Patsy gave her an incredulous glance and twisted her hands together again. The fingers were badly swollen with chilblains and one began to bleed.
‘Don’t!’ said the Reverend Mother sternly. She fetched a large cotton handkerchief from the top drawer of her bureau and handed it to Patsy, who wrapped it around her hand and then stared at the blood oozing through it.
‘Tell me the lie you told,’ ordered the Reverend Mother. ‘If it’s anything to do with the events last Friday, then we must think hard, both of us.’
Patsy lifted her eyes, wide and frightened. ‘I told the guards that the door to the gallery was locked,’ she said.
‘And it wasn’t, is that it?’
Patsy shook her head.
‘Well, it might be best to tell Inspector Cashman about that. He’ll understand that you didn’t want to show up the superintendent – I suppose he had forgotten to lock it, was that it?’
Patsy shook her head. ‘No, it was me.’ And then when the Reverend Mother just waited for more, she blurted out, ‘I do it every day. I just open it every morning when Mr O’Donnell is seeing to the delivery carts. I …’ And then she stopped.
‘Yes, go on,’ said the Reverend Mother. This, she thought, might be more serious than she had first imagined.
‘You see, Mr O’Donnell has a meal up there every evening. He’d have some roast chicken and some beer or else some sausage or something like that. He buys things from the stalls, and he usually has a pint or two of beer, too. He doesn’t always finish everything. He’s one to light a cigarette in the middle of his meal. And then when he finishes, he just walks off, puts the keys on a hook in the weighing office, locks up the place with his own key, and there’s a woman who comes in to clean his office in the morning …’ Patsy was becoming more fluent now and the Reverend Mother nodded in an encouraging fashion. Her mind was working hard behind the bland expression.
‘So I slip the keys off the hook – they stay there in the weighing office all night because of fire regulations; the superintendent has one key to the Patrick Street side and the two beadles have the keys to the Princes Street and the Grand Parade entrance, but the gallery stays locked until later in the morning when the superintendent goes up there to count the rents and things like that.’ Patsy looked anxiously across and the Reverend Mother nodded her comprehension. The quicker she could get Patsy to tell her story and encourage her to repeat it to Patrick, the better.
‘And I just quickly undo the lock while he’s busy with the carts and then some time later in the morning, when he’s somewhere in the Grand Parade, or the St Patrick Street side of the market, I slip upstairs and, and … well, I … I eat it up,’ said Patsy in a shame-faced fashion.
‘And then lock the door after you,’ suggested the Reverend Mother, but Patsy shook her head.
‘No, the superintendent always has them in his pocket. Just as soon as he comes in from the lane, from seeing to the carters, he goes and puts them in his pocket. But there’s always something he needs from upstairs during the morning and usually he sends me to get it and then I pretend to unlock the door and then lock it when I come back down.’
‘But on Friday …’
‘On Friday he was too busy with all that crowd, all the fuss.’
‘So the door to the gallery stairs was unlocked at the time that the shot was fired, is that right, Patsy?’
The Reverend Mother hardly waited for the nod of confirmation before she leaned back in her chair and drew in a deep breath. In her mind, she apologised to Dr Scher. She had not taken too much notice of his talk about angles and now it had transpired that the gallery had been open after all and the shot could have been fired from there. Yes, the angle of the path of the bullet had probably told a true story.
‘And the lights going out, Patsy, had that happened on other occasions …?’
‘Sometimes,’ confessed Patsy, ‘they were funny, those lights, always ready to go out. The lead piping needed looking at, so Mr O’Donnell used to say. So they used to go out from time to time, and then, again, I might nip up there sometimes and turn them off myself so that Mr O’Donnell would give me his keys and tell me to see to them. He’d never be bothered going up there himself. Or if there’s too many people around, I just switch off the gas before I come down the stairs. I can feel my way; I know the place so well so I can be back with my broom before anyone has a chance to light a candle.’
‘But on Friday, on Friday when they went off just before the shot …?’
