Murder in an Orchard Cemetery

by Cora Harrison

  Patrick gave them a couple of minutes, and then he, too, strolled over and went to stand on the other side of the girl. The Reverend Mother hoped that he had rehearsed his questions. There was something about the utter rigidity of the thin form of the girl that worried her immensely. She cast a quick glance over at the car and at the chauffeur standing leaning on the bonnet, smoking peacefully. Could Lucy work her magic to get permission to take her neighbour’s child home with her, to shelter her, at least until the funeral was over?

  There was a slight stir in the distance and for once she welcomed the sight of the rotund figure of the bishop issuing forth from the small church, surrounded by the four remaining candidates for the coveted position of alderman on the Cork city council.

  ‘I think that my lord bishop may be looking for you, Mother Teresa,’ she said, salving her conscience with the knowledge that the bishop almost invariably was looking for someone and that he rarely allowed other conversations in his vicinity without drawing his flock beneath his sheltering wing. She herself took a few steps forward, smiling graciously, and at the sight of her the three men and the one woman fell back a little as if acknowledging her superior claim of access to the bishop.

  ‘Mother Teresa and I have been discussing the question of poor Sister Mary Magdalen attending the funeral of her father, my lord,’ she said, and stopped there in the sure and certain knowledge that the bishop was bound to have an opinion on the matter and if, by luck, his opinion colluded with her own, it would then be most difficult, almost impossible, for Mother Teresa to express an opposing point of view.

  The bishop was in an amiable mood and had, as usual, a keen eye for the important citizens in his diocese. He looked with pleasure at Lucy’s trim figure and expensive clothing.

  ‘Mrs Rupert Murphy,’ he stated and raised an amiable hand in what was half a greeting and half a blessing.

  ‘My cousin has come to bring, if she can, some comfort to the unfortunate daughter of the late Mr Musgrave,’ said the Reverend Mother as rapidly as she could. ‘Of course, Sister Mary Magdalene has no family left to support her in this most sad time. I understand that her two brothers are out in Australia and so the arrangements for the funeral …’ She allowed her voice to tail off at that point and hoped that his lordship’s brain had not been slowed by the very excellent and enormous breakfast that she had seen him consume.

  ‘Of course, the funeral.’ The bishop sounded worried about this complication and she hastened to reassure him.

  ‘I think that Mr Rupert Murphy, and his wife, my cousin, will take the matter into their own hands, my lord,’ she said reassuringly. ‘I understand that the late Mr Musgrave’s monetary affairs, the will and other matters, will be dealt by the South Mall practice.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ The bishop, who, like Shakespeare’s Richard II, did like to talk of wills, noticeably cheered up at this point. ‘Poor child,’ he said compassionately with his eye on the thin, pale face. ‘How sad to lose such a father. The chaplain was telling me that the novices were cleaning the church just as the bomb went off. What a dreadful thing for a daughter to witness. Such a worthy man.’

  ‘A most religious man, my cousin was telling me. Always a daily communicant and a contributor to charity, I believe,’ said the Reverend Mother.

  Luckily, that brought the bishop’s mind back to the possibility of a substantial donation to the church that might be revealed once the dead man’s will had been opened and read. It also, judging by his expression, made him look with even more compassion on the girl, who, as she was a member of a religious order, could not inherit any of the late stockbroker’s substantial fortune.

  ‘Come, Reverend Mother,’ he said graciously, ‘let us go and greet your cousin and see what she thinks would be best for the poor child. Perhaps it would be easier for her to attend the funeral under the wing of a neighbour and a close friend.’ The bishop was in an amiable mood and had, as usual, a keen eye for the important citizens in his diocese.

