Death of a Novice

by Cora Harrison

  ‘What a lovely place to live,’ she said. ‘The air feels so different.’

  ‘Look at the heads in the window,’ said Lucy, hastily bestowing her cake box upon the chauffeur with a murmured instruction. ‘Now, Reverend Mother, put on your most surprised expression.’

  Lucy had six granddaughters altogether: three from her daughter Susan and three from her daughter Anne and all were there, peeping from the window. As soon as the Reverend Mother and Lucy came through the front door, they swarmed around, calling out congratulations and good wishes and expressing, slightly to the Reverend Mother’s surprise, great pleasure on seeing her, also. There were, she noticed quickly, several young men in the background and she wondered whether one of them was Raymond Roche.

  ‘Anne is so worried about her youngest, Charlotte,’ said Lucy. ‘That awful young man, Raymond Roche. Nothing wrong with the Roche family, of course. Would have been very suitable if it had been one of the other boys, but not Raymond.’

  At the time the Reverend Mother had listened absent-mindedly. She had, she considered, more to trouble her than worries about suitable young men for Lucy’s granddaughters, but now, after Eileen’s words, she eyed the line of young men with interest. All of them well-dressed, well-groomed, hair well-smoothed down with a lavish use of pomade and hands well-manicured. Under the instructions of the eldest grandchild, Angela, all were singing a Happy Anniversary version of the ‘Happy Birthday’ song before ushering them both into the dining room. Lucy, who was an actress, swooned into her husband’s arms at the sight of the table. The girls all laughed, one of the young men clapped a tribute and the Reverend Mother began to be glad that she had come.

  The table was wonderful, all set with the memories of their childhood when their grandmother used to have parties for them. Colourful balloons tied to each chair, plates of iced fairy cakes, glass jugs of pink milk – from the queen of the fairies’ very own pink cow, Lucy used to tell the little girls – and dishes piled high with jelly and with trifle. On a side table, she noticed, that there were a few bottles of pink champagne and she guessed that Rupert, like his wife, had sneaked in his own provisions for the feast.

  ‘The Reverend Mother must sit at the head of the table,’ said Lucy when the singing and the clapping had finished.

  ‘No, indeed, certainly not. Your place is there. I shall sit here next to this young man.’ It might not be Raymond, but after Eileen’s story about the yacht, she had swiftly chosen the most tanned of the young men. Charlotte, Anne’s youngest daughter, was on his other side, so she thought that she was probably right even before the girl had murmured an introduction. A good-looking young man, bronzed from sun and wind, brown hair with gold tints in it and an athletic frame. He very politely pulled out a chair for her and she sank down into it and eyed the tiny sandwiches with amusement. Lucy, she thought, must be a very beloved grandmother if the girls had remembered every detail of their childhood parties.

  ‘I think that I have heard of you, Mr Roche,’ she remarked. ‘Some young novices of mine have surely mentioned your name, if I am not mistaken. They were attending some Gaelic League class at St Ita’s School. And I believe that you were there, also.’

  This took him aback. He gave a hasty glance around, tossed two tiny Marmite sandwiches into his mouth, did an unnecessary amount of chewing over them while he thought about an answer to her comment. She surveyed him with interest. He was demonstrating, she thought, a degree of alarm and discomfort, which, surely, such an innocuous pastime as learning the Irish language would not have warranted. His eyes darted around the table as if in hope of some escape.

  ‘Irish!’ exclaimed Charlotte. ‘What on earth are you learning Irish for, Raymond? I thought that you said that was a complete waste of time.’

  ‘Are you really going to Irish classes, Raymond?’ Angela looked at her sister’s boyfriend with an incredulous stare. ‘But you were the one that laughed at the very idea of that, didn’t he, John?’

  The Reverend Mother sat back and enjoyed the clamour. Everyone seemed to have some recollection of a sweeping criticism voiced by the unfortunate Raymond. The interesting thing was that he appeared confused and indeed angry as past remarks of his were thrown back at him. She would have expected that a young man of his breeding and background would have had the confidence to invent some reason for his attendance at Irish classes in the MacSwiney school. Surely he could have pretended an interest in some girl, or said that he was only doing it to please his mother. But nothing like that occurred to him and he kept shouting at his friends to leave him alone.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ he said eventually, jumping to his feet and exploding the balloon on the back of his chair with a hasty sweep of his hand. ‘Shut up, John. Oh, give it a rest, Charlotte, won’t you? I’m off to have a cigarette.’

