The Coroner's Daughter

by Andrew Hughes

  ‘I am sorry about the loss of Miss Casey,’ I said.

  Martha’s expression didn’t change. She stared straight ahead, as if a winter shower in July were commonplace. A few hailstones rolled close to my feet, became wet and translucent and then disappeared.

  ‘The events of the past few weeks must have been very difficult for Mr and Mrs Nesham.’

  Still no response. I wondered if she’d heard me above the din of the shower. Perhaps others would have been riled by her lack of deference; but I was rather impressed.

  ‘It’s been harder on the rest of the staff,’ she said.

  ‘Of course, I am sorry. Were you and Miss Casey close?’

  ‘There’s still the same amount of work to be done, but one less person to do it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She passed Lucia from one arm to the other, and then glanced at me. ‘Emilie was pleasant enough. She always did as asked, and believed anything you told her.’

  ‘Did you know she was with child?’

  ‘Downstairs we knew. Though she hid it well. The mistress seemed to think she was just getting plump.’

  A small barefoot boy ran out from beneath the shop awning, hunched his shoulders and held his hands up to catch the hail. His mother cursed and dragged him back beneath the shelter, and Lucia laughed.

  ‘Emilie told me that you knew the child’s father.’

  Martha turned her head sharply. ‘Some fisherman from a country town? How could I know him?’

  ‘No, he was a member of the Brethren. Emilie would tell you that she was visiting her cousin in Clare Street, when really she was seeing him.’

  Her eyes narrowed, but I didn’t look away, and we remained silent as the hail turned into a cold rain. Eventually she said, ‘She wasn’t fooling anyone.’

  ‘Even the Neshams?’

  ‘Perhaps them.’

  ‘What was his name, Martha?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You must.’

  ‘Why are you so keen to know? Just because Emilie was ruined?’

  ‘Because she was wronged. She was used and abandoned, and it’s not fair that he should escape without blame.’

  I expected Martha to look upon me with some derision, but instead her face was thoughtful.

  ‘I must return to the others,’ she said.

  ‘Is he among them here today?’

  She remained silent. The clouds had parted and weak sunshine made the black railings glisten. The sign carried by the Brethren had been left outside, and had been blown against the front gate so that it almost stood upright.

  I pointed to it. ‘Do you know what this verse says?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They denigrate Emilie’s memory completely.’

  Martha shifted Lucia’s weight again. We could hear the doors open at the front of the church, and members of the Brethren began to emerge on to the street, as if they’d only been waiting for a break in the weather. Inside, the congregation had finished their hymn, and in the silence a breeze echoed in the vaulted stone of the portico.

  Martha began to walk towards them, but after a few steps she stopped and turned about. With her eyes still lowered she said, ‘Gould.’

  ‘The judge?’

  She shook her head. ‘His son.’

  Someone called out, ‘Martha.’ Mrs Nesham stood by the railing at the front of the church, too far away to have overheard, but still Martha began to walk towards her without another word. Mrs Nesham kept her eyes on me until the maid passed her. She raised the hood of her black cloak and followed after the Brethren. I looked among them for Edith and saw her almost at once, for her head was uncovered. She walked beside her father and another young man, whom I recognized now as her brother, Robert. His dark hair was swept forward, and his starched shirt collar stood up against his chin. Edith caught me looking from the steps, and our eyes met for a moment. The Brethren continued to move along the street in dark procession. In the distance, the storm clouds had broken over the mountains, all their energy spent.

  Mrs Perrin and I made our way through the back yard, past Father’s workrooms and out into the stable lane behind Rutland Square. The housekeeper carried a basket in the crook of her elbow. We both lifted our skirts from the rutted surface – turned into a mire by the earlier rain – and picked our way to an establishment located on the corner. A curved wooden sign that hung from rusting chains said, ‘Whistler – tailor and cordwainer’. Coils of smoke emerged from an opened half-door, but Mrs Perrin was undaunted. She leaned on the lower half and said, ‘We’re here, Mr Whistler.’

