Murder in an Orchard Cemetery

by Cora Harrison

  Only when all the fuss had died down and she and Mother Isabelle were making their way to the church, she said cautiously, ‘I was surprised that Sister Mary Magdalen did not greet you.’

  Mother Isabelle shrugged. ‘Ah, ma chérie, ces jeune filles gâtées!’ from which the Reverend Mother inferred that the daughter of James Musgrave had been a difficult pupil – spoiled, perhaps, and that the relationship between pupil and headmistress was still somewhat soured and past rebukes had neither been forgiven, nor forgotten.

  Her attention just then was taken by the builder, Robert O’Connor, who rapped out an oath and then apologized with a guilty look towards the two nuns. He had, she guessed, heard the offer and correctly assumed from the animated conversation going on that the stockbroker might be more lucrative to the bishop than his own small discounts on a building scheme. Wee Willie was more forthcoming.

  ‘Ye may’s well pack y’r bags, laddies,’ he said. ‘Gentleman Jim’ll get the prize so far as his lordship is consarned,’ he said, and the Reverend Mother speculated in a detached way on how strong an influence the Scottish language still had upon the people of Northern Ireland – especially when one remembered that it was more than three hundred years since, during the reign of James I, the warlike Roman Catholics of Northern Ireland had been evicted from most of Ulster and the land filled with Protestant Scots, who had never truly amalgamated with the natives and had preserved their customs, accents and religion.

  Why had Wee Willie left his native city of Belfast and come down to this most Catholic and most revolutionary city in the whole of Ireland? Was there something in his background that had made it impossible for him to stay in the north, something that would have made British rule and British justice a danger to him. It was, she thought, an interesting speculation. There must have been some pressing reason. After all, Cork was not in any way a prosperous place, not a place which would have appeared ripe for new business. There was huge unemployment and huge poverty in the place and even the well-off, such as doctors, solicitors, stockbrokers and successful businessmen, were certainly far less wealthy than they had been before the wars of independence and the civil wars. Her cousin’s husband, the foremost solicitor in Cork, incessantly mourned the downturn in the economy, according to his wife.

  Still, none of my business, she told herself as she smiled mildly at poor Pat Pius who wore the resigned look of one for whom fortune seldom smiled. Perhaps someone with his drive and his energy might have been better off taking the boat to America and devoting his gifts of innovation, perseverance, and courage to becoming an entrepreneur in that land of enterprise. Maureen Hogan, she thought, wore a thoughtful look, rather as though she were planning something as her eyes swept over the neat array of ancient apple trees and lines of graves. A clever young lady: she certainly had that appearance. A most determined chin and an air of indomitable courage about her. The Reverend Mother sighed a little when she thought of her star pupil, Eileen, who was also clever and self-willed and had the knack of getting herself into dangerous situations because of her devotion to the cause of a united Ireland. It would be the worst possible thing for Eileen to work in such close proximity to Maureen Hogan. These four men: James Musgrave, Robert O’Connor, Willie Hamilton and Pat Pius wanted the office of alderman because of the monetary success that it would help to bring them, especially if it led to the status of lord mayor, but Maureen wanted it in order to bring revolution into the city of Cork, to rake up the fires of nationalism which had recently died down to smouldering levels. There was a cold look in the girl’s eye, a look that the Reverend Mother had seen in many of the heroines of the rising; such as Mary and Annie MacSweeney and also the Countess Markievicz, a look that seemed to say that, having pushed themselves, in the past, to do deeds that would be considered alien to their sex, that from then onwards they had kept a wary eye on their impulses and geared themselves to be ready for further action.

