Murder at the Queen's Old Castle

by Cora Harrison

  ‘But none of your acquaintances, did any of them ever drop a hint? Any rumours on the town,’ she added. Her mind went to Dr Scher. His protective attitude to Mrs Fitzwilliam might now be explained.

  ‘I don’t know where you pick up expressions like that,’ scolded Lucy, ‘but, no, I’ve heard nothing about that. She is odd, and people do talk about her a bit, but then we don’t really belong to the same set. And you couldn’t expect me to be on visiting terms with a woman who works in a shop. Perhaps she did stick a knife in him. It probably wasn’t too serious. Just a flesh wound. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of gossiping about her, though I did hint, just hint, to Rupert to tell me the whole story. But he got all tight-lipped and had the cheek to turn the conversation and ask me when I intended to return that copy of Vogue to the Imperial Hotel. As if! We leave enough money there, I told him. What between dinners and lunches and solicitors’ meetings in the bar, well, it’s no wonder that they can afford to build a new entrance. But anyway, never mind that. What do you think, Dottie?’

  ‘It’s a very sad and terrible story if true,’ said the Reverend Mother. Nobody had really considered Agnes Fitzwilliam and yet one of the six change barrels had been from her millinery counter. Could it have held the gas canister? ‘The boy,’ she said aloud, ‘the boy who lit the fire for you, Lucy, the boy named John Joe Burke, was he still with you?’

  ‘What? Who? Oh, no, no, he’d gone back inside once the stove began to heat up; but never mind about him. What do you think about Agnes Fitzwilliam? Could she have murdered that miserly husband of hers?’ said Lucy impatiently.

  The Reverend Mother thought about the matter for a while. In the end she just said, ‘Why?’

  ‘To get out of going to that cold shop every day. It really is a most miserable place.’ Lucy shuddered.

  ‘But why not tell him? After all, Agnes must be over seventy now. It would be a good enough excuse, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Too scared of him?’ Lucy cast an enquiring look at her cousin. ‘I bet you know all about them,’ she added. ‘You usually do know things. You sit here like a spider weaving your web and people bring you little flies of information.’

  The Reverend Mother’s lips twitched. She rather liked the simile. She shook her head, though. ‘Murder,’ she said authoritatively, ‘takes resolution or desperation. It would be surprising if Mrs Fitzwilliam could bring herself to murder her husband, but not to tell him that she did not feel up to going to the shop every day. Wouldn’t it have been easier to just tell him? Say that she is not well.’

  ‘The trouble is that if you are sane and sensible, that makes sense, but my housekeeper says that her sister tells her that Mrs Fitzwilliam is a bit crazy.’

  ‘Crazy, how?’ The Reverend Mother thought about this. Lucy liked a good story, but she had an accurate ear and an acute retention of what was said. This, she thought, is serious.

  ‘Well, I’m just telling you what she said. In fact, she, that’s the Fitzwilliam housekeeper, actually said that it wouldn’t take much to push that woman over the edge. She never takes a holiday, never ever. Monica and Kitty take holidays, Robert takes holidays but their mother doesn’t. Neither did Mr Fitzwilliam, but then everyone knows that he is an old miser. Anyway, enough of that. I haven’t finished the story. There we all were, all four of us, Monica, Kitty, Agnes and myself, all huddled around that miserable stove, none of us knowing what to say, when Agnes suddenly stood up.’

  The Reverend Mother lifted her head and looked with keen attention at her cousin. She had, she realized, been waiting for something like that.

  ‘She just shrieked the words, didn’t look at me; hardly knew that I was there, I guessed, but she looked straight at the two girls. You should have seen her, Dottie. Her mouth was working, a bit twisted, and her eyes, well crazy was the only word for them. And she screamed out, “James killed his father. Don’t you understand? It was James. He sent that boy, that young Maloney boy over to do it. But it was James who got him to do it. I saw it all.” That’s what she said, and apparently that was what she said in the shop. Well, what do you think?’

