A Necessary Murder

by M. J. Tjia

  “That’s not mine,” she finally manages. She keeps her gaze on the comb in my hand.

  “Do you want to know where it was found?”

  Her eyes find mine and I think there’s a flash of entreaty there and, in light of this, I almost hesitate, think of calling Hatch in to finish for me. But I pull another chair forward, across the timber floor, until I’m sitting opposite Nurse Marie.

  “We—the Detective Inspector and I—went to visit a man named Tomkins.”

  “But why? What do you have to do with the police?” she asks.

  “I was placed here to keep an eye on the household, Nurse Marie. By the police.”

  She’s slumps back into her chair, and seems to shrink the more I speak.

  “When we visited this Tomkins—he’s one of the nightsoil men around here, you know, and he explained to us that he’s the holeman, the one who has the delightful job of being lowered into the pit,” I say. “Well, according to him, he came across this comb—your comb—in the muck of the outhouse directly after the morning Miss Margaret was found, dead. He’s a very poor man, you know, open to temptation, so he wiped the blood and the mud from it and sold it to Sullivan.” Her hollow eyes stare out at me. I’m becoming frustrated by her lack of reaction. “He says he knows it wasn’t there the morning before because he was on duty that day too. And, of course, the outhouse wasn’t used for a day or two after Margaret’s little body was found.”

  “I lost it the day before.” Her voice sounds strangled. “It must’ve dropped in when I was helping Miss Margaret use the lavatory.”

  I consider for a moment. “No. I don’t think so. Cook and Ruth are quite certain it’s only since Margaret’s death they haven’t seen your hair tucked in with that comb. They thought you’d just put it aside in your grief.” I smooth my thumb across the grooves of the comb. “This is quite compelling evidence, you must see, that you took the life of little Margaret.”

  “Ridiculous.” The nurse draws herself up for a moment, squirms her shoulders against the back of the chair. A ghastly smile trembles on her lips, and heat flushes her face. “Why would I do that?”

  “We know about Mrs Lovejoy, Nurse Marie.” I think of the home for fallen servants. “We know about Mrs Lovejoy’s days as Mrs Chandler, about the children she took into her care.”

  The nurse’s head rears a little and she sneers. “Care!”

  I want to place my hand on her knee in sympathy, but stop myself. “We know about Matthew, Nurse Marie.”

  She stares into the black glass of the window, her bottom lip twitching. Finally, she says, “So you know what that woman did to my son?”

  I nod. “We do. And we’re very sorry for your loss, as was Mrs Agnew. But tell me, how did you find Mrs Lovejoy again? How did you come to be here too?”

  “I saw her, walking along the path in the village, with the children and a nanny.” She squeezes her eyes together, as though she’s trying to see that day again. “I’d recently taken a post with a family in Dalston, and my mistress had asked me to come into Stoke Newington to fetch some linen she was in need of.” Her eyes open. “I was horrified when I saw her—her, Mrs Lovejoy—strolling with the children. I thought she was up to her old tricks again. I thought she was going to harm those small innocents. But when I pointed her out to the draper, she told me that she was the very respectable Mrs Lovejoy, living in the grand house on Lordship Road.” She runs her fingers through her greasy hair, clutches at the strands, before relaxing her hands again. She shakes her head in disbelief. “She told me that those healthy, beautiful children were her own.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Left my household in Dalston and watched the Lovejoy family. The nursemaid took the children for a stroll every morning after breakfast and it only took me a matter of days and all of my savings to convince her to leave. She recommended me for the position.”

  I suppress the urge to look around at Hatch, but I can sense him scribbling down this information. No doubt he’ll want to track down the former nanny.

  “And then?’

  “Then…” She shrugs.

  “How long before you and Mr Lovejoy…?” Her eyes find mine. “The other servants have told me that you and Mr Lovejoy were in an intimate relationship.”

  She lifts her hand to shield her eyes, but not before I see a look of distaste sweep her face. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “But that was your first revenge, yes?” I push. “To catch the eye of her husband?”

  Her hand flaps.

