Beyond Absolution

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Are you enjoying your new job?’ she asked politely. ‘It must be a very rewarding position. You have the financial affairs of the city in your hands, and, of course, just as important, the welfare and progress of your staff.’ It was a tiny hint, a tiny sprat to catch a mackerel, but he swallowed the bait.

  ‘Yes, indeed, you’ve put your finger on it, Reverend Mother.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘That’s the part of the job that worries me the most. I’ve got a great problem in my mind now and I don’t quite know what to do about it. It’s not anything that I can discuss with others in the bank and I don’t want to go higher up, not if I can sort things out myself.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me; I can assure you that anything you say to me will be in strict confidence.’ She was slightly amused, inwardly, on how things were turning out; but outwardly, she knew that her face would show nothing but polite interest.

  ‘It’s one of my young clerks. He’s up to something. Moving money around from one account to others. I don’t know what’s going on with one of the accounts. A shop …’ He hesitated for a moment, but she did not press him for the name of the shop. Let him tell his story in his own way.

  ‘I’ve sent out statements, asking them to check, even telephoned the manager of the shop a couple of weeks ago, but he assured me that everything is fine. He’d hardly allow me to explain myself, just wanted to get rid of me.’

  ‘He may be someone that doesn’t like checking statements,’ said the Reverend Mother soothingly. ‘You good business people don’t realize how intimidating all of those columns of figures can be. Perhaps if you suggest that he come to see you in your office and you can chat to him and explain everything.’

  ‘I did that. Did it on Monday morning. Went in to his own place, had a word with him. Very plausible chap. Said that he needed to return to England. Needed ready money. Well, I couldn’t say anything about that, could I? A man has a right to his money. But that’s not the end of the story. The chap is dead, now.’

  ‘We’re talking about Peter Doyle, are we, Mr Broadford,’ she put in. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and turned towards him with what she knew would be a blank face, ready to receive any confidence. It usually worked, that face. Suddenly she found herself thinking of the confessional. Thinking of poor Dominic turning a listening ear towards his murderer and her heart hardened. The killer had to be caught; had to be prevented from committing any further crimes.

  After a moment, he nodded. ‘And the account is closed. Everything drawn out of it. And it was this clerk of mine, who handled everything! When I cross-questioned him, he showed me the cheque that the man had filled out. Took the whole lot out in cash. Cleared the account completely and closed it – all in one transaction.’

  ‘And the date on the cheque?’

  ‘Thursday the twentieth of June.’

  ‘The day before Father Dominic was killed.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ He said the words bluntly. ‘I just don’t believe it. The trouble is that I can’t prove it. If my clerk holds a cheque dated to the twentieth of June and swears blind that he received that cheque on Thursday morning, when, by chance, I was in Dublin, well, there is no way that I can challenge this. A man has a right to take out his own money.’

  ‘But you are worried.’

  ‘I am. I’m very worried. This young fellow looks terrible. I have a suspicion that he may be taking drugs, but he denied it when I asked him. He’s spending high, too. Car, house, expensive wife. I’ve seen some of the jewellery that girl wears. And the company he keeps. I’ve seen him late at night coming out of the Imperial Hotel with Robert Beamish and Tom Gamble; well the Gambles and the Beamishes, everyone knows there is money there, but how can this fellow, on a clerk’s salary, keep up with them?’

  ‘Where did the money go?’ asked the Reverend Mother.

  ‘Well, I called at the shop to offer my condolences, and incidentally, try to find out why the account was closed. This chap Jonathon Power, he says now that he is the partner, but there was no talk of partners when the account was opened. It was just opened by Peter Doyle. He signed all the cheques, made the deposits, authorized withdrawals.’

  ‘Everything done through the one clerk.’

  ‘That’s right. Not too unusual, that. People here in Cork seem to like to deal with the one person. Dublin is different, bigger place, bigger staff.’

  ‘Did you ask Mr Power why he thought his partner closed the account?’

  ‘He told me without my asking. Said that money was owed to people for goods and services. Said that he was going to close down the shop. Said they both had decided to close the shop and return to England. That’s what he said and, of course, I couldn’t prove him wrong, could I?’