  A grunt from within was encouragement enough for her to push the door open. It only moved a small distance before it scraped and jammed against an uneven floor, but we were able to squeeze by. The workshop was low and gloomy. Glowing coals shifted in a brazier in the corner, where a black terrier with milky eyes lifted his head to test the air, turning his head directly towards us. He lay by the legs of another dog, which had once been his mother, but all that remained was a tattered pelt, stuffed and badly stitched, with amber eyes that flashed red in the firelight.

  Whistler stood by a bench surrounded by candles and a series of shoe moulds on slender metal stands, like upturned duck-bills. A mound of shoes lay beside him: leather ridingboots with their shafts drooping, silk slippers and dancing shoes, brocade ankle-boots, all in a great heap like the spoils of war. Whistler wore an apron over a grey shirt opened at the neck. He was skinny and stooped; his hair, which receded either side of a prominent widow’s peak, was grown long and swept over one ear. A buckled shoe made of polished leather sat on a mould before him.

  Mrs Perrin said, ‘We’ve brought the—’

  ‘Just a minute.’ He reached into a bowl filled with small metal nails and took out about a dozen, which he promptly deposited in his mouth as if eating a handful of nuts. He took up a hammer, withdrew a nail from his lips and drove it into the sole of the shoe with one strike. Then with thumb and forefinger he extracted another and repeated the action. The point of the next nail was already protruding from his lips, and I thought of him rolling and flexing his tongue, separating one from the batch and manoeuvring it to the front, scraping over his scaly gums. His lips were blackened. Who knew what toxins were present in those tacks and hobnails? When younger, I would mention such things to people, hoping they would see the error of their ways. But Father had long since told me to stop. No one liked to receive advice from a young girl. ‘And besides, Abigail,’ he said, ‘they already know.’

  Whistler finished resoling the shoe and placed the hammer on the table. He spat into the brazier, sending a burst of sparks and puff of ash into the air. I leaned towards Mrs Perrin and whispered, ‘I’m not sure this is the man for the job.’

  Coming here had been a last resort. The levée in Charlemont House was only a week away, and every dressmaker and boutique in the city was inundated with orders. Only the most fashionable were receiving priority, which meant I was out of luck. I’d be forced to wear the old dress bought for my cousin’s wedding a few years ago, which was terribly out of date and too small. We could have attempted to alter it ourselves, but sewing was never my strong suit, and, despite her many domestic talents, Mrs Perrin did not possess the finesse to create a ball-gown fit for Charlemont House. All had seemed lost, but Mrs Longsworth had assured me that she knew of a man.

  ‘I believe you have a frock for me,’ Whistler said.

  The housekeeper stepped forward. ‘That’s right.’ She placed her basket on the workbench and withdrew my cream muslin gown, and a length of the same material for adjustments.

  The cobbler picked up the dress and examined it. I feared he would leave dark stains, but his hands and shirtsleeves were spotless.

  ‘Tell Mr Whistler what you want done,’ Mrs Perrin said.

  I straightened my shoulders and opened the page of Costume Parisien, which had been bookmarked at the plate Clarissa had recommended. Whistler squinted at it.

  ‘I�
�d very much like this design, Mr Whistler. With long sleeves as in the picture, the waistline raised and the neckline cut square, instead of the round one at present. Though I wouldn’t want it to plunge any lower.’

  Whistler looked me up and down and said, ‘No.’ He put the dress aside, took a rolled-up tape from the pocket of his apron, and held one end so it uncoiled like a snake. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘let’s get you measured up.’

  Mrs Perrin cleared her throat and held out a sheet of paper.

  ‘All the measurements are here, Mr Whistler. They’re quite accurate – only taken yesterday.’

  Whistler regarded the page for a moment, then took it from her. ‘I won’t be responsible if they’re not.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Day after tomorrow then,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you. Come along, Abigail.’

