For a moment, the Reverend Mother thought that it was a picture of Venice. The sky was a shade of sapphire blue, seldom seen in Cork. The river sparkled in the background and in front of it was a wonderfully baroque building, just as she had often admired in paintings of that city. Then she looked a little more closely at the background where the spire of St Fin Barre’s Cathedral rose against that eastern sky and where the cabins of Barrack Street, artistically depicted as picturesque rather than sordid, trailed uphill, muted and slightly smudged, as insubstantial as clouds in the sky.
‘Why, it must be drawn from the Grand Parade,’ she exclaimed.
‘That’s right.’ Lucy was beside her. ‘You see, Mr Browne thought that the Grand Parade would be an ideal approach to the city hall, instead of having it stuck on Albert Quay, out of the town like the old place.’
‘What I propose, Reverend Mother, is that a portion of the Lee would be arched over.’ Thomas Browne was brimming over with excitement and confidence. ‘And then,’ he continued, ‘there could be a fine square built in front of the building, and the Grand Parade itself could be planted with trees on either side. It would be truly a parade then, and the fountain would form a wonderful centrepiece.’
On the window seat beside the easel, half rolled up, was another drawing. The Reverend Mother could see that it, also, was a proposal for the rebuilding of the city hall. The name JAMES DOYLE was printed on the back of the sheet. It was slightly squashed in the middle as though carelessly thrown aside. It would, she thought, looking sideways at it, have made use of the original site at Albert Quay and would doubtless have been far cheaper than this grandiose plan for the new city hall.
‘It seems a wonderfully ambitious scheme,’ she said turning her eyes back to the glittering prospect on the easel. If money was found to do this, then Thomas Browne’s name would become famous throughout Ireland and Britain, and even throughout Europe, perhaps. It would, of course, mean that the scheme to rehouse the people living in houses on the marsh would have to be abandoned. And, doubtless, the rebuilding of the library would have to be postponed till some later date. But it was, she had to admit, a stroke of genius to envisage turning the present ramshackle aspect of the Grand Parade, which was, as Mr Browne rightly remarked, presently used as a parking and dumping place, into something to rival the Champs-Élysées in Paris.
‘Marvellous,’ she said again. Had he, she thought as he politely pulled out a chair for her, ever mentioned this plan to the now dead city engineer? No doubt he had. A drawing like that could not have been executed in a few short days without months of previous planning. And if he had proposed that idea, had he been rejected?
Or had he, she suddenly thought as she turned an attentive face towards Lucy who had taken it upon herself to chair this meeting, had he decided that the plan was too good, too original, to be handed over to his superior? Perhaps, during the dark winter evenings he had brooded on this sunlit image and had thought, If only I were city engineer …
‘So when the Reverend Mother talked to me about extending the education of those poor girls, I wondered if there was any way that I could help her, and I had a chat with Captain Newenham.’ She flashed a smile at her distant cousin and he looked immensely flattered. ‘We put our heads together and thought the forthcoming reopening of Roches Stores could be a venue to raise funds, and, now,’ said Lucy with the air of someone who has just had a brainwave, ‘I have suddenly thought of a most brilliant idea. Why don’t we display that wonderful, inspirational picture to the people of Cork and get their opinions on the future of the city?’ She beamed all around and there was a murmur of excitement. Everyone, including Robert Newenham, of course, wanted to be closely associated with this exciting project. Her own little project would provide a cover for these gentlemen to aggrandize their own ambitions. Thomas Browne gazed ahead, with a certain detachment, but there was a curve to his well-cut mouth and a sparkle in those dark eyes. He had the look of a man for whom a dream was about to come true.
‘I’ll just ask the Reverend Mother to explain her ideas to us; I know she will do it so much better than I,’ said Lucy modestly and then listened enraptured, occasionally sighing in ecstasy when names like Caruso and the Irish tenor John McCormack were mentioned.
‘And this will all be for the sake of extending the education of these girls, is that right, Reverend Mother?’ The overweight committee member who asked the question was deferential, but others around the table looked at him in shocked surprise.