  It occurs to me that she might have been planning more. “Anne-Marie, were you hoping to become pregnant to him? Was this to be your revenge?”

  “I can’t talk about it. I won’t,” she whispers.

  “Ah.” The awful truth of her position finally dawns on me. “But you didn’t become pregnant, did you? Mrs Lovejoy did. She was going to have another bonny baby, and you were still without.”

  Her hand falls at the same time as a tear tumbles down her cheek. “She didn’t deserve another child. She didn’t deserve another baby to hold and love and…” She holds her hands out, rigid, emphatically, entreating me to understand. “She’d murdered all those babies. She’d murdered my Matthew. How could God reward her with so many beautiful children? How? And leave me with nothing?”

  I take a deep breath, let it out again. She’s right. Life has been terribly cruel and unfair to her. “Did you leave a note for Mr Lovejoy? On the terrace?” I’m thinking of the time Mr Lovejoy sat in my drawing room; of how he told Cosgrove and Pidgeon of the threatening letter he’d received.

  She looks puzzled.

  “A warning of some sort?” I prompt. Signed with a figure that looked a lot like an “A”, the sign of Pidgeon’s evil kungsi, but also the initial of Nurse Marie’s real name—Anne-Marie.

  “Is that where it went?” Her eyes fix onto a spot on the floor. “I wanted to caution her,” she won’t use Mrs Lovejoy’s name. “I wanted her to feel that trickle of dread, the constant worry of the unknown. But the letter must’ve fallen from my pocket. I did better than that in the end, anyway.”

  My heart rate picks up pace. “What?”

  “I told Mr Lovejoy of her previous life. Her former profession.” Her voice rings with malice, her eyes hard. “He didn’t believe it at first. But I pointed the way for him.”

  “To the servants’ registry?”

  She nods.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I think they quarrelled about it—I heard raised voices from her sitting room, thumping on the floor. But that was it. He didn’t leave her. She wasn’t thrown out.”

  Her lips tremble again and she clamps her lips together between her teeth.

  “What did you do then?”

  She shakes her head.

  “It must have been so difficult for you. Seeing that woman with her children. Having to follow her orders, after what she’d done to you.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “I couldn’t sleep. Her words, her deeds, the injustice of it all. I felt I was going mad.” With the flat of her hand, she taps the side of her head. “The constant thoughts throbbing in my mind.” She grabs onto her hair again, close to her scalp, tugs. “She only got five months of jail time for the babies’ deaths. Did you know that? Only five months! They called it neglect, but it was murder. It was murder.”

  “So what did you do, Anne-Marie?”

  Her hands fall. Straggly strands of hair entwine her fingers. She doesn’t answer me.

  I wait. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks the seconds away, and I hear the slightest rustle from the doorway, maybe Hatch turning a page in his notebook. I wait half a minute, but she still doesn’t speak.

  “I wonder if I can guess what happened?” She doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look my way. “I think that you realised there was only one way you could really hurt Mrs Lovejoy. One way she would truly understand the grief she has put you through.”
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br />   Nurse Marie raises her eyes to the ceiling.

  “Maybe you chose the girl because you couldn’t bring yourself to hurt the boy—a boy like your own Matthew who was taken from you.”

  “No.”

  “You waited until the deadest part of the night, maybe around four in the morning, and you lifted that little girl from her bed and carried her down to the lower floor.” Her gaze is still on the ceiling, but tears now brim her eyes. “Maybe she woke, and you assured her you were taking her to the lavatory. That she needed to relieve herself. But going through the house you had the forethought to put on Cook’s wrapper.” I’m not sure if this was before or after she’d fetched the girl, but it shows a degree of planning. This was no spur-of-the-moment crime.

  Still, she says nothing.

  I continue. “The fire is almost always alight in the nursery, isn’t it? To stay nice and warm for the children. How easy to throw the wrapper amongst the flames, destroy the evidence.”

  She blinks, forcing the tears to fall.

  “And the drawing room doors. Jimmied on the inside and out. I think you found yourself locked into the house. Only the housekeeper and Mr Lovejoy had the keys, so you had to break your way out. And then you scraped the panelling on the outside too, to confuse the police, make it appear like an intruder forced his way in.”

