Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom?

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘Sod you, Daddy. Sod you.’

  Cissy and she sat side by side on the wall by the gate of the Caffrey residence, arms entwined. Cissy’s young brothers were in bed but not asleep. Mrs Caffrey had gone round to visit Mrs Dignam and Cissy’s father had volunteered to pop into the MacDowell house and offer his gouty friend an arm to lean on as they made their way to the Sandymount Arms. Gerty had helped her mother sweep up the broken dishes then she’d planted her foot on the hearthstone and had called her father a name or two and warned him that if he so much as raised a finger to either of them she would see to it that her friend, Inspector Kinsella of the DMP, got to hear about it and she wouldn’t be the only one receiving a summons to appear in court, only in his case it wouldn’t be as a witness.

  ‘What did he have to say to that?’ Cissy Caffrey asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Gerty answered. ‘He huffed and puffed and put on his boots and when your dad arrived went out with him without saying a blessed word.’

  ‘You’ll be for it when he comes home with a skinful, though.’

  ‘Let him try,’ said Gerty. ‘Just let him try.’

  Cissy tugged the shawl over her friend’s shoulders, fumbled a bashed cigarette from the top of her knickers and, with a kitchen match struck against the wall, carefully cupped her hand over the flame and lit the gasper. She drew smoke through parted lips and passed the cigarette to Gerty who, without a moment’s hesitation, took it and inhaled.

  She no longer gave a toot what the Lady’s Pictorial had to say about women who smoked. Devotion to the advice offered by the columnists in the Lady’s Pictorial had done her no good, apart from keeping her up-to-date with fashion. Poldy had told her smoking cigarettes was all the rage with women in London and considered very sophisticated. He’d even let her have a puff at one of his cigars, though that, she had to admit, had not been pleasant for cigars didn’t taste nearly as nice as they smelled.

  She allowed smoke to drift through her nostrils the way Poldy had taught her, then handed the cigarette back to Cissy.

  ‘Are you really going to court on Monday?’ Cissy said.

  ‘What choice do I have? You get fined if you don’t show up.’

  ‘What’ll you wear?’

  ‘Nothing too bright,’ said Gerty. ‘I’ve got that waterfall skirt with the tucks I put in around the hips.’

  ‘It hides your legs, though.’

  ‘Poldy’s not going to be looking at my legs.’

  ‘Has he really not snapped your garter yet?’

  ‘I told you. He’s a gentleman. We’ve agreed to wait.’

  ‘You won’t have to wait long if he gets off. As soon as he’s out of mourning he can marry you fair and square then you can do it all night and all day. By the way,’ said Cissy, ‘has he told you what he’s going to do about his daughter?’

  Gerty shook her head.

  Cissy went on, ‘She’s only fifteen, they say. Well, by jiminy, you could have fooled me with a kiss and a biscuit. They were all round her like flies, the College mob, though I didn’t see your Willy there.’

  ‘He was never my Willy,’ Gerty said.

  ‘More’s the pity, eh?’

  ‘I’d rather have Leopold than a dozen Willy Wyatts.’

  ‘You might not say that, dear, if your man’s found guilty. Now don’t you be telling me you’ll wait for him. God, you’ll be dead before he gets out of prison.’ Cissy took a final puff at the wilting cigarette. ‘You wouldn’t be silly enough to marry him if he really did it, would you, Gerty? Surely you wouldn’t marry a murderer?’

  ‘My bag’s still packed,’ said Gerty, ignoring the question. ‘As soon as Poldy’s free we’ll be off to Liverpool.’

  ‘What’s Mr Bloom using for cash?’

  ‘He has plenty of money.’

  ‘Then why’s he living in rented in Eccles Street?’

  ‘You’re not being very helpful, Cissy. Are you jealous?’

  ‘You know, dear, I am. Dead jealous.’ Cissy could lie with the best of them. ‘I should have given him an eyeful of my knickers on the beach that night and it might have been me instead of you was off to Liverpool.’

  ‘Is Edy jealous too?’

  ‘You know Edy. She’s jealous of our cat.’ Cissy flicked away the remnants of the cigarette. ‘I’d best go in, see what mischief those imps are up to.’

  ‘Cissy,’ Gerty said, ‘will you come with me to court?’

  ‘What about your ma?’

