Murder in an Orchard Cemetery

by Cora Harrison

  An interesting man, Wee Willie Hamilton, she thought when they parted at the door to the church and she decided that she would pursue their conversation about sewage, possibly not over dinner, but certainly in the hearing of the bishop, who, after all, had great influence over what happened in Cork. Why should cities have almost every square yard covered by houses and streets? Why not intersperse the streets with city orchards, or woodland copses, where the sewage could be covered with soil and used to grow apple trees and fruit bushes? Too late for the Georgian inner city of Cork, but an idea for the new suburb of Turners Cross where the city manager, Mr Monahan, was striving to build houses for the poor. Yes, she decided, she should do her best to ensure that Willie Hamilton, northerner or not, should have a fair hearing for his ideas on sewage.

  Still, it would be unfair of her to concentrate on one candidate and with an inner sigh, she prepared to meet the bishop and the man whom he was obviously determined to introduce to her. So, this was Lucy’s friend, James Musgrave. She remembered seeing the house and its beautiful garden. The Musgraves, of course, were an old Cork family, one of the so-called merchant princes and the bishop was obviously most impressed by him.

  The bishop, himself, a man of great ability and strength of purpose, had come from a lowly background. His father had been a farm labourer and his son Daniel had attended the village school where his rapid progress had attracted the attention of the local priest who had advised his parents to ‘make a priest out of him’. It had been, and still was in country districts, the only sure route whereby a boy of lowly origins could get an education and the young Father Daniel had risen as high as he could, graduating with honours and moving onto post-graduate studies and eventually becoming a bishop. His origins he kept secret; rarely, apparently, visiting his parents when they were still alive and having nothing to do with the rest of the family. Not surprising, perhaps, that he had a weakness for the prominent Roman Catholic families of Cork in whose houses he was now a welcome guest by virtue of his high office. He beamed happily as he introduced James Musgrave to her.

  ‘I feel as though we are old friends, Reverend Mother. Your cousin Lucy and her husband Rupert are my dearest friends, and they speak so often of you.’ James Musgrave was a handsome man; in his fifties, she would have thought. Iron grey hair well brushed back from his forehead, clean shaven and well-dressed in a quietly expensive manner. Certainly, highly approved by the bishop, she instantly realized, by his lordship’s beaming smile of approval. In fact, she thought, Bob the Builder may have taken a step further down the ladder. A shy novice was beckoned forward and introduced as Sister Mary Magdalen, daughter of Mr James Musgrave. The Reverend Mother greeted her politely but felt that if the girl had entered her convent, she would have disapproved of the choice of such a flamboyant name. Mary Magdalen had been a follower of Christ, had been one who had stood around the cross, but she was remembered by most as a repentant prostitute. An odd name to choose, she thought and looked at the small, pale face with interest. Was Mr James Musgrave, a prosperous stockbroker, with a house in Montenotte, pleased that his young daughter had entered the order of the Sisters of Charity, an order which was devoted to visiting of the poor, especially the sick, in their homes, and also visiting those in prison. There was an unhappy look about the shadows beneath those large pale blue eyes and an unhealthy pallor to the face. The girl, if she had wanted to become a nun, would perhaps have been better placed in the Ursuline Convent of Blackrock where she would have been a teacher of girls like herself. The Reverend Mother smiled an acknowledgement of the introduction, but forbore to ask any questions of the girl as she seemed ill-at-ease and bore the appearance of one who would like to flee the company of the bishop and numerous nuns, priests and brothers who were interrupting the cloistered peace of the hillside convent.

  There was no uneasiness about the father, though. In fact, the fond look that he bestowed upon his daughter seemed to show satisfaction rather than concern and he was obviously an affectionate father, holding the girl’s hand and patting it from time to time as he chatted pleasantly about all the good work that the Reverend Mother had achieved in a poverty-stricken area of Cork. It was well done, she thought, allowing a smile to encourage him along the lines. It was calculated to please her, but also there were enough mentions of the ‘deserving poor’ in his conversation to keep the bishop happy. His lordship was all in favour of the ‘deserving poor’, but like the landlords of the city who made substantial sums of money from the letting of multiple tenancies in the crumbling Georgian houses, he very much disapproved of those who spent money drinking in the public houses of the city.

