Beyond Absolution

by Cora Harrison

  Still Lawrence needed comforting and she did her best to reassure him. ‘Lawrence, you were right to say that, right to give yourself time to think about it,’ she said earnestly. ‘If you had advocated action, then Dominic might have been placed in danger, but you told him to wait while you thought about it, prayed about it. I’m sure that you did the correct thing. Don’t blame yourself.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ he said, but his voice was dull. She sat for a while wondering what else she could say, but then she saw that his eyes were closed and his head was drooping. He needed to rest now. He had suffered a bad shock and she half wished that Dr Scher were still here. The bursar, Father Francis, was peeping in from the sanctuary and she summoned him with a nod.

  ‘I think the prior needs to rest now,’ she said and was pleased to see how gently he took the old man’s arm and conducted him up the aisle. She waited for a moment after they had both disappeared. She needed, she thought, to gather her strength. Oddly, she, too, felt weak. Another tie with the past has been broken, she thought, as the door opened and a figure, carefully removing his hat, came in through the door.

  ‘Thought you might like a lift back to the convent,’ said Dr Scher. ‘Of course, I know that you are going to tell me that you could walk across the bridge as quickly as I could drive, but think of my scintillating conversation on the way.’

  ‘Well, perhaps that might tip the balance,’ she said getting to her feet. Normally she made a habit of rising straight up, but this time she clung to the top of the kneeling rail for support as she levered herself up and she knew that his keen eyes had noted the fact.

  ‘Today, I’ve lost a very dear friend, someone that I’ve known for all of my life,’ she said, excusing herself. And then, hurriedly, she added, ‘How did he die, Dr Scher?’

  ‘Can tell you more tomorrow, once I’ve had a chance to do the autopsy,’ he replied, holding the door open for her and waited as she dipped her finger into the holy water and crossed herself, her lips moving in a prayer for Dominic and for his desolate brother.

  ‘He was a good man,’ said Dr Scher as they went down the steps. ‘He’ll be very much missed. A nice man, too,’ he went on and then when she looked at him, he said, ‘I met him once. In that antiques shop over there. We had a little chat. I liked him. Who, on earth, could have wanted to kill him.’

  TWO

  History of the Civic Guards

  In February 1922 the Royal Irish Constabulary began to be replaced by a new body to be named ‘The Civic Guards’. The general election of 10th June 1922 returned a majority in favour of the treaty at national level with Griffith’s and Collins’ pro-treaty Sinn Féin winning fifty-eight seats. De Valera’s anti-treaty Sinn Féin won just thirty-six seats. The civic guards had to keep the peace between the newly elected and the anti-treaty rebels.

  Inspector Patrick Cashman looked across his meticulously neat desk at Dr Scher who was idly drawing a spider’s web on a police notebook. The elderly man looked puzzled, he thought. ‘And the cause of death, Dr Scher?’ he prompted gently.

  Dr Scher rapidly added an extra set of lines to the network in front of him, joined them up carefully and looked up. ‘The cause of death is easy,’ he said. ‘I could see that instantly. Someone stuck something sharp through the man’s ear. It pierced the brain. He would have died instantly. The complicated thing is what killed him. Something very narrow …’

  ‘I had someone measure the holes in the screen,’ said Patrick. ‘Very small – about the width of your first finger – no bigger.’

  ‘And so you want me to wave a magic wand and tell you what killed him? Not a bullet anyway.’

  ‘No, that would have been ruled out, anyway. Too much noise. There were still plenty of people in the church.’

  ‘Including Reverend Mother Aquinas. He was a friend of her youth, you know. You should go and have a chat with her. She might give you some information. All I know about the dead man is that a sharp, very thin instrument pierced his brain sometime within the hour before I was called to examine the body. Oh, and that he was interested in ceramic antiques.’

  ‘Ceramic antiques!’ Patrick thought through the vast numbers of priests that he had met in the city of Cork. Many of them were interested in football teams, quite a few were fanatical fishermen and he had known several who frequented horse meetings, but he had never known any to be attracted by antiques. It seemed an odd interest for a friar. ‘Are you sure?’ he questioned.

