Murder at the Queen's Old Castle

by Cora Harrison

  She left it at that, interested to see what he would say to it. He was disconcerted. She could see that, see the way that his eyes flickered and his lips tightened once again over his teeth. Had he been teased about those teeth, she wondered. If he had, he bore few scars. A young man very sure of himself and very sure of his ability to deal with women. His mother’s pet, in all probability.

  ‘And so you were in the stock cupboard sorting out the boxes at the time when Mr Fitzwilliam fell.’ There had been, according to Patrick, a discrepancy between the stories told by three of the apprentices, those attached to Kitty Fitzwilliam, her sister Monica, and Maria Mulcahy. All of these three ladies had said that their apprentice had been with them during that time, but Henry Spiller said he was in the basement, Tom Donovan had denied loading the change barrel and said that he had gone to fetch some more brown paper and Christy Callinan said that he had been in the stock cupboard.

  ‘I made a mistake.’ Christy widened his blue eyes at her. ‘If you make a mistake, you must own up,’ he added in virtuous fashion, no doubt believing that was the sort of thing that you parroted to the teaching profession. ‘I’m going to tell the peelers that when they come around next. I’ll tell them that I made a mistake. I wasn’t in the store cupboard at all. I was back at the counter.’ He kicked at a hen investigating his shoelace and looked petulantly around the empty convent garden.

  ‘Think I’d better be getting back, now,’ he said. ‘Miss Mulcahy will be looking for me.’

  She ignored that. ‘Tell me about Mr Robert Fitzwilliam. Is he kind to you, just like Miss Mulcahy is.’

  He made a face at that, but didn’t reply, just peeped at her tentatively. She didn’t press the question.

  ‘And his brother, Major Fitzwilliam?’ she asked.

  His face cleared at that. It brightened to a smile. ‘The major is great gas,’ he said, using the Cork slang word without appearing conscious of its appropriateness in the circumstances. ‘He do be telling us about the tricks that the drummer boys play and the fun that they have. Nearly frightened the life out of their sergeant once. He was choking and coughing. He thought he was a goner! Though he’d die! Brightened up a dull Monday, that’s what the major said.’

  She thought that sounded a stupid anecdote to tell young boys, and interestingly he seemed to read her thoughts. ‘I’d never do things like that,’ he said virtuously; ‘just do what Miss Mulcahy tells me to do, that’s why she gives me presents.’ He looked around to see whether there was anything else of interest to do in the convent garden and gave an elaborate shiver. ‘I’d better be getting back,’ he said again. ‘She might be worrying about me.’

  ‘Yes, you go back,’ said the Reverend Mother. The air was damp and she felt slightly shivery herself, but she doubted whether a healthy, well-covered young boy, wearing a tweed jacket, could really be cold. A bit of an actor, young Christy Callinan, she decided. Nevertheless, her curiosity had been satisfied and so he could go back to his admirers. ‘But first of all pop into the kitchen and tell Sister Bernadette that I have a visitor,’ she said, looking towards the gate.

  He went off with alacrity, running quite fast down the garden path and through the back door. She did not follow him, but turned towards the front of the school. The brief spell of sunshine was over and the fog was closing down over the city again, dense and heavy. Soon it might rain. She had seen a pair of car headlights come slowly along the street. A battered Humber had pulled up at the front gate and her feet had begun to feel cold. A hot cup of tea and a chat by the fire with the knowledgeable Dr Scher would probably be more fruitful than trying to get information out of this boy. She was, in any case, now quite sure why Christy Callinan had got that expensive present. Had Maria told a lie to the police and now was relying on Christy to back her up? He would not betray any secrets when questioned by the police. And the jacket, something that might have cost a week’s salary for Miss Mulcahy, was to ensure his continued silence; there could be little other reason for it.

  But if Miss Maria Mulcahy, niece to the virtuous Sister Philomena, had been involved in the murder of Mr Fitzwilliam, there was another question to answer.

