The Coroner's Daughter

by Andrew Hughes

  I pulled at the cloth until it slipped from the frame and fell on the table. Miss Croft stood behind me, her face in shadow, one hand resting on a brass finial at the corner of the bed. The table was bare except for a scent bottle and tin of powder, and a hairbrush with loose strands woven in its bristles.

  I looked at the maid in the mirror. ‘We shall need a candle, or a lamp.’

  ‘Someone might see the light.’

  ‘Then I’ll open a shutter.’

  ‘No, miss. The people outside . . .’

  ‘Just a crack.’

  I undid the latch and opened one shutter enough to let a sliver of light fall upon the bedclothes. The Brethren were standing in a half-circle on the street below, speaking to one another. Edith’s window looked down upon the square’s central garden, and a lamp beside the eastern gate. Had she peered down from here on the night she died, to a carriage waiting in the rain, horses with their heads bent? Had the driver been looking up at the window, expecting her?

  Miss Croft said that she would have to return to the basement, lest the housekeeper come searching for her. ‘I’ll fetch you when I can.’

  She slipped out of the room and pulled the door closed with a click. There was a bureau in the corner with its lid opened, revealing closed drawers and letters aslant in cubbyholes. I pulled them out and began to go through them, glancing at the bottom of each page for the names of Darby, or Caulfeild, or for letters left unsigned. But for the most part they came from Edith’s relatives in the country, the content cheery and trivial, and some of them years old. The drawers held even less. Blank stationery, some visiting cards – all from ladies in the locality -and old invitations to balls, kept no doubt as mementos. They were in chronological order, the final one coming from Lord and Lady Charlemont. But it was just like the one I had received, and nothing else was written upon it.

  Rain had begun to patter against the window, and a gust of wind echoed in the fireplace. If Edith had received instructions to leave that night, or a letter from Caulfeild in secret, or from Darby in anger, she may have thrown it straight on the fire. I looked in the hearth, but the grey cinders lay undisturbed, and anything that may have been put there had burned away.

  The drawers in the bedstand were empty except for a copy of Mrs Tighe’s Psyche, an edition that I’d read myself. I felt beneath the cold pillow, and then finally lifted the edge of the covers to check beneath the bed. A ledger, quite large and leather-bound, lay amid the dust and lint.

  It was Edith’s sketchbook. I remembered her sitting in the drawing room when I had come to visit, her fingers darkened with charcoal. The drawings were views that she could see from her window: terraces and doorcases, or trees overhanging the railing in the park, or the scaffolding of a house being built. I saw again how accomplished she was, her eye for architectural detail. Back then I had commented that there were no people portrayed. What was it she said? I never seem to get the perspective right.

  One of the drawings was different. The view wasn’t that of Fitzwilliam Square, but a run-down cottage in an overgrown garden. Ivy clung to the gable wall, and the crooked path was littered with loose stone. Dark clouds seemed to push upon the roof like a weight. Edith had written in the corner, ‘St John’s, Manor Kilbride’, and it was dated from the start of the summer.

  St John’s was Darby’s old parish in Wicklow, but Edith must have drawn the house from life. He had mentioned at the inquest that he had brought her there. Had her whole family visited, or had he taken her there alone? In the subsequent pages, the drawings of Fitzwilliam Square resumed, but towards the end the style changed again. Perhaps she had taken my comments to heart, for the most recent sketches were of people, or rather studies of human features. The first was a hand resting on a table, and I assumed she’d drawn her own. Like her other sketches, it was striking for its sense of structure, the bones and sinews and folds of skin were so well rendered and shaded. The next drawing was part of a face, and I recognized her father, Judge Gould. She must have sketched him sleeping, for his cheek was slumped, with a double chin and whiskey nose. Page after page followed of these studies: the bottom of a neck and collarbone in a low-cut dress; a male arm extended and bent at the elbow; an ear partially covered with a lock of hair.

  On the last page, Edith had drawn a set of eyes, with the bridge of a nose and a heavy brow, but no other feature of the face. One eye was perfect and round, its gaze strong and concentrated. The lid of the other drooped halfway under folds of crinkled skin. Its iris and pupil looked down and to the left, as of a person ashamed or browbeaten.

