Murder at the Queen's Old Castle

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Sure, I would have thought that he’d be a sight too low for her.’ Maureen was deep in the love affair between the shop man and his employer’s middle-aged daughter.

  ‘Henry Spiller heard Miss Monica giving out like mad to Miss Kitty, telling her that she was making a show of herself. And,’ said Brian with huge enjoyment, ‘listen to this, Missus, you’ll never guess what Miss Kitty said …’

  ‘What?’ said Maureen, absent-mindedly accepting the slice of bread that her daughter had handed to her. She was leaning forward and her eyes were wide with excitement.

  ‘She said, and you’ll never believe this, but there’s not a word of a lie in what I am telling you.’ Brian Maloney took a large bite of bread and sat back in his chair, chewing it meditatively. He was spinning the tale out for as long as he could, building up the excitement.

  ‘G’on, tell us.’ Maureen held her own slice untouched while she waited for the end of the story.

  ‘She said, “I’ll marry who I like, even if it’s over the dead bodies of the whole family!” And when Miss Monica came out, Henry Spiller thought that she looked like she was going to cry.’

  ‘What did she say to him, to your man, Henry Spiller? Did she see him? Did she know that he was listening?’

  ‘Naw,’ said Brian with scorn. ‘He was under the counter, pretending to pick up some pins. She didn’t see him. But wait till I tell you …’

  I’m going to have put a stop to this, thought Eileen. Her mother was a softie. They’d have him on their hands for the next few years. Hard enough for us to manage with the rent going up again. Brian, absent-mindedly, had reached out and taken the last quarter of the loaf, meant for the morning breakfast, and was now chewing it contentedly. Her mother poured him another cup of tea and waited patiently for the rest of the story. There wouldn’t be much in it, she thought. Miss Kitty Fitzwilliam was getting on, desperate to get married and would take anyone. And Maria Mulcahy was the same. She’d make sure to keep Séamus O’Connor sweet, even if she played about it with Robert Fitzwilliam whose father would never allow him to marry a shop girl. Interesting, she thought. All sorts of people had motives for murdering one old man. She would think about it, but in the meantime she had to deal with the runaway apprentice. Eileen got to her feet.

  ‘I’m just off to the shop for some more bread, Mam,’ she said. Neither even looked at her. Brian was chewing the last crust of the bread and her mother, with eyes wide from excitement, tossed some more turfs onto the fire. Eileen took her coat down from the hook on the door, but left her leather helmet behind. She’d walk. Almost as quick and much less conspicuous.

  ‘Could I see Inspector Cashman?’ she asked the guard behind the desk when she came through the door of the barracks.

  ‘Business?’ Just the one word. Didn’t bother lifting his head from the ruled journal before him.

  ‘Private,’ she said curtly. He annoyed her.

  He lifted his head at that. Gave her a long look.

  ‘Name,’ he demanded, rather than asked. Just as if old Tommy hadn’t known her since she was three years old, chased her away from the railings often enough, knew about her connection with that daring gaol break, too, she’d take a bet on that. Still, if he wanted to play games, well, so could she.

  ‘Miss Eileen MacSweeney,’ she said and then waited, looking at him steadily. He was in a quandary, she knew that. After all, she might have valuable information about the IRA and he would be in trouble if he sent her away with a flea in her ear. In the end, after staring at her for a moment, he pressed a bell and a sergeant came out of his room. Tommy jerked a thumb at Eileen. ‘Wants to see the inspector,’ he said.

  Eileen gave Joe a dazzling smile and saw, with satisfaction, that it was having a good effect. ‘I’m Eileen, Eileen MacSweeney,’ she said confidentially. ‘Patrick and I were in school together.’ A lie. He had left the convent and gone onto the Brothers by the time that she came to school, but it sounded good.

  Joe got a little red in the face. ‘Come this way, miss,’ he said in hushed and confidential tones and she followed him, resisting the opportunity to give a backward glance at the duty sergeant. Tommy the Proddy, the kids used to shout at him and he would roar with anger and threaten to throw them all in the cells. Stupid, really. The man couldn’t help being a Protestant. But that was the way they were brought up. Proddies and Cat-Licks. When it came to exchanging insults there wasn’t much to choose between them.

