‘No, I won’t,’ said the Reverend Mother going towards the door. ‘I have to go to Mass in the South Chapel. Don’t bother getting your car out. The rain has stopped and I’ll enjoy a walk. Anyway, I have an umbrella. You stay here and look after your patient.’
St Finbar’s Church, the South Chapel as it was always known, had the usual crowd streaming to participate in the ritual of the once-a-week Solemn High Mass with its majestic organ, the singing, the incense and the altar liberally manned with priests and deacons. It served a very large area, including among its parishioners the middle and upper working class as well as the very poor. The problem of the natural divisions of the classes was neatly solved by placing a pair of trusty parishioners with collection plates, well extended, at the door to the main body of the church and gallery whereas there was open access, with no money demanded, to the side chapel where the poor congregated.
The Reverend Mother was immediately recognized by a wandering deacon and ushered towards the gallery. She was somewhat embarrassed to discover that she had come out without a purse, but the man with the collection plate stepped adroitly out of her path and she climbed the steep steps and took her place in the front row as that seemed to be expected of her.
She was immediately conscious of the smell that rose up and remembered the words of Lucy’s trustee, Thomas Copinger, when he had said: ‘I never go to the gallery in the South Chapel – the smell of the shawlies down below would knock you flat.’
Thomas, she thought, thinking back dispassionately with the wisdom of age, was not a particularly nice person. He would, she realized with a shock, now be almost a hundred years old if he were still alive and yet his image as a vigorous man in his forties, the bright hair and even brighter eyes, was still vivid in her mind.
No one in the side chapel moved when Mass was over and the people in the gallery started to pour down the stairs and to mingle with the less distinguished from the main body of the church. The Reverend Mother bestowed a few vague smiles whenever she saw anyone looking at her and turned towards the door leading to the enclave of the poor. She had spotted a face that she knew and was determined to exchange a few words.
‘Well, Nellie, you’re looking very well, and how is the new job going?’ she asked in friendly tones when the girl came out. Nellie had her younger sister Lizzie with her. Lizzie must be about ten, thought the Reverend Mother, but she was dressed in a younger child’s party dress – quite filthy, but it had once been rose pink with layers of frills and some expensive smocking on the chest area. At the sight of the Reverend Mother, Lizzie escaped back to Mrs O’Sullivan, who, her shawl pulled well over her head, yanked Lizzie away quickly and she was left with Nellie who was eyeing her with a mixture of apprehension and defiance.
The praise of her dress, however, seemed to lull her suspicions. It was well cut, made from good quality tweed, the hem neatly turned up and Nellie was so proud of it that she kept her coat dangling over one arm while she explained in a loud whisper that it had come from the StVincentdePaul man – running the name into one word.
‘It’s lovely,’ said the Reverend Mother with sincerity, ‘and that colour of pink really suits you, Nellie, goes well with your brown eyes.’ And then carelessly, as though she had only just thought of the matter when about to depart, she said over her shoulder: ‘Have you heard from Mary yet?’
Nellie shook her head. ‘No, we haven’t, Reverend Mother. Me mam’s disappointed but I told her that Mary would have plenty to do without wasting time writing letters. She’d have to find herself a place to live and a job to keep her going.’
It was true, of course. All emigrants had a struggle when they left their native country for an alien environment. Often families never heard from them again and had to console themselves with imagining how prosperous and happy their lost children might be at that very moment – and no doubt it was true in some circumstances. There were some Irish people who did well in England or America.
Nevertheless, as she walked slowly back to the convent, the Reverend Mother had a strong feeling that the O’Sullivan household would never hear from their eldest again.
SIXTEEN
The Inland Revenue and Customs and Excise were merged to form the Revenue Commissioners in February 1923. Tax arrears were collected with difficulty as many taxpayers had not made payments for years and some tax offices had been burned down after 1919.
