Finally, I came to an entrance in the hedgerow, barely visible through unkempt briars and nettles. There was a gate lodge, also run down, but a lamp was lit in the fanlight above the door. A path wound its way towards a big house. All I could make out of it was a slanting slate roof with moss in the joins and a granite chimney stack. It must have been the manor of Kilbride. After that, more houses were visible dotted in the fields and clustered around the crossroads of the village itself. There was an inn with a ship’s wheel attached to the gable wall – an emblem that seemed at odds with the setting – also a well with a rusting pump, and a flour mill. There were only a few people on what passed for the street, and they were gathered around a building under construction, surrounded by scaffolding and pulleys and piles of grey bricks. It was a church, though only the lowest portions of the walls were complete.
A man bearing a hod of bricks over his shoulder paused at my approach. He pushed the brim of his cap back with his thumb. ‘Can I help, miss?’
I pointed at the weight on his shoulder. ‘Would you like to put that down?’
‘Easier to carry it now than try to pick it up again.’
‘Oh. Is this St John’s?’
He shook his head. ‘St Brigid’s, miss. The Protestant church is further up the road, about a half-mile.’
I thanked him, and continued on, leaving the small bustle of the village behind me. Once again, the road became deserted. The higher it climbed, the worse the surface seemed to be: a mixture of soft ground and rough stones, with trails of cart-wheels criss-crossing. I thought of Darby’s young wife, what she must have made of the isolation and seclusion. The road bent sharply around the contour of a hill, and a stone bridge arched over the young River Liffey. It was running quick and clear, unlike in Dublin, where it was thick with the silt of the country and waste of the city. I felt drops on my cheek, and thought it might have been spray from the rocks below, but it was the first hint of rain. The clouds seemed to press against the peaks of the surrounding hills, and though it was mid-afternoon, a gloom had already descended.
I hurried on and came to St John’s chapel. It was small and neat with a square tower. A sloping graveyard ran towards the river. Across the road there was a two-storey house, the walls whitewashed and the windowsills covered in flower boxes: the vicarage, I assumed. Was that where Darby and his young wife once lived? It didn’t look at all like the house in Edith’s drawing.
The hinges squeaked as I opened the gate to the church yard. Wind rustled in the long grasses between the headstones. The vaulted oak doorway was closed, and there was no sign of a handle, only a brass keyhole. I pushed the door but it didn’t budge. A raven perched atop the tower looked down at me, its head cocked to one side. It opened its wings as if about to take flight, then closed them again and settled.
I walked among the headstones. The most prominent were those of the former pastors, tall marble columns with etched letters painted gold. A small tomb had a carving on top in bas-relief: two infants asleep beneath a thin sheet, their arms entwined. Away from the chapel, in the shadow of a copse of sycamore, there were smaller, humbler gravestones, littered with the twirling seeds from the trees above. Right in the corner, a granite stone bore the name Darby.
Noises came from the road. A horse and trap rattled past. Its driver wore the clothes of a labourer, and a straw hat with a wide brim. He saw me in the graveyard, and slowly reached up to tug the front of his hat, just as he and the cart moved out of sight.
The gravestone said, Here lies Catherine Darby, wife of Joseph, daughter of William Shaw of Dublin. Died 24th February 1814 aged 20. And her child, a day old.
I had only vaguely heard of the Shaws, a banking family who lived in Merrion Square. There were three daughters: Mrs Nesham was the eldest. Catherine must have come next. It was said the youngest was simple, and confined somewhere in an asylum.
The door of the church opened and a young man backed out. Turning around, he pulled it shut behind him, catching the tail of his coat in the jamb so he had to open and close the door again. He locked it with an iron key. When he turned about, he studied me for a moment before offering a loud ‘Good afternoon.’
He wore a white cravat, a dark coat and round spectacles, and introduced himself as Reverend Coogan. ‘Are you visiting the village?’ he asked.
