A Necessary Murder

by M. J. Tjia

  I point at the drawing. “Do you recognise her?”

  His eyes take in the picture and the longer he gazes, the wider both his mouth and eyes become.

  “Oh yes, her. Have you come across her too?” says the grey-haired woman behind us. “Had a man in a week or two ago looking for her. Mr Collins, Mr Collins,” she calls out to a thin man with spectacles at the next desk to hers. “When was that deranged man in here? The one asking after this Catherine Chandler?”

  The man scratches his head, takes his glasses off. “I don’t seem to remember.”

  The woman rolls her eyes. “Well, it wasn’t that long ago, Detective Inspector. He was very upset. I thought he might have apoplexy when he saw that picture. I nearly called for the doctor.”

  “What did this man look like?”

  “A mop of white hair. Quite a bad-tempered face.”

  Hatch takes a page from the newspaper out of his pocket and unfolds it to reveal a picture of Mr Lovejoy. “Is that him?”

  The woman’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “Yes. I’m sure that is him.”

  Hatch and I exchange looks. “And what can you tell me of this woman, madam?”

  “I heard she got six months’ hard labour. For neglect, mind you, not murder. The shame of it. Women who are unable to keep their babies…” her eyes drop for a moment, “… you know the type—well, they pay respectable women to care for or adopt their little ones. But this Catherine Chandler kept the babies passed out on Godfrey’s Cordial, I believe, and they died from starvation, poor mites, while she pocketed the mother’s money and pawned the clothing. We heard she might have murdered—because, really it’s murder, I think you’ll agree—as many as eight children.”

  “When was this?” Hatch asks.

  “Oh,” her face wrinkles as she considers. “Quite a few years ago now. Maybe five, six, seven? Haven’t thought of her in a long time, until that man came in asking after her.”

  “Where did she operate, do you know?”

  “Moved about, of course. But she was picked up in Willesden, I believe. A doctor became suspicious by how many death certificates he had to fill for her. The local police there might be able to help you, if you’re after more information.”

  “Can I take this?” Hatch asks, gesturing to the drawing.

  “Yes, of course,” she says, peeling it from the wall. “Know her, do you?”

  “I think we just might,” he says, taking it from her. “Thank you for all of your assistance.”

  We pause on the sidewalk in front of the registry. “Well, that was quite a find, Mrs Chancey. We are lucky you have such sharp eyes.”

  “What would you like me to do from here?” I wonder, on returning to the house, if I will be able to hide this new-found knowledge from Mrs Lovejoy. Just how callous do you have to be to allow a number of babies to die in your care? To murder them?

  Hatch stares at me for a few moments. “You go back. Keep an eye on her. She’s not likely to disappear, leaving her son behind. But who knows? If she’s the monster we’re looking for, she might do just that. Or worse.” He guides me to a cab. “I’ll report to the superintendent. In all likelihood, I’ll be back with some constables this afternoon to arrest her. If you can, find that diary again, before she has time to spirit it away, and I can follow up on the Willesden deaths.” I climb into the cab and he closes the door on me. “What with Mrs Lovejoy’s pitiless character, her fury at her husband’s affair and his uncovering the truth about her past life, it looks like we have finally found our murderer.”

  CHAPTER 24

  I have never witnessed so much wailing and struggle as when Hatch came to interview Mrs Lovejoy last night. I have been to funerals, have visited asylums, where more decorum has been shown.

  As the constables dragged her into the study, Mrs Lovejoy clung to anything within her reach. She upended a plant stand, toppled side tables, scraped chairs across the floors, all the time moaning entreaties peppered with screams of protest, despite Hatch trying to assure her that he only wanted to ask her a few questions.

  I’m not sure where she’d been all day, but she stank of the tavern.

  Nurse Marie had to pull a teary Cyril back into the nursery while the cook and Ruth watched from the kitchen, hands clamped across their mouths. Only Joshua and Emily seemed composed, standing at the top of the staircase; Joshua as vacant as usual, head tipped to the side as he watched the show, while I’m pretty sure a slight smirk lightened the girl’s heavy features.

