A young woman came into the room behind the maid, her voice steady. ‘I am here already. Thank you, Florrie. You may leave the tea.’
The woman was dressed in black, with skin the colour of milk and lips damson red, as if she’d been chewing them. Her eyes were swollen from crying and she begged, ‘Please, do not stand for me, gentlemen, but sit. As I shall,’ she said as she fanned herself. ‘Forgive me, I needed to speak to you but I am not so well today.’
She found an easy chair, helped by Inspector Grey. ‘I’m not usually lost for words.’ She fanned herself a little more, as she turned to Hatton. ‘You must be the doctor from St Bart’s? My husband, sir, when will you return him to me?’
Was it so obvious that he was the guardian of the dead? Hatton supposed it must be, as he said, ‘The body of your husband will be with you soon, Mrs McCarthy. I will deliver him myself.’
She was twisting her fingers in agitation, shaking her head, which was a tumble of black locks, a little unkempt, as she said, ‘I haven’t yet spoken to Gabriel’s brother about the funeral and there’s no instruction in the will, but England was not his home …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I cannot yet accept that Gabriel is dead.’ Her body suddenly folded, as she let out a muted groan.
Rather than having left the room as she’d been bid, the maid immediately sprang to her mistress’s aid. ‘You need some more tonic, madam, or some salts …’ The maid looked at the men with accusation in her face, but the widow pushed her away.
‘Don’t smother me. I will speak to these men. Now please, Florrie, leave me.’ Mrs McCarthy pulled herself up again, brushing down the black gown, which had ridden up a little, hinting at the slimmest of ankles, a petticoat, pushing the fallen locks away from her face.
‘I am calm,’ she said. ‘Perfectly.’ She looked directly at Hatton, who felt uneasy under those dark and questioning eyes. Was it her eyes? Or a particular look? What was it? Under the intensity of her gaze, he looked away, but having already stolen a glance at her face, which had made Hatton silently gasp, felt sick to his stomach.
It wasn’t that she was exquisite. Her skin was dewy in the heat, wet with perspiration, wan with emotion – but that wasn’t it. Nor was it the groove of an elegant clavicle or the fine line of her throat. It was something else. He looked again, to see a face he was sure he knew. The cheekbones were sharper, higher. This jaw was more defiant, the lips darker, fuller. She must have seen him or felt the gaze, because instantly, her fingers fluttered across her collarbone. Hatton noted a wedding ring and looked away.
‘Are you quite all right, Hatton?’ It was Grey. ‘Open a window, Mr Tescalini. Our professor has also gone quite pale, but a gasp of Highgate air should cure him.’
Hatton felt foolish. Had he been staring? He deliberately moved a little away from her, but still caught a hint of something in the air.
My God
, he thought, it was the very same. What was it? He tried to grasp it. Nutmeg. The scent she brought into the room was sweet like nutmeg.
But still holding him with determined black eyes, she continued, ‘Tell me the truth because I’m not a child. It wasn’t cholera, was it, Professor? Do you know what killed Gabriel?’ She hesitated. ‘Do you know what caused that look of terror on his face?’ and with a slight choking sound, she buried her own.
Trying to concentrate on the scientific findings and not on the beauty of the widow, Hatton answered as straightforwardly as he could, blinking back a vision of his father’s farm, a dusty ditch, and up ahead an oak tree carved with initials and a heart. ‘The grimace on his face, I will explain in a moment, madam, but the blackening of his skin was ash from a grate.’
‘Ashes from a grate? What a strange thing, but why on earth would anyone do that?’
Concentrate
, thought Hatton.
Just answer her. She is not the same. She is different. Quite different
.
‘To panic those that found him, and you see,’ he said, surveying the room, ‘your maid has scrubbed this room for fear of cholera, I presume. But if I may, I would still like to take samples from the fireplace. The ash is likely to match, I think.’
She leant forward a little, her pert figure poised at the end of the easy chair. ‘You can do that? You have the expertise?’
Hatton replied, as the memory of another time and place morphed into the present. He said emphatically, ‘We are making great strides in that direction. There are a number of tests I can do when I get back to St Bart’s, but only with your permission?’ She nodded, of course. ‘Was the room like this when you found your husband?’
