‘The high-security female wards? Just another eight.’
Eight more! What had happened to the relations of all of those people? How could they have allowed this to happen to them? She walked after Munroe trying to keep her mind away from the horrors and focused on one thing for the moment. She had to find Angelina and to take her out of this place as soon as possible, before the poor girl was driven mad.
There was a nurse dressing a sore on one of the women’s arms in the next ward. She said nothing, intent on her work, but Eamonn and Eileen stuck close to Munroe and nodded their heads wisely to a few murmured comments. This ward was very quiet, no one shouting, and there was a tray of mugs on the long table by the door at the end of the room.
‘They’ve had their laudanum for the night,’ said Munroe when they were back out in the corridor again. ‘It quietens them down for a while and then they start to get the horrors.’
‘Dr Munroe!’ The shout came from above their heads and they saw Munroe lift his head and peer up through the murky atmosphere. Rapidly she moved into the shade of yet another staircase. Eamonn, she noticed, had instantly moved into the darkness of the shadows.
‘Yes, Dr O’Connor,’ called back Munroe.
‘Come up into my office, will you?’
‘I was just doing the rounds,’ objected Munroe while Eileen held her breath. There had been no telephone on Dr Munroe’s desk, but there probably was one in this Dr O’Connor’s office.
‘I tell you, come up here, Doctor,’ called Dr O’Connor imperatively. ‘I want to see you. You can finish your rounds afterwards. What’s the hurry?’
‘I’ll have to go or else he’ll come down,’ Munroe whispered noiselessly in Eileen’s ear. ‘You try number fifteen and number sixteen and then wait for me here. Keep out of anyone’s way. If a nurse comes in, just write “bed sores” on a slate. They’ve all, all of the patients, they’ve all got them and the nurses hate attending to them. They’ll clear off quickly if they see you write that.’
They waited until Munroe had run up the stairs and until they had heard a door above slam closed before going into the next ward. They had to find this girl soon. The murderer could not allow her to live; that was what the poor old Reverend Mother had said.
But she was not in ward fifteen – there had been one young girl that they both had looked twice at – the shaved heads made them all difficult to tell apart, but this young girl had opened eyes of the palest shade of grey and then shut them again. Not Angelina, but sweetly pretty and lost – her expression blank, her scratched arms bearing witness to her frantic efforts to free herself. Nor was she in number sixteen; there had been a nurse there who looked rather intently at both of them, but who turned away and bustled out of the ward when Eileen had frowned heavily, looking down on a patient and written ‘bed sores’ on the slate, tapping it authoritatively before stalking out.
There was still no sign of Dr Munroe when they emerged. Then Eamonn looked around and saw another door marked with the letter F so Eileen nodded to enter it, though the noise that was coming from it daunted her to the soul – the screams of the dammed.
But hell, she thought despairingly, when she entered, was never as bad as this. From beside her she heard Eamonn suck in a deep breath.
It was a long room with a huge window at the end of it – divided into five sections with the mullions, like steps of stairs, rising to the centre and then decreasing again on the other side and each section enclosing some ornate stained-glass picture. The room had alcoves along each side of it and the brick floor sloped down to the centre – as if it were a cattle mart.
Each of the alcoves held a stone bath and in each of the baths, pinioned by an iron bar, was a naked woman. Four nurses were hosing them down and the water seemed to flow from a hole at the bottom of the bath and down to the drain in the centre of the floor. A pile of ragged towels were on a table beside the doorway and a row of wheeled stretchers, each one covered with a rubber sheet, were ranged in front of it.
The nurses turned startled faces as they came in. Eamonn raised a hand and nodded, then seized one of the stretchers and turned smartly on his heel and wheeled it out. Eileen followed, numb with compassion and anger. No written article, no picture could ever tell this story as it should be told to the people of Cork, she was thinking as Dr Munroe came running back down the stairs.
