Julia in Ireland

by Ann Bridge

  “I often walk more than that on the river” he grumbled, nevertheless coming with her.

  “Yes, but then you can sit for a minute whenever you want to—this is a steady plug, and so slow.”

  Julia had managed to snatch a word with Gerald before he, like Richard Fitzgerald, started to walk with the other men behind the coffin; when she went back to the car the General was urging his wife to start the engine.

  “Darling, we must let Mrs. Keane get away first; she’s got Kelly’s hire-car—I don’t think she drives herself, and anyhow she wouldn’t today. The engine will get quite hot enough with over a mile in bottom gear.”

  “Oh—ah” O’Hara grunted, in reluctant assent.

  “Helen, may I ask you something while we wait?” Julia asked.

  “Of course.”

  “That old woman who was standing near the coffin when Mrs. Keane took us over said something so extraordinary. I want to know what she can have meant.”

  “What did she say?” Lady Helen asked.

  “She said she’d never seen a finer corpse ‘above board.’ What did she mean?”

  “Oh, when the corpse is washed and dressed, and before rigor sets in, it’s placed on a board while the women who are laying it out put the finishing touches—like doing a woman’s hair, or brushing a man’s; that’s all ‘above board’ means—it’s quite a common expression for a corpse after it’s been laid out.”

  “Thank you. I wonder if it has any connection with the ordinary use of ‘above board’ in English” Julia speculated.

  “What extraordinary things you want to know!” the General commented.

  “I’ve no idea—it’s an interesting notion” Lady Helen said, starting the engine; Mrs. Keane’s hire-car had moved down the road. The long procession of cars crept after it; several were emitting steam, their radiators obviously boiling, by the time they pulled up outside the Chapel at Kilmichan. The coffin had been carried in for the Requiem Mass; Julia and Lady Helen attended this, but O’Hara, on his wife’s advice, remained outside in the car—“You’ll be much more comfortable; it’s sure to get terribly stuffy and airless in there, with all this crowd” she told him. The Mass over, the coffin was carried on men’s shoulders to the graveyard, which here was next door to the Church; the General made to rejoin his wife, but stood back when he saw that Mrs. Keane was leaning on her arm—both women looked rather white. Julia joined him, and they followed to the graveside, where Mrs. Keane stood, still with her arm through Helen O’Hara’s. When, at the words “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the ritual handful of soil was thrown onto the coffin—“Oh, Lady, they’re throwing the clay on him!” the poor woman burst out, in uncontrollable grief.

  When the funeral was over, Lady Helen slipped across to where her husband stood with Julia.

  “You two go on home—I’m going back with Agnes for a little while.”

  “How will you get home?” O’Hara asked.

  “Keep the hire-car, and come back in that.”

  “It’ll cost the earth” the General objected.

  “Well, I’ll pay.” She went back to Mrs. Keane and got into the car with her, and they drove off.

  The wake and the funeral together had made a strong impression on Julia—the simplicity and dignity of the proceedings, the devoutness and reverence of the participants. She had told Gerald that she had no objection to becoming a Catholic in a rather neutral frame of mind—today, suddenly, it was as if she saw a door opening, that she was presently going to walk through. And during all the conversation that ensued when Gerald O’Brien came across to speak to them, her thoughts were not on what was being said, but on the vista through that partly open door. After an exchange of greetings—“That was a good job, getting Mary Browne to sign those letters about not selling any land. But what are you doing to make that fellow Moran shut up? I don’t want him going on coming down and pestering her,” the General said.

  “I have something in mind,” O’Brien replied.

  “Well, I wish you could keep him out of Mayo altogether—that would be the best; nobody wants him here,” O’Hara pursued.

  “Short of getting him imprisoned, I should have thought that might not be so easy” Julia put in.

  “I may be on to something that might have the desired effect” O’Brien said. But he was rather mysterious about it, and though the General pressed him, he wouldn’t say any more.