  ‘I think,’ said the Reverend Mother soberly, ‘that Mrs Fitzwilliam is a woman who needs help.’ She turned the matter over in her mind while Lucy sat looking across at her with an expression like an alert robin. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said eventually and so authoritatively that she saw it had an effect on her cousin. ‘Now, Lucy, tell me, what is the latest news about Charlotte?’

  After Lucy had been driven away by her chauffeur, the Reverend Mother lingered for a few minutes, staring through the window and thinking hard. Eventually, she closed the curtains, shutting out the fog and the rain and then she went down the corridor and lifted the receiver. ‘4567, please,’ she said to the woman in the telephone exchange and waited, drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the telephone shelf and turning over words in her mind.

  ‘I’m sorry, Reverend Mother, there’s no answer from that number,’ said the telephonist after a few minutes. ‘Dr Scher’s housekeeper has her afternoon off on a Wednesday and he’s usually in the Mercy Hospital on Wednesday afternoon.’

  ‘So he is; well, thank you, Miss Turner.’ The Reverend Mother put down the receiver. Despite her anxiety she could not stop a smile puckering her lips. Cork was a great place to live if you wanted to know the last detail of everyone’s daily life. And of all the occupations in the city, the life of a telephonist afforded the most food for gossip. She seemed to remember that when telephone numbers were allocated originally, there had been quite a bit of emphasis put on secrecy and on the anonymity afforded by giving each customer an anonymous number. Well, that might have worked in places like London, or even Dublin, but certainly not in Cork.

  The smile, however, faded from her lips as she went back towards her room. Lucy’s story had worried her. She stopped by the window in the dark corridor and fished out her pocket watch from its place deep down in her pocket. A quarter to five. Even a conscientious hardworking doctor needed an evening meal. She went into her room, took her warm cloak from its hanger behind the door, put the fireguard in front of the fire, swept her correspondence into a drawer of her desk, switched off the gas lamp, locked her door and went towards the kitchen.

  ‘Sister Bernadette, I’m going for a short walk. I shall probably drop in to see Dr Scher. Please don’t bother about supper for me,’ she said, speaking rapidly to avoid disturbing the hardworking lay sister from her comfortable position by the fire.

  ‘It’s his housekeeper’s day off,’ said Sister Bernadette, her face as worried as though the Reverend Mother was going on hunger strike. ‘Still,’ she said more cheerfully, ‘she’d be back by five o’clock. I’m sure that she’ll rustle up something.’

  The Reverend Mother smiled vaguely, repressing a feeling of irritation. A novice, recently, had baulked at taking her final vows, returning to the bosom of her family after confusedly explaining, ‘It’s just this feeling that everyone knows everything about you, day and night.’ The Reverend Mother didn’t try to argue her out of her decision, but had applauded her courage and her clear thinking. Even after more than fifty years, she thought as she walked along the quays, the same feeling irked her. And yet she had never regretted her decision. These were small things, she decided. The important things were the times when she had managed to make a difference to the lives of the poor and the unimportant children and parents of the city of Cork. Her mind turned over the picture of Brian Maloney, one of her children. He had passed through her hands, had been a cheerful boy, bright and enterprising, popular with his classmates, good at football. Her mind busied itself with him. She could not, she decided, stand back and allow him to be the traditional whipping boy. Yes, she was sorry for Agnes Fitzwilliam, but Brian had his life before him. Children had to matter more than adults. Such had always been one of her main guiding principles. She would not allow herself to be talked out of the decision she had come to by platitudes such as ‘truth will prevail’. The Reverend M
other had little faith in Cork juries. The clan system in Ireland had never been totally extinguished. It had just gone underground. There was always someone related, someone with influence; someone who could do or who had done a favour. ‘Sure, I’d never get a job in a bank, Reverend Mother. I’ve no one to spake for me,’ had said a bright girl with a mathematical brain, and a great head for figures.

  But first of all, because of their long association, friendship, amended the Reverend Mother, and because of the trust that existed between the two of them, she would have to talk to Dr Scher and tell him of her decision.

  The doctor had just hung up his hat and had one arm out of the sleeve of his overcoat when he opened the door in answer to her knock.

  ‘Well, well, well, look who’s here,’ he said, half to her and half to his housekeeper who had appeared from the back hallway. ‘And what brings you here at this hour, Reverend Mother?’