  The Reverend Mother followed him obediently. She was pleased with the success of her scheme, but there was, however, something troubling her, some puzzle in her mind. When the bishop had artlessly repeated his chaplain’s words in his clear and carrying voice, there had been a sudden change in the atmosphere, and she could not quite lay a finger on what, exactly, she had noticed. Not a gasp, nothing as overt as that. It was, she thought, almost as if one of the attendants on the bishop – either Mr O’Connor, the builder; Mr Hamilton, the factory owner; Mr Pat Pius, the provider of shoes for the indigent citizens of the city; or indeed, the young lady solicitor, Miss Maureen Hogan, the person who had spent years in an entangled relationship with the IRA, who could well have laid the bomb for her, sometime in the dead of the night or at dawn, and left her with the task of igniting the makeshift fuse – one of them had suddenly caught a breath, had ceased to move, had in some way which she could not even explain to herself, reacted to that news that the daughter of the dead man may have been within an inch of seeing his murderer at work. It could, thought the Reverend Mother, have been any one of them, as, indeed, it could have been any one of them who had slipped through the orchard cemetery and ignited the lethal bomb.

  The bishop was full of affability as he shook Lucy by the hand and enquired tenderly after all her daughters and granddaughters. Passing over, with grace and charm, the fact that he could not produce a single name of any of them, he professed to remember every single occasion when he had conferred the sacrament of confirmation upon the numerous young ladies.

  From time to time, the bishop, now in a most benign mood, looked with pity at the white face and the red-rimmed eyes of the young novice. After a minute or two, and with gracious words to be conveyed to the highly esteemed husband of Mrs Murphy, he allowed Lucy to kiss his ring and strolled back in the direction of Mother Teresa, who was standing rather stiffly on the terrace outside the convent. The bishop opened the subject instantly, looking to the Reverend Mother for her support.

  ‘The young novice looks quite ill,’ he said abruptly.

  Mother Teresa bowed her head, but she made no comment. Her face was stony and would have been discouraging to anyone other than the bishop.

  He, however, went ahead as smoothly as though he had received an enthusiastic endorsement. ‘I would feel, and I’m sure that you must agree with me, Mother Teresa, that it would be better for her to spend a few days away from this environment in which her father was so savagely murdered. What do you think, Mother Teresa?’ Though he had a note of query in his voice, he didn’t wait for an answer, but swept on, smoothly enunciating the words in the rather God-given manner which he adopted from time to time.

  ‘Yes,’ he said with an air of impartially approving of his own judgement, ‘yes, I do think, though it might not be quite orthodox, that a few nights in the home of her father’s best friends will help her to prepare for the ordeal of his funeral. There is, of course, no possibility whatsoever of contacting the brothers in Australia in time for their return. What do you feel, Mrs Murphy?’ he said addressing Lucy who, on cue, arrived holding the hand of the stricken orphan.

  Lucy will have her hands full; that girl looks on the edge of a nervous breakdown, thought the Reverend Mother, while she bowed her head in acceptance of the bishop’s verdict. She wished that Dr Scher were here. A strong dose of a sleeping draught would be the kindest thing. That girl needed help in distancing herself a little from the appalling tragedy of her father’s death.

  Mother Teresa also nodded her acquiescence. She could do no more. The bishop was in supreme charge over them all. He took his power from God and they owed perfect obedience to him.

  The four candidates had stood a little back, but four pairs of eyes were fixed upon the girl. Was it pity in all of them or did one of them wear a slightly different expression? Yes, thought the Reverend Mother, bowing her head so that her veil cloaked her face, yes, oddly enough it was not one of the men, but the lady solicitor who looked with such
scorn, almost dislike, upon the face of the devastated young novice. Did she, perhaps, despise one who had all the advantages of wealth and education and yet who had not chosen to study for a profession, whether for law or medicine, or even teaching, but who had instead retired from life and taken refuge in a convent. Was that, wondered the Reverend Mother, the reason for that rather strange expression on the young woman’s face? Or was there, perhaps, a more sinister reason?

  FOURTEEN

  Eileen stared at her motorbike with an expression of blank fury. Just when she had a lot to do and just when she needed it, it was not going to start for her.

  ‘Give it a bit of a kick,’ advised one of the messenger boys. Eileen rewarded him with a cold look. She was in a bad mood. The room had been too noisy for her to put her thoughts into words. Everything seemed to distract her and the words which normally flowed easily to her fingertips, just did not seem to come, almost like a stream that had dried up. After half an hour of struggle, she got to her feet, took her bag, and walked out. Although, welcome to use a spare typewriter, she was not an employee of the Cork Examiner; she did not need to keep office hours or to make any explanations.

