Murder at the Queen's Old Castle

by Cora Harrison

  ‘And what if Modom doesn’t like it?’ asked Jack, neatly picking up a pair of the letter ‘e’.

  ‘Well, it gets sent back, of course,’ said Eileen impatiently. ‘But, you see, these sales ladies will only offer them the sort of thing that they have bought in the past. What if Dowden’s have leaflets printed with descriptions of the new clothes for the season and have little drawings of them? You could do the drawings, couldn’t you, Jack? You are excellent at that.’

  ‘You’d better have a word with the boss,’ said Jack. ‘But I think it’s a great idea,’ he added generously. ‘And where Dowden’s lead, others will follow. The boss will love you for that, Eileen. Nice steady source of income. And with a bit of luck the shops will have drawings of the clothes already. The manufacturers are bound to have done those.’

  And so, on a cold spring morning, Eileen sat down in the back room of Dowden’s and inspected the spring collection of costumes that were being unpacked. She didn’t think much of the drawings, she thought Jack would have made a better job of them, but then told herself that it gave all the more scope to her pen. She took out her notebook and noted the good points of each piece of new clothing. And colour. Colour was something that could not be printed in the leaflet so she would have to describe it well. Bay leaf green, glowing amber, softest camel, bright clear azure, gentian shading into purple …

  By and by, from the fitting room across the passageway, she heard the words ‘eau de Nil’ and she made a quick note of it. It was the voice of the principal saleswoman, a very well-spoken lady, talking to a customer. ‘That eau de Nil colour suits you so well, Madam.’ Eileen giggled to herself. How could the woman say things like that and keep a straight face?

  And then she heard a different voice, a man’s voice, slight English accent, quite posh, and uttering a name that attracted her attention. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Monica, that’s the fifth thing that you’ve tried on. Can’t you make up your mind?’

  And then the saleswoman, sweet as pie. ‘Could we offer you a cup of coffee, Major? Maureen, run and get the major a cup of coffee and the Cork Examiner.’

  Eileen peered through the curtained doorway. She couldn’t see the occupants of the fitting room, but the table outside was piled high with neatly folded luxury garments. ‘Maureen’ had abandoned wrapping a couple of silk dresses in soft tissue paper and rushed off to get the cup of coffee and the Cork Examiner. Major Fitzwilliam came back from the window overlooking Patrick Street and threw himself impatiently into a comfortable armchair. A moment later, Miss Monica Fitzwilliam came out wearing a blue-green costume with a nipped-in waist and a surprisingly short skirt. So that was eau de Nil. Subtle shade, noted Eileen.

  ‘What do you think, James?’ asked Monica as she walked up and down and admired herself in the mirrors which lined the passageway.

  The major grunted, but didn’t reply. The saleswoman glanced from one to the other, appraising, thought Eileen knowingly, the size of the purse of the one and greed of the other.

  ‘Of course, this is cashmere, and cashmere is, I have to admit, just that teeny weeny bit expensive. I might just be able to find a similar colour in a plain wool,’ she said, and Eileen had to stop herself giggling at the disdainful way in which she pronounced the words ‘plain wool’.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Monica with a shudder. ‘Not plain wool. Cashmere feels so soft to the skin, but, of course, I will need something warm when I am on board ship. Will cashmere be enough? It feels so deliciously light, but …’

  ‘I’ve got just the thing,’ said the saleswoman enthusiastically. ‘Just come in. A Coco Chanel jersey with a high neck. Will slip under that costume as easy as anything. Beautiful cashmere in just that subtle shade of buttermilk that will really light up the eau de Nil. Not everyone can wear these colours, but with Madam’s complexion …’

  Eileen noted down ‘subtle shade of buttermilk’ into her notebook while the saleswoman bustled off to get the selection of Coco Chanel jerseys. There was going to be pink and white and grey as well as the buttermilk cream, she had said before leaving, but Eileen, taking another peep at the strands of grey in Monica’s dark hair, decided that if she were the saleswoman she would persuade her into buying the cream-coloured jersey to go under her eau de Nil costume.

  And then she stopped thinking about clothes. The major had waited until the woman had disappeared, and then spoke in an undertone, but in a voice full of irritation.