  ‘You can’t do that. It’ll spoil the party.’ Charlotte was almost in tears and Raymond hesitated for a moment. His tanned face had flushed to a deep red and he looked both confused and angry, even, she thought, a little scared. It was time to make a diversion. She was not the only one to think that. Lucy sent a glance of appeal to her husband and Rupert went smoothly to the sideboard and popped a cork from one of the pink champagne bottles and then another and advanced on the table with a foaming bottle in each hand.

  ‘Not for me, thank you. I shall try the pink milk; I’ve always wanted to know what it tastes like,’ she said to Rupert as he came around with his bottles. He put down one and instead picked up the glass jug and poured a glass of the pink milk for her with great ceremony and a certain flourish, which made her suspect that he had sampled a bottle of his pink champagne before their arrival. It had been a good idea to open a bottle now, though. It had distracted attention from Raymond and the pink bubbles had a very festive appearance.

  ‘What about you, Charlotte?’ he said to his granddaughter. ‘Will you have pink milk? You can’t be old enough for champagne, now, can you?’

  ‘Oh, Grandpa! I daren’t taste even a drop of pink milk. None of us dare. We are all scared to try it in case it doesn’t taste right now that we’re all grown-up,’ said Charlotte, with great presence of mind. She held out a glass for the pink champagne and smiled sweetly at her grandfather.

  ‘Quite right,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘Pink milk is only for under-sevens and over-seventies.’ She said the words in her most dogmatic manner and that brought her several grateful smiles from the young ladies and there was a clamour for the bubbles.

  ‘We’re going to be playing all the old games, too, Reverend Mother. Blind Man’s Bluff, Charades, Pass the Slipper, The Minister’s Cat and all those old favourites,’ said Charlotte, leaning across Raymond, her hand on one of his shoulders, and nestling close against his chest. ‘Don’t worry,’ she added, ‘you, Grandma and Grandpa are just going to watch. Angela has it all organized.’

  ‘That’ll be a bit of a bore, won’t it? I brought along some jazz records,’ said Raymond. His voice was unnecessarily loud and he looked a challenge at his hosts.

  ‘I think not,’ said Angela, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Oh, no, not jazz, that would spoil everything,’ exclaimed Charlotte. ‘We just want to have it all just as it was when we were little and Grandma had those parties for us.’

  ‘Got to play the game the way the girls have organized it, old man,’ said Rupert smoothly. Champagne bottle in hand, he ignored Raymond’s outstretched glass for a second helping and went to top up his wife’s supply.

  And very well-organized, too, thought the Reverend Mother when the feast had finished and the games began. Angela had everything well-prepared for and never allowed tedium to creep in, as all were forced into hastily changing to a new game each time a whistle blew. The girls acted the part of six- and seven-year-old children and their boyfriends and fiancés adopted their roles with enthusiasm, Annette’s young man even having a sulky tantrum, stamping his foot on the floor and saying ‘not fair’ in a high-pitched squeak when he was beaten by
her to the last chair. Lucy, the Reverend Mother saw with affection, was completely overwhelmed by this tribute from her granddaughters and hid her face in her handkerchief to hide her tears. Rupert poured more champagne and Angela’s fiancé, one of the Dwyers, organized the singing of ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow!’ and the anniversary event ended with laughter.

  ‘What lovely girls. You must be very proud of your granddaughters, Lucy.’ The Reverend Mother paid the compliment sincerely when she and Lucy retired to the little back sitting room leaving the dining room and drawing room to the young people.

  ‘Well, I’m a very lucky woman,’ said Lucy. ‘And they all seemed to have chosen such suitable and charming young men, don’t they, all except Charlotte. Oh, dear, I’m so worried about her, Dottie. But wasn’t it kind of Angela! She arranged it all, of course. She’s grown into a thoroughly nice girl. Going to be married this summer. A nice boy, one of the Dwyers. Joined in everything.’