  I stared at it for several seconds. Raindrops running down the window cast grey trickling shadows on the sheet.

  I remembered the man with the lazy eye in Rutland Gardens, when he emerged from the Neshams’ house following a Brethren meeting. If he was a member, it was natural that Edith would have seen him. But the other drawings were of people she’d known personally, people with whom she’d interacted.

  The doorknob squeaked and turned, and Robert Gould entered the room. I closed the book and rose from the bed, but before I could speak he placed a finger against his lips, and beckoned me to follow him out.

  His chamber across the hall was warm and bright compared to Edith’s. A fire burned in the hearth, and two oil-lamps were lit: one on a writing desk, and another beside the unmade bed. The room was in disarray: piles of clothes on the floor, stacked books and sheaves of paper. A brass-bound trunk lay open on the hearthrug, and a kneeling Miss Croft was placing items into it.

  Robert spoke in a hushed voice. ‘Miss Lawless, you cannot remain.’

  ‘I just wished—’

  ‘I know why you are here.’

  He opened a drawer in his desk and began to rummage for something.

  I said, ‘Are you going somewhere?’

  ‘Soon enough. Possibly to gaol, though I think my father has enough influence to ensure that doesn’t happen.’

  ‘You are fortunate.’

  Robert paused, but only to listen for sounds of movement in the hall. He said, ‘Perhaps in that regard. But don’t think he makes the effort for my benefit. Having a son imprisoned for attempted murder would be a hindrance to his own career. Whatever the outcome, I shall be leaving this house.’

  ‘Is that your choice, or that of your mother and father?’

  ‘The decision is mutual.’ He grew exasperated and said, ‘Lisa, where’s the . . .?’

  Miss Croft rose and went to the desk. She said, ‘Try the other drawer,’ her voice soft and familiar. I looked at her standing close to him, and wondered if she knew about Emilie – about Robert’s previous dalliance with a domestic servant. He had seemed so genuine in his grief for Miss Casey and Morgan. But his willingness to use his position to gain the affections of less privileged women was not becoming.

  He found what he was looking for: a letter, which he offered to me. The grey paper was folded and stained. Only Robert’s name was written on the outside, so someone must have hand-delivered it. The broken seal was made with drops of white wax, as if whoever had penned the letter had dripped a candle over the back.

  Robert said, ‘Mr Darby has written to me.’

  There were noises downstairs. The front door closed with a bang, and there were raised voices, perhaps from the people waiting outside. Robert went to his window to look down on the street.

  The note from Darby was short, the writing small and spidery. There was no date, no signature, and no address. In the first few lines, Darby assured Robert that he forgave him for what had happened at the inquest. The only mention of Edith came at the end. He wrote, It is such a shame, for I am sure she would have been happy here. She could have sketched the scene from the parlour every day and never drawn the same picture twice.

  There was nothing else. From the window, Robert said, ‘You will have to leave, Miss Lawless. You cannot be found here.’

  ‘Do you know where Darby is?’

  ‘Not for certain, but he had prom
ised Edith that when they were married, he would take her back to his old parish.’

  ‘Have you told anyone?’

  ‘Who can I tell? I’m confined here.’

  ‘Surely your parents would—’

  ‘Did you know that they attended Edith’s funeral dressed in full Brethren attire?’ He shook his head. ‘They are the last people I would tell.’

  He came close to me, and when I handed him the letter, he refused to take it.

  ‘Show it to your father.’

  ‘I doubt he’d accept it as evidence of anything.’

  He stayed looking at me, his brow creased at the bridge of his nose in a way that reminded me of his sister. Somewhere downstairs, a man called out his name, most likely Judge Gould.

  ‘Keep it anyway,’ Robert said. ‘I must go before my father comes searching. Lisa will bring you back to the street.’

  He moved to the door, opened it enough to peer into the hall, and then stepped out. He glanced back at me, but didn’t say anything. I folded the letter to put it in my coat pocket. A piece of white candlewax broke off and skittered on the floor.