  A fluent speaker and probably a clever stockbroker, thought the Reverend Mother and wondered, with a touch of envy, whether the mother superior of these Sisters of Charity was able to call upon his skills to sort out her accounts before the bishop’s secretary could cast a beady eye upon the muddle in which her own accounts frequently ended up. It was, of course, she thought, resignedly, very much her own fault as the muddle was probably a consequence of running two separate sets of accounts side-by-side. The bishop’s secretary could never be allowed to see the money spent on sweets, handed out so liberally as rewards, bribes, and sometimes, sadly, as the most positive gesture she could make towards a small child who was struggling to cope with the news of a death or an eviction. Somehow, there never seemed enough time in her busy life to make her accounts look acceptable.

  Resolving to have a chat with Mother Isabelle about this matter of fiddling the accounts, she turned her attention to the five candidates: Pat Pius, the shoe manufacturer; Robert O’Connor, nicknamed Bob the Builder; Maureen Hogan, the solicitor with IRA links; James Musgrave, the smoothly-spoken stockbroker; and William Hamilton, known by all as Wee Willie, the entrepreneur from the north of Ireland who had left Belfast a few years after the six counties in Ulster had taken the decision to separate from the south and remain part of Britain. Of them all, Wee Willie, she thought, was the most interesting. It took a degree of courage and enterprise to leave his family, friends and homeland to start a new life in Cork, the most fiercely republican of all cities in Ireland.

  Which one of them would be elected to the position of alderman?

  THREE

  The Reverend Mother rose later than usual on the fifth morning and realized that she was feeling more refreshed than she had felt for a long time. There was, she thought guiltily, something to be said for these religious retreats. They refreshed the body and the mind as well as the soul. She washed and dressed, luxuriating in the realization that no one was going to bring her a problem during that day which stretched ahead of her. The convent was set at a little distance from the small church and the walk for early morning mass and communion was a pleasurable one in this unusually good summer weather for Cork city. But, whereas in her own convent on the flat of the city the increased warmth seemed to bring out a rash of fungal spores even on the well-polished furniture and corridor floors, up here, on this hill, the air was fresh; the sun, for once, was strong and its heat had begun to burn off the mist that still clothed the city below them.

  There was no one outside the church, although the doors stood open, and a quick glance inside showed her that she was one of the earliest to arrive. And so, she indulged herself by prolonging her walk for another few minutes, climbing the hill and then pausing for a moment beside the orchard cemetery and drinking in the scented air from the fruit trees. The gardener, it seemed, had taken immediate advantage of their dispersal yesterday. The ugly pit had been roofed in with planks and covered over with a dark-green tarpaulin, tastefully decorated by an assortment of potted plants, and the gnarled ancient apple tree nearby cast a gentle shade over the arrangement. The Reverend Mother smiled a little. The presence of the grave had not bothered her, nor did the realization that the body of a nun would soon go to feeding next year’s fruit on the nearby tree. Judging by the amount of blossom upon the knobbly and contorted branches, this was still, despite its
age, a high-yielding tree and she considered fleetingly whether she could persuade the bishop to permit her body to be buried in this fruitful place. In life, she thought, as she went back down the path towards the church, she owed the bishop absolute obedience, but surely, once dead, she could have her own way. In her mind, she began to draft a letter that was to be given to his lordship after her death. Her cousin Lucy’s solicitor husband would surely be the one to do that service for her, she thought. An unsealed envelope, she decided. The bishop would thereby be subtly reminded that the prominent citizen, Rupert Murphy of South Mall, would probably be fully aware of the contents of the letter. Yes, an unsealed envelope with its flap neatly tucked in. That would be the way to handle the matter.

