The Death of a Joyce Scholar

by Bartholomew Gill

  He was quick and agile for somebody so tall—could he have copped on to Ward’s presence, as he had before? Ward wondered. No. There’d been no way Jammer could have seen him, his face having been averted when he had first noticed Jammer’s stride.

  Jammer bumped through the swinging doors into the wide foyer of Bewley’s, a baked-goods and candy-sales area, and held the door for an old woman who was toddling out with a pushcart and a small, ancient dog on a leash.

  Ward lowered his head and kept walking. He even said, “Ta,” when Jammer waited until Ward had the door before releasing it. Slowing his step, Ward pretended to take interest in a display of Christmas cakes while Jammer moved toward the main tea room and the lift and stairs that led either to a second floor dining room or to the toilets in the basement.

  He chose the stairs up, mounting them two at a time as though in a hurry. Ward decided he’d give him a minute lead, since the upstairs dining room had only one emergency exit, which was rigged with an alarm. And a good thing he waited, for Jammer now appeared out of the lift and walked quickly into the main tea room. Careful. He consulted the reflection off the bakery display cases and glass doors to see if he were being followed, making Ward wonder if something had spooked him, like his own distinctive walk, some gesture, the one word he had uttered.

  The main dining room was a turn-of-the-century relic with tall ceilings and large, multicolored, leaded-glass windows. It was divided into two sections: the smaller served by waitresses; the other cafeteria-style, with tables and deep, red-plush wall sofas distinctive to Bewley’s and much favored by students and the elderly, who nursed single cups of coffee for hours while reading newspapers or chatting. Ward knew which section Jammer would choose: the larger and more anonymous, with no waitress to stare into his face and mark him.

  But there was a long line at the sandwich, salad, and dessert cases, a longer one still at the hot-meal, steamtable service section. Only the four women at the tall, chrome coffee urns that dispensed Bewley’s renowned brew seemed to be filling orders quickly; when Jammer moved in that direction, Ward decided what he would do. Pushing through the throng, he quickly made up the distance between them, so that when Jammer picked up a mug of coffee and turned toward the registers, Ward stood directly behind him.

  Jammer had not taken a tray when he first walked into the dining room; he would have to release the umbrella to pay for the coffee. Then, with one hand around the mug, his other in a pocket, and his back turned to Ward, he would be exposed and vulnerable.

  Jammer ordered a coffee white; it was dispensed in a hiss of steam from the urn, and by pointing to the cup and nodding, Ward ordered the same without having to speak. As he’d suspected, Jammer was too involved with the things in his hand and the coins he would need to pay for the coffee to turn for a look at him. And when, at the register, the left hand leaned the umbrella against the metal bars of the tray slide and slipped into a trouser pocket, Ward acted.

  Raising his mug of coffee chest high to extend his elbow, he plunged into Jammer, striking him with his forearm just below the shoulder blades. The coffee sloshed over the rim onto the blue, pinstriped suit jacket, and Ward released his grip on the mug.

  As it fell, he pulled up a vent of the jacket and discovered what had been causing the slight bulge there at Jammer’s waist. His other hand clamped down on the butt of the Beretta, which had been stuck under his belt at the small of his back; he pulled it free. The mug, hitting the floor, broke into bits and splashed hot coffee over their shoes and trousers.

  “Sorry,” Ward said in the Dublin equivalent of pardon me. “Jammer,” he added, smiling. “I believe this is mine.” Ward tucked the Beretta under his own belt. “Or would you fancy trying to get it back?”

  Jammer’s eyes, still hooded under the narrow brim of the bowler, darted to the exit door, then back at Ward, and finally to the cup of coffee that he was still holding daintily in his hand.

  “Rachel!” The woman at the register began shouting. “We’ve got a spill. Over here at register one.”

  Two spills, as Jammer released his own mug and snatched up the umbrella. Jumping back, he raised it in front of him with arms extended, like a defensive brace.