‘I had nothing to do with that, Reverend Mother,’ said Patsy in an alarmed fashion. ‘They just went off of themselves. The pipes are very old.’
Or else the killer turned them off, thought the Reverend Mother. She gave Patsy a minute or two to relax, to enjoy the benefit of confession, of unloading her soul of its guilt and then she said as gently as she could, ‘I think it’s important that you tell Inspector Cashman what you have just told me, Patsy. An innocent man might well be hanged for this murder if you do not. There is no possibility that Sam O’Mahony could have gone up to the gallery. I saw him myself the minute that the lights went out and he was standing beside his mother’s stall. He wasn’t the one that switched them off and as far as I can remember, the shot went off a second or so after we were plunged into darkness.’
‘Could I enter before I tell the inspector? Please, Reverend Mother, please. I’d love to be one of the sisters. And I know that you will keep me safe and you won’t allow them to take me off to prison, will you?’ She was gazing up imploringly and the Reverend Mother knew that she had to make some response to that appeal.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Patsy, we’ll keep you here for a few days. Those chilblains of yours are very bad. I’ll ask Dr Scher to come and look at them. I’ll get Sister Bernadette to phone the superintendent and tell him that you’re ill. But you must promise me to tell everything to Inspector Cashman, if I do that. I’ll stay with you, if you wish.’ She looked doubtfully at Patsy; the woman had nodded reluctantly, but there was still a panic-stricken look in her eyes. Did Patsy know more than she had said, wondered the Reverend Mother? She rang the bell for Sister Bernadette and then went out of the door to meet her in the corridor, lowering her voice so that her words would not travel through the door to Patsy’s ears.
‘Sister, I want to keep Patsy Mullane for a few days here at the convent. She can have the St Christopher room, can’t she? Get one of the young sisters to light a fire and to make up the bed there. Oh, and bring some tea and cake, and then I want you to sit with Patsy for five minutes while I make a few phone calls.’
One of the things about being Mother Superior of the convent, she thought with a certain twinge of guilt, is that one need not embark on explanations. The St Christopher room was kept to offer overnight accommodation to the parents of the lay sisters who came from the country, and who could not afford the prices of a night’s lodging in the city. Named after the patron saint of travellers, it was a small, almost cupboard-size space – in fact, it had once been a cupboard and still was used to store spare blankets whenever the weather was warm enough to do without them. It housed the hot water tank and was quite cosy. A few days in bed there would improve those septic-looking chilblains and Patsy could do with a rest, lying in a warm room and eating regular meals.
She would also be safe there, thought the Reverend Mother gravely, as she went back into her room.
Once Sister Bernadette arrived with the tea tray, she went down the corridor and lifting the phone gave the number of the police barracks. Patrick was there and promised to come as soon as he could, his earnest voice said, and she thanked him before putting down the receiver. She looked through the window on her way back up the corridor and saw Dr Scher coming out of the gardener’s shed. Mr Cotter, she thought, distracted from her reflections about the murder. He still resolutely refused to go into hospital and Dr Scher was of the opinion that he was just as well off where he was and was no danger to others. He, Dr Scher, would v
isit him often and give medicine to ensure he was as comfortable as possible. ‘I’ll get him into hospital when the end is near,’ he had said, and she had confidence in his judgement. She went to the back door now and waited for him.
‘You’re very good,’ she said warmly. ‘I’m sure it’s a great consolation to Mr Cotter to have you visit. I was going to ask you whether I should hire a boy to help him – the boy could have meals in the kitchen, but perhaps that would not be enough to keep him safe. I wouldn’t like to expose anyone to the infection.’
‘I’d leave him alone,’ said Dr Scher. ‘He has only a few weeks to go. We’ll get him into hospital soon. He’s getting weaker by the day. He says he enjoys doing the spring pruning of the shrubs and the potatoes are already planted and that, with the soil so cold, there won’t be anything else much to be done before the summer.’
‘And, by the summer …?’
‘He’ll be in the ground himself, by then, I’d say,’ said Dr Scher.