  And with that resolution she entered the church and took her place beside Mother Isabelle. They had been separated at dinner and throughout the previous boring evening spent listening to the bishop, supposedly interviewing the candidates, but in fact, telling each what he believed was their role and inviting their acquiescence – ‘and, of course, I’m sure that you agree’ – was the bishop’s style of interviewing. Once this morning’s mass was over, she and Mother Isabelle could stroll back together to sample the excellent breakfast which would be spread out for them and perhaps then they could have a little private conversation. Like herself, she guessed, Mother Isabelle would have a clear memory of a past pupil.

  The small convent chapel was cool and dark, so the sun when they came out, hit everyone with a sense of shock. The mist had completely dissipated, and Cork lay before their eyes in unusual beauty, the two channels of the River Lee, curving through the streets of the city and the sunlight bringing a sparkle to the old limestone buildings.

  ‘Would’ya look at the place; all balmed out in the sunshine,’ said Pat Pius with a friendly smile in the direction of the Reverend Mother and she smiled back. A good, old Cork expression, she thought and hastily, before she had to explain its meaning to Mother Isabelle, she asked her question in low, rapid French, noting, though, how Pat Pius’ smiling face changed to a scowl as he gave an angry look at James Musgrave who was chatting with the bishop at the doorway to the church. There was bad blood among the candidates; that was obvious. The builder, Robert O’Connor; solicitor, Maureen Hogan; and Pat Pius all looked back with an annoyed expression at the bishop and his advisor. Willie Hamilton, also, had a slightly unpleasant smile on his lips when he surveyed the stockbroker.

  However, the Reverend Mother averted her mind from political matters and nodded at the answer to her gossipy question of Mother Isabelle. It was as she had thought. The Musgrave girl – now, and for ever more, to be known as Sister Mary Magdalene – had been a pupil at the expensive Ursuline school in the exclusive district of Blackrock. No, said Mother Isabelle shaking her head vigorously, no, not at all pious, not at all subdued, au contraire – headstrong, opinionated, and a worry to her unfortunate widowed father, some scandalous behaviour, even …

  ‘Un coup de foudre!’ was Mother Isabelle’s opinion of her erstwhile pupil’s vocation to the cloistered life. Shocked and astonished the whole convent. Incroyable! Not just the choice of entering the convent, but the choice of an order. Mother Isabelle echoed her own thoughts on the matter. The life was hard and the work – these Sisters of Charity were expected to scrub out the rooms where the sick lay in terrible squalor. The French word dure seemed to sum up the life that the daughter of James Musgrave had swapped for a life of luxury and ease, living in Montenotte and going to school in Blackrock. The poor of the city would have been, previously, something glimpsed only from the safety of her father’s car with the windows firmly fastened and permitting no stench to be inhaled.

  Still, none of my business, thought the Reverend Mother, listening to another piece of gossip about how the builder, Monsieur O’Connor, had built a new house, toute près to the Ursuline Convent, just between them and Blackrock Castle, not only spoiling the community’s view of the castle itself but completely obscuring the restful vision of the River Lee as it entered the upper regions of Cork Harbour. With a thinly disguised satisfaction Mother Isabelle strongly feared that he may have overspent on his magnificent mansion. He had been expecting to marry a wealthy widow, named Kitty O’Shea, but now this Kitty had apparently plumped for his rival, James Musgrave, the stockbroker and had left him in the lurch.

  And, related Mother Isabelle, the bank manager had been observed by two of her sisters taking a petite promenade, to have called out to the house recently. The sisters, apparently, had noticed that the builder looked very pale as he escorted the bank manager to his car after their conversation.

  The Reverend Mother enjoyed the story, especially as Mr Robert O’Connor had been recently involved in trying to render homeless some parents of children in her school. She hoped to receive further enlightenment and that she and Mother Isabelle could lay claim to that bench in the orchard cemetery after they had done justice to the excellent breakfast. She was interested to hear some more gossip and to listen to the shrewd verdict of the Frenchwoman on those candidates for the lofty position of alderman. The parents of children in her own school would have no interest and no information, but it would have been a different matter with the rate-paying parents of the Ursuline Convent pupils.

