Murder in an Orchard Cemetery

by Cora Harrison

  It was six o’clock in the evening before Eileen arrived. Patrick was just about to lock the door of the Garda barracks when he heard the familiar roar of her motorbike. He hesitated for a moment, key in hand, wondering whether to ignore her, but then told himself not to be stupid. It was pointless reacting to Eileen and her tricks. He had more important matters on his mind.

  Nevertheless, when she drew up beside him, he could not forbear looking at his watch although he told himself that it was the wrong thing to do. Would make her think that he had been waiting impatiently for her arrival.

  She looked amused when she dismounted, and he hated that expression of hers. Just as though she was well aware that he had been looking at the time continuously for the last couple of hours.

  ‘Oh, are you shutting up shop?’ she enquired with simulation of surprise. ‘Never mind, another day, eh?’

  He stopped himself from a retort. She could play that game better than he. He should impress upon her the seriousness of his work, not barter insults like a pair of youngsters. ‘Come in, Eileen,’ he said in as even a tone as he could manage.

  She made a face; determined, he thought, to annoy him. ‘That place of yours smells of Jeyes Fluid,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you walk up the road with me to my mam’s place. She’s making something special tonight. One of her best stews. You can have something to eat with us and we can chat all you like, walk up to the top of the hill, like we used when we were chiselers and had secrets to tell,’ she finished, smiling at him.

  For a moment, he was tempted. There was no doubt but that he was lonely. Food was something that he stuffed into his mouth in order not to feel hungry, but he had no pleasure in his canteen meals in the barracks or solitary snacks in his room. And he liked Eileen’s mother who always treated him with great respect and greeted him warmly whenever she met him. Still, it was not the right thing to do and important police business should not be discussed on top of the hill in the place where hundreds of Barrack Street children exchanged secrets.

  ‘That’s very nice of you, Eileen,’ he said as gently as he could manage while still preserving an official demeanour. ‘I think we’d better come in here, though. I have to do things by the rule book,’ he added, in an effort to placate her. He would, he decided, make no mention of her late arrival and no mention of the young constable’s opinion, voiced to Joe, that Eileen hadn’t really been studying, just sunbathing on the grass with a crowd of lads.

  She patted him on the arm with a condescending show of sympathy. ‘I know you have to, Patrick,’ she said and though there was an undue emphasis on the word ‘you’, an implication that he was timorous and that others would be more courageous, he did not rise to the challenge, but led the way back into his room and pulled out a chair for her. The building was empty. Everyone else had gone home. It was ideal, really, no fear of a shout from out in the corridor or of a door being opened when he was in the middle of extracting information from her. He checked the phone for messages and then left the receiver lying on the desk. He saw her eyes go to it in an amused fashion, but to his relief she made no comment.

  ‘What can I do for you, Patrick,’ she asked. He rather resented the brisk tone to her voice, as though she were the busy and important one, but he did not rise to the provocation. He just opened the drawer which was now devoted to the orchard cemetery murder and took out Joe’s copy of the Cork Examiner. It had been neatly folded at the page where Eileen’s article was placed beneath the title: ‘Strangers in our Land’. She smiled at it, when she saw it, but he did not feel annoyed by that smile as he recognized that it bore a stamp of pride. Clever girl, he thought. Like himself, she had had to struggle out from her environment, from the dreadful poverty which both had experienced, but unlike himself she had been gifted with a top-class brain. Life had been more difficult for him, he thought. Perhaps he had less courage and more wariness. In the eyes of the world, so far, he would appear to have achieved more success, but he knew that Eileen, when she found her feet, would far outshine him.

  ‘An excellent article. I found it most interesting.’

  ‘Which part of it?’ She asked the question with a half-smile on her face.

  ‘Let’s not play games, Eileen,’ he said.

  ‘No, no, you’re a busy man. And probably a hungry one. I’m sure that you haven’t had your supper yet.’

  Patrick forced himself to sit still and to say nothing. The thing about Eileen, now and when she was five years old, in and out of his house, chatting to his mother, then, like now, she talked an awful lot and she found it hard not to break a silence. Deliberately he passed the folded newspaper over to her and then sat back in his chair.

  She read the article through. Read it rapidly, taking no more than half of the time that he would have taken. He saw a smile of pride widen her lips and noted how she reread, at least twice, the part about the ugliness of Willie Hamilton’s corrugated iron factory. He knew, then, that Joe had spotted something of significance. Perhaps he should have left Eileen to Joe, he thought with that self-doubt which constantly haunted him. Joe was cleverer and was more at ease. He would joke with Eileen, flatter her, read between the lines, not have to have everything spelled out for him. He sat in silence for a few minutes, miserably aware of his shortcomings, knowing that he had only one good point and that was an ability to work hard, to take enormous pains and to check and double check. It seemed to him to be a mediocre gift.

  ‘You look tired, Patrick,’ she said suddenly, looking up from the newspaper and scrutinizing his face in that easy-going fashion of hers.