  ‘But no cheques were paid out to other people or businesses?’

  ‘No, he explained that people wanted to be paid in cash. And there’s another thing, too. I was worried about that account. I had a memory of noticing payments to some people and I wanted to check on them, but the papers about the account are missing. And they shouldn’t be, Reverend Mother. Not in a well-run bank. They should be part of the end-of-year accounting.’

  ‘But you remembered some of the payments from past statements, Mr Broadford.’

  ‘Well, they seemed to be all to the same crowd of people – the crowd that this young clerk of mine hangs out with, not to this Jonathon Power. He didn’t seem to have a bank account. I checked.’

  ‘Perhaps another bank,’ suggested the Reverend Mother.

  ‘Checked that, too,’ he said briefly. ‘Pulled in a few favours. Mr Jonathon Power did not seem to have a bank account in Cork. On the other hand, there were so many of those cheques drawn to cash. Perhaps that was the way that he was paid; he might have wanted to escape tax. Though tax collection has been very lax in this country, but, after all, they did come from England, the pair of them, so tax might be a bit more of a worry over there. We were having a chat about that, myself and some of the other bank managers; talking confidentially, you understand, trusting each other to keep secrets.’

  Interesting the financial network. The Reverend Mother hoped that the bishop’s secretary, annoying man that he was, could not feed off these secrets exchanged between bank managers.

  ‘And there is another thing, too, Reverend Mother.’ Once started Mr Broadford had become quite garrulous. Perhaps his mother Agatha had given him a high opinion of the Reverend Mother on St Mary’s Isle. ‘I know I can trust you,’ he went on, ‘but this clerk, this James O’Reilly, had opened some strange bank accounts, supposedly some furniture shops or second-hand furniture shops in the county of Cork. But, you see, Reverend Mother, when I was a boy I heard a lot about Cork. My mother had told me so many stories about it. Even before I went out there to check, I didn’t think that a place like Douglas would have a store selling furniture and antiques. And yet, there was the account, Douglas Furniture, small, but healthy. Lots of money going into it and regular money coming out of it, all out-going cheques paid to cash. And, you’ll never guess, but every one of those accounts have now been shut down.’ He stopped and looked at her and she looked back at him. This was Agatha’s son, she thought. A decent man, well brought up, a man trying to do his best, scrupulous about looking after other people’s money, and, at the same time, careful about his staff. Bearing the responsibility for their deeds on his shoulders. There was, she thought, only one thing that she could say.

  ‘I think, Mr Broadford, that my advice would be that you place this affair in the hands of the police. Any loyalty that you owe to your staff, any paternal duty that you may feel towards a young clerk, has to take second place when one recollects that already two people have been killed, have been murdered, and that the strange tale that you have been telling me, has concerned, perhaps, the running of Morrison’s Island Antiques Shop. The murder of Peter Doyle, possibly, probably, has connections to the business that he owned, but also, there is a connection to the murder of Father Dominic. F
orgive me if I don’t tell you what it is. The matter is in police hands, and so, I would think, should be the very interesting account that you have so lucidly spelled out of the strange goings-on in your bank. Your feelings of responsibility for your staff do you great credit, Mr Broadford, but no one wants to see a third murder occur. I would unburden yourself to Inspector Cashman.’

  It was a long speech and when she had delivered it, she sat back feeling drained. Perhaps a young man’s career might be ruined by her advice. Nevertheless, she did not regret it. There was something very odd going on in Morrison’s Island and the sooner Patrick knew about it, the better.

  SIXTEEN

  History of Irish Civic Guards

  ‘The Government enacted temporary security legislation during the civil war which provided for trial by military tribunal and death sentences. On the expiry of these laws, crime and violence increased, witnesses and judges were intimidated, and the Government introduced new measures to improve security.’

  ‘Do you mean to tell me that letter has been sitting there for the whole of yesterday afternoon and you didn’t give it to me?’ Patrick could hear the note of anger in his own voice and Tommy took a step backwards.

