‘You don’t read the Cork Examiner,’ stated Patrick.
‘Not often,’ said Peter Doyle with a smile.
Unlikely, thought Patrick. Everyone in Cork read the Cork Examiner. And this man ran a musical opera group, put on performances in the nearby Father Matthew Hall. Surely he would read the Cork Examiner if only to read the reviews and the letters page. Everyone read the letters page. It was the first thing that the superintendent read in the morning, while he was waiting for his tea to cool.
‘But you knew Father Dominic, didn’t you?’ He watched the man closely.
‘I don’t think so.’ Was it his imagination or did Peter Doyle give a quick, wary glance at his assistant?
‘We have a witness who saw him in here; looking at some …’ Patrick took out his notebook. Although he remembered Dr Scher’s words very well and did not really need this notebook, he was slightly afraid that the man would start singing again unless dealt with on a very formal basis. ‘… some ceramics,’ he finished.
‘Ceramics,’ echoed Peter Doyle. ‘Did you see a priest in here examining the ceramic jugs, Jonathon?’
‘Saw a man in a black suit,’ responded Jonathon, ‘looking at those vases over there. Might have been a priest, don’t know too much about priests.’
‘He was a friar,’ said Patrick and waited.
‘Or a friar, whatever that might be,’ said Peter Doyle. ‘Though come to think of it, I do know about Friar Tuck and Robin Hood – used to love those stories when I was ten years old.’
‘Neither of us are of the Church of Rome, inspector,’ said Jonathon Power apologetically.
‘I see,’ said Patrick, but he was unimpressed by the explanation. Both of these men ran a shop only a few hundred yards away from Holy Trinity Church and they had done so for over two years. Surely, they would recognize a friar, dressed in the floor-length habit of rough brown wool, girdled with a white rope. Apart from anything else, the full beards and bare, sandaled feet would attract attention. They must know the difference between a friar and a priest.
‘So you don’t recall speaking to any priest or friar,’ he said.
‘I’ll think very hard, inspector,’ promised Peter Doyle. Patrick allowed a silence to fall for a minute while he scrutinized the bland face in front of him before looking back into his notebook, again.
‘And there is another matter, sir. A witness, another witness, observed you in the church of the Holy Trinity sometime yesterday evening. You were standing at the back of the church beside the bell rope. Do you think that you could tell me what you were doing there?’
This time there was an astonished look on the man’s face. ‘Me, inspector! In a Roman Catholic Church! You must have made a mistake!’
Was he really astonished? Or was this another piece of acting? If so, he was good. He did, genuinely, appear to be astonished.
‘The witness described you very accurately, sir. He described you as of medium height, wearing a dark suit and with a black moustache.’
‘Well, I’m not too unusual. There must be loads of people in the city who look like me. Anyway, I’d have called myself small, rather than medium. Who was it anyway, who recognized me?’
Patrick tactfully passed over the height question. ‘I can’t divulge the name of the witness, sir, but I was satisfied that this person would know your personal appearance.’
‘A customer, I suppose.’ Peter Doyle seemed to muse for a while, fairly obviously astonished. Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘People make mischief, do things for a laugh,’ he said rather unconvincingly.
Patrick wrote for a while in his notebook, very conscious that Peter Doyle was going through a pantomime of disbelief, scratching his head, grimacing, rubbing his chin. Playacting, thought Patrick, but then there had been a genuine appearance to that first look of astonishment. This exaggerated acting was probably second nature to him.
‘And there is nothing that you can tell me about Father Dominic?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Peter Doyle. ‘Very sorry to hear about his death and all that.’
‘And your own movements yesterday evening?’
‘I was here in the shop, I tend to keep it open a bit late in case someone wants to pop in after work, and, of course, I was expecting the rest of the cast for the performance of The Mikado that evening. We have a habit of all meeting here, run through a few songs etc., have a cup of tea and a few sandwiches, and then all go out to supper after the performance.’
‘And who makes the sandwiches?’ Patrick was reluctant to leave. There was something odd about this. Why had Father Dominic visited the place? And if the garage man spoke the truth, why had Peter Doyle so vehemently denied being in the church?
