Murder in an Orchard Cemetery

by Cora Harrison

  That would be it. She had her instructions. Her motorbike was outside. She had forgotten to attach the padlock in her eagerness to get inside the newsroom and tell everyone about her triumph and the scholarship, but there were plenty of messenger boys hanging around to keep an eye on it for her. The excitement of the news of the bomb had spread to them and each knew that the Cork Evening Echo would be a sell-out and that their ‘farthing a newspaper’ wage would mount up rapidly, especially as tips were more frequent when the news looked exciting.

  ‘How do I get to the Sisters of Charity convent?’ she shouted as she kicked her engine into life and hardly waiting for their shouted instructions as she roared off down Academy Street and daringly shot across the traffic into the busy St Patrick’s Street.

  ‘Sisters of Charity,’ she repeated to herself as she sped down the busy street and then slowed to a halt beside a Cork Examiner billboard. A lorry beeped angrily behind her, but she was able to dart ahead quickly enough so that the driver did not squeeze past her on the narrow street. The words: BISHOP and RELIGIOUS RETREAT had been in large letters and that had been enough. The Reverend Mother had said that she was going on the retreat when Eileen had popped in to tell about her triumph. With a feeling of apprehension Eileen wove her way in and out of the traffic and changed into a lower gear to tackle the steep hill ahead of her. She had just reached the top of the hill when a figure, dressed in a gabardine raincoat, with a slouch hat pulled down over his brows, stepped out into the road and almost blocked her path. An arm was raised, gloved finger pointing to a side road and Eileen swung the wheel and pulled into safety.

  ‘You nearly got me killed, Padraig,’ she said, but she had not thought of refusing the summons. She was no longer a member of the IRA, but Padraig MacDonnell had been leader of the Barrack Street branch for long enough to have obtained her instant obedience to any command. A very quiet man, who used one word where another would use ten sentences. It was said of him that he never uttered a threat; he dealt in action, not in words. But the young recruits to the organization had a deadly fear of him. The less he was heard to say or seen to have done, the more the apprehension grew and there was a feeling that his reserve and steely politeness were the bars behind which a murderous and ruthless assassin sheltered.

  ‘You’re off to the convent,’ he said and jerked his head towards the top of the hill.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. No point in denying it or in trying to elude him. He was reputed to know everything that was going on in Cork, to have spies in every organization and business in the city.

  ‘Musgrave, the stockbroker, has been killed. Maureen Hogan feels she’s under suspicion. Do your best for her. Pin it on someone else. Let the blame fall on the right shoulders.’

  A feeling of resentment rose in Eileen. ‘Who did it, then?’ she asked and tried to inject a little sarcasm into the query. She was pleased to hear that her voice sounded steady, and a little indifferent. She already knew a little about James Musgrave. Stockbrokers, she thought, would not have much to do with the IRA. She was sorry for Maureen Hogan. She knew from her own experience that any membership of the IRA or even of Sinn Fein, was enough to bring an innocent person under suspicion by the police. Nevertheless, she resented being ordered to do something by this man who now should have no power of authority over her.

  He looked at her for a long minute, for the space of time for the tram to trundle past them and then he decided to answer her question.

  ‘Bob the Builder,’ he said.

  She knew who he meant. Robert O’Connor. The man’s name was plastered all over hoardings. He specialized in cheap, small houses in places like Turners Cross and St Luke’s Cross. Houses for bank clerks, reasonably well-paid workers in Fords and Dunlop factories, prosperous shop owners and schoolteachers. The houses were reputed to be badly built, made from the cheapest materials, but that did not stop them being snapped up by people desperate to get their families, their children, out from the disease-ridden flat of the city with its continual flood of sewage-choked drains and miasma of fog for most seasons of the year.

  ‘Why should Bob O’Connor murder the stockbroker?’ she queried. He was going to tell her, anyway, in his autocratic way, so she might as well ask and get away from him as quickly as possible.

  ‘You don’t keep up with the city gossip, do you? The stockbroker was doing his best to walk off with the woman that the builder was going to marry. A pretty wealthy lady, name of Kitty O’Shea. Widow of the alderman who dropped dead with a heart attack.’