‘I know where Angelina is,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Saw it in the admissions book when he went over to the window to count the pound notes for my salary. It must be her – different name, but just one person came in today – different name – Mary O’Sullivan, aged twenty. She’s been put in a private room – down this corridor.’ He seized the trolley from Eamonn with a whispered: ‘Well done, yourself,’ and wheeled it with a nonchalant air down the corridor, past several windows looking down upon the River Lee and the city beyond.
Pray God, she is still alive, thought Eileen as she followed, trying to put the last scene out of her head. At least if they could save Angelina and get out of this hell-hole she would find words that would scorch the consciences of all that allowed this terrible lack of care, this dreadful insult to human dignity.
And it was Angelina. She recognized the eyes. The girl lay on a narrow bed inside a small room which was like a cubicle. There was no sign of the nun’s clothes that she had worn up to a few hours ago, no sign of any clothes at all. She was naked under the blanket, completely unconscious. Her hair had been shaved, but her eyes, those very Mediterranean-blue eyes, the blue eyes of a high-class doll, that Eileen remembered, were wide open and staring sightlessly at the ceiling. On the slate at the bottom of the bed was printed in large letters: FOUND IN STREET. BYSTANDER REPORTED THAT SHE HAS BEEN INSANE FOR YEARS. HAS HAD SEVERAL EPILEPTIC FITS ON THE JOURNEY HERE. RAVES IN BETWEEN. UNLIKELY TO SURVIVE.
Instantly Dr Munroe gathered her up in his arms and transferred the body on to the trolley, covering her, including face and head, with the blanket. He looked down on her for a moment, then went to the door and placed it slightly ajar, then returned and delved in his pocket taking out a packet of face masks. He put one on. Now only the flaming red hair and the eyes were visible. He handed the other two to Eileen and Eamonn. They obeyed him instantly, becoming doctors on an operating case without hesitation.
Then with an air of resolution Dr Munroe took a small scalpel from the breast pocket of his white coat, pulled a white arm out from the blanket. Before anyone could stop him, he drew it across the girl’s arm. Blood flowed out instantly from Angelina Fitzsimon, staining the blanket, dripping down on to the trolley.
‘Now run,’ said Munroe with an appreciative grin at Eileen. ‘Keep up with me, Doctor, won’t you? This is an emergency, you know.’
And then he was off running at breakneck speed, pushing the trolley. Eileen’s leather boots thundered down the corridor in pursuit, the stethoscope swinging wildly from her neck, the white coat tails parted and flying like wings. They met several nurses, but none seemed even interested, just stood back to allow the trolley to pass. This was an institution that lived with emergencies and attempted suicides. At the sight of them, Liam jumped to his feet, pushed open the two front doors and set off running ahead of them. Eileen felt her heart lurch sideways. They were so near now.
The engine of the Crossley Tender still ran noisily, still turned and facing the gates. As Liam approached at high speed, someone shone a torch, the back was let down and then Charlie switched on the headlights. In a moment Liam and Eamonn had efficiently collapsed the stretcher, carried Angelina, still stretched upon it, into the back of the lorry. Eamonn produced a small pocket torch and Eileen climbed up after the girl, lying beside Angelina with her arm over the cold body, doing her best to warm her and to keep the wet from her. They should have picked up more blankets, she thought. This girl seemed to be halfway towards death. Eamonn reached in, felt the pulse and then shouted, ‘Let’s go, Charlie.’
‘Go where?’ Charlie was speeding down the hill toward
s the river.
‘Same place as last night,’ yelled Eamonn. ‘Mercy Hospital, again. We’re their best suppliers.’
TWENTY-FOUR
St Thomas Aquinas:
Et aequo animo ferre iniuriam sibi signum est perfectio, sed est alius iniurias patienter sufferre imperfectionis et actualis peccati.
(To bear with patience wrongs done to oneself is a mark of perfection, but to bear with patience wrongs done to someone else is a mark of imperfection and even of actual sin.)
Sergeant Patrick Cashman was at the Mercy Hospital by half-past nine on the following morning. He had come into the barracks, found a lay sister from the hospital waiting for him, and at her news, he straightaway put his hat and coat back on again and without waiting for a word with the superintendent left the building.