  Lady Helen only got back just in time to change for dinner; over the meal she passed on various items of gossip which she had learned from the car-hire driver, who like most of his kind was a fountain of local information. Eventually—

  “And the poor nuns at Roskeen! Their school was growing so fast, they needed a much larger house; and when old Sir Thomas O’Kelly died they sold the convent—to some German, of course—and bought White Place. And now they find it’s full of dry-rot, and the roof has got to come off, and I don’t know what else—anyhow it will cost more than they paid for it originally to have the place put right, and they had to get a bank loan for that!—and they have nowhere to go meantime.”

  “More fools them not to have it vetted before they bought it” was the General’s unsympathetic response.

  “Oh but they did!—they paid someone to examine the house, only he didn’t spot the dry-rot.”

  “They can’t have employed anyone very competent.”

  “He was a professional architect, or surveyor, or whatever you call it” Lady Helen said stoutly, holding her ground in the nuns’ defence.

  “Then he can’t have been very honest.”

  As sometimes happened with her, an idea suddenly clicked into Julia’s mind like a bolt into a socket or a penny into a slot.

  “Helen, who actually sold White Place to the nuns? Did your man know?”

  “Oh, the O’Kelly boy—I forget his Christian name; he hates the country and spends all his time in Dublin with ‘the young rowdy set,’ according to my driver.”

  Hm! It was more than likely that Moran, whose headquarters were in Dublin, was well acquainted with “the young rowdy set” too, Julia thought to herself; and it ought not to be too difficult to ascertain from the Reverend Mother of the Roskeen Convent whether he had been employed to “vet” White Place. If he had, probably Gerald knew it already. Of course it would be much more difficult to get firm evidence, or any evidence at all, of some “consideration” having passed from young O’Kelly to Moran to ensure the giving of a false report—but if such evidence, or even the hint of it, were forthcoming, there was something that would certainly be capable of producing what Gerald had called “the desired effect.” At the time—“Helen, what on earth are the nuns doing now, poor creatures?” she asked.

  “Oh, parked here and there; one or two other convents have taken in a good many, and some have been given shelter in various houses round about—it isn’t an enclosed order, mercifully. But the great worry is the money for the roof.”

  “Nuns always get whatever money they want” O’Hara stated.

  “Well, the people in Martinstown are going to take up a collection for them, my driver said; everyone is very angry about it.”

  “I don’t wonder” Julia said. “What a mean trick.”

  Julia felt that she must make sure that Gerald heard this latest news item, and next morning she borrowed the little car and drove to Mulranny to ring him up from the Hotel call-box; there were so many calls from there, from total strangers, that they were less likely to attract, let alone hold the attention of the girl in the Post Office who handled local calls than those from private numbers. Even so she chose her words carefully, avoiding the use of any names.

  “Gerald, have you heard about the nuns and the dry-rot? I expect you have, but I wanted to be certain.”

  He gave a startled exclamation. “Good Lord! How on earth did you hear about that?”

  “Oh, Helen’s car-hire man was full of it yesterday, bringing her back from the farm.”

  She heard him chuckle. �
�Well that’s all to the good! But we can’t talk about it on the telephone. Could you possibly come into Martinstown?”

  “Yes, I expect so. Tea-time-ish?”

  “Yes, that’s all right. I should be free by then.”

  “Right—pick me up at the Station.”

  As before, Julia went in by bus, and had only waited a short time before Gerald appeared in his car—once again, he drove into the Mall and pulled up under the trees by the river, where Julia reported what Lady Helen had been told by her hire-car man, including his phrase about the “young rowdy set” in Dublin. Gerald was particularly pleased with the item that the good people of Martinstown were so angry about how the nuns had been treated that they were going to take up a collection on their behalf.

  “That’s absolutely first class!” he said. “Public feeling must be really strong if people are willing to put their hands in their pockets to back it—and strong public feeling is just what we need.”

  “I suppose you’ve seen Reverend Mother, and know that it really was Moran who was sent to vet old Sir Thomas’s house?”

