A Shocking Assassination

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’ Not even by a glance at the clock did Sister Bernadette betray her surprise. ‘Will I call for a taxi?’

  ‘No, thank you, sister. I shall walk.’ Carefully she put away in her drawer the copy books into which Mrs O’Mahony had so lovingly pasted the articles written by her son. Perhaps Sam would like to have them as a memorial to his mother’s love and pride in him.

  And then as soon as Sister Bernadette was back in the kitchen she went to the phone and gave the number for the police barracks.

  The day had fulfilled the promise of the evening before and for once the sun was out when she set off, walking along the quays. There was a strong wind from the south and the usual smell of the river was diluted by the breeze. Coming up from the sea, she thought, and a sudden wave of nostalgia came over her, as her firmly anchored veil blew out behind her, almost like a sail. She had not seen the sea for more than fifty years, had not been in a boat for longer than that. Her whole life since she was seventeen years old had been spent in the centre of this city built upon a marsh, and suddenly she felt dispirited. There was so much evil lurking beneath the cheerful scene of rippling water and bobbing ships unloading on the quays, an evil that ran below the surface, just as the stinking sewage ran below the drains beside the pavement, ready to well up from time to time. Perhaps she was getting old, perhaps she should retire. Her cousin Lucy had phoned earlier to say that she had heard on the grapevine that Robert Newenham was thinking of joining a cousin of his in South Africa and for a moment she envied him the adventure of seeing new worlds and living under a warm sun. A better ending than he deserved, perhaps, but Cork would be a safer place without a man like that.

  ‘It’s the Reverend Mother!’ There was a shrill outcry and some barefooted seven-year-olds immediately joined her, forming an escort until she reached George’s Quay. She sent them back, then, but her mood had lightened. She had pointed out to them that one of the ships had come from Canada bearing logs that would be turned into newspapers like the Cork Examiner, and she had promised that she would bring a globe into their classroom on Monday in order to show them where Canada was, had offered a sweet for anyone who could describe the flag of Canada on that day, and had explained how giant machines would chew up the logs into a sort of sawdust and would mix the wood pulp with some sort of glue and then roll out the stuff and let it to dry and then there would be sheets and sheets of paper. She left them excitedly planning to ask for some sawdust from the nearby sawmill so that they could make their own paper with it.

  A smile on her lips, she made her way down the quay and then down South Terrace and knocked on the door of Dr Scher’s house. She was sick of her own company. She could do with a comfortable drive in his battered old Humber instead of a long walk uphill to the barracks.

  Patrick was at his desk when they arrived. He welcomed them with his usual courtesy, and then sat back and looked across his desk at the Reverend Mother. ‘You’ve thought of something, something of significance, haven’t you?’ he said quietly. ‘Do you think that you have identified the murderer?’

  ‘Identifying the murderer of a man who appeared to be so universally disliked such as the civil engineer, Mr James Doyle, was a challenging task,’ began the Reverend Mother thoughtfully. She leaned back in her chair and looked across at Patrick. ‘It was, of course, relatively easy to find someone who might have been his murderer. There were so many possibilities. So many people feared or disliked the late city engineer, or bore him a grudge. I think that there was almost no doubt that he was blackmailing Robert Newenham. And again, there was little doubt in my mind that Robert Newenham would not scruple to kill. He had fought in a terrible war where human life was held in very low esteem. And he was, to my knowledge, a member of a family who were addicted to blood sports. I had my own rather worrying experience of him. So, of course, he was always a possibility. But somehow, I didn’t think it was likely that he would have committed murder so openly. I’ll come back to this point in a minute, if I may.’ She paused for a moment and then said, ‘And then, of course, I felt also that those who were left without a job or even a home after the burning down of Cork were possibilities. Most people who lost possessions, jobs or houses on that night probably thought that they would be speedily compensated and all would be made good, once the British government accepted responsibility and paid for rebuilding.’

  She stopped as Dr Scher gave a short laugh and then said hastily, ‘Sorry, Reverend Mother, just past the days of believing in fairy tales.’

