Murder in an Orchard Cemetery

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Barely enough to find it all very puzzling,’ said the Reverend Mother. Her spirits were beginning to revive. An abstract puzzle, a question of ‘why?’ and of ‘who?’ was better than the memory of the scattered body parts and the devastated daughter. ‘He was a widower with twin sons, both out in Australia, and a daughter who is a novice here in the convent.’

  ‘Poor girl,’ he said with such compassion that she bore in mind that, if necessary, she would ask Mother Teresa to allow Dr Scher to prescribe a soothing drink to allow the girl to have a few hours of sleep. That matter would have to be approached tactfully, though, so for the moment she shelved it and returned to the mystery.

  ‘Why?’ she said aloud and then when he looked puzzled, she went on. ‘Was he killed by accident, I wonder? I cannot see him being involved with either side. People of his kind keep out of these matters and mostly, in my experience, they are permitted to keep out of them. Musgrave – I remember his father, I think. There was a Mr Musgrave who had a house by the sea in Ballycotton where we used to go when I was young, and he had some sort of clothing factory. Made a lot of money, I believe.’

  ‘Nothing to do with the Sinn Fein crowd, then.’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said emphatically. ‘These sort of families, even when they wanted an independent country, never wanted it to be achieved by violence but, on the other hand, he was not from a family that might have had anything to do with the law, with a judge that might have jailed some IRA volunteer. The Musgraves, I’d say, were a purely commercial family. Well-off, but James Musgrave is probably the first of his family to enter politics.’

  ‘But do you think that the Sinn Feiners didn’t want him. I understand that they have their own candidate. By the name of Maureen Hogan, someone told me.’ Dr Scher, as usual, had picked up the gossip of the city.

  ‘She’s a solicitor,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘I can’t see that she would have played any very active part in IRA activity. She would merely have been a follower of Eamonn de Valera, like a lot of quite respectable people.’

  Dr Scher gave a cautious glance around and then lowered his voice. ‘Patrick is wondering whether it was a case of mistaken victim. Happens very often, you know, when it’s a question of a bomb. And, in this case, if it really was a bag of fertilizer and diesel or whatever was needed – I’m not an expert on bomb-making, but even I know that this would have to be set up in advance.’

  ‘I must say that Mr James Musgrave did occupy that seat during the first few days of our retreat. The gardener, the young man over there talking with Patrick, he had dug a grave and then covered it over with some planks, a tarpaulin and even put some potted plants on top,’ said the Reverend Mother. She strove to make her words sound neutral but heard a note of doubt in her voice.

  ‘There’s been a death, then, in the convent.’ Dr Scher echoed that note of doubt. He sounded puzzled.

  ‘No,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘The gardener explained that one of the very old sisters is not expected to live too long and as he had some time on his hands, he decided to dig the grave and have it ready.’ Though very conscious that her voice held a decided note of doubt in it, she did not endeavour to suppress it. And she thought it was justified. It was, she had thought at the time, a very odd proceeding and certainly not one that she would have permitted within her own convent precinct if she had been so fortunate as to possess an orchard cemetery like this.

  ‘A bit strange that!’ said Dr Scher, echoing her thoughts. ‘How on earth could he know that there might be a death within days, apart from a piece of gossip? Mostly I don’t know myself and I certainly would never be sure enough to give instructions for a grave to be dug. You know yourself, Reverend Mother. Think of Sister Assumpta! She, according to herself, was on the point of death for over twenty years, and even I was surprised at how long she lasted. If that young man dug the grave on his own initiative just because someone told him that an elderly nun was on her way out, then it does seem odd. What if it rains, or, I suppose, since we are talking about Cork, I should say, what about when it rains? Well, Patrick is letting him go now. Coming over to have a word with you, I’d imagine.’

