Beyond Absolution

by Cora Harrison

  NINE

  St Thomas Aquinas:

  ‘Rapina est gravius peccatum quam furtum, quia per rapinam non solum infertur alicui damnum in rebus, sed etiam vergit in quandam personae ignominiam sive iniuriam. Et hoc praeponderat fraudi vel dolo, quae pertinent ad furtum.’

  (Robbery is a more serious sin than theft, because robbery not only inflicts a loss on a person in his things, but also leads to the ignominy and injury of his person, and this is of graver import than the fraud or guile which belong to theft.)

  ‘Mr Murphy, the solicitor, is here to see you, Reverend Mother,’ said Sister Bernadette. There was a slight note of astonishment in her voice and a look of avid curiosity in her eyes.

  ‘Goodness, he’s early!’ The Reverend Mother looked at the clock. Half past eight in the morning.

  ‘That’s right. I got such a surprise, Reverend Mother. Came to the door himself, too. Not the chauffeur either and when I …’

  The Reverend Mother missed the rest of the sentence as she swept rapidly past Sister Bernadette. Why on earth was Rupert calling at half past eight in the morning? Surely, something could not have happened to Lucy, she thought as she went through the parlour door in her usual calm fashion, turning to click the door closed, before greeting her guest. But he jumped up, came rapidly across and took her by the hands.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong with Lucy, don’t worry, it’s not that at all.’

  She recovered her composure, freed her hands gently and indicated a chair. ‘Do sit down, Mr Murphy. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, I won’t, thank you, Reverend Mother. And I won’t detain you for long. Lucy was going to telephone, but then she thought that it would be best if I dropped in on my way to work. I’m going to give my clerk a shock arriving as early as this, I’ll tell you that, Reverend Mother. Never been in as early as this for a good twenty years. But you know what Lucy can be like when she is in one of her efficient moods. She was up and dressed at all hours, and had me out the door before I knew where I was, not even time for a second cup of tea.’ He stopped and then said gravely, ‘This will be a shock to you, but the Abernethy house went up last night.’

  ‘Went up?’

  ‘Up in flames.’

  The Reverend Mother drew in a breath sharply. Could this have anything to do with their visit? But a moment’s reflection told her that these raids, whosoever was responsible, would have to be planned well in advance. She took in another deep breath as unobtrusively as she could and waited for more information.

  ‘Marigold Abernethy is fine,’ he said reassuringly. ‘She and her servants were given refuge by the local vicar. Nice fellow. Lucy rang to enquire and she spoke to his wife and then to Marigold herself. She said Marigold was in fine form. Spitting fire, apparently. Saying that the whole lot of those rascals should be hung. Oh, and there was one other thing that Lucy told me not to forget to tell you. Apparently, the cook had something to say that Marigold told Lucy. Unfortunate woman, it was second time around for her as she used to be cook to the Wood family; you remember them, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said the Reverend Mother gravely. And then she waited. The news of the raid on the Abernethy household would now be all around Cork. Lucy would have been one of the many who had spoken on the phone to the charitable vicar and his wife, and, of course, to Marigold herself. The telephone exchange ladies had probably begun broadcasting the news last night. There was no ostensible reason why poor Rupert had to be bundled out of the door without his second cup of tea in order to report to the Reverend Mother. Lucy could just as well have telephoned her cousin. However, this news about the cook would be of private significance and so she turned an expectant face towards Rupert.

  ‘Oh, yes, this will interest you, Lucy thought,’ he said. He tilted back his chair and balanced on its two back legs and she resisted the temptation to reprove him as though he had been one of her scholars. ‘Apparently, the cook remarked that it was the same crowd that raided the Woods’ place last year, “the same useless shower of Shinners” were her exact words, if you will excuse me, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Reverend Mother. The cook, she thought, might be a fine hand with the scones, but her use of words was inaccurate. The five men who raided those two houses, and perhaps many others, were neither ‘useless’ nor could they be labelled as ‘Shinners’ or Republicans; she was fairly sure on that point. They were, however, dangerous, ruthless men, out for plunder and using a musical society as a cover for their activities.