  ‘I don’t want her there. It’ll only bring on her megrim.’

  ‘And he won’t go, I suppose.’

  ‘Not him, no.’

  A hug, a kiss on the cheek: ‘Yes, dear, I’ll be there.’

  ‘Monday then?’ said Gerty.

  ‘Monday it is,’ Cissy Caffrey promised and, filled with apprehension, watched her love-sick friend limp off along the pavement home.

  PART THREE

  The Intruder

  TWENTY THREE

  At precisely half past ten on Monday, 20th March, before the crowd in the gallery had properly settled, Mr Rice read the proclamation of the adjourned hearing and tolled off the names of the jurors, all of whom, thank heaven, had shown up again.

  Coroner Slater proceeded to read out a summary of evidence taken at the first hearing, laying emphasis on the conclusions reached by Benson Rule in respect of the condition of the deceased and the injuries inflicted upon her. That done, he paused, and glanced at the foolscap page upon which his clerk, Mr Devereux, had listed the names of witnesses who, on police advice, had been summoned to appear before the court. Below each name the clerk had attached a brief note on how the witness might be expected to contribute to the narrative of events.

  First into the box was Otto Dlucgaez, pork butcher of Upper Dorset Street, who confirmed that Leopold Bloom, a regular customer, had entered his shop at twenty minutes to eight on the morning in question and had exited again some four minutes later.

  ‘What did he purchase?’ the coroner inquired.

  ‘Two slices of calf’s liver.’

  ‘I thought you were a pork butcher.’

  ‘I cater to all tastes, your lardship.’

  ‘Was it usual for Mr Bloom to ask for calf’s liver?’

  ‘He liked all the organs. Sheep’s kidney was his favourite.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He liked gizzards, too, and—’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dlucgaez. I think that’s enough.’

  The mystery of why Bloom had bought calf’s liver in preference to pork having been satisfactorily put to bed, Dlucgaez was replaced in the box by Mrs Norma Hastings, who claimed Mr Bloom as a neighbour.

  Elegantly coiffed and dressed for the occasion, Mrs Hastings was thwarted in her attempt to turn her account of a fleeting encounter with Bloom into a three-act opera by the coroner’s curt dismissal and returned to the benches more than somewhat abashed by the brevity of her appearance in the spotlight.

  Bloom had been brought up from Kilmainham early that morning. He had undergone a stiff examination from his counsel, Neville Sullivan, in respect of a certain insurance policy. An argument of sorts had ensued and the accused and his legal representative did not appear to be on speaking terms when they entered the courtroom and took their seats at the defence table.

  Bloom’s moustache was untrimmed, his hair greasy, his trousers creased and his collar wrinkled. Gone was the cool, watchful fellow of a week ago. He had about him now a deflated air and was by no means cheered to discover Miss Gertrude MacDowell’s name on Sullivan’s copy of the witness list.

  Indeed, it was all he could do to raise a smile when Gerty gave him a wave from the second row of the witness benches and when she blew him a kiss he covered his face with the flat of his hand and turned his head away.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ he hissed.

  ‘She’s been summoned as a witness.’

  ‘I can see that, damn it. Did you fetch her?’

  ‘Not I,’ Neville said. ‘Kin
sella found her, no thanks to you.’

  ‘She knows nothing, I tell you. Send her away.’

  ‘Can’t be done, Bloom. It’s out of my hands.’

  ‘Elizabeth Fleming to the stand, please,’ the court officer called.

  Hand still screening his face, Bloom whispered, ‘What is this? What’s happening? I thought we had an arrangement. Who else is on the list? Is Boylan on the list? He is, isn’t he? Look, he’s there on the benches, grinning like an ape.’

  ‘Mr Sullivan,’ the coroner said, ‘is your client unwell?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Neville said. ‘We’re just having a bit of a tiff.’

  ‘Well, I’d be obliged if you’d tiff in your own time, Mr Sullivan. May I continue with this witness?’

  ‘By all means, sir,’ Neville Sullivan said and scowled at his agitated client to silence him.

  Roland Slater was proud of his ability to cut through fustian. He had read Kinsella’s summary of the police investigation and firmly believed he was on top of the case at last. He wasn’t oblivious to the lapses in procedure that might allow Tolland’s protégé to raise troubling issues if the jury sent Bloom on to the Assizes. Here and now, however, he was the conduit through which all police evidence must pass and, as such, he intended to piece together for the jury a feasible estimate of what had happened on the morning of March 9th in the blood-stained bedroom in Eccles Street.