  And now, walking to the village shops, the wind is so cold and so strong, I’m sure it’ll whisk Cyril’s small body away if I don’t hold onto his hand firmly. Oak trees rustle menacingly above us, and we need to press against the heavy gale as we stride forward. My eardrums start to ache and Cyril’s eyes are watering. It’s almost unbearable, but not as awful as it would have been to stay cooped up in the house.

  I’ve left Nurse Marie in the housekeeper’s room again. She’s worse than when I first met her, if that’s possible. Hair flopping all over the place, staring at the wall, her fingers plucking the woollen blanket I draped over her lap. As soon as Hatch left last night, and Mrs Lovejoy took herself off to bed, Nurse Marie tried to bar me from the nursery, said she was in charge of the boy. But I could tell he was afraid of her, I could see it in his wide eyes, the tremble of his lip. When I refused to fetch his warm milk, she lost her temper, stomped down to the kitchen herself. Cyril clung to my skirts as we listened to her quarrel with Cook. By the time she returned to the nursery, her composure had left her. She began weeping again, said she needed to get away, be anywhere but here in this house, so I made her a cup of tea with a slug—a very, very generous slug—of that Woodward’s Gripe Water. It didn’t take her long to settle down. I guided her to the housekeeper’s bed to rest.

  And this morning the house was freezing because Ruth was late to lighting the fires. We were lucky to get a piece of toast out of Cook, who was too busy wringing her hands over what was to become of us all, what with the master dead and the mistress losing her mind. Only when Emily came down, mild surprise on her face, asking after breakfast, like nothing untoward had happened to disrupt the morning routine, was it that Cook finally poured boiling water over tea leaves and stoked the oven.

  That girl, Emily. Heart of stone. Hasn’t she wondered what’s to happen to her and her brothers if they find themselves without a parent?

  A cab slows down, the driver asking me if we need a ride, but I shake my head. I wonder about the Lovejoys’ finances. What is to happen to the children? How has Lovejoy provided for them all? I must ask Hatch to find out about his will. If Mrs Lovejoy is committed to trial… my mind jumps ahead—what if she’s hanged?… Does Joshua inherit everything? Joshua, who dotes on his sister, Emily.

  What do those strange children do all day? Do they sit in their airless rooms, plotting? What’s really going on behind Joshua’s empty eyes? And Emily’s? That knowing gleam, calculating every move. I run my gloved fingers over Cyril’s cap. As certain as I am that Mrs Lovejoy is our culprit, we can’t leave him with those two. I’ll have to bide my time until I hear from Hatch again.

  We pass a tobacco shop, and I glance into its smoky depths, yearning for a lungful. I glance down at the boy and almost draw him inside. What does it matter? It’s not like I’m going to be dismissed now. They might even have a bit of sherry behind the counter. But no. I’d better not. I’ll sneak a cigarette at home, maybe nick some of Mrs Lovejoy’s stash of sherry. I grin at the thought.

  “Come on, Cyril,” I say to him. “First, I’m going to look in Sullivan’s rag shop over there, see if there’s anything interesting, and then we’re going to that teashop across the way, where you can have as much cake as fits in your belly.”

  We open the door, shuffle in, shutting the door firmly against a gust of wind. The shop is blessedly warm, but the air is close; has the musty smell of cast-off clothing, the staleness of unwanted detritus. It takes me straight back to the days I had
to scrounge in proper rag shops, tucked away in Liverpool back alleys, looking for a decent pair of shoes or a dress without too many patches or stains upon its skirts. I remember the slippery feel of grime these searches left upon my fingertips, the itch the dust left on my skin.

  “Don’t like it, Nursie,” says Cyril.

  “We won’t be long,” I say, drawing him towards a glass cabinet filled with things that sparkle in the dreary light. On closer inspection, I see that it’s only fishing hooks, tools I don’t even recognise, and some sort of metal knobs for who knows what. On a shelf in line with my nose is a glass bowl filled with buttons made from brass, shell, wood. Next to this is an array of fans, mostly moth-eaten and faded.

  “Can I ask what Miss hopes to find?”

  I turn to look at the man with the gruff voice. He’s big, with a barrel chest and bristling sideburns that match his thick eyebrows.

  “This your shop, is it?” I ask.