  ‘I’ve come to see your silver collection,’ said the Reverend Mother promptly.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. He raised his eyebrows, but allowed the excuse to pass, although he had often teased her for her lack of appreciation for the beautiful silver produced in her native city, telling her that those born into the cream of society were blinded to the value of their surroundings.

  It satisfied the housekeeper, though. She murmured a welcome, plumped up the cushions on the easy chairs before the fire, promised supper in a few minutes, took the Reverend Mother’s cloak and then withdrew. Dr Scher made no attempt to open the cabinet where he kept his silver treasures, but escorted her to a chair, carried over a small mahogany tea table, placing it between the two chairs, took a linen cloth from its drawer and spread it across the shining wood.

  ‘See how domesticated I am,’ he said, but she saw from his eyes that he was anxious. A man of great susceptibility and a keen sharp intellect. He, she felt sure, guessed the reason for this surprise visit.

  ‘Warm your toes,’ he commanded. ‘I’ll fetch the tray.’ Another indication. His housewife was a true Cork woman and very chatty. She would be likely to spend five minutes enquiring about the health of the various members of the community, remarking on the latest news in the city and commenting on the weather. If Dr Scher himself went out to the kitchen and collected the tray, he would give the Reverend Mother the opportunity of coming straight to the point.

  Now she was sure that he had guessed the reason for this visit, unheralded, and unusually late in the day, also. He was giving her a few minutes alone in which to collect her thoughts and allowing her to skip the usual small talk and discussion about the weather. She followed his lead and said nothing when he returned, allowing him to pour the tea and to help herself from a plate of hot fishcakes.

  By the time that she had munched her way through the outer edge of the crunchy slab, the Reverend Mother had made up her mind to be completely direct.

  ‘Dr Scher,’ she said, putting the fishcake back on her plate. ‘I am thinking of talking to Patrick tomorrow morning about Brian Maloney, the boy who was with me in the Queen’s Old Castle on the day of Mr Fitzwilliam’s death. I am very worried about the fact that Mrs Fitzwilliam has now twice accused him, in front of other people, of being guilty of her husband’s murder. This, of course, means that Patrick, as a conscientious policeman will have to question Mrs Fitzwilliam and will, perhaps, have to warn her that such accusations cannot be tolerated. Either she has evidence, and in that case, it should be given to the inspector in charge of the investigation; or else she must be told firmly that she should refrain from voicing such suspicions in public places. Of course,’ concluded the Reverend Mother, ‘it may be that she is not responsible for what she says, but if that is true, steps should be taken to make sure that she retires to a nursing home, or stays confined to her bedroom until her nerves have recovered. The boy’s safety cannot be put at risk.’

  And then she sat back in her chair and drank the rest of her tea. Those fishcakes would not pass muster if sampled by young Christy Callinan. His mother, she felt sure, would do better with the fish straight from the Atlantic.

  Dr Scher was thinking hard. He did not press food or drink upon her, but stared meditatively into the fire. She had, she knew, put him into a quandary, but Brian Maloney would risk a life of imprisonment if this murder was pinned to him. And it would be an easy solution. Despite Lucy’s disdainful words, the Fitzwilliams were related to many powerful and wealthy families in Cork. To pin the murder onto a disgruntled apprentice was a very easy solution and it would not, she feared, take most Cork juries too long to reach a verdict. She eyed the pensive face and wondered whether she should depart and leave him with his dilemma. But no. Something obstinate in her forbade the acceptance of such an easy solution. She had to have an answer. The open accusation at the meeting between Major James Fitzwilliam and his employees would by now be circulating all of the streets, shops, bars and hotels of the city.

  After a few moments he spoke. ‘A solution occurs to me and I hope that it may be acceptable to all.’

  ‘All, including Brian Maloney, a fourteen-year-old boy who is alone in this city,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said and bowed his head.