  Patrick was studying his notebook when Joe ushered her in, announcing her, to her pleasure, as ‘Miss MacSweeney’. It gave Patrick such a shock that he dropped the notebook and jumped to his feet looking embarrassed and slightly alarmed to see her. Boys are so immature and so slow to grow up, she thought and felt pleased to hear her own voice sounding so confident and friendly.

  ‘Goodness, Patrick, aren’t you cosy,’ she said. ‘And a fire all to yourself. And a bookshelf.’ She walked across and examined the books on the shelf. ‘Law and everything,’ she said admiringly. ‘Well, I can see that I have come to the right place. Now, tell me, Patrick, what is the protection for a witness?’

  His eyes narrowed a little, but he sat very still and said nothing. Not something that Eileen ever liked. A conversation, replies, meeting questions almost before the questions were formulated; that was something that she always enjoyed, not these long silences. She looked defiantly across the desk at Patrick. He had stood up when she came in, and Joe had pulled forward a chair for her, but now she was still standing and he had sat down again, looking at her with a very poker-straight face. She stayed very still, not sitting down, but looking straight into his eyes.

  He was the first to crack.

  ‘You’ll have to give me some more information, Eileen,’ he said.

  Had he won? Or had she? Eileen wasn’t sure, but she was too impatient to wait any longer. At least, she thought, he has called me Eileen. She hated it when he became all distant and addressed her as Miss MacSweeney. She gave him an appraising look.

  ‘Another question for you,’ she said. ‘The law on apprenticeships. Tell me about that.’

  This question startled him; she saw that instantly, following his mind in a flash. He had thought she was talking about the Republicans; that she had some information, was going to inform upon her former colleagues, but now he was puzzled. She tightened her lips to conceal her amusement. Let him work it out.

  ‘Apprentices …’ he said slowly.

  Eileen felt superior to him as she watched him turn the matter over in his mind. Slow, she thought. Just plain slow. Men could be like that. Don’t suppose that they will ever have women as police officers, though they would probably solve crimes more quickly than these men.

  To her surprise, he said with a note of surety in his voice, ‘I suppose you are talking about the Queen’s Old Castle murder.’ He sat back in his chair and raised an eyebrow at her.

  Improving, she thought. Not so slow after all. She leaned her forearms on the back of the chair and smiled at him. But she said nothing and after a moment or two he began to speak.

  ‘A boy, an apprentice, one of the boys who was there on that morning …’ Speaking more to himself than to her. His mind was turning over the matter; she could see that. His eyes were withdrawn and his mouth a tight line. ‘Young Brian Maloney,’ he said then, with a note of sharp interest in his voice. ‘I thought there was something familiar. That’s who it was, of course. Lived up our way, didn’t he? The young lad, fatherless, wasn’t he? I remember feeling a bit sorry for him when my mother told me that Mr Mahoney had skipped off to England. I was at the North Mon. then and I gave him a penny for sweets one day on my way home from school. They used to live in that cabin out there at the top of the hill. I should have known that red hair. That’s who I saw. He was in the Queen’s Old Castle on that morning. I noticed him there. He’s an apprentice, isn’t he? Was wandering around the shop, had been assigned by Mr Fitzwilliam to help the Reverend Mother to collect some flood-damaged goods
for her charities, so I was told.’ Patrick sat back, grimly satisfied with himself and Eileen nodded.

  ‘Go on,’ she said encouragingly.

  ‘He saw something, is that right?’ Patrick leaned forward. ‘Or else heard something?’ he continued. ‘Something said when no one knew that he was present. Or else one of the other apprentices told him something. And now he wants to know would he be protected? Would his job be protected if he spills the beans? That’s it, isn’t it? I thought I saw that red-headed young shaver bobbing down behind the wall earlier on.’ And then Patrick sat back again and looked at her. ‘Why don’t you sit down, Eileen,’ he said mildly. ‘Sit down and relax. You’re making me nervous.’

  Eileen laughed. She placed the chair at bit nearer, sat down and put her elbows onto his desk. ‘Between ourselves, Patrick, he was thinking of joining the IRA to get away from the place. I thought he might be safer with you.’

  Patrick’s gaze sharpened. He leaned back. ‘Why was he thinking of that?’

