A Gruesome Discovery

by Cora Harrison

  Susan seemed almost absent-minded as she led the way up the stairs. A big house. Eileen peeped through open doors, immensely impressed by the four flights of stairs, by the large drawing room with its tall ceiling and by the small room, now empty, but which had been fitted, on its four walls, with twenty coat hooks and a shelf below, at knee height, where school bags and outdoor shoes could be placed. And in one corner, a large copper cylinder for hot water with a clothes horse above it where wet coats could be dried. A cloakroom, Susan called it, just like they had in the convent school. But above all, she loved the bathroom with an immense wooden bath, painted white and large copper taps attached to another hot water tank.

  ‘My father built on all of these small rooms at the back,’ said Susan when she saw Eileen’s interest. ‘He built a new block with the washhouse on the ground floor, the cloakroom on the next and then this bathroom and on the top floor is Bridie’s little bedroom.’

  It had not been great, Bridie’s room, Eileen thought, as she looked around the small, bare room. Only a bed and a row of hooks on the wall there now, but there was a lighter patch against the other wall as though a child’s bed or cot had been there. Eileen wondered for a few minutes whether Fred had slept there once when he was a small boy. She didn’t ask Susan, though. The less said about Fred the better, but he was in her mind. There had been something rather menacing about him, something different to the usual ‘spoiled boy’ attitude and she wondered whether he was frightened.

  And yet, he shouldn’t be. It was not surprising, really, that he had been released from prison. After all, he could have had no part in the deaths of Bridie and of his mother and it would be strange if these last two deaths had not been connected with the death of Mr Mulcahy, whatever the talk about suicide. What Fred needed to do now, was to keep himself inconspicuous, just inconspicuous. Not go around waving guns. Eileen yawned widely. Those figures had been exhausting.

  ‘Shall I sleep here, Susan?’ she asked. She looked dubiously at a small narrow bed in the attic. She didn’t like to feel the bedclothes, but they would be very damp, she thought and decided to sleep in her own clothes. She would be fine. In any case, she was dead on her feet, exhausted with the efforts of adding up farthings, halfpennies, pence, shillings and pounds or at least endeavouring to check Susan’s rapid calculations.

  ‘No, no, you sleep downstairs, in my mother’s room. That’s more comfortable. I’ll sleep here. I’ll be fine.’

  Suddenly Susan sounded decisive, almost as though she had come to some decision, or at least banished her worries. ‘Let’s go downstairs, and I’ll find a nightdress for you from the hot press in the kitchen. Be careful on that corner. That stair needs to be screwed down. People get a fright when it squeaks and then they knock against that sharp corner.’

  ‘Squeals more than squeaks, sounds like a banshee,’ said Eileen with a giggle as she bounced on the step, drawing a groaning protest from the wood. And then she thought that had not been a very tactful thing to say. After all a banshee was supposed to give notice of a death in the house.

  And this house had too many deaths, three of them; one occurring after another.

  She bit her lip, rounded the awkward corner carefully and followed Susan down to the second storey of the house.

  There was only one bed in the room, a very large room with a high ceiling, blinds pulled down over the window and a double bed, standing isolated in the middle of the floor, walls painted, wooden floor shining with polish, even so it had a strangely creepy atmosphere and Eileen wished that she could sleep somewhere else, perhaps in that nice warm kitchen, but not this room. Susan and her mother must have slept there together while Bridie slept in the little attic bed. Eileen could hardly blame the girl for not wishing to sleep there on the night after her mother’s death, but she didn’t very much like the thought of sleeping in a bed where someone had died less than twenty-four hours ago, although everything was scrubbed clean and fresh sheets and blankets put on the bed.

  Nevertheless, she was dead tired. She couldn’t bring herself to wear the nightgown. Once Susan had gone upstairs, she stretched herself, still wearing her clothes, even her leather coat, on the bed and wrapped the blankets around her, burrowing her head into the feather-stuffed pillow that smelled of starch. She fell asleep almost immediately. Her dreams were confused. Someone was going to kill her. She knew that perfectly well, but, with that strange logic of dreams, it did not bother her as much as the feeling that she just could not see the face of her assailant, although it was continually turning, just for a second, towards her. Eventually, with a strong effort she managed to wake herself. Or was it something else that roused her. Something, someone, some sound, something wrong.

