‘Why yes, miss. That’s him in the corner,’ she said, nodding her head towards Judge Gould.
‘I meant his son, Robert.’
For a brief moment she became still, and she looked at me more closely. But then her former meekness returned. ‘I believe he’s upstairs in the drawing room. I could bring him a message if you like.’
‘There’s no need. I may call on him to offer my sympathy.’
She hesitated, then looked down and said, ‘As you wish.’
No one noticed as I slipped from the parlour to climb the stairs. The door to the drawing room was open, and I saw Robert at once, seated at the window where Edith used to draw her pictures of the square, her sketchbook still open on the table. Robert had his back to the door. He wore a dark waistcoat and white shirtsleeves, with his jacket hanging over the chair. He only turned when I said his name.
His eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked at me blankly.
‘I am so very sorry for your loss, Mr Gould.’
His expression remained the same. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, probably since Edith had died.
‘I hope, Miss Lawless, that I can meet you one day when there is no tragedy to mourn. First Emilie, and now . . .’
He ran his fingers through his hair, pulled Edith’s sketchbook towards him, and began flicking through the drawings, page after page of the streetscape before the window. Another carriage pulled up below and Mr Darby alighted, followed by Mrs Nesham. Several others on the street came forward to shake his hand as he made his way to the house. After a moment, we heard the front door open and an increase in the hum of conversation.
Robert’s jawline had become set, and his breathing shallow. He said, ‘I shall be expected to greet Mr Darby with my family. Will you excuse me?’
He left the room and descended the stairs, leaving his jacket draped over the back of the chair. I waited for his footsteps to recede, then lifted the coat up and examined the hook-and-eye fastenings. They were black and uniform, and undoubtedly the same design as the one Edith had held. None was missing from this jacket, though. Each hook was attached to the coat by an inch of fabric. I took a hold of one and gave a sharp tug. The double stitching of the hem held fast, though the slightest ripping noise of a thread or two made me think that a forceful pull could remove one. Even with my tame effort, the point had dug into my palm, leaving a small indent without breaking the skin.
I had seen these jackets being made, and searched the inner lining beneath the collar. The small label was black and the lettering grey, but when I held it to the light of the window I could see the name, Whistler, Rutland Lane.
Someone coughed in the door behind me. I turned to see the maid with dark hair regarding me coldly. She waited for a few seconds, then said, ‘Mr Gould forgot his coat.’
I held it up and folded it at the shoulders. ‘I was just about to bring it to him.’
She approached me with her hand held out. ‘He asked me to do it.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, and gave it to her. As she was about to depart, I said, ‘The events of the last few days must have been a shock for the entire household.’
The maid was caught between completing her errand and replying politely. ‘It has been very difficult, but we do our best.’
‘Can I ask you, had Edith been well on the day she disappeared? Was she anxious or preoccupied at all?’
‘No, miss. She had supper with her family and went to bed as usual.’
‘Nothing occurred that was out of the ordinary?’
‘Mr Darby called on her earlier in the day, but that was not unusual.’
‘He came to visit her specifically?’
‘Well, yes. Though Mrs Gould was here of course.’
‘Of course. Did he wear a coat like this?’ I asked, indicating Robert’s.
‘They only wear those when they meet together. He was dressed in a normal frock coat. But I’m sorry, miss, I must bring this to Mr Gould.’
I told her to go ahead, and thanked her for speaking with me. She hurried from the room with the coat draped over her arm. Rain continued to patter against the window, blurring the view outside. I reached out to close Edith’s sketchbook, then rejoined the others downstairs. Robert had taken up a position at the top of the room near his father. He was still buttoning his coat. One of the elder sisters had given up her seat for Mr Darby, and he sat beside Mrs Gould, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees while holding one of her hands between both of his, a gesture that seemed oddly intimate. Mrs Gould was sitting straighter, nodding occasionally to the things he said.
