Murder at the Queen's Old Castle

by Cora Harrison

  Was Brian Maloney too sharp for his own good? And was the mention of a ‘big sin’ a piece of childish naivety, or was it something else?

  The Reverend Mother handed over the letter. A waste of time and a waste of a stamp, she thought. Brian had made up his own mind.

  Had he struck a bargain, perhaps? Major Fitzwilliam wanted everything tidied up neatly and above all, she guessed, he wanted no talk about his mother. Even now, he was probably making arrangements for her to be taken care of. Brian would have to promise to say nothing about the woman and the accusations. The matter had been taken out of her hands.

  She sank wearily into the chair by the fire. For some reason, she felt dreadfully cold. Despite the glowing coals, her teeth began to chatter. Every breath that she drew seemed to stab her ribs with agony.

  ‘Sister Bernadette,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid that I may be ill. I wonder, could you call Dr Scher and ask him to pop in with some cough medicine for me.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Reverend Mother leaned back into the easy chair beside her bed in the Mercy Hospital. The effort of getting up and of dressing herself, of adjusting wimple and veil, had exhausted her, but a glance in the mirror showed a familiar figure, tidy and in control, rather pale, but then she was always pale. She braced herself as a knock came to the door; but she called out ‘Come in’, her voice weak but steady.

  ‘Oh, it’s only you,’ she said and relaxed.

  ‘You are a ridiculous woman,’ grumbled Dr Scher. ‘You are just pulling out of a severe dose of pneumonia. You should be relaxing, taking life easy. Why on earth, if you have anything to say to the man, don’t you let me give a message to Patrick and allow him to deal with the matter?’ He eyed her with a certain measure of curiosity and she looked back steadily at him.

  ‘Now, Dr Scher, you were the one who said that I might have a visitor. Otherwise, I would not dream of going against your professional advice.’

  ‘Well, I meant your cousin, or even one of the sisters. Someone that you could receive lying in bed and who would just chat to you. I heard that you had little Eileen yesterday. Someone like that Sister Mary Immaculate who keeps asking to see you. Wants to tell you how well she is looking after the convent in your absence. Now, she would have been a nice restful visitor, I’m sure, and you wouldn’t have felt that you had to get out of bed and get dressed for her.’

  The Reverend Mother hauled out her watch and examined it carefully. ‘It’s very kind of you to pay me a visit, Dr Scher,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid that I must ask you to go now. My visitor is due shortly, and I do wish to talk to him alone. And, I assure you, this conversation is nothing with which Patrick can help me.’ She watched him go with a measure of regret. She would have liked to confide in him, but this matter had to be handled by her alone.

  When Dr Scher had gone, she carefully poured out a glassful of water, noting how her hand shook and hoped that her voice would remain steady. She glanced once more at her watch. Another three minutes to go. Her visitor would, she thought, be punctual and she kept her watch in her hand until the long hand pointed up to the twelve at the top of the dial. Four o’clock. And at that very moment the sound of firm footsteps on the corridor outside. Walking without hesitation, scanning the room numbers as he went. A man who was very sure of himself. Not a minute wasted. The moment the footsteps stopped, the knuckles tapped out a triple knock on the door.

  The Reverend Mother allowed a few seconds to elapse while she tucked her hands within her long loose sleeves and then gathering to her all of her strength she called out in a firm voice, ‘Come in, Major.’

  He looked just the same, trim in his uniform, well groomed, eyes resolute and steadily meeting hers. ‘I’m glad to see you looking so well, Reverend Mother.’ The voice was steady. He scanned the room, noted the numerous bunches of flowers, but made no excuse or apology. This, they both recognized, was a business meeting, a venue for measuring strength. A bouquet would have been inappropriate.

  There would be no attempt to soften her. He held all of the cards, thought the Reverend Mother.

  ‘Tell me about Brian Maloney,’ she said. Her voice, she hoped, did not sound as weak as she felt. She saw him nod and was obscurely pleased that he was not going to waste her time.