  Perhaps, she thought, Lucy is right. James Musgrave might be the best candidate, after all. Brought up to money, sent to university, made a success of his original accountancy degree, risen to the heights of stockbroker; now very well-off, one of the Montenotte crowd and he would probably be above taking bribes unless they were very subtly offered in the form of a directorship or something of the sort. Whereas Robert O’Connor, the builder, was probably still hungry, doing well, but needed to do even better, especially now if he were to be disappointed in his courtship of the affluent widow, Kitty O’Shea. Pat Pius certainly would need more money if he were not to lead a ‘hand to mouth’ existence for the rest of his days. As he said himself, he was brought up hard, and that, in her experience, often meant that the hardness was transferred to his dealings with others. And Willie Hamilton, the Northern Ireland man. What about him? She didn’t think that a northerner would have too good a chance in the strongly partisan Cork city, though he might have concealed resources. He was, she decided, as she went into church, the mystery man and her mind went to a tale that she had heard once from her friend and physician, Dr Scher. It had been a complicated story involving a boat, an island, some Germans and a man from Ulster. She resolved to ask him about it when next they met.

  FOUR

  There had been, thought the Reverend Mother, a rather poor atmosphere over lunch. The lay members of the gathering were tense and uncommunicative. Even the charming James Musgrave ate his fish with the air of one whose mind is on other things. He had worn a dinner jacket the evening before, and though he now appeared in a lounge suit, he had embellished it with the silver and blue stripes of a Clongowes Wood College tie, pinned to his shirt with a small, neat pioneer badge, thereby signalling to the bishop that he had attended the most expensive and most exclusive school in Ireland, and was, moreover, a teetotaller after the example of Father Matthew, a saint much venerated in his native Cork city and whose memory was preserved by an enormous statue next to the Patrick Street bridge.

  The other candidates for high office were ill-at-ease with James Musgrave, thought the Reverend Mother, and she sensed that there was going to be some bad feelings among them as the day progressed. It was unwise of the bishop to display his preference so openly.

  It was, she thought, probably the fine weather that made everyone rather discontented. In the past when only the members of the religious orders had been invited, they seemed to have had bad weather with either rain or fog, encouraging all to either keep to their bedrooms or sit quietly in the library reading, or praying in the chapel. But now everyone wanted to be out of doors. The grounds, for those wearing their best shoes, were limited in scope, enough room for a short brisk walk, but no more and now the orchard had been barred to all except James Musgrave.

  There was a feeling of unrest, a tense atmosphere. None of the candidates, she suspected, felt like ever repeating these tedious few days. Even she, herself, had begun to tire of the worldly company of Mother Isabelle and was filled with an impatient desire to get back to her own convent where she was sure that some real-life problems were waiting to be solved. Seven days were long enough, she thought, as she made her way to the chapel where she would not have to talk to everyone. She noted with amusement that, despite the sun, most were going upstairs towards their bedrooms and would probably spend the afternoon with a book or sleeping on their bed until the hour for dinner approached. This day was going to drag its endless length and by now everyone was sick of this enforced companionship. Even the sun, she thought, as she entered the darkness of the chapel, had begun to pall and she found herself worrying over various vulnerable pupils and hoping that Sister Mary Immaculate was following her instructions to make sure that no suspicious men were hanging around the gate when the pupils went home after school. Some of these barely adolescent girls were easily seduced with the offer of a meal and would then be plied with some strong Guinness or Murphy’s Stout. She tried to pray but realized despairingly that lists of instructions which she had written for members of her staff kept intruding upon her mind. More of a
Martha than a Mary, she thought, and Jesus had reproved Martha for her solicitousness about worldly matters rather than prayer. Kneeling in the empty church she murmured, ‘Dixit illi Dominus, Martha, Martha, sollicita es …’

  And then, her low voice was drowned by an explosion, a terrible thunderous burst of sound, near, raw, ear-splitting!

  The Reverend Mother jumped to her feet and went to the door. Not for a moment had she thought that it was thunder. Anyone who had lived through the wars in the streets of Cork city during the last years recognized instantly the raw, shocking explosive sound of a bomb and would not ever mistake it for the throbbing clap of a thunderstorm. A bomb meant danger, but she did not hesitate. Lives were lost, but not always. Bodies, even of the most severely wounded, could be reclaimed, rebuilt. As she went through the door, she loosened her veil, made from the strongest material it had seen a lifetime of service, but was still strong enough to form a tourniquet for a desperately bleeding wound.