  And they may have been responsible for the death of a very nice man and a saintly priest. At the thought of Dominic, she knew that this was information that had to be passed on instantly; these men must be stopped before anything else happened. She turned to Rupert.

  ‘It was very good of you to spare the time to come to bring me the news, Mr Murphy. Are you sure that we can’t offer you anything? A cup of tea? Some toast, perhaps?’

  He took her offer for the dismissal that was intended, managed to right his chair without cracking its back legs and rose to his feet with a good-humoured smile.

  ‘Don’t you trouble about me, Reverend Mother. I know that you are very busy. My clerk will have the coffee pot warming as soon as he hears me at the front door. I’ll leave you in peace, now, and allow you to get on with your valuable work.’ He fumbled in his pocket as they went together to the front door and counted some copper coins into the palm of his hand.

  ‘Must get rid of some of these. They ruin the set of my suit jacket, so my tailor is always telling me,’ he said gaily. There were a few lucky children around and when they saw him, they rushed to open the gate for him. To their huge delight, he presented each with a few pennies. A nice man, thought the Reverend Mother as she went back inside. Lucy had been lucky.

  She was not due in the classroom for another hour and with some luck, she would get hold of Patrick before he went out. She went to the back corridor, a place of maximum inconvenience, draughty, cold and utterly lacking in privacy, which had been designated by the bishop’s secretary as a suitable place to house this new-fangled telephone for the use of the convent. How would she phrase a request for Patrick’s presence, she wondered? And then she was relieved to see that Sister Bernadette was lurking there, probably disappointed that she had not been requested to show out the affable solicitor. That was a piece of luck. The telephone exchange would not be interested in an underling like Sister Bernadette, who used the telephone mainly to order groceries and who might well just be reporting a minor pilfering to the barracks’ telephone number.

  ‘Oblige me by phoning the barracks, sister, and ask whether Inspector Cashman can spare a few minutes.’ It was a nice, neutral message, she thought, and the telephone exchange would have news that was more exciting this morning. By now, all Cork would be looking for details about this latest atrocity and taking sides with the bitterness that was still the legacy of the Treaty negotiations. She went off to prepare for the first lesson of the day and awaited the arrival of the inspector.

  The children were out in the playground for their mid-morning break by the time that Patrick arrived – on his bicycle, to the disappointment of the small boys who loved the sight of the police car.

  ‘Sorry there’s been a bit of a delay,’ said Patrick, carefully wheeling his bicycle through the gate and padlocking it to the iron fence. ‘We’ve been very busy this morning,’ he added.

  ‘I’m sure,’ said the Reverend Mother. She felt a little apologetic. He looked very tired with black circles under his eyes. There would be great pressure on him to solve the murder of such a popular priest, and, of course, he would have a hundred and one other routine matters requiring his attention. And now there was another house burned down, just outside the city, this time.

  ‘Ask Sister Mary Immaculate to take my place, please,’ she said to one of the older girls. Her deputy would wear a martyred expression at losing a portion of the mid-morning break, but she could not help that. Patrick�
��s time was of importance and so as soon as the nun appeared, she briskly ushered him through the garden and into the small chapel. They would have privacy there, would be able to avoid wasting time on hospitable offers of tea and cake from Sister Bernadette and the short walk enabled her to condense the information that she needed to pass onto him. She pushed open the heavy door and went through into the dim damp interior of the small chapel.

  To her immense surprise, the centre door of the confessional stall opened and Dr Scher struggled to his feet.

  ‘What on earth are you doing in there?’ she said tartly.

  He ignored that, just stood there, looking thoughtfully at the three open doors of the solitary confessional stall in the small chapel.

  ‘Interesting, this business of casting your sins upon a priest, telling him the secrets of your soul. Have you ever read Freud, Reverend Mother?’

  ‘Never,’ she said firmly. She knew what he was thinking. Freud, or no Freud, confession, for so many people, was a good way of unburdening themselves. For the depressed and the despairing, it might well be a lifeline. Her mind went again to Dominic and the long queues that were reputed to wait patiently outside the confessional in the darkest and most obscure part of the church.

