Murder in an Orchard Cemetery

by Cora Harrison

  However, since no timing device had been found, the makeshift bomb would have had to be ignited with a flame of some sort, so it was important to know whether anyone had approached the place during the gap between lunchtime and the explosion.

  ‘Could you tell me whether you spoke to Mr James Musgrave after lunch, Miss Hogan?’ He hoped that he was giving the impression of reading the question from his notebook and that gave him an excuse for not looking at her.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ she said unhelpfully.

  He repeated the answer aloud, enunciating the words carefully and in a neutral tone of voice. She gave an impatient sigh and kicked the wall with the back of her shoe.

  ‘I didn’t go up and set fire to a bomb beside his seat,’ she said in an irritated tone of voice. ‘You know what I mean, Patrick. This place was oozing with all those clerics and there were just five of us lay people. Mostly we tried to be friendly to each other – “let the best man win” and all that sort of stuff. I can’t, for the life of me, remember whether I said anything to him – “lovely day”, I suppose would be the level of conversation that I would have had with James Musgrave.’

  That gave him his opportunity, but he planned the phrasing of his question while he wrote down her answer. His shorthand was rapid – well-practised, but he took his time. That note of irritation in her voice could have betrayed an anxiety – this type of reaction had been underlined during his training at the headquarters in Dublin. Always keep your temper during cross-examination and remember that you are winning if the guilty person is beginning to lose theirs, was a great maxim of the experienced RIC man who had been responsible for training them.

  ‘You didn’t have much in common with the late gentleman, did you?’ was his next question and he delivered it in a neutral tone of voice.

  ‘That didn’t mean that I murdered him!’ The retort came quickly but he took a while to write it down and did not make any comment upon it.

  ‘I believe that lunch finished at about half past one o’clock,’ he said with a quick look at the clock over the convent door and a confirmatory glance at his own watch. He was most proud of that watch. He had bought it with the proceeds of his first week’s salary as a policeman and was scrupulously careful about winding it every night and having it serviced by a watchmaker a couple of times in each year.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it, Patrick,’ she said. She yawned, very vigorously and without bothering to put her hand in front of her mouth. ‘The last few days seemed like a never-ending and utterly pointless sea of boredom for me.’

  He wrote the words down, though he normally didn’t bother about answers which were obviously irrelevant.

  ‘You have been disappointed with the results of the three-day expenditure of your time,’ he said when he had finished the last word. It was an assertion, but she could take it as a question if she wished. As he turned to a new page, he wondered whether she would take up the challenge.

  There was a silence and he waited impassively. Then she gave a sigh. ‘Time spent on God is never wasted, isn’t that right, Patrick?’

  He did not write that down. It sounded to him like something that a nun or a priest or a Christian Brother would say.

  He saw her glance at him, and he bent his head to focus on his pencil. There was a moment’s silence and then she spoke again and this time she had lost the languid, unconcerned tone of voice.

  ‘To be very honest, Patrick,’ she said, ‘I only came because I thought that it might do me some good in the coming election, or, I suppose I guessed that it would do me harm if I didn’t come, would set me aside as a kind of pagan. I had nothing in common with all of those people. James Musgrave was a bit of a chump, but OK, I suppose. Quite polite and everything like that. Not my type, probably harmless. Robert O’Connor is a chisler; Wee Willie too good to be true, I’d say, myself, that he was some kind of fraudster; Pat Pius – well, I don’t know much about him, can hardly understand a word that he says … bit wet … gives me the heebie-jeebies, to be honest, so I’d say he’s not as pious as he pretends.’

  Patrick wrote down everything; she was trying to confuse and embarrass him, he thought, and he would have to consult Joe about some of the words, like ‘wet’ and ‘chump’ and ‘chisler’ which she used, but he was certainly not going to give her the satisfaction of asking her, so he kept his face impassive until he had finished. When he looked up, he saw that she was examining him in a speculative manner, wondering, perhaps, how gullible he was. He knew enough Americanized slang to realize that she had, despite her careless manner, pointed out that she liked the dead man and that every one of her opponents had some moral failings.

  ‘Did you talk to anyone during the hour which elapsed between the end of lunch and the explosion, Miss Hogan?’ He asked the question in a deadpan way and without looking at her, giving her no opportunity to practise these grimaces with which she tried to imply that they were both young people and that he was on her side.

  There was quite a silence and he had a feeling that she was turning over in her mind which answer would serve her purpose best.

  ‘No,’ she said after what he would have calculated was a minute, but since he had once been ridiculed because he had gone to the trouble of sitting with his watch in one hand and watching the second hand tick through sixty seconds, he nowadays avoided using that aid and put within brackets the letters (LP) which he now used to indicate that there had been a long pause.

  ‘And where were you in that time, after lunch and before the explosion?’

  Again, she paused, and he told himself that she was concocting a lie, or else testing her words before she uttered them.

  ‘I went to my bedroom,’ she said.

  He wrote without comment, but she seemed to feel that an explanation was needed.