‘I see.’ The Reverend Mother tried to tell herself that it would be a happy release, that there was nothing more that she could do or could have done. Nevertheless, she felt guilty. With difficulty, she shifted her mind back to her other problem.
‘I’d like you to have a look at Patsy Mullane,’ she said. ‘She has very infected-looking chilblains and I’m going to keep her here for a few days. Sister Bernadette is with her at the moment and Patrick is on his way over as she wants to talk to him.’
There was a gleam of interest in his eye, but he didn’t question her.
‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll just pop up and see Sister Mary Assumpta and then I need to go into the kitchen and make sure that Sister Imelda’s cut has healed and perhaps by then you’ll have Patsy in bed and I can have a look at her. If she has bad chilblains on her hands, then she probably has worse on her feet. I’ll give her a good check-up, don’t you worry.’
And then he was mounting the stairs without waiting for a reply and the Reverend Mother went back into her room. Patsy, she noticed, had not touched the cake, but she had swallowed a cup of tea. No sooner had she taken her customary seat at her desk than the doorbell rang and she despatched Sister Bernadette. A minute later Patrick was in the room.
‘I came straight away,’ he said as she thanked him and then he looked across at her visitor.
‘Would you like me to stay, or to go away, Patsy?’ She guessed what the answer would be.
‘No, no, please stay, please, you tell him all about it, Reverend Mother. You know what I want to say.’
‘I don’t think that is a good idea, Patsy. You are an intelligent woman. Just be sensible now and talk to the inspector. You need to tell him the story of that Friday morning, starting from the time when the market opened to the carters and the stallholders at eight o’clock. Would you like a piece of paper and a pen and ink, inspector? Please do sit at my desk and I will sit over here beside you, Patsy.’
Duly prompted, Patrick sat down and began to write, probably filling in the date, the time, and the full name and occupation of the former librarian. Patsy stopped twisting her hands and wrapped them again in the large, bloodstained handkerchief. She seemed calmed by Patrick’s detachment.
‘You arrived at the English Market just before eight on Friday morning,’ prompted the Reverend Mother and Patsy obediently began her story, hesitating a little when she came to her reason for leaving the door to the gallery open, and substituting the words ‘tidying up’ for her more frank avowal earlier on. She insisted she had nothing to do with the lights going out.
Patrick wrote busily, read it over to himself in silence and then looked up. ‘You have been most helpful, Miss Mullane,’ he said and Patsy blushed slightly at his respectful tone. ‘I must just ask you one question, just for form’s sake – if I don’t, I’ll get into terrible trouble,’ he added with a smile. Patsy gave a nervous giggle.
‘I just must ask you whether anyone asked you to leave the gallery door open last Friday morning.’
Patsy shook her head. ‘No, no one.’
Patrick wrote for a moment and then lifted his head. ‘And another question, if you don’t mind. Did you ever do this before?’
This was a more difficult question, but after a few moments’ delay, it was answered. ‘A few times.’ Patsy’s voice was hesitant and Patrick glanced at the Reverend Mother and then back at his sheet.
‘Shall I put “most days”?’ he suggested and she nodded.
‘And did you see anyone go up there, at any stage of the morning?’
‘No … no one.’ There had been, thought the Reverend Mother, again a slight hesitation in Patsy’s voice. Patrick must have heard it also, because he looked up quickly and then said, ‘Are you quite sure? It’s very easy to forget something when what happened next was so shocking and so terrible. Just think very carefully. It might have been something you hardly noticed …’
‘I would have noticed someone going to the door because I’d have been afraid that they would tell Mr O’Donnell that the door was unlocked.’ Patsy sounded rather belligerent and once again the Reverend Mother wondered whether she was telling the truth. Patsy had a look on her face as though she had suddenly thought of something. But then she shook her head resolutely. ‘No, no one,’ she said.
Patrick left a few moments of silence before thanking her again and then reading through her evidence and requesting her to sign on the bottom of the page. Patsy looked from one to the other hesitantly when she had done this, and then came a knock at the door.