The Grand Parade was still flooded on Monday morning, though the waters had gone down a little. Patrick eyed it from the puddled surface of a pavement in Washington Street and decided against braving it on foot. There was a murky hue to the water and the smell was bad. Solid lumps that floated on its surface might have been mud, but were more likely to be sewage. A few enterprising men had old-fashioned traps and horses for hire so he raised a hand as one drew near and looked at him enquiringly. He didn’t fancy getting his highly polished leather boots soaked in that stew.
‘The Imperial,’ he said as he climbed in and the man gave a resigned sigh and clicked to his horse to walk on. The Imperial Hotel was situated about half a mile down the South Mall and if the Grand Parade was bad, then the South Mall would be worse.
‘Should be going down by tomorrow, sir,’ he said as turned back into the flood water again. ‘One more high tide and then we’ll be rid of it – that’s what people are saying. It’s a crying shame, isn’t it? The Lord Mayor and the City Council should do something about it – it’s the poor that suffer – that’s what people say, anyway,’ he added, rapidly shifting the blame for his Republican sentiments to the nebulous ‘people’.
Patrick made no reply. He was busy turning over his thoughts. Silent, Angelina was described as – well, that fitted – after all, the girl must have taken a momentous decision to leave her father’s house and take the boat to England. She would have had a lot on her mind, would not have felt like indulging in light conversation. She must have been, thought Patrick, soberly, both worried and frightened. It seemed curious to him to think of a rich girl like Angelina, having to undergo these feelings.
‘The Imperial, sir.’ The taxi driver pulled up his horse with a great splashing of water and waited until it had subsided before opening the door for his passenger. Patrick gave him an extra-generous tip before stepping out on to the wooden walkway which the staff of the Imperial Hotel had laid down across the pavement so that their guests arrived with dry feet.
A city tailor-made for the rich and the important, thought Patrick as the doorman hastened to the edge of the walkway, ready to lend a hand if necessary. The marble steps were covered with oblongs of rubber-backed sisal carpet pieces to make sure that the fog did not cause anyone to slip. He was ushered in, the doorman kindly offering him the use of a beautifully laundered warm padded towel to wipe the fog from the closely woven wool of his greatcoat, before he handed his card to the man behind the desk with a request to see Mr McCarthy from India.
Mr McCarthy was still at his breakfast in his private suite when Patrick was escorted up to him. The room was so hot that not a trace of fog or damp could penetrate its warmth.
‘Sergeant,’ he said, mumbling the word, and then wiped his mouth. ‘Excuse me; sit down, will you, terrible weather, isn’t it? Can’t wait to get back into the sun!’
‘Yes, you must miss India, Mr McCarthy. Have you been out there for a long time?’ Patrick took a seat before the fire and strove to feel at ease.
‘Forty years, Sergeant, forty years, a great place, India; made plenty of money out there, worked hard, of course.’
Of course, thought Patrick; and now the tea-planter was thinking of whom to leave the money to. He had come back to his native Cork to pick himself a wife.
‘You’ve heard about the death of Miss Angelina Fitzsimon,’ he said coming to the point quickly. ‘I am the sergeant in charge of the enquiry and I would just like to ask you a few questions about the young lady.’
‘Yes.’ He buttered a slice of toast, spread it with marmalade and swallowe
d in it greedy gulps.
‘You went to the Merchants’ Ball on Monday night, of course. May I ask, how many times did you dance with Miss Fitzsimon?’ Patrick didn’t know why he asked that question, but he was curious to know about the girl’s evening. The result of most of Joe’s enquiries seemed to be that few people remembered seeing her.
‘Just the once.’ Mr McCarthy wiped his sticky hands on a starched napkin.
‘Just the once,’ repeated Patrick. After a minute’s hesitation he forced himself to probe further. ‘I understand that you were unofficially engaged to be married to Miss Fitzsimon. May I ask when you proposed?’
‘That was before I went up to Dublin, I had a talk with her father – I went up there for a week. Investigating new markets for my tea. We’ve expanded the plantation back home so I could be exporting double the quantities by next year. Only came back there on Monday afternoon – good train service between the cities, these days – the country is quietening down after all the nasty business – all of this Republican affair.’