‘I am just passing through.’
He looked down at the grave. ‘You were a relative of Mrs Darby?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. You bear a resemblance.’
‘You knew her?’
‘Actually, no. But I have heard people here describe her. Tall, dark hair, pale skin.’
‘Did you replace Mr Darby in the vicarage?’
‘Yes. After he left for . . . pastures new.’
‘Have you heard the news from Dublin?’
‘News travels slowly in these hills.’ I didn’t say anything, just waited until he continued. ‘Though we have heard rumours.’
The grave seemed tidier than the others, with fewer weeds and sycamore seedlings.
‘Has there been any sign of him here?’
‘Goodness, no.’ The vicar smiled. Perhaps he thought I was concerned, for he said, ‘You need not worry on that account, Miss . . .?’
‘Lawless.’ I pointed to the house across the road. ‘Was that where he lived?’
‘That house was built for me last year. It is most handsome, don’t you think?’
‘Where did Darby live?’
A cottage further up the hill, but it has fallen to ruin. Lord knows how it is still upright.’
We stood for a moment in silence. Coogan looked about. ‘How are you returning to the village? If you would like me to—’
‘When is your next service, Reverend?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘I might see you then.’
‘Ah, excellent,’ he said. He waited a moment longer, and turned away, nodding to himself as if he’d just remembered a task. I waited for him to enter his own house, and a bit longer in case he was watching from behind his curtains, then set off along the road once more.
The cottage was perched near the summit of the hill facing south. It was quite large, one storey, with a lofty roof that made it imposing. The windows were closed up. One shutter hung askew, giving a glimpse of the dark interior. The shrubbery that arched over the iron gate was so overgrown that twigs clung to my cloak as I squeezed by. The front door was in a small porch with its own pointed roof. Several slates had fallen and smashed to pieces in the threshold. At first glance the house seemed forlorn and abandoned, but I realized it had probably once been quite handsome. A gap in the trees gave a view into the valley below, and of the Liffey tumbling over a small waterfall. If the garden had been kept and the walls whitewashed, it would have been idyllic.
It was difficult to approach the door without scraping and crunching shards of tile underfoot. The knocker was so tarnished and rusted that it seemed fused into one piece of metal. I gave the door a nudge and it shifted inwards. I pushed further. A bevelled glass lampshade behind the door toppled over and rolled along the stone floor until it bumped against the skirting. I paused on the threshold, looked into the dark hallway, and then stepped inside.
An entrance to the left opened to what was once the parlour. The floorboards were warped and bare except for some broken furniture. Large gaps in the ceiling revealed thick rafters. There were cold cinders in the hearth, but it was difficult to know how long they’d been left undisturbed. Loose planks from a crate and a length of cargo rope made one corner of the room untidy.
The shutters in the kitchen were half open and the room was brighter. Another door led to the back yard, but it was locked, as was the window over the sink. In the crook of the sill, some initials had been inscribed: JD and CD, the letters flowing and cursive, and also the year, 1813. Blankets lay bundled in the corner. This room wasn’t as cold as the others. When I placed my hand on the hatch of the stove cooker, the metal had the faint
est hint of warmth. I went to the corner and picked up the blankets. A copy of the Bible was hidden underneath.
‘Come out, Miss Lawless.’
Darby was standing in the middle of the parlour, dressed in the clothes he wore at the inquest, except for a borrowed coat that was too big. The beginning of a scraggly beard covered his chin. He held a fire-iron by his side, the tip resting on the floorboards.
There was no other way to leave the kitchen, and to try to barricade the door would be futile. I placed the blankets back in the corner, and went into the parlour, staying close to the wall.
‘Who else is with you?’
‘My father, and two constables.’
He looked towards the front door. A burble from the river could be heard outside.
‘You are lying.’
‘Do you think he would allow me to come alone?’
‘I don’t think he would allow you to come here at all.’
