‘No wonder,’ he said lightly. ‘It’s an anxious time for you. Let’s hope they get this place rebuilt as soon as possible.’
It looked, he thought, as he strode down the lane and re-entered Washington Street, as if it could tumble down at any moment. But, of course, the rents at the English Market had been recently increased to the huge sum of twenty-six shillings in the week, so every penny that Michael Skiddy made, over and above that, would have to go on food. There would be nothing left over to hire lodgings for himself and his wife.
The candle stall was bare of customers when Patrick approached it. Sam O’Mahony’s mother averted her eyes as he walked past, but he gave her a courteous ‘good morning’ and even hesitated for a minute in order to give her time to ask him a question if she wanted to. This, he thought, was the hardest part of the job. He would have preferred to break up a fight between a crowd of drunken dock workers than face the devastated mother of an arrested man who might be hung for a murder that he, perhaps, did not commit. Mrs O’Mahony said nothing, however, just turned her back and rearranged the pale sausage rolls of drisheen on the shelf behind where she stood and so he passed on, conscious that every stallholder and every customer in the place was eyeing him with suspicion as he approached the candle maker’s stall.
‘Good morning, inspector,’ said Michael nervously. He fiddled for a moment with the burning candle in front of him, scraping off a drip of wax from its side with his fingernail, placing it into a tin box where other crisp candle drippings were stored and then carefully reversing it so that the draught from the open door of the Princes Street Market would blow on the higher side of the candle. A strong smell of tallow filled the air for a moment and then the flame straightened and began to burn more steadily.
‘Just wanted to have a word with you about that man in the raincoat with his hat pulled down over his face,’ said Patrick briskly. He watched Michael’s face as he spoke and could have sworn that he looked deeply uneasy.
‘Man in a raincoat,’ he said tentatively.
‘The one you told your wife about; the man whom you had just served at the moment that the shot went off,’ said Patrick and could have sworn that a flash of anger crossed Michael Skiddy’s face. He didn’t blame him. It was a nasty business tricking information out of a heavily pregnant woman, but Patrick had learned to keep one aim in mind while engaged on solving a crime. He had to find out the truth; had to know whether Sam O’Mahony was guilty, or whether he had been falsely accused and imprisoned.
‘Lots of people in raincoats on that morning, last Friday. Nasty dirty weather.’
Michael, Patrick thought, was talking for the sake of talking, giving himself time to think. He was prevaricating, of course. The slouch hat pulled down over one side of the face was almost a trademark for the Republicans. The candle maker knew quite well what Patrick was asking but he was giving himself time to think. His dilemma was clear. Either he could lie to the police, or he could find himself in trouble with the Republicans. There were nasty rumours around the city about the fate of informers and many a body was dragged from the river with a bullet wound in the head.
‘You’re right, of course,’ he said in an easy way. ‘The only reason why we are interested in this fellow is that, according to one witness, he just vanished before the superintendent had time to order the gate to be shut and the entrance to the Grand Parade side of the market to be blocked off.’ He stopped for a moment to allow Patsy Mullane to sweep the sawdust from beneath where he was standing and then carried on. ‘I wondered whether you could put a name to the fellow, or whether you knew where he came from.’
‘Never saw him before in my life.’ Michael’s voice was loud and emphatic. Several stallholders looked across at him or turned their head momentarily from their own customers. A sudden hush subdued the normal hum of business and Patrick found every head turned towards him. He cursed himself briefly and then decided to make the best of things. Many of the people shopping here this morning may have been at the market at the same hour on Friday morning. Shoppers tended to be regular in habits and to have a loyalty towards particular stalls.
‘I wonder whether anyone who was here on Friday recollects someone disappearing before the superintendent closed off the two entrances?’ he asked and heard his voice boom against the gallery floor over his head. The superintendent emerged from his office above and came hurrying down the stairs. ‘A man in a belted raincoat and with a slouch hat pulled well down over his face,’ he added.