  I left the magazine on the bench, retrieved the bookmark, and then replaced it, scared that he would look at the wrong picture. I was about to turn away, but stopped and said, ‘Mr Whistler, I know you must think this a trifle, but it’s important that the dress looks fitting. I beg of you to take care.’

  The cobbler scowled at me for a moment, but then he blinked twice, as if some dim memory crossed his mind, and his expression softened. ‘I know, girl. I know these things can seem important.’

  ‘You’ll make sure the stitches are neat?’

  His scowl returned. ‘Why wouldn’t they be?’

  I looked towards the poor example of taxidermy in the corner of the room and Whistler followed my gaze. ‘That wasn’t my work.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed she was yours.’

  ‘She was mine, but someone else did the stuffing.’ He held up the dress again by its shoulders, and then looked at me squarely. ‘I couldn’t bear to skin her.’

  6

  The genteel terraces of Fitzwilliam Square were broken up by houses still under construction. Men shimmied up ladders and disappeared behind hanging canvas – hod-bearers and brick-layers and stuccodores with their overalls daubed and starched by plaster. The south side was entirely unbuilt, giving the current residents a fine view towards the Dublin Mountains. In the haze, the hills seemed tantalizingly near, a patchwork of mauve and green, their peaks indistinct against a veil of cloud that spread towards the city. Though a stiff breeze caused the trees to rustle against the spiked railings, the sky was static, with spots of brightness here and there making the true position of the sun unclear.

  Two labourers at ease regarded me from beneath peaked caps as I waited on the steps of number five. One leaned closer to his companion, murmured something and then spat, which drew a rasping laugh, just as a housemaid answered the door. She led me upwards through a dim staircase, and then rapped at the drawing-room door with a gloved knuckle. I listened for an answer, but only heard the sound of male voices coming from the floor above. Undeterred by the lack of response, the maid opened the door and announced me.

  Edith Gould sat by the window, her writing desk positioned to catch the waning afternoon light. She was hunched over a wide sheet of cotton paper, with charcoal sticks scattered about. She didn’t look up as I entered, just completed a stroke in her drawing, which she then smudged lightly with her fingertip. The room was sparsely furnished and tidy to the point of starkness. The only disorder was the clutter on Edith’s desk, and a painting of an upturned bushel of apples on the fire-screen.

  She sat up straight and regarded her picture, then stared intently through the window for several seconds, as if she’d caught glimpse of some sinister and relentless pursuer, and finally back to her drawing with a tilt of her head. It seemed she was satisfied, for she placed her charcoal down, turned to me and set her face in a welcoming smile.

  ‘Miss Lawless,’ she said. ‘How nice to see you.’

  She looked more like herself in a blue cotton dress. Edith was considered beautiful by all, with smooth skin and dark eyes; though she had a slight pinch to her lip, which made it possible to imagine what she’d look like as an older woman.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb your work,’ I said, and she smiled again, without denying that I’d done so. ‘May I take a look?’ The scene was the view from her window, particularly the terrace of houses on the far side of the square, the railed garden in the foreground, and a path to one side. Edith was a fine draughtswoman, with an eye for architectural detail, and the illusions she achieved of light and shadow gave the picture great depth. I complimented her on it, and she said it all came from practice. ‘One has to while the hours away somehow.’ For a moment, I imagined her sitting there day after day, repeating the same drawing over and over.

  Something struck me about the picture. ‘You haven’t included any people.’ Despite the builders at work on the houses, the groundsman rolling the lawn, carriages that passed by and genteel residents who ambled with linked arms, the square in her picture was deserted. I feared she might have taken my comment as criticism, but she didn’t appear put-out.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No people. I never seem to get the perspective right.’ She picked up the charcoal sticks and placed them upright in a grubby cup.

  ‘It’s been, what, six months since we last met?’ I said. ‘Clarissa Egan and I often speak of you.’

  One of her dark eyebrows arched. ‘Is that so?’

  In truth, the things Clarissa said were rarely flattering, but at least I could honestly answer yes. I continued to make conversation as we took seats near the marble fireplace, asking if she still received instruction for her drawing, and telling of my few encounters with Mrs Meekins. A barking laugh sounded in the hallway, and Edith noticed when my eyes drifted towards the door.

