She looked down, ashamed. ‘I had to go to the baby’s father,’ she admitted. ‘His family didn’t want a scandal, so they paid up. Am I in trouble? I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong—honestly I didn’t.’
‘No, you’re not in trouble,’ Kyd said reassuringly.
‘Then what’s happened?’ she asked, beginning to cry now. ‘Why do you want to know about my baby?’
Kyd looked at the doctor, who shook his head. ‘Miss Galley needs to rest now,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay with her for a bit and make sure she has something to help her sleep.’
The inspector stood up to go. The image of Ada Galley’s dead son had been with him all day, refusing to go away no matter how hard he tried to expel it from his mind. There would be a time when he would have to explain to this girl what had happened to her baby, but not before he had more answers and certainly not while she was still living under Sach’s roof. He opened the door to go back downstairs, but found Jacob Sach outside on the landing, a child of about three or four in his arms. He had obviously been listening—there were tears on his face which he did not bother to wipe away—but what struck Kyd most was how like her mother Lizzie Sach was; for her sake, he prayed that the resemblance was purely physical. ‘Please go downstairs, Sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’
It would take several hours to search the house thoroughly but, by the time Kyd joined Jacob Sach downstairs, he had seen enough to gauge the extent of his wife’s business. His officers had found more than three hundred items of baby clothing in the house so far, presumably made by mothers who had no idea of how briefly they would be needed. Kyd found what was left of the family in the kitchen: Sach was sitting at the table, hunched over an untouched cup of tea, while a dark-haired young woman sat on the floor with two children, one only a toddler, trying and failing to keep them amused. As soon as she saw him, the woman stood up to go, but he held up his hand to stop her. ‘Miss …?’
‘Edwards. Nora Edwards.’
‘And you work for Mr and Mrs Sach?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Miss Edwards—may I ask how long you’ve been here?’
‘Since July last year—well, not here, but with Mrs Sach. She was in Stanley Road then.’
‘And you moved here with her?’
‘With the family, yes.’
She seemed guarded in her answers, and he wondered exactly how much she knew. It was difficult to believe that she could have lived in the Sach household for more than a year and remained ignorant of its comings and goings. ‘Did you answer an advertisement for a job?’
‘No, not for a job.’
‘Then for what?’
‘I went to her to have my baby.’ She gestured to the younger of the two girls.
‘And your child was born in Mrs Sach’s care?’
‘Yes. She looked after me herself. Sally was born last September.’
‘What happened after the child’s birth?’
Edwards hesitated. ‘Mrs Sach asked me what I was going to do, and I said I didn’t know. She told me there was a woman in Balcombe who would adopt Sally for twelve pounds. I didn’t want to let the baby go and I told her as much.’
‘And did she argue?’
‘She said the woman would have a cot waiting for her, and that she’d be well looked after, but I couldn’t do it.’
‘You stayed in the house, though?’
‘Yes. I paid her fifteen shillings a week at first, but then she offered me a job in return for our keep.’
‘And she never mentioned adoption again?’
‘No, never. She’s always been good to us both, and the kids play together. You can see for yourself.’
Kyd looked down at the floor, but Lizzie’s sulky expression and the tantrum threatened by the other child were no more convincing to him than Edwards’s testimony of Sach’s good nature. ‘And what are your duties?’
‘Oh, the usual—cleaning, a bit of cooking, the odd errand.’
‘And did you ever meet anyone called Mrs Walters here?’ He described Annie Walters, and Edwards nodded.
‘I met someone who looked like that, but her name was Laming. I’ve seen her at both houses—here and in Stanley Road. She used to come when a child was born. Mrs Sach would send her a telegram.’
‘Did you ever see money change hands between them?’
Edwards looked nervously at Jacob Sach. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘And did Mrs Sach ever say anything to you about Mrs Walters?’
‘She told me not to tell the mothers that their children had gone with her.’
‘How many children would you say that Mrs Walters had taken away with her since you’ve been here?’
‘I don’t remember. I wasn’t counting.’
‘Please, Miss Edwards—just a rough figure.’
‘About eight, I suppose. And once Mrs Sach asked me to take a baby and three pounds to Mrs Laming—Mrs Walters, I mean—in Plaistow.’
‘Thank you, Miss Edwards.’ He watched as she picked the toddler up from the floor and drew her close. ‘Did Mrs Walters ever speak to you about your own child?’ he asked.
‘Yes, she did, Inspector, quite a few times. She said I was a fool to keep her.’
The house was unbearably quiet when the police left. Jacob Sach sat in the kitchen, going over and over the questions they had asked him about his wife, trying to associate the woman they had taken away with the one he had married, but nothing made any sense to him. He poured another glass of rum and took it out into the back yard, desperate now to get out of the room which felt like the cell he imagined Amelia to be in. Had she confessed yet, he wondered? Or did she really believe herself to be innocent?
He heard a noise at the back door and turned to see Nora there, holding Lizzie in her arms. As the light from the kitchen fell on the child’s auburn hair, it was like looking at his wife when she was young, and Lizzie’s innocence stung him like a personal rebuke for all his failures.
‘Take her away,’ he said quietly, not trusting himself to move.
‘But Jacob, she’s asking for you. Don’t take it out on her—none of this is her fault.’
‘I said take her away,’ he yelled, and hurled the glass towards the door. It broke against the wall, and Nora looked at him in horror, then fled back into the house with the child.
Chapter Seven
Josephine usually took breakfast upstairs in her room, but the envelope which Marta had given her had, during a long and sleepless night, come to dominate the small space to such an extent that she was glad to leave it behind for the comparative safety of the club’s dining room, where, if she were forced into any conversation at all, it would at least be of a reassuringly superficial nature.
The dining room was the centrepiece of the building’s architectural design, situated midway between the Cowdray Club and the College of Nursing and easily reachable from both. Breakfast was laid out along one wall, and Josephine lifted the lid on a dish of perfectly cooked sausages before deciding that coffee was all she could face. She settled down at a table in the corner, enjoying the peace and general harmony of an exquisitely conceived room. The walls were entirely faced with oak panelling, and fluted Corinthian columns and pilasters with finely carved capitals supported a magnificent ceiling. The floor, too, was of oak, finished to a rich brown colour. All in all, the wood gave the room a warm, autumnal feel which contrasted pleasantly with the ivory-white enamel that served most of the building. Strong natural light flooded in from tall windows and a glass dome overhead, illuminating the room’s decorative focal points: four portrait medallions—one on each wall—of Florence Nightingale, Edith Cavell and the Viscount and Viscountess Cowdray, ensuring that, wherever you sat, you could not escape a reminder of the club’s nursing origins.