  ‘Yes, met him in the antiques shop on Morrison’s Island, Morrison’s Island Antiques, quite near to his church, of course.’

  ‘But the Capuchins take a vow of poverty,’ said Patrick. ‘He wouldn’t be buying anything for himself. They don’t have any money.’

  ‘Well, I like looking at some rare pieces of antique silver, but I know that I can’t buy all that I see,’ said Dr Scher. ‘Perhaps he just liked looking at it.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ It seemed somehow unlikely to Patrick. You didn’t see priests doing that sort of thing. ‘And the owner of that shop is a Protestant,’ he said aloud.

  ‘Perhaps he hoped to convert him,’ suggested Dr Scher. ‘He asked to see the manager, anyway. I heard him ask the young lady there, pretty little Rose Burke, Rose O’Reilly, now, of course, if he could have a word with the manager.’

  ‘He just wasn’t that sort of priest. He was very tolerant. Too tolerant, some thought him. There were rumours that the bishop didn’t care for him. But most of the people in the city thought that he was a bit of a saint.’

  ‘Saints sometimes get murdered, not that I know a lot about them,’ said Dr Scher. ‘But I have seen a picture of St Sebastien, and he had a lot of arrows stuck into him. It wasn’t an arrow that killed our man, though. Something thin and sharp penetrated through the ear and all the way into the brain. An arrow broadens too quickly for what I have in my mind.’

  ‘And no one could have killed him for his possessions; he had no money, no power, nothing really that anyone would want.’ Patrick was still musing and then he roused himself. ‘He was definitely killed while sitting within the confessional box. Your evidence would point to it and we have a few witnesses who came forward to say that he was alive earlier when they confessed to him. We are posting notices everywhere asking people to get in touch if they saw or heard him, or didn’t get any response from him, but we’ve had very few volunteers so far. People are reluctant to come forward. Confession is a very private affair. You still see lots of women who hide their faces in their shawls and men who turn up their collars or wear a scarf around their face while they are waiting. And, of course, there are some in this city who don’t like talking to the police under any circumstances. Father Dominic had a name for being lenient towards Republicans. That’s why he always used that confessional stall in that darkest corner. I wouldn’t expect a Republican to come forward. Some of their leaders don’t like the idea of confession.’

  ‘Well, there you are, a Republican atrocity – no one will expect you to solve that, so you don’t need to look so worried. Perhaps the good priest gave one of the brotherhood such a hefty penance that he whipped out—’

  ‘Whipped out what?’

  ‘A stiletto,’ suggested Dr Scher. ‘A narrow, fine-bladed stiletto.’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘Never seen or heard of one of them in Cork. Too expensive for our murderers. They stick to the ordinary knives, or guns. There are still plenty of guns knocking around the city of Cork ever since the days of the British Army and the Black and Tans. They had no care for their equipment, so people said.’ He got to his feet. Dr Scher had done his part; had told him the cause of death; had hazarded an opinion as to the cause of death. He could do no more. It was now up to him to sift through the evidence and to list opportunities and motives.

  ‘I’ll see you out, Dr Scher,’ he said, ‘I want to check if Tommy has any messages for me at the desk.’

  Tommy was not at his desk as usual when they came to the front hallway of the barra
cks. He seemed to be barring the front door to someone as they came out. There was a tall thin man with his hand on the doorknob, shaking his head as Tommy pleaded, ‘Just wait another minute, sir. He won’t be long.’ And then with a note of relief, ‘Here he comes! A gentleman to see you, inspector.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ said the man impatiently. ‘I’ve already told this man all that I know. I went to confession to Father Dominic last night and he was in very good form. Wished me good night when I left and told me to say a prayer for him.’

  Patrick nodded. Father Dominic was famous for asking people to say a prayer for him. One of the reasons why he was so popular in the city. Everyone felt at ease with a man who was so cheerful about being a sinner and needing prayers said for him. He glanced quickly at Tommy’s note. This man had gone into the right-hand stall, though, and that was of interest.