  ‘I wanted to think,’ she said then. ‘You see, I had decided that I was wasting my time. I knew that the bishop was antagonistic to me. I had made a mess of explaining to him what I wanted to achieve. I think he had decided that I was probably some sort of communist, or something like that. And so, I thought to myself that I was doing more harm than good by hanging around. I thought I would tell him that I was unwell, hope that he might immediately jump to the conclusion that it was “women’s problems” – well, you know, Patrick … And then, while he was still gulping with embarrassment over that, I would jump into the jalopy and be back home before he could say a word.’

  Patrick wrote down four words: resolve, leave, excuse, ill. Once again, he suspected the young lady was cleverer than the image which she had tried to project. On the other hand, he could think of no real motive for her to be involved in the killing of James Musgrave and somewhat unlikely that she had planned the killing of a group of people, and so he thanked her and checked that he had her home address and confirmed that she was at liberty to leave whenever she wished.

  ‘Can’t make her out,’ he said to Joe five minutes later after receiving the report that it was, indeed, Sister Mary Agnes who had mentioned that the elderly nun had not much time left.

  ‘Or so she said.’ Joe sounded cautious. ‘Seemed to me that she was fond of him. Like a mother to him. He’d be the right age to be a son for her if there wasn’t this rule about nuns marrying.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have a word with her … What do you think?’ With an effort, Patrick switched his mind from the lay sister to the lady solicitor.

  ‘The bishop wants to see you,’ said Joe unhelpfully. ‘Don’t suppose that he has anything to say, but I suppose that you’ll have to see him. Everyone seems to kowtow to him, so he’ll probably take it amiss if you don’t pop over there immediately. He’s been pacing up and down while you were talking to the lady solicitor. Asked me twice whether I had told you that he had something to say to you.’

  ‘I’d better go,’ said Patrick. Joe, he thought, did not understand. The bishop would have expected a sergeant to walk straight over to inform his superior of the bishop’s wishes, whether h
e was interrupting an interview or not. Now he would have to spend some time soothing down the bishop before they got to the reason for his request. Perhaps his lordship thought that he should have been the first person to be interviewed. Possibly it had been a mistake to have immediately dismissed him from the list. Obviously, the bishop was not the person who crammed a bag of fertilizer into a rusty old downpipe, poured diesel upon it and then ignited it. But the bishop would have been expecting to be kept in the picture during every step of this inquiry. As he walked over, Patrick uttered a muffled curse. It had been stupid of him and now he was going to have to waste a huge amount of time calming down the man and making sure that he contacted him at regular intervals during the rest of the day. Probably the whole affair was of great interest to the bishop. His views on violence and on Sinn Fein and on the IRA were very well known throughout the city and it was a mistake not to allow him every opportunity to vent them at great length. The superintendent, though a Protestant, would never have made that mistake, as he was a man who understood the echelons of power and would be bound to feel moved to reprimand Patrick if the bishop chose to make a complaint.

  TWELVE

  As Patrick hurried over towards the bishop, conscious that he had kept his lordship waiting, he was anxiously selecting from several apologetic phrases when a cold, clear voice sounded in his inner consciousness. Don’t be such an eejit, Patrick. Don’t be always apologizing. If you’re late, it’s because they’re early. If you haven’t seen someone yet, it’s because you were too considerate of their busy life, too unwilling to interrupt the important business which they are engaged in. Take my advice, Patrick. I know the world!

  Patrick grinned a little to himself and slowed down his strides.

  Of course, Eileen was right. No one had much meas – as they said in Cork – on you if you didn’t have a good opinion of yourself. He slowed his steps, imperceptibly, mentally practising his opening words and managed to arrive in a dignified manner at the bishop’s side.

  ‘How good of you to spare the time to see me, my lord,’ he said. ‘I won’t take up more of your time than I can help. Perhaps we could stroll together for a few minutes?’

  That went down well. The bishop looked at him with an air of friendly approval and crooked a finger at him to walk by his side.

  He thought, and indeed hoped, that the bishop would suggest joining the Reverend Mother as she stood alone and slightly to the back of the terrace in front of the convent. The bishop, however, turned his back on the convent and proposed a walk towards the church. There was no one there; all avoided the ruined and ploughed-up orchard cemetery. Patrick found himself hoping that the old and dying nun would postpone her death until a moment when everything could be tidied up and restored to normality. One thing was certain: that grave had been well and truly dug. It would be the deepest grave in this orchard cemetery. Not a pretty sight now but within months all would be covered over, new grass seed sown, and the regular lines of the trees restored to their tidy formation; a place once again for prayer and thanksgiving for lives well spent. Just now the nuns avoided the ugly crater.

  The bishop, however, chose to stop there and to contemplate the cavernous hole with a gloomy look.

  ‘There is something that I would like to mention to you, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Obviously, of course, I would not like my name to be mentioned in public, in the courts or in the newspapers …’ He paused, looking enquiringly at Patrick.

  Patrick bowed his head in a graceful acknowledgement of his lordship’s communication. There had been a time when he would have broken into the conversation with anxious apologies and explanations about why this would be impossible, but now he said nothing. If the bishop, with all his education, and all his knowledge of the ways of the world, felt that any relevant evidence that he might give about the murder could possibly be kept anonymous, well, that was tough luck, he said to himself and subdued a smile as he realized that he made use of another one of Eileen’s favourite expressions.

