Murder at the Queen's Old Castle

by Cora Harrison

  ‘I’m sorry that your mother is so upset,’ continued the Reverend Mother. ‘Your father’s death in those circumstances must have been a terrible shock for all of you.’

  ‘Not made any easier by the presence of the police at the funeral,’ said the woman grimly. The remark was probably meant to be carried back, but the Reverend Mother did not waste any time in defending Patrick’s presence at the funeral. There was no doubt that murder put a great strain on the family of the victim, but, on the other hand, there was no way of avoiding an investigation. ‘All right for them, going around asking questions,’ continued the woman. ‘How do they think that makes us feel? Can’t they imagine what an effect something like this has on a wife?’

  ‘And on the sons and daughters?’ The Reverend Mother watched the effect of that remark. What would be the reply to it?

  Kitty Fitzwilliam almost shrugged. There certainly was a twitch to the heavily padded shoulders of the rather ill-fitting costume which she wore. Black, with a skirt which was neither long nor short, but which dipped uncertainly around the region of the calves of her legs and a jacket which, though of the same colour, seemed to have no real relationship to the skirt and to be made of a different material. She still retained the ugly black straw hat that she had worn in the church. It was squashed down over her eyebrows, and all in all, she presented the appearance of a woman who had snatched a few items from the Ladies’ Millinery counter and had decided that they would be appropriate for a funeral. Monica, though of the same age, was considerably better dressed. The Reverend Mother wished for the companionship of her cousin Lucy who would immediately be able to match an outfit to a shop, but even without that aid, she would be prepared to put a bet on her conviction that Monica’s rather smart, black, fur-trimmed costume had not come from the stocks of the Queen’s Old Castle.

  ‘My mother gets easily upset,’ said Kitty. She did not, noticed the Reverend Mother, comment on the notion that her father’s death would be upsetting for her or for her brothers and sisters. It seemed to point to poor relationships all around, but it may just be something to do with a laconic and inhibited personality. It must be odd to have the role of father subsumed into the role of employer. It was very possible that this dual relationship would weaken natural ties and that here in the shop, Kitty’s grief for a father was buried beneath the needs of the business.

  The Reverend Mother found her eyes going to the wires which sent the change barrels zooming up through the empty space of the old castle until they reached the small office high up on the side wall.

  ‘I suppose the boys have great fun working these,’ she said impulsively.

  Kitty surveyed her with the air of one who was used to dealing with senile old ladies. There was a palpable sigh, and a patient attempt at a cold smile. ‘The apprentices are never trusted to handle money or to work the change barrels, Reverend Mother,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said the Reverend Mother.

  ‘That’s the rule, Reverend Mother,’ said a man’s voice from behind her. ‘But of course, some of these boys are a law unto themselves. Especially young Brian. A very headstrong boy, unreliable, not very satisfactory in many respects. In fact …’ The voice trailed off and the Reverend Mother turned around. Robert was back from escorting his mother from the premises. Gone home in the major’s car, no doubt. What, she wondered, was he implying?

  ‘Was your father not satisfied with him?’ She allowed a note of surprise to enter her query and Kitty looked quickly from one to the other.

  ‘Some of them take longer to settle to steady work than others,’ Kitty said. It had the air of being an excuse for Brian, but her anxious eyes were fixed upon her brother. Robert did not respond, did not look at her, but continued to look across at the front doors where Brian, beckoning enthusiastically, had appeared. After a minute he said curtly, ‘I think that young Brian is signalling to you, Reverend Mother. Dr Scher must have brought his car around. What a pity that he was not here when my mother’s nerves broke down again. He has been her medical attendant for many years, been paid well for his trouble, too.’

  An unpleasant man. A thoroughly unpleasant man. His tone implied that Dr Scher had fallen down on the duties that he had been paid for. The Reverend Mother said a few last farewell words to Kitty and went towards the front door, to where Brian was waiting. She felt rather sorry that she could not take him with her. In some way, she had an uneasy feeling about him. There had been a note of malevolence, not just in the screamed words of the distraught widow, but also in the measured cadences of the middle-aged Kitty, whose youth had mouldered in this damp, cold shop. And in the irritable words of Robert Fitzwilliam who had, if Lucy was correct, been denied his inheritance.