‘I’m sure that the Reverend Mother will make very good use of the money,’ said Lucy gently but reproachfully.
‘Yes, yes, I know that. It was just that I didn’t … we don’t want … want to encourage …’ Conscious of the eyes of all those around the table fixed on him, he ground to a halt. ‘Yes, I’m sure that the Reverend Mother will make very good use of the money,’ he agreed deferentially.
‘Thank you,’ said the Reverend Mother gravely. And never, she thought, would she divulge that her main aim with this project was to provide evenings of fun in order to keep young girls off the streets and the quays of night-time Cork; a city, she had heard once, which had more prostitution than most others in Europe.
Her eyes ranged over the prosperous, well-fed faces around the committee table. Thomas Browne’s still glowed. The praise of his plans for the new city hall had gone to his head like a flask of good wine. Robert Newenham, the town planner, Captain Robert Newenham, the former distinguished member of the Dorsetshire Regiment, friend, perhaps of the notorious Captain Schulze, author of Cork city’s destruction. And then there were the Barrys, Crawfords, Murphys, Clancys, Maguires, Lanes; they were all there, all eager to show themselves ready to be philanthropic towards the poor of the city. She would, she thought cynically, be happy to exploit them all with the aim of achieving her dreams. She sat there, trying to look humble, tucking her arms inside her sleeves, and allowing her cousin Lucy, wife of the foremost solicitor in Cork city and an accomplished do-gooder, to conduct the meeting along well-ordered lines.
Lucy really was handling matters well. Father de Courcy had constituted himself to be her secretary and was already furnished with a blotter, pen, ink pot and a sheaf of paper. He sat beside her left hand and from time to time turned to her respectfully. The Reverend Mother considered his flushed eager face thoughtfully from under the shadow of her wimple. A lady’s man, she reckoned, and wondered what he would be like with other women, young women, women who were fifty years younger than Lucy. There had been an air of easy assurance in the way in which he had pulled out Lucy’s chair, in the way that he bent over her, smiled at her. Some of those young priests were not suited for the life of celibacy. Looking at his high colour, his well-styled hair and his carefully brushed clothes, she wondered if he had slipped. Had been seen with a girl from the quays? Did he have a so-called housekeeper who was a wife in all but name to him? Did he have a little girl secreted in a country cottage whom he visited a couple of times a week? Was he that kind of man? Considering his fleshy under lip and the high complexion and the ardent light in his blue eyes, yes, she thought, yes, I do think that he is the sort of man who is very fond of women. And that would have been a very dangerous weakness in the bishop’s secretary.
And, of course, James Doyle, the deceased city engineer, may have been a man who knew about things like that, a man who made it his business to find out something discreditable about people who had power to influence decisions about the city. There was no doubt that young Father de Courcy was quite a power behind the bishop’s throne.
‘The bishop,’ he was saying now with great confidence, ‘will be absolutely delighted to support a scheme like this. In fact, I can go so far, I believe, as to promise that his Lordship will be pleased to be present on the evening of the grand reopening of Roches Stores.’
There was a little buzz of interest at this. It would be a vitally important point to be able to put, on the invitations, that all would take place by the kind patronag
e of the Bishop of Cork, Dr Daniel Cohalan.
‘This will ensure the success of the evening,’ said Captain Newenham, and Thomas Browne’s eyes wandered back once again to the splendid picture of the new city hall, which like a phoenix would arise from the ashes of the burning of Cork.
‘If only Captain Schulze could see how such good is about to arise from such evil,’ said the Reverend Mother aloud, and then looked around at the surprised faces. ‘Have I got the name wrong?’ she enquired. ‘I thought it was a Captain Schulze who was in command when those Auxiliary troops behaved so disgracefully and set our city on fire?’ She could, she thought, go as far as that. The bishop mightn’t like it much but after all the British government had reluctantly accepted responsibility and had paid compensation.
She did not bother to even look towards the bishop’s secretary. Her eyes, under their hooded lids were fixed on Robert Newenham. There was no doubt, she noted, that he was aware of her gaze and that he was uncomfortable at her sudden mention of the man.