  The Reverend Mother sat back and relaxed a little. This was the old Dr Scher. The word had been said with a depth of feeling and of understanding. This man who spent much of his time tending without payment, or even recognition, to the sick and dying among the poverty-stricken denizens of this unhealthy city was not a man to ignore the plight of a young boy on his own and at the mercy of his employers. She kept her eyes on the anthracite stove and waited for him to speak.

  ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that I might have a word with the major. I’m all in favour of people being open and honest about illness, whether it’s physical or mental. In fact,’ he said, warming to his subject, ‘we might have less tuberculosis in this city if people didn’t try to hide it, didn’t think of it as a shameful thing. And I feel the same about mental illness. So I shall suggest to the major that he talk to his staff about the fact that his mother has been under a great strain and that …’ Dr Scher paused for a moment, his chubby face creased with thought and then his eyes lit up. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘What do you think of this, Reverend Mother? The major makes a speech to the staff assuring them all of bonuses on leaving, of good references, etc, and finishes up with something like this: “My mother has been under great strain and I hope that young Brian Maloney will be able to forgive the things that she has said and will realize that Mrs Fitzwilliam, like us all, has a high regard for his integrity.” I’ll go and see the major first thing tomorrow morning. Will that content you?’

  ‘Write it out for him and be with him when he says it,’ said the Reverend Mother. She was somewhat sceptical about the possibility of getting Major Fitzwilliam to say something like that in public, but if it was put to him, she thought that he could be relied upon to keep an eye open for young Brian. Judging by what the boy had said, the major had been kind to him, talked about the army to him. Dr Scher’s presence should surely ensure that Brian was not made the scapegoat for this. She gave the doctor a nod of approval.

  ‘You can eat your fishcakes now with a free conscience,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve taken my appetite away. I don’t think that I want them,’ said the doctor looking gloomily at the breadcrumb-covered slabs.

  ‘You’re probably all the better without them,’ said the Reverend Mother briskly. She selected a couple of pages from the middle of yesterday’s Cork Examiner and wrapped up the contents of the plate. ‘These will go well with the baked potatoes for the children tomorrow,’ she said. ‘We’re running low on potatoes. I must get the gardener to sow double the amount next March,’ she said. There was no need, she thought, to speak any more about the Queen’s Old Castle murder, nor of the accusations made by the wife of the dead man. And so she chatted about her scheme to provide a hot and nutritious midday meal for the poorest children in her school and told him of how even the chi
ldren who usually had a slice of bread and jam were now turning up with nothing, as the scrambled eggs and hot potatoes, straight from the convent oven, had proved to be so tasty. By the time that she rose to return to her convent, Dr Scher had recovered his usual good humour and had not only found her a shopping bag to accommodate a large part of his supper, but insisted on driving her back to St Mary’s Isle.

  She would say no more to him about Mrs Fitzwilliam, she resolved as she went through the door. She was satisfied that she had taken all possible steps to ensure the safety of fourteen-year-old Brian Maloney from accusations made by the widow of the dead man.

  But, she wondered, as she absent-mindedly greeted Sister Bernadette and handed over the goodies that would garnish the potatoes for the hungry children tomorrow, was Brian Maloney now safe? He was, she thought, a very convenient scapegoat.

  EIGHTEEN

  Brian Maloney thought that everyone must be able to smell the gas. He hesitated for a moment at the door of the dormitory where he and nineteen other apprentices spent their nights. And then, after a smart kick in the shins from seventeen-year-old Henry Spiller, he followed the others. No one spoke. Séamus O’Connor was the counter hand in charge of the boys and he stood, candle in hand, bored and eager to get away and join the others in the pub on North Main Street. They’d all suffer for it if he put the man in a worse mood. Brian moved further in. The smell, he thought, grew worse as he went down the room towards his own bed. He hated that room, in wet weather its damp ancient stone walls drooled strings of green slobber, festooned, in places, with clumps of strange bright orange fungi. He hated the glass just above his head, the incessant thunder of rain on wet nights, the dense eeriness of the fog that pressed down just above his face and occasionally the pale cold glaring light of the moon that penetrated even shut eyelids. Just two tiny barred windows set high up on one wall and no one had ever seen them open. The long narrow room smelled of mildew and of damp; of strange moulds and of the sweat of the twenty boys.