  The witness, Mrs Fleming, answered his questions as to who she was, where she lived, how she was occupied – railway carriage cleaner – and stated that her relationship to the Blooms had been that of day-maid. Impressed by the woman’s demeanour, Slater removed his foot from the heavy pedal and addressed her gently.

  ‘Now, Mrs Fleming, I must ask you for an opinion based on the things you heard and saw in the Blooms’ household during the period of your tenure. I would point out to the members of the jury that such evidence should not be treated as hearsay and will enter into your deliberations as evidence directly related to a possible motive for unlawful killing. Are we clear on that point, gentlemen?’

  Foreman Conway glanced right, left and behind and, on behalf of his fellow jurors, stated, ‘We are.’

  Mrs Fleming’s coat covered a blouse that had been washed and patched almost beyond repair. The skirt too had been damp-pressed and ironed once too often and the coat, a cheap half-length garment, had the musty sheen of respectable poverty. Only the hat, a plain black straw, added a modicum of dignity. The woman’s eyes were tired but in the shaft of morning light from the courtroom window she seemed, the coroner thought, to show an intelligent awareness of what was required of her.

  ‘Were you well treated by your employers, Mrs Fleming?’

  ‘I was not ill-treated, sir.’

  ‘Did you enjoy your spell with the Blooms?’

  ‘I did, sir, until the end. Near the end.’

  ‘Mrs Fleming, is it correct that you were dismissed from employment a few days short of Christmas last year?’

  ‘Sure and it is, sir.’

  ‘What reason were you given for the severance?’

  ‘None, sir, none really.’

  ‘Were you accused of dishonesty, perhaps?’

  ‘No, sir, not that.’ Lizzie Fleming paused and looked down at her hands. ‘She said I was too old for to do the work.’

  ‘Mrs Bloom said that, did she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had Mrs Bloom complained about your inability to do the work required of you before that day?’

  ‘No, sir. She groused sometimes but it wasn’t no more than a bit of grumbling like you’d expect from any mistress.’

  ‘Did it come as a surprise when you were suddenly dismissed?’

  Still looking down at her hands, Lizzie Fleming said, ‘No, sir, it did not. I … I saw things I was not supposed to see.’

  ‘Quarrelling between Mr Bloom and Mrs Bloom?’

  ‘I never heard raised voices, if that’s what you mean. Never saw a raised hand neither. It was something else.’

  ‘No need to keep us guessing, Mrs Fleming,’ Roland Slater said. ‘What was it you saw that, in your opinion, led to your dismissal?’

  A deep breath and then, ‘I saw Mrs Bloom in the company of another gentleman.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He came to the house.’

  ‘So he was known to you?’

  ‘Yes. He came regular to the house. For rehearsals.’

  ‘A fellow singer, then? A professional singer like Mrs Bloom?’ the coroner said. ‘What harm is there in that, Mrs Fleming? Mr Bloom did not, I assume, object to this arrangement, given that it was Mrs Bloom’s piano that was used for …’ Then, as if the significance of the word had just occurred to him, he interrupted himself. ‘What do you mean by company, Mrs Fleming? Please explain.’

  ‘Doing what they shouldn’t be doing,’ said Lizzie Fleming.

  ‘Kissing?’ said Slater. ‘You mean kissing?’

  ‘It was worse. She had him inside …’ Lizzie Fleming might live with one of the earthiest men in Dublin but candour had its limits. Flushing, she shook her head, at a loss to describe the act she’d witnessed.

  ‘Am I to understand that what you saw isn’t fit to talk about in public?’ the coroner said.

  ‘No, sir, it’s not.’

  ‘It was, however, an act of sexual intercourse?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Where did this act take place?’

  ‘In the kitchen. He shouldn’t have been there. He came early.’

  Someone in the gallery guffawed. Roland Slater ignored the interruption and went on, ‘Are we to take it, Mrs Fleming, that the man friend of the deceased came at the same appointed hour for every visit?’

  ‘Four o’clock. I was always gone by then.’

