A Shocking Assassination

by Cora Harrison

  Not even Sister Bernadette’s fruitcake raised a smile from Dr Scher, though he roused himself to thank her. A difficult occupation for such a soft-hearted man, thought the Reverend Mother as she waited until Sister Bernadette’s slippers ceased to sound from the corridor. Then she looked at him and said, ‘Is Mrs O’Mahony dead?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘May her God have mercy on her soul! I don’t suppose that he will, though, will he? Don’t you holy Catholics believe that someone who commits suicide will go straight to hell? Don’t you decree that a suicide should be denied the right of a proper funeral and burial?’

  The Reverend Mother made no answer. Let him relieve his feelings by the usual rant against organized religion and hypocrisy. She leaned over and poured out a cup of Sister Bernadette’s tea. It was dark orange in colour and the fragrant smell filled the room. She added a couple of spoons of sugar and a small dash of milk. ‘Drink this,’ she commanded.

  He drank thirstily and when he had drained the cup, she refilled it. Halfway through the second cup he seemed to relax, though he did not touch the tempting slice of rich fruitcake.

  ‘I did everything I could do,’ he said, speaking, she thought, as much to himself as to her. ‘There’s no real cure, though, if you can’t get to them immediately.’ He stayed for a long moment staring across the room. She understood his frustration. Time after time again she had found herself thinking: If only; if only I had more money, more knowledge, more patience, more understanding. It was the road to madness, she had decided and tried always to banish such thoughts and to get on with the next pressing task. Her nature, though, she thought, was less mercurial than Dr Scher’s.

  ‘I can’t stay for long,’ he said after a minute. ‘The coroner has ordered an autopsy. There’ll be a proper inquest afterwards, I suppose, though I don’t know why they bother. Doesn’t do the dead person any good. Still, I suppose that it keeps the lawyers rich.’

  ‘I think that it is important for society that death is marked by its rituals,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘After all the family of the deceased person would want to know all of the facts.’ And then with a feeling of dread, she asked tentatively, ‘Does Sam know of the death of his mother?’

  Dr Scher shook his head. ‘No,’ he said briefly. ‘Patrick said that he will go around to the gaol this evening. I offered to do it for him, but he said that it was something that he had to face. He knows that Sam will blame him, but you know Patrick. The very fact that it will be difficult and unpleasant would make him do it. He’s a fine young fellow.’

  ‘He is, indeed,’ agreed the Reverend Mother. And Sam O’Mahony was a fine young fellow, also, her mind told her. She had browsed through some of his articles during her few spare minutes in the morning, and she had been impressed by their vigour and their style, and also, surprisingly, their humanity. A bit opinionated, but an intelligent and a courageous young man. And his mother was a courageous, hard-working, almost undaunted woman. But her Achilles heel was her son.

  ‘Well, I must be going,’ said Dr Scher. He drained his second cup of tea and then rose to his feet. ‘I have to do the autopsy now. I’ll pop in a bit later and let you know the result. Though I could tell you now that she died of a dose of strychnine. Still, the judge and lawyers have to have their day in court and so do I. Only difference is that I don’t get a fee for attending.’

  This grumble appeared to cheer him up. He stuffed some cake into his mouth and she could hear him call out cheerfully to Sister Bernadette as he went down the corridor towards the entrance door.

  The Reverend Mother did not rise, nor did she follow him out of the room. She sat quietly in her chair and stared towards the window. The fog was descending again as the air cooled and she was conscious of a feeling of depression and of a desire to leave this city of almost perpetual greyness. Rome, she thought. A city full of warmth and sunshine. The bishop had wanted her to go there. Had she been stupid to refuse? She thought about it for a moment, thought about Rome and then she shook her head vigorously. Never look back, never repine, she told herself firmly.