  This custom of apprenticeship, a leftover from English law, was one that favoured the well-off by providing them with cheap labour and a source of income as the parents of the apprentice had to pay a fee – in many cases a fee which they could ill afford. And a practice which reduced the children of the poor to a status of almost slavery. The boy, Brian, was the possession of these unhappy and disappointed people. Brian Maloney’s mother had arranged his apprenticeship, had gone back to her own people on a farm outside Mallow. He was on his own, was without any adult protection and at the mercy of those who employed him.

  As Dr Scher escorted her to his battered old Humber, she reflected upon Brian and hoped that the boy was not in any kind of danger of losing his position as an apprentice and finding himself destitute and homeless in the city of Cork.

  Or, perhaps, in even greater danger. If he had been a witness of anything, of anyone inserting a suspicious canister into a change barrel; if he had seen anything like that as he had darted, agile as a young puppy, around and through the counters of the Queen’s Old Castle, well, then, Brian Maloney might be in grave peril.

  ELEVEN

  Patrick left the barracks in good time to attend the reading of Joseph Fitzwilliam’s will. He thought that he would walk there. The Fitzwilliams’ house was in Glenville Place, just overlooking the river, only about twenty minutes from the barracks. And about ten minutes’ walking time from the Queen’s Old Castle shop. Not somewhere that I’d particularly want to live, thought Patrick, as he rounded the corner onto the quay. A tall, thin, four-storey house with some windows on the steep roof showing that a fifth storey was accommodated behind the slates. A bedraggled maidservant opened the door to his knock and indicated, wordlessly, a door on the left. Patrick hesitated for a moment, but the maid had disappeared down some stairs to the basement area of the house and so he put his hat on the hat stand, tapped on the door and pushed it open.

  No refreshments here, but the family were gathered and he had, he decided, come to the right place. Mr Rupert Murphy, flanked by a middle-aged clerk, was leafing through the contents of his attaché case, rather more in the fashion of one who was killing some time, than as if he were really looking for something. The clerk had arranged some papers neatly on the small table in front of them and Patrick caught a glimpse of the words ‘Last Will and Testament’ on the top of a page. When Mr Murphy saw Patrick, he came forward immediately and held out a hand for him to shake.

  ‘Ah, inspector, come in,’ he said in a genial, host-like fashion. ‘Come and sit down. This chair comfortable enough for you? Haven’t got the light in your eyes? Warm enough?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Patrick felt somewhat embarrassed. The chair was in an ideal position, well away from the lawyer and his clerk, away from that focus of attention, but it gave him a perfect view of the family grouped to one side of the fireplace. He sat down quickly and in turn fumbled through the contents of his own attaché case. They were all there, all grouped on one side of the fire. Old Mrs Fitzwilliam was slumped on a long sofa, with her two daughters, one on either side of her.

  Monica, he noticed, was very smartly dressed. She had taken off the warm woollen coat which she had worn for the funeral and was now wearing a slim-fitting, black, silk dress with a n
ecklace of pearls around her neck – three rows of them, he noticed, fitting around her neck like a glittering collar. He didn’t know enough about pearls to be certain that they were real, but he knew that they looked expensive. And that, twins or not twins, she looked years younger than her sister.

  The major had ensconced himself on a broad upholstered easy chair, his well-polished boots were placed on a matching upholstered stool and by his side he had a small round table with a glass of brandy or whiskey standing on it and an open box of cigars placed ready at his hand. Robert, however, in stark contrast to his brother, was sitting on a hard, upright chair and staring fiercely ahead.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said the solicitor. He cast a quick glance around the room and then embarked upon a few minutes of legal jargon while the family of the deceased, except for the major, eyed him with distrust. And then the will was read. The house at Glenville Place and some shares were left to the wife. Both daughters got two thousand pounds each. Patrick could see how their faces fell at this. The major puffed at his cigar and sipped his brandy and showed little interest in the proceedings as the solicitor said the words: ‘and all the residue of my estate to my eldest son, Major James Fitzwilliam’. No one moved or said anything as the solicitor read out the long list of all of what the dead man had possessed. It was only when he came to a full stop with the conventional words, ‘This is the last Will and Testament of Joseph Thomas Fitzwilliam’ that it seemed as though full realization dawned.