  Darker clouds had gathered outside, and an early gloaming drained the few bright colours in the room. Following another pause, I said, ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t speak for longer outside St George’s on Sunday.’

  ‘As am I. They expect us to maintain a certain . . . propriety.’

  I said that I understood. ‘Are your parents well?’

  ‘Yes, quite well.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  A draught made the corner of her drawing waft upwards. She rose from the sofa and used a porcelain figurine as a paperweight, and then returned to her seat without making reply.

  ‘Is your brother at home?’

  The drawing-room door opened, and Edith’s mother bustled in bearing a candlestick, with the housemaid in tow. Mrs Gould was a thin woman, short of stature and temper. She said, ‘Miss Lawless, Miss Lawless,’ as she placed the candle on a side table and sat in a wood-backed chair next to her daughter. ‘I am sorry to have been so long detained.’ She arranged her black skirts over her knees with small precise actions that hardly moved the fabric at all, and then turned to Edith. ‘Is it not kind of Miss Lawless to pay you a visit?’

  Edith hadn’t taken her eyes off me. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Most kind.’

  Mrs Gould asked after my own mother, and I told her that she had died the year before.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry, I’m just remembering now. She had been ill for some time, wasn’t that so? What exactly was it that ailed her?’ she said, with a directness she no doubt considered a mark of candour rather than tactlessness.

  I was unsure how to respond, or at least respond accurately, for no one could diagnose the multiple fixations and complexes that had bound my mother to her room.

  ‘It was her nerves.’

  Mrs Gould pressed her lips together, as if she found the idea of a weak will distasteful.

  She trusted my father was well. ‘Judge Gould often mentions Mr Lawless, and the number of new cases being sent to King’s Bench.’ She smiled – at least she drew her lips back and bared her teeth. ‘He says it’s wonderful to finally have a coroner willing to get his hands dirty,’ as if my father belonged with the labourers clambering over the scaffolding in Fitzwilliam Square.

  The male voices upstairs became audible for a moment; one in particular had been raised in anger. Mrs Gould
met my gaze, the stillness of her eyes betraying an effort not to glance upwards. Raindrops pattered against the windows, then were lashed in a gust, and she seemed to welcome the noise and the distraction.

  ‘Such wild weather we are having.’

  ‘I was just saying to Edith that I saw you all taking shelter from the storm last Sunday.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Of course, you are in St George’s parish. We shall be at St Andrew’s this week. Mr Darby is tireless when it comes to propagating our message.’

  ‘I believe I saw him as well.’

  ‘If only you could hear him speak, Miss Abigail. Such eloquence and command of scripture, don’t you think, Edith?’ Her daughter seemed to know that she wasn’t expected to answer, for Mrs Gould continued without pause. ‘The likes of Rev Egan are all very well, and I know your families are bound by old ties of friendship, but conventional preachers seem incapable of conveying the danger posed to the principles and power of true religion.’ She spoke as if reciting from a pamphlet, saying that there had been a persistent decline in the morals and scruples of ‘our own kind’ in Dublin, while the Romish priesthood kept the great majority of the people in ignorance, superstition and idolatry. ‘Why, a third of the country can understand discourse in no language but their own Gaelic tongue, in which, you can be sure, there is no Protestant instruction to temper their restless and intriguing spirits.’

  I said that I was aware of that, and was tempted to ask Mrs Gould how many languages she could speak. ‘Did Mr Darby preach in Dublin previously?’

  ‘No, he had a small church in the Wicklow hills where he was able to contemplate and form his doctrine.’ She seemed ready to elaborate on that further, but more noises came from the rooms above. Something fell and skittered across the floorboards, and the yelling swelled, this time with two distinct voices. Mrs Gould motioned for her maid.

  ‘Sally, come here,’ she said. ‘I have been a very careless hostess. Would you like tea, Miss Lawless?’