‘And so would be the perfect substance to conceal that ethylene glycol,’ said Dr Scher enthusiastically. ‘But how could this young Raymond Roche tempt Sister Gertrude into having some of the MacSwiney fruit cordials?’
‘It could be done fairly easily if the mistress of the house was in on the conspiracy,’ pointed the Reverend Mother and saw Patrick make another quick note before he shaped a large question mark on the top of his page. He sat back, chewing the end of his pencil for a moment and then said, with a decisiveness which surprised her, ‘Well, here is a possible list of people who might have had a reason to kill Sister Gertrude: Mr Raymond Roche; Miss Mary MacSwiney; Sister Joan and Sister Brigid.’ The most likely, of course, is Mr Raymond Roche, possibly in conjunction with Miss MacSwiney, but perhaps not. I shall go to see Miss MacSwiney. I can see a possibility where Mr Raymond Roche might have come into the room and poured a cordial for Sister Gertrude and managed to slip some poison into it without either of the women seeing it.’
Unlikely, thought the Reverend Mother, though she did not want to discourage him. These fruit cordials, if not yet used, were probably, like the convent’s supply, designated for some modest Christmas festivities. In any case, from what she knew of Mary MacSwiney, she was not the type of woman to allow a young man to take liberties like pouring drinks without been bidden to do so.
‘Could a possible murderer lay hands on this ethylene alcohol easily?’ she asked aloud. ‘It isn’t the sort of thing that one could go into a shop and ask for, is it?’
‘We don’t know whether the murderer planned on using this particular stuff. But most tins that have poisonous content have the word “poison” on the back of them. You’d get it in lots of furniture polishes, shoe polish, window cleaners and paint thinners. Just something that was labelled “poison”. I’d say that this might have been a random choice,’ said Dr Scher and Patrick nodded his agreement while the Reverend Mother thought once more about the stolen tin of treacle from the store cupboard in the convent kitchens.
‘And the sister left at four o’clock, too early, according to you, Dr Scher. And, in any case, the sister would have had no motive, would she? No inheritance, that’s right, isn’t it?’ Patrick looked across enquiringly at the Reverend Mother.
‘The father’s entire fortune was left to Betty, Betty Kelly as she now is.’ The Reverend Mother made the statement but she said no more. There was a question mark at the back of her mind, an uneasiness that was aroused by the excessive outpouring of grief from Denis Kelly. Surely too much grief. After all, Sister Gertrude was only a sister-in-law. Nevertheless, she did not feel justified in mentioning it now. No doubt she would see Betty once the funeral was arranged by the convent and then, perhaps, a few questions would help to make up her mind about the matter. ‘No, not a penny was left to Sister Gertrude, and, of course, even if it were, her death would not benefit her sister in any way.’ She added those words in an absent-minded way. It was, of course, completely possible for Sister Gertrude to leave the convent. The noviciate period was an opportunity for both convent and novice to have a change of heart. And it was not at all unknown for a young man to walk out of a marriage and take the boat to England. Did Betty have some fears about her husband’s fidelity and did she wonder whether he might prefer her sister. The Reverend Mother wondered, in a cynical way, whether a blissfully happy young wife, in the first halcyon years of marriage, might easily have been talked into depositing her legacy into her husband’s bank account. Girls and women, such as Betty, did not, as a rule, have their own bank accounts.
With an effort she averted her mind from this rather improbable line of enquiry. Let Patrick investigate Raymond Roche, this well-born son of a respected and affluent Cork family, let him inquire into the mooring berths of yachts at Cobh and other places within reach of Spike Island. Let Dr Scher return to lecturing the medical students at Cork University.
The Reverend Mother got to her feet. The interview was over and she was left with plenty to think about. She did not, as customary, ring the bell to summon Sister Bernadette to show the visitors out, but herself accompanied them to the front door. As she had expected, though, Sister Bernadette’s quick ear had heard the sound and was at the front door before they could reach it, beaming a smile at her favourite, Dr Scher. The Reverend Mother waited patiently while they engaged in their usual banter. Her eyes were on Patrick. He was looking uncomfortable, she thought. His eyes travelled the length and breadth of the convent corridor and moved up the stairs to where there was a sound of nuns’ voices. She had fobbed him off with Raymond Roche. That would be work that he was now competent to deal with, confident as well as competent. During his years of experience, Patrick had lost his awe of the gentry and was now quietly at ease while questioning them. Nuns, however, were a different matter.
And Dr Scher’s professional evidence had made it highly probable that the murder had been committed within the hallowed walls of the convent. Patrick, like herself, had doubtless noted that, but she hoped that he would keep his attention on Raymond Roche for the moment.
The law of the land had to have precedence over the feelings of the cloistered, but, she told herself, it would be good for him to ascertain as much of the facts as possible before he was forced to turn his attention to the convent. She bade him farewell with a clear conscience and then lingered while Sister Bernadette picked up an errant paper bag, scanned the cleanliness of the hideously coloured glass in the front door and gave a quick polish to the shining door handle with the corner of her blue apron.