Still, he was unsure, and he went to the window to peek from the shutters. I moved farther into the room, but only made it to the hearth before he pointed the poker towards me. ‘Stay where you are.’ He pressed his nose against the glass, then moved his head to look through a different pane.
How had I left the front door? Off its latch, but I’d still have to pause to pull it open. Then the garden path, the gate. What if my dress caught in the brambles again? I could run in these shoes, and in a straight race I could outpace him. He looked weak and haggard from lack of sleep. But the road was uneven and my skirts would be a hindrance. Any tumble and he could catch up.
He ran his hand over his forehead and down his cheek, then drew back his arm and struck the wall with the fire-iron, leaving a crack in the plaster. He turned on me.
‘What now, Miss Lawless? You cannot leave, you know that?’ He kicked about the loose slats in the corner, then picked out the rope, shaking it to remove dirt and flakes of plaster. He came towards me, and I stepped back, tripping on the hearthstone.
‘I’m not the only one who knows you’re here,’ I said.
‘Hold out your hands.’
There was nothing in the room I could use as a weapon, no candlestick holder, or coal shovel. ‘Do you think I just guessed? Somebody told me.’
‘I won’t ask again.’
He took a step to the side to block off the door.
‘If they told me, they could tell others.’
‘Only my sister-in-law knows I’m here. And you’d be the last person she would tell.’
A gust of wind whistled through the loft, and dust sifted from the exposed rafters.
‘But I cannot stay now, and I can’t let you go until I am away.’ He placed the tip of the poker on the ground and it toppled over with a clatter. ‘When darkness falls I shall make arrangements to leave, and only then will I let others know that you are here. Most likely you will be found tomorrow.’
‘Who in the village will help you?’
He held the rope with both hands now, pulling a short section of it taut. ‘It gets cold at night, but I shall light a fire and leave the blankets.’
‘Will you not go back and answer for what you’ve done?’
He slid one end of the rope out further, and looped it over his hand. ‘Show me your wrists.’
‘No.’
‘This is your own fault, Abigail.’
‘Was it Edith’s fault for refusing you?’
He held my eye without blinking, his face shadowed in the waning afternoon light.
The gate outside creaked for a long moment as if it had blown open in the wind, but then it was closed again, deliberately.
Darby went to the window. He let the rope slip from his hands. I was about to call out, but backed into the kitchen instead. I tried to shut the door. It jammed against the uneven floor and remained open a crack.
Darby waited in the middle of the room as the sound of shoes crunching on the broken tiles drifted in from outside. Footsteps echoed on the flagstones in the hallway, and then there was silence.
The man with the lazy eye entered the parlour. His coat was wet, and he removed his hat to shake water from its brim. Without even glancing at Darby, he placed it on the mantelpiece, and then turned to survey the room.
‘You’re alone?’
He spoke with such familiarity that I knew they must be acquainted. Perhaps this was their plan, to meet here with me already trapped. But Darby didn’t betray my presence.
‘Who sent you, Devlin?’
‘It’s not so easy to find this place. Especially a day like today with the wind right against you.’ He began rubbing his bad eye. ‘Do you mind?’
He arched his neck back, pulled the loose eyelid upwards and pushed the tips of his fingers underneath. After a moment the eyeball emerged, white and solid and untethered. He held it up to his face, as if he were regarding himself, then draped it in a handkerchief and began to rub vigorously. When finished, he placed it on the mantel next to his hat with a glassy click.
‘That’s better.’ He looked about the room. The inside of his socket was smooth and red like an exposed gum. ‘Not much in the way of furniture,’ he said. A Windsor chair lay on its side beside the window. He righted it, but a leg was missing, and the chair collapsed again.
Darby took a step closer to the poker. ‘I am not going back to Dublin,’ he said.
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
The man took a pocket watch from his coat. He checked the time and then peered through the window as if surprised at how dark it was getting.