There was a dead silence. No one looked at a neighbour, nor commented. Everyone probably knew or had heard that there had been a member of the Republican army who had rapidly disappeared, probably just after the shot had been fired. Still, the moment might not be wasted. An approach might be made to him in secret later on in the day, or even on the following day. He would make sure he was available, to be a conspicuous presence in the city centre, to instruct the constable on duty in the police barracks to detain with welcoming cups of tea anyone looking to speak to him and to send an urgent messenger after him if he happened to be out.
‘I suppose it’s hard to remember all of your customers,’ he said turning back to Michael Skiddy. No sense in alarming the man. ‘Well, it was worth a try, but if you don’t know him, then you don’t know him. I’ll have one of those two pound candles, as I’m here,’ he said casually and then, as he handed over the money, he said in a low voice, ‘Anything that you tell me will be in confidence. Just pop into the barracks, or send someone to me with a message.’
And then he accepted his change and his brown-paper-wrapped parcel and crossed over to Mrs O’Mahony’s stall. Carefully he removed his cap and stood respectfully in front of her.
‘You’ll be going to see Sam today, Mrs O’Mahony,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ she said curtly. ‘I don’t suppose that he will be coming home with me, though, as he should do if right were right.’
He bowed his head at that and gave her pronouncement a moment’s silence. No point in trying to justify the police action, he thought. He had been in charge, he was the one who had made the decision to arrest Sam, he, in her eyes, was guilty.
‘There’s a lot in his favour,’ he said carefully. ‘The very fact that he did not run away, that he waited, that he allowed himself to be held by the two beadles and made no struggle. Tell him to keep his spirits up.’ He had said more than he should have done, perhaps, but it was a shame to think that if he had arrested any of the men standing around James Doyle, if he had arrested Robert Newenham, the town planner; Father de Courcy, the bishop’s secretary; Thomas Browne, the assistant city engineer; or any of the others, then by now they would have a well-paid and well-informed solicitor acting for them and pointing out all the reasons why his client should no longer remain in custody. One law for the rich, and one for the poor, he thought, as he checked that Mrs O’Mahony knew the visiting hour and that she would be allowed to stay only for ten minutes and that anything she brought to Sam would have to be examined first of all.
‘I’ll bring him a book,’ she said slightly, unbending from the air of frigid mistrust with which she had first regarded him. ‘He’s a great lad for reading, always was.’ She hesitated for a minute and then looked at him very directly. ‘Tell me something, inspector, will it go against him that he threw the gun away?’
He did not make the mistake of brushing aside her fear. It was a valid point and he took a thoughtful moment before he answered it.
‘It may,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a pity, perhaps, that he did not straight away go over to the superintendent of the market or someone else and say: “I picked up this gun”, but it’s easy to be wise after the event. The chances are that it might have felt hot, smelled of burning, and that was why he threw it into the fountain.’ Once again, he thought that he was exceeding his duty; that a point like that would be something that a lawyer for the defence would bring out in court. Still the words were out and he could not unsay them. ‘I’ll leav
e you now; don’t want this uniform to put off your customers,’ he said with an effort at humour. He thought briefly about purchasing some drisheen, but he loathed the stuff and Mrs O’Mahony might find his purchase to be patronising. Tucking his brown-paper-wrapped candle into his attaché case, he made his way out and into the busy thoroughfare of Princes Street. He had gone a hundred yards when he felt a light touch to his arm. He looked down and saw Patsy Mullane.
She must be in her forties, he thought. There was no doubt that she had been around in the city library when he was quite a young boy. He remembered Sister Philomena bringing the whole class there to choose a book, which would be read when they were back in the school. Patsy Mullane, Miss Mullane, Sister Philomena had addressed her as, looked middle-aged then, but perhaps not too different from her present appearance. An educated woman; he remembered asking her for something about ants and how swiftly she had scanned the shelves before coming up with a volume of The Children’s Encyclopaedia and quickly finding the right page for him. It was stamped ‘Reference Library’ but she had consented to him borrowing it on the promise of extreme care being taken of it and he had revelled in it day after day, even forgoing playtime in the yard on occasion in order to finish an article. It was a shame, he thought, that she had been reduced to work such as sweeping up the sawdust in the English Market. Normally a boy or girl, just out of school, took a job like that, before graduating to the position of a messenger who would deliver goods from the stalls, and be presented with a bicycle. Once again he took off his cap and carefully addressed her as ‘Miss Mullane’.
