The man reached the hall of statues and gazed up at them, his face a mixture of horror and anger. ‘We may as well be in the temple of Belial,’ he said almost in a whisper, and he faced the crowd. ‘Look at you all, revering these devils, these vices of the heathen made manifest. For such things God poured his fire on the Cities of the Plain.’
The curator had caught up, and he said, ‘Sir, you must leave. You cannot—’
‘And you are the worst of them, sir, to peddle such filth, to allow such wanton and indecent displays, and to young ladies in particular,’ he said, pointing in our direction. Clarissa glanced at me, and I saw her mask a smile.
The curator had to catch his breath. He said, ‘Decency or indecency, sir, depends entirely on the prurient imagination of the observer. Perhaps that is your cross to bear.’
Other wardens and patrons surrounded the man and, despite his spluttered warnings of God’s retribution, they began to escort him towards the door. No one noticed when the girl, most likely his daughter, climbed on to the plinth of Aphrodite. The statue was freestanding, and with the first push it rocked back and forth. People began to yell and point, but too late. With a final shove, the statue lurched and tilted forward, until it toppled over.
It fell to the flagstones with a resounding boom, and was dashed to pieces; luckily, it was not an original, just a plaster cast. Fragments skittered across the floor – a section of her face showing the corner of her lips, and a hand gripping a fold of cloth.
Everyone in the hall looked upon the wreckage in silence, and then at the girl standing in the place of Aphrodite, her hands by her sides, her black dress and white bonnet, and the expression on her face – no fear or guilt or contrition. She gazed back at us, her eyes wide, a smile on her lips, almost in a state of rapture.
The hall was cleared, the girl and her father taken to a local magistrate, and Clarissa and I returned home. I told my father of what had happened over lunch. He pursed his lips and shook his head at the vandalism.
‘What a pity,’ he said, ‘that anyone should have so little regard for the history and art of such an object.’
‘If you had only seen her. She seemed so sure of her own righteousness.’
‘She is young, Abigail, and may yet look back on her actions with remorse. You must have faith in people’s good nature.’
He returned to his workrooms for a while, but by mid-afternoon was ready to see Mr Nesham. Liam was already waiting at the bottom of the steps. He took my hand to help me into the carriage. Father gathered his coat beneath his chin and slid the window shut to keep out a whistling breeze. After a few moments, he said, ‘I shall only be speaking to Nesham for ten minutes, if that.’
I watched him sitting with his shoulders hunched, one hand clasping the top of his collar. ‘Do you not have your scarf?’
‘I may have misplaced it.’
‘Mrs Perrin spent a week knitting it.’
‘A week? I daresay it’ll turn up.’
The carriage turned into Palace Row: the north side of the square, and the most fashionable, since its height gave the houses a view over the city and central gardens. A small Tuscan temple stood just inside the railings, where porters used to keep sedan chairs back when the Sunday evening promenade was considered the most elegant amusement in the city. Now the doors to the grand granite shelter were padlocked shut.
I removed my own scarf and looped it over Father’s shoulders. He told me not to fuss, but still stuffed it beneath the lapels of his coat. ‘What about you?’ he said. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
‘I don’t feel the cold.’
‘I was saying, that when we get to Mr—’
‘I know. Ten minutes.’
The Lying-In Hospital took up the south side of the square in its entirety, and the gardens were used to provide for its upkeep, for the gentry would pay fivepence for open-air concerts, with tea rooms and card assemblies in the Rotunda. I used to look out each Sunday evening at the gaily dressed couples strolling the paths. Hundreds of coloured lamps festooned the branches, and I’d hear the strains of an army band and snatches of bright laughter. But then my eye would wander to the windows of the hospital overlooking the scene, and I’d imagine the women within, many from the poorer parts of the city, packed in squalid wards with unclean sheets and no ventilation, and mothers cradling those children – one in six – who would not live past their tenth day.
The promenades no longer took place, and not just because of the peculiar weather. A group calling itself the Association for the Discountenancing of Vice had petitioned the hospital to halt the weekly entertainments since they took place on the Sabbath, and the governors complied. Clarissa had said that it was typical: the finest amusement available in the city, shut down just as we were old enough to attend.
When we reached the house, a maid answered the door and brought us up to the front drawing room. It wasn’t long before Mr Nesham entered. He stood on the threshold, and said, ‘Lawless,’ in greeting while holding out his hand. Nesham had a thin, lined face, and a blood-red cravat spilled from the collar of his shirt. He was about to speak again, but then noticed me standing near the window.
Father said, ‘My daughter and I have business in town. You do not mind if she waits while we speak in your study?’
‘Of course not.’ Nesham looked at me squarely. ‘I shall have Martha bring you some tea. It’s Alice, isn’t it?’
‘Abigail, sir.’
His eye lingered a moment longer, and I thought of how his wife was only four or five years my senior.