  ‘Because the old woman, as he called her, old Mrs Fitzwilliam, she said she saw him do it. Of course he said that he didn’t, but they were all ganging up against him; so he says. Miss Kitty apparently said that she thought she saw him at the shoe counter, and she wondered what he was doing there when he was supposed to be with the Reverend Mother and “what, in the name of the Good Lord could a nun from a convent want with men’s shoes?”.’

  Patrick, Eileen was pleased to see, grinned a little at her imitation of Miss Kitty Fitzwilliam, but then he grew serious. She saw him turning the case over in his mind.

  ‘How much do you know about this business, Eileen?’ he asked.

  She gave a grimace. ‘More than I want to. We’ve had a blow-by-blow account, myself and my mam, every last detail, especially of how the old man fell from the balcony.’

  ‘God be with him,’ said Patrick mechanically, but Eileen didn’t echo the sentiment. Religion was indeed the ‘opium of the people’, she had decided, ever since Eamonn had given her a book by Karl Marx. It made people put up with conditions that they should be rebelling against. That’s what she and Eamonn had decided. She never went to mass, now, though she pretended to her mother who would otherwise worry about her only daughter burning in the fires of hell for all eternity.

  ‘I suppose that one of his family murdered him,’ she went on in a nonchalant way. It would be good if he were to discuss the case with her. She was sure that her wits were quicker than his.

  ‘Do you think that young Brian Maloney has any useful information?’ He flipped through his notebook and then went to the door. ‘Joe, could you just pop in for a minute?’ He called and Joe appeared before Patrick had got back behind his desk. He had a notebook in his hand.

  ‘The Queen’s Old Castle?’ There was a query in Joe’s voice. Eileen noticed how he had shut the door before saying that. Everything very hush-hush, even inside the barracks.

  ‘Just check your notes, will you, Joe? An apprentice. Brian Maloney. Was with the Reverend Mother at the time.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Joe leafed through the notes. Not from Barrack Street, posher than herself and posher than Patrick, very respectful to him, though. ‘Nothing of interest, sir, same as all of the rest.’

  ‘He’s turned up at Miss MacSweeney’s place, wants her to hide him. Says that the family are trying to blame him for it. Mrs Fitzwilliam did say something about seeing him send up a barrel. She did actually accuse him and now, apparently, one of the daughters is saying that she saw him go to the Men’s Shoes’ counter – where he normally worked, of course, but he had no business there on that morning.’

  ‘And one of the six change barrels came from that counter. And, of course, since all of the barrels were empty when I checked, well …’ Joe and Patrick looked at each other and Eileen stopped herself from saying anything. She wanted to, but she wanted them to go on talking, to forget that she was there.

  ‘Apparently, Mr Fitzwilliam had the habit of dealing with six barrels at a time and …’ Joe stopped again and looked at Patrick. And Patrick looked at her. In a moment, he would be telling her that she could go and he had not yet answered her question.

  ‘And one of the barrels came from the Gents’ Shoes, but three of them came from the man’s own family,’ said Eileen rapidly. ‘Brian told us. One from Miss Kitty, one from Miss Monica and one from Mrs Fitzwilliam, herself.’ She stopped and looked sideways at Joe. Should she mention the gossip about Miss Kitty in front of him? Why not! ‘And Brian says that Miss Kitty is in love with Séamus O’Connor and her apprentice, well, he says that he saw them kissing.’ She enjoyed the sharp look of surprise that passed between them. Cork, she thought, was a terribly snobbish place. The idea of the daughter of the owner kissing a counter hand had given them both a shock. ‘And,’ she continued, ‘this fellow heard Miss Kitty tell Miss Monica to mind her own business and that if needs be she would marry Séamus O’ Connor over the dead body of her family. She probably meant,’ said Eileen with an eye on Patrick, ‘over the dead body of her father.’ She gave him a few moments to absorb this and to her pleasure saw him make a note in the small book in front of him. ‘After all,’ she continued, blandly, ‘her mother is a poor misfortunate old woman. Everyone knows that. And when it comes down to it, well, what right had her brothers or her sister to interfere. The father is a different matter. Would be one of those old-fashioned men who think that they are better than women. And one of those six change barrels did come from the Haberdashery department, didn’t it?’ she said with an eye on Joe. And she saw with scorn that he immediately checked down through the page of his notebook. No confidence in themselves, these men. Couldn’t rely on their memory.