  Eileen shrugged her shoulders. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ she said. ‘And come to think of it, Maureen O’Hogan is nothing to do with me, either.’ That was not strictly true, but she had thought over the Reverend Mother’s words, and had decided that it would be best to cut the ties with the past, and to find someone who would give her an apprenticeship and an opportunity to experience different aspects of the law without involving her in any more dubious connections.

  ‘Don’t betray your old comrades, Eileen!’ The words were an order, not a suggestion, and held a sharp note of criticism. She stiffened, clenching the handlebar, and making the engine roar a little. He gave her a long look and she looked back with as much courage as she could muster, but then her nerve failed her, and she slowed the engine while he hissed in her ear. ‘O’Connor has overspent on that flashy new house of his, builder or no builder, fancy materials cost money. Needs the job of alderman, needs the widow’s wealth. Bribed the bishop, promised him a good price on that new church, but the word on the town is that the bishop, once he had signed the deal, taken the bribe, decided that the stockbroker was the more useful of the two and O’Connor knew he had wasted his money if he didn’t get rid of the stockbroker. He could be a prime suspect if you play your cards right. And there’s a story going around that he’s asked for time from a debtor.’

  ‘So?’ She made her voice as indifferent as she could but felt a quick beat from her heart.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘No good looking at me as though butter won’t melt in your mouth and as if you don’t know what I am talking about. You’ve got that garda, Inspector Patrick Cashman, eating out of your hand, so they tell me. You just get up there now and convince him of the truth: that the builder murdered the stockbroker. This wasn’t an IRA job, Eileen! Someone is using a trademark and trying to shift the blame and I’m not having it. None of us put that bomb in a convent. You’re in with some of these people so you can find out what is going on. And don’t forget your own. Patriotism is not a bit of an old shawl that you can throw away whenever you think you’ve got too grand for it! I’ll be keeping an eye on you, so make sure that you do a good job. And that’s a warning, Eileen, not a bit of begging.’

  She stared back at him as defiantly as she could manage. He did not move, nor did he say anything for a few minutes. A man walking a bulldog came past and she saw Padraig step aside hastily and inwardly sneered. Not so brave. Could threaten a girl but was afraid of a dog. She knew these men, though, and knew that the more nervous were often the most vicious. For a moment she wished that she owned the bulldog and could set him on Padraig MacDonnell. It would give her a great sense of power, but then she changed her mind. He had thrust his left hand into his trouser pocket and the movement disclosed an ominous bulge in the pocket of the gabardine which, despite the warmth of the morning, he wore like the uniform it was. He had a gun in that pocket, and she knew that he could use it and disappear so fast that he could not be arrested. They were well trained, these IRA men and, of course, it was the survival of the fittest and the most adroit. Any threat from that friendly looking bulldog and he would shoot the poor animal and then melt into the back streets.

  He was watching her now, waiting until the man and dog were away and there was an unpleasant smile upon his lips.

  ‘You’re a city girl, Eileen, aren’t you?’ he said softly. ‘Never seen a pig killed, have you? I used to think it great fun when I was a youngster. Very friendly animals, p
igs, they never learned the meaning of the knife. Be so pleased to see you. They’d be nudging up to us, trying to lick us and then the knife would slice their throats. Used to make me laugh. They’d make a sound like this.’

  It was an unearthly and appalling squeal, that shuddered right through her.

  ‘They say that people are like pigs when you cut their throats,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘They make the same sort of squeal. Someone told me that once. Not true of men, though. I know that much. Cut plenty of men’s throats in my time. Not sure about young girls. Perhaps they do sound like that. I suppose I’ll find out.’

  And with that, he removed his hand and stalked off. She deliberately raced her engine and swung the motorbike around, missing him by a few narrow inches, and then, her cheeks burning with fury, she went back onto the main road, wove her way in and out of the traffic and kept a good speed until she reached the gates to the convent.