Both men withdrew, and I was left alone to drift about the room, listening to the muted sounds of an unfamiliar house. I looked out over the central garden, and towards the terrace away in the distance, counting the chimneys over the treetops until I fixed on a pair of windows with tendrils of ivy curling about the sills. That used to be my mother’s room. On the wall, there hung an oil painting of a man in powdered wig and fur-lined robe. He reminded me of Mr Nesham; something about the eyes. He stood with his shoulders back, a gavel clutched in one hand and a Bible in the other, his finger inserted at a certain page. I looked closer, but there was no verse or passage visible in the gap.
The door of the drawing room opened and the maid, Martha, backed in bearing a tea-set on a silver tray. She was followed a moment later by the mistress of the house. Mrs Nesham was dressed in the garb of the Brethren, a black dress with white lace around the neck, and she carried three letters fanned in her right hand, their stamped red seals unbroken.
She stopped when she saw me. ‘Who is this?’
The maid said, ‘The coroner’s daughter, ma’am.’
I straightened my shoulders and clasped my hands demurely in front, as my mother had taught me.
‘Martha, if anyone calls, I shall be busy until four. Have you checked on Lucia?’
‘She’s still napping.’
‘And where is Mr Darby?’
‘He is taking some air in the back garden. Shall I fetch him?’
‘No, I shall look for him there.’ Without further comment, Mrs Nesham left the room. Martha placed the tea on a nest of tables and went to follow her mistress. She pointed to a pull cord, saying, ‘If you need anything else, miss, just ring,’ with a demeanour that suggested such an action would not be looked upon kindly.
The minutes passed and there was no sign of Father. We would miss our appointment if he did not come soon. Martha had left the door ajar, and I pulled it wider. Nothing stirred in the landing. Across the hall, just at the edge of hearing, Father and Mr Nesham were speaking in the study.
Nesham was saying, ‘Emilie had always been a fine servant. Meek and conscientious. It has been a dreadful shock. Especially for my wife – to know that Lucia had been nursed by a . . .’ There was a pause then, and the clink of a decanter. ‘When I questioned her, she told me of an intimacy with a fisherman in Gorey while visiting her family last year. I wrote to Mr Casey on Monday. I tell you it wasn’t easy; such a thin
g for a man to discover about his daughter.’
A door opened and banged shut in the ground floor, causing my heart to leap, but there was no other movement in the stairwell.
‘They confined her in the Rotunda, though considering what you found, it won’t be long before they take her to Newgate.’
After another pause, Nesham asked about the proceedings at inquest. He said, ‘There are some who may be concerned at what might be aired at a public hearing.’ His voice became muffled, as if he’d turned and moved to another part of the room, or perhaps he just spoke more quietly. No matter how I listened, I could hear no more of the conversation.
The carpet on the stairs was dappled with colour from a stained-glass window at the top of the return: four panels depicting each of the seasons as classical figures. I went to look closer. Spring was a fair-haired maiden in a flowing blue robe; Winter an old man with a bundle of sticks gathered against his shoulder. A line of poetry in a garland of holly read, See, Winter comes to rule the varied year.
The window looked out over the back yard, where a man in a dark morning coat was wandering along the path, his starched collar turned up against his chin. He stopped beneath a tree and reached towards a low-hanging leaf, holding it for a moment as if feeling its texture. Then he tugged on it, bending the bough until the leaf was plucked away.
Before now, my glimpses of Mr Darby had been fleeting. He was younger than I had thought, with little or no grey in his dark hair, and his shoulders were square.
Mrs Nesham came into view, and Darby watched her approach without offering a greeting. She had left the house without a shawl, and she gripped both her elbows. They spoke for a few moments, standing close to one another like dancers at the beginning of a set. She gestured towards the house, and he swept his eyes up and over the windows. I took a step back in case he saw me. When I peeked again, they had turned to walk away, and I watched until the path became hidden by a trellis of creeping vines.
I should have returned to the drawing room, but didn’t relish the prospect of sitting alone beneath the gaze of Nesham’s ancestor. In the floor above, one of the doors was half open, and I glimpsed Martha next to a crib holding the Neshams’ daughter, Lucia. The child was tired and ill-tempered, attempting to pull her sleeping-cap away while Martha hummed strains from a lullaby.
At the end of the hall, another open door revealed the foot of a bed, its thin mattress undressed and stained, and I knew that this had to be the room of the nursemaid, Miss Casey. I went to look closer. A simple locker stood between the bed and a cast-iron fireplace, with a large closet in one corner. The room was tranquil and still, and I held my breath to listen. How different it would have been a few nights before: a storm blowing outside; the lonely, frantic labour; the violence done to the child and the grim purpose in concealing his body.
The bedside locker was empty except for a small King James Bible bound in black leather. I leafed through the pages, and was about to return it when I noticed an inscription in ink on the title page:
My Dearest Emilie, To light the way . . .
There was an elaborate monogram of three initials, embellished with swashes and ribbons and wide figure eights. One of the letters was an R, but I couldn’t tell if that denoted a Christian, middle or surname. The handwriting belonged to a man, but a close relative wouldn’t have signed off so formally, and I didn’t think the sentiment or penmanship belonged to a fisherman from Gorey. I held the cover open with my palm to grip the thin sheet by its corner, but then I paused. Wouldn’t tearing a page from a Bible be deemed a desecration?