  Said Ward in a loud voice, “I am a police officer, and you are under arrest.”

  Taking a step forward with his fists tightened over the long umbrella, Jammer began backing Ward into the corner formed by the counter of the steam service area and the coffee urns, which was acceptable to Ward. The ceiling dropped down there, and any attempted blow with the umbrella from overhead or from the right would prove impossible.

  Ward had one palm—the right—outstretched, and somebody not far from them had begun to scream. Beyond Jammer’s wide shoulders he could see people beginning to leave hurriedly in panic, as was common now in Ireland when violence was threatened in a public place.

  “I repeat—you are under arrest for assault, for inflicting grievous bodily harm, and in connection with a murder investigation.”

  Jammer struck out. His left hand slid down the handle of the umbrella and he swung it like a long, tight bat at Ward’s head.

  Ward ducked, then sidestepped quickly; the umbrella shot over him and over the serving counter and clipped through a steam pipe on a coffee urn. It struck the tall, metal reservoir with a resounding roar that raised further shrieks. A funnel of bright steam jetted toward the ceiling, and Ward, loading all his weight into his right fist, struck Jammer a stinging blow to the ear that made him cry out. “Ya fookin’ bastard, ya. Ya cop!”

  And again.

  Jammer’s head smacked into the glass of a food case, cracking it, and his derby and dark wig fell off. He was bald or had shaved his head, and infuriated now, he swung the other way, again missing Ward. The momentum carried the umbrella—which, Ward guessed, had been weighted—into the second register, which toppled to the floor, spilling change everywhere.

  Ward hit out again at Jammer’s other ear; the force of the blow spun Jammer around. Now the dining room was in full flight, and Ward stepped into the man.

  Below the belt first, with punches shoveled up from knee level—once, twice—the belly softer with each blow, until with the third punch Jammer’s fingers lost their grip on the handle and the umbrella slipped to the floor.

  Ward stepped back and kicked it out of the way. He could hear sirens now, and he wondered how much time he had.

  That was when Jammer’s hand moved into a back pocket of his trousers and came out in a fist that sprouted a long, thin blade.

  “Ah, now,” said Ward, “we’re to stop the fun and play serious, are we?” He looked around, hoping there might be a witness.

  One: a stout woman across the counter in a kitchen doorway. She had a red face and a spotted apron and was holding in one, meaty hand a length of lead pipe.

  “Do you see that?” Ward asked her.

  “A knife,” she replied.

  “A stiletto,” said Ward. “I don’t like knives. Sometimes they kill people.”

  “Mind yourself now,” she advised, as Ward reached for the umbrella and Jammer lashed out.

  Ward snatched it up and, pivoting, swung the umbrella up from his heels and caught Jammer on the side of the jaw, the ear, and the head, which snapped around. It was indeed weighted. It was heavy and tight, its heft and point more like that of a spear than a support.

  The second blow fell on the wrist that held the knife, which clattered out of Jammer’s hand and which Ward kicked under the counter to the cook.

  Ward hurled the umbrella toward the sofas and moved in again, beating the taller, larger man with combinations, hooks and uppercuts, toward the door of the dining room. He beat him over and through tables, a glass divider, the open doorway into the foyer, and along the glass-covered cake and pie cases, sliding Jammer along with his fists, turning him, rolling him, raising him with punches and drubbing every part of his upper body but his face, which he was saving for last.

  They were near the doorw
ay when he saw the two unmarked police cars nose through the deep crowd in front of Bewley’s, and when, spinning Jammer around he launched a flurry of hard, sharp blows at the small, fragile ribs—mere cartilage—each side that broke easily and would ache and remind him of Ward for at least a fortnight with every breath he drew. And then the pectoral muscle over the heart, the chin, the other side and the chin.

  And then the chin and the ear, and the chin and the other ear, and the chin and the chin and chin, and finally, with a shot that he felt from his shoulder to his back and even down in his legs, Ward shattered his nose.