  The bomb, as she had thought, had exploded quite close to the chapel. As she came through the door she could see where it had been situated. Clouds of smoke rose up; dust and dirt darkened the sunlight; the sun was hidden, and the air was filled with an acrid smell. The first thing that she noticed was that an enormous gnarled apple tree was lying across the pathway with its roots in the air. The cemetery itself was gone from view, just a bomb site veiled in dust.

  ‘Get someone to phone the Mercy Hospital, quick, phone for an ambulance, doctors, nurses!’ She snapped the words at a terrified novice and saw her run down the path towards the convent before she turned in the direction of the gate to the orchard cemetery.

  The dust was beginning to clear from the air, to subside in layers on the trees, the tombstones, and the verdant grass. The Reverend Mother hesitated for a second. One bomb, she knew from experience, was often followed by a second, but she guessed that, in this place, at this hour, and for a particular reason which had inserted itself into her mind, there would have been just the single bomb. And so, she took the risk. There would be only a chance in a million that anyone could have lived through that explosion, but strange things happen. She knew of a house that had been blown up, but a baby strapped securely into a pram, had landed safely on the soft grass of a well-kept lawn outside the porch where he had been sleeping.

  The fragile wooden gate was lying in splinters, but the heavy limestone blocks that formed the wall had been scattered and blocked the entrance. It took her a few minutes to scale them. Not a large bomb, she thought. Now that the air was clearing, the damage was minimal, apart from the gate and the one tree …

  And, of course, the beautifully curved limestone bench.

  The Reverend Mother said a quick prayer for courage and looked for a way to get further in.

  And then she saw something which caused her to stop for a moment. Lying across one of the more ancient gravestones, not far from the gate, oddly stripped of clothing …

  It was a human leg.

  The Reverend Mother looked at it for a moment and then turned and went back towards the shelter of the church. Her life, she knew without any false self-esteem, was a valuable one, and there would be no justification for risking it just to reclaim a dead body. Let the authorities come. The fire brigade, the army, ambulances and the police themselves all had plenty of experience in dealing with an atrocity such as this. She should, perhaps, go and check that the novice had obeyed her instructions, but she thought that the girl had looked alert and intelligent.

  And yes, there was Mother Isabelle, accompanied by Mother Teresa, the superior of the Sisters of Charity, coming rapidly up the path. Was it religion or experience which gave her fellow mother superiors an ability to respond to all crises with calmness and a prayer? A quick glance at the scene from both; both glances pausing at the spectacle of the blood-covered leg, a murmur of a prayer from Mother Teresa – Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine – and all three made the sign of the cross and then turned to each other.

  ‘The ambulance and doctors are on the way,’ said Mother Teresa and the other two nodded. It was interesting that Mother Teresa, in her prayer, had used the Latin word ‘eis’ meaning ‘they’. As far as the Reverend Mother knew, the only occupant of the orchard cemetery had been the stockbroker, James Musgrave. But of course, Mother Teresa, as manager of the convent and its grounds might have known otherwise. For the first time, the Reverend Mother thought of the obliging young gardener and breathed a quick prayer hoping that he had not been present.

  But then the sound of a siren came to their ears. The streets leading from the city were narrow; the hill was steep, and narrow, too. A siren, if the ambulance and perhaps fire engine were to make progress, was essential for safety, but the Reverend Mother wished that it had not been necessary. It immediately attracted attention. A cluster of novices, faces as white as their wimples, emerged timidly, but stood their ground in front of the convent waiting for instructions. And then some other nuns, a priest, the bishop, and then last of all, the candidates for high office in the city, mostly fresh from their beds, judging by a slightly dishevelled look, but coming bravely up the path towards the three nuns: William Hamilton from the north of Ireland; Pat Pius Murphy, the shoe seller; Maureen Hogan the solicitor; and Robert O’Connor, the builder.

  But not, of course, James Musgrave the stockbroker – stockbroker and father.