  ‘Yes, well.’ Patrick placed his hands flat on the desk after receiving a nod from Joe. In a moment he would stand up to signal that the interview was over.

  ‘Brian Maloney is worried that he is in danger,’ she said rapidly, addressing herself now to Joe. ‘He feels that the family will find it convenient to blame him. He wants – he needs police protection.’ And then she sat back in her chair, giving, she hoped, the impression that she was there to stay until a suitable bargain had been worked out. After all, spies got police protection. Why not a fourteen-year-old boy? She saw, with satisfaction, how they exchanged glances as she looked keenly from one to the other.

  ‘I wonder could we leave you for a moment,’ said Patrick, rising from his seat. ‘A cup of tea, perhaps?’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Eileen politely. ‘You don’t mind if I read your books while I’m waiting?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that we will be that long,’ said Patrick, looking up at the well-filled shelf.

  Definitely improving; that was an attempt at a joke, thought Eileen, as she went across and chose THE METROPOLITAN POLICE GUIDE 5th EDITION. She opened it. Published in 1910. You’d think that this shining new government of Ireland could afford to buy some more up-to-date books for their police inspectors. And written for the Royal Irish Constabulary. By the British government, no doubt. Well, well, well! Perhaps, she thought, if I qualify as a lawyer, I can write them an up-to-date version, especially for Ireland. She smiled at herself and at her dreams, but that little thrill of excitement that had awoken when the Reverend Mother had mentioned the Honan Scholarship made her feel warm all over and she closed the book.

  She had hardly replaced it when they were back.

  ‘Right,’ said Patrick.

  Trying to sound decisive, she thought, but she echoed his word. ‘Right?’ she said and put a note of query into her voice.

  ‘Joe and I have decided the best thing to do,’ said Patrick steadily. ‘The boy should go back tonight. Strictly speaking, no one should harbour a runaway apprentice, so you did the right thing to come to us. You go and do some shopping or something and I’ll drop up to your mother’s house, looking for you, meet the lad and persuade him to come back to the Queen’s Old Castle with me. I’ll have a word with someone there, make up some excuse, say that h
e remembered something and felt that he should tell me. I’ll smooth it over and get him back where he belongs. But I will make it very plain that the police are interested in his welfare and that it is the responsibility of the owner of the shop to look after him. Don’t you worry about it any longer!’

  ‘He doesn’t like the place,’ pointed out Eileen.

  ‘Well, that’s just hard luck,’ said Patrick unsympathetically. ‘We’ve all had to do things we don’t like. I’d say the place is probably a paradise compared to the North Mon. on a wet Monday with every single one of the Christian Brothers in a bad mood and looking for someone to make a mistake.’

  And with that he took his coat and cap from the back of the door and walked off, leaving Joe to show her out.

  SIXTEEN

  It was eight o’clock in the evening when Patrick and a reluctant Brian Maloney reached the Queen’s Old Castle. The last stroke of the bell from St Peter’s Church in North Main Street sounded just as Patrick pushed open the front door. The shop was still open. Patrick grabbed the boy’s elbow and steered him in. Mr Robert was there, but his back was turned, gossiping with a man dressed in a shiny suit. John Callaghan, a rep from Blarney Woollen Mills; that’s who it was. Patrick recognized him. Been in school with him. Always in trouble for talking at the North Mon. The job as a salesman probably suited him. A man who could talk for Ireland; so they said. He would keep Robert Fitzwilliam busy for a while and Patrick hastily steered young Brian to the far side of a group of women who were examining a curtain held up by Michael Dinan.

  Just as well not to involve Robert in this affair, thought Patrick. Easier to deal with the man rather than the master. Séamus O’Connor had no customers and was busy fitting pairs of shoes back into their boxes. Patrick approached him rapidly, still keeping a grip on Brian’s sleeve.

  ‘Brian wants to apologize to you, Mr O’Connor,’ he said and barely waited for a choked out ‘sorry’ from the boy before saying rapidly, ‘he remembered something that he felt was urgent, something that he had forgotten to mention to the sergeant when he was being interviewed, so he nipped out to see me.’