Beyond Absolution

by Cora Harrison

  ‘I’ll go through mine, now, Peter.’ Miss Gamble’s cool, commanding voice made both her assistant teacher and Peter Doyle stand back from each other abruptly. Anne Morgan made a half movement towards Robert, but then took a step backwards as she noted his eyes fixed on Peter Doyle and his hands clenched into fists.

  Eileen looked at the size of those hands. One punch from Robert Beamish and a small man like Peter Doyle would be stretched on the floor. Robert Beamish spent hours every day of the week rowing up and down the River Lee, right into Cork harbour. Those hands were enormous and the flimsy silk of the Japanese robe did nothing to hide the size of the muscles in his upper arms. Marjorie Gamble had done the right thing to intervene. A fight between two such unequally matched men would have been most unpleasant and would have caused a scandal. Anne would be in trouble from her headmistress if she played fast and loose. Miss Gamble, like Robert Beamish, was a member of the upper class in Cork. Peter Doyle, though amusing and talented, would be a nothing in their eyes. Still, a flirtation with Anne might distract him from Rose O’Reilly, who was, after all, a married woman. Eileen speculated on that while Marjorie Gamble’s contralto throbbed through the song.

  My hallowed joys!

  Oh blind, that seest

  No equipoise!

  Peter seemed to have his eye on the policeman watching silently; there was no more flirting with any of the girls and the rehearsals were brief and to the point. Peter contented himself with a pat on the shoulder of each and a whispered few words in an ear. When he came to James O’Reilly, the bank clerk, the man’s face went quite white. He gave a hunted glance at the sergeant and then turned back to Peter, biting his bottom lip. His clean-shaven face had gone so pale that the black dots of the hair roots stood out almost like freckles. Peter Doyle frowned at him and seemed to hiss a few words into the bank clerk’s ear before he moved on to have a word with Tom Gamble, the barrister. James O’Reilly looked around in a strangely hunted fashion and then went to stand beside his wife. Rose O’Reilly looked pale, also. She gave one swift upward glance at her husband’s ashen face and then, not at the policeman, but at Peter Doyle. It was strange to see her look so worried as she was normally such a competent, assured sort of person.

  ‘Peter’s in a bit of mood, isn’t he?’ Eileen thought that she could venture that remark to Anne Morgan. Together they had giggled about Marjorie Gamble’s old-fashioned ways, and the manner in which she treated the young teacher as though she were one of her pupils. But today Anne Morgan did not reply and moved away. Interesting, thought Eileen. Deliberately, she moved after her in order to continue the conversation.

  ‘That’s a gorgeous dress you have on. You must have come into a legacy. I saw it in Dowdens a couple of weeks ago.’ The bold design of stripes had taken her eye but she had almost fainted when a bored assistant had told her the price, adding condescendingly that it was a model.

  Anne looked a bit uneasy, even a little alarmed.

  ‘Oh, payday, you know,’ she said brushing the matter aside.

  ‘And you blew it all on one dress.’ Eileen tried to sound interested and friendly, and not betray any scorn. There was no way that a young music teacher would be paid that much money. Oddly, Anne Morgan seemed almost as though she were trying to snub Eileen.

  And yet, up to today, she had seemed very friendly.

  When the rehearsal was over, Peter Doyle presented a couple of free tickets to the policeman, insisted on him accepting them, managed adroitly to manoeuvre the man through the front door, locking it firmly behind him. And then, instead of lingering, fetched the key of the hall from the small office and stood by the stage door, twirling it until all went through. Eileen made sure that she was one of the first to go out, then she quickly turned the corner onto Morrison’s Quay and lurked in a doorway there until the rest came out. Instead of dispersing, they all went into the antiques shop. Perhaps it was to have a quiet place to talk without either Eileen or the policeman to listen into them. For a moment, she half thought of endeavouring to follow them, but she had a meeting arranged with Eamonn and she did not want to be late. In any case, there was probably no way that she would be able to get into the shop without them spotting her.