As she guessed, Sister Bernadette went back to see to the fire in her room and the Reverend Mother allowed her to riddle and add coals to her satisfaction before saying in a fairly nonchalant manner, ‘You did say something about Sister Catherine, did you not, Sister Bernadette? Something about how she was upset by teasing. I think you mentioned something about a threat to tell the bishop … something about some secret. Poor child, she is very sensitive and perhaps Sister Gertrude, who had such a very different upbringing, upset her in some way. Was that right?’
Sister Bernadette’s face brightened with relief. ‘That was the way of it, Reverend Mother. “Horses for courses”; that was what my father, God have mercy on him, used to say. A nice man, he was, always very good to us all. Didn’t like the city much; was brought up in the country. Worked in a stable when he was a boy and he used to say that he missed the horses. Always made the best of it, though. Got jobs down in the docks as often as he could. Could give you good advice, too. “If you fancy the life in the convent, love, well you just go ahead and make the best of it,” that’s what he said to me and it was good advice. I must say that I’ve been very happy here. I think myself very lucky.’
The Reverend Mother bowed her head. There were times when Sister Bernadette made her feel very humble.
‘We have all gained from your presence,’ she said. ‘Your father bestowed a treasure on us.’ And then, as she noticed that Sister Bernadette looked embarrassed, she said, ‘But you were telling me about Sister Gertrude and Sister Catherine.’
‘Just a brooch,’ said Sister Bernadette dismissively. ‘Just a little brooch, keeps it hidden. Just a little memory of her childhood, I suppose. A bit scared of Sister Mary Immaculate, poor little thing. Got it inside that willow tree down by the river. Hiding it in a little hole, just like a little squirrel! I’ve seen her there with it some of the times when I’ve gone out to see if the washing is getting any dryer. She’d be holding it in her hand and letting the light flash from it.’
‘I see,’ said the Reverend Mother. Now she had got the information that she had sought. ‘Now tell me, Sister Bernadette, how our stocks of potatoes are going. Now that we have got the children used to having a baked potato in the middle of the day, I would be very loath to run out of them when the worst of the winter weather is still to come.’
‘Don’t you worry about it, Reverend Mother, we had a great crop. Mr Twomey was ever so pleased. I went and checked them t
he other day and they’re all sound. We’ve got them laid out on shelves in the back pantry where it’s nice and cool. The only trouble is that more and more children are asking for them now that we started putting a lump of butter in them, or even a boiled egg. I was thinking that we might get a few leftovers from the market on a Saturday evening when they are cleaning up the place for the weekend. I’ll have a word with the messenger boy. Just try to save our potatoes for as long as possible. I wouldn’t like to deny any child of them. You never know what goes on in homes, do you, Reverend Mother. Sometimes the poorest can be looked after better than in families where the mother drinks and doesn’t bother giving breakfast to the children. Well, it takes all kinds, doesn’t it, Reverend Mother. Not for me to judge. We must just do the best we can with the potatoes, and perhaps a few turnips, as well.’
And Sister Bernadette took herself off happily while the Reverend Mother remained standing absent-mindedly by the fireplace and gazing out into the garden, once the haven of sterile clumps of Victorian shrubs, but now laid out in neat mounded rows, ready for the new crop of potatoes which would be, by tradition, planted on St Patrick’s Day in the middle of March. The gardener was vigorously digging in a wheelbarrow load of hen droppings and she watched him in an absent-minded way as she turned over the matter of Sister Gertrude and Sister Catherine in her mind. The rule was very strict. When a novice took her vows, all property that had belonged to her in secular life was completely renounced. Somehow, though she was less shocked by Sister Catherine’s surreptitious hiding of some childhood relic than she was at the revelation of another less pleasant aspect in Sister Gertrude’s personality. There was a whiff of bullying about it, a victimization of the weak by the strong. Nevertheless, now that she knew about this concealed brooch, it was her duty to deal with the matter. The rules of the order had been laid down by the sainted founder and it was not for her to bend them in any way. The matter could be dealt with in private and might well be a means of probing the state of mind of this troubled girl. With a deep sigh, she decided to visit the invalid in bed.
‘Good news, Sister Catherine,’ she said cheerily as she came into the novices’ dormitory. ‘Dr Scher is quite happy about you and now that you’ve had a rest and a little sleep, he would like you to get up and join your sisters again. Make haste now, child, or you will be late for dinner.’
‘I don’t want any dinner,’ said Sister Catherine.
‘Nonsense,’ said the Reverend Mother bracingly. ‘Get up now, my child, come downstairs and when dinner is over, come into my room and have a chat about what might be worrying you.’
There must, she thought as she went slowly down the stairs, be a kind way of ending Sister Catherine’s self-imposed martyrdom without doing her any permanent harm. Or perhaps before the girl did permanent harm to the community which had to witness the pious giving-up of the world for the sake of some dream of sainthood.
So long, of course, as her crime had only been something childish like concealing a brooch. If it were murder, well then …
Was there any possibility, she wondered as she paused at the window at the head of the flight of stairs that led up from the hallway, that the balance of Sister Catherine’s mind was disturbed, that her self-accusation of the murder of Sister Gertrude was a figment of a disordered imagination? The thought comforted her. Saints, she had often thought, while listening to a reading about the lives of medieval martyrs, were often quite strange people and someone as straightforward and practical as Dr Scher might be relied upon to find some illness of the mind which might have driven a pious girl to some terrible action.