  Her mind slid back to the idea of a Victrola phonograph. She had seen one of them in Lucy’s house. It looked almost like a small cupboard with a flap that came out and there was a turntable inside where the record, like a large, black dinner plate, made, she understood, from shellac and ground slate, was inserted. The phonograph could easily be placed in the senior classroom and there could, perhaps, be an afterschool club for the older girls where they could listen to records, and perhaps dance to the music. She would buy a few recordings of sacred hymns and music to keep people like Sister Mary Immaculate happy and the jazz records could be slipped into the cupboard beneath.

  Energised by the thought, she rose to her feet and crossed over to the window, closing the curtains decisively to shut out the vision of fog and smoke.

  ‘I can’t go on wasting my energies in futile regrets,’ she muttered as she took from the drawer of her desk a list of the merchants in Cork. Beside each company name, in her fine italic handwriting, she had written the dates when each was approached and the amount they had donated to her various charitable enterprises. At the bottom of the list she wrote the name Robert Newenham. She paused for a moment and then resolutely turned her mind back to the matter in hand. The money raised could be used for the religious and musical education of the girls at her school. Lucy could organize the catering, the lighting. Her cousin Lucy could grandmaster the event and she would provide the focus for the evening’s fundraising. Then she pulled a fresh piece of paper to her and began to write down a list of benefits which would accrue to the school by the possession of such a machine and then began to add as many names of pieces of sacred music that she could think of. Panis Angelicus she wrote and then a few more titles.

  There was, she thought, as her fluent pen began to move down the page, nothing that she could do about Mrs O’Mahony, but perhaps she could do something for the son whom she had loved so intensely. She would do her best to clear him of the charge which, instinctively, she felt was a false one.

  The first thing was to have a penetrating look at the men who had stood around James Doyle when he fell to the ground on that fatal Friday – men who would have something to gain by his death, unlike Sam O’Mahony who had nothing other than a futile revenge. She pulled out her watch from its pocket, pressed the button to open its lid and checked the time. Yes, this would be a good time to ring Lucy to discuss their plans. A music room would be a good focus for the fundraising and would undoubtedly gain the support of the bishop. The bishop’s secretary, Father de Courcy, was, she had heard, a keen violinist. He would be a useful man to have on her side.

  And, of course, she thought, as she moved at a stately pace down the corridor towards the telephone, Father de Courcy was standing just behind James Doyle, in the dim murky interior of the English Market, just two minutes before the city engineer was shot in the back. She herself had seen him there and had noticed how his eyes had wandered away from the speaker and were roving over the market itself.

  ‘I had such a good idea last night,’ said Lucy. ‘I was just about to telephone you, so I’m glad that you rang. I heard that there is to be a town planning meeting this afternoon. It’s to discuss the plans for the new city hall. Everyone will be there.’

  Everyone who was at the English Market with James Doyle on last Friday morning, interpreted the Reverend Mother. Lucy, like she, was always aware of the possibility of listening ears – either in the house or at the telephone exchange.

  ‘That sounds an excellent idea. And Mr Newenham?’

  ‘He’s delighted to be of help.’ Lucy’s voice bore the undercurrent of a laugh.

  ‘And the time?’

  ‘Half-past four of the afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said the Reverend Mother crisply and then she disconnected.

  Once back in her own room, she began to make another list, a list which she knew she would shred and then burn b
efore she left the room. Her mind was one that did its best work with a pen in her hand. She wrote the names of all those officials who had clustered around the city engineer as he expounded his philosophy for the rebuilding of Cork so that the city would appear in the forefront of western Europe. And then opposite to each name she wrote her thoughts. When she finished, she sat back and studied her list for a moment. There were, she thought, more question marks than solid facts. Nevertheless, she had made a start and she hoped that tomorrow would fill in the gaps. She added a few lines and then laid it down. A new thought had suddenly come to her.

  Her own words of earlier on had sounded in her mind, like those from a far-off echo from across a valley.

