Murder in an Orchard Cemetery

by Cora Harrison

  Patrick looked at the article impatiently. His eye skimmed down it without interest. ‘“Queen Anne, Palladian”, oh, for God’s sake, Joe!’ he said. He had a lot to do. There had been trouble on the docks last night, a break in at the Imperial Hotel and, looming above all, the very strange case of the murder in a convent cemetery. ‘What on—’ he began, but Joe held up an admonishing finger.

  ‘Read it, Patrick,’ he said. ‘It’s not what it seems. Not altogether about pretty houses and fine stable yards and old churches.’ And then, with a look at Patrick’s impatient face, he took the paper back. ‘Let me find the bit, yes, here it is. About our friend Wee Willie Hamilton. Wonder whether Eileen has had a tip,’ he said. ‘Worth some minutes of your time, I’d say.’

  Patrick read the end of the article and then went through it carefully from the beginning. Typical of Eileen, he thought. So keen to be clever. And yet, and yet … Wasn’t it what he had thought himself the other day when he was with the bishop – something a bit odd about Willie Hamilton?

  ‘I’d say myself that she has had a tip-off,’ said Joe eagerly. ‘She’s had a tip-off, but she’s scared to give her source, or else she has promised someone that he won’t be involved. You know Eileen. She’s in with all sorts of people.’

  ‘Bring her in for questioning, then,’ said Patrick bad-temperedly, but he had to laugh at himself when he saw Joe’s eyes widen. ‘I don’t mean that we should arrest her, or anything, but you could send off that lad you are training to see if he can find her and ask her whether she would spare me five minutes of her valuable time. Nice fine morning, the lad will enjoy a spin on his bike going around the city and you’ll have a rest from him asking you what he should be doing, or how do you fill in a form.’

  ‘Wonder where he’d find her. The university is on holiday,’ said Joe thoughtfully.

  ‘They don’t really have holidays like schools,’ said Patrick impatiently. ‘A lot of them spend the summer holidays reading in the library or chatting to each other on that quad – you know, the big square of grass in between the buildings.’ He detected a slight note of envy in his own voice. Would he have liked to have gone to university? A couple of boys from the North Mon. – as the Christian Brothers’ monastery school in the north of the city was always called – yes, even two of his own classmates had got scholarships and had gone to university. Wouldn’t have suited me even if I had been good enough to get a scholarship, he decided and turned back to his card index box.

  With a feeling of pleasure at its neatness, he leafed through and when he came to the letter ‘H’, he extracted Willie Hamilton’s card and stared at the meagre few lines outlining name, date of birth, previous residence. He had an instinct to take the car and to go and question the man in his own workplace. But it was in a god-forsaken village, far outside the city and the whole business would take up too much of his time. He could send Joe to fetch him, but then it would waste Joe’s morning and really, apart from this business of Eileen’s article, he had nothing to go on. No, better to get hold of Eileen and see what she had to say for herself. The card gave a neat summary of the interview, which was like all the others. All the lay members of the retreat, in just the same way as the religious school leaders, walked around the extensive grounds, mostly on their own, though a few of the school leaders, probably old friends, went in the company of another. Willie Hamilton had been on his own, but there was nothing of significance to that. He, as a man from Northern Ireland, had little in common with the other members. He had, he said, spent some time at the wall that bounded the convent grounds, looking down over the city. He had not been seen by anyone in the spot which he had named, but that was not surprising as he had chosen to sit in the shelter of a large, flowering bougainvillea. Next to the name of the bush Patrick had inserted a small capital ‘J’. That meant, according to his system, that there would be some information about this bush in Joe’s notes, which he always, according to the system Patrick had set up, did with a carbon copy. He leafed through them, found the Willie Hamilton page, and read it through. As he had remembered, the detail was there regarding the wall and the large bougainvillea. Patrick had never heard of the bush or tree, but Joe had written an interesting note:

  People plant bougainvillea to stop passers-by sitting on their wall or climbing over it. They have it in the terrace where I live. The gate is closed every night by the lodgekeeper and there is a padlock on it, but apparently there used to be trouble with people – drunks, usually – climbing the wall and so they planted this bougainvillea all the way along the inside of the wall. Makes a great show – all red flowers right through the summer, but it has enormous thorns. I went to have a look and I do not think anyone would have chosen to sit on the wall at that spot. They would be torn to pieces by the thorns. He only disclosed that when I asked why it was that no one had seen him during that time.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Patrick aloud and then the door opened.