Suddenly the Reverend Mother began to feel ashamed of herself. Her patron saint, Saint Thomas Aquinas, had been quite unequivocal about murder and about what should happen to a murderer. She shuddered slightly at the recollection of the terribly harsh phrase: ‘laudabiliter et salubriter occiditur’. Occiditur: she was no great Latin scholar, but the word sent a shiver down her spine. It was, she thought, a terrible word. Cut down, felled, removed from life.
Almost mechanically she began to walk down the last flight of stairs. ‘Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done,’ she prayed.
THIRTEEN
W.B. Yeats
‘What a man does not understand, he fears; and what he fears, he tends to destroy.’
Eileen stopped for a moment, but then she walked on. She needed to gather her courage. I don’t need to be involved in this, she thought, but she knew that long-term obligations, old affections, former assistance – all of these things were at the back of her mind. She owed the convent gratitude for an excellent education and she owed the Reverend Mother affection for the deep interest that she had taken in Eileen, encouraging her in her studies and not even losing that interest when Eileen did not take her advice about trying for a university scholarship, but instead, left school in order to join the Republicans.
The Reverend Mother, she reflected, was more worried-looking than she had ever remembered seeing her and it was important to help her to solve this strange murder. Particularly since Eileen herself had suspicions about the death of the young nun. She knew where to go for information, but she needed leverage. Rory was not the type to be impressed by her former service to the cause. Rory was a hard man, but a man who was determined to survive. No romantic business of hiding out in derelict houses, Rory ran a successful corner shop in St Mary’s Isle, served cigarettes to treaty and anti-treaty supporters and kept his politics to himself. Soft talk wouldn’t impress him. Only a threat would work with Rory and he was shrewd enough to evaluate a threat for what it was worth. She had to appear capable of delivering a threat to the man’s security.
And for that reason she walked on briskly down Barrack Street, and then stopped when she was just outside the headquarters of the police force in Cork city.
‘Oh, Patrick,’ she said girlishly as he came out from the barracks. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day? I’d nearly forgotten what sun looked like. Are you off duty, Patrick?’ She had carefully made sure that was the case, but even to her critical ear, the words sounded careless and unpractised.
He smiled down at her. Not a bad-looking fellow these days, she thought critically. He was very spotty when he was growing up and desperately shy, but now his skin had cleared and he had, oddly, even grown another inch or so taller. Or perhaps he was just holding himself so much straighter.
‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Your half day, isn’t it?’
Must be keeping an eye on her, she thought with a flicker of amusement.
‘Going to treat myself to a few sweets and a visit to the cinema,’ she said.
‘I’ll walk down with you,’ he said. Very cautious type, Patrick. He would see how things went before venturing to suggest that he went with her to the cinema or anything like that, but she beamed happily at him and went back instantly to their shared memories about the convent school that they had both attended. He was laughing at her story of a prank that she and her nine-year-old friends had played on Sister Mary Immaculate, when they crossed the road to where Rory Duffy’s corner shop was situated. The man himself was outside his shop, rearranging some cabbages. A favourite ploy of his when he wanted to have a word with some of his Republican friends. Messages could be passed, information exchanged while Rory removed the odd flabby leaf, or pulled an especially stout hard-hearted specimen to the forefront of his display or tied a piece of string around a job lot of cabbages, putting the best vegetable in the foremost position. He ignored her and she ignored him. She knew better than to greet him as an acquaintance when she was in the company of Inspector Cashman so she concentrated her attention on the window display.
‘Oh, Patrick,’ she said loudly and enthusiastically, ‘look at those toffee caramels. I just adore these. Don’t you love the way the runny stuff is inside the shell of the hard toffee.’
‘I don’t think that I’ve ever tasted them,’ said Patrick after a moment’s concentra
tion on the window. He had not looked at Rory and so she guessed that he didn’t know about him. Rory kept a very low profile and was one of the most secret of the undercover men and because of that one of the most valuable to Tom Hurley.
‘Never tasted them! Oh, Patrick, Patrick! What are we to do with you?’ She laughed into his face and squeezed his arm. ‘Where have you lived? Well, you must have one before you are a day older!’
He bought the box, of course, paid a subservient Rory and went back out of doors with her. She made a point of opening the box at the doorway and popping the sweet into his mouth. Rory, she was certain, missed none of that intimacy, though he was now pretending to sweep the shop floor with great energy. She tucked her hand into Patrick’s arm and walked away with him. As they stopped to cross the road at the bridge, she looked back. Rory was outside his shop, holding his sweeping brush idly in one hand, and his face was turned in their direction.
He was ready for her when she came back a couple of hours later, standing outside on the pavement and looking down the street. ‘Enjoy the afternoon?’ he asked, one bushy eyebrow raised in a quizzical fashion. He removed a ‘BACK IN HALF AN HOUR’ notice from the front door, and slipped it under the counter. No one else in the shop. She could do her business with him without being overheard.
Death of a Novice Page 15