‘How is she?’ he asked, trying to slow his footsteps to the woman’s.
‘Bad,’ she said with a gloomy shake of the head, ‘very bad. Unconscious.’
Looking around he saw a taxi cruising along and hailed it quickly with a raised umbrella.
‘Get in,’ he said shortly to the lay sister. ‘We’ll get there more quickly. The flooding is still bad. We’ll have to take a roundabout route.’
There was a feeling of oppression, almost of fear within him when he paid off the taxi, entered the doors of the hospital and strode down the corridor towards the reception desk. The Reverend Mother seemed to be an essential part of the scenery in Cork, as old as the statue of Father Matthew which was the focal meeting point for all at the top end of St Patrick Street – she was as old and as solidly reliable, he thought, remembering the flood waters lapping in a futile way around the knees of the statue the last time that he had seen it.
He almost held his breath as the accompanying nursing sister tapped on the door and then threw it open. ‘A visitor for you, Reverend Mother,’ she said respectfully.
‘Patrick!’ said the voice, clipped, decisive, clear as always. The Reverend Mother was out of bed, and dressed. Only a sling made her appear different.
‘Very good of you to come,’ she said briskly and refused, on his behalf, the offer of a cup of tea. Patrick found himself grinning.
‘The Sister told me that you were … “lying unconscious and very bad”, that was what she said.’ He was almost stammering with relief.
‘Nonsense,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ve just stupidly broken my arm. As for what you were told that was one of those conversations, like parallel lines, where the two minds never meet. You were talking about me; the sister was talking about Angelina.’
He immediately became grave. ‘Angelina?’
‘Word came to me that she had been enticed from her place of refuge; been immediately chloroformed and then hidden, naked and with a shaved head, among the unfortunate insane people in the Eglinton Asylum. I entrusted her recovery to some reliable friends and she is now here in the hospital.’ The four extraordinary pieces of information were delivered in the Reverend Mother’s usual, concentrated, concise and matter-of-fact style.
Patrick gasped, but knew from the look in her eye that no questions about those reliable friends were invited.
‘And how long will she remain unconscious?’ he asked and got a nod of approval.
‘The doctors tell me that it may go on for days. Her life is no longer in jeopardy, but it is considered, by the medical authorities, to be safer for her if she awakes naturally, without any artificial stimulants. Her life was at risk for some time last night, but with the skill of the physicians here she is now considered to be out of danger. In any case,’ said the Reverend Mother, going as usual to the crux of the matter, ‘I feel fairly sure that she did not know who abducted her. Remember what a murky day it was yesterday, Patrick. It did not stop raining for the whole day. A man in the darkness of the car, hat pulled down, coat collar turned up … a pad of chloroform placed over her mouth …’
‘But where was she? You said a place of refuge …’
The Reverend Mother considered that for a moment, and he thought that she might say ‘with a friend’, but after that pause she said, ‘Angelina retreated to the Ursuline Convent of Blackrock, without the knowledge of her family or her friends.’
‘But the man guessed.’
‘Yes.’ The Reverend Mother’s very green eyes were brooding over this. ‘It is possible that my visit there was injudicious,’ she acknowledged, ‘but I fear that the first victim, Mary O’Sullivan, told the man the whole story – Angelina’s as well as her own. She was always, poor little thing, a silly girl, who liked to try to make herself important.’
Patrick looked at the Reverend Mother, wondering how much she would tell him. That she knew the whole story he had little doubt. There was a gleam of the hunter in her eyes and she wore an expression that he had seen on the faces of some chess players when a possible checkmate was envisaged.
‘Was Angelina the intended victim on the night of the Merchants’ Ball?’ He tried the question and was rewarded with a gracious nod. Thirteen years ago, he would have been given a sweet; the thought was fleeting, as now all his energies were concentrated. Like a runner, he was on the home trail and he knew what he would have to do.
‘So it was Mary O’Sullivan,’ he continued. ‘By plan or by chance?’