  ‘And what about Charlotte?’ The Reverend Mother thought that they could move on to that subject while Lucy fortified herself with a choice specimen from the Campbell cakes and a good strong cup of tea.

  Lucy grimaced. ‘Anne is so worried about her. We’re all worried. That awful young man. Did you see him? Turned his nose up at everything. Wanted to play some of that awful jazz again and again, kept bringing it up. Anne said that he sulked a bit to Angela, but she was firm with him. “This is Granny’s party.” That’s what she said to him. “There was no jazz around when we were little and we agreed that it was going to be just the same as the parties that Granny used to organize for us. Raymond, you will just have to do without that jazz.” Told him that he could put those records back in the car. Anne told me it all.’

  ‘One of the Roches, isn’t he? Some sort of trouble with him, wasn’t there?’ The Reverend Mother wasn’t sure of her ground, but decided that there usually was some sort of trouble in the upbringing of these young men from rich families.

  ‘Drugs,’ hissed Lucy. ‘The Roches were in a terrible state. They stopped his allowance so that he couldn’t pop over to London for supplies, but it did no good. He’s still finding the money from somewhere. Goodness knows from where. But he’s still going over there. Rupert had a strong word with Anne only the other day. “Don’t fancy any granddaughter of mine being mixed up with that young man,” that’s what he said to her. “He’s a problem to the Roches, Anne; make sure that he doesn’t become a problem to you and Henry.” And, of course, Anne comes crying to me. “As if parents nowadays have any control over their children.” Apparently Charlotte has threatened to run away from home if she is not allowed to see him. And she’s only eighteen years old. And with her looks she could marry anyone. Not that there’s anything wrong with the Roches. All in all, it would be a good match if it was a different young man. One of the younger boys, perhaps, as I said to you, before. But not Raymond.’

  The Reverend Mother thought about what Eileen had told her. Was it in confidence? Probably not. Anyway, she knew very little, but a hint would be enough to set the girl’s grandfather on the trail. Lucy’s husband, Rupert Murphy, a solicitor with a large practice, had a reputation of knowing everything that was going on in the city of Cork.

  ‘I’ve heard a rumour that Raymond Roche might be mixed up with some Sinn Féin activity,’ she said cautiously.

  Lucy looked at her sharply. ‘How did you hear that?’ she asked. And, then: ‘Don’t tell me. I suppose it was that little girl, the one who is saving up to qualify as a lawyer. You wouldn’t believe it but my husband is soft enough to give her documents to copy in the evening. I suppose she told you.’

  ‘My source was reliable.’ The Reverend Mother decided not to confirm or to deny. Eileen, she thought, was reliable and this young Raymond Roche sounded a most unsuitable husband for Lucy’s granddaughter. ‘Three of my novices were going for lessons in the Irish language to St Ita’s School and it now appears that there may have been a connection between a harmless activity such as language learning and a less harmless involvement in passing messages for rebel activity.’

  She would say no more, she thought, but Lucy was owed a warning. It would be a tragedy if Charlotte, young and silly, but with a kind heart, should get involved with a young man who might well be arrested and put on trial.

  ‘Tell me about drugs, Lucy,’ she said humbly. ‘I don’t think that they were around when we were young, were they? The worst that seemed to happen then was that someone got tipsy on champagne.’

  ‘Came from America,’ said Lucy dismissively. ‘Like that awful jazz. Cocaine. People take it, so they say, because it makes you feel great. They get a “high”, so I hear.’

  ‘And then a “low”, I suppose,’ put in the Reverend Mother.

  Lucy looked at her suspiciously. ‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ she said. ‘Yes, as you say. Then they get a “low”, and so they can’t wait to get “high” again and so it goes on. The more they have; the more they crave. One of the Crawfords became addicted. They had to ship him off to Switzerland for a cure. Cost them a mint of money.’

  ‘Talking of money, I presume this stuff is expensive. What does this young man do for a living?’

  ‘He doesn’t,’ said Lucy succinctly. ‘He’s supposed to be a student. Hangs around the university. Was supposed to be studying medicine, but I don’t think that he has got much further than the first year of medicine.’