  ‘Well, it was just a little street boy, inspector. He came in here, bold as brass, and said that the letter was for you. But you were with the superintendent. I wasn’t going to interrupt you. Not for a little fellow like that, not for one of those boyos from the slums. And then, there was a lot doing yesterday, so I just forgot to give it to you when you went back into your office.’

  Patrick felt rage rise up within him and made a strong effort to control his temper. He held out the envelope, angling it to the light so that the Reverend Mother’s elegant copperplate script was clearly visible. ‘Look at that, Tommy. Is that handwriting the handwriting of a little boy from the slums?’ And none of your damn business, in any case. He suppressed the second sentence. No point in quarrelling with Tommy. The harm was done. Hopefully it was something that he could remedy.

  ‘Yes, I noticed that afterwards,’ admitted Tommy. ‘I just didn’t want him hanging around the office. Goodness knows what he would bring in, what he would leave behind him. Once you get fleas into a place, it’s hard to get them out no matter how much Jeyes Fluid that you splash around the place. I’ll tell you that for a fact, inspector. I just told him to leave the letter on the counter and to get out.’

  Patrick replaced back into its envelope the Reverend Mother’s letter and Jimmy’s story and abruptly left Tommy at his counter. ‘Joe,’ he said as he passed his sergeant’s office, ‘come and listen to this. Very important information which, unfortunately, was not given to me yesterday when it arrived.’ He said the words as loudly as he could and was sure, by the bad-tempered banging on a typewriter, that Tommy on the desk had heard him.

  ‘Didn’t know anything about that,’ said Joe, looking somewhat alarmed.

  ‘No, of course, you didn’t. It was that blockhead, Tommy,’ said Patrick as soon as he had closed the door. Didn’t like to disturb you as you were in with the superintendent. He took a firm grip on his temper. No sense in complaining.

  ‘What do you think of the child’s story?’ Joe, he noticed, had finished the page and had gone back to the beginning again.

  ‘Well, the Reverend Mother must know the boy and she wouldn’t send this to you unless she was fairly sure that he wasn’t telling lies,’ pointed out Joe. He had been to the Model School, himself, but like most of Cork, he knew of the Reverend Mother. ‘Yes, I see. That underground passage might solve a problem about the death of Peter Doyle, give a way for someone to get from the antiques shop and into the warehouse across the road, but I’m not sure that it gets us further along in the Father Dominic investigation.’

  ‘Find the answer to one and you’re well on the road to finding the answer to the other.’ That’s what he was telling himself, anyway. He walked restlessly up and down the room, thinking hard. ‘I’ll be off, then, Joe, to St Mary’s Isle.’ He had reached the door when he turned back. The child had been humiliated and disappointed yesterday. A memory of the past came to him and he heard the words, clearly, as though they were spoken in his ear. Get out of this shop or you’ll feel the toe of my boot.

  ‘Joe,’ he said. ‘Where’s that very small cap? You know the one that fitted no one. Do you remember the lads laughing about it when the new uniforms were sent down, making jokes about the size of heads in those Jackeens up in Dublin?’

  ‘I’ll get it. It’s at the back of the cupboard in the back hallway.’ Joe, wearing a grin, was off without a question and Patrick nodded. Yes, there was no doubt that he had got himself a quick-witted assistant there.

  ‘And I brought you a badge, too,’ said Joe when he returned. ‘No one will know. We’ve loads of those things. Though you’d better take it away from him when you’ve finished. Tell him that they have to stay at the barracks unless he’s on duty.’

  Patrick put the badge and the cap into his attaché case and he slipped past the superintendent’s door. His news would keep until after he verified the child’s story.

  ‘Going out, inspector?’ Tommy raised his eyes from the Cork Examiner and then when Patrick reached the door, he called after him, ‘What shall I tell the superintendent?’

  ‘Tell him that I’ve gone out,’ said Patrick unhelpfully and allowed the door to slam behind him. The police car was standing in the yard, but he decided against it. For a moment, he had been tempted, thinking what fun it would be for a small boy, but then he reflected that a leisurely walk down Sullivan’s Quay and George’s Quay would elicit scraps of information that might be lost in the excitement of a drive in a motor car. In any case, the downpour had ceased. It wasn’t exactly raining, just a little damp.