‘And was Monday night the first time that you met Miss Fitzsimon again after you came back from Dublin.’
‘That’s right.’ There was a slight frown on the tea-planter’s sunburned forehead and Patrick pursued the matter.
‘You found her in poor spirits, perhaps,’ he ventured politely.
‘That’s right. She seemed different. I pressed her a bit – well, you know, we were more or less engaged – her father was keen – she was saying nothing, just a whisper, here and there – you know the way that women are – I tried to snatch a kiss in the shadows and then she said that she felt sick. I took her to sit down and I asked her out straight whether she was willing for our engagement to be announced that night and she just whispered, “No, not yet.” And then I told her that she had had long enough to think about it and it was either yes or no at this stage.’
‘And what did Miss Fitzsimon say to that, sir?’
‘Whispered she felt sick, put her hand to her mouth, pressed her hand to her mouth, so I went to get her a drink of water, and damn me, when I came back she had vanished. Gone off to the cloakroom to be sick, I suppose.’
‘So what did you do then, sir?’
‘Well, I’d had enough. Don’t like it when girls start feeling sick for no reason. You know what I mean. I’ve had plenty of experience in my time – haven’t lived like a monk, you know, Sergeant. I thought about it and then I began to guess. She had looked funny, looked different, you know. Something wrong, I thought. I’ve had plenty of girls, you know, Sergeant …’
The old goat, thought Patrick, but he waited.
‘So I went upstairs and told Jos Fitzsimon that it was all off; told him my suspicions, too. After all he was the father – should be looking after her – she’d lost weight, they often do with that morning sickness, but she was bigger up here. Felt different all in all.’ The tea-planter pointed to his chest. ‘Something about the face, too, not so healthy-looking, not that you could see too much in that bad lighting – romantic, I suppose they thought – all those candles.’ The scorn in his voice was palpable. He cut through a sugar bun and swallowed it with a gulp of tea.
‘So, how did Mr Fitzsimon take your guess, sir?’
‘Pretended not to believe a word of it, but he looked a bit white around the gills – ugly customer, that fellow, I think. Kept pouring out the whiskey – didn’t know that I have the hardest head around. No good trying to make me drunk. I’d made up my mind. Not going to father any by-blow. In any case, plenty of pretty young fillies in Cork – no need to take damaged goods. Wasn’t my baby, anyway, Sergeant, you can take my word for it; if she was pregnant, I had nothing to do with it. Much too busy.’
‘I see. So what time was it that you left Miss Fitzsimon?’
‘After nine, I’d say. They had just started their meal, but Fitzsimon called the waiter to bring another plate for me. Trying to soft-soap me, he was.’
‘And did you stay with the Mr Fitzsimon for the rest of the evening?’ Patrick was not surprised when the tea merchant shook his head.
‘Not me – the atmosphere was a bit tense once he saw that he couldn’t talk me around. I told him straight that I might be wrong about the pregnancy, but in any case, I didn’t think that we were suited. She was a bit too reserved for me. I had been a fool not to see it earlier. Thought she’d thaw out once I got the ring on her finger, and, to be honest, I was thinking more about this business trip to Dublin than about the girl. Almost forgot all about her until I came back and then I thought, dammit, I must get this business sewn up. But then, when I danced with her and got those suspicions, I thought to myself that I could do better and that I’d better cry off before I’d committed myself too far.’
‘So you didn’t stay at the Fitzsimon table?’
‘No, people upstairs on the balcony were wandering around a bit in between the courses – ten courses; you wouldn’t believe it, would you; big eaters these Cork businessmen, you know, so I took the opportunity to get away from Jos. Went off and chatted to another customer – plenty of people to see – Joseph Fitzsimon would calm down eventually – it was in his interests to keep in with me – no one else could supply him with the variety of teas that I could ship over.’
‘I see.’ Patrick rose to his feet. ‘So you saw no more of Miss Fitzsimon after nine in the evening?’
‘That’s right, Sergeant. Must say that I’m sorry if she threw herself in the river on account of what I said, but what will be will be. Might all be for the best in the long run, what do you think, from what I hear?’