‘He was lying on the floor, Professor, already cold. I’ve told Inspector Grey all that I know.’ She hesitated and seemed to be thinking, and then continued, ‘Yes, a chair had been knocked over, that was all. Florrie must have tidied things up and shut the window, after I sent a message to Scotland Yard and they arranged to take my husband to St Bart’s.’
‘Did you hear nothing last night? We estimate his time of death was around midnight.’
‘No, Professor. I heard nothing. I brought him his supper, I bid him good night. I always wear this.’ She pulled up a watch on a golden chain, as if to prove herself. ‘The last time I saw my husband alive it was just gone eight o’clock. Gabriel often worked late, but he never disturbed me. This is a large house, and I must confess I took a little something last night and I’m a heavy sleeper, anyway. Gabriel begged me to get a dog, in case something like this happened. We are a well-known family, unpopular because of the Union, and he said an intruder might—’ She started to cry, dabbing her swollen eyes with a handkerchief. ‘My husband is … he was … a very thoughtful man. Inspector Grey has told me, Professor, that you think he was murdered.’
Her voice had flattened out into an odd monotone, which Hatton now recognised. Somebody must have given her opium to calm the nerves. Or that dreadful quackery they called Parker’s Tonic, which he recalled from his training days was a potentially lethal combination of
thirty grams of opium, a dash of ether, Ipecacuanha wine, a splash of chloroform, and six fluid ounces of rose hip syrup.
‘Yes, madam, I’m afraid it was almost certainly strychnine. Is there any in the house? Perhaps the maid would know? It is commonly used as rat poison, or in gardens to kill the weeds, and accidents occasionally happen.’
She turned her eyes towards the window, but didn’t answer, the merest impression of a frown.
‘Take your time, Mrs McCarthy. Don’t vex yourself.’
It was Inspector Grey, his tone soft and soothing.
‘The mind plays tricks but I think you know a little of my husband’s life, Inspector. You must know what I am thinking?’ Her voice grew more resolute. ‘That this was an act of punishment.’
Hatton watched the Inspector crouch down at her side, strangely intimate, and as she tilted her face towards him, there was passion in her eyes. ‘You knew his politics, Inspector. It was no secret that he was committed to his fellow countrymen, but Gabriel was a Unionist, and this won him many enemies. He was prepared to wait for freedom. In Ireland we say
Fan tamall
, and how rare is that among the young?’
She spoke as if she wasn’t young herself, although Hatton guessed she was little more than twenty. Twenty? How old must Mary have been when he last set eyes on her?
Mary
, thought Hatton.
A name and a girl he hadn’t dared think of for so many years, but he thought of her now.
In the blink of an eye, he could see her clearly, skipping along by the hedgerows near his father’s farm, calling him to join her. She was fifteen, the beginnings of a woman, and he must have been, what? More
or less, the same.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary. How does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row
. Pretty maids? Whose mind was playing the trickery now?
‘Passion can be a hard thing to bear,’ said the widow. ‘It can be a burden. But Gabriel was prepared to work with the British, and keep the Union strong. He had worries, he was often tired, and he had a workload which took its toll, but he had everything to live for …’
Yes, thought Hatton, he could see that, and at that he wanted to reach out to comfort her, to take her hand as he had taken Mary’s, but he kept to his designated place and only asked, ‘So, there’s no strychnine in the house, Mrs McCarthy?’
‘You’re right to keep me to the point,’ she answered. ‘I run the house, but I don’t keep a tally of every item. I leave that to Florrie. We have traps for vermin, I think. Yes, I’m sure Florrie always uses traps. But perhaps …’
‘What, madam?’ said the Inspector.
‘I think we might use poison on the lawn.’ She stood up and moved to the window. Hatton’s eyes followed her, thinking she wasn’t exactly the same, she had nuances which were different, quite different. There was an inner strength in Mrs McCarthy, despite her grief, determined as she said, ‘My brother-in-law likes the feel of the soil on his hand. We are Irish and to my people, land is everything. He prunes the roses, cuts the grass, and does the work himself, and he does it with a good heart. A gift to me, he says. Gabriel wished he wouldn’t, but there were so many daisies on the lawn that, yes I’m sure, that he may have used something to keep them down.’
The inspector, not taking his eyes off the widow, asked, ‘Daisies, you say? Well, when your brother-in-law finally returns, I need to speak to him. He’s been out all night? Bit odd, isn’t it?’