The binding in the book was rather loose so the page ripped out easily. I folded it twice, placed it in the pocket of my dress, and surveyed the room more closely. There were dull brown stains in the knots and gaps of the floorboards. Inside the wardrobe, the maid’s clothes hung from a rail and her undergarments were stacked on shelves. The corner of a wicker basket peeked from behind a bundle of petticoats.
It held knitting materials: balls of wool and needles, newly made articles of baby clothes, as well as flannels and calico. A tiny cardigan of light grey wool was unfinished; the needle inserted in the looped stitches; a trail of yarn attached to the ball, still unsnipped. I looked over to the bed and imagined the maid working by candlelight during the cold evenings, hastily concealing the basket whenever anyone entered the room. I delved through some of the completed items: stockings and mittens, coats and hoods – hours and hours of labour. How could the girl’s intentions towards her child have changed so drastically?
I’d lingered too long. Footsteps approached in the hallway, and, with the door wide open, I was sure to be spotted. What could I say, except that I’d come up out of curiosity, but my intrusion would reflect badly on Father. Perhaps he would forgive me when I told him what I’d found.
Then Lucia let out a piercing cry. Martha muttered and walked back towards the nursery. I replaced the basket and crept to the door, watched as the maid entered the child’s room, then darted silently to the main staircase of the house, heedless now of running into anyone else.
The drawing room was as I’d left it. I sank into one of the sofas to catch my breath, just as Nesham and my father entered the corridor. I sat up to compose myself. Then I saw that my cup was untouched, still full to the brim. I poured the tea into a potted houseplant beside the armrest, and held the empty cup in my lap as the gentlemen walked in.
Nesham was first through the door, and I thought his face betrayed a hint of displeasure or irritation, but the look was fleeting. Father followed after, and he said, ‘My dear, we’re sorry to have kept you.’
I placed the cup on a side table, smiled sweetly and said, ‘I was hardly conscious of the time.’
2
Father was in a rush to get to his lecture. He quickly introduced himself to Mrs Meekins before heading off, and I was left in the old widow’s clutches for well over an hour. The lesson wasn’t all that taxing. We sat beside her six-octave piano while she described her style of tuition, as well as exercises to master phrasing and musical expression. At one point she said, ‘Show me your hands, my dear.’
Her skin was cold and dry to the touch. She noted that my fingers were slender enough to fit between the black keys to play the tail ends of the ivories, but then she tutted. ‘A shame that they’re so bereft of muscle.’
I was about to mention that the muscles controlling the fingers were in the palms and forearms, but thought better of it.
‘Your mother’s were the very same,’ she said.
‘You taught my mother?’
‘Oh, yes. When she was just a girl. Not much older than you are now.’
I looked around and imagined my mother in her youth entering the room, sitting here just like me, perhaps at this very piano. I ran my fingers along the grain of the key slip.
Mrs Meekins said, ‘She played with great tenderness, and learned many tunes by ear, but she was too impatient to master proper technique. I hope you do not take after her.’
I had never heard my mother play, even though we always had a piano in the parlour. ‘People say that I am more like my father.’
By the time the lesson had finished, the air outside had grown colder and a heavy rain was turning to sleet. Liam was waiting with the carriage, a welcome haven from the chill wind. People on Sackville Street hurried to take shelter, some looking for refuge under the granite plinth of Nelson’s Pillar. The gate porter kept them at bay. It cost tenpence to climb the internal staircase and look upon the city from the viewing platform, and he was determined that none should sneak up without paying.
I was eleven when that monument was completed. Father and I had joined the crowds to watch the statue hoisted into place. There was bunting on the GPO, and the union flag billowed overhead. Nelson had listed as he was lifted up. Even then I’d imagined the consternation if he slipped from his ropes at so great a height to be dashed against the pavement. I was a little disappointed when he was set securely atop the colum
n, as those around us cheered.
We arrived at the College of Surgeons, a grey building of arched windows overlooking St Stephen’s Green. I peered through the railings into the park. This time of year, there should have been a promenade of ladies in light muslin dresses and opened parasols, but today the paths were empty. I settled back in the seat-cushions and waited for Father to emerge.
He had been giving demonstrations in the college for years – to prepare new surgeons for what they would face in the law courts if ever called to testify. Father had been elected coroner for Dublin’s north wards at a time when it was more common to appoint a solicitor or barrister. When he was a young surgeon, he had given evidence at several inquests and was often troubled by their failure to identify cases of murder.
He explained it to me once, how coroners from the legal tradition were quick to side with their brother lawyers during the examination of doctors, so that the significance of medical testimony was routinely undermined. And those doctors, my father excluded, were often cautious in their evidence, fearful that a frank opinion later dismissed at trial could lead to a loss of reputation.
After he was elected, he did all he could to remind lawyers that they were permitted in his court as a courtesy – they had no right to be there, though he never refused a suspect the proper representation. His forthrightness raised the hackles of the legal profession, a sensitive body to begin with, he said. ‘They question my grasp of jurisprudence. As if any man or woman of moderate intelligence could not master the laws dealing with my duties in the course of an afternoon. The real problem lies with coroners who have no understanding of forensic science.’
The Coroner's Daughter Page 2