  She sat up in the bed, shivering slightly and wishing that she was at home with her mother. The sound had come from upstairs, from the ceiling above her. Footsteps. Stealthy footsteps, walking across the room above. Rapidly she identified which room it must be. It must have been part of what Susan had called the boys’ room. It had been a big room, a huge room, spanning the whole top storey before the two houses had been separated, once again. It had been like a dormitory for the boys, Susan had told her, ten iron beds, five against each of the two walls, a small bedside cabinet for each boy and then an enormous wooden clothes press that had taken up most of the third wall, the one facing the windows. There had been a huge table for homework and a cupboard for school books. All that furniture had gone to the auction, leaving the rooms bare and echo-filled.

  And now someone was up in that empty room. Not Susan. She had been wearing slippers. Eileen had noticed that. Old-fashioned slippers, looked as though they had belonged to her mother. Old-fashioned, soft-soled slippers that made no noise on the bare wooden floors. Definitely not Susan. These footsteps were cautious, but heavy. Someone wearing boots, but trying to walk quietly. And then a silence. An ominous silence, just as if some intruder was standing just above her head and listening intently to the faint sleepy noises from the room below.

  And then they started again. By now Eileen was completely awake and she knew that she had not imagined those footsteps. Heavy footsteps. A man’s footsteps. A creaking board on the floor just above the door of her room.

  Could Fred have come back?

  And yet it did not sound like Fred.

  Fred was lightly built and like the other boys in the house in Ballinhassig, he walked with a spring in his step. She and Aoife used to hear the six of them running up and down the stairs, shouting and laughing.

  And why should Fred be in the attic? It was a good four hours since he had left the house and gone across to the house in Montenotte.

  Why should he steal so quietly through his parents’ house? It wouldn’t be like Fred, in the mood he had been, to show any consideration for the two sleeping girls. If he had come back, then he would have hammered on the front door until he woke his sister. He was unlikely to have a key. He had left his father’s house a good two years ago.

  And the footfall had been that of a heavy man, a heavy man, wearing boots, treading cautiously. He was coming down the stairs now. Eileen listened intently, listened for the squeak on that step that Susan had warned her about. Surely the man, whoever he was, should have reached that point.

  Cautiously, Eileen sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She sat very still for a moment, listening intently and then slowly and cautiously, she moved on stockinged feet to the door. If only she had her revolver! She had hidden it under the roof of her mother’s little two-roomed shanty on Barrack Street. Carefully she turned the knob of the door. Another creak and then a stumble. Someone, going down quietly and cautiously, had almost tripped on the steep and unexpectedly sharp corner of the stairs. But oddly, the creaking stair had been avoided. As if the intruder had known that it was there, had taken precautions to avoid stepping on it, but then had stumbled.

  He had recovered himself instantly, though. And the footsteps came on down.

  Eileen stood very
still, pressed in against the door, shivering, listening, waiting, wondering what to do. The cautious and stealthy footsteps had passed the room where Susan slept; had not even hesitated. That was not the goal of the intruder. And then they passed her door and she breathed a sigh of relief. But still she held her breath, still she stayed very still. The footsteps had passed the small cloakroom now, crossed the landing and went down the last flight of stairs, more confidently now, stepping down the bare steps quite quickly. Eileen opened her door and looked out. She began to creep slowly forward towards the head of the stairs. It was dark, midnight dark. The man, whoever he was, must have had some sort of light, a torch, or an old-fashioned candle lantern. The latter, she thought. There was a slight whiff in the air, that slightly soapy smell of candle grease, almost a faint trace of smoke in the damp air.