  The Reverend Mother’s eyes went to that cluster of novices at the bottom of the path. Instantly she took the decision to interfere. The superior of the convent was present, but the stunned expression on the woman’s face, a face blanched with fear, eyes wide with horror, made her reluctant to pile more troubles upon Mother Teresa, who was waiting, with as much dignity as she could muster, for the arrival of the ambulance, the fire brigade and the police. The novices would be the last matter on her mind at this moment and so the Reverend Mother made the decision to use her own initiative.

  A quick ‘Excusez moi,’ to Mother Isabelle, then back down the path towards the cluster of girls outside the front door of the convent. ‘Come with me, my children,’ said the Reverend Mother quietly and with outstretched arms she ushered them in through the front door.

  The convent of the Sisters of Charity had once, about eighty years ago, been the home of some wealthy and titled family and when their daughter had converted to Catholicism and had entered the order, her heartbroken father, a widower, and without any other children, had endowed the order with the house and had returned to his native town in southern England. The place still looked more like a country house than a convent and the Reverend Mother had no idea of the whereabouts of the novices’ quarters. In this emergency, though, protocol did not matter so she immediately ushered them into a ground-floor parlour, carpeted with a thick Axminster rug and furnished with overstuffed couches and armchairs. As the girls stood around, shocked and indecisive, the Reverend Mother delved in her capacious pocket and produced her enormous and ornate rosary beads and handed them to the most sensible looking of the novices.

  ‘Call out the rosary, my dear,’ she said quietly. ‘The sorrowful mysteries.’ No need to say any more.

  She had made a good choice, she thought as she left the room. The girl’s voice was quite steady as she announced, ‘The First Sorrowful Mystery: “The Agony in the Garden” …’ and then embarked upon the Lord’s prayer and then the first of the ten ‘Hail Mary’ recitations. By the time the girls finished the sixty prayers that made up the rosary, their nerves would be steadied, and their minds would be calmed so that they could absorb the bad news without hysteria.

  For one of them, there would perhaps be a greater shock, but that would have to be dealt with by the girl’s own community, and so the Reverend Mother made her way down towards the convent kitchen, still housed in the basement of the stately Georgian home.

  The lay sisters, having fed lunch to the visitors and the choir sisters of the convent were now, she guessed by the animated voices, having their own meal. She knocked politely but did
not wait to be invited in, and so entered as a man’s voice was in the middle of a story. ‘If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was missing a bag of fertilizer I’d have been in there myself. I’d be in a thousand pieces by now.’

  He stopped abruptly as the Reverend Mother appeared.

  ‘Sit down, everyone,’ she said immediately, and then addressed the gardener. ‘I’m pleased to see you. I was afraid that you might have been killed.’

  He fumbled awkwardly with his cap and remained standing until she hastily took a spare chair and sat at the table. Then he sat down, also. ‘I was just telling everyone, Reverend Mother, that I would have been in the orchard cemetery myself except that I couldn’t find my bag of fertilizer, so I was busy in my shed, turning the place upside down, looking for it,’ he said. ‘Lucky for me! You see, I had planned to give the apple trees a bit of feed before the blossoms fell and the new season’s apples began to form,’ he explained.

  ‘God spared you,’ said one of the lay sisters, making the sign of the cross, which was quickly copied by the other sisters. She was probably the cook, possibly the unofficial superior of the other lay sisters, a woman past middle age, judging by her lined face, but still vigorous and active, thought the Reverend Mother. Rather like her own Sister Bernadette who ruled the convent and knew everything that was going on.

  ‘I fear that someone has been killed,’ said the Reverend Mother, and saw by the faces that they knew the news already. She asked no questions. There was, however, one matter on which she could get information.

  ‘Was your shed very near to the explosion?’ She directed the question at the young gardener but noted that there was a slight stiffening in the figure of the lay sister who had made the sign of the cross.

  ‘Just around the corner,’ he said cheerfully. And then with a look at the lay sister, he said confidentially, ‘Sister Mary Agnes is afraid that I’ll be blamed for it.’