  ‘Brian Maloney is, by now, on his way to England with my batman and by tomorrow he should be enrolled into the Drummer Boy Corps and I hope will be well and happy, settling down and performing his duties to the satisfaction of his sergeant. You don’t need to worry about him, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘But I do worry about him,’ she said firmly. ‘I worry about what he has done and what he will do in the future.’

  He frowned at her. ‘I’m not sure that I understand you, Reverend Mother,’ he said.

  ‘Brian Maloney killed your father,’ she said and watched to see whether he would pretend to be astonished.

  He didn’t. His lips tightened and his chin thrust forward. But he said nothing.

  ‘And I know why,’ she said.

  Again he said nothing. Merely looked at her with a steady gaze. Her respect for him grew.

  ‘Dr Scher said an interesting thing about you once, Major,’ she said. ‘He remarked that you, in his opinion, were not the man to do a murder.’ She scanned through her mind, finding herself, to her annoyance, weak and lacking in energy. ‘These,’ she said with an effort, ‘were, I think, his words: “He’s just not that kind of fellow. 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?”.’ The Reverend Mother stopped, studying his face and also glad to have an opportunity of taking in a few long breaths. ‘Murder at one degree, removed,’ she repeated and watched his face.

  It was immobile, blank, showing no emotion. And then she began to be convinced of his guilt. She had been slightly unsure. Had wondered at times whether the whole affair had not just been a tragic accident, but now she knew. Brighten up a dull Monday! The words sounded in her ear with Christy’s West Cork accent, but, of course, it had been the major who had said them. And had said them just after relating to the boys an anecdote about army boys playing a trick on the sergeant by throwing a gas cylinder through the window of his small office.

  ‘Brian, of course, worshipped and probably still worships you and he thought it would be fun, would amuse you, to play a trick on an unpleasant old man sitting in a small office in a dull shop on a dull Monday morning. I hope and pray that was all the boy had intended. And, I think that I do believe that was all. He would know nothing about the complexity of wills and inheritance and I don’t think that a cautious man like yourself would go any further than just to plant the seed. I think, however, that being a bright boy, he understood later on what he had done, knew that it had benefitted you. He was anxious to assure you that he would say nothing. “I won’t say a word.” Brian said that to you in Sister Bernadette’s kitchen when you warned him not to chatter too much to the sergeant.’

  ‘You are, of course, forgetting the reason why Brian came to your convent, you are forgetting that someone tried to murder Brian. Or are you accusing me of that, also, Reverend Mother?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she said readily. ‘I think that Brian did that himself. I think that he was frightened by your mother’s accusations, by other remarks that he overheard. He wanted to put himself out of suspicion so he devised that method. He knew, of course, that these gas cylinders were not too lethal, nevertheless, I think that he had planned to break the glass ceiling so as to make sure. And I do think that he planned to throw himself under my protection. Certainly, it was a clever idea. And would remove suspicion from him.’

  He was wondering, she thought, how much she knew, wondering what had been said to her, scanning his mind for any possibility of a betrayal of intention on his part.

  It did not take long, this process of inner interrogation. He was
satisfied that he had not betrayed himself. His face resumed its normal pleasant, competent lines. He even looked slightly amused.

  ‘Someone must have been playing a joke on you, Reverend Mother,’ he said. ‘And as for young Brian Maloney being guilty of the murder of my father, I’m sure that is not true.’