  And then she heard a click. It seemed almost shockingly loud in the silent house. She knew what it was instantly. The front door. He had left, left by the house door. Eileen tried to get back into her room quickly, but she was too late. By the time that she felt her way to the window, there was no sign of anyone in the street outside. She opened the window and leaned out. Quite a foggy evening. The rain had stopped, but trails of fog wreathed around the gas lamps. The bells of Shandon rang out. Midnight. Did she dream it? Or did someone really walk past the attic room where Susan lay sleeping and creep surreptitiously down the stairs, past the room where she herself had spent the night and then let themselves out through the front door.

  There was an oil lamp in this bedroom, hanging from the centre of the ceiling, but she was not sure how to light it so Eileen fumbled her way to her bedside, struck a match and lit a candle. She sniffed at it. Did candles smell? Yes, she had been right. That smell on the stairs had been that of a candle. She bent down, pulled out her shoes from under the bed and buckled them on. At least she would make sure that the front door was properly closed and that the chain was fastened on it. She wouldn’t alarm Susan, but would creep quietly down. For a moment she half-hesitated. What if the heavy-footed stranger was still in the house, but she told herself that that was stupid. She had definitely heard the front door click. In any case, no harm had been meant to either girl. There was no lock on her door. She had noticed that last night, no key, no keyhole, even, just a door knob. And yet, she was certain of this, the mysterious night wanderer had not tried the handle.

  She stood for a moment on the landing, looking up at the set of stairs that led to the bathroom and from there up to the attics. She was half-tempted to go up there, to turn that corner by the creaking step and to rouse Susan. Best not, though. Perhaps it was all her imagination. There was no sound from Susan’s room. She wouldn’t wake her up. The girl had an important meeting tomorrow with the solicitor and needed to be clear-minded and fresh. It would be up to Susan to convince Mr Binsy that Richard McCarthy was fraudulent, and that his figures could not agree with the figures in Susan’s account book. No, she thought, she would allow Susan to have a good night’s sleep. If she found the chain on the door, then she would know that no one had left through it as she had watched Susan fasten it before they both went up to bed. So she went down the main stairway, holding her candle up to see her way safely on the steep steps.

  She would have a good look around, she told herself. It was puzzling, though. What could anyone want in the attics of the house? Nothing was left there, except that one bed where poor Bridie had slept. And Susan had been undisturbed. Certainly nothing of value. And Fred had definitely had a gun in his pocket so he had found that. Why should he or anyone else be searching there in the middle of the night?

  And then she heard something. An odd sound. A crackle. And then a smell of smoke. Not from the kitchen. In any case, Susan had carefully turned the stove right down and shut it up for the night. She had watched her do that, thinking at the time how much her own mother would love to have one of those ranges instead of having to cook on an open fire.

  No, the smell and the sounds were coming from the front room of the house. She dashed to it, pulled open the door, and then screamed, ‘Susan! Susan!’

  It had been the wrong thing to do; opening that door had been stupid. She realized that instantly. There had been a roar from the room, almost as she imagined a tiger would roar. Even from behind the heavy wooden door, she could hear how the flames crackled from the room. Still some furniture in there, of course, some wooden chairs, and a table.

  But she had seen enough before she had hastily closed the door against the leaping flames. The big oaken cupboard, with the ninety-one small drawers, where all of the neatly arranged and docketed receipts, bills of sales, books of orders, accounts books and deeds had been carefully arranged and patted into place before Susan had closed the door on all of the hard work and they had gone up the stairs to find their beds; she had just seen that.

  And the whole cabinet was now a blazing inferno.

  ‘Susan!! Susan!!’ screamed Eileen, hastily shutting the door. By now the smoke was eddying out through the cracks of Mr Mulcahy’s office door. The worst thing, though, was the sound of crackling. The fire was devouring everything in there. She went to the front door, but once again the sudden draught sucked at the fire and tongues of flame licked at the new paint around the door of the front room.

  And at that moment, Susan came flying down the stairs, in her bare feet, with her long old-fashioned nightdress flying behind her.