  ‘He left me nothing,’ said Robert and the words jerked out from him as though he was an automaton.

  ‘The shop, everything to James; he must have been mad!’ Kitty, thought Patrick, looked as though she were about to explode.

  ‘The will was made by me and it appeared to me and to my clerk that the late Mr Fitzwilliam was of sound mind,’ replied the solicitor. ‘And I do understand that Mr Fitzwilliam informed you of his intentions in advance.’ His tone was measured and unemotional. Probably used to a fuss at the reading of wills, thought Patrick.

  ‘But that’s rubbish,’ cried Kitty. ‘Nobody believed him. He was always doing that sort of thing. Nobody thought that he would actually do it. He was always talking about changing his will. We never thought that he would do it so quickly, that he would go off on the—’

  ‘That’s enough, Kitty,’ said Robert. He spoke in an undertone but there was a vicious sound to his words.

  Never thought that he would do it so quickly. The words echoed through Patrick’s mind. Quite a motive for murder on the part of Robert, but also of the two sisters and of the widow. He sat very still and avoided drawing attention to himself.

  ‘Let me see the date on that will.’ Robert almost snatched the piece of vellum from the solicitor’s hand. ‘Yes, the very morning after,’ he said almost to himself. ‘He went to the solicitor the morning after and made a new will. You knew about that, did you?’ He glared at his brother.

  ‘He told me, yes.’

  ‘And that’s why you came back?’

  ‘He wrote to me beforehand,’ explained the major. ‘Asked me to come home. Said he felt worried and that he felt he’d like to have me with him.’

  Not quite an answer, thought Patrick.

  ‘Worried!’ sneered Robert.

  ‘And now I’m afraid that I must leave you all. I have an appointment with another client.’ The solicitor got to his feet and firmly packed the will into his leather attaché case. The clerk was on his feet also and with a quick look at his master, he left the room after a muttered farewell. No one took any notice of him. All eyes were on the solicitor and he responded as one who had dealt with this sort of situation many times during his life as solicitor to the moneyed of Cork city.

  ‘You will all receive a copy of the will, hopefully by tomorrow’s post, if my clerk has time to type out the copies this afternoon,’ he said. ‘If not it will certainly be with you on the following day. May I drop you off near to the barracks, inspector? I am going your way.’

  There was little chance of declining that invitation, but Patrick felt that he might have preferred to stay. It was interesting how money and bequests brought out the worst in people. Still, he had heard enough to give him food for thought. And there was a question that he needed to put to the solicitor.

  He waited until he was safely ensconced upon the luxurious leather seat and that all doors were closed before he put it to the solicitor. ‘And the date of the will?’

  ‘Friday the first,’ said the solicitor, not looking at Patrick, but carefully turning his expensive car around the sharp corner.

  ‘And the major came home?’

  ‘I believe it was the Sunday before,’ said the solicitor cautiously.

  ‘So,’ said Patrick, ‘the major comes home, shows himself to be very useful in the aftermath of the flood, brings these gas cylinders, I understand, organizes the fumigation of the damaged goods, perhaps helps with the planning of the sale and then old Mr Fitzwilliam has a great row with other members of his family …’

  ‘I understand that the major was absent, meeting old friends on that occasion,’ said the solicitor, smoothly braking in order to allow a suicidal messenger boy, his bike almost touching the car’s bonnet, to swoop across the road.

  ‘So the row with the rest of his family occurs on a Thursday when he tells them of his intentions to change the will and then old Mr Fitzwilliam goes into his solicitor on the following morning and makes a new will, leaving almost all of what he possessed to his eldest son, Major James Fitzwilliam, nothing whatsoever to his younger son and probably what they would regard as a pittance to his daughters. Oh, and just enough to maintain his wife.’ Was that last of importance, or not, wondered Patrick, but they were now crossing the bridge and he knew that he had not much more time, here in this enclosed space, with a man who was reputed to know most of the secrets of the well-off families of Cork.