  ‘And I’m sure that was not what I said,’ she snapped back. Suddenly she began to feel strength ebbing back into her. She sat up, keeping her spine very straight and barely resting her wrists on the arms of the chair. ‘The word I used was killed not murdered. I said Brian Maloney killed your father. I don’t think there was an intention of murder on his part. He is of the age where a joke is irresistible. I think; no, I know, that you told stories to these young apprentices about pranks played in the barracks using one of those gas containers. A small room, the cylinder thrown through the window, a sergeant bursting out of it, gasping for breath …’ she continued, watching his face. ‘Hilariously amusing picture to adolescent boys. One of the young boys told me how funny you were. A gas man is what he called you. The word was appropriate though he, of course, meant it in the local slang word for “funny” or “amusing”. Possibly you even went so far as to put into the boy’s mind how the cylinder could be introduced to the room your father occupied. I’m almost certain that you did. It would have taken just a throwaway sentence, a remark about the use of these change carriers, a suggestion that something like those change carriers were used to send the gas cylinders whizzing up into trees in California. You, I’m sure, planted the idea. A very, very careful and well-planned murder. It had, of course, an element of uncertainty, but if it didn’t work one day, then it might work the next day. And you made absolutely sure that you were not present when the fatal gas container was sent up, something that makes me think that you knew the gas cylinder was going to be sent up on that very Monday morning. You had, perhaps, hinted that the opening day of the sale would be appropriate. “Brighten up a dull Monday”. That was your expression, according to young Christy. Your mother, of course, had seen Brian dodge over to the Men’s Shoes counter when he had gone off on an errand for me. Easily done in a crowded shop. The matter would have only taken seconds. The Millinery counter is opposite to the Men’s Shoes. Your mother had seen him, but no one believed her as she had a reputation for erratic behaviour and suffered from the delusion that her husband wanted to kill her. Others, also, mentioned Brian’s name, influenced perhaps by her insistence, or else glad to throw suspicion on someone who was not a member of the family, but, of course, the boy had no motive, no motive whatsoever. Unlike you and your family.’

  He leaned back in his chair. ‘Have you anything more to say?’ He left a short silence as if waiting for her words and then said quite casually, ‘You are not looking at all well, Reverend Mother. Your cousin, Mrs Rupert Murphy, told me that you had been very ill. I suppose that a bad fit of coughing might just bring on a heart attack.’ He stood up, drew on a pair of thick leather gloves and deliberately knocked his chair on to the rug by the bed and advanced towards her.

  The Reverend Mother did not hesitate. Instantly she squeezed the bell concealed within her wide sleeve, repeating the action two or three times. Hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor outside.

  The major barely managed to pick up his chair before the door opened. He showed no surprise and no alarm, just greeted the incomer with a pleasant smile.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve tired your patient, doctor,’ he said, his voice polite and apologetic. ‘I’ll take my leave of you now, Reverend Mother. I don’t suppose that I will see you again as my sister and I take the ship for Palestine in a few days’ time, but I leave you all best wishes for a speedy recovery.’

  With a nod, the major took his hat, went to the door but then stopped abruptly as it opened.

  There were two other figures standing there. He knew them both and instantly seemed to realize the significance of their presence: the uniformed policeman with his hand firmly grasping the shoulder of a white-faced boy. The major gave one hunted glance around, but in that moment of hesitation his way was blocked by two women.

  ‘We’ve brought him back, Reverend Mother,’ called out Maureen MacSweeney. ‘Back where he belongs.’ She gave an appraising glance at the major and then at her daughter. Eileen closed the door with a slam and stood with her back to it. No one spoke for a few seconds until Maureen MacSweeney once again interrupted the silence.

  ‘We went along with the inspector on to the ship seeing as his mam is too far away. Us being neighbours and knowing him since he was a baby. Poor little pisawn. All on his own. I’m going to take him back with me in a minute, Reverend Mother, and he can stay with us for the moment. We’ll look after him.’

  ‘As Mrs MacSweeney says, she and her daughter were kind enough to accompany me on-board ship as the boy’s mother was unavailable. I had reason to believe, though, that Brian had been removed without her knowledge or her consent.’ Patrick closed his mouth firmly, looked doggedly at the major and Eileen nodded approval.

  It had been a good idea, thought the Reverend Mother. Mrs MacSweeney was bound to steamroll any opposition by the sheer flow of her words. No mere batman would have stood up to a uniformed policeman and a woman of her calibre. And Eileen, of course, was quick-thinking and determined. She congratulated herself on having sent the girl with a message to Patrick. All had gone well. They had boarded the ship before it sailed for England. Now was a chance to arrest the guilty man.