  The bishop was having a certain amount of difficulty in proceeding. He cleared his throat twice, and then took out a spotless and brilliantly white handkerchief and flourished it around the area of his nose.

  ‘It’s just a matter of being sure that I am doing the right thing?’ he explained, spurred on by Patrick’s silence into an unusual degree of loquaciousness.

  Patrick decided that now was the moment to speak. The bishop, he thought, needed a little bit of friendly encouragement. ‘I’m sure, my lord,’ he said tactfully, ‘that the whole city relies on your judgement.’

  It worked.

  The bishop gave a determined nod as a signal that he was prepared to go ahead.

  ‘It’s just that, before lunch, when the late Mr Musgrave and I were discussing matters purveying to the diocese, that he mentioned to me that he wished to discuss something troubling his peace of mind.’

  ‘Peace of mind,’ repeated Patrick slowly. It was, he thought, an odd phrase. After all, if the late Mr Musgrave had been worried about a spiritual matter, the more appropriate phrase would have been ‘troubling his conscience’, or even, perhaps, ‘troubling his soul’. But ‘peace of mind’ for a stockbroker sounded like something else.

  ‘To do with money matters, my lord?’ he ventured, seeing that the bishop had, once again, come to a full stop.

  ‘No, no, not money matters, nothing to do with stocks and shares, or anything like that. It was actually,’ said the bishop slowly, ‘apparently something to do with one of his fellow candidates, something that would render this person totally unfit for high office and should, he felt, result in the removal of that person’s name from the list of approved candidates.’

  ‘“Person”,’ repeated Patrick and turned an enquiring eye on the bishop.

  ‘Yes, that was what he said.’

  ‘All the time? He used that one word “person”? Throughout your whole conversation?’

  The bishop reflected for a moment, staring straight ahead with a troubled expression upon his face.

  ‘All the time,’ he repeated.

  Patrick reflected for a couple of moments. The bishop was an odd man and could easily take offence if there was any possibility or any suspicion that due reverence was not being paid to the dignity of his position as bishop of the second largest city in the holy Catholic country of Ireland. And so Patrick waited, cap respectfully retained in his hand and his eyes fixed deferentially upon the bishop’s face.

  After a long minute, he knew that it had worked. The bishop gave a little nod, a nod apparently meant for himself. He turned and paced up and down, and Patrick followed a few inches behind him like a very well-trained dog, available if needed but preserving an air of aloofness until he should be called upon. In the distance, he saw the Reverend Mother’s eyes rest upon the two figures and guessed that she wore an enquiring expression. He wished that she would come and join them and extract from the bishop whatever information he had and which was obviously troubling his lordship so much, but he knew that she was far too tactful a woman to do such a thing. Now it was up to him.

  Suddenly the bishop stopped. And he spoke; spoke so low that Patrick had to bend his head to catch all the words.

  ‘Mr Musgrave had proof – and that was the word that he used to me – had proof that this … this person, one of the candidates for the high office of alderman had been responsible for the murder of a man.’

  Patrick reflected upon this matter. There were two words in the bishop’s statement which intrigued him, and he took the easiest first.

  ‘He, Mr Musgrave, definitely used the word “man”. He referred to the murder of a man but with no other details – is that correct, my lord?’

  The bishop looked at him with an air of slight annoyance. ‘Quite correct,’ he said firmly.

  Patrick reflected. In these troubled days, the most likely scenario for a hidden murder was that it was sectarian, in which case the word, Catholic or Protestant, would have been used. He murdered a
Protestant, or he murdered a Catholic would have been a more normal expression.

  Perhaps, though, the very absence of such a word might also be of significance. He moved onto his next question.

  ‘And Mr Musgrave used the word “person” all of the time, did he, my lord?’ he enquired.

  ‘All of the time,’ said the bishop firmly. ‘He never mentioned the person’s name.’

  ‘And he did not make use of the words “he” or even “she”, is that right?’ suggested Patrick.

  The bishop looked somewhat startled. He did not rush into an answer – something that gave Patrick a better opinion of him. Quite a shrewd old buffer, he thought. He knows what I am getting at.

  ‘No, said the bishop eventually. ‘No, I am certain that he never said “he” – of course, if he had said “she”, I would have been instantly alerted.’ Once again, he looked hard at Patrick. There was no getting away from it. There was certainly a very human look of curiosity upon his lordship’s face. Patrick, however, preserved silence, and knew, from experience, that his face would show nothing. It had been one of the first lessons that he had learned when he returned to his native city to take up the position of constable. There were no end of people, men who knew him from boyhood, men that had once been in school with him, girls, now women, that had played in the streets with him when he was little, or who were friends of his mother. Half of Cork would have claimed acquaintanceship with him if he had allowed them to do so. But he had walked a solitary path. Did not socialize, kept away from making any new close friends with either men or women, learned to wear a polite, but blank mask which betrayed nothing of his thoughts.