All focus in the room was upon them. The conversations became hushed, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that this had become a Brethren meeting, especially when Darby stood up to address us. He waited with his head bowed until the room became completely silent, and when he spoke his voice was barely loud enough to reach the back of the room.
‘Some things in life are beyond our understanding,’ he said. ‘Edith should be here, safe beneath this roof in the company of her family, whom she loved, and her community. Nothing I can say would bring meaning to what has happened, nor would I even wish to try. No words can express the ruin in our hearts.’ His eyes slowly swept the room, as if he tried to look at each person in turn. But then he became still and stopped speaking. One by one, we all turned to follow his gaze. A police constable stood in the doorway, a sealed document in his hand.
‘Which one of you gentlemen is Mr Darby?’
Even if the constable didn’t know him, it was quite obvious that Darby was the preacher. Perhaps he was obliged to make certain.
Mr Darby remained silent, unwilling, it seemed, to identify himself, and no one else in the room spoke up. Judge Gould began to walk towards the officer, as if he intended to escort him from his house. Then Robert pointed at Darby and said, ‘That’s him.’
Mrs Gould turned her head sharply towards her son. The policeman began to make his way through the room, squeezing past people, bumping their shoulders without offering apology. When he stood before Darby, they looked at each other squarely.
The officer proffered him the letter. ‘Mr Darby, you are summoned to appear at St Thomas’s Hall, Marlborough Street, for an inquest into the death of Edith Gould.’
Darby didn’t move, and for several seconds the letter was held up between them.
‘You have to take it,’ the officer said.
Darby slowly reached out and accepted the writ. He ran his finger over the wax seal, then sought me out again in the crowd.
There was an edge to his voice: ‘Perhaps it would have been quicker if your father had asked you to deliver it, Miss Lawless.’
Everyone in the room turned to look at me, and there was malice in the eyes of many of the Brethren. Some of them could not have known who I was, nor why Mr Darby had spoken to me. But they were hostile none the less.
Clarissa whispered to me, ‘Did you know that was going to happen?’
‘I had no idea.’
‘Well, perhaps it’s time we left.’
I nodded, and Clarissa, Mrs Egan and I left the Goulds’ home in the company of the constable.
Overnight, the wind turned and came from the east. Cold air drifted through the flue, and I rose at dawn to place a fire-screen before the hearth. It had snowed again, another dusting that collected in patches on the lawn. As the sun rose behind a bank of cloud, the snow appeared discoloured, with patterns of mauve and tan swirling on its surface, as if powdered dye had been scattered from a bag. I was tempted to go down and look closer, but in the chill room the warmth of my covers was more inviting.
It remained cold all morning, and when I went downstairs the snow had not yet melted. Kathy was at work in the kitchen, wearing a thick woollen cardigan while cleaning out the fireplace. I fetched my own morning coat and stepped out into the yard. Ewan was there, standing beneath the eaves, hands tucked beneath his arms. He smiled when he saw me, and gestured towards the tinted snowfall. ‘Pret
ty, isn’t it?’
I stood beside him, pulling the lapels of my coat against my chin, and said that I’d never seen anything like it. It began to sleet again, tiny flakes emerging from the grey sky in eddies, but we were sheltered in the lee of the house.
‘Your father has gone to the Chancery Court today to have the Gould petition overturned,’ Ewan said.
‘Do you think he will succeed?’
‘I’m sure of it. The laws under which your father operates are ancient, and cannot be set aside.’
Ewan took a step forward to glance at the sky, as if checking the weather, then returned next to me, a little closer than before.
‘The lawyers will delay him as much as they can,’ I said. ‘They have always been antagonistic towards my father.’
‘Something to be proud of.’
I bent down to scoop up some of the coloured snow. Seen close up, it appeared normal. The tint was subtle, and could only be perceived in swathes.
‘What do you think it is?’ Ewan asked.
‘I presume it is the same dust that has been dimming the sun, carried to the earth by the snowflakes.’
‘Taste it.’
I looked up at him. ‘You taste it.’