  Her mind went back to the mission that she had undertaken. There was no doubt in her mind that something fishy was going on with this crowd of Merrymen. They all seemed to have more money than one would imagine they could possess. Flashy cars, expensive clothes and, from their conversation, they usually dined out in expensive places like the Imperial Hotel. And then there was the way in which they had taken such alarm at her presence that they had summoned a policeman, hoping to find out about her background. She frowned impatiently. There was still no evidence one way or the other. Suspicions were not enough.

  Eamonn was waiting for her at ‘The Statue’. Most people in Cork who wanted to assign a meeting place named The Statue. It couldn’t be missed. An enormous pedestal and an enormous statue of Father Matthew right at the top of Patrick Street, just before the bridge. Eamonn was leaning against a nearby lamppost, keeping a sharp lookout, but otherwise, with his college scarf, looked just like the university student that he had been before he threw up his studies to join in the armed struggle to ensure that Ireland should regain the whole of its thirty-two counties from England and not be content with the twenty-six. As soon as she saw him, Eileen felt a pang of loneliness. She had left the Republicans in a moment of anger against Tom Hurley and his treachery towards herself and the boy that she had been in love with then. But now that boy had gone to England; she rarely heard from him and she wished that she were back hiding out in the remote farmhouse with the rest of the dedicated nationalists. When Eamonn had asked her to do this job of surveillance, she had agreed with such eagerness that he had been surprised. He would like her to come back; she knew that.

  ‘How’s things?’

  His voice was casual. He dropped a kiss on her cheek, but she wasn’t sure whether that was a cloak to the serious purpose of their meeting, or whether he really wanted to kiss her. He had never done that when they had all shared a house, but then she had been going out with Sam for most of that time.

  ‘Interesting,’ she replied and said no more while they strolled across the bridge, looking down at the northern channel of the River Lee that periodically flooded their city. When they reached the other side of the bridge, they both turned automatically to stroll along the riverside of Camden Quay. There was no pavement here, only an iron chain and very few people walked on this side of the road. They could talk in safety, with no chance of being overheard, as long as they glanced over their shoulder from time to time. It was the moment to give her report.

  ‘I think you are dead right about that place, Eamonn,’ she said. ‘There’s something going on with them; they’re all in on it and they don’t want me to find out; they’re dying to get rid of me. Wait till you hear what they did! They took my photograph around to the barracks.’ She told him all about the arrival of the policeman and the low-voiced conversation. ‘The sergeant said that I wasn’t wanted for any crime at the moment, but that they were aware of me.’

  He frowned a little at that and she was warmed by the look of concern in his eyes. He seemed more worried about her than pleased at being proved right.

  ‘I couldn’t believe that they would do that, take my photograph to the police station. And they always pretend to be so friendly and so nice, praising my voice and everything. So you must be right; they are up to something. But why all the great fuss about me? Except that they are now scared that I would get my machine gun out and hold them all up.’ She was exaggerating, trying to make him laugh, but he frowned and looked serious.

  ‘You’re not scared, are you?’ asked Eamonn.

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Eileen stoutly. ‘I’ve taken on the job, so I’ll finish the job. There’s definitely something going on. Why should they do that? If they thought that I was stealing or something, then they would say so. No, they�
�re guilty of something. I’m sure that you are right that they belong to the Anti-Sinn Féin Society, but they are keeping it quiet as it might be bad for business.’

  ‘Perhaps they use the premises of the shop for evening meetings of the Anti-Sinn Féin crowd. We’ve never been able to find out where they meet. Most hotels or public houses wouldn’t like to have them because of the risk to their premises if we found out. Could you get any clues about that?’

  Eileen shook her head. ‘It’s difficult. I’ve never been invited to the shop that the two of them, Peter Doyle and Jonathon Power, run. They do invite the others. Tom Gamble is always there, do you know him? He’s a barrister.’

  ‘I know him,’ said Eamonn with a grin. ‘He’s having an affair with a girl out our way, has her tucked into a little cottage just near to our place. I’ve seen him go there a few times. Got a baby, too. If his rich wife finds out, then he’s for it.’