  ‘Except on that one unfortunate occasion when the gentleman arrived early,’ the coroner said. ‘Did Mrs Bloom see you?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Did she say anything to you about the incident?’

  ‘No, sir, not a word.’

  ‘And you, did you tell Mr Bloom what had occurred?’

  ‘I did not,’ said Lizzie Fleming.

  ‘You were dismissed from Mrs Bloom’s service; when?’

  ‘Next morning – Friday – soon as Mr Bloom went out to work.’

  ‘Are you in no doubt concerning what you saw in the kitchen?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  Crouched at the table by the coroner’s chair Mr Devereux, the clerk, wrote in a neat, speedy hand, never more than a phrase or two behind. Dr Slater allowed him a moment to catch up. When Devereux gave him the signal by glancing up, however, the coroner did not sustain the obvious line of questioning.

  ‘Now, Mrs Fleming, let us turn to another matter.’

  Mr Conway was on his feet instantly. ‘We have questions, sir.’

  ‘I expect you have,’ said Roland Slater. ‘I will seek answers on your behalf shortly. Meanwhile, Mrs Fleming, will you be good enough to tell the court where the tea things, including the teapot, were kept.’

  Milk jug and sugar bowl, duly labelled, had been placed upon the evidence table, together with two pieces of the broken teapot. Dr Slater, leaning forward, dabbed a forefinger at the objects to draw the woman’s attention to them.

  ‘Those,’ he said.

  ‘The jug and bowl were in the dresser in the kitchen. I never saw them used,’ Mrs Fleming said. ‘I’d’ve known if they’d been used ’cause I’d have had to wash them. The teapot was never used for making tea. It was a gift from Mrs Bloom’s man friend.’

  ‘What was the teapot used for?’

  ‘Watering flowers – filling the vase – in Mrs Bloom’s bedroom. Mr Bloom did it for her whenever there were flowers.’

  ‘It would not be stretching imagination to conclude that the teapot might well have been left in Mrs Bloom’s bedroom after Mr Bloom had watered the flowers?’

  ‘No, sir, it wouldn’t.’

  ‘The friend who gave
Mrs Bloom a gift of painted china and the man with whom Mrs Bloom was engaged in sexual dalliance are one and the same, I take it?’

  ‘He is, one and the same.’

  ‘Is that person in court today?’

  ‘Ay, sir.’

  ‘Do you know his name, Mrs Fleming?’

  ‘It’s Mr Boylan.’

  ‘Would you point him out.’

  ‘There. That’s him.’

  Blazes hoisted himself up to display his profile first to the jury and then to the gallery. Shame, he seemed to be saying, was not a virtue to which he would make pretence. If he’d been wearing a hat he might have tipped it to acknowledge the interest his entry into the case aroused in the crowd.

  ‘Are you absolutely certain that Mr Boylan is the man you saw engaged in intimacy with Mrs Bloom?’

  ‘Ay, it was him, sir,’ Lizzie Fleming said. ‘I’ll swear it was.’

  Being neither a fool nor entirely ignorant of sexual matters, Milly was not surprised by Mrs Fleming’s revelations. Blazes’ reactions to being exposed as a philanderer, however, made her flesh creep. She could not, as yet, bring herself to deal with her mother’s role in the affair or imagine Mummy in Hugh Boylan’s arms or doing that other thing.

  Disgust swiftly gave way to anger, anger that she’d been taken in by Hugh Boylan’s concern for her welfare and, in spite of all the harm he’d done, that he still had the gall to pose.

  Driven by rage, she shot to her feet and, holding on to her hat, leaned over the gallery rail and screamed, ‘You pig, Hugh Boylan, you filthy pig,’ then sank back into her seat and wept, while Dr Paterson, an arm about her shoulders, comforted her as best he could.

  It took the court officers several minutes to quell the furore that Miss Bloom’s outburst caused. In an atmosphere of restless speculation, the coroner asked the jury, ‘Are there any further questions you wish me to put to this witness?’

  Mr Conway was too discreet to press Mrs Fleming for details as to what precisely she had seen Marion Bloom doing with Mr Boylan. He said, ‘It might be useful to learn how often the gentleman visited Mrs Bloom and when the visits began.’

  ‘Mrs Fleming?’ the coroner said. ‘You may answer?’

  ‘It would be once a week or twice,’ Lizzie Fleming said.