  ‘And who went into the box after you?’ he asked.

  ‘A chap from the bank, O’Reilly, I think is his name. That’s right. Mr James O’Reilly.’

  ‘And after him, did you see anyone else?’ With luck, the man had knelt in one of the pews at the back of the church in order to say his penance before leaving the church. It would not be long. Father Dominic was famous for short penances, but it might have been long enough. The man nodded reluctantly.

  ‘I think it was a woman with a shawl,’ he said shortly.

  ‘What did she look like?’ Patrick was busily writing.

  ‘Didn’t really notice her. Just an ordinary shawlie. Not a black shawl. One of those old ones. A big long one, covered her right down to her boots. Now can I go?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Patrick easily. ‘We’ll just need to take your name and address in case I need any further information from you, though I don’t suppose that I will.’

  Now that he was free to go, there appeared to be a slight hesitation about the man. After all, Patrick thought rapidly, why had he waited? Why not just give this information to Tommy and then depart?

  ‘Oh, Dr Scher, Tommy wants to have a word with you about his rheumatism,’ he said. He prided himself that he had done it in a nonchalant way, but saw Dr Scher give him what his mother would have called an old-fashioned look. Nevertheless, it was a good excuse. Tommy always wanted to have a word with someone about his rheumatism. Like most Cork people of that age, the damp had got into his bones.

  ‘Come with me, sir, and I’ll just jot down your details,’ he said hastily. He picked up Tommy’s notebook and steered the man down the corridor and into his own room. He allowed the man to relax while he slowly and painstakingly took his name and address.

  ‘You didn’t happen to notice anything else of interest when you were in the church, Mr Heffernan,’ he enquired nonchalantly as he wrote out the Morrison’s Island address.

  The man hesitated. ‘Well, it’s probably nothing to do with it, but I thought it was a bit odd,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Yes.’ Patrick went as slowly as he could with writing down the address: 1c Queen Street.

  ‘It’s just this English fellow that runs the antique shop, Mr Doyle; I thought it was a bit odd to see him. Him being a Protestant and all.’

  ‘In the church? At the confessional?’

  ‘Not at the confessional!’ Mr Heffernan sounded shocked. ‘No, Protestants don’t go to confession, but he was standing at the back of the church, just beside the bell rope. Before the Novena began.’

  ‘Beside the bell rope, where the sacristan would stand, is that right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’re sure that it was Mr Doyle?’

  ‘I’m quite sure. I work at the garage on Morrison’s Island. Often fill up that old lorry of theirs, and the cans; either he or his partner, Mr Power, drop in once or twice in the month. We used to call them Mutt and Jeff, just like the cartoon in the Evening Echo. Mr Power was such a big fellow, just like Mutt, and Mr Doyle such a little fellow. I couldn’t mistake him. Little fellow with a black moustache. Dressed the same as always, three-piece black suit. Very nattily dressed always, pinstripe, just like Jeff.’

  ‘And he was definitely inside the church, standing beside the bell rope.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the man. He was more relaxed now, seeing that his story was of interest. ‘Had his hat in his hand, too, so he knew that much, but he’s a Protestant, all right. I’ve seen him often passing the Holy Trinity Church and never once did he bless himself. Now, I’d better be going, inspector. Got just an apprentice at the garage today and God only knows what he’s been up to while my back was turned.’

  Well, thought Patrick after he had left, Protestant or not, it’s my duty to interview everyone who was in the church at that time. Joe had drawn out a placard asking for information and had gone down to Morrison’s Island with it and the Examiner had a note appealing for witnesses at the bottom of an article, entitled, rather sensationally, ‘AN ATROCITY BEYOND ABSOLUTION’. Meditatively he took down his cap from the hook behind the door and after a glance through the window, added a raincoat.

  ‘I’m going out, Tommy,’ he said.

  ‘The superintendent has the car,’ warned Tommy.