  ‘Come on, now, Monica, I’m not made of money, you know.’

  Monica responded in the same low voice, but Eileen, peeping through a slit in the curtain saw that there was a slightly unpleasant smile on her face as she said, ‘You forget, my dear brother, the events of the last few days. You were the one who was left a fortune, weren’t you?’

  ‘Not a fortune,’ he said with a shrug. ‘And I have other uses for it than wasting it on silly clothes. You should see the size of my debts.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you have to admit that it was a very fortunate occurrence for you.’ There was a pause after Monica said that, and then she added, ‘That’s if fortune came into it.’

  There was a long silence after that. Eileen peeped out through the crack in the curtains. She felt an excitingly cold thrill run down the back of her spine. Was Monica going to accuse the major, her brother James, of the deliberate murder of their father? But, thought Eileen, he had come in the front door just after the man had fallen to his death. She had seen that, herself. She thought about the Queen’s Old Castle and began to wonder about other entrances and exits. But the man would have been so noticeable in that fancy uniform that he wore to impress the citizens of Cork.

  And in any case, it was the major who was staring at his sister with a look that seemed to be of utter horror.

  Eileen’s eyes widened. What had happened on that morning?

  To her irritation, she heard the click of heels that signalled the return of the sales assistant, accompanied by another assistant bearing coffee, cake and the Cork Examiner for the entertainment of the man who was paying for this enormous heap of expensive clothes. This, she thought, would put an end to the intriguing conversation between brother and sister.

  Eileen kept her ears open for undertones as she worked on diligently, studying the catalogues, writing down a sentence or two about each of the new arrivals, trying to make it sound as though she were a fashion expert, checking all of the details and then reading through everything with a critical eye. But apart from a murmur of voices, no more was said from outside until after Monica emerged once more from the changing room, saying dramatically, ‘I just can’t make up my mind, James. What do you think, the buttermilk cream or the soft black? Mrs Harrington loves the cream, but I must say that I think the black is very smart.’

  He did not hesitate. Eileen, peeping through the curtain again, saw that he did not lift his eyes from the middle pages of the Cork Examiner. ‘Why don’t you have a pair of both and that will see you through the chilly mornings on board ship,’ he said in indifferent tones.

  And Monica’s smile was not just a smile of pure pleasure; it bore more resemblance to a smirk of triumph. She handed over the jerseys to Mrs Harrington. And when the pair departed, she led the way like the victor.

  Eileen left it a good ten minutes after their departure before she emerged from the back room and went in search of Mrs Harrington. The woman was in a wonderfully good humour after having given instructions to the van driver about the delivery of all of the parcels to Glenville Place. She read through the description of the spring goods with several approving nods. Very knowledgeable, too, thought Eileen. She herself thought that the price should go at the top of each item, but Mrs Harrington shook her head firmly.

  ‘I like to get them in here, my dear,’ she said. ‘If the price is on the item, they might decide it’s too expensive. It’s the same thing when the goods are sent out on “appro.” – well, they might buy it, or their husband might turn up his nose at it, say it’s very dear, or that
they have something else in their wardrobe just like it, but if they come in to enquire about the prices or to have a look around, you’d be surprised how much they will buy and how much more satisfied they will be. I like to show them what suits them.’

  ‘I bet,’ said Eileen. And then, taking a chance, she whispered, ‘You were right, the buttermilk cream suited her better than the black.’ And then fearing that she might have overstepped the limit, she said impulsively, ‘When I make a fortune, I’ll come straight to you and you’ll choose me a lovely outfit.’

  ‘Well, I hope you do make your fortune, my dear,’ said Mrs Harrington. ‘Now, let’s come and have a look at the ladies’ shoes. You’ve done a very good job there,’ she said with a nod at Eileen’s notebook. ‘I can see that we will get along very well together.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Eileen, but already her mind was busy. She looked up at the clock. Almost half-past twelve, nearly time for lunch hour. She wouldn’t, she thought, go straight back to the printing works. She would take one of the Patrick Street buses that would drop her at the foot of Barrack Street.