  ‘Why would someone like Tom Gamble, a rich barrister, want to be mixed up with anything dodgy like the Anti-Sinn Féin Society?’ Eileen stopped and waited. A man on a bicycle was approaching, cycling slowly along looking over his shoulder at the river. She and Eamonn drew back and watched him warily. It was second nature to both of them to scrutinize faces, to remain always on the alert. He passed them without a glance but Eamonn waited until he was out of sight.

  ‘Most of these sort want the British back again; better for business,’ he said briefly. ‘But as for rich, well, he mightn’t be that rich. I wonder if they are up to something shady. Easy to do things like raiding shops and then telling the Examiner that the Republicans did it. These young barristers don’t earn much. My mother wanted me to go in for the law, but I persuaded her that she and my father would be supporting me until I was in my middle thirties; that I’d be better off being a doctor. Tom Gamble has got a rich wife, but he can’t exactly ask her for money to fund his little love nest, can he?’

  ‘I wonder he risks it,’ said Eileen.

  ‘You should see the girl! She’s gorgeous, really, really, gorgeous! I’ve seen her out walking the lanes with the baby in a very stylish baby carriage, and the house looks nice, too. Even got a servant. But, of course, it is a risk, and, of course, he has to have extra money.’

  ‘And the lark, perhaps, too. He’s that type of man.’ She decided not to tell Eamonn that Tom Gamble had made a pass at her. Perfectly gentlemanly, had held his hands up and apologized, but with a twinkle in his eye that showed he was quite a ladies’ man.

  ‘They’re all the same kind,’ she said. ‘They’re all the type to be in it for the fun and risk, just as much as for the money. Peter Doyle is that type. He takes risks with people. I thought that there would be a fight between him and Tom Gamble one day. He was saying something to him, in a very low tone, something about Tulligmore and Tom Gamble went a dark red, turned around and grabbed him by the collar.’

  ‘That’s interesting; looks like this Peter Doyle has got hold of his little secret. That’s the place. Don’t you remember Tulligmore, Eileen? You must remember the bridge where my motorbike always lurched, almost tipped you into the air one day, well, that’s the townland where this girl is living; just along a lane near to the bridge. I noticed his fancy car going slowly up that lane quite a few times and once I followed it, just on foot and going by the fields. It’s a small cottage about half a mile up the lane. He’s had it done up, though. Looks all fancy, painted and the garden dug, and flowers planted in it, lots of roses. Very romantic,’ finished Eamonn, with a grin down at her. ‘Let’s walk back there,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’d like to have a look at that crowd before they get dressed up. You can introduce me. I can be your young man. No one will suspect anything. They’ve got rid of the policeman, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes, but they’ve probably all gone home now for their suppers. I don’t suppose they hung around too long once people started coming into the church. There’ll be loads of people milling around, they’ll all be coming out of the church by now. It’s the second day of the Novena, a saint a night for nine nights. St Aloysius last night, St Paulinus tomorrow, St John on Sunday, then some old martyrs and then Mary Magdalene and then … and so it goes on. My mam is very keen on these Novenas. Goes if she gets a chance, but she’s working tonight.’

  It was very nice walking around with Eamonn. She realized that she had been quite lonely for some time since she had left the farmhouse where they had a hideout. She tucked her arm in his. They bought a couple of cakes from a shop on Cook Street and munched them happily, as they went along.

  And then a policeman passed them. He looked very intently, first at Eileen and then gave Eamonn a long and lingering look. When she glanced back over her shoulder, she could see that he had stopped at the inside edge of the pavement, his back to a shop window and that he was still looking at them.

  ‘Don’t come. It may not be safe. Trust to me. I’ll keep an eye on them. I don’t want them to start asking questions about you at the barracks,’ said Eileen when they came onto the South Mall. Eamonn still looked like a university student, but Cork was a small city and a most inquisitive one. There was a continual effort to identify everyone and she thought it probable that, now that she was identified from that old poster, one of the Civic Guards might start to wonder about him. ‘You go now,’ she said firmly, standing very still and slightly apart from him. ‘I’ll be early; we don’t start until 9 on a Friday, but I’ll wait. Peter Doyle will probably be along in a while. He’s always the first to arrive. Usually he comes before the caretaker. Here’s your ticket for the show. Don’t come too early. Wait until the queue starts moving in and then slip in and sit at the back.’ She watched him go with a twinge of regret. For a moment, she almost ran after him and asked him to take her with him. It had been such fun in that remote farmhouse hideout, living with people who shared her ideals and who were prepared to lay down their lives for the freedom of a united Ireland. She still helped with the propaganda, drafting and designing leaflets and posters, but it wasn’t the same thing.