  He looked back at her helplessly. He couldn’t play her games, couldn’t produce repartee or wit without a lot of thought – something which robbed it of its edge.

  ‘Give me a break, Eileen,’ he said earnestly. ‘This is serious. There’s a homicidal criminal up there in that convent and … and the Reverend Mother is up there. I’m worried about her. She was good to me when I was young and still is. I couldn’t bear anything to happen to her through my lack of ability to find a murderer in time to prevent another murder. And there are all those nuns. Goodness knows, one of them may have seen something and may be next on that villain’s list. I have to find him.’ He spread out his hands and said no more, feeling slightly ashamed of himself. For a moment he regretted that he had exposed his inadequacy, but then he put the thought aside. There were more important matters at stake. He put his head on his hands and then ran his fingers impatiently through the rough dark hair which he so carefully smoothed out every morning with a brush well smeared with Brylcreem. He looked across at her; now sitting very straight and restraining himself from any more apologies or explanations.

  She didn’t look away. That was Eileen. Straight as a die, always. And always full of courage. She didn’t smile, didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about, but looked with that air of one who is weighing up matters.

  ‘I have to keep faith in my sources, Patrick,’ she said. ‘I had a tip, but I can say no more. I promised, you see.’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ he said, feeling his heart race with excitement. He was a slow but meticulous reader and he had read every word of her article, had noticed the emphasis on the origin of those who had built those houses, who had worked on those farms, had tended those horses, whose children had peopled those schools. Protestants, every one of them. A colony of them. And none of those lootings and burnings and none of those assassinations of Protestants that had stained the name of many villages and small towns in west Cork and in north Cork had taken place in these peaceful villages of east Cork. It all made sense, thought Patrick. He nodded at her. ‘You’ve said enough,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it from there. Thank you, Eileen.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. She said it in a slightly unsure fashion, and she got to her feet with a tentative air. For a moment he wondered whether she would repeat her offer of supper with herself and her mother, but she didn’t. She looked across at him for a moment and then said quietly,
‘Good night, Patrick. Don’t work too hard.’

  Then she was gone, and he cursed himself for a fool. Perhaps, he thought, it wouldn’t hurt to drop in later in the evening, pay his respects to Eileen’s mother, and perhaps they might go for a walk …

  SEVENTEEN

  Patrick had been late to bed after seeing Eileen the previous evening but, nevertheless, he was, as usual, the first person into the police barracks on the following morning. As he put his key into the lock, he heard the phone ringing and just managed to reach it before it ceased. Too early in the morning for a riot, it would be a burglary or a dead body, he thought as he lifted the receiver.

  ‘Inspector Cashman,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, Patrick. Rupert Murphy, here. You’re like myself, an early bird,’ said the affable voice on the other end of the line.

  Patrick felt a slight rush of pleasure to be on first name terms with the foremost – and the richest – solicitor in the city.

  ‘Lovely morning,’ he said and waited to see what was wrong.

  ‘Something a little unexpected has happened. One of the sons of my late neighbour, James Musgrave, turned up last night. Spent the night with the son of a colleague of mine. Just met the man on the South Mall. Apparently, the boy got into Cobh last night, got a lift up to Cork. I thought you should know.’

  Patrick pulled himself together. ‘Very good of you to phone me,’ he said. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘This one is Peter – they were Peter and Paul and I never knew them apart, but apparently, according to my colleague, they separated when they were in Australia. Peter settled in Broken Hill, near to Sydney; the other boy, Paul, went to the Melbourne area first and then moved away without leaving an address with his brother.’

  ‘Odd that they separated,’ said Patrick. ‘Very big place, Australia.’ About a hundred times bigger than Ireland, he seemed to remember, but it seemed a bit schoolboyish to mention that.

  ‘Let me give you the address where he spent last night. It’s in Tivoli. By the way, he does know that his father is dead. Someone in Cobh told him once he had disembarked from the liner. Would it be possible for you to drop in and see me in the South Mall before you go to Tivoli? I have a slight problem and I’d like to have a chat with you about it.’

  Patrick was conscious of a warm feeling as he went to request the use of the Garda car from the superintendent. He hoped that he might be of use to the solicitor but doubted it. Murphy had the name of being immensely experienced and immensely astute. It was probably a polite way of requesting some action from the police. He would definitely go to the South Mall first. In fact, if necessary, he could send the constable to Tivoli to request the newly arrived son to drop into the police barracks. But he would certainly like to hear what the solicitor had to say as quickly as possible.

  The chief clerk was waiting for him at the door at the top of the steps when he parked the car in the South Mall.

  ‘Mr Murphy will see you immediately, inspector,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you straight in. He’s due in court at ten o’clock.’

  Patrick nodded. A year ago, he would have felt guilty and promised not to be long, but these days he had learned that the less you said, the more people thought of you. He followed the man in silence and again just nodded his thanks when he was ushered into Mr Murphy’s office and given a cup of steaming coffee poured from the great man’s own percolator.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Patrick, about the will of the late James Musgrave.’