  Nurse Marie swings her head back and forth, slowly, like a muzzled beast trying to break free. “No,” she moans. “It didn’t happen.”

  “But it did, Nurse Marie. You carried poor Margaret to the outhouse and you murdered her. You wanted her mother to know the terrible anguish she’d put you through. What did you use, Nurse Marie? When you cut her little throat? Was it Mr Lovejoy’s razor? That would serve him right, wouldn’t it, Nurse Marie? Wouldn’t it?”

  Nurse Marie clamps her hand to her face, squishing her nose and cheeks, and lets out a groan. The door creaks, and I see Hatch hovering. I shake my head at him, turn back to the nursemaid.

  “Is that how it happened, Nurse Marie?” I ask her again, but she doesn’t answer.

  “And Mr Lovejoy? Why’d you take his life?” I’m quite sure she didn’t, but I have to be certain.

  The woman lifts her haggard face to me. Her mouth opens and closes, trying to force words out. She lets out a pitiful “No.”

  “You didn’t murder him?”

  She sinks her face back into her hands, still shaking her head from side to side. The sobs shudder in and out of her skinny frame, and it takes a good five minutes before she is almost calm again.

  “I think you’ll have to go with the police now, Nurse Marie,” I say to her. “Are you prepared?”

  “I need a drink.” Her voice is hoarse as she pours water from a small jug into the drinking glass beside her on the side table. Her hand is shaking so hard, the china rattles against the glass.

  “I will fetch the Detective Inspector,” I say, standing.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lift a small brown bottle. “Just to calm my nerves.” Instead of a drop or two, she splashes the rest of the bottle into the water.

  I only have a moment or two to react. I know the contents of that bottle must be her stash of laudanum and she’s tipped a dangerous amount into her drink. A deadly amount. Part of me sees the sense in what she is doing. Not only that, I feel bad for the sorry creature, and I understand it might be the most humane way to see this through. But what of young Margaret, robbed of life because of her mother’s sins? Surely she deserves some sort of justice?

  I step forward, slide my hand in between the glass and her mouth just in time. She tries to resist, but her strength is feeble, and as I wrench the drink from her hands, laudanum and water dash across my skirts.

  Hatch arrives by my side. He draws the nursemaid to her feet, and leads her away by the upper arm. She’s not crying anymore.

  CHAPTER 27

  It’s quite late by the time Taff picks me up from St Chad’s Lodge. I feel flat, a little sad, as the coach rumbles home. I left Hatch to deal with the nursemaid and, as he handed me into my carriage, he congratulated me on finding the comb. Said I made a fine detective.

  Usually, after such a satisfactory ending to a case, I’m jubilant, ready to toast with a glass or two of champagne, but not tonight. As I sway against the side of the carriage, I think of how ghastly young Margaret’s last moments must’ve been, of how her life was sacrificed because of the activities of her mother. And what of Nurse Marie? Doesn’t she deserve my sympathy too? I wonder if the anguish she now lives with, having murdered such an innocent, will ever be worth avenging the death of her own baby. Remembering her trembling fingers, the lips stretched awry as she tried to speak, I think maybe not. It might’ve been better for her own soul if she’d just taken Mrs Lovejoy’s life and been done with it.

  Which reminds me of Mr Lovejoy. What with solving Margaret’s murder and finding the kris so close at hand, his slaying continues to be a mystery. As Taff helps me climb down onto the path in front of my home, I think again of how this has not been a case of three interconnected murders, after all. Lovejoy and McBride. McBride and Lovejoy, linked by the kris: my kris.

  “Good evening, Bundle,” I say, as he opens the door, the hallway cheerfully lit behind him. “Home at last.”

  “Mrs Chancey,” he replies, taking my luggage from the coachman. “We did not expect you home tonight. You’ll find the drawing room sadly chilly, but there’s a nice little fire lit in the parlour.”

  “Is Amah in?” I ask, as I strip my gloves off.

  “I believe she retired a couple of hours ago, Mrs Chancey.”