  “Yes, and I know what she paid him!—he signed the receipt. And I know what young O’Kelly paid to induce Master Moran to give a false report.”

  “How much?” Julia was genuinely curious to know how large a bribe would be necessary to make even an unscrupulous person do such a monstrous thing.

  “Wait for it! Three thousand pounds in used fivers!” Gerald pronounced.

  “No! But—good Heavens! Then it really was Moran’s money that Mrs. Martin took to old Lady Browne!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes. Ill-gotten gains, if ever the phrase was applicable!”

  “But have you …” Julia was beginning—he guessed what her question would be, and interrupted her.

  “Yes! —I have got the necessary evidence; but I can’t and won’t tell you precisely how I got it—not even you, my dearest heart” he added, seeing her dashed face. “What I can say is that what Lady Helen’s well-informed driver calls ‘the young rowdy set’ drink rather a lot, and when people are no longer sober they give away all manner of things, even about their close friends.”

  And if one has a contact in that set, one can get the evidence one needs, Julia thought to herself. Aloud—“I see” she said meditatively. “I’m surprised you didn’t have to up to Dublin yourself, though.”

  “Good contacts!—and a bit of luck,” Gerald said easily. “But I am going up to Dublin, to settle everything.”

  “Settle exactly what? Or can’t you tell me that either?” Julia asked.

  “Settle what’s to happen to Moran, primarily. I’m not sure that he knows how much we know; he may guess, but not be certain—but it is a weapon, and it’s got to be wielded.”

  “Prosecute him, do you mean?”

  “Oh Lord no! Get rid of him for good. The General was asking me at the funeral if I couldn’t keep him out of Mayo—you heard him; I hope to get him out of Ireland altogether.”

  “Where to?”

  “Probably America; he has business contacts there. I’ll see him myself; if he won’t do it on what I say, I shall see the heads of his firm, who can, and will, insist on his going. They won’t want to be involved a moment longer than they can help with a man who has this sort of scandal attached to him.”

  “And what about the money?” Julia asked.

  “He’ll have to sign a paper formally making it over to someone—me, or good kind Richard Fitzgerald, preferably.”

  “And what will you or Mr. Fitzgerald do with it?”

  “Give it to the nuns!—£3,000 should go a long way towards putting a new roof on White Place,” Gerald said, grinning. Julia laughed.

  “When do you go to Dublin?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “How much may I tell Sally?”

  “Who’s Sally?”

  “Sally Martin. I do think she ought to be warned about Moran—the sort of person he is, I mean; they seemed to be rather close, and it’s so easy to flip over to the States from Shannon.”

  “Well, I see no harm in telling her what he’s done. Don’t say what I’m doing about him.”

  “And what about the O’Haras?”

  “Oh, by all means tell them that the villain of her driver’s story is Moran—the more people who know that the better, and the General sees a lot of people. But, again, don’t say what I’m trying to do till I get back from Dublin.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I don’t know. You be getting on with getting our banns put up, and telling the Glentoran people and Mrs. Hathaway—you’ll have plenty to do arranging our wedding!” he said happily. “Now I’d better run you back.”

  “That would be lovely—if you’ve got time.”

  Gerald made time; he drove very fast, and dropped her at the top of the lane. She ran down, and turned into the library, where her host and hostess were still having drinks.

  “Where’ve you been?” the General asked, brusquely.

  “Martinstown, to see Gerald.” She decided to blurt out the news. “Helen, the architect who was supposed to vet White Place for the nuns was that horrible Moran, and young O’Kelly bribed him not to tell them about the dry-rot.”

  “How wicked!” Lady Helen said, shocked. The General, like Julia, wanted to know how large the bribe had been?

  “Three thousand pounds. And to be less traceable than a cheque O’Kelly gave it him in used £5 notes—the very notes that were sent to try to buy Lady Browne’s land with, that I saw her counting, and that you persuaded her to give back!” Julia said, turning to O’Hara.