  ‘I’ll walk; I won’t melt,’ said Patrick. As he strode down the hill and along quays, he racked his brains. The superintendent had told him how lucky he was to be getting so much experience in such a short time and that there were more murders in the city of Cork than in any other place in, what he still called, the British Isles. He wasn’t sure whether that was true or not, but it was a fact that he had dealt with quite a few murders since he had joined the Civic Guards. And had solved them. Now he was grimly determined that this particular murderer would not escape justice. Father Dominic was a very nice man and a very good priest. Who on earth would want to kill him? He had no money, never would have money; the man had neither power, nor desire to have power; no complicated human relationships, just a brotherhood of friars; no likelihood of arousing anger, the whole city spoke well of Father Dominic. Already there was talk of a great funeral for the man, a funeral that would be bigger than that of a bishop. As he walked down along the quays, he mentally mapped out the route that funeral would take from Morrison’s Island to St Finbar’s Cemetery and decided on which roads to close.

  Morrison’s Island was a small triangular portion of land, less than a third of a square mile in size, its longest edge backing on to the South Mall and the two shorter sides jutting out to a point into the south channel of the River Lee. The Holy Trinity Church and the friary fronted onto the Father Mathew Quay and the antiques shop was on Morrison’s Quay. The owner of the shop was inside by the counter, serving a customer who was watching the wrapping up of her small silver bell and chatting happily about her collection of bells. The other Englishman, Jonathon Power, was carefully cleaning an oil painting. Patrick walked over to him.

  ‘A skilled job, that, Mr Power,’ he said.

  He looked up and grinned. ‘Less dangerous than your job, inspector,’ he said. ‘These pictures never kick or punch no matter what I do to them.’ He was an affable fellow. Very tall and blond-haired with a ready smile.

  ‘It’s the smoke is the problem,’ he said, ‘dims all the colours.’ Then he changed rapidly to an exaggeratedly Irish accent. ‘Sure, it’s the ole turf, it do be smoky when the sods are a bit damp, like.’ As he spoke, a portion of the girl’s dress showed brilliantly blue under his rag and he bent his attention back to the picture, working with light, circular strokes, gradually exposing the full beauty of the original painting. ‘The work of one of your Cork artists, Daniel Maclise,’ he said. ‘Lovely man with colour. Knew just how to use it. It’s a pleasure to work on his paintings.’

  ‘Well, good luck with it,’ said Patrick. Peter Doyle had now finished with his customer and so he went across to the counter. This man also smiled in a friendly way.

  ‘It’s a fair cop,’ he said in an exaggeratedly cockney accent. ‘I never meant to do it, h’inspector. It just fell off the counter and into my h
and and I puts it into my pocket before I knowed wot I did. Didn’t even know I ’ad a knife in my pocket.’

  Patrick eyed him uncertainly.

  ‘Oh, my dear sir, don’t look so serious.’ Once again, Peter Doyle had changed his accent and now was exaggeratedly upper class, English. Suddenly he leaped on top of the counter, struck a pose and began to sing: ‘When constabulary duty’s to be done, to be done/A policeman’s lot is not a happy one, a happy one.’

  And then he jumped down from the counter and beamed at Patrick.

  ‘Inspector Patrick Cashman, sir,’ said Patrick stiffly. The murder of a priest was nothing to be funny about, he thought, but decided not to make that remark. He would just doggedly follow his usual procedure. He produced his warrant card. ‘I’m investigating the death of Father Dominic of the Capuchin Friars. I just wanted to ask you a few questions, sir.’

  To his annoyance, the man lifted his voice again, singing the same silly refrain.

  Our feelings we with difficulty smother, with difficulty smother,

  When constabulary duty’s to be done, to be done,

  Ah, take one consideration with another, with another,

  A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.

  He finished his song with a flourish and beamed at Patrick. ‘Gilbert and Sullivan, you know,’ he said.

  ‘You may have heard that Father Dominic was murdered, on Thursday evening, in the nearby Holy Trinity Church,’ said Patrick even more stiffly.

  ‘Murdered, goodness, that’s terrible! I didn’t know that. I’m very sorry to hear of it.’ The shop owner seemed to go without hesitation from comedy to an air of shocked seriousness.