‘Mr McCarthy, Miss Angelina Fitzsimon was almost strangled, according to the police doctor – her throat was badly bruised. The coroner’s court gave a verdict of murder. Someone pushed her body down through a manhole in the cellar of the Imperial Hotel and it went from there to the river.’ Patrick looked down steadily at the man.
‘Still think that it was probably suicide. Must be hard to know after she had been in the water for hours – under a drain, too, according to what Fitzsimon told me. Probably smashed up against a piece of grating, or something.’
‘So Mr Fitzsimon discussed this with you.’ Patrick understood why McCarthy had been so frank with him. Probably surmised that he would hear all about the tea-planter’s suspicions of a pregnancy, and his rejection of Angelina from Fitzsimon, himself.
But he hadn’t.
Joseph Fitzsimon, reflected Patrick, had not said a word about the withdrawal of the tea-planter’s offer of marriage, and he had also kept silence about the accusation of pregnancy.
As he went down the stairs after the interview, he told himself that despite the flooding he would venture to cross the South Mall and get on to Morrison’s Island and make his way by means of the bridge over to St Mary’s of the Isle. He would have a word with the Reverend Mother about Mr McCarthy.
‘I honestly don’t think that he had anything to do with it,’ he said half an hour later as he swallowed Sister Bernadette’s tea and unburdened himself to the Reverend Mother.
‘Is that instinct or reason?’ she asked him with a slight smile and he welcomed the question. It made him trace his thought processes.
‘It’s reason, Reverend Mother,’ he said as seriously as though he were seven years old again and had been asked a question in his catechism. ‘A man who kills a woman because she is pregnant will, in my experience, probably do so for three reasons.’ He held up a hand and counted matters off on his fingers. ‘One; that he is mad with fury because of her betrayal – well, having talked with him, I’m pretty certain that McCarthy did not care anything for Angelina Fitzsimon. He seemed quite indifferent to her. The second reason,’ and Patrick doubled down his middle finger, ‘would be if he were scared that she would betray him by revealing her pregnancy to her father or to a jealous wife – well, he wasn’t married and her father wouldn’t care – would just hush it up by a quick marriage and then the child would be declared to have arrived early.’
<
br /> ‘And the third reason?’ queried the Reverend Mother.
Patrick took a quick swallow of his tea. ‘In this job,’ he said after a moment, ‘you get to know people. I’ve seen lots of men who could be tipped over into killing someone, and he would not be one of them. I just don’t think that he would be the type for violence. Wouldn’t get his hands dirty; might cheat, lie a little, but not violence. I just can’t see it. Smooth sort of man,’ he said after a minute’s thought and the Reverend Mother nodded her head to his experience. The city, she thought, was a violent place – the power of the gun and the fist ruled above the power of the law. Patrick knew all about that. She decided to trust to his judgement. In any case, her own reasoning, if correct, would mean that the tea-planter had nothing to do with the death of the girl. She bowed her head and tucked her hands into her sleeves.
‘You’re probably right,’ she said. ‘The truth about this murder,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘is probably something quite different.’ She rose to her feet and smiled at him, holding out her hand. ‘Thank you for keeping me informed, Patrick,’ she said. ‘Somehow I feel that this poor dead girl is part of my responsibility as well as yours, since I was the one who found her.’
And then as he went to the door, she spoke again.
‘May she rest in peace,’ she said, quite unexpectedly, and Patrick was reminded of the superstition that he and other boys had held that murdered people would rise from their grave at night and seek through the city to find the person who had killed them. Perhaps this poor murdered girl would not rest until he had done his duty and found the murderer. He subdued the thought instantly as fanciful, but as he walked back to the barracks, he swore to himself that this murder would not be left unsolved just because people with large houses and larger bank balances were involved.
SEVENTEEN
Civic Guard Handbook:
‘Most uniformed members will not carry firearms. Standard policing should be carried out by uniformed officers equipped only with a wooden truncheon.’
A Shameful Murder Page 18