  ‘They have ten of these confessional boxes in the Holy Trinity Church,’ he remarked as though his mind had followed hers. ‘Do you have only one because nuns have so few sins?’

  ‘We have as many sins as others, different, perhaps; but only one priest,’ said the Reverend Mother. She thought briefly of her own lack of charity towards Sister Mary Immaculate, but decided her sins were none of his business. She was glad to see him, though. His knowledge of antiques would be of assistance to her when she struggled to remember what she had seen during afternoon tea with Marigold Abernethy. She seated herself on one of the chairs at the back of the church and Patrick carried over two more for himself and Dr Scher.

  ‘Not much room in that little confessional cubicle of yours, Reverend Mother,’ said Dr Scher. ‘Still, at least your chaplain has a cushion on his seat, not like that poor man over in the Holy Trinity Church. Why on earth did they make these places so small? Another couple of inches and the priest would be more comfortable and have more space to get away from an assassin.’ And then when she did not reply, he said, ‘What’s the problem?’

  Patrick, she noticed, was also looking at her with concern and she pulled herself together, sorting out her thoughts and slotting each fact into its relevant place. Patrick was a very busy man and she did not want to keep him long. But just as she opened her mouth, Sister Bernadette was at the door after a perfunctory knock.

  ‘Excuse me, Reverend Mother. There’s an urgent call from the barracks. Inspector Cashman is needed. There’s trouble at the barracks. His sergeant is on his way with the car.’

  ‘You must go,’ said the Reverend Mother instantly rising to her feet. ‘Don’t worry, my story will keep.’ There had been, she knew, a strike on at Andersen Docks. Desperate men will take desperate measures and she did not want to be the cause of any loss of life. Patrick’s presence would have a calming effect. She accompanied him to the door and then returned and sat back onto her chair.

  ‘Can I help in any way?’ Dr Scher was looking at her keenly with that look of concern on his face.

  ‘I need to write a letter to Patrick.’ She thought about it for a moment. It was true that there was no urgency, no immediate threats. The deed had been done. Nevertheless, she felt an urge to unburden herself of what she had so carefully recalled to her memory when she had heard the message from Lucy.

  She made up her mind. ‘Well, if you will be so good and can spare the time, please come back to my office and help me with it.’ He might, she thought, also deliver it. It would be best if he were there to interpret when Patrick read the letter. ‘Would you go and ask Sister Bernadette to bring us in some tea while I collect my thoughts,’ she finished.

  He gave her plenty of time, probably lingering in the kitchen and joking with the lay sisters who worked there. By the time he and Sister Bernadette appeared with the tea trolley, the Reverend Mother had filled a page of writing paper with a long list. She waited impatiently while the usual ritual of praise and jokes were gone through, but once the strength of the tea and succulence of the fruitcake had been praised and Sister Bernadette had gone off back to the kitchen, closing the door behind, she read aloud. ‘Dear Patrick, My cousin, Mrs Murphy and I had tea with Mrs Abernethy yesterday afternoon …’

  ‘By chance, of course,’ interrupted Dr Scher.

  ‘By design, of course,’ she retorted quickly. ‘Now, I may finish?’

  He replied by popping a large piece of fruitcake into his mouth and chewing vigorously.