  He nods. “Sullivan. My father was the rag-and-bone man around these parts. Did such good trade he set up this shop. I’ve extended the business, I have, to include all sorts.” He stands a little taller, hooks his thumbs into his trouser pockets.

  “Ah, I thought it looked a little better than a mere rag shop.” I cast my eyes around the small room. “I was just looking to see if you had any nice china or lacework, really. A gift for my mother.”

  “Step this way, Miss,” he says, ushering me to the other side of the shop where clothes hang along the length of the wall. “This piece is very handsome. Bought it from a gentleman newly arrived back from Spain. He thought it was too colourful, but I think it’s a very nice garment. Be perfect for a lady.” His flat fingers trace their way over the crimson ribbon embroidery of the jacket’s lapel.

  “Very nice,” I reply. There is no way Amah would wear that. “What is that coat behind it?”

  He shows me a number of fur coats, but I can’t bring myself to try them on. I prefer new apparel now. Clothing that has only known my skin, my scent. And Amah wouldn’t wear them anyway.

  “What about porcelain?” I say to him.

  He leads me to a bench cluttered with gravy boats, cups and saucers, and even more saucers. I pick up a particularly pretty bowl with a willow pattern. A slight chip mars its edge, but I love the intricate pagodas, the costumed fellows crossing the neat bridge. Maybe I’ll get it for myself, for I know Amah will turn her nose up at it, say it’s like no Orient she knows.

  I glance into a glass-top cabinet, my eyes taking in the cheap trinkets on display. Tarnished bangles and rings with dull crystals. At the back of the cabinet, though, is an assortment of quite decent snuffboxes—one with mother-of-pearl inlay—and a prettily carved tortoiseshell comb next to a silver brush and mirror set. I look around for Sullivan, just about to ask him to show me the silver, when my eyes take in the weapons mounted on the wall before me. Between a long sword with a rusty handle and a pistol blackened with age is a kris. I take in the wavy blade with the dragon’s curves engraved into the iron, the garnets that wink dully at me from the handle. My kris. It’s my kris.

  “Where did you get that?” I ask, pointing. I’m so dismayed that I squeeze Cyril’s hand a little too hard so that he uses his other hand to prise my fingers away.

  “That?” Sullivan stares at me, calculating, for a few seconds. “A gentleman I met at the docks brought that back all the way from China. Very valuable, it is. You can see, here, on the metal…”

  I frown at him, placing my free hand onto my waist. “As a matter of fact, it’s from Java and I know exactly how much it is worth because it was stolen from my home.”

  He looks shocked, then laughs. “No. How can you be sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  He’s looking at me suspiciously, now. “Well, how did you come to own such a piece?”

  “A gift from my uncle,” I say, confident. “Who brought it here from Java. It’s been in my family for many years, only to be stolen from my home a week or two ago.”

  His ferocious brows lower into a frown too. “I hope you’re not accusing me of theft?”

  I roll my eyes. “No. I’m not. But if you could just tell me who you actually had it from, then I can follow up on my loss.”

  “The police, you mean?” His mouth clamps shut on the last word. I fear if I say yes, I might not find out who the culprit is who supplied him with my kris.

  “The police are of no use to me,” I say. “I just want to make sure it wasn’t one of my friends or colleagues.”

  He scratches the back of his head as he stares at the kris on the wall. “I hope you don’t expect me to just give it to you. I paid good money for it.”

  “I’ll pay you for it.”

  He hooks his thumbs into his pockets again and considers for a moment.

  “I got it from Tomkins.”

  “Who’s Tomkins?”

  “Nightsoil man. He brought it to me about four days ago. Said he found it dumped by the side of Grayling Road.”

  My brain is awhirl as though I’ve been spinning on the dance floor after too many champagnes.

  My kris turned up four days ago. Here. Just after Mr Lovejoy had his throat cut and just like McBride before him.

  I pace the plush carpet of the Lovejoys’ drawing room. The kris lies on an oval, mahogany side table with spindle legs. I gaze down at it, take in its keen edge. I peer closer, not quite sure if the dark rim that separates the hilt from the blade is a sign of age, or worse, a residue of blood.

  Who brought it here?