  Patrick, she thought, might be interested in the conversation that she had overheard. Poor fellow, she said to herself, he needs a bit of help from someone with brains.

  Patrick was hastily concealing a sandwich beneath his desk when Joe showed her in.

  No human weaknesses must be revealed, she said to herself, and then, aloud, she said, ‘Ah c’mon, Patrick, g’s a bite.’

  And by a miracle, he grinned. Not quite so stiff as usual, she thought. He put the sandwich back on the table, wiped a wooden ruler with a piece of blotting paper and meticulously halved the sandwich with the sharp edge of the ruler. She took it from him as he was looking around for something to serve as a plate, and she sank her teeth into it and chewed vigorously.

  ‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘Did you make that yourself?’

  ‘No, Joe’s mother. We’re very busy today. No time for lunch. What brings you here, Eileen?’

  ‘Some people,’ she said, aiming her remark at the window, ‘would take that for a brush-off.’

  He was taken aback at that. No concept of humour, she thought. Still, he had spent his teen years in that awful North Mon. school where the boys were flogged into high examination results in the civil service and university scholarship performances. And no fun afterwards as straightaway he had joined the police. No decent human society, no banter between boys and girls, no flirting, nothing. She smiled at him forgivingly.

  ‘I’ve overheard something of interest to you about the Queen’s Old Castle murder, Patrick.’

  He put down his sandwich. ‘Really?’ he said.

  ‘I was in Dowden’s and I overheard Monica talking with her brother, the major.’

  He had raised his eyebrows at the word ‘Dowden’s’, had not expected her to frequent the most expensive shop in Cork, but at the mention of Monica and the major, his face grew serious. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  ‘He was buying her tons of really posh, really expensive clothes,’ said Eileen briefly. She thought of mentioning ‘Coco Chanel’ but decided that he might well not have heard of the famous designer. ‘He’s taking her out to Palestine with him,’ she added. ‘Buying her outfits to wear on-board ship, and silk dresses for the parties out there.’

  ‘A good brother,’ he said, almost flippantly.

  ‘What about Kitty?’ she asked. ‘And the stuff he was buying would be a year’s salary for me. And that’s not all. Wait till you hear.’ She took another bite from the half sandwich and chewed it. Let him wait, she thought, noticing that he was no longer eating his own sandwich.

  ‘Good point,’ he said after a minute. ‘So go on, tell me all.’

  ‘Well, he quibbled a bit once, told her that he wasn’t made of money. And she said: “Nevertheless, you have to admit that it was a very fortunate occurrence for you.” These were her very words.’

  Patrick looked up sharply. ‘Fortunate?’ His voice held a query.

  ‘Well,’ said Eileen, ‘there was a bit of a pause after Monica said that, and then she added, “That’s if fortune came into it”.’

  ‘And these, again, were her very words?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ said Eileen flippantly.

  ‘And what do you think that she meant by that?’ He spoke, almost to himself, and she understood that he was not really asking her. She said nothing, just chewed the crust of her sandwich. Nice bread, homemade, she thought. Joe’s mother must be a good cook. She wondered whether Joe had a sister. Joe’s mother might start by making sandwiches, but soon there would be an invitation to tea. He would be seated beside the sister. A good match. A young inspector of the police might even be a superintendent before he was thirty. Eileen resolved to have a chat with Joe to see whether he did have a sister.

  After a minute, she was bored with the silence. ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ she said impatiently. ‘After all, the major inherited all of his father’s business. Surely he is the one who had the most reason to bump him off. And I heard him say that he had debts. Don’t forget about that, Patrick.’ She looked at him impatiently. He was just the sort of person to stick to facts all of the time, she thought. Of course, the major was in the clear if you looked at the bare facts. He had only just come into the shop when his father fell from on high. ‘He might have been in earlier on,’ she said aloud.

  Patrick shook his head. He opened his notebook, looked through it and shook his head again. ‘He left the house in Glenville Place only five minutes earlier. One of the maids served him a three-course meal after the other five had left to go to the shop. Orange juice, oatmeal porridge, rashers, egg, fried bread and coffee. And after that he sat in the dining room and smoked a cigar.’