  ‘My cousin and I had tea with Mrs Abernethy yesterday,’ she went on, reading from her page. ‘I understand that the house was burned down last night. We went to have a word with the cook, as she, formerly, had been cook to the Wood family of Shanbally and so had been present when the house there was destroyed. She gave an interesting description of the five men, all masked and carrying rifles and cans of petrol. This is how she described them: there was one very large man with broad shoulders and a big chest, two other tall men, an ordinary-sized man and one quite small and slim – he was the one that did the talking, in a “flat of the city” Cork accent. These,’ said the Reverend Mother raising her eyes from her page, ‘were the cook’s words. I think that I will leave it to Patrick to draw any conclusions, but here is what I need your help with. This is what I recollect of objects that might be small enough to be removed with ease and valuable as antiques.’ She read aloud from her list, going through everything that she remembered. When she lifted her eyes from the page, he was nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘Most of what you remember, Reverend Mother, is already in that shop. Neither you nor Patrick would be able to tell one piece of china from another or one piece of silver from a totally different maker. I’d re-write that letter. Just give the lad a couple of things that he can’t miss. That cake server with the lift mechanism on the handle, that sounds quite unique to me and the potato servers, well, I’ve never seen one of those before. And the cobalt glass would make them stand out from ordinary silver napkin rings immediately. And describe cobalt, say it is a deep but bright blue, lighter than navy blue, but deeper than azure; that would be a good way to describe it, I think. Say that they are bigger than napkin rings.’

  She obeyed, crumpling her first piece of paper and putting down a detailed description of those two objects, reading it back to him, before signing the letter.

  ‘Next time you go visiting one of those big houses, Reverend Mother, tell me and I’ll go along with you. I’d say that I could value and put a name to a lot of the stuff that you are trying to describe; but, as it is, you will only confuse Patrick by talking about silver sugar tongs and cream jugs,’ he said bluntly. ‘So you think that one of these people from the antiques shop may have killed Father Dominic, do you? It seems very likely. It’s quite a lucrative business, an antiques shop, but, of course, it’s much more lucrative if you don’t have to pay for the goods that you have up for sale. A little expenditure on polishes and cleaners, a little time from that talented Jonathon Power and then sit back and allow the money to roll in.’

  ‘Rent,’ suggested the Reverend Mother.

  ‘I think I heard that they bought it outright from Judge Gamble. He owns most of these derelict old warehouses. They had to spend money, of course, in doing it up.’

  ‘What brought them here,’ she wondered. ‘What brought them over to Cork?’

  ‘May have heard about these raids. Someone might have said, “What a shame that the contents of those houses were lost when the place was burned down”.’

  The Reverend Mother thought through the various members of the music society. ‘And the forming of the Merrymen, quite soon after they arrived here, if my memory doesn’t fail me … That would have been to get recruits.’

  ‘You
ng men with expensive habits, plenty of brawn and courage. People like Tom Gamble and Robert Beamish,’ said Dr Scher.

  ‘And James O’Reilly?’

  ‘The bank clerk? Well, I suppose that he might have been useful to them in some way. Might help with the accounts, perhaps, taxation – that’s a tricky one in Cork city at the moment; the blackguards are trying to get us all to pay up for the couple of glorious years when the tax offices were burned down and nothing to replace them. Also James O’Reilly has a pretty little wife with a very sweet singing voice. I saw her in The Mikado. No, he would have been useful to them and they would have been useful to him. Gave him the means to buy an expensive house and car. Raised his status in the bank to be well in with some prosperous business people. Who you know is very important to Cork people. You wouldn’t believe what I can get away with if I drop your name into a conversation.’

  The Reverend Mother ignored this attempt to tease her. She was silent for a moment, thinking through the ramifications of the Merrymen Light Opera group.

  ‘And, of course, Tom Gamble’s older sister, Marjorie, would have lent respectability.’

  ‘And a source of pretty girls with good singing voices from her school,’ said Dr Scher. ‘There would be no reason why she should have to know anything. A rather strait-laced lady, but I’d say that the plans to raid houses would have been carried out in those late-night drinking sessions in the Imperial Hotel.’

  ‘And Dominic, Father Dominic …’

  ‘Stumbled across something …’

  ‘And was murdered in his own confessional box,’ said the Reverend Mother. It had been a bleak end for a dedicated man who had done his best to bring hope and comfort to all.

  ‘Murdered, I would say, by the woman in the shawl. Unless, it was Sister Mary Immaculate.’ Dr Scher took a look at her and she could see him decide not to pursue that joke. ‘A shawl could have been a disguise,’ he said hurriedly. ‘These old shawls are more like a blanket and from what I saw, the light is very poor in that part of the church.’