  ‘But that,’ continued the Reverend Mother, addressing herself to Patrick, ‘as we know, that did not happen. Perhaps as Dr Scher says, we were naïve to expect it. The money was spent, and continued to be spent, on some rather vainglorious schemes, while those who had been thrown out of work, who had lost their shops and shelter on that night, continued to suffer. Much of that could be laid at the door of the city engineer who failed to rebuild the library and the small buildings in the lanes which had been burned out.

  ‘So from amongst those dispossessed people, I pondered over the possibility of Michael Skiddy and of Patsy, both of whom were present and both of whom had suffered greatly by Mr Doyle’s action, or inaction.

  ‘And then, of course, there was Thomas Browne, whose grand vision for the future of the city hall had been suppressed by the dead man. If that had been agreed upon, then Thomas Browne’s name would have become well-known. And if it had been built, then his future and his fame would have been assured. Would that have been a motive for murder? It depends, does it not, on how important it would have been for Thomas Browne to gain fame and fortune?’

  Both men looked thoughtful now, Patrick more than Dr Scher, she considered and she looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘As you know, I had some sort of report about the bishop’s secretary, but let’s leave that for the moment. I would prefer to hear what you have to say, Reverend Mother. You have a better knowledge of most of those people than I have.’

  She nodded gravely before continuing. ‘But somehow when we think about those names, Captain Newenham, Mr Browne, the bishop’s secretary, Father de Courcy, all those who clustered around James Doyle, it just seemed as if those men had too much to lose by committing this murder in such an open fashion. Why was it done at a time when there were a hundred witnesses? That’s what I asked myself.

  ‘And then, of course, there was Sam O’Mahony. His motive would, naturally, be revenge, and sometimes the thought of an injustice can grow in the mind, can obliterate almost all reason until it becomes an overpowering impulse and unbalances the mind. But somehow, I did not think that Sam’s mind was unbalanced. I did not think, having looked at the blank astonishment on his face on that Friday morning when the city engineer was killed, somehow I did not think that he had been the one to fire that fatal shot. I accepted his explanation that the gun had been dropped on his foot. By accident? Or by malice?

  ‘Malice, of course, was another possibility. Sam had not made himself popular with some of his articles. I have read them all carefully and have concluded that he was a young man who did not hesitate to speak out. Yes, he did speak out against the corruption amongst those who are now in power, but he spoke out also against the Republicans, against their wanton taking of life, against the evil of those so-called tit-for-tat murders.’

  ‘Terrible risk to take, murdering someone in the open, in front of half Cork,’ said Dr Scher thoughtfully and the Reverend Mother swung around to face him.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said emphatically. ‘For all those around on that morning, including the bishop’s secretary, for Thomas Browne, for Michael Skiddy, this certainly would have been a huge risk. Even for Robert Newenham, who had previously killed, but only as licensed by society, there would have been an unnecessary danger in this. And although all of these people may have had a smouldering resentment, why not do it somewhere else? On a quiet night in a back street, or perhaps, even better, on an unquiet night when guns rang from street to street
and onlookers fled from the bullets. I suggest that a hatred towards James Doyle would not have been enough for such a drastic action in full public view. But there was someone else there, someone who had few scruples, someone who could justify his action, who would be approved by his associates, or by most of them, anyway,’ she amended with a quick thought of Eileen, ‘someone, who was trained in assassination, who could act quickly, disappear fast and have a network of escape channels to fall back on.’

  ‘Tom Hurley,’ breathed Patrick.

  The Reverend Mother nodded. ‘He fits the bill exactly,’ she said with a rare digression into slang. ‘Publicly, the Republicans had condemned the city engineer as guilty of corruption, and as leader of the anti-Sinn Fein party; privately Tom Hurley hated him because his own father had suffered from the ridiculous delay in rebuilding the library where he had been caretaker and then, of course, after the library was burned down, he was given a week’s wages and had been unemployed afterwards.’

  ‘He died six months later, Tom Hurley’s father,’ said Dr Scher. ‘He was bone thin. I remember his death. One of those people who just seemed to give up. The place he lived in, in Maylor Street, was burned down and that hit him badly, too.’