  There was no sign of the Reverend Mother though the day was fine and sunny, and many other nuns, brothers and priests strolled around, chattering in groups. Not much praying going on, said Eileen to herself, noting that the bishop in his episcopal robes was talking animatedly with a group of elderly, white-haired priests while a Franciscan monk chatted with a couple of nuns. Patrick was there, not interviewing anyone, but standing out in the middle of the apple trees. So that was the famous orchard cemetery, she thought. The crater was enormous. Definitely a bomb, though most bombs that she had seen the results of, had been planted in buildings and on bridges.

  Reluctantly her mind went over the words from Padraig MacDonnell. She did not like the man, but she trusted his word in his denial of responsibility. He would be the first to take credit for a bomb if he or the party had arranged it. In any case, it did not make sense. Why kill a man, a solitary man, with a bomb that could kill dozens? Why waste a bomb? Why not a marksman behind the wall, or even concealed behind an apple tree? One shot and James Musgrave would be dead. And there was a good chance that no one would have heard or taken notice of the shot if the man was sitting there, alone. That would mean that the assassin could quietly escape, and no one would ever be sure of who had fired the shot.

  After all, the aim, surely, was just to kill this one man. Why on earth plant a bomb in a convent? According to Maureen Hogan, the bishop had made sure that not one of those influential heads of schools, private schools as well as state schools, would want to vote for anyone with socialist ideas. Maureen had been very bitter about his sermon on the opening evening which seemed to make a comparison between the Sinn Fein Party and the terrible events in Russia where the communists took control of the country, murdered the tsar and his wife and all of his children, including one sick little boy. It was not as if the nuns were taking any part in the struggle between the rival parties, Sinn Fein or Cumann na Gael. And these nuns, in particular, did very good work among the poor of the city, sending out the sisters to nurse sick children and adults in the teeming tenements of the disease-ridden city. No, she decided, this was not an IRA matter. Someone, to quote Padraig MacDonnell, had stolen the trademark.

  ‘Eileen!’ A quiet voice from behind her, made her swing around.

  ‘Oh, Reverend Mother, I’m glad to see you alive and well,’ she said impulsively.

  The Reverend Mother smiled, but then she cast a glance over to where Patrick was standing. ‘Should you be here, Eileen?’ she asked.

  ‘This wasn’t a Republican bomb, Reverend Mother,’ said Eileen earnestly. ‘It’s just someone trying to shift the blame. What happened? A bag of fertilizer and some diesel – that’s what I heard. Put under the bench where the man was sitting. That’s the story, anyway,’ she finished as the Reverend Mother shook her head.

  ‘Not under the bench, Eileen, near to it. The gardener had dug a grave – rather ahead of time, but there was an elderly sister on the point of death for several weeks, so as he had no other job to do, he busied himself with digging a hole.’

  ‘So, anyone who passed, or who was looking down from that road up there, would see the hole and decide that it was a good place to shove the fertilizer and the diesel.’ Eileen looked up at the road and narrowed her eyes. She had excellent sight, but it was, from where she stood, impossible to see anything, but a winding white line. She doubted whether someone standing up there would notice a hole beneath the large and flowering apple trees.

  ‘The outer fence is also at a considerable distance.’ The Reverend Mother had read her thoughts and then, when Eileen turned to look at her, she added, ‘As a matter of fact, the hole was only visible for a day or so. I understand that the gardener had been about to cover it, went off to his shed in order to get some planks and a green tarpaulin but unfortunately I and Mother Isabelle from the Ursuline Convent in Blackrock, interrupted his work by coming and sitting on the bench.’

  ‘Saying your prayers,’ said Eileen with a slightly mischievous look. She would not have dared to say that a few years ago, but now she was a university graduate, a grown woman with a good future ahead of her.

  The Reverend Mother smiled a little. ‘I fear we were indulging in gossip, though in French so as not to give scandal.’ She half-smiled at her own words, but then added, ‘Mr William Hamilton, one of the candidates for the position of alderman, came along after a while and told us that the gardener was waiting to cover over the grave. We got up instantly and moved away. The next time that I saw it, the following morning, I think, it was well covered with planks and a tarpaulin and even had some potted plants upon it, so that it would be quite unlikely that anyone would know that there was a six-foot hole between the bench and the nearest apple tree. I suppose,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘that those few people, the gardener, Mr Hamilton, Mother Isabelle and myself, could be deemed to be suspects, since the makeshift bomb was probably placed beneath the covering of that tarpaulin.’