  *

  Liam had brought the horses and carriage to the front of the house, and was busy attaching a trunk to the roof. He stood when he saw us approach, his feet wide apart for balance. A dog on the pavement ran out beneath Newton’s legs, and the horse shied, causing the carriage to rock. Liam shifted his weight to retain balance, and clucked his tongue until Newton settled.

  I called up to him, ‘Is Father going somewhere?’

  He removed his cap and ran a forearm over his brow. ‘Yes, miss. To the north of the county, I believe.’

  Father was in the library, standing on some folding steps and running his finger along the spines on a high shelf. Ewan sat at the table, taking notes from a volume that lay open before him.

  ‘Have you been called away?’

  Father looked at me over his shoulder. ‘The constabulary in Howth sent word. A young man was discovered in a field after he went walking in bad weather. They think he may have been struck by lightning.’

  He found the book he wanted, took it down, and descended the three rickety steps. He opened the book to a certain plate, and showed it to me. It was the torso of a man with strange markings on his skin: lines branching and forking into ever more delicate strokes, running over his chest.

  Father said, ‘They’re Lichtenberg figures. Ruptured blood vessels beneath the skin, caused by the shock of the bolt. I have always wanted to observe them . . . in the flesh, so to speak.’

  The lines even looked like forked lightning; or the roots of a tree; or streams in a riverbed; and I thought it could not be a coincidence that such disparate elements of nature should adopt the same pattern.

  Father closed the book and said to Ewan, ‘We shall take both these volumes with us, Mr Weir. We had best leave soon so we can arrive before dark.’

  Ewan stacked his books and notes and placed his pen back in the holder.

  I said to Father, ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘No more than a day.’ He smiled at me. ‘You will have the whole house to yourself.’

  Ewan rose from his seat and they both began walking towards the door. I was about to let them go, but then said, ‘Robert Gould has given me something.’ I took the sheet from my coat and held it out. A letter from Mr Darby.’

  Father frowned while he came towards me, taking his spectacles from his front pocket. He read the short note, and then turned the leaf over to look at the reverse.

  ‘This says nothing.’

  ‘Mr Gould believes Darby was in his old parish of St John’s when he wrote it.’

  ‘When were you speaking with him?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Abigail—’

  ‘If he’s correct then Darby might still be found.’

  ‘It is wholly inappropriate for Mr Gould to speak with you about these things.’

  ‘He wished for me to show it to you, Father.’

  ‘Then why would he not send it to me directly?’

  I couldn’t answer, and remained silent. Ewan came to stand beside us, and he asked to read the letter.

  ‘Can you not send it to someone, Father?’ I said. ‘To the constabulary in Wicklow?’

  Abigail, you know that there are sightings of Mr Darby every day, here and in England. The police do not need another phantom to chase.’

  ‘They would believe it if it came from you.’

  ‘Precisely why I have no wish to send it.’

  Before I could speak again, he held up his hand. ‘If we have come to learn anything, it is that Mr Gould is not to be trusted. I thought that you would be able to see that.’

  ‘I believe I know the character of Mr Gould very well,’ I said, feeling an edge in my voice.

  Father removed his glasses, and bent his head while folding the temples. Ewan read the letter again. He held my eye for a moment. ‘Perhaps it would do no harm, sir, if you were to send this to Wicklow. You could simply say that you received the information in secret, and that you will leave it to the discretion of the police in that county to judge its veracity.’

  My father remained still. He looked from Ewan to me, nodded his head, and took the sheet. ‘When we have settled in our rooms in Howth later this evening, I shall compose a letter and send it from there.’ He opened the cover of his book and placed the letter inside.

  They left the library to make their final preparations. Ewan fetched a travelling bag from his room, and Father went to the study. Liam came in to say that the horses were ready, and Mrs Perrin joined us in the hallway to see the men off. Father kissed my forehead. He ruffled Jimmy’s hair, and said that until their return he would be the man of the house.