  Why should she? What was in it for her? Were Séamus O’Connor and she on such intimate terms that the sending up of the gas cylinder could have been planned between them. Or had it been her own idea, the last desperate act of a woman who had seen her youth dwindle away and was now faced with the prospect of a childless and lonely old age unless her proposed husband could be brought to the point of proposing. Or could she have sent up the gas to help Robert to inherit his father’s fortune? It could have been so easily done. The Men’s Shoe department, though the fitting rooms were blocked off from each other by a discreet screen, was almost a continuation of the Ladies’ Shoe department. And Miss Mulcahy had been left in charge of both. It would have been quite simple, thought the Reverend Mother, as she opened the gate, for her to have got rid of Christy on some errand and to have popped down to the other counter. A steady nerve, a steady hand and she could have been back, standing next to her own till, almost before the change barrel from Men’s Shoes went flying up on its wire. And she may well have had something of her own to go up also, something that had not required change.

  Probably only a sharp-eyed boy, who thoroughly understood the business, might have speculated about what she had been doing when she had sent him on an unnecessary errand.

  But if Miss Maria Mulcahy had bribed the boy, ensured his silence with that expensive jacket, which marriage was she contemplating? The long-awaited marriage with Séamus O’Connor? Or the new, secret affair with the son of the owner? Dangerous one that. Robert had been warned by his father that he would be disinherited if he did not give up that business. What if the murder had been planned between the two of them? Robert knew that his father proposed changing his will. Might have confided in her. She would have listened to him with dismay. If Robert were to be disinherited there would be no chance of him embarking on a marriage to a woman with no money of her own. Would she think that she had to act immediately? Maria Mulcahy knew that if she was going to get married, it had to be soon, or else her hope of bearing a child would wander into the realms of an extremely unlikely dream. The Reverend Mother thought that it was a possible scenario. Robert, Mr Robert, as floor manager, would be here and there, all over the shop, but wherever he went, eyes would be upon him. They would all be aware of his presence, perhaps apprehensive of receiving a reprimand, certainly alert for any instruction or command. No, thought the Reverend Mother as she went to greet her guest, if Robert was involved in the murder of his father, the strong probability was that he had an accomplice.

  By the time that she had reached the gate, Dr Scher was already out of his car and was locking away the starting handle into the boot at the back. She waited while he did that and then accompanied him back into the convent.

  ‘So, Dr Scher,’ she said as soon as the door of her room was securely closed behind them, ‘tell me, what is the news on the town? Will he sell, or will he keep?’

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Sell, of course. What does he want with that place? He’s off to Palestine. Nice hot climate, good place to live if you’re from the top drawer and have a good job.’ He put the poker in the fire and riddled it vigorously, and added an artistic arrangement of carefully placed coals on to the smouldering remnants of the morning’s stoking. ‘You must keep warm, Reverend Mother. You’re no chicken, you know. Something like pneumonia is dangerous at your age. Cork is a bad place for pneumonia and pleurisy. People die like flies from them. And I don’t like the sound of that cough of yours.’

  ‘Funny, I was just thinking about the city of Cork,’ she said, turning the conversation. ‘I was thinking about Cork and I was comparing it with Baltimore, a lovely village, just on the edge of the far south-west coast of Cork. Get good fish, there, or so I am informed.’ She sank down into the chair on one side of the fire and placed her damp feet on the well-polis
hed fender and smiled as he raised an eyebrow. ‘So, Dr Scher, old Mr Fitzwilliam dies and suddenly life changes for many people. One person gets the money to set himself up in style out there in Palestine, and another may be able to select a marriage partner of his own choice, and yet another, not so important perhaps, will be able to go back to Baltimore, that’s if he’s clever and doesn’t allow himself to be bribed by a lesser reward. A fourth, perhaps, may be able to fulfil his life wish and join the British army. And then again, another may get her heart’s desire and be married soon enough to bear a child before her fertility fades into old age. And a man’s family may be freed from the servitude of making money by standing in a cold, draughty shop for more than seventy hours in the week. And another would hope to escape disgrace and disinheritance. So many motives, are there not? And, of course, I do remember Patrick’s exasperation at the very sparse information that he had obtained from these boys who were at an age to be sharp-eyed, sharp-eared and perceptive. But, of course, these are not natural boys. These are boys who have been trained to repress all impulsive speech and to concentrate on pleasing those above them. And so it is very difficult to get information from them. But that does not say that they do not have that information. And that means, I fear, Dr Scher, that some of them may well be in danger.’ She thought about the boy Christy Callinan and his expensive jacket for a moment and then moved him to the back of her mind. There were other and more pressing anxieties.