  Another death, thought the Reverend Mother wearily and then she stirred herself. There was one death which she could now, perhaps, prevent. She had to make her case and she went steadily through the evidence.

  ‘Of course Tom Hurley was trained in guerrilla warfare, he would have learned to move fast, to escape quickly, taking advantage of the fear which these military organisations generated among ordinary people. And there was an additional reason why he should be considered as a suspect on that morning, and that was the fact that the gun was dropped at Sam O’Mahony’s feet.’

  ‘Sam was not in favour of the Republicans, was he, judging by some of his articles?’ Dr Scher put the question while Patrick nodded quietly.

  ‘That’s right,’ continued the Reverend Mother. ‘Sam O’Mahony had written many articles criticizing the Republicans for their violence and so, in the mind of Tom Hurley, he would be judged to be worthy of death. By shooting the civic engineer from the gallery, then dropping the pistol down next to where Sam was standing it would appear that two enemies had been disposed of with one shot. Even some of Tom Hurley’s associates, I believe, strongly suspected that he had been the killer.’ Her mind went to Eileen’s impassioned outburst.

  ‘But you don’t, do you? I know by the way you are talking that you have something else up your sleeve,’ said Dr Scher. ‘Though I can’t for the life of me see who is left,’ he added. Then he said suddenly in horrified tones, ‘Not Patsy Mullane, don’t tell me that Patsy Mullane is our killer!’

  ‘What made you feel that Tom Hurley was not the murderer, Reverend Mother?’ asked Patrick respectfully.

  ‘It was the murder of Mrs O’Mahony. And I was fairly sure in my own mind that it was murder. She was not the sort of woman who would put that almost unbearable burden onto her son at the moment of his greatest need. The letter, with its opening words: “I can’t go on” could have been abandoned as she began to feel ill. And when I heard that there had been an egg shell, I immediately thought of the possibility that the rat poison had been put in there, easily done with a large darning needle to puncture the shell. A smear of egg white would close it up again. And this was where I decided that Tom Hurley was not the murderer. Why should he bother to kill Mrs O’Mahony? He had made good his escape and was hidden away in a Republican safe house. Why such an elaborate and secret method, rather than a bullet and a quick escape? No, Mrs O’Mahony, I felt was murdered because the killer had reason to believe that she might have noticed them on that morning. It may be that she did, or it may be that she did not, but it would be enough for the doubt to arise. Killing,’ said the Reverend Mother bleakly, ‘is, perhaps, like all other sins, much easier after the first time that you have done it. The murderer certainly did not hesitate. But this time there was no gun involved. And I had to ask myself why? Even though the revolver used to kill James Doyle was in the hands of the police, people like Robert Newenham, Thomas Browne, Tom Hurley, all of these would have easy access to other weapons, sporting guns or even knives. Rat poison is the weapon of the poor and the present of an egg is the gift of the poor, a gift from someone who has little to give.

  ‘And, Patrick, Patsy’s evidence that the door to the gallery was, in fact, unlocked at the time of the murder, and that she had been in the habit of popping up there every morning in order to eat a little of Mr O’Donnell’s leftovers that he kept in his office, well, that did change matters, didn’t it? It makes perfect sense of Dr Scher’s evidence that the shot was fired at an angle from above the victim, whereas before, as the bullet had carved a steep pathway, it had looked as though it may have been shot by someone considerably taller than the victim, someone like Robert Newenham.’

  ‘But now you no longer think that he is guilty?’