  It drove Jammer through the glass divider behind the display area of the front right window and into the great chrome coffee grinder with its hopper of black beans, which had been a feature of Bewley’s since anybody could remember; when McGarr stepped out of the staff Rover, he was showered with glass and cascading coffee beans, was nearly struck by the falling hopper and by a tall, bald man who fell roughly to the pavement before him.

  Then Ward appeared in the open window, shaking. He tried to look down at his hands, which were now galling him, but he couldn’t hold them steady enough for a clear view. They were raw and bleeding, and he felt like he did after a long fight—giddy and nauseous and suddenly very, very tired. He looked round and wondered if Rut’ie was among the patches of blue uniform that now surrounded them. “This man is under arrest,” he said.

  McGarr glanced at the Beretta, stuck under Ward’s belt. “Right. The Richmond, with him,” he said to McKeon. He meant Jammer and a hospital that specialized in emergency care.

  “And the charge?” McKeon asked in a plain voice.

  “Accomplice to murder,” McGarr said for the crowd. “Place a full guard on his room and keep him sequestered.”

  A week and a day later, McGarr again found himself in Catty Doyle’s kitchen. It was nearly seven in the evening, and dark in the house, the only light filtering dimly through a curtained window that looked out on her back garden.

  McGarr was actually pleased with the foul weather that had iced roads and footpaths and kept most people at home with their blinds drawn. It had made his second—albeit warranted—entry into the De Courcy Square row house all that much easier. There had been no neighbors to assuage, no uniformed Guards to deal with. And now with his feet up on the hob of the cooker, which burnt coal, he contented himself with the ticking of the clock in the sitting room, the occasional gurgle of a drain from the house next door, and once only with a low, muffled voice that issued from the spare room that Catty used as a pantry.

  He wished he could smoke, but that might spoil things. And his mind strayed to the newspapers that had been filled with the beating Ward had given some “…respectable-looking man who has as yet to be charged or released.” Bewley’s had also complained about the damage incurred and their loss of business, until it was revealed by their own employees that the man had attacked Inspector Ward with a weighted umbrella and then pulled a knife. A gun as well earlier, some other employee said, though the allegation was never corroborated by the police.

  Said the head cook, who had watched the entire altercation, “It was the single most complete beating I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing one smaller man give another, in the ring or out. The little fella skint him, so he did. It was only later I learned it was Whipper Ward did the job, which I’m proud to say makes me one up on fight fans the country over.” Through his family, Jammer—who turned out to be something more than they thought—had immediately contacted a solicitor who told the press that he planned to lodge against Ward the charge of assault with a dangerous weapon. Ward’s hands, he meant.

  But Kinch, Catty Doyle’s dog, had now begun to bark, quieting only when the back-garden gate door was banged shut. McGarr lowered his feet to the floor, straightened up, and waited while the key was fit in the lock. The kitchen door opened and a form appeared, silhouetted against the gray stone of the cemetery wall beyond the lane. The door was closed, and McGarr waited while the light switch was fumbled for.

  At length it was switched on, nearly blinding him, but still he said nothing. He only kept watching while a wet coat was shaken out and hung up, a pair of Welly’s kicked off, and long, dark hair pulled out from under a collar and raked back with fingers.

  Even when a tap was turned on and a teapot filled, McGarr wasn’t seen. Not until a moment later, from the stove.

  “Don’t move,” said McGarr. “Stay where you are. Bernie,” he called to the door leading to the spare room.

  It opened, and after a short pause a figure appeared in it. He was tall and his face was patched with bandages. The cast on his right arm was supported by a sling.

  “This the person?” McGarr asked.

  Jammer’s eyes shifted from the figure at the stove to the floor. He nodded.

  “Say it!”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Said McGarr, “This is the person into whose care you surrendered Kevin Coyle on the night of his murder?”

  McKeon, who was standing by Jammer, nudged him.

  “Yes.”

  “At that point Coyle was well?”

  “He was drunk.”

  “But he was conscious?”

  Jammer nodded.