  ‘I’ve sent off the young fellow to get hold of Eileen,’ said Joe, and then saw his carbon-copied notes on the desk. ‘That’s what I came in about,’ he said. ‘What with that article mentioning the name of Willie Hamilton, well, I just remembered feeling a bit dubious about his account of himself.’

  ‘You did well to spot that about the thorny bush,’ said Patrick. Joe, he thought, was an excellent second-in-command. If this case was solved satisfactorily, he must remember to write a note praising the assistance that he had got from him. ‘Did you have a look at the position where he said he spent that time?’

  ‘Yes, I did. Just the way that I remembered the wretched stuff – many a sharp scratch I got from it when I was a youngster trying to retrieve a ball. Looks pretty from a distance, but it is lethal stuff to be among. Anyway, there’s not much of a view to be seen from there, mostly just the road.’

  ‘So, he was probably telling a lie. Saw the bush from a distance but didn’t know about the lethal thorns.’ Patrick felt immensely cheered. He’d probe Eileen, see what he could get out of her, and then he would interview Willie Hamilton again. ‘Listen to this,’ he said, leaning out to push a chair forward for Joe and then picking up his notes from the bishop.

  ‘Listen to this, Joe,’ he repeated. ‘It looks as though we have another reason for the murder of Mr Musgrave if he knew about one of the candidates killing a man. I must say that apart from the IRA lady, it didn’t seem too likely that someone would murder the favourite candidate just to give himself a chance at being alderman.’

  ‘Does seem a bit far-fetched to want the bishop’s vote that badly,’ said Joe obligingly. ‘I must say that I was thinking that the only one who might fall under real suspicion with that motive would be the man who was the original favourite – that is the builder, Bob O’Connor. Most people that I know seemed to be putting their money on him getting the job when the names came out first. But of course, as soon as the bishop let it be known among all the ratepayers that he favoured the stockbroker – well, that would have changed the stakes, wouldn’t it.’

  ‘According to his lordship,’ said Patrick, ‘Mr Musgrave confessed to him, well, told him – don’t suppose that it was in confession – that he had been given information …’

  Patrick was conscious of a certain restlessness from Joe as he went through as accurately as he could – with the help of his notes – his conversation with the bishop. Patrick had trained himself into carefulness, into a rigorous adherence to the words spoken by suspects, or by witnesses and from time to time, he took his eyes from his notebook to refer to his typewritten account of his conversation with the bishop. Because of the explosive nature of the bishop’s declaration and because of the importance of the bishop himself, he was being careful, and he spoke slowly and hesitantly weighing up every sentence before he uttered it. He was somewhat hampered by the silence in the room. It would, he thought, have been more natural if he had been interrupted with a few eager questions or even an exclamation of astonishment. In the end, he drew to a s
ilence, shut his notebook, replaced the sheets of typed paper in the drawer, locked it carefully and then he looked at Joe.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked.

  Joe did not speak for a moment. That was quite characteristic of Joe. He was very sure of himself, but he was careful and meticulous. When he did speak, it was unexpected.

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ said Joe.

  ‘What!’ Patrick was genuinely surprised. Even the fact that Joe was a Protestant didn’t seem to justify this dismissal of the testimony of the bishop, the most respected man in the city of Cork.