She looked suddenly terrified. ‘My God, he’s not a suspect, is he? They’re brothers and Damien’s a committed Christian, Inspector. I can’t entertain the thought that …’
Inspector Grey was studying the garden.
‘Did you choose those particular roses, my dear?’
She looked confused but answered, ‘Damien planted them, Inspector. They’re a French rose.’
Grey smiled. ‘Ah, yes, Félicité et Perpétue. A wonderful rose for the position. A rambler longs to be warm. It needs to be south facing. May I compliment you, just a little?’
And Hatton watched as the widow opened her mouth to speak but instead changed her mind and remained silent. The inspector took a step towards her, and for a moment Hatton thought the detective might kiss her hand, but he did nothing of the sort. He only offered his deepest condolences as he opened the door and guided Mrs McCarthy out, returning one minute later, sticking his head back around the door saying, ‘Gather any evidence you can, Professor. Do a sweep of the kitchen, any store cupboards, the cellar, those potting sheds beyond the lawn, and it goes without saying, the garden. Another hour alone with me and she will be a tap, a veritable tap …’
Hatton was left in the room alone and sat on the edge of the easy chair as the widow had done. The room was overbearingly warm as he briefly shut his eyes, to hear his father’s voice, echoing through his mind –
‘Stay away from those children, Lucy. I’ve told you before.’
His sister Lucy was indignant. She’d been darning stockings at the
time, in the farmhouse kitchen. ‘It’s not I that plays with the tinkers, Pa. It’s Addy. I’m forever warning him not to.’
‘Well, Adolphus?’
‘They’re only here for the summer, Pa, and will soon return to Ireland. They’re only here for the hop picking.’
His father shook his head. ‘That’s not what the neighbours say. They say the tinkers are stealing.’
‘With respect, Pa …’
‘What’s that? Who’ve you been listening to? A tinker’s word, against our neighbours? Just remember that it’s our neighbours that lend a hand with the hay, that bring us eggs when our hens don’t lay. It’s our neighbours that we rely on, that have stood with our family through thick and thin, when your poor, dear mother …’
Adolphus hung his head and muttered, ‘Mother always said it was wrong to look down on travelling people. That tinkers brought good luck, a bit of colour and spirit to the Shires.’
‘Don’t talk to me of your mother. Do you understand me? Your mother has gone. Forever and I won’t—’ His father raised his trembling hand, as Adolphus lowered his eyes to the ground. ‘Stay away from the tinkers, do you hear me?’
Lucy piped up, mischief in her eye. ‘It’s only one he talks to, Pa, and she’s as pretty as can be. The blackest hair you’ve ever seen, like a raven, and the whitest skin, but as for that accent, “Would yer be sparing me a jug of wartair, for I’m terrible parched, beggin’ yer pardin, Missy …”’ Her voice was taunting, an older sister’s revelry, and at this moment, Adolphus hated Lucy with all his heart as she sang, ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary … Addy is in luu … huvvvvv …’
Quick as a rat, Adolphus turned on Lucy, grabbing a thick blonde plait.
‘Pa! Pa! Hellllpppp … Get off me, Addy, or I swear …’
A sharp bite to his arm finished the matter.
‘You’re not too old to go to your rooms, both of you. And Adolphus, I’ll belt you into a month of Sundays if you ever go near that tinker girl
…
it’ll bring nothing but trouble
…
stay away from her
…
’
Hatton sighed and opened his eyes, knowing as he looked through the window at the glorious garden, that Mrs McCarthy wasn’t the same. Similarities, yes, but she was no double, no doppelganger. Mary hadn’t come back from the grave. The black hair, the white skin, those dark, questioning eyes – were just an echo.
Hatton stood up and got on with his work. His work of death. His work of observation, brushing, measuring, and collecting, of noting and deciphering. He did his best, scrutinising every corner of the room and, as he went about his work, breathing in the fresh air from the opened window and the scent the widow had worn, heady in the summer air. And almost despite himself, he ran his hands over the back of the easy chair where Mrs McCarthy’s head had rested, and gently using tiny silver tweezers, retrieved a long strand of iridescent hair. Hatton put it in a bag and labelled it
Item 1,
knowing he would keep it, perhaps look at it again when he got back to the morgue. Might it be useful? Might it tell him something? Might he put it with another he had kept? But that would be odd, he thought. Yes, in this heat, the mind played tricks on one.