  “But I thought it was O’Rahilly that sent them to Mary by your precious friend the Martin woman” O’Hara objected.

  “Oh, he was only the front-man; Moran was behind the whole thing, all along.”

  The General, very naturally, expressed strong reprobation of this fraudulent behaviour, and voiced the hope that in future Julia would choose her friends more carefully.

  “Dearest, Mr. O’Rahilly isn’t a friend of Julia’s” Lady Helen put in—“and we don’t know that poor Mrs. Martin knew anything about where the money came from.”

  “Well, what’s O’Brien doing about Moran?” The General wanted to know. “If he can’t get him put in quod for this, I shan’t think much of him as a lawyer!”

  But Julia would only admit to knowing that her fiancé was going up to Dublin “to see about it.” Later, when she got Lady Helen alone, she asked, as so often before, for the loan of the little car. “I do feel Sally Martin ought to be warned about that man; I’m afraid they’re on rather friendly terms, to put it mildly, and she has no means of knowing what he’s really like.” Lady Helen quite agreed. “I imagine she needs friends—after all, this isn’t her own country,” she said. “Yes, do go, Julia.”

  Julia decided to undertake the warning of Mrs. Martin even before she embarked on the much pleasanter task of announcing her engagement to Mrs. Hathaway, and the Reeders, and asking them to have her banns put up, and generally organising her wedding. She drove over the following morning, full of disrelish for the job; usually when driving to an interview she spent the time on the way planning out in her mind what to say to put over her point most effectively, but on this occasion every approach seemed equally difficult. Mrs. Martin was in, and greeted her with evident pleasure; she went through to the kitchen to put on some coffee, and then returned to where her guest sat by the fire.

  “It’s good to see you again” she said.

  “I’ve come to tell you a long, rather horrid story” Julia said.

  “What about?” Sally Martin asked gaily.

  “Some nuns.”

  “I like nuns; stories about them are usually rather sweet.” Mrs. Martin was still gay. Julia had suddenly decided, in those moments while her hostess was out in the kitchen, to tell the story as it were anonymously, and only to pin it onto Moran when it had been thoroughly taken in—otherwise she feared that Mrs. Martin might refuse to li
sten.

  “This one isn’t very sweet” she said, and proceeded to relate it—the need for a large building for the convent school, the suitable house suddenly falling vacant, the precautions prudently taken; the bribe offered, the false report duly given, the consequent distress and loss.

  “But that’s just plain wicked!” Sally Martin exclaimed, at the end, “I never heard of anything so bad. And to do it to nuns, of all people, who are always so good and kind! I can’t imagine the kind of person who could go and do a cruel thing like that.”

  “You don’t have to imagine him—you know him” Julia said bluntly. “The architect who took that bribe and lied to the nuns was Peter Moran.”

  Mrs. Martin stared at her.

  “What makes you say a thing like that?” she said at last, slowly.

  “Because it’s true.” Julia stared back at her, steadily, holding the hazel eyes with her own.

  “How can you know?”

  “There’s one way you can know it’s true, too, Sally,” Julia said. “To be less traceable than a cheque, the bribe was given in old five-pound notes, six bundles each of one hundred five-pound notes—the parcel of notes that you took over to Lady Browne, and that I saw her counting just afterwards.”

  Sally Martin’s square face, always rather pale, turned white at the mention of the notes.

  “But—but I took that money over for Billy, not Peter” she said at length, defensively.

  “Yes, but they didn’t belong to Billy; he was acting for Moran, who very naturally wanted to keep in the background. Mr. O’Rahilly hasn’t got that sort of money” Julia affirmed. “I don’t say that he even knew how Moran came by the notes, though he had been acting for him in checking on the land, and would have had a hand in building the hotel and casino, if he got it.”

  Mrs. Martin suddenly burst into tears.

  “Oh, I hope he didn’t! I can’t bear everyone to be so horrible!” she sobbed out. Presently she dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose, and turned to Julia with a rather pathetic air of resolution.