‘I said, who sent—’
‘Catherine.’ He closed the lid of his watch, squeezing it until a tiny catch clicked shut like a knuckle cracking. ‘Catherine Shaw sent me. And Emilie, and Edith.’
Darby had become still at the mention of his wife’s name. As the list continued, he bent down to pick up the poker without further pretence. The man smiled. He was about to replace his watch, but put it on the mantel instead, as if he feared it might be damaged.
He began walking towards Darby, who backed towards the wall much as I had done minutes before. Darby swung the poker in a wide arc, but Devlin caught his elbow and forced his arm upwards, squeezing until Darby lost his grip and the poker tumbled between them. Darby was a few inches shorter, and slight in comparison. He grimaced in pain as Devlin turned him about, wrapped his left arm around Darby’s neck and clamped his other hand on his forehead.
Darby thrust his elbows backwards, but it made no difference. Devlin slowly arched his back, lifting Darby off his toes as if he were just a child. Darby continued to kick, and I could hear him trying to yell, but his mouth was covered. Devlin remained still, bringing his head back to look at the ceiling, pressing his good eye closed as if in prayer.
I didn’t see any sudden or exaggerated movement, but I heard the break. There was no more struggle. Darby slumped down, his knees bending beneath him so at first he remained half-upright before toppling forward, his forehead striking the floor.
I backed away from the crack in the door, hand over my mouth, bumping against the corner of a sideboard. I felt my arms weaken, and wanted to take a gasping breath but feared the noise I would make. Every movement now seemed loud in my ears: the rustle of my skirt, the scrape of my shoes. I leaned over the sink and tried the window-latch again, knowing it wouldn’t move, and praying the pane wouldn’t creak. I felt along the top of the back door for a key that might be hidden, but there was nothing. What could I do if he came in? The kitchen was bare: no pans hanging from hooks, or kettles, or flattening irons.
In the parlour, Devlin was moving about again. I peeked through the crack. Darby remained where he was, his head tilted a little towards me so I could see his opened eyes. His killer was at the window, breathing heavily and holding his ribs. He looked out at the scenery for a minute as if lost in contemplation, then bent down to pick up the rope, unravelling it to its full length. He came back into the middle of the room, and tossed the rope
over one of the exposed beams in the ceiling. The dangling ends were tied into a sailor’s knot, and he pulled it so the rope closed tight against the beam, leaving a hanging length of four or five feet.
He tested its strength. The beam began to creak and the rope stretched, but it didn’t break, despite him lifting himself off the ground at one point. Then he retrieved the broken chair and placed it underneath, nudging it so that it fell over. He stood back and surveyed the scene critically.
Finally, he fashioned the end of the rope into a wide noose about a foot above his own head. He did so expertly, as if that might have been his profession. He puffed out his cheeks and looked at Darby on the floor, glancing between him and the rope a few times as if figuring out the best way to approach his task. He leaned down, put both his arms beneath Darby’s shoulders and began to lift him up. It was a struggle, and the first time Darby fell from his grip, crumpling to the floor again.
There was a dust pan in the kitchen next to the stove, half filled with grime and grit. I emptied it into my palm, then placed the pan down again as quietly as I could. Devlin had got Darby almost upright, arms around his chest. He was looking again at the wide noose, preparing for the final heave.
I pulled open the kitchen door, and walked towards him. His head turned and his good eye opened wide. As he dropped Darby’s body, I flung the grit into his face. He brought his hands up and stumbled backwards, tripping over the chair and falling to the floor. He was blinded, but still he reached towards me, grasping the air where he thought I stood. I circled around him, staying close to the hearth, and on impulse took the glass eye. It was already cold and felt clammy to the touch. Devlin was grunting, leaning over and holding his eyelids open with thumbs and forefingers, like someone trying to prevent himself from falling asleep. I looked once more at Darby’s body and the swaying noose, and then rushed for the door.
The Coroner's Daughter Page 24