‘No, thank you. I have been poisoned enough by these Dublin vapours.’
‘As if Glasgow would be any better.’
‘I come from Edinburgh.’
I tutted, shook the snow from my hand and blew into my fingers.
‘You’ll get chilblains,’ he said. ‘Let me see.’
I looked at him, and then held out my hand, as if we were being introduced. He gripped it lightly, pretending to gasp at how cold it felt. ‘You’re perishing,’ he said. He covered my knuckles with his palm, and we stood quietly for a moment. The wind shifted. Small flakes collected in the creases of his cravat, and either melted or were blown away.
A voice behind me said, ‘Abby.’
I withdrew my hand, and turned to see Jimmy in the kitchen doorway, the day’s papers draped over his forearm.
‘I’m back from the market,’ he said, giving Ewan a mistrustful glance.
‘Oh, very well,’ I said. I looked at Ewan again. ‘Will you tell me if you hear word from my father?’
‘Of course.’
I took the newspapers from Jimmy, thanked him and tousled his hair, and brought them to read in my mother’s room as usual. It was still cold, so I kept my coat on while perched on her bed, looking through each of the papers for news on Edith’s death. Only the Gazette mentioned anything about it, though they didn’t name her. They called it ‘a tragedy in Blessington Street’, and referred to a young lady in fine clothing who had been found drowned.
There was nothing in the Morning Post, but an article on the editorial page was headed: ‘God’s Vengeance Against Hypocrisy’.
Hypocrisy is pretending to feel what we do not feel, to believe what we do not believe; it is pretending to practise what we do not practise. By assuming the garb of virtue, it is a disgrace upon virtue itself.
Hypocrisy in public office is an even more odious vice. It is founded in evil design, because it proceeds from cool deliberation, and through lying and fraud, is intended to produce injury to our neighbours. Numerous are God’s denunciations against it.
The hypocrite endeavours to excite in others a high opinion of his own purity and integrity. He next proceeds to slander those by whom he is thwarted. Is it no wonder, then, that to attain the fruits of his malicious schemes, he will, without the least remorse, dip his hands in the blood of the innocent?
It is our duty to report that one of the officers of His Majesty’s government in Ireland, with jurisdiction over the north wards of Dublin, Mr L——, by use of unnatural and invasive techniques, presumes to pass judgement on the demise of our dearly departed, when he has gone to great lengths to conceal the true and wicked nature of the death of his wife.
My eyes kept skipping lines to read ahead. I forced myself to note each word, though I could feel my fear and anger rising.
It has come to our knowledge that Mrs R—— L——, a suicide, terminated her own existence, in defiance of God’s will, by ingesting a vial of laudanum. It is also known that Mrs L——, a suicide, had been confined to her chamber in the months and years before her death, and so the poison could only have been provided by her own husband. However, if you search through the records of the Court, you will find no mention of this case. Mr L—— could not have been expected to carry out an inquiry into the death of his own wife. But he lied to the authorities, claimed that she had died of natural causes, abused his position and good standing to quash any investigation, any attempt to discover the truth.
The result was that Mrs L——, a suicide, was interred in the grounds of St George’s chapel, to lie among the devout and righteous, infesting that hallowed ground with her mortal sin.
Her husband has continued his work, impervious to criticism, to censure. One can only wonder, how many men have been sent to trial, and then the gallows, on the strength of his word alone? How many innocents have been buried at crossroads with their hearts impaled?
Our consolation, as usual, is found in the Bible. Job 8:13 declares that ‘the hypocrite’s hope shall perish’, and in 20:5, ‘the triumphing of the wicked is short, and the joy of the hypocrite but for a moment’. What can we do to carry out God’s will? I say nothing more than this: to strip Mr L—— of any power and position, and to uproot his wife from the consecrated earth.