  FIVE

  St Thomas Aquinas:

  Nam alia animalia memorantur tantum, homines autem et memorantur et reminiscuntur

  (For other animals only remember, but men both remember and can recall to mind at will)

  ‘Montenotte, two three,’ said the Reverend Mother into the phone. It was fairly early on Saturday morning and she hoped that her cousin Lucy would be out of bed. She was impatient to see her. Lucy had been away on a visit that week and only returned the previous night. She was the only one who could confirm her suspicions.

  There was something very strange about the story of the priest’s visit to the antiques shop. And of his reaction. Dr Scher had seemed to find Father Dominic’s distress at the chipped ceramic hawk perfectly natural, but then Dr Scher was a dedicated collector, with a cabinet full of antique silver. He might be upset if he found a prize piece badly damaged, but why should a friar like Dominic worry? The Capuchins had taken a vow of poverty, so what was Dominic doing in that shop in the first place, and secondly why was he so worried about the damage to a Japanese hawk. An Arita hawk, she repeated to herself. There was something in the back of her mind about a Japanese hawk; but try as she might, she could not resurrect it. Arita was the name of a Japanese town, so the word probably referred to the type of clay used for the ceramics.

  After pondering over it for some time, she decided to make the phone call. Her cousin Lucy was the only one left now who shared her memories. And, of course, Lucy, married to a prosperous solicitor, and the owner of a beautiful house, would know all about this antique shop. In any case, she needed to tell her about the death of poor Dominic, if she had not already heard the news. So she got up from her chair, disregarding her pile of correspondence, went down the corridor, lifted the phone and gave the number.

  ‘Yes, of course, Reverend Mother, you’ll be wanting to speak to Mrs Murphy, of course. I’ll have her on the line in a minute, that’s if she’s up out of bed at this hour
on such a terrible day. And, of course, they would have been late home last night. Away visiting relations in Kerry, weren’t they?’

  The Reverend Mother, despite herself, found her face relaxing into a smile. There were, she supposed, other countries where the exchange operators took a number in silence and put you through, preserving an air of total anonymity about the process, but here in the city of Cork, that would have been considered discourteous. In Cork, it was assumed that everyone knew everyone else’s business. And the telephone exchange women did their best to add to that common pool of knowledge. Sensible people, keeping this in mind, spent the first minutes exchanging remarks about the weather and the state of the streets before moving on to matters that were more private. And the Reverend Mother, trained in discretion, never uttered a word on the telephone that she would not have been happy to shout from the spire of Shandon Cathedral.

  ‘Terrible weather,’ said Lucy when she arrived at the phone. She had probably been still in bed when the call came, but she sounded alert and interested. Lucy, as the telephone exchange woman had informed her, would have been late home. Nevertheless, the news of the murder in the confessional at the Holy Trinity Church on St Matthew’s Quay would have been relayed to her the instant she was inside the door. Lucy, she would take a bet, had already heard that her cousin, Reverend Mother Aquinas, had been present when the door of the confessional had been pulled open and the dead man revealed. She would be dying to know what had happened.

  ‘I have some bad news. There was a priest killed in the Holy Trinity Church. It was Father Dominic, Dominic Alleyn,’ she said soberly.

  ‘Dominic Alleyn!’

  There had been a sharp intake of breath. That had surprised Lucy. She had probably heard the story, but not the name. ‘But why?’

  ‘Terrible news, isn’t it?’ The Reverend Mother didn’t reply. That had been an involuntary question from Lucy. She would not expect an answer or any attempt at speculation from her cousin. There was a sound of a sneeze in the background. This damp air in June made moulds grow in buildings and the telephonists all seemed to have colds.