  Eileen felt protective. The Reverend Mother sounded quite worried, rather as if she needed comforting. In some ways, now that she was a grown-up university graduate, the Reverend Mother treated her more like a friend than a schoolgirl. The thought sent a rush of pride through her and she was determined to do her best to help in the solving of this mystery. Of course, a murder of a man who had been sitting on the same bench where the two nuns had sat the previous morning must be a very upsetting thing for a very elderly person.

  ‘And speaking for myself, I really haven’t the slightest idea of how you could make a bomb from fertilizer and why you need diesel as well,’ went on the Reverend Mother thoughtfully.

  ‘Jesus! Reverend Mother! Nobody thinks you did it!’ exclaimed Eileen, shock allowing the forbidden use of the holy name to be jerked from her.

  The Reverend Mother gave her a reproving look but didn’t comment.

  ‘It’s the nitrate,’ Eileen said hastily. ‘There’s nitrogen in fertilizer – it’s good to make things grow, a bit like sunlight someone told me. Something to do with sugars, I think, and then they soak the fertilizer in diesel, and I suppose that gives the extra boost of sugar. I’m really not too sure, Reverend Mother, but I know a fellow in UCC – top of the class in chemistry – explained it to me once. Something to do with a sudden release – can’t remember anything else. I can find out from him and let you know.’

  ‘Perhaps it might be best to wait for a while before you make these enquiries. We don’t want too much talk about bombs and fertilizers,’ said the Reverend Mother. She sounded to Eileen as though she were slightly abstracted from the subject of the conversation and then she said, ‘Eileen, do you see that young man, boy, really, talking to Patrick’s assistant, Sergeant Duggan. Do you know who it is? Do you recognize him?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Eileen. The young man was dressed in a grass-stained pair of breeches, tucked into sturdy boots. He looked out of place in this convent full of nuns, brothers and priests and she was certain that he was not anything to do with the election of an alderman – their faces had been on posters all over the city for the last fortnight –
nor was he a reporter. No, she thought, that’s the gardener. Who would be more likely to have possession of a sack of fertilizer and even a few pints of diesel than a gardener? And who, apart from the nuns, brothers and priests staying at the convent would be sure to know of the six-foot hole conveniently dug quite close to the bench where the dead man had been sitting at the very moment of the explosion. And, of course, Maureen Hogan, Bob the Builder, Wee Willie Hamilton, and Pat Pius, all of them wanting the position of city council alderman.

  ‘I’ve never seen that young fellow before, not that I can remember. And he’s not a member of the IRA, unless he joined after I left,’ she said, reading the Reverend Mother’s mind. ‘I bet he is under suspicion, though,’ she added as her mind ran through the opening lines of the story that she would write for the Cork Examiner and its sister paper, the Evening Echo. Short and eye-catching for the Evening Echo – if she managed to get back in time – but longer and more atmospheric for the Cork Examiner which would be printed in the middle of the night.

  ‘You don’t mind if I use your name, Reverend Mother?’ she asked anxiously. ‘The chief reporter is very keen on having the human interest of the story and, sure, all Cork know you. It’ll put the heart across to them all. And they’ll all be praying and making novenas to thank God for sparing you,’ she added.

  ‘Well, in that case, I suppose that you may use my name if it’s in such a good cause as getting people to pray,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘I suppose that the Holy Father himself would approve.’

  A wonderful woman! thought Eileen. A narrow escape from death and there she was able to chat and even, just now, seeing the joke about getting people to pray by giving them a juicy piece of news. She looked across at the gardener again. The sergeant had finished taking notes. A nod, and Joe was back reporting to Patrick and the young fellow was left on his own. He saw her looking at him, but he didn’t move away. He seemed hesitant and she gave him a sympathetic smile. She wouldn’t move; that might be enough to get Patrick or Joe to come up and ask her what she was doing – and if they did that, the chances were they would say that they had already given all possible news to the Cork Examiner reporters. And so, she stayed where she was. She had, she told herself, a perfect right to come and enquire after someone who had been her teacher and had coached her for the Honan Scholarship.