  They waited in silence, with the Reverend Mother endeavouring to banish from her mind the grisly task that awaited Dr Scher. Patrick, however, looked unmoved as he approached, removing his cap. The sun caught the silver bullion wire of his inspector’s badge and she noticed how his glance went to it before he tucked it beneath his elbow. It had been, she knew, a tremendous struggle and nights spent studying for Patrick to attain the rank of inspector and she felt proud of her erstwhile pupil.

  ‘Anything you want me to look for, Patrick?’ asked Dr Scher. ‘Not that I’ll be able to find much with the body in that state,’ he added, and the Reverend Mother tightened her lips and repressed a shudder.

  ‘See if you can find the teeth,’ advised Patrick. ‘Easy enough to find James Musgrave’s dentist, and I’d like to have a firm identification in place before we set other matters in motion. The bishop thinks that the man was about fifty so he may have had false teeth, but you never know. Don’t worry too much about it,’ he said as Dr Scher began to move away. ‘We are virtually certain. If it wasn’t he, well, where is he now? And if it wasn’t he, well, who was it? Everyone else has been accounted for.’ He waited until Dr Scher had begun to back out his car and then said, ‘I’ve been wondering, Reverend Mother, whether Mr Musgrave was the intended victim.’

  The Reverend Mother looked at him with interest. ‘He does seem an unlikely target for the IRA, doesn’t he?’ she said cautiously. ‘My own knowledge of him is minimal; I probably know more about his father and grandfather than I do of him, but my cousin, Mrs Murphy, who will be here shortly, knows him well. He is a neighbour and a friend. But to answer the point you made, do you think that someone else was targeted?’

  Patrick hesitated visibly. ‘What do you think about the bishop, himself? It would have been feasible that he would have been sitting on the bench that afternoon, wouldn’t it? Alone or with someone.’

  The Reverend Mother thought about this and acknowledged the possibility. Anyone who wished to kill the bishop would not have worried too much about collateral damage in the form of other members of the clergy or of those on retreat in the convent. ‘You are thinking that this might be a political assassination?’ she queried. She glanced around. They were both speaking in low tones, as there was a certain amount of people coming and going. The lay sister from the kitchen, Sister Mary Agnes, was superintending the delivery of a sack of flour and a couple of sacks of sugar, giving a long explanation as to why the order for more sugar had to be added at the last moment. Another lay sister was polishing spotless windows and keeping an eye on the ruined orchard, while the gardener was snipping rose heads and gazing anxiously back at the police around the small shed nearby which, she presumed, was where he kept his tools, his pots, and his supplies of fertilizer.

  ‘I think it is a possibility,’ he said.

  She turned the matter over in her mind, but then shook her head.

  ‘I don’t think it likely, Patrick,’ she said. ‘That hole, which was dug for a grave, was only open and exposed for a short time, so I doubt whether news of its presence could be known to those in the city. In fact, I, and the superior from the Ursuline Convent in Blackrock, were sitting there when Mr Hamilton told us that the gardener was worried about leaving that gaping hole. If I remember correctly what he said was: “The poor, wee fellow had in his mind to cover the hole with a few slabs of timber, but then you ladies arrived and he’s worrying that it’s dangerous to have an open hole like that.”’ She did not attempt to mimic the northern accent, but saw Patrick give one of his infrequent smiles at her words – a slightly gap-toothed smile. Suddenly she saw the small boy in him, the ragged, underfed boy, whose teeth had suffered from inadequate feeding in his youth, now almost completely subsumed in the competent, well-dressed police inspector.

  But then the rare smile vanished i
n a second as Patrick bent his mind to the problem.

  ‘So the chances of someone from the city knowing that there was a huge hole in the ground, an ideal place to conceal a bomb in order to blow up whoever sat on that bench at a given time – the chances of that happening are very slight,’ he said and the Reverend Mother did not contradict him.

  It was he himself who after a minute, said, ‘Unless, of course, the IRA had someone within the walls, someone who knew exactly what was going on and who was able to quickly seize an opportunity.’