  ‘I see,’ said Eileen. It did sound rather conclusive. ‘Perhaps he bribed the maid,’ she said hopefully. ‘He looks a bit of a lady’s man. He was being very charming to the saleslady in Dowden’s.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Patrick, but he said it rather sceptically.

  And then suddenly Eileen understood it all. ‘She did it! Monica did it! She mightn’t have told him that she was going to do it, but she probably relied on him feeling generous. Perhaps they were always good friends, the two of them. He might even have invited her to come out to Palestine with him before any of this happened. She might have accepted and then, listen Patrick. It all makes sense. Monica might have thought how much nicer a time the two of them would have if James inherited a fortune. And so she bumped off the old man before he could change his will. I’ve heard that he was always quarrelling with his family, always changing his will. A man that I work with told me that. Come on, Patrick, it’s a good idea, you have to admit.’

  He stayed very still for a while. She gazed at him hopefully waiting for him to speak, waiting for him to congratulate her. Everything was so quiet that she could hear the clock ticking.

  And then he rose to his feet. ‘It was extremely good of you to come over here in your lunch hour,’ he said stiffly.

  She got up, also. ‘Do you practise saying these things, Patrick,’ she asked and then was a little sorry when she saw him redden. ‘Well, good luck, Patrick,’ she said, as he politely opened the door. She doubted whether he had the brains to solve this strange murder, but then told herself that it was none of her business. She should get back to the printing works and start the layout of the Dowdens’ Spring Fashions leaflet. Two hundred copies. That was a nice little piece of business that she had brought to the printing firm. She should keep her mind on her own job, she thought, and let Patrick get on with solving his own problems. ‘Say thanks to Joe and to his mother for the sandwich,’ she said. ‘Oh, is Joe an only child, or has he any sisters?’

  ‘Three of them,’ said Patrick looking slightly bewildered.

  He always did find it hard to keep up with the working of her mind, Eileen told herself pityingly. ‘I thought so,’ she said gently and was pleased to see that he looked even more pu
zzled.

  THIRTEEN

  Patrick leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. He stayed perfectly immobile but his mind was active. Joe had drawn a neat ground plan of the Queen’s Old Castle shop, with each one of the counters labelled with its name and now, within his mind’s eye, Patrick went from one counter to another. Curtains: Michael Dinan (the man who had been dismissed) and his apprentice Con Meaney. Fourteen years old and scared of Michael Dinan. Gents’ Shoes (That was Séamus O’Connor’s counter, but he was not there, had been busy stock-taking). His apprentice was Brian Maloney who had been under the Reverend Mother’s eye, kept busy filling her basket with flood-damaged goods. And then there was Haberdashery: Miss Kitty Fitzwilliam, a very direct lady, plenty to say for herself. Significantly her apprentice, seventeen-year-old Henry Spiller, had been sent down to the basement to get more needles and had only just returned to see Mr Fitzwilliam fall from the balcony. Joe had questioned Henry Spiller and there was a note opposite to his name: sharp lad. On the ball. Knows which side his bread is buttered on. Not exactly the language advocated in the police manual on questioning witnesses, but Patrick knew exactly what Joe meant. Henry Spiller had already done five years of apprenticeship. He would be hoping to be taken on as a permanent worker. He would definitely not give evidence against a member of the shop owner’s family, but he may have betrayed something inadvertently. And so he was sent on an errand. Yes, Miss Kitty would not have been observed if she had substituted a gas canister for the change barrel. But why would Miss Kitty want to kill her father? How much had she been left in a former will? More, he guessed. Was she sick of the shop? Or could she have come to some sort of unspoken agreement with her older brother? According to Eileen MacSweeney, one of the sisters might have been trying to get a bit of money out of him, so why not the other. After all, the major was an unmarried man. Perhaps he would take both sisters out to Palestine to keep house for him? Unlikely, thought Patrick, Kitty didn’t seem the type, but worthy of consideration. But then, none of the family, except perhaps the major, knew that the new will had been made on that dinner hour three days before old Mr Fitzwilliam had been killed. Still, they had been told that the major would inherit so they might have taken a chance on it. Or else have ways of keeping track of their father.