  The major seemed to come to the same conclusion. He reached for the handle of the door. Eileen raised her eyebrows at him, but did not move and Patrick went to stand beside her. He spoke quickly. ‘Just a moment, major. I’d like you to listen to what the boy has to say. Go on, Brian.’

  Brian looked from one face to another. He was pale and his eyes were circled with black shadows. He looked appealingly at the Reverend Mother but she ignored it. There could be no forgiveness, no reassurance while the events of that Monday morning in the Queen’s Old Castle still remained obscure. She tucked her hands back into her sleeves, lowered her eyes and waited for the boy to speak.

  ‘Go on, Brian,’ repeated Patrick. There was a very firm note in his voice and Brian responded to it.

  ‘He showed us a photograph, from a forest, showed us the things they put the gas cylinders in, to send them up through the trees, just like the change carriers in the shop.’ Brian stumbled over the words. Looking from face to face, looking at all except the major. That face he avoided, but responded instantly to an encouraging nod from the policeman.

  ‘He said to us: “What does that remind you of?” And he was making us laugh telling us about the boys codding the sergeant, throwing a canister in the window, nearly killing him. And then when the bell went for our dinner, he told me to stay behind.’ Brian stopped there and now looked miserably across at the major who was examining the inside of his hat.

  ‘Go on,’ said Patrick and the boy looked back at him with a start.

  ‘Well, he told me to stay behind,’ he continued, his voice almost inaudible. ‘He said that the regiment was looking for bright boys and that I was old enough to join the drummer boys and that I would do well there …’

  ‘Go on,’ said Patrick for the third time. ‘You’ve already told me. Speak out now and let everyone hear what you have to say.’

  ‘Poor little cratur,’ said Maureen MacSweeney. ‘Go on, alannah, all friends here.’

  This time Brian’s words came out in a rush. ‘He said that on Monday morning I would be downstairs with Mr O’Connor but he was sure that I’d be able to find a reason to pop up to the empty counter. And then he took down a gas container and just said: “Put that somewhere safe, like a good lad”.’

  ‘And then?’ queried Patrick.

  ‘And then he just strolled off, whistling,’ said Brian and he looked sideways at the major and shifted uncomfortably, moving from leg to leg, sticking his hands in his pockets and then taking them out again.

  ‘But y
ou guessed what he meant. You knew what he wanted you to do. He said something else, didn’t he?’ Patrick’s voice was firm. He kept his back to the door and fingered his truncheon.

  There was a long silence. Brian now stood very still. His eyes moved, however. They travelled from the stern-faced policeman standing beside him across to where the major stood, very quietly, holding his hat in his hand, his face pleasant and relaxed. After a long minute of silence, Brian seemed to come to a decision.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘He didn’t tell me to do nothing. It was me own idea. I just thought it was a bit of craic, a bit of codding-like. I didn’t know that it would give the old man a heart attack.’ There was an expectant look in his eyes and he stared across at the major, his mouth slightly open and every fibre of his body seemed to be hoping for a word from his idol.

  It did not come, though.

  ‘Well, that’s that, inspector,’ said the major briskly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better be going. Have a lot to do.’

  Eileen and her mother looked hopefully at Patrick, but he moved away from the door, and after a moment, Eileen moved also and allowed the major to go through. No one said a word until the sound of his footsteps in the corridor died away.

  And then Patrick spoke. ‘Well, I think you’d better come down to the station with me, Brian, and make a statement,’ he said. He cast an apologetic glance across at the Reverend Mother but did not speak to her.

  She looked across at Brian and nodded encouragement. ‘Go with the inspector, Brian and make sure that you tell him everything. In the end it always pays to tell the truth. Tell the truth and shame the devil; do you remember how Sister Philomena used to say that when you were in the infants? Don’t worry about anything now. We’ll find your mother and you will be taken care of.’