  The Reverend Mother thought about the matter and then she shook her head. ‘I don’t see the IRA wishing to blow up the bishop,’ she said. ‘Cork is a very religious city and the IRA are not too popular just now. To be implicated in the murder of a bishop would finish any support that is remaining to them.’ Her mind went again to the girl with the phone in her hand and the other hand covering her mouth as she whispered into the phone. Maureen Hogan had links with the IRA; even Eileen had not denied that. Maureen Hogan wanted to be an alderman and then, perhaps, lord mayor of Cork, following in the footsteps of the tragic pair of former lord mayors: Thomas McCurtain who was murdered by English soldiers and Terence MacSwiney who died of hunger strike in an English jail.

  ‘You will be seeing everyone here before they leave, I presume, Patrick,’ she said.

  He looked at her sharply and bowed his head in acknowledgement. He had picked up on the hint. She mused upon him with interest. Patrick as a boy had, of course, only stayed with the nuns until the age of seven, when after making his first confession and his first holy communion, he had been moved onto the Christian Brothers. During these few years, he had never stood out as being clever in any way. She remembered him for his tenacity, for his stubborn pursuit of an idea, but for little else. He had, she thought, grown with the job and that tenacity had served him better than a quick brain had served many of his contemporaries. From being just hard-working and reliable he had advanced to being also sharp-witted, adroit, and alert.

  ‘I’ve spoken with the bishop,’ he said. ‘His lordship suggested that he would arrange for a parlour to be available to me. He’s been most helpful and has given me a list of those in attendance.’

  The Reverend Mother bowed her head in gracious acknowledgement of the bishop’s helpfulness, but she did not offer to move away and to leave him to his work. He gave her one sharp look and then went back to his notebook where she could make out a neat list of names, headed by her own. Then he took a typewritten list from his case and scanned it. He murmured the names of priests, brothers and nuns, all headmasters and headmistresses of the numerous schools in the city of Cork. From time to time he looked at her with a quick sharp glance, but she said nothing and made no move. He replaced the list in his attaché case and went back to his notebook.

  ‘Miss Maureen Hogan,’ he said in a low voice. He gave a swift look around, so rapid that it was hardly noticeable, but the Reverend Mother guessed that he estimated the distance of all, even the man delivering the grocery supplies to Sister Mary Agnes.

  ‘You know the name,’ she said and her tone, like his, was subdued, and would, she knew from experience, not carry beyond his ear.

  ‘She has come to our attention a few times,’ he said briefly.

  ‘She was most anxious to keep her telephone conversation secret, and was not particularly polite when I, also, wanted to use the telephone, but that could be her age, her dislike of Reverend Mothers, of those in authority, a hundred and one reasons. But, obviously, anyone in contact with those who make bombs, must be of interest to you, Patrick. But then she is only one among many who knew that the bishop had more or less told all to keep away from the benches in the orchard cemetery as Mr Musgrave would be doing some valuable work for him – something to do with stocks and shares, I understand. And he asked Mother Teresa to arrange for a table to be taken out for him.’

  ‘So, if I were present at that lunch I would know from the bishop’s announcement, that Mr Musgrave would be sitting on that bench during the afternoon.’

  ‘Would be sitting on the bench during the later part of the afternoon,’ agreed the Reverend Mother. ‘But then he has been sitting on that bench every day since the beginning of the retreat. The custom is that all retire to their bedrooms for private prayer after lunch and then there is a church service at two o’clock where we pray for guidance in our lives and for help in doing the Lord’s work. And then we walk, pray, talk with each other, ask questions, sit on benches in the orchard or generally fill the time until supper at six and then another church service. So,’ she summed up, ‘even if the decision to kill the man was made after the bishop’s announcement, then there would still be a couple of hours for preparations, hours during which very few would be around. The nuns here, young and old, rise at half past five in the morning. Many do hard physical labour, scrubbing out disease-ridden tenements and ministering to the sick and the dying. The afternoon bedrest is taken by order and the visitors fall in with this routine. The grounds would have been empty for these couple of hours.’