  ‘Of course, there are some people who are for ever making wills,’ said Patrick endeavouring to make his voice sound indifferent and to adopt a tone of one who is making conversation to fill in an idle moment.

  For a moment, he thought that he saw a smile twitch at the lips of the man beside him, but then the smile faded. ‘As a police officer in charge of an investigation into a suspicious death, if you ask me a question I am bound to answer it,’ said Mr Rupert Murphy in the tones of someone quoting from a textbook as he cast an expectant glance over his shoulder before refocussing on the road ahead.

  Patrick thought about that for a moment and then asked the question. ‘How many wills had Mr Fitzwilliam made?’

  ‘Ten. I counted them up yesterday. Had a little bet on with my chief clerk about it!’

  ‘And each time he had announced it to his family?’

  ‘I believe that you are right.’

  ‘And so …’ said Patrick seeing his destination getting closer and fumbling for the right words, ‘it might have been expected by all parties that this will might have been changed yet again.’

  The solicitor drew his car to a smooth halt outside the police barracks. ‘True,’ he said. And then as Patrick reached for the door handle, he added thoughtfully, ‘Mr Fitzwilliam was fortunate, or perhaps unfortunate, enough to be able to see me on the morning when he telephoned. I had a cancelled appointment just before lunch time on that day.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Patrick. He got out of the car, but he did not go into the barracks straight away but walked up and down, thinking hard. It was only when he saw old Tommy who had left his place on the desk and was now standing at the window peering out at him that it dawned on him that he was behaving in an eccentric fashion. He gave one last, face-saving glance at the sky and then went into the barracks, rubbing his hands as he went.

  ‘Going to be a cold night tonight, Tommy,’ he said before the man could ask him what he was doing. ‘You look at that sky out there.’ And then, very quickly, before any reply could be given, he asked, ‘Joe in, is he, Tommy?’ And then he went down the passageway, click
ing his heels against the wooden flooring and walking in a very erect way. He would solve this murder, he swore it to himself.

  ‘The trouble with this man, old Mr Fitzwilliam, Joe,’ he said opening the door to the sergeant’s office and then closing it firmly behind him in case Tommy followed him down the corridor with a verdict on the weather. ‘The trouble with him,’ he said once he was safely inside, ‘is that he was a most dislikeable fellow. Everyone wanted to kill him and that’s making it jolly hard for you and for me.’

  ‘You’re in a good mood,’ said Joe eyeing him with amusement.

  ‘Wait until you hear about the wills,’ said Patrick, taking off his coat and sitting down on the windowsill. ‘The man made ten of them, probably a will every couple of months. Had fun with them, too, I gather. Anyway, let me tell you of his last will and testament.’

  TWELVE

  Dowden’s shop was by far the most expensive shop in the city of Cork. The wives of the wealthy shopped there for their dresses, coats, costumes, hats, gloves and silk stockings. Its small neat van could be seen traversing the streets of the moneyed citizens who lived on the slopes of Montenotte or in the mansions by the river at Blackrock. Dowden’s was immensely accommodating and always happy to send out a selection of newly arrived two-piece costumes or coats, ‘on apro.’ so that their customers could try out the goods in the privacy of their houses.

  Eileen had always loved wandering through Dowden’s, imagining what she would buy for herself and for her mother once she had made her fortune. On one of these wanders she had an inspiration. ‘Shops like Dowden’s should send out leaflets to their customers. Half of those women are too lazy to come in and shop for themselves,’ she said to Jack as she watched him slot letters, at lightning speed, into lines of type. ‘I hear the assistants on the counters, phoning them up and saying things like: “Oh, Modom will love those new suits that we’ve just got in. We’ve got one that’s the very thing for Modom. It’s just Modom’s colour. A true duck egg blue. And in Modom’s size. Just let me send out one for Modom to try on”.’