‘Oh, Patrick,’ she said and then covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I mean, inspector.’
‘We’re old friends,’ he said gently smiling. ‘I remember how good you were to me and how you found books for me when I was studying for my school certificate.’
Her face bore a wistful look. ‘Ah, the library,’ she said. ‘Will we ever see it replaced, do you think?’ And then, without waiting for an answer to her question, she said rapidly, ‘I’ve something to tell you …’
‘About the murder, is that right?’
She hesitated and then said defensively, ‘It’s not that I meant to listen, or anything – and of course, I wouldn’t dream of interfering.’ She flushed a mottled purple, her cheeks, he noted with pity were chapped and weather-beaten. The English Market, despite all its refinements, was stone-cold during the winter. What a change for the poor thing from the library where she, he remembered, had a soft chair and a cosy fire to snuggle up to when there were no eager children looking for advice on a library book.
‘Anything that you can tell me will be of help, Miss Mullane, and, of course, will be treated in strict confidence,’ he said gravely.
‘It’s just that I heard you asking about the man at Michael Skiddy’s stall last Friday and I think that I know who it is.’
‘That would be most useful information.’
She cast a frightened glance around and stopped in the shadow of a doorway to a derelict shop. He paused also, bending down to tie a shoelace and heard her voice in his ear as she leaned towards him. ‘I think that he’s the son of old Mr Hurley who was the caretaker at the library. Do you remember him?’
‘Vaguely,’ said Patrick, searching his memory. He straightened up. There would be more to come, he knew. Patsy was an intelligent woman. She would not have followed him without a good reason. The caretaker. He cast his mind back to his school days and remembered a figure with a broom who appeared to spend most of his time on the steps of the library. A grumpy old man, he recollected.
‘Died six months after the burning down of the library. God rest his soul.’ Patsy said piously and Patrick’s interest sharpened.
‘And the son?’ he queried.
‘That would be Tom. The eldest fellow died of TB. He was a real, nice man. John, his name was. But Tom,’ hissed Patsy in his ear, ‘he was very wild. Fought in the 1916 rising and was a commander in the Troubles. Still is, so they say.’
And with that, Patsy shot hurriedly back down Princes Street and he saw her turn into the market entrance.
So, thought Patrick as he made his way amongst the shoppers, I now have a name for the man in the raincoat, and, as he had surmised, it was perhaps a Republican assassination. But why put the gun down at Sam O’Mahony’s feet? Why didn’t Tom Hurley, if that was who it was, just take the gun with him and only jettison it if there was a pursuit? In the event, there was no pursuit, no one had noticed his disappearance at the time and the entrances had been blocked off too late to detain everyone present when the shot was fired.
In a way, he thought, as he reached the Grand Parade, it almost seemed as though the involvement of Sam O’Mahony could have been deliberate, that someone had wanted the young reporter to be found guilty. He glanced up the roadway at the clock above Woodford & Bourne’s. Ten o’clock. He would, he thought, go past the convent of St Mary’s of the Isle on the way back to the police barracks. The children would be out for their morning break in the yard by the time that he reached there, and the Reverend Mother was often to be seen strolling around, surveying her flock, present to lend an ear to any tale of distress or to rebuke any misbehaviour or fighting. He would have a quick word with her about this development. She might have some suggestion to make.
‘And here comes Inspector Cashman. Let him see how beautifully you make the numbers. Remember that when you make a five, you go straight down, curve around and then put its hat on.’ The Reverend Mother, to his pleasure, was superintending some five-year-olds who were drawing out a hopscotch oblong on the rough concrete of the playground. He took her words for an invitation and opened the cast iron gate, closing it carefully behind him and coming over to stand beside her as a chilly-looking little girl completed the last two numerals and looked up at him for praise.