  I nod and make my way to the parlour. As I pass the display cabinet, I glance in to where the kris used to be, but Bundle or Abigail have rearranged the ornaments to cover the gap.

  Taking a seat on the divan by the fire, I lean back into the cushions, watch the black tips of the flames lick the air. I run my fingertip over the velvet upholstery, back and forth, its soft, layered texture comforting somehow. Fatigue presses against the back of my eyes, but thoughts continue to tick away in my brain.

  “A light supper for you, madam,” Bundle says from behind, as he places a tray on the table. “And I’ll just leave all your post here for you to read at your leisure.”

  I look around at him and smile. “Thank you, Bundle. Why don’t you take yourself off to bed now? It’s late. I won’t be far behind.”

  He gives a slight bow and walks from the room.

  The clock chimes ten o’clock before I manage to haul myself up from the divan. I inspect the soup—chicken and vegetable, cooling now—and, ignoring the tea tray, I move to the side table, half fill a tumbler with scotch. Sipping it, I sort through the post Bundle has left me. First, I pick up a package and, peeling away its wrapping, reveal a small, flat box. Lifting the lid, I discover powdery squares of my favourite sweet—Turkish delight. I dab my finger against the chalky sugar, touch it to my bottom lip where my tongue seeks it out. With it is a note. Dearest love, I hope this small treat finds you well, Hatterleigh. Hatterleigh. I’m so tired, I almost can’t be bothered being annoyed with him anymore.

  I then open three invitations to card evenings, one to a fancy-dress ball and four to fancy suppers. Maybe that’s what I need to take my mind off these things: convivial evenings with women of my own sort, and the admiring men who surround us. As I drop Queenie Martel’s missive onto the table, bidding me to attend her next euchre night, I notice a letter with familiar, bold, loopy handwriting. Sir Thomas. I tear it open and my eyes skim over the contents. It’s dated a week earlier.

  My dear Mrs Chancey,

  I hope I find you well. Detective Inspector Hatch informed me that you took up the nursemaid position in the Lovejoy household after all. I won’t interrupt your commission for Hatch, but thought I’d send this letter to you in the hope you read it when you do eventually find yourself home.

  A little while ago you recommended my services to a certain Sir Henry Pidgeon. He has since apprise
d me of the truly horrifying events surrounding McBride’s death and the involvement of a group of dastardly Chinese fellows who seem set upon a path of revenge. Unfortunately, I will be leaving for Scotland in the morning with two of my employees. We are to keep an eye on a certain doctor, suspected of murdering his wife and servant. As you know, normally I do not undertake the groundwork myself, but I find this contract to be an excellent opportunity to spend some time with my daughter’s family in Glasgow. Therefore, I was unable to help Pidgeon besides providing him with Bob Beveridge—you might remember Mr Beveridge? You worked with him on the Knightsbridge case. Bob will keep an eye on Pidgeon’s home, and guard his daughter. My request of you, provided you arrive home in South Street before I return, is to contact Pidgeon, perhaps check up on him and his daughter? I feel it might be best if Mr Beveridge joins us in Glasgow as soon as possible to assist in this murder case. Of course, you will be reimbursed at your usual rates.

  I will call upon you as soon as I am returned.

  Yours Sincerely,

  T. A.

  Poor Pidgeon. I run my tongue across the chip in my tooth as I think of his distress. That Beveridge creature won’t be much help to him, from what I remember of the man. Most of the time he was “corned”, as Taff likes to refer to it, lurching from the job at hand to the nearest tavern, and back again. I really should’ve mentioned it to Sir Thomas, but one day Beveridge’s wife turned up, a little one clutching her skirts, asking after him. I didn’t have the heart to jeopardise their income.

  I’m just picking up the next letter in the pile when I hear a soft rap against the front door. I frown, wonder if I could’ve heard correctly, but then, the sound is repeated.

  Recalling that I’ve sent Bundle to bed, I step out into the hallway. As I approach the front of the house, a shadow falls across the glass of the sidelight. I shade the glass with my hand, peer outside. My heart lifts, races a little, when I recognise the familiar shape of square shoulders, the smooth jawline and temple beneath the top hat.