  ‘Oh, my God! Fred! I’ll kill him! I swear I’ll kill him!’ she screamed. Without hesitation, she wrenched the door of the office open and plunged in, only to back out when the heat of the flames met her. ‘Get out of my way! Don’t just stand there. Get water, get a bucket from the back kitchen. Go on. We must put that fire out. I must save the papers! I’ll kill Fred. I’ll kill him; I swear I’ll kill him. After all that I have done. I’m not going to be stopped, now.’

  And before Eileen could stop her, she had wrenched the door open and then screamed.

  Eileen screamed too. The buttons on her leather coat had never before seemed so stiff, so awkward, so seemingly-impossible to open, but in the end she managed to tear it from her back and swathe Susan in its folds, dragging her away from the flames and into the kitchen. Resolutely she kicked the door shut behind them and pulled Susan into the washhouse. Then she began pumping water over the terribly burned girl.

  TWENTY

  St Thomas Aquinas

  ‘Misericordia sine iustitia est mater diffluat; iudicium enim sine misericordia saevitiam.’

  (Mercy without justice is the mother of dissolution; justice without mercy is cruelty.)

  ‘It’s that Fred Mulcahy to see you,’ said Sister Bernadette in a hoarse whisper. ‘Shall I tell him to go away?’

  Sister Bernadette was looking at her in a troubled way and the Reverend Mother realized that, of course, gossip had spread through the city and wild rumours about Fred had been part of common gossip on doorsteps and in muttered conversations across shop counters.

  The Reverend Mother had been closeted with Mr Hayes, the auctioneer, when Sister Bernadette came to announce that Fred Mulcahy wanted to see her. There were marks of a dilemma on Sister Bernadette’s open and honest countenance. On the one hand, someone who had once been a small boy who stole sugar from the convent kitchen had no right to come demanding to see the Reverend Mother and causing her to break off her conversation with a charitable gentleman. On the other hand, she sensed that the Reverend Mother was getting slightly tired of Mr Hayes. During the few weeks since the macabre discovery of the body in the trunk, Mr Hayes had called on numerous occasions. The un-Christian thought had crossed the Reverend Mother’s mind that he had found a convenient charitable outlet for his leftovers, as well, of course, as having the opportunity to spill over some of his exuberant store of talk into her ears. Nevertheless, she had to admit that the books and clothes that he brought were all of good quality and today he had something special, or so he said, guarding a large box, like a magician about to stun his audience
.

  ‘Educational! Pure educational!’ he was saying as Sister Bernadette crept into the room after a polite knock. ‘Wouldn’t bring you anything that wasn’t educational, Reverend Mother. None of your ordinary toys, this. Just you look at this, sister!’ He kept his hand on the box for an extra second and allowed them to peep at the brown luggage label tied to the box. It said in an ornamental hand ‘Children’s Toys’ and then he snipped the string, pushed back the flaps, dumped a wodge of tissue paper on top of the highly polished floor and stood back with the air of one who is about to exclaim: ‘Abracadabra!’

  ‘Well!’ said the Reverend Mother and her one word released an avalanche from Mr Hayes.

  ‘That’s right, Reverend Mother. A little toy post office! Would you ever! Just look at the lovely little cash register, and those little stamps and the weeshy little scales for weighing the letters and the ducky little parcels! Look at the tiny little weights, all in ounces! The reverend sisters could get the children to write little letters to each other, weigh them, stamp them, pop them in the post box, get a little boy to be the postman, look at that dotey little cap, Reverend Mother! Wouldn’t a little boy just love to be wearing that …’ Mr Hayes raised his hand, fingers splayed in rigid ecstasy while Sister Bernadette peered into the box with an enthusiasm which matched his own. The Reverend Mother looked down at the little post office, from the era of King Edward, she guessed, and tried to banish a thought that the original owner of this enchanting toy might now be mouldering in a grave in Flanders.

  ‘And look at these!’ Mr Hayes opened a small box and displayed its contents. Had he heard Sister Bernadette’s penetrating whisper about Fred Mulcahy? From time to time, he cast looks over his shoulder, but then went back to praising his gift. The miniature envelopes and sheets of writing paper were yellowed with age, but stiff with quality and there were even a couple of quarter-size pens and minute ink pots to be placed on a counter.