  He had timed his arrival well. All of the children were in the wet playground, tearing around with an energy that made him feel envious. He stood for a moment at the railings, looking in, picturing himself fifteen years ago, barelegged and barefooted. He had not been amongst the poorest, either. He was an only child with a devoted mother. At least his father had not burdened her with a large family before silently disappearing to England. Nevertheless, he had always been conscious of a gnawing feeling of hunger and of the lovely, satisfying feeling when he won a sweet from the Reverend Mother for a particularly good piece of work. As she approached to open the gate for him, he resolved to stop at a shop in Parliament Street to buy some sweets before going on to Morrison’s Island.

  ‘Good morning, Reverend Mother,’ he said loudly and clearly. ‘The Civic Guards need a bit of help. I’d like to borrow one of your boys, a boy called Jimmy.’

  ‘Jimmy. Yes, of course, inspector,’ said the Reverend Mother as calmly as though she were well accustomed to such demands.

  ‘Jimmy, Jimmy,’ screamed a small girl, abandoning the game of hopscotch, which she was playing with a small empty tin of shoe polish. ‘Jimmy, you’re wanted!’

  ‘The peelers want Jimmy!’

  ‘What were you doing last night, Jimmy?’

  ‘Jimmy’s been on the lang!’

  Jimmy came forward slowly. He had an uneasy look on his face and Patrick wondered if his announcement had been too public. Still, he could make amends.

  ‘I need a bit of help, Jimmy, and I hear that you’re the boy to help me,’ he said loudly. He rested the edge of his attaché case on top of the low wall below the iron bars and snapped the latch open. The cap lay on top. He took it out and put it on Jimmy’s head. The Reverend Mother, with a serious face, straightened it so that the brim was exactly centred over Jimmy’s nose. Patrick shut his attaché case, took the badge from his pocket and apologetically handed it to the Reverend Mother. Gravely she pinned it to the ragged jersey and then stood back.

  ‘I’ll need my boots,’ said Jimmy with a quick glance at Patrick’s well-polished pair of leather boots.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘Run and get them quickly, Jimmy. Don’t keep the in
spector waiting.’

  ‘I was keeping them for the winter, they’re a bit too big for him, but I saw him look at your boots …’ she said in an undertone.

  ‘We’ll keep your dinner warm for you, Jimmy,’ she said when he returned and then firmly rang the bell for the end of playtime. The children came to order immediately, standing in straight lines as their teachers appeared at the door and led their classes back into the building. Jimmy watched them with a smile of satisfaction puckering at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Where are we going, mister?’ he asked as they went down towards the quays. It was the first words that he had spoken and Patrick was abruptly jerked from his endless thoughts about the two murders. He took the small, cold hand into his own as they crossed Green Street. There was a shop there, what his mother would call a huckster shop, and he sent Jimmy in for a pennyworth of sweets. They seemed to have a fine selection of humbugs and liquorice allsorts.

  ‘You keep them,’ he said when the boy came out. ‘I’m not allowed to put sweets in this jacket pocket. That’s police regulations for you!’

  Jimmy nodded. He did not smile nor did he volunteer any information. He looked rather nervous but once a sweet was in his mouth he relaxed.

  ‘The woman liked my cap,’ she said.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Patrick awkwardly. The sharp, short questions that he normally used when cross-examining a witness, didn’t seem to fit in this case. He wished now that he had asked the Reverend Mother to talk to the boy while he sat silently in the background and took notes. But no, that would not be enough. He needed to see the place for himself. He couldn’t ask the Reverend Mother to scramble around in a derelict building or to jump down into underground passageways. The silence made him uneasy, though, so he began to talk to Joe about his own days at school and how the Reverend Mother saved him once from being slapped because he would not return to the classroom from the playground. ‘I was counting ants,’ he explained, ‘and I just didn’t want to stop.’ And then when there was no response, he said, a little desperately, ‘After that I went to the library and I read everything that I could about ants.’