Her expression became a little remote and so he quickly amended this to: ‘It must have been by chance. He could not have expected to see her in that place, wearing that dress, but, once he danced with her, well, he knew both girls … is that right? He knew both girls, and when he was close up he realized that it wasn’t Angelina, but Mary, all dressed up.’
‘Go on,’ she said. And she looked at him, like a teacher who has faith in a pupil’s ability to find the right answer.
‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘This man was the father of Mary’s baby. He had made her pregnant. She saw him, told him that she was pregnant, perhaps, told him about the swap and about the Ursuline Convent refuge for Angelina.’
‘Do you remember,’ said the Reverend Mother slowly. ‘Do you remember, Patrick, telling me how many pregnant girls have been fished out of the river during your time as a policeman? You are a young man who has not been long in the force and yet that has been your experience. I wonder how many others he may have murdered. This was a man whose self-image may have depended on the good opinion of those around him. He, I feel, could not afford to be seen as loose living – it would spoil his image – not just in others’ eyes but also in his own. His own self-esteem depended on the esteem of others.’
‘A priest!’ Patrick exclaimed, but she shook her head.
‘Not a priest,’ she said, ‘but a man who had aspirations towards the dignity of being one of the Pope’s Knights of Malta, because of his work among the poor of Cork.’
He was beginning to understand and looked across at her.
‘We are strange creatures, we humans,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘I have heard myself called charitable, but only I know how much pride, how much mental satisfaction is mixed in with my so-called charity. But charity, of course, should be love; pure and simple love – the Latin is caritas but, although I don’t know Greek, I understand that it comes originally from that language and means unlimited loving-kindness. This man found that charitable works not only boosted his sense of self-worth, which perhaps had been very low, but also led him into the company of unfortunates who would do anything in order to be fed, to be given sweets, food, coal, clothes and he discovered that above all he found pleasure in very young girls who so wished for pretty clothes. At first it was probably just a matter of touching, inappropriate, perhaps; but starving mothers turned a blind eye and the children themselves, were, in certain cases, too young and too innocent, and, in other cases, too greedy for what he could offer.’ The Reverend Mother stopped and said, ‘Not only a priest works among the poor.’
‘A doctor!’ exclaimed Patrick.
‘I thought about that – and then I remembered the visits of the man from the St Vincent de Pa
ul to the O’Sullivan household, the gifts of clothes for the girls – given by a man who, because of his appearance, because of that terrible disfigurement, would not have found it easy to get from girls of his own class, affection, love or sexual favours,’ said the Reverend Mother bluntly.
Patrick stared at her and then his eyes widened. ‘And, of course, he was at the Merchants’ Ball. Terrible disfigurement. You’re talking about Professor Lambert, aren’t you? And he said that he had danced with Angelina. If he knew both girls, then he must have realized that it was not Angelina. He must have known instantly that it was Mary O’Sullivan. He would not have been fooled by the dress and the necklace.’
‘And she probably asked him for money. Mary O’Sullivan would not have missed up on that opportunity,’ put in the Reverend Mother dryly.
‘He’s of the Lambert family; he wouldn’t have been short of money,’ said Patrick decisively. ‘So why didn’t he give it to her?’
‘For fear that something would leak out, I suggest. This man would have killed to keep his secret.’
‘I suppose,’ he said slowly, ‘he got quite a shock when he realized who it was and then when Mary made the mistake of trying to blackmail him, he slipped her some ether. It would be easy for him, as a doctor, to get hold of ether; it would be one of the tools of his trade, he would have it in his bag, and so he put the ether into a glass of champagne – the tea-planter fellow reported that she seemed sleepy and complained of feeling sick. Professor Lambert had danced with her, had handed her over to one of his students and had gone upstairs. But later he probably slipped down again and then he came back to her, met her in a dark corner, probably got her in the lift, went down, instead of up, as you suggested, Reverend Mother. Started to strangle her – he is a powerfully built fellow in the arms, chest and shoulders – I remember noticing that – saw the manhole and decided on a cleverer course. He just popped her down, dropped her through the manhole and into the sewer.’
A Shameful Murder Page 26