  ‘It’s a dangerous situation, Dr Scher, when a man, or a woman is brought up to worship money and is kept waiting and waiting and then is denied of their heart’s desire,’ she said.

  ‘Like Robert,’ said Dr Scher, adding two more pieces of coal. ‘There’s no doubt that he must have been reduced to a state of fury when he heard the news. I think ever since I can remember, Robert has been serving in that shop. Not a very interesting or rewarding occupation for a boy or a young man. And now he is a middle-aged man and when he heard his father say that everything was to go to the eldest son, to Major James Fitzwilliam, well then he would be a saint if he did not feel furious.’

  ‘And Robert’s sisters,’ put in the Reverend Mother. She would not, she thought mention Robert’s mother. The woman would not want for much. She had the air of a person for whom life held little interest. ‘I remember Patrick saying how often Mr Fitzwilliam changed his will in the past. For some people it is an occupation.’ Dr Scher, she noticed, frowned a little at that, but made no comment. He was stroking his chin and looking into the fire.

  ‘The talk on the town is that Robert is a tricky piece of goods,’ he said after a minute. ‘Owed money to a lot of people. Made deals about invoices – marked up goods before selling them and pocketed the difference. Well known for these shady deals. His father’s fault in all probability. Brought the boy up not knowing where he was. Promised things and then withdrew the promises. Led him on to believe that he would leave him the business, and then told him that he wouldn’t. That must have been a very difficult position for Robert. He never knew what his future was and I don’t think that it was a piece of cake to work for a bad-tempered old man.’

  ‘I doubt that he had ever been completely cut out of his father’s will before now,’ said the Reverend Mother. She spoke as one who speculates, but Lucy had been fairly open about the whole business.

  ‘So they say on the town,’ agreed Dr Scher. He gave a grin and she knew that he had spotted her surprised expression. ‘Not a man to keep his family affairs to himself, old Mr Fitzwilliam; lots of stories circulating in the bar of the Imperial Hotel last evening,’ he added.

  ‘Don’t know why you keep calling him old; he was no older than I and not too much older than yourself, if truth be known,’ she said crisply, but she said it with a smile. He had relieved her anxiety in case she and Lucy, between them, were betraying Rupert’s confidences. She should have guessed that Rupert, of all men, would know what was known and what was not known ‘on the town’.

  ‘Tell me about Robert,’ she invited.

  ‘Not fond of his mother,’ he said briefly.

  ‘Nor of his father, perhaps,’ she suggested. Why not the mother, she wondered.

  ‘Could have been a few good reasons for that,’ he said. ‘He has not been well treated, so I’ve heard tell,’ he added hastily. ‘Worked from morning to night in that terrible shop. Always under the old man’s thumb. And then to hear that your brother who never lifted a finger to help, was to get everything, just because he was the eldest, well that must have been a bitter pill to swallow.’

  ‘I suppose the same thing happens to royalty,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘The present king of England has many sons, but only one of them can become king.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that the sons of George V are in a different position. They’ve known that since they were tiny children. Religion comes into it, too. The divine right of kings. Religion, Reverend Mother, as both you and I know, plays its part in making sure that everyone knows their place.’

  ‘I think that you are trying to distract me,’ said the Reverend Mother, good-humouredly. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t pry.’

  ‘Tell me about Baltimore. Not Baltimore in the United States of America, I presume.’ Dr Scher seemed to want to change the subject. He had not smiled, nor had he followed up on her lead. That, she thought was not like him. Surely after all these years of friendship he could trust to her discretion. Nevertheless, she told herself, friendship is never an excuse to pry and so she switched the conversation to Christy Callinan and told of his views about Cork city and its polluted river and of his longing for the clean sea air of Baltimore and the tasty fish, fresh from the Atlantic Ocean.

  ‘But you can’t think that he had anything to do with it; a little fellow like that. How old is he, ten or eleven?’