‘Oh, it’s usually the women. Miss Gamble, she’s the headmistress of Rochelle School for Girls, or else it’s her assistant Miss Anne Morgan, or perhaps Rose, Mrs O’Reilly. They do the sandwiches and the men take care of the supper bill. We’re all great friends. Sorry I can’t be of more assistance to you, inspector.’
Patrick went on writing for one long minute after this. It was, he thought, only right that he asserted his position as inspector and made it clear that he would be the one to end the interview.
‘Well, thank you, sir,’ he said, putting away his notebook and pencil. ‘Please get in touch with me in the barracks if either of you remember anything further that could be of use to us. Don’t stir. I’ll see myself out.’
It was now automatic with Patrick to stride briskly away, open the door with a flourish, shut it with a firm click, and then to pause just outside and to listen intently. He did that this time, but he heard nothing.
And that, he thought as he walked away, was quite significant.
There were two men left behind. What did they do after he had left? Did one man look at the other with a measure of suspicion? Or did they both hold their breath until his footsteps died away. Suspect everyone in the first place, his superintendent had said to him when he was in the early months of his job. Suspect everyone and gradually, one by one, clear each suspect and then see who is left.
But why on earth should one of these men murder someone like Father Dominic? Jonathon Power had an honest look about him. Instinctively he had liked him. But Peter Doyle, well, he wasn’t sure about him. Something about that man that he had disliked.
Still, this was speculation, not something that he encouraged in Joe at this early stage and it was something that he should not indulge in, himself. There was solid police work to be done and he would see that it was done. Only when he had traced and interviewed everyone who had confessed to Father Dominic yesterday evening, should he begin to speculate upon a possible murderer.
It took Patrick five minutes to walk from Morrison’s Island and down the South Mall towards Lapps Quay. The Savings Bank loomed up, facing up the length of the South Mall, magnificent in the June sunshine, its well-cut silver limestone blocks sparkling white. Patrick eyed it with satisfaction. One of the first things that he had done when he had obtained the coveted position of a civic guard had been to open a bank account there and to deposit a small weekly sum. His promotion to sergeant had doubled that amount. When he had passed the examination that confirmed him as inspector, his savings had begun to look exciting. One day, he hoped, he would be able to buy a house. With that happy thought in mind, he leaped up the limestone entrance steps and marched through the double-leaf, panelled front door.
‘Inspector Patrick Cashman,’ he said briskly to the man at the desk. ‘I’d like to have a word with Mr James O’Reilly.’
‘One moment, inspector.’ The clerk had a wary look and he sidled off through an unmarked door with a backward glance over his shoulder at Patrick as he slid through it. He was back before long.
‘This way, inspector,’ he said briskly and Patrick followed him down a carpeted corridor and after a brief knock, flung open a door to a sumptuously furnished room, heavy desk, revolving chair, thick carpet and velvet curtains. Patrick instantl
y knew that he had been shown into the manager, a Mr Broadford, judging by his desk sign. He sat quietly on a chair indicated and resolved that he would not be bullied. A new manager, he remembered. Younger than he would have imagined. Had grown that moustache to make himself look more impressive. Cleared his throat before speaking, just like an elderly man. They modelled themselves on a predecessor, he supposed.
‘Yes, inspector. Perhaps you would let me know why you need to see Mr O’Reilly.’ The tone was hostile.
Patrick looked at him woodenly. It had been a mistake to come here, he thought, but he had not wanted to wait until the evening.
‘I’m investigating the murder of Father Dominic of the Holy Trinity Church and we wish to speak to everyone who attended Father Dominic’s confessional on that evening,’ he said quietly. ‘Mr James O’Reilly’s name was given to us and I wish to verify that he did indeed see the priest.’
‘I’d have preferred if you had seen him out-of-hours,’ said the manager. ‘He has his work to do, you know.’
‘Indeed, but murder has to take precedence,’ said Patrick boldly. There goes any hope of a loan towards a house, he thought.
‘Are you insinuating that one of my clerks had something to do with that abominable crime?’