  I remained in the doorway as they climbed into the carriage, and Liam edged the horses out on to the road. As they set off, Ewan turned in his seat and looked at me through the window.

  I closed the door. Mrs Perrin said, ‘Peace at last,’ and she asked if I wanted anything to eat, but I only wished to rest a while in my room. On my way upstairs I passed my father’s study. The door stood open, and a lamp was lit on his desk. I went to put it out, and noticed one of the drawers ajar. It was stiff, and the wood squeaked against the edges as I pulled it open. Mr Darby’s letter was sitting there on top of a sheaf of papers.

  14

  Muddy water splashed against the windows of the stagecoach as it forded a narrow stream. The carriage lurched and swayed over the far bank, and I steadied myself against the side armrest. Two middle-aged sisters sat beside me. They clasped threadbare fur stoles beneath their chins, and spoke little except to complain about the cold. In the seat opposite, a thin man with wispy locks and a priestly bearing sat next to his young daughter. Seeing them made me think of long trips I had taken with my father, particularly when I was small and could fall asleep in his lap. The little girl glanced at me shyly once or twice before complimenting me on my travelling cloak. I smiled at her, and was about to ask her name when her father took a Bible from his satchel and told her to attend to her studies.

  The journey passed in silence, which suited me well enough. We cleared Dublin in less than an hour, and made good progress through the villages south of the city. The clouds were the colour of wood-smoke, and seemed to shift about just as much. Strong winds began to whip leaves about the carriage. Before we entered the foothills of Wicklow, Professor Reeves’s observatory was briefly visible on a bluff in the distance. The young girl spotted its domed roof between the trees, and asked her father was it a type of church. He peered at it for a moment, and simply answered, ‘No.’

  At one point I caught him staring at me. He may have wondered why I was travelling unaccompanied, but his gaze was so blatant and unashamed. He didn’t look away even when I held his eye. Eventually, I leaned towards him. ‘Did you say something?’

  All heads in the carriage turned. The girl glanced up at her father. He frowned and shifted in his seat, then wiped some c
ondensation from the glass with a balled fist and watched the passing scenery.

  The dark, tree-covered slopes began to close about us. Our pace slowed as the horses struggled uphill. Occasionally, the road ahead was visible winding through the mountains, seemingly unending.

  The journey was only twenty miles from Nelson’s Pillar, but we were well into the fourth hour when the carriage shuddered to a stop. The road appeared no different to what had gone before, slanting fields bounded by hedges and thickets of trees. There wasn’t a building in sight, but still the driver yelled out, ‘Manor Kilbride.’

  I bid the girl goodbye and opened the door. The heel of my walking shoe sank into the earth as I alighted. There was a side road leading further up the hill, and I assumed the village lay in that direction. The stagecoach was to continue on to Blessington.

  The driver was looping his lash against its handle. ‘Did you have a bag?’

  I shook my head and pulled up my hood, but it was immediately blown down again. I asked what time he was returning this way to Dublin, and he said four, all going well.

  He glanced up at the sky, then turned abruptly in his seat to look back at the road. I followed his gaze, but the path was empty.

  ‘Is there no one here to meet you?’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be along in a moment. Besides, I know the way.’

  ‘These hills aren’t safe, miss. I’d best wait till you’re collected.’

  The breeze grew stronger and the trees swayed overhead. ‘Really, it’s fine,’ I said, and before he could answer, I began walking up the narrow side road. After a few steps, I heard the harness shake and the wheels creak, and I knew he was on his way. I watched them go. The little girl had taken my seat, and she was looking at me, her face pale behind the glass.

  I pushed on. Black hills loomed over me to my left, and I kept expecting to see the village after each bend. The sky continued to threaten rain, which would have made for a truly miserable trek. I began to wonder if this was the right road. Surely the coachman would have corrected me if I set off in the wrong direction – though I had been adamant that I knew the way. Even the sign of a farm or an outhouse would have been welcome, a spiral of smoke or a scarecrow. There was a rustling in the ditch beside me and I stopped to listen. A pigeon burst out of the undergrowth, beating its wings together as it flew past my head.