‘Ah, that is Sister Bernadette. She’ll take you up to a nice warm bed and when you are tucked up, Dr Scher will come in and see if he can do anything for those chilblains of yours,’ said the Reverend Mother. No more, she was sure, could be got out of Patsy just now, but perhaps she would visit her later on in the day, or in the evening, when there might be more to divulge.
‘I’m glad that you are keeping her,’ said Patrick when the door had closed behind them and Patsy’s footsteps were heard echoing on the wooden floor of the corridor, making quite a noise compared with the sheepskin slippers that the lay sisters wore. In answer to her look of enquiry, he said, ‘She may have seen someone. Perhaps she even saw Tom Hurley, himself, go up the stairs. She could be in danger,’ he added and the Reverend Mother nodded slowly and thoughtfully.
‘While she spoke, I was thinking of Mrs O’Mahony,’ she said. ‘I still don’t think her death was a suicide. What if she saw someone go up – perhaps not that or she would have mentioned it immediately. She would be as brave as a lion when it came to her son’s danger and would have jumped to his defence even if it were the bishop himself that she had seen. But afterwards, perhaps even on the following morning, she might have thought it over, realized that someone was missing just before the lights went out, mentioned something, perhaps asked someone a question, perhaps merely looked speculatively at someone and the murderer took fright. What do you think, Patrick?’
‘Are you thinking about Tom Hurley, Reverend Mother?’
‘I’m thinking of everyone who had a reason to wish James Doyle dead,’ said the Reverend Mother, enunciating her words with care. He might, she thought, be right about Tom Hurley, but she did not want to hazard an opinion on this. It was too easy in this divided city to heap the responsibility for every crime on to the backs of the rebel army. There might be many reasons for the killing of James Doyle and some of these could be a private affair, a matter concerned with the safety or the reputation of an individual not connected with any of the Republicans. She thought about Robert Newenham, short of money, possibly blackmailed by the city engineer. And of Thomas Browne, whose splendid plan for the rebuilding of the city hall had been sidelined by the late James Doyle, and of the others in the city who had suffered from his vainglorious pursuit of his own wealth and reputation, his ignoring of the plight of poor people whose homes and whose places of work had been burned out on that terrible night, and who had never managed to go back to the living that the
y had been making before.
She looked across at him. ‘You appear worried,’ she observed.
‘Just something that Joe told me. A boy came up to him in the street …’
She listened attentively as he told the story, but shook her head when he reached his conclusion. ‘I’ve heard nothing about him,’ she said.
‘In any case, this business of the gallery being unlocked has changed everything,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘This makes it almost certain that the murder was committed by a man who was there before the lights went out and who had slipped away before they were relit. In other words, Tom Hurley. This looks to have all the hallmarks of a Republican assassination.’
‘You may be right,’ said the Reverend Mother and then said no more.
She had, she decided, a moral duty to get Sam out of prison if, as it seemed, he had not committed the murder, and if Patrick felt that Tom Hurley was guilty then there would, she hoped, be little point in detaining Sam for too long.
But was it the correct explanation? She believed not. When he left, she took from her drawer the copy books sent to her by Mrs O’Mahony and went through Sam’s articles for the Cork Examiner very carefully again. And then she paused over the one where she had previously turned down the corner of the page.
Yes, she thought. Of course. Everything fitted.
TWENTY-ONE
St Thomas Aquinas:
Lex est quoddam dictamen practicae rationis
(The law can be said to be the dictate of natural reason)
‘I had a visitor last night, someone you know, Reverend Mother,’ said Dr Scher. He had well timed his visits to Sister Assumpta and to Patsy Mullane, she thought, concealing a smile as she invited him to come in to her room and sit by the fire. The bell had just rung for the end of the school day when the Reverend Mother met him coming down the stairs. Sister Bernadette had accompanied him and now, all smiles, waited for Reverend Mother to invite him into her room before promising some tea and cake.
A Shocking Assassination Page 24