Pompous idiot, thought Patrick, but he knew that his face would show nothing of his thoughts.
‘Every tiny piece of evidence is of importance, sir,’ he said woodenly.
‘Very well.’ The manager tinkled a small brass bell on his desk and waited. Patrick waited also, feeling very tense.
‘Send Mr James O’Reilly into me,’ said the manager when his summons was answered and Patrick braced himself. He rehearsed the words and the instant a rather scared looking young man entered the room, he was on his feet.
‘Thank you, sir, now is there somewhere that we can be private while I put a few routine questions to Mr O’Reilly? That,’ he added hastily, ‘will save him having to miss an hour’s work by coming back with me to the barracks. I would hate,’ he said looking steadily at the bank manager, ‘to inconvenience the bank in any way, but …’
‘You can use my secretary’s office.’ The offer was made abruptly, but it was a surprise. Patrick had expected to be banished to some distant cloakroom, or underground vault. There was a look of alarm on James O’Reilly’s narrow face. He looked even more like a scared rabbit. Did he fear to be overheard? It was a reasonable offer, though, and Patrick nodded.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said and decided to leave it at that. No point in being too obsequious. He wondered whether the manager had noticed the look on O’Reilly’s face. One might almost think that it was a look of guilt. Patrick felt a rush of slight excitement and kept an eye on the bank clerk as he politely held the door open for the flustered secretary.
‘Let’s sit over here by the window, Mr O’Reilly,’ he said as soon as they had the room to themselves. He pulled two chairs near to the window and sat down. The door had felt reasonably heavy and he was confident that if they kept their voices down they could not possibly be overheard. Why did O’Reilly look so terrified though? ‘You’ve heard about the death of Father Dominic yesterday evening in the Holy Trinity Church?’
‘N … n … o … no, I … I d … d … didn’t know.’ The words came out with a pronounced stammer. Surreptitiously, O’Reilly wiped his hands on the padded surface of the chair seat.
Unlikely, thought Patrick, writing busily, unlikely, and a silly lie. Everyone in Cork would have been talking about the murder of the priest. The instant that James O’Reilly arrived at the bank he would have heard the news, if not earlier. He decided to allow the matter to pass and continued, ‘I understand that you went to confession to Father Dominic yesterday evening in the Holy Trinity Church.’
‘No, no, you are mistaken.’ The bank clerk had risen. He cast a terrified look at the communicating door and then lowered his voice. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said very quietly. Even his lips were white.
‘You were seen going into the right-hand cubicle,’ said Patrick evenly. ‘By a business man who lives near to this bank,’ he added.
O’Reilly’s face turned even paler. He seemed to be thinking hard. ‘Perhaps I did,’ he said after a few seconds. ‘I … I didn’t take much notice. One priest is so like another priest.’
Patrick allowed a silence to ensue. There was no sound from the other room. Either the door was completely soundproof or no one was speaking. He wondered whether the secretary had been sent off. It would have been easy to despatch her to get a cup of tea. Perhaps even now the manager was standing with his ear to the door. Patrick got to his feet and walked across the room as silently as he could. The lock was a little stiff and by the time that he pulled open the door, the manager was standing in front of a bookcase beside the door, taking down a book. There was no sign of the secretary.
‘Finished?’ he enquired, but Patrick was pleased to see that he looked a little flustered.
‘Almost,’ he said coolly. ‘But it just suddenly occurred to me that I might consult you about the shutting of roads for Father Dominic’s funeral. Would it be an inconvenience if we blocked off this end of the South Mall against traffic?’
‘No, no, in fact I think that we might close as the funeral leaves the Holy Trinity Church, as a mark of respect, you know. Just for an hour or so.’ He seemed to hesitate, looking beyond Patrick and into the small room where his clerk sat. ‘Perhaps we could have a word about it after you have finished, inspector.’
‘Certainly,’ said Patrick. Decisively he closed the door. And went back over towards the window seat. The clerk was looking drearily out at the morning shoppers. Something odd about him, thought Patrick. He made an effort to sound reassuring.