‘It’s perfect,’ he said. ‘Much better than I could do it. Can I play, too?’
‘You’re too big,’ she said gravely surveying him and he nodded with relief.
‘Let me see you do it,’ he said and then went to stand beside the Reverend Mother as the game began, warming the poorly dressed children, and filling the corner with shouts of triumph and encouragement and rhythmic counting of the numbers.
‘You look troubled,’ she said under the cover of the shrill voices of the hopping children.
‘I was wondering whether we have the wrong man under lock and key,’ he said.
‘By accident or by design?’ she said, as always going straight to the heart of the matter.
‘I’ve begun to think by design, not mine, but the real murderer’s.’
‘Very possible.’ She seemed unmoved, just looked steadily ahead, her eyes on the bouncing figures of the five-year-olds.
‘You see,’ he went on, ‘I’ve always thought that there was a possibility that Sam was innocent and that gun landed on his foot by accident, but now that I have another suspect in mind, I think it might have been a deliberate effort to cast the blame on him. We’ve had information about the man who disappeared after the shot. The man in a raincoat, with his hat pulled down over his face.’
‘Was your suspect standing at a stall on the other side of the market thoroughfare?’
‘I think so,’ he said.
‘By the soap and candle stall.’ The Reverend Mother sent a stern glance over at a small boy who was sticking his leg out to trip up one of the girls and he retreated immediately with a bland expression of innocence on his face.
‘And we have a name for him,’ Patrick said. ‘Tom Hurley. He’s a commander of a Republican section.’
‘A political assassination, then.’
‘Possibly, or possibly a private grudge. Apparently his father was caretaker of the library and he died six months after the burning down of the place. Tom Hurley might have wanted revenge on all those who seemed to have profited from that night. But it’s not terribly helpful. Tom Hurley’s got a crowd of young fellows under his thumb. Much more likely to se
nd one of them to do a public job like that. He would keep himself for the big stuff, the raids on army barracks, the seizure of lorries with ammunition, that sort of thing.’
She looked at him gravely. ‘And your informant is reliable?’ Her voice made a query out of the statement.
He compressed his lips. ‘Oh, I’d say that she told the truth. I’d say that it was Tom Hurley, all right.’
She, thought the Reverend Mother. Probably Patsy Mullane. But why? Most people would be very afraid of naming a Republican activist to the police. She watched Patrick’s puzzled face attentively.
‘It just doesn’t bear the hallmark of a Republican assassination,’ he said after a minute. ‘I’d have expected it all to be much slicker, not a last-minute escape like that. He risked a lot, if it was Tom Hurley. And then the involvement of Sam O’Mahony. What was the point of dropping the gun on the man’s foot? The Republicans need all of the guns that they can get. They’re rumoured to be running out of guns and ammunition and the government is taking huge care, these days, when any troops are moved. They go in convoys, and an advance party of armoured cars clear the road ahead of them.’
‘You’re puzzled because you are beginning to believe that Sam O’Mahony is not guilty but has had suspicion deliberately thrust on him.’
He nodded. ‘But if that’s right, then I don’t think that Tom Hurley is the murderer. I don’t think he’d bother. He’d know that we’d find it virtually impossible to bring him to justice. And if he had something against Sam O’Mahony, well, he’d just meet him in a dark street one night and shoot him, or else have him shot. There would be none of this business …’ He paused and then continued, eyeing her closely, ‘There would be none of this business of casting Sam as the patsy, if you know that American expression, Reverend Mother?’
‘I think that you are probably right, Patrick.’
So it was Patsy Mullane who had informed on Tom Hurley, commander of a section of the Republicans. Very brave of her; or did she have a pressing motive? The Reverend Mother considered the matter thoughtfully, while she intervened in a couple of incipient fights, supplied more chalk for hopscotch players, looked sternly at a man who had paused by the playground railings and then, with relief, rang the bell for the children to return to their classrooms.
A Shocking Assassination Page 13