  Usually when she came into the office and began pounding on the ancient typewriter model now semi-officially reserved for her usage, she had an article already outlined in her mind, just as clearly as if her brain was a sheet of white paper where all the words, all the punctuation, all the arguments were already outlined and could flow from brain to fingers without the slightest hesitation. Somehow, though she was excited by the hints that had been dropped and by the whole story that her brain was building up, there wasn’t enough material there – she had not fully understood the matter well enough to write a good article. It was all very well for her to announce dramatically that she was going to take ‘innuendo’ as her watchword. That was the right way to handle it, and she had seen the quick nod of approval and the slight glint of perhaps admiration – certainly of interest – in John Fitzpatrick’s eyes when she had announced her intention, but now she realized that she did not have enough information. She needed to visualize the whole article before she started to write it. It was no good, she knew, asking John Fitzpatrick for more meat to cover the bones of the story; he had given her all that he was prepared to give – had not wanted to be involved – after all, why had he not written the story himself if he had thought it would be right – would be safe – for him to do so? No, he had made her a present of a little information and he had paid her quite a compliment when he done so. Now it was up to her to flesh out those bare bones and to write a piece, an article which would get the whole of Cork talking over their breakfast toast.

  But now her motorbike wouldn’t work, and her plans were ruined.

  There was a repair garage nearby, but she had no luck there, also. Yes, they’d send someone up to collect the motorbike, but there wasn’t a hope that anyone could look at it before tomorrow morning at the earliest. He shook his head at her and went back to stripping down the engine of a van. She walked away in a bad mood. There was nothing for it but to go home, have her tea and hope that inspiration would dawn. If not, she would just have to be content with the payment for the article about the gardener.

  And then, just as she was about to emerge from the dark little street and join the crowds on Patrick Street, there was a sharp beep of a horn. She stopped, looked around and then saw Maureen Hogan.

  ‘Want a lift?’ The young solicitor stuck her head through the window in a friendly fashion and Eileen was grateful for that. She had feared that since she had turned down the offer of an apprenticeship they might be on bad terms, but Maureen wore a friendly smile, so she guessed that it might just be a spur of the moment offer, and that Maureen probably knew, as well as she did herself, that it would not afford a new recruit much experience.

  Eileen had dropped a hint that there might be an offer of an apprenticeship from a solicitor on the South Mall, and that had very much impressed Maureen, who had served her own apprenticeship in the office of her father, who was a man with a small practice and not much of a reputation in the city.

  ‘Lovely day,’ she said now in a friendly fashion. ‘Are you busy, or what would you say to a drive out into the countryside?’

  ‘Love it,’ said Eileen enthusiastically, and she went around to the other side of the car and pulled open the rather rickety door. ‘I thought you were saying your prayers, with the bishop, no less,’ she said, climbing into the front seat of the shabby, second-hand Baby Ford. ‘This car is a bit of a mess, isn’t it,’ she said, with a glance at the back seat which looked as if someone had taken a knife to the leather. ‘Want a hand to fix it up a bit?’

  ‘Who cares if it’s a mess! That’s how I managed to afford it,’ said Maureen carelessly. ‘Well, what do you say? Shall we go to the sea? Look at that sun! Never known a summer as good as this.’

  ‘Let’s go to Youghal,’ said Eileen with a sudden inspiration. Youghal was a seaside resort in east Cork – bound to be crowded with trainloads of people on a day like today. Two girls would not be noticed going there and they would probably soon be tired of it – Maureen got tired of things very quickly – and then she could propose a circuitous route back through the east Cork countryside. Eileen could get a feel for the place, even have a look around and perhaps walk through the small town where Wee Willie had his stocking factory. It was, she realized with a flash of excitement, perfect. She would worry if she had betrayed Fitzpatrick. He had, she remembered guiltily, told her very firmly to go back to the office and had made, now that she came to think of it, a remark about not wanting her on her motorbike to be making herself conspicuous in that area.