  Patrick sipped the coffee and then dropped three lumps of sugar into the cup, hoping that it might improve the taste and looked at the man across the desk from him.

  ‘I’m in a rather awkward situation about this,’ said Rupert. ‘You see, only a week ago, James came in here and asked for his will. He said he wanted to take it away and to study it. I argued against that – never like to have wills knocking around in private houses – but he insisted. Said he wanted to have it and needed to study it. I offered to have it copied, but he was against that – said he didn’t want any talk about it. I assured him that my staff were a hundred per cent reliable, but he wouldn’t listen. Laughed at me and said that he would take very good care of it. Would guard it with his life.’

  ‘And the will?’ said Patrick.

  ‘The Will and Testament that I handed to James Musgrave was made some time after the death of his wife, about eleven years ago. It had a large number of small legacies, but the major part of his estate was to be held in trust for his three children, if he died before they reached the age of eighteen, but otherwise to be divided equally between the three, the two boys, Peter and Paul, and his daughter Ellen, known as Nellie. I would guess that since Nellie was about to take her final vows that he decided to change his will, leaving the bulk of his estate to be divided between his two sons, and perhaps a small token of affection to his daughter. James was a good Catholic, but not to the extent of leaving one third of his estate to a convent!’

  ‘I see,’ said Patrick. ‘And was that Will and Testament changed?’

  ‘Not by this firm,’ said Rupert.

  ‘Would he have taken it to another firm?’ The question had to be asked, although Patrick felt a certain compunction in uttering it. It seemed a bit of an insult to the man sitting opposite.

  Rupert Murphy made no audible reply, but he pursed his lips and wagged his head from side to side. Not without my knowledge, the gesture seemed to say. Patrick guessed that these solicitors all knew each other and all confided in each other, but a nod and a wink usually took the place of words.

  ‘You said that you were in an awkward position,’ he said firmly. ‘Is there a will in existence?’

  Rupert Murphy gave a half smile and a nod.

  ‘I’ve searched the Musgrave house from top to bottom,’ he said. ‘Not a sign of a will. We, my wife and I, keep a key to his house – and he had the key to our place. He had no locked safe or anything like that in the house, and his managing clerk reported nothing to be found in his office. I can only think that he burned it. He had an appointment with me on this very morning.’

  ‘To change his will?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I would guess that is what he intended to do.’

  ‘And what happens now if no will can be found – he died intestate, is that right?’

  ‘It looks like that,’ said the solicitor with a sigh. ‘We will handle matters of course, but if a man dies without a will, then everything will go to the eldest son. That is Peter, of course, as he was born a few hours before Paul.’

  ‘And everything would amount to quite a sum, I suppose,’ said Patrick. He told himself not to show any surprise at the sum, but even so he could not help a slight start when the solicitor said carelessly, ‘Something around the quarter-of-a-million-pound level.’

  A quarter of a million pounds! Patrick took a deep breath but decided not to comment. Ideas were running through his head, but he decided to keep them there.

  ‘So, everything goes to Peter and nothing to Paul,’ he said slowly. ‘And Peter is the one who is here in Cork, in Tivoli. That’s handy, I suppose.’ Patrick tasted the coffee again. Quite drinkable now if you just sipped it, he thought and looked across the desk at the solicitor. There was, he thought, an odd look on Mr Murphy’s face and he waited. After a moment, the man smiled, slightly and then shook his head.

  ‘My wife, Patrick, often accuses me of always borrowing trouble and I’m sure that she is right. But I thought of something as soon as I heard that the boy had turned up and I realized that the original will was nowhere to be found and had probably been destroyed.’ He paused, not looking at Patrick, but doodling interlocking circles on the pad in front of him. And then he put back the pen and looked up.

  ‘The devil of it is that I don’t think that I could say, let alone swear, that the boy who came back from Australia is, in fact, Peter. I never knew them apart even when they were our nearest neighbours and running in and out of our house. Remember, I haven’t seen
either of them for more than about three years! Lucy never knew them apart. Nor did any of their aunts. The school, I heard, insisted on them wearing a nametag – ‘Musgrave major’ for Peter and ‘Musgrave minor’ for Paul. Even so, they swapped them regularly and always accused the other of any wrongdoing. So, you see my point. If this is Peter, he gets it all, but if it isn’t Peter, but Paul, why then I can’t hand over the money to the wrong man. I’ll have to scour Australia for the fellow who was a few hours older or younger than his brother.’

  ‘Why did they go to Australia?’ asked Patrick with a degree of curiosity. ‘I would have thought that they would have gone into their father’s business.’ And it was odd, he thought. Well-educated, a rich father, the world at their feet and yet they went off on the boat, just like the lads from the Coal Quay and from the lanes around Barrack Street.

  Rupert leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, you see, Patrick, their father would have liked them to study accountancy, but neither had the brains, or the work ability. They both did very poorly in school. No profession would have been open to them. I think that James was relieved in a way when they got enthusiastic about this Australian farming business. Never got on well with them. Perhaps they would have been better if their mother lived.’ Rupert looked at the clock and then checked his watch.