  ‘It just sounds so far-fetched,’ said Joe with an apologetic note in his voice. ‘Why on earth would a sensible man like a stockbroker, say something like that to the bishop? You might confess a sin to a bishop, I suppose,’ said Joe, with a slightly dubious note coming into his voice, ‘but if you are talking about a crime, about suspecting someone of killing a man, well, then any sensible citizen would go to the police, report to the Garda Siochana. Why should he ask the bishop? He was a stockbroker – ran a business; wouldn’t need the bishop’s permission to report a crime. No, one or other of them was making up a story. Either the stockbroker was trying to put the bishop off the other candidates or else, the bishop was trying to make himself more interesting. And I’m sorry, Patrick if I sound unreligious, but I’m almost inclined to think it was the bishop trying to make himself interesting. Or perhaps,’ said Joe apologetically, noting Patrick’s stunned expression, ‘the bishop, being a fairly elderly gentleman, misunderstood something that the stockbroker said to him, perhaps it got entangled with a dream that he had, or something like that, and in the end he thought that it might be the best thing to mention it to you. And leave the matter in your capable hands.’ Joe finished, rather with the air of one who wished that he had never embarked upon an explanation.

  Patrick thought about the matter. He had a good opinion of Joe and the fact that he was a Protestant had been, up to this moment, regarded by Patrick as more of an asset than a drawback. He would look at matters and people from a fresh point of view and Patrick made it a rule to never criticize or jeer at any opinion. A good leader was one who encouraged his men, he had worked that out quite a while ago, had even mentioned the thought to the Reverend Mother who had not only expressed approval, but had quoted a few examples from history so that he had been quite pleased with himself to be put on a level with famous historical personages.

  ‘You may be right,’ he said. It was a neutral phrase, one that he was rather proud of and he felt that it combined discretion with encouragement. It satisfied Joe, anyway. An eager look came into his eyes and he leaned back on his chair. To Patrick’s horror, he tilted the chair and balanced it upon its two back legs and a slightly mischievous grin puckered at the corner of his mouth. He gave his superior a speculative glance. He wore, thought Patrick, the expression of someone who was wondering whether to venture upon an outrageous statement or to let well alone.

  Patrick said nothing, just waited. This affair was baffling him. It was correct that the motive for murdering James Musgrave appeared to be a very flimsy one. It would be more feasible if there had been just two candidates. Given that there were five, then if one were murdered, the hopeful candidate would still have to get rid of three more in order to ensure victory. In fact, if there were four murders attached to this election then the chances were that the government in Dublin would stop the election of a new alderman and leave the position vacant for the moment. There may be, he thought, something else behind the bomb. Perhaps James Musgrave was an accidental victim and something else had been intended. He looked at Joe and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You know,’ said Joe in a contemplative tone, ‘we may have been approaching this matter from the wrong angle. We’ve been concentrating on the election and those five lay people involved in this election – but what if the bomb had been meant for someone else. After all, there were all of those Christian Brothers, priests, nuns …’ Joe hesitated for a couple of seconds after that audacious statement, and then said quietly, ‘And there was the bishop himself. What if one of them had been sitting on the seat when the bomb went off? It would be a chancy way of murdering someone, wouldn’t it? Or what about a headmaster of a small school wanting a bit of promotion to a big school? Or a deputy bishop wanting to become the top man?’

  Patrick thought about the matter. His head was spinning. He couldn’t possibly do any more than he had already done with all of these religious leaders and the bishop himself. Everyone had made a statement of what they were doing between the hour after lunch and before the moment of the explosion. Most, had, he had noticed with interest, retired to their room in order to pray and meditate – something which Joe had remarked seemed suspiciously like an after-a-meal nap to him, but as to trying to find a motive for any of them to murder James Musgrave, or even one another, that seemed to be an impossible task.

  ‘Or blackmail, perhaps,’ said Joe, reading his expression, but Patrick shook his head.