  I can’t go on

  She had finished her sentence with the words: ‘wasting my energies in futile regrets’, but others may have made a different sentence with the same beginning. Many thoughts, many sentiments could have started with those four words. Mrs O’Mahony had the vigorous practised hand of someone used to writing – she had been a sharp, intelligent woman, had built up a highly successful business against strong competition. She had wanted a good education for her son and the chances were that she had received a good education herself, thought the Reverend Mother. Not, she thought, a woman to give up and to despair before all avenues were explored. And even then, she thought, Mrs O’Mahony would have stayed beside her son to the very last moment, not abandoned him at the moment of his greatest need.

  She would have to see Patrick as soon as possible, she thought. She wanted to look at that note left by the dead woman, probably addressed to herself.

  Or she could just ask him a simple question, if that was not possible.

  Had there been a full stop after the word ‘on’?

  FOURTEEN

  W.B. Yeats

  The Political Prisoner:

  She that but little patience knew,

  From childhood on, had now so much

  A grey gull lost its fear and flew

  Down to her cell and there alit,

  And there endured her fingers’ touch

  And from her fingers ate its bit.

  Eileen found herself trembling with excitement. Yesterday had been the dress rehearsal but today was the real performance. If it came off, then Sam would be free by the evening. She found herself looking around at the house and the farmyard at Ballinhassig, trying to see it with his eyes. She had picked out her companions for this adventure and all, she thought with a moment’s compunction, were doing it for her sake, for the sake of the deep friendship which had grown up between them, holed up together and continuously in fear of arrest and even execution. They were a good crowd, she thought affectionately. There would be Eamonn, clear-minded and quick to react, Danny who had the best motorbike and was the cleverest rider, Fred, though a bit of a show-off, immensely strong and muscular, a man who always got the better of his opponent in any fight. And then there was Liam who was a meticulous planner and timekeeper, and who could be relied upon to keep calm. She arranged that he would be the one to be her companion on the visit to Sam. Everyone was ready now except for Liam who was making a big fuss about dressing up as Eileen’s mother. The seam of the old dress split as he dragged it on reluctantly. He had insisted on retaining his own trousers and as Aoife pulled it down the old material gave way.

  ‘Oh, put a stitch in it,’ he said impatiently. ‘God, it stinks of mothballs.’ He had already sworn that the old plaid shawl had to be hung out in the wind for a few hours before he would be able to wear it and at the moment it flapped from the branch of an ash tree near to the gate. Eamonn was on watch further down the lane, keeping a close eye out to make sure that Tom Hurley would not pay a surprise visit and interrupt their plans.

  ‘You can’t wear your trousers. They show,’ said Eileen firmly. She was not going to allow any silly scruples to spoil her plan at this stage.

  ‘I have to; where can I keep my pistol, if I don’t have a proper pocket. That pocket in the dress is too small. The gun will show up if anyone looks at me carefully. And it could fall out.’

  ‘You can do what I’m doing. You can wear one of the pairs of bloomers that I made when I was in school,’ said Eileen. ‘Sister Mary Immaculate made us all make them to the same pattern – the same size as her own – so they are huge. My mother kept them in the space under the settle bed. Wait, I’ll get you my second pair.’ Before he could object she ran back into the house, giggling to herself at what Sister Mary Immaculate would say if she knew that a pair of bloomers, stitched under her eagle eye, would be worn by a young man. And that both he, and Eileen herself, would be using them to conceal firearms.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said when she returned. Each girl had been forced to make two. Eileen had managed to secure one piece of navy-blue flannel before having to fall back on the nauseating shade of pink which Sister Mary Immaculate had favoured. She handed the navy blue pair to Liam and shook it insistently in front of him before he reluctantly accepted it. ‘Go on, put them on,’ she said impatiently. ‘They’ve got really strong elastic in the waist and on the ends of the legs. They’ll come down to your knees. You can stick the pistol in there and then you’ll just need to hitch up the skirt a little to grab the pistol. Make him put them on, Fred. Go on, Liam, stop making such a fuss. Go behind the bale of straw if you’re all that modest. Aoife, go out and see if Eamonn has any news. Just whistle loudly if there’s any sign of Tom Hurley. Liam and I’ll hide behind the bales of straw in the barn until he goes away; he never stays for long.’ Eileen went over the arrangements in her mind. Eamonn had borrowed a clerical collar from a sympathetic priest and Eamonn, Danny and Fred were going in their normal clothes.