‘What about a small concert?’ said Lucy, cleverly changing the subject. ‘Nothing too long, just a short affair. Now, who could we persuade to lend their talent?’
Suggestions poured in and Father de Courcy scribbled enthusiastically. The Reverend Mother modestly contributed her suggestion about naming the event ‘The Phoenix Evening’, a suggestion which Lucy considered to be brilliant and which everyone else agreed to be a good idea. A businessman with his own printing works offered to print out cards of invitation and then Lucy summed up efficiently and the committee began to disperse.
‘Want a lift home or have you other fish to fry?’ said Lucy quietly in her ear as the Reverend Mother took another long look at the sketch of the splendid new building set against an azure sky, with the river and the hillside as a background and a magnificent square in front of it. One man’s dream, she thought. Her thoughts strayed to Walter Raleigh, a man whose lifetime was spent in a dream of finding gold. He had set out from Cork on his last voyage to the West Indies, had been the cause of hundreds of deaths and had then died on the scaffold on his return to London. Such men are dangerous, quoted the Reverend Mother to herself. Would Thomas Browne have considered that the death of one rather unpleasant and venal man was a small price to pay for the fulfilment of his dream? With a slight sigh she turned back to her cousin.
‘Oh, it’s no problem, Mrs Murphy,’ she said aloud. ‘Please do not worry about me. I can easily get a taxi, or perhaps …?’ Her eyes went to the tall figure standing rather awkwardly to one side of the genial crowd. His forehead was slightly knit, and his eyes were fixed on her as if puzzling over something. He was wondering, she thought, whether the mention of Captain Schulze was accidental, or whether the Reverend Mother, reputed to be the repository of many secrets, had heard some rumour about a connection between the two men. He came forward very willingly, though, almost too willingly.
‘Certainly, I shall be delighted to take the Reverend Mother home,’ he said.
‘I just must call in at my dressmaker,’ said Lucy, improvising rapidly. ‘And the shop will be closed unless I hurry, so if you’re sure that it will be no trouble, Captain Newenham …’
‘There is no problem,’ he said politely. ‘I shall be only too pleased. Perhaps you would care to take a look around the building before you go, Reverend Mother. It’s a splendid place. I was so lucky to get an office here after the city hall burned down.’
It was, she thought, possibly an invitation to divulge any information that she might possess about the events on that night of December 11th three years ago. If it were, the Reverend Mother did not take it up. Let him wonder, she thought as she exclaimed with pleasure at the prospect of seeing the rest of Custom House.
The boardroom was even more magnificent than the committee room, with pale cream and gold walls and a ceiling of the palest blue, beautifully patterned with ornamental stucco. The Reverend Mother admired it, but allowed herself to be led to the river side of the Custom House, passing through rows of clerks checking bills and glimpsing outside one window the long line of dock workers waiting patiently for the next ship to arrive in the hope of getting an unloading job.
‘Fine-looking fellows, aren’t they? You’d think that they would find something better to do with their time rather than lounge around here all day long,’ he said as they passed on up the stairs.
‘Yes, they are big strong men,’ she said mildly. It was no part of her plan to argue with him. She wanted to lull him into a sense of false security, convince him that her remark at the meeting had been purely that of an old lady sighing over the past.
‘They have to pass a test before they are allowed to join the queue. They have to lift a heavy weight of about sixty stone before they are taken on.’
‘I suppose that the burning down of the city caused a great drop in trade,’ she remarked, noting that there were many empty desks among the clerks’ positions in this room. ‘What’s above this room?’ she asked, not waiting for a reply to her previous comment.
‘That’s some more storage space for when the vaults are full. They don’t use it much these days.’ His tone was absent-minded. She looked sideways at him through the transparent weave of her veil. It appeared to her that he was looking very intently at her. She sensed that he was trying to make up his mind about her. Did she know anything? Her reputation in the city was of one who knew many secrets. She looked him full in the face, knowing that her own expression would be enigmatic as always.