‘Father Dominic was a very popular confessor,’ he stated, his eyes on the young man’s downcast face. ‘There is nothing wrong with going to confession to him. We just want to pinpoint the time of death.’ He said the words as casually as possible. The young man opposite, probably only about his own age, looked terrified. But why? People went to Father Dominic week after week. Everyone found him so approachable and so comforting. Patrick knew that. He remembered from his own school days how the most scrupulous and most worried of the boys from the North Monastery School made a point of going down to Morrison’s Quay for their weekly confession. Father Dominic, kind and reassuring, he reckoned now, had saved many of those very hard-working, neurotic boys from a nervous breakdown. He looked back at the address given. Pope’s Quay. So that was where he lived. It was surprising that the man hadn’t gone to confession at St Mary’s Church, on his way home from work.
‘I suppose you always go to confession in the Holy Trinity Church, nice and near to your work place,’ he hazarded.
‘That’s right.’ O’Reilly seemed relieved at that explanation. ‘Yes, I think it might have been Father Dominic,’ he said with more confidence. ‘It was an old man, anyway.’
‘And did he say anything?’ Patrick began to write again.
‘Just the usual. Now can I go? I have a lot to do, today?’
Patrick made a quick decision. Let him go now. He could always question him afterwards, perhaps at home where he would be more relaxed. There was something odd about the man, though. He was sure of that.
‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ he said without raising his eyes from his notebook. He was aware, though, of how quickly the bank clerk scuttled across the floor and slid out of the door leading to the corridor, opening it with care and closing it with hardly a click to betray him. Patrick finished writing, then stood up and with a perfunctory knock went into the manager’s room.
James O’Reilly was guilty of something. Every instinct within him told him that. But of what?
He found the bank manager standing at the window, gazing down at a team of horses dragging a cartload of beer barrels. The city was awash with beer, he thought. Half the crime in the city was beer-related. It took the sting from poverty, but was no solution and he
was impatient of those who sought comfort from it.
‘You wanted to see me, sir,’ he said politely.
‘It’s about that young man, James O’Reilly.’ The bank manager turned so abruptly that he took Patrick by surprise. ‘I’m worried about him and I want you to tell me what brought you here today.’
Patrick thought rapidly. By the book, there was no reason why he should tell the manager anything, but for O’Reilly’s sake, it might be best to tell the truth.
‘Oh, we’re just interviewing everyone who went to confession to Father Dominic yesterday evening,’ he said casually. ‘One name leads to another and then we build up a picture of what was happening in that church around that time. Hopefully it will lead us to pinpoint the time of death and perhaps lead us to find the man who murdered him.’
‘Oh, was that it.’ The manager, Patrick noticed, had certainly heard all about Father Dominic’s death, had even begun to make plans to close the bank for the funeral. It made it even more unlikely that James O’Reilly had heard nothing of the matter.
‘I’m worried about that young man, inspector.’ The manager had taken another long look out through the window and then seemed to make up his mind. Decisively he pulled down the blind, shutting out the unusual sunshine and lending an air of secrecy to his next words.
‘Something’s wrong,’ he said emphatically. ‘I know how much money James O’Reilly earns; I know where he went to school; I know his father’s job; his mother’s maiden name; what his uncles do for a living; I know who he married, nice little nurse, she used to be, apparently; related to Judge Gamble’s wife on the distaff side, but no money on her side of the family. Her father, they tell me, is a shop manager in the Queen’s Old Castle. No rich uncles on the father’s side, either …’
That’s Cork for you, thought Patrick. No doubt, the bank manager knew all about him also. Knew that he was a boy from the slums, who had managed to get a scholarship to the North Monastery School. Knew that he had got his school certificate, had managed to get into the newly formed Civic Guards. Knew that he had entered for one of their competitive examinations for the post of inspector. And, perhaps the manager even knew of his midnight hours studying until his head felt about to explode … used to see his light on all hours of the night and then he’d walk up to the top of Barrack Street and he’d just stand there looking down at the city … He imagined how some native Cork person would explain to a newly appointed bank manager, how it came about that this fellow with a low-class accent had been appointed as a police inspector.
Beyond Absolution Page 3