make it look like an outsider broke in, but if it’s an outsider who did break in, they’ve muddied the water by scratching up the inside.”

  I nod. “I see.”

  Cyril searches amongst the brush beneath the trees and finds a long stick. He drags it into the middle of the clearing and, lifting it above his head, he swings it down so it thumps the ground, again and again.

  “What is that strange little creature doing?”

  Hatch smiles. “Being a boy. My mother said when I was young I used to go into the garden and thump the tree with a plank of wood.”

  “But why?”

  He shrugs, still smiling. “I don’t know.” He turns to me again. “And what other news have you for me? Any idea what happened to the Cook’s wrapper?”

  “No, I still need to ask her about it, although she gave me some excellent gossip this morning.” I tilt my head to him as I ask, “I suppose you know the present Mrs Lovejoy was originally the children’s nursemaid when the first Mrs Lovejoy was still alive?”

  “Yes, that was made clear to us from the beginning.”

  “You might already have surmised this, but, according to the cook, even before the first Mrs Lovejoy died, Mr Lovejoy and the second Mrs Lovejoy were having…” I pause. I’m not sure how to put it delicately for the Detective Inspector. “That Mr Lovejoy and the second Mrs Lovejoy were already… romantic.”

  “Ha. Romantic. Is that what it’s called?”

  I grin at him. “Cook said he enjoyed being a ‘buttered bun’.”

  Hatch’s eyebrow hooks up. “Was there anybody lately he was being a buttered bun with?”

  “Well, the cook said it wasn’t with her and it wasn’t with Ruth. And she said the old housekeeper was a dragon, who Mr Lovejoy would never have approached.” I take my eyes off Cyril to look up at Hatch. “Which really only leaves…”

  “Nursemaid Marie.” He claps his hands together. “I knew there was something there that they were keeping from me. I should have known.”

  I shrug. “Mr Lovejoy liked his nursemaids, evidently.”

  “Have you asked her about it?”

  “No.” I frown. “She’s… a little unhinged, I think. With grief.” For the first time, it occurs to me that she has had a double loss: her ward, Margaret, and her lover, Mr Lovejoy. No wonder she isn’t coping.

  “I think you’d better question her next,” Hatch says. He slaps his hand down onto the bench. “If only we could find that wrapper. We searched the gardens thoroughly and never found it, and no fires were alight in the grates overnight, so I don’t believe it was burnt to cinders. At least not before the police were summoned.” Hatch lifts his hat again to wipe back his hair. His face is troubled. “I’m afraid we don’t have much time left, though, Mrs Chancey. Maybe two or three days at most.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Have you read the latest newspapers?”

  I shake my head. “No, I haven’t had access to them.”

  A young woman leads a little girl towards the pond. The tiny thing has pretty flaxen hair that falls to the small of her back and she wears a velvet dress the shade of a violet, under a navy overcoat. Cyril drops his stick and steps closer to watch the girl as the woman hands her something.

  “There’s a lot of anger that the murder hasn’t been solved yet. People have been writing letters. Journalists,” his thin lips tighten on the word, “have been whipping the public into a frenzy of discontent. I’m afraid the Superintendent has told me that come Sunday, I will be moved to another case. And if it comes to that, I wouldn’t be surprised if Nurse Marie is charged.” He brushes off the back of his coat as he stands.

  The girl tosses bits of bread to the ducks that waddle in the water at her feet. The woman offers a crust to Cyril, too, but he shakes his head and keeps staring at the girl. From here, I can see his bottom lip turn down. I can see how sad he looks as he gazes at her.

  CHAPTER 19

  Amah reaches her fingers into the blue and white porcelain jar and brings out a piece of pickled ginger. The flesh is soft and fragrant between her fingertips and juice runs down the side of her hand. With her tongue, she catches the drip before it reaches her wrist.

  Why is Jakub punishing her? What does he have to do with these men who are turning up murdered? How would he even know about them, and why does he care?

  Sucking the syrup from the ginger, she thinks back to what Uncle Chee had told her. That Jakub has somehow found out that Miriam isn’t his mother.

  She bites off some ginger and stares down at the fibrous threads of its flesh, wondering just how much Jakub had managed to find out. She fails to taste the sweet, her appetite fading, and she tosses the remaining bit of ginger into the fireplace.

  Wiping her sticky fingers on a handkerchief, she replaces the jar’s lid. She will have to search for him again. Striding over to the window of her sitting room, she looks out onto the cold, grey day. She presses her palm to the glass’s chilly surface, and when she lifts her hand away, she leaves smudgy fingerprints.

  As she ties the woollen scarf around her throat, loosening it again, she watches her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes are bloodshot, her face puffy. Her skirt is loose, for she has had trouble eating the last few days. She hasn’t been sleeping well either. Ever since Heloise left for Stoke Newington, Amah has been frozen, unable to decide what to do. The same questions swirl in her mind, in a loop, only to be repeated again when she arrives at a dead end. Where is Jakub? Who are the Chinese men he’s befriended? Is he in some sort of terrible plight because of them?

  But no, she knows if he is in trouble, it has something to do with the past. The questions clack in her brain like tacky notes of an old piano, until the tune makes her think she’s losing her mind.

  She barely notices Abigail dusting the sidetable in the corridor, and only manages a small nod as Bundle bids her farewell from the kitchen doorway, her mind is so taken up with what she must do.

  She walks until her boots pinch her toes and then summons a cab, which deposits her outside the Strangers’ Home, where she finds Cadogan workin
g over a ledger in the office. She asks him if she can speak to Arnold, the gentleman he’d told her about the last time they met.

  “Laid up in bed, poor fellow,” he says. “But I managed to ask him some questions on your behalf, nevertheless.”

  After Amah assures him she has a coachman outside ready to accompany her, he directs her to an address two streets away. “You’ll find various rooming houses there, especially set up for the Asian seamen who find themselves between voyages. Arnold believes your best bet is one behind a shop that has the name Kung above its door, and another run by a man by the name of Ghosh.”

  As Amah turns to leave, Cadogan warns her of the street. His smile’s pleasant as he speaks. Fond, even. “You might find the air a little more pungent than usual and, I know I can say this to you, you must be careful you are not swindled by the characters you will find down there. They sell all sorts of potions and tokens. The Oriental Hindu or Mussulman is nothing more than a grown-up child, after all, who believes in the influence of his jinns and spirits over firm facts.”

  Amah’s gaze finds the gold cross that glints from his collar and she holds her eyes steady to stop herself from casting them to the ceiling.

  But when she follows his directions, she finds the road quite quiet. A beggar sits on the doorstep of a narrow building, his head resting between his legs, a mangy dog by his side. She pops into a shop on the corner that she knows her uncle frequents on occasion to procure the pills he takes for indigestion. The shop smells of earth, joss stick smoke and tea. The walls are covered with red and black Chinese scrolls and tablets. She studies the small pots of spices and the bottles of soy. On the counter are colourful jars of ginger and condiments and a small heap of spinach, dirt still clumped at its roots. She asks Shing, the proprietor, where she might find Kung’s shop and, after checking with another man, they point the way to the far end of the street.

  When she reaches Kung’s, the shutters are up and barred. She bangs on the front door, but doesn’t receive a response. Just as she’s losing heart, she notices a group of lascars trot through a doorway further down the road. She hurries across and manages to peer into a large room packed with row upon row of bedding. Sagging sheets, like yellowing sails that can find no wind, serve as curtains to sequester the space. Three sailors dressed in uniform are seated on their mattresses, leaning back against the wall, while on the other side of the room is a youth, asleep, his rolled-up prayer mat by his side.