  ‘Come on! What’s the bishop going to say if you are caught mitching?’

  ‘Got tired of it all,’ said Maureen, in a careless fashion. ‘Don’t think I have a hope of getting any votes from the bishop or from his priests or from anyone under his thumb.’

  ‘Most of Cork, in other words,’ said Eileen. She wanted to keep Maureen in a good mood and open to her suggestions, but she did not believe her. As the car was being manipulated around a tricky bend, she glanced curiously at her companion. Didn’t look her usual cheery self! Maureen was very pale and when she was not talking, her lips had tightened to the degree that small lines had appeared on either side of her mouth. Something was wrong. She was sure of that. People didn’t go out of their way to offend the bishop. He had the reputation of never forgiving a man or woman who went against his views and his influence in the city was enormous. Of course, Maureen may have decided that if she were going to endeavour to bring IRA policies and socialist viewpoints to the city council, that she was going to incur his enmity, inevitably, but that would be a different matter once she was elected. Then it would be one councillor, one vote. And if by a lucky chance she managed to get elected as lord mayor in the following year, then she would have considerable power in her hands.

  ‘Does he know that you walked out?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, stop cross-questioning me,’ said Maureen crossly. She had a look of strain upon her face and Eileen began to get suspicious. Of course, the bishop would not be the only power up there in the Convent of the Sisters of Charity.

  ‘You look worn out,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Patrick Cashman making a nuisance of himself?’ she enquired. ‘I suppose that he’s very suspicious of you. That fertilizer bomb would shout IRA to him.’

  ‘Nah – I can handle men like that.’ Maureen’s words sounded as though she were unperturbed, but there was a line between her eyes and the hand on the steering wheel seemed to grip it rather tightly.

  Eileen glanced at her, and then glanced away. She had her own fish to fry. If Patrick suspected Maureen Hogan, well, then it was up to him to find the proof. He would not like her to interfere in any way, was never one to take a friendly word of advice from her, but she did wonder whether Maureen could have rigged up that bomb. It sounded a very amateur affa
ir. The gardener had told her all about it – about the rusty old downpipe, about the lack of a timer, he had warned her not to mention that in her article, and she hadn’t as she did not want to get him into trouble, but that did sound very amateur and very ‘hit-and-miss’. Whoever shoved that fertilizer and diesel into an upright drainpipe, and then took the terrible chance of dropping a match or a lighted screw of newspaper down upon the lethal mixture of ammonium nitrate and fuel – well, that had been a terribly dangerous thing to do. The work of an amateur, she was sure of that. None of the lads with whom she had worked during her teenage years in the IRA would have done anything so haphazard. A bomb like that would have been as likely to blow up the man or woman who planted it, as it would have been to kill the chosen victim.

  Would Maureen have been so keen on being an alderman that she was prepared to blow up one, or perhaps the entire bunch, of her rivals?

  Youghal turned out to be a failure. It was a Wednesday afternoon, half day for most of the schools in the city and the train from Midleton and from Cork, puffing vigorously, had just drawn into the station as they drove into the town. It seemed as though thousands of women and children, almost like the whole population of Cork, streamed off it and went shrieking and shouting, and waving small buckets and spades, large picnic baskets and sun hats as they made their way to the beach.

  And what was worse, the tide was in, right in, covering the whole of the half a mile of sand and the waves were crashing over the wall and onto the pavements.

  ‘God! I can’t stand this place. We’ll have to go somewhere else. Those screaming children will give me a pain in my head. There was I thinking that we could lie on the sand and have a nice sunbathe.’ Maureen’s lips were tight with fury.

  Eileen looked at her with interest. Well, yes it was crowded, but there was no harm in it. They could have gone for a walk along the seafront and the weather was so hot that it would have almost been pleasant to duck in and out of the spray of fresh sea water. Nicer than the streets of Cork, anyway, where in hot weather the River Lee stank to high heaven and a green scum formed over the stagnant waters of the river. Something, she decided, had upset Maureen. Must be Patrick, she thought and smiled to herself at how much she would tease him about upsetting an important solicitor like Miss Hogan.