‘That burning down of Cork was such a terrible thing,’ she sighed. ‘And of course what makes it even worse was that apparently, it was not just a matter of some drunken soldiers getting out of control. No, I understand it was not that at all,’ she went on, though he had said nothing to contradict her. ‘Had you heard anything about that, Captain Newenham?’
‘No,’ he said abruptly. She saw his eyes go to the clerks. One man had just dipped a pen into the inkwell in front of him. The pen remained in the ink for a long moment while its owner turned around to look at another worker, standing at a desk behind him.
‘The late city engineer, Mr Doyle, was most worried about that report of planned arson, for some reason,’ she added, looking at him intently. ‘I understand that he had some information about some list or other. Someone was telling me that there was a rumour that Captain Schulze referred to a list when there was an appeal to spare one shop.’
And now her bolt was shot. She was conscious of a slight tingling of apprehension, but then she remembered Mrs O’Mahony and forced herself to look casually out of one of the windows and then back again at him. His high-coloured face was a shade redder, she fancied, and the eyes were fixed intently upon her.
‘Almost as though he had inside knowledge – so the rumour went, according to Dr Scher.’ And now, surely he must react, she thought and braced herself, glad of the presence of the clerks. She would not, she thought prudently, accept his offer of a lift home in his Rolls Royce car. When they went downstairs again, she would insist on calling a taxi. It would be easy enough to pretend that she had said that in order to put her cousin’s mind at rest. He was unlikely to argue too much. She watched him with interest and waited to see what he would say next.
Captain Newenham opened his mouth and then shut it again. He stood very still for a moment. The scratching of pens from behind them ceased. He cast a look around at the clerks and instantly pens began to move again.
‘I wonder would you like to see upstairs. There is a magnificent view up the river towards Blackrock.’ His tone was polite, but he did not look at her and averted his gaze when she turned her head.
Without waiting for an answer he ushered her towards a flight of steps, leading the way and switching on some lights as he went up the stairs.
Not much of a day for admiring the view, thought the Reverend Mother, as she followed him. There was a chime from the clock on the outside of the building and she reckoned that it must be about half-past five. The fog was thick
ening fast as the evening drew near and the smoke from the various buildings around the quays had condensed it to an almost impenetrable consistency. Nevertheless she followed him. She could not draw back now. She had to try to establish as much of the truth as she could.
There was no one in the top storey of the building, just a scurry of rats as they came up. And then something seemed to swing down in front of the Reverend Mother’s eyes, still not used to the murky light. For a moment her heart stopped as what looked like a rope moved almost in front of her face, but a plaintive meow sounded in her ears and a large and very furry black cat, with enormous and luminous green eyes, dropped down at her feet.
‘The men feed it,’ said Captain Newenham, turning back. ‘It’s getting fat and lazy. Easier to eat crusts than to do its job and catch the rats.’ He aimed the toe of his boot at the cat and instantly it hissed vehemently.
Didn’t like him, thought the Reverend Mother. She remembered Lucy’s words about Robert’s father and his liking to kill things. She made no remark, though. The cat was a match for the town planner and with a contemptuous flick of its tail, bounded up onto a high shelf and strolled along slightly above their heads. The man took no notice. He seemed to be concentrating on keeping so closely ahead of her that she could not see where she was going.
‘There you are,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Look at that for a view.’
And then everything seemed to happen all at once. Robert Newenham stepped back, almost brushing her cloak as he did so. She had a confused impression of an open archway ahead and then he shouted, ‘Take care, Reverend Mother!’ at the top of his voice. The cat yowled and then jumped. The Reverend Mother pulled back instinctively, realising that a large black rat had run from beneath the floorboards. In an instant, the cat had leaped upon it, catching the neck in its jaws.
And it was only then that the Reverend Mother realized that between her and the open archway was a gaping hatch with a winch for pulling up goods from ships below. She stepped back further and without a word made her way to the top of the steps. There were a couple of alarmed clerks at the foot of the stairs, staring upwards.
A Shocking Assassination Page 18