  ‘We’re being stupid with this,’ he said energetically. ‘We’re on the wrong track. Think about it, Joe. Think how he was murdered. No one slipped a knife into him, fired a shot at him, or even strangled him – any of those things could conceivably have been done by one of that crowd, but not planting a bomb and blowing up the man. No, it’s the IRA or something to do with them. We just need to find a link. I’ll check again about whether our victim ever acted as a magistrate or something. I couldn’t find any sign of it, but everything was very disorganized between the end of the War of Independence and the Civil War.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Patrick,’ said Joe with a note of excitement in his voice. ‘What if the wrong man was blown up? What if it was meant to be Wee Willie after all? Eileen has obviously heard rumours about that fellow. Then that would make sense that the IRA did it. They suspected him of being an Orangeman, after all. Sent down here to organize the Protestant landowners. Defend themselves against the IRA by arming and training small groups of militia. Kill a few Catholics. Perhaps even the bishop himself. The Orangemen from the North have never got used to losing part of the British Empire. They are forever trying to stir up trouble. And then, you know, it would make very good sense to use a bomb. Make the whole thing spectacular, send a message to anyone connected to Wee Willie that they could not mess with the IRA. They got the wrong man, of course, but that’s quite possible. Wouldn’t be the first time that they made a mistake. A wild lot of lads, these fellas. Wilder lot now, than they were in the years when there was more justification for their presence, when more people were on their side. A lot of respectable young fellows, and girls joined them then, but after the war of independence and the civil war, most of the patriot types got sick of the whole business – look at Eileen, for instance. Lots of them went to college, or got a job, or even went off to Australia. But the ones that stayed members, stayed because they enjoyed killing, even killing innocent Protestants. Do you know, Patrick, I think we may have something? Remember that Wee Willie wasn’t one of those who went off to their bedroom when lunch was over. By his own account he was sitting on a wall admiring the view – and even if he wasn’t where he said he was, the fact remains that the man was out and about. He might have been waiting for the stockbroker to go away so that he could meet someone else there, could follow the directions that had been sent to him, a note pretending to be from one of his friends, but really sent by the IRA.’

  ‘But why would anyone want to murder him,’ protested Patrick. When Joe gave an impatient sigh, he said hurriedly, ‘Still, it might be worth finding out whether Wee Willie had been sitting on that bench during the days before.’

  ‘Good idea; take it slow and careful,’ said Joe, and Patrick gave a nod of approval. He looked at Joe with gratitude. Somehow a talk with him always seemed to be a huge help to him.

  The puzzle which had almost seemed beyond the power of man to solve, seemed now to be opening out to show several intriguing and possible s
olutions. There was no doubt that Willie Hamilton had been wandering around the grounds when most of the others had retired to their bedrooms. Eileen’s article seemed to hint at some connection between Willie and the Protestants. There had been a few shootings in that part of east Cork, all justified, IRA men caught trying to burn down a house. But, on each occasion, it had seemed as though the Protestant owners had known something was planned and had been waiting with a gang of well-armed neighbours. If Willie Hamilton was a spy of some sort, that could be the explanation. And if he were, the IRA would be after his blood.

  Unfortunately for James Musgrave, he may have taken, by the bishop’s command, the very bench where the man from the north of Ireland had planned to be sitting upon. And so, the bomb had killed the wrong man. Patrick felt immensely cheered by the thought. It would, he thought, be an acceptable solution for both the lay and religious powers in the city. ‘I think you may have something there, Joe,’ he said generously and then looked up at the clock.

  ‘Where’s that lad of yours?’ he said impatiently. ‘Surely Eileen should be here by now. It’s only five minutes ride from the university to Barrack Street on that bike of hers.’

  ‘Oh, he’s back,’ said Joe guiltily. ‘I meant to tell you. She said that she was busy, but she would drop in on her way home.’

  Patrick knew that he should say something, laugh it off, make a joke, but somehow he could not find the words. It didn’t matter too much whether he talked with Eileen today or tomorrow or even left it for a couple of days. There was still plenty of interviewing to be done, there were plenty of people in the city who acted as informers, who had an eye on local members of the IRA. Either past members or present members, or even those who would ingratiate themselves by carrying out a commission. None of these had been interviewed yet and they should be. Eileen probably had little to divulge, but at the same time he felt furious with her. The trouble with Eileen was that she didn’t take him seriously. From time to time, he had wondered whether he might have been better off looking for a position in Limerick or Galway, or even Dublin itself. Any place where he was not immediately recognized as a barefoot boy from Barrack Street, from a city where so many people had gone to school with him, played in the streets with him, knew everything about him and expected little because of his undistinguished past.