  ‘That’s useful information,’ said Patrick, making a few notes and outlining a neat timetable on a fresh page.

  A laconic man, thought the Reverend Mother, but she guessed at his meaning. It would be easier for the police and for the investigation into the murder of the stockbroker if it turned out that it was a routine assassination by the IRA. There was, although she was sure that he was aware of this, a danger of thinking too readily of the IRA when any crime occurred; even the theft of a suit of clothes from a shop window in a north Cork town was recently laid at their door in the Cork Examiner news section.

  ‘And if they knew that there was a deep hole, already dug, then it might occur to them that this would be an excellent place in which to conceal a bomb.’ Patrick frowned a little. ‘The time was short, very short to plan and execute something like this. But from experience I know that the boys in the IRA can work fast and expertly. And, of course, there is a strong possibility that the gardener was in their pay, or one of them.’

  ‘Or terrorized,’ put in the Reverend Mother. ‘What would be their motive though, Patrick? Why should the IRA assassinate James Musgrave? I can’t see that he would have too much to do with politics.’

  ‘I don’t bother my head too much about politics, Reverend Mother. To me a crime is a crime no matter who commits it.’ He hesitated a little and then said, ‘Joe told me that Eileen was thinking of being apprenticed to Maureen Hogan. Do you think that you could have a word with Eileen, Reverend Mother? She would only laugh at me, thinks I’m a stuffy old stick, but I don’t think it’s a good idea, do you? Maureen Hogan …’ Patrick stopped and made a few more notes and the Reverend Mother could understand how his mind worked. There was, after all, a connection between the victim and the IRA and Maureen Hogan was the link. And Eileen was linked to Maureen Hogan.

  SEVEN

  Eileen had heard the news two minutes after she walked into the offices of the Cork Examiner newspaper the following morning. She had been looking forward to holding the floor for a few minutes at least. The reporters there knew all about her exams and most of them were a party to her ambitions and to her bouts of optimism and of despair. She opened the door with the words: ‘Guess what!’ on her lips and then stopped. The place was a hive of activity. Reporters speaking on the phone, one hand holding a receiver and the other scribbling words onto a notebook. others were already bashing out stories on the elderly typewriters and did not lift their heads. Few of those on calls even looked in her direction.

  ‘What’s up?’ For the past three years, Eileen had been supplementing her meagre university grant with writing up stories for the Cork Examiner. She had even earned her own seat in the reporter’s room and now she slid onto the bench beside a young reporter. ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘IRA bomb. In the orchard cemetery of the Sisters of Charity. The boss is looking for you.’

  For a moment she thought he was joking, but th
e chief reporter at the desk by the window had seen her. He continued typing with one hand, but the other one crooked a finger and she went forward and stood patiently until he had finished writing his paragraph at top speed. He unrolled the sheet from the typewriter, read it through carefully and then once again crooked a finger, this time at one of the messenger boys. Normally they waited downstairs but when there was a big news coup, they acted as runners, rushing between the reporters’ room and the compositors, carrying messages between them. The compositors were highly skilled. As well as laying out the letters with rapid flicks of their fingers and arranging them at top speed, they were also responsible for checking spelling and punctuation and returning work which might be too long or too short. Even the head reporter would have to wait now until the word came back that the piece was acceptable. He would, Eileen knew from experience, have less than five minutes before his attention would be focused on a rewrite or a new piece, so she strained every nerve to hear him above the din of voices and the clacking of typewriter keys. There would be no time to get out her notebook, no possibility while he spoke, for even the fastest shorthand. She would have to do that afterwards, now she had to listen and memorize and only ask the most essential of questions.

  ‘Been an explosion in the orchard cemetery of the Sisters of Charity. Get up there quickly and find out everything. Be back as soon as possible.’

  And then the messenger was back, waving the sheet of paper. ‘Forty-five words too long,’ he gasped breathlessly and with a curse, the boss grabbed it from him. Eileen flew from the room and clattered down the stairs.