  ‘No,’ said the Reverend Mother. She looked from one face to another. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘I have changed my mind about this. You see, Patrick, I think you were actually investigating the wrong crime. I am convinced,’ she went on, ‘that the true victim was Sam O’Mahony. The man who planned murder was resolved that Sam would suffer the pangs, not just of death, but of death by hanging, by strangulation, that he would know the long agony of months in prison, of the waiting for the trail, of seeing the judge’s black cap, of hearing the terrible words: “to be hanged by the neck until you are dead”, and then of being taken out and strangled slowly, and none of us knows what that feels like, though a father or mother could perhaps imagine …’

  ‘A father! You’re talking about young Frank Cotter,’ exclaimed Dr Scher.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the Reverend Mother gravely. ‘I’m afraid, Dr Scher, when you told Mr Cotter that he had only a few months to live, you passed a death sentence, not just for him, but for the city engineer, and for Mrs O’Mahony, also, though not, if we can take action immediately, for Sam O’Mahony.’ She got to her feet decisively, ‘You told me that you are due to visit him at three o’clock today so I think that we should go now, if you will be so kind as to come with us, Patrick.’ She paused for a moment and then said quietly, ‘There will be no need to arrest him, will there? You can delay matters, can’t you? Dr Scher will tell you that the man has not long to go. He will soon be appearing in front of the supreme judge.’

  Dr Scher drove them to the Union Hospital. When they came into the hallway, the Reverend Mother dropped back and stood with Patrick. They waited quietly while the matron had a whispered conversation with Dr Scher and then followed him, not into a large ward, as she had feared, but to a small room at the side.

  Mr Cotter was asleep when they came in. He was wearing a pair of striped pyjamas and had been shaved. He had a look of great weariness about his drawn face and his breath rattled and whistled in his lungs like a steam engine. Dr Scher bent down and put a finger on his wrist and then withdrew it after a minute. He drew his stethoscope from his pocket and held the round disc to the man’s chest, slipping it inside the pyjama jacket without waking him. He left it there for a couple of minutes and then straightened and looked at the Reverend Mother, slightly shaking his head.

  For a moment the Reverend Mother panicked. Had she delayed too long and would the valuable information be lost because of her hesitation, perhaps even cowardice? Dr Scher was beckoning to her and she followed him from the side ward to where Patrick stood silently waiting.

  ‘I have to talk to him,’ she said when they were in the corridor. ‘It’s most important. He has the evidence that will free Sam O’Mahony. Otherwise it’s all guesswork and a good lawyer might demolish the whole matter as conjecture. Is he, is he in a coma?’

  ‘No, just very weak. Not long to go. I was wrong and you were right. Death could come at any minute now. He’s gone downhill more quickly than I expected.’

  ‘I must speak with him,’ she repeated r
esolutely.

  He nodded. ‘Wait here for a few minutes,’ he said. He opened his case, looked inside and then went back into the room. She stayed gazing out of the window. A single rhododendron, stuck into a symmetrically oval bed, flowered unhappily in the centre of a well-scalped lawn, isolated from all shade and all companionship of bushes and trees. She let her eyes rest on it as she thought through the morning of the death of the city engineer. No assassination after all, but a simple murder for private reasons. But not so simple, a complex scheme, evolved by a man almost driven mad by unhappiness. She was sad for him, but the living mattered more. Sam O’Mahony had a lifetime ahead of him. He had to be cleared of that charge of murder. She faced Dr Scher when he came back, his face grave.

  ‘You can talk to him, now,’ he said.

  ‘Come with me, both of you,’ she said. She opened her own attaché case and took out a piece of paper which she had written out the evening before. She glanced through it, then slowed her usual rapid reading speed to meticulous checking. Yes, she thought, as she replaced the sheet within her case and followed Dr Scher, yes, it covered everything.

  Mr Cotter was sitting, propped up by pillows and his wasted hands, still slightly ingrained with soil, rested on the starched linen sheet. A nurse was with him and as they came in, she said in a murmur to Dr Scher, ‘I’ll fetch the priest. He’s just hearing confessions in the hospital chapel.’

  ‘Let the man have his cup of tea, first,’ said Dr Scher in a hearty way. ‘Mr Cotter isn’t in a rush, are you? And here’s the Reverend Mother to pay him a visit. She’ll have him out weeding his potatoes before you know where you are.’

  The nurse gave a dutiful smile while the gardener turned his eyes on the Reverend Mother. She did not waste any time. Charity was good, but a community could not exist without justice for its members. The matter would have to be handled carefully. From the look in the nurse’s and Dr Scher’s eyes, there was no time to waste.