I started reading the article again, but stopped after the first paragraph. How could they be allowed to print such a thing? It was sickening, the crude masking of my father’s name, the cruelty shown to my mother. I thought of Father reading the in the Law Courts, or being told about it; the sidelong glances and whispered slights. Its timing was no coincidence, after his refusal to return Edith to her family, and then the summons on Mr Darby.
Worst of all, I knew that it wasn’t true. Mother had died of typhoid during an outbreak that swept through Rutland Square just before my seventeenth birthday. A Dublin dairy had delivered tainted milk to several households, and many of our neighbours succumbed to the fever.
Those who were able packed their children off to the country. Jimmy and I went to my father’s cousin, a kindly spinster who lived in a rambling, ivy-covered cottage on the outskirts of Trim. I remember bidding Mother farewell. She was propped up in the bed, a hanky peeking from the sleeve of her nightgown, and the strings of her sleeping-cap untied. If anything, she was more alert and cheerful than usual, and said that she looked forward to my return. I kissed her cheek, and her cold fingers gripped my hand before I slipped away.
Less than a week had passed before the first letter came from home. Mother was ill, a sore throat and raised temperature, but Father told me not to worry. The postman in Trim was always accompanied by a small Jack Russell who heralded each delivery by scrabbling against the door, and I would hurry to greet them each morning. Several days passed before the next message arrived. I recognized the cream envelope and Father’s neat hand at once, and I broke the seal to read the letter on the cottage threshold.
Jimmy and I made our way back to Dublin that evening, and he held my hand whenever I began to weep. It was dark by the time we reached home, the windows in Rutland Square glowing with lamplight. Father greeted us in the hallway, and held me for some time. Mother was laid out on the bed, dressed in a long-sleeved morning gown, her auburn hair visible beneath a sheer gauze cap. I had not seen her dressed like that in months. Her fingers were linked together as if in prayer, resting on her tummy. In the light of a single candle, there was a bluish hue to her lips.
The front door creaked open and banged shut. Father was back already. He hurried up the stairs, and when he entered Mother’s room I was still perched on the bed, the paper laid out before me. By the way he looked at me, there was no need to ask if he had read it.
‘You will have to find out who has written this,’ I said.
He held
my eye before closing the door quietly. ‘I am not sure that would be possible.’
‘Well, then the newspaper must be held to account.’
He took a chair still covered in a dust sheet, brought it closer to the bed and sat down. ‘It may be wise to let the matter rest, Abigail.’
‘But the things they said about Mother. Are you not angry?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘Then why not answer them?’
He shifted in his seat, and the dust sheet was dragged from the back of the chair. ‘I know who would testify on their behalf.’
‘Who?’
He got up and opened the shutters on the window in the corner. The weak sun had broken through the clouds, and cast a shadow of wavering branches on the white bedclothes.
‘Do you remember the weeks before your mother died?’ Father said, his eyes focused on the park outside. ‘She stopped sleeping. I am surprised it hadn’t happened before, cooped up in this room. She was tormented by lack of rest, and asked me to get something from the apothecary. A tincture of opium, a few drops each evening.’ He came back towards the bed, and pulled open the top drawer of a small chest. It was empty, but he looked inside it anyway. ‘It seemed to provide some relief.’
‘Did Mother fall sick at all while I was in Trim?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She had symptoms when I first wrote to you. More than likely just a cold. One evening, Mrs Perrin found her here unconscious. The vial lay empty on the floor, but the carpet was dry. Laudanum is so bitter, Abigail, she could only have swallowed it all through a great force of will.’
I stared at him, but he wouldn’t meet my eye. ‘Why did you not tell me?’
‘I tried everything that night, salt-water purges, sulphate of zinc, a stomach pump. When I asked Liam to fetch help, he went to the Rotunda and returned with Dr Labatt.’
Father sat on the bed beside me, but he just looked down at his hands.
‘Nothing could be done at that stage. The doctor knew what had happened. He said that if anyone asked, he would swear that she had succumbed to fever, and I never once doubted him. I thought that he was an honourable man. At least back then.’
The Coroner's Daughter Page 19