  “What did this individual say to you?”

  “‘Ah, Professor Coyle,’ or something like that, ‘how surprising to see you here and in this condition.’”

  “And you?”

  “I left with the things Coyle had on him.”

  “He gave them to you?”

  “No—I took them, like. For having gotten him there.”

  “And did you see this person again?”

  “A day later, he came to me in my kip.”

  “The shelter over the wall?”

  Jammer nodded.

  “And what was said to you then.”

  “I was asked to go out and buy a set of knives. I was given money for the knives and for a set of clothes so I wouldn’t look like I was.”

  “And you were given other money?”

  Jammer again nodded.

  “How much?”

  “One hundred pounds.”

  “Didn’t you think it extraordinary?”

  Jammer hunched his shoulders. “What’s ordinary? It was a hundred pounds. It seemed legal. And then I’d have the suit and all, wouldn’t I?”

  “And so you did as you were asked?”

  McKeon, who was standing near Jammer, said, “Answer, please,” and adjusted a dial on the machine he was holding.

  “Yes. I bought the knives, like I was asked, in McNabb’s in D’Olier Street. I paid cash and was waited on by a girl.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I brought them back here, like I was told.”

  “To this house?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you handed them over?”

  “Just one. There was somebody coming down the alley, which is where we were, and I was left with the rest. I took them back to me kip. I thought maybe I’d use them, or in a pinch get a few quid for them.”

  “Did you see this person again?”

  “No. We don’t get on anymore. A couple a days later, that thing with the cop happened in Merrion Square, and I began asking after—”

  “What had happened to bring the law down on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you learned…?”

  “That a bloke name of Coyle had been stabbed.”

  “Murdered.”

  “Yes. I guess it’d been in all the papers, but—”

  “Had you ever seen this person before?” McGarr meant the person standing with the teapot in hand.

  “Of course.”

  “But recently?”

  “At the bus stop. Mornings. And sometimes—you know—at night.”

  “Had you spoken?”

  “A nod. Like I said, we don’t get on now.”

  “For the record”—McGarr pointed to the machine in McKeon’s hands—“what is your name?”<
br />
  “James Harrold Geoffrey Holderness. People call me Jammer. Me mates.”

  McGarr stood. “Please place the teapot on the table.” That done, he continued, “David Allan George Holderness, you are charged with the murder of Kevin Coyle.” Nearly a month earlier Holderness had moved in with Catty Doyle. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  “Certainly. This man lies. He lied as a child, as an adolescent, and now as an adult. He is a criminal with a record and a history of having done violence to others.

  “On the night of Kevin Coyle’s murder, he had Coyle in tow when he knocked on the back gate. We’ve never gotten along, not even as children, and then Coyle was drunk and abusive. I refused to let him in, but this man insisted. He pushed Coyle into the kitchen and then began taking things: the ashplant stick, which he smacked on the table, threatening both of us. He picked a clock—there, you can see by the paint where it used to hang—right off the wall.

  “When Coyle objected to the rough way in which he was being handled, he began pulling Coyle’s blazer off him, he snatched at the hat. Coyle objected to that even more strenuously, saying, ‘The stick and the blazer I said you could have, but not the boater.’ This man proved quicker, however, and got the hat off. Coyle, summoning himself, went for him. Coyle is—was—a man about my size, his size, and strong, especially when impassioned. Before Trinity he worked in the brewery. He kept going on drunkenly about it being Joyce’s hat and that he’d paid four hundred and fifty pounds for it. They grappled and wrestled until this man, having been clipped in the face by Coyle, reached back, seized the filleting knife from the set you see there, and plunged it into Coyle’s chest.

  “He died instantly. Right on the spot. He was dead on his feet and hadn’t yet fallen before this man had the hat on his head. He turned to me and said, ‘You too?’ Or, ‘You want some of the same,’ or some such thing, and I stepped into the hall there. I’ve always abhorred violence. It’s so senseless. I locked the door and waited.