  They were to be disappointed, though, once they strolled up to the beguiling scent of apple blossom. The bench where they had previously sat was already occupied by James Musgrave and the mother superior of the Sisters of Charity. The bishop himself stood in front of them, smiling benignly. James Musgrave, she thought, looked very relaxed and pleased.

  ‘The chosen one, what do you think?’ she murmured, wondering whether choisi or élu was the correct word, but plumping for the latter as sounding less like its English equivalent.

  Mother Isabelle was inclined to think that if that were true, then the bishop was showing good sense. Mr Musgrave was a very pleasant man, most helpful – so he did do the convent’s accounts, surmised the Reverend Mother with a moment’s envy – moreover, said Mother Isabelle, with emphasis, he would command the respect of the bourgeoisie and protect the city from the horrors of such candidates as the little man from the north of Ireland, who spoke so strangely and who had tried once to sell her stockings for her affluent convent at a bargain price. Or that revolutionary young lady solicitor or even worse the low-bred man who sent barefoot children from house to house collecting old shoes. In the meantime, they would go for a petite promenade, which the doctor had recommended for her health.

  They both enjoyed the walk. Over the years they had learned to trust each other’s discretion and so were able to exchange information and even discreetly to share their opinion of the bishop wasting their valuable time in what should be a purely secular matter. As for the candidates, Mother Isabelle, personally, had made up her mind quite some time ago and she was happy to endorse the bishop’s choice, if he chose the right man, and to place such little influence as she possessed in encouraging fathers of her pupils to vote in the same way. Mother Isabelle lowered her voice as they came around a corner and found four of the candidates standing in a cluster, looking across the cemetery at the sight of the bishop sitting upon the bench in the orchard in animated conversation with that gentleman candidate for the office of alderman, Mr James Musgrave.

  He had a very pleasant voice, one of those quite high baritone voices which carry for long distances. A great public speaker, Lucy had said. In demand for all occasions. Charities loved him! That’s what Lucy had said, and the Reverend Mother could see why. Though sitting close to the bishop on the bench and a good hundred yards from them, every word could be heard by those on the path.

  ‘These Sunday collections, though all very well in their own way, are too irregular,’ he was stating in a pleasantly authoritative manner. ‘What you need, my lord, is a guaranteed sum which could be paid into an investment. I’d advise asking for a yearly sum from as many as you think would accept this way of paying their debt to God and to the church and y
ou would be able to invest this. If your lordship wishes I could advise a few safe and lucrative shares. I’ll draft a few details for you this afternoon once lunch is finished. If I could have the use of this bench and perhaps the gardener would bring me a small table, or even a box to put my papers on.’

  Bother! thought the Reverend Mother. Once again, he’s going to claim the best seat in the grounds for himself. She had already planned to take herself off there for the interval between the end of lunch and the beginning of the afternoon’s sermon – a time when most took themselves off for an after meal snooze. James Musgrave, she thought crossly, was one of these men who used charm to get him privileges that those less adroit might snatch. He took it for granted that the bishop would ensure that he had this prime seat in the convent grounds reserved for him during the afternoon break on this warm June day and that all would keep their distance lest they disturb his thoughts.

  His daughter was now sitting beside him, having been released from her duties while her fellow novices doubtless were now occupied in scrubbing and dusting like other novices all over the city. A man who found charm got him everything, assumed all would be done as he asked. The girl had now got to her feet looking awkward and ill-at-ease.

  ‘Off you go, now, my dear,’ he said benignly. ‘Prayers, I suppose.’

  A shy girl, perhaps. Muttered something. And then, without any farewell, she strode off through the gate and passed the cluster of visitors to her convent without a greeting or a look of recognition. The Reverend Mother frowned, but said nothing while the bishop went off to command a table for Mr Musgrave.