  Almost everything, however, depended on herself and Liam. She had chosen him because he was the nearest in height and build to her mother, as well as being someone who appeared to be without nerves. Together they would, hopefully, look just like the same pair who had come into the prison on Monday afternoon. She smiled to herself to think of her mother’s fluent evocation of distant relatives and had prepared her own words for today’s visit. ‘Make it boring,’ her mother had advised. ‘If it’s long-winded enough, your man will get lost in his Cork Examiner.’ The thought of her mother reminded her of something.

  ‘My mother went into the English Market to see Mrs O’Mahony,’ she told them. ‘It seems that Mrs O’Mahony planned on going into see Sam first thing each afternoon. She had an agreement with the woman in the stall next to her that she would look after the drisheen and tripe for an hour. Mam had quite a chat with her. She said that everyone was being so nice to the poor woman, bringing her little presents for herself and to bring to Sam in the gaol.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter anyway, even if we do meet her,’ said Liam, eyeing himself with a grimace in the little hand mirror that Aoife held up in front of him. ‘I don’t suppose that she knows every one of Sam’s friends. She certainly doesn’t know any of us. And not even my own mother would know me in this rig-out, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘No sign of Tom Hurley,’ said Eamonn returning from his vigil. ‘Let’s go. It doesn’t matter if we’re early. We need to leave the two ladies off at a bit of a distance, anyway. Got your pistol, Lily darling,’ he said to Liam as he walked up and down the yard, moving in an awkward, stiff-legged fashion. ‘Just hope that the prison warder doesn’t take a fancy to you and give you a squeeze.’

  ‘Or take a notion to get inside his bloomers,’ said Fred.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Liam bitterly.

  No one, thought Eileen, as she climbed up behind Eamonn, would ever imagine that they were going on an expedition where they could all end up shot, or else imprisoned. She found herself giggling as Eamonn in his clerical collar began to intone ‘Miserere mei, Deus’ at the top of his voice. Liam joined in the psalm in a high falsetto voice, singing counterpoint to Eamonn’s baritone and Danny performed his party piece which was an imitation of an organ, done through his nose.

  They went at a
leisurely pace, but even so it was well before three o’clock by the university clock when Eileen and Liam were dropped off on College Road. The plan was for them to go through along a back pathway and to hide in the lower grounds of the university until quarter past three and then they would turn up at the gaol gate. The others would park the motorbikes in the space beside the engineering buildings and then walk along the Western Road and into the gaol at twenty-five minutes past three. They would give the names of the other two prisoners whose relatives Eileen had met in the visiting room the previous day: Colm O’Sullivan and Tom O’Brien. Danny and Fred would make a big affair of giving way to Eamonn, as would be expected by any decent men when faced with a priest’s collar. With some luck, the waiting room might be empty, but it didn’t really matter. No one was likely to get in their way once the stunning of the prison warders had begun. It would be instantly recognized as a Republican raid and Cork people knew that it was wiser not to get involved in these matters.

  ‘You again,’ said the warder on the gate when Eileen and Liam presented themselves. ‘You’re falling in love with me, darling, aren’t you?’ he addressed himself to Eileen and then looked slightly taken aback as she fumbled in her pocket and took out her mother’s rosary beads, looking shyly down at them and passing the worn string between her fingers. Once the other four arrived in the waiting room, Liam produced a similar set and they prayed soundlessly and just nodded a greeting when the others came in. Eamonn immediately clasped his hands in prayer and the other three followed suit. Eileen was only sorry that she had not been able to round up some more sets of rosary beads but they were not a religious crowd. Very few Republicans now even went to mass. The bishop of Cork had excommunicated all who had taken part in raids.