  Who was at my soiree that night—the night McBride was murdered? My thoughts are scattered, like the windswept oak leaves strewn across the footpath outside. Cosgrove? Surely not. Hunt? No, no. Pidgeon? I shake my head, take a deep draw on my cigarette. This is ridiculous. Hopefully Hatch receives my message soon so he can relieve me of this damned kris, once and for all.

  I lift the kris, and its shiny blade catches what dim light comes through the window. Smoke curls from the tip of my cigarette, hangs on the still air. Jakub. I remember how I saw Jakub yesterday. I’d forgotten to write to Amah of it. What was he doing here?

  I angle the kris back and forth, feel its heft and the cool grip of the handle, and wonder who else has held it in the recent past. Gripping it tight, I imagine how the murderer might have grabbed a clump of hair in his left hand, bringing the blade towards his victim’s throat…

  The drawing room door shifts slightly. A shadow blocks the gap at the door jamb, then is gone. I go to place the kris back on the table, but hesitate. I don’t want to carry such a deadly thing around with me, but I don’t want it to go missing again either. I slip it under a cushion on the divan and then hurry into the corridor.

  I’m just in time to see Emily bound up the stairs. I follow her, lugging my heavy skirts high as I take two steps at a time. I’ve almost reached the landing when she rushes from the nursery, Cyril tucked under her arm. By the time I reach her bedroom door, it clicks shut in my face. I knock loudly on it, shout her name. Shout for Cyril.

  “What are you doing in there, Emily?” I call between bangs, pressing my ear to the timber. I can hear voices; Cyril’s high-pitched questions, low murmurs.

  My heart judders in my chest. Is this how it will end? I rattle the doorknob but it’s locked. What will I find in there? Crimson streaks flash across my mind. Please, no. I kick the door until my toe throbs.

  “What is it, Nurse?” asks Nurse Marie behind me.

  “She has Cyril.” Stepping back, I stare at the closed door. “I don’t know why.”

  Nurse Marie’s slightly puzzled. Her eyes look strange, glossy. The pupils are huge, cover her blue irises. She’s taken something, laudanum probably. Swaying, she lowers herself into one of the chairs.

  I take to knocking again. “The police will be here soon.” Was that the wrong thing to say? Will it hurry the girl along in her dastardly plan?

  “Emily, don’t hurt him. Please, don’t hurt him.”

&nb
sp; The door is wrenched open so quickly, I lurch forward, nearly crash against her.

  “What do you mean?” she demands, her eyes scanning my figure. It’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen from her. The pimples on her face are livid, flare red from her pasty skin.

  She grasps a pair of scissors in her hand.

  I put my hands up between us. “I just want to know why you have Cyril.” Over her shoulder, I see Joshua standing by the bed. He has his hands resting on Cyril’s shoulders, keeping the little boy in place.

  “I think you should return the boy to me, Emily.” I’m trying to keep my voice smooth, calm, but it resonates in my ears, sounds almost childish. “He needs to go back to the nursery now.”

  She looks to the side, sees Nurse Marie. Her eyes harden. “I’m not leaving him with you mad bitches. He’s safer here with me and Josh.”

  I blink. “What are you talking about?”

  She brandishes the scissors between me and the nursemaid. “At first I thought it was you,” she stabs the scissors in Nurse Marie’s direction, “who killed Father and my sister Margaret.” She swings the scissors around towards me. “But you! Turning up out of nowhere, and all your snooping about at night.”

  “But, Emily…”

  She interrupts me. “And I saw you just then with that knife. I saw you! You’re getting ready to kill someone else, but it won’t be us.” Slamming the door shut, she shouts, “You said the police were on their way. Well, I hope they arrive soon.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “I’ve explained to both Emily and Joshua the circumstances that brought you here,” Hatch says, hitching his trousers up at the knees before taking a seat in the drawing room. Weak afternoon sunlight streams through the windows. “But I think they’re still uneasy and feel it’s best if their little brother stays under their care for the moment. At least until we know what’s going to happen with Mrs Lovejoy.”

  I’ve been waiting, twiddling my thumbs, while he was locked away in Emily’s room, interviewing them about our misunderstanding over the boy and our respective weapons. “You haven’t made up your mind about her?” I ask.