Chapter 14
When news began to spread about the attack on Mary Sommers—the same Mary Sommers who had witnessed Thomas Olocher’s crime, the same Mary Sommers who was instrumental in having him sentenced to death—many could not believe anything other than the rumours that abounded about his soul in the body of some beast, looking for revenge. There could be no other explanation. All of those attacked so far had done something against Olocher, so it couldn’t be a coincidence. How could an attacker have singled her out of all the women in Dublin, if not for the reason that she was targeted? And who else would target a girl just turned fifteen if not The Dolocher?
When the soldiers were asking around about the houses to see if anyone had seen anything, they found a possible lead. Streets away from the attack, there had been a man seen, a large man, walking in the rain with some kind of heavy, black garment over his head. He had been in the Cook Street area, and when this was followed up, more people had seen this same man enter Usher’s Court. When the people of that place were asked, they said they had seen the man enter Dog and Duck Yard. Further questions yielded the name of Timothy Mullins as this same man, and it was said it was his leather apron that he’d had over his head when he came home that night. It was said that he was as drunk as a lord as he got to his door.
The soldiers asked his neighbours: Was it usual for him to carry his apron about with him when he went drinking? No was their answer, and this led to the supposition that this was the black beast people had spoken of as the Dolocher. Someone had even noticed that when he got home that night, there was blood running from his apron when he got to the door. The time of his arrival home was within ten minutes of the attack on Mary Sommers.
This was evidence enough to question Mullins about his whereabouts that evening. The officer stepped into Mullins’s home as soldiers waited outside. Mullins knew that the soldiers had spoken to many people; he was ready to answer all the same questions they had, but he was not expecting the blunt question that came from the officer:
“Did you attack a woman last night?”
Mullins was stunned; his eyes opened wide with disbelief.
“No,” he stammered, still reeling with the shock of the accusation.
“You came home last night with your apron over your head,” the officer said.
“Yeah, it was raining.”
“Was there blood on this apron?”
“No.” He was confused to this question. Why would he think there was blood on it?
“Is this the apron?” the officer asked, placing his hand on a leather apron on the table.
“Yes.”
The officer picked it up and examined it.“What is all this red stuff on it?” he asked and showed it to Mullins.
Before he could see it properly, he was nervous, the connection between the question of blood, an attack on a woman, and now red stains on his apron tied together in his mind, and he could feel guilt rising. He was relieved when he saw the stains. “That’s just rust residue. I’m a blacksmith, and metal gets on the apron the whole time. That’s what it’s for.”
“Is any of it blood?”
“No, blood is not that colour. This is more orange.”
“How do you know what colour blood is?” the officer asked, and again Mullins was surprised by his questions.
“I have bled before,” he answered, hoping not to sound insolent.
“Of course,” the officer said, and he put the apron down on the table. “Where were you last night?”
“I was in the whisky cab on Cook Street.”
“The what?”
“The whisky cabin on Cook Street.”
“Oh, ‘cabin.’” The officer had been making some point here, but it was lost on Mullins. “What time did you leave?”
“About eleven, I think.”
“You think?”
“Yes, I was a little drunk.” Mullins was embarrassed to say this but thought he should tell the truth.
“Drunk enough to attack a woman and then forget about it?”
“No, never!” Mullins cried out. “You can ask the owner; he will tell you I left at that time. I came straight home. It’s only a few minutes from door to door.”
“Why did you have your apron with you last night?”
“I was in a rush to deliver a piece to a customer in Hell, and I still had it on as I ran out of the store. Otherwise, I was going to be late, and I mightn’t have got paid.”
“You didn’t think to bring it home or back to the store before you went drinking?” the officer asked, and Mullins knew it was purely to embarrass him.
“No,” he said, looking at the ground. He was sure this was what the officer wanted to see.
“Did you see anyone on your way home?”
“Not a soul.”
“It was raining heavily,” the officer said, and Mullins nodded. “Well, that will do for now, but you may be questioned again when I file my report.”
“Ok,” Mullins answered.
“Good day,” the officer said, and he left the building. Mullins was at the door, and he saw the officer poke his foot at the rust stains on the ground just outside.
“That’s not the same colour as blood.” The officer smiled to him and marched off, followed by his troops.
Mullins went back inside and sat down at the big table. He looked at the rust stains on the apron; the rain had really brought them out worse than even before. The apron was rigid from being so wet, and its weight was much more than earlier. He picked at some of the deep-orange flecks of dried residue, and he remembered the red liquid running off it onto the ground at his door last night, an image he had not recalled until just now. The lantern lights had given it a strange hue, changed the natural orange to a watery, dull red, a flowing, dull red. He put it down and went to his window and looked out. There were not many people around, and the ones who were there were long-standing neighbours.
How could anyone think him capable of hurting a woman? Some of these very neighbours must have thought he had done it and told the soldiers that there was blood running from his apron when he got home. It was sickening that there was that much distrust in a small street like this, with all of them in the same boat, doing nothing other than trying to put food on the table from day to day. Who could think he would attack a woman? He had a little temper when drunk, and he’d had his fair share of fights with sailors or other men in the taverns and whisky cabins, but that was no different to anyone else who went there. Who?
The Dolocher Page 14