  ‘He’s twelve,’ said the Reverend Mother sombrely. ‘And at that age, he would think of his own needs and desires ahead of the needs and desires of the adults around him. And he might not really think too much of the consequences of his actions. There are children like that. I’ve come across them.’

  ‘So while Miss Maria Mulcahy answers the call of nature, attending whatever facilities that the Fitzwilliam family have afforded their staff, well, young Christy Callinan pops a gas canister into the barrel and sends it whizzing up. Ridiculous,’ said Dr Scher heartily.

  ‘Or else, Miss Maria Mulcahy sends her young apprentice off on an errand and then sends up the gas in her own change barrel, or perhaps in the change barrel from her—’

  ‘Young man’s counter,’ interjected Dr Scher. He had an amused smile on his face. The Reverend Mother was glad to see the brooding, worried look had gone and that the doctor was now relaxed. Why had he been so tense and worried? That was a question that lingered at the back of her mind, and she thought that she knew the answer to it, but she responded to his changed mood and kept the conversation light.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Young man will suit my purpose. I was about to say fiancé, but then I suppose that is wrong. The young, or not so young man, has not, according to Sister Philomena, yet popped the question. And he’s been leaving it a long time, if my memory is correct.’

  ‘So despite the lack of a popped question, you think that she might have trusted him enough to do murder in order to give him a leg-up in his position in the shop. It’s just not enough of a motive,’ said Dr Scher impatiently. ‘Goodness, gracious me, Reverend Mother, you talk as if the taking of a human life is as small a matter as throwing a stone at a man’s hat.’

  ‘You think that emotions have to be violent in order for murder to be committed.’ The Reverend Mother brooded over that. It was, she thought, a valid point, but it might well lead them back onto dangerous ground. ‘Odd, isn’t it,’ she continued, ‘that neither of us is thinking about the major. After all, he is the one who really does benefit, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Dr Scher scratched some rather prickly hair on the nape of his neck. He bore the look of one who longed to a
gree, but felt constrained to disagree.

  ‘Well, he wasn’t actually in the shop at the time, as far as anyone knows,’ he pointed out. ‘Though he could perhaps have popped in through the back door before driving around to the front door. But, in any case, he’s just not that kind of fellow,’ he said after rubbing his chin uneasily for a few moments. ‘He’s easy-going, gets on well with everyone. Not the man to do a murder. Though I can see him ordering a battalion over the top. But, that would be a different matter, wouldn’t it? Murder at one degree removed, wouldn’t it be? Once they move up in the army, everything is more civilized. Would suit him. He’s that sort of relaxed fellow. Enjoys life. Good salary. Someone told me that the army will make him a judge when he goes out to Palestine. They have a good life, these army officers. The British have got themselves put in charge out there, mandated, they call it, and they don’t mind bringing the odd Irish man along with them, provided he is monied and educated. Major Fitzwilliam will have a great time. Better, of course, now that he is a rich man, but do you know, of all the family, I think he would be the most unlikely to do the deed …’ Dr Scher stopped. Up to now he had spoken freely and openly, but now a change came over his face. His eyes were on the carpet and he held his chin in a triangular grasp between thumb and forefinger. The Reverend Mother looked at him compassionately.

  After a long minute’s silence while she watched him struggle with his thoughts, she spoke. ‘You can trust me,’ she said. ‘Sometimes it helps to unburden a worried mind.’

  There was no answer. The light from the window dimmed and the room darkened. No sound. Just a heavy mist descended, as wetting as any rain, but falling silently, cutting out the remaining daylight, streaming silently down the window pane, rendering it opaque. They both sat in silence for another minute and then the Reverend Mother spoke again.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘Friendship and trust are of importance, but the sacred oath, the Hippocratic oath that you swore when you became a doctor; that comes first.’ He had written it down for her and she had memorized it, regretting that she did not know Greek, but revelling in the sonorous phrases of the English translation. They went through her mind now: I swear by Apollo the Healer, by Asclepius, by Hygieia, by Panacea, and by all the gods and goddesses … to use treatment to help the sick according to my ability and judgment, but never with a view to injury and wrong-doing …