  ‘How does the young man afford to purchase cocaine, then?’ The Reverend Mother thought that she probably knew the answer to her own question and so she answered it almost without a pause. ‘I suppose that he could get it from Sinn Féin if he gave them good service, afforded them an easy way onto Spike Island, for instance.’

  ‘Spike Island?’ Rupert had come in, still bearing the bottle of pink champagne. ‘You’ve heard that he was mixed up in that business.’ This was a statement, though his first utterance had been a question. Rupert had a quick mind. And a multiplicity of sources of information. Now he abandoned his champagne and his glass and looked soberly from his wife to her cousin. ‘This is a bit of a mess,’ he said soberly. ‘Anne and Henry are just going to have to put their foot down. Send that girl off to finishing school in Switzerland or something like that.’

  ‘I’d prefer that this confidence of mine was not mentioned to the police,’ said the Reverend Mother.

  ‘Young Eileen, I suppose,’ said Lucy from behind her hand to her husband.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to upset the Roche family,’ said Rupert. ‘Nice family. Just want to keep that young fellow away from my granddaughter. I think I’ll have a word with Henry.’

  ‘And Anne,’ said Anne’s mother.

  ‘And Anne,’ amended Rupert. ‘And one of the Roche family, too.’

  ‘Saying what?’ enquired the Reverend Mother. ‘To the Roche family, I mean.’

  ‘Saying that I had heard a rumour that he was involved in the Spike Island affair. Saying that they should ship the young man out of the country. Send him off to Switzerland for a cure or something like that.’

  The Reverend Mother considered this. If a girl had been poisoned, then her murderer should be arraigned for the crime, not shipped off to the continent, just because he belonged to a rich family.

  ‘I’m very concerned about the death of Sister Gertrude,’ she said soberly and saw the two faces swing instantly around to face hers. To Rupert, she said, ‘Lucy has told you about my young novice, hasn’t she?’ before continuing. ‘Raymond Roche may have been involved in the employment of the two younger novices to pass messages. And in that case, Sister Gertrude, who was so much older and so much more mature, might have picked up what was going on …’ She stopped there. Without betraying confidences, from Patrick and from Eileen, she could go no further. It was enough, though. She could see that from the glances exchanged between husband and wife.

  ‘Sister Gertrude was poisoned at some time during the evening before her death,’ she said. ‘She had an early supper,
and then left the convent in the company of Sister Joan and Sister Brigid. She attended the Gaelic League class at St Ita’s School, was delayed in conversation with Miss Mary MacSwiney while the two younger novices slipped out, equipped with collecting boxes, on their errand to deliver some secret messages. She came back to the convent, was ill that evening and died the following morning. Dr Scher has found that she was poisoned with something called ethylene glycol, a form of alcohol, I gather, though not pink champagne,’ she added, but neither Rupert, nor Lucy smiled. Both faces were serious and perturbed. She looked from one to the other of them.

  ‘Is it too far-fetched to think that Raymond, at the behest of his Sinn Féin employers, might have had a hand in that poisoning?’ she asked. ‘Sister Gertrude, apparently, had guessed something of what was going on and had threatened the two young novices with disclosure to me. This was overheard by a fourth novice.’ She would, she thought, keep the rest of that unseemly squabble to herself. Despite her endeavour to be broadminded, it still slightly shocked her to think that death threats had been bandied about by pious young ladies.

  ‘Stranger things have happened in this city of ours,’ said Rupert. He spoke lightly, but his face was very serious, very stern.

  ‘Now I must return to my flock,’ said the Reverend Mother, getting to her feet. ‘Perhaps you could ring for your chauffeur, Lucy, if you will be so kind. No, Rupert, you stay here.’ He had got to his feet, but she knew that all she had said had worried him deeply and that his glance had strayed a few times to the window through which several young people were to be seen clustered around a group of cars. Rupert would not be easy until he had seen Raymond Roche leave, and leave without his granddaughter.

  It occurred to her, on the journey back to her convent, that Raymond Roche had a lot to lose if Sister Gertrude had uncovered the secret of his relationship with Sinn Féin. Apart from being the granddaughter of a very rich and highly respected man, Charlotte’s father, also, had quite a fortune. A young man with expensive tastes, and no visible means of support, might do a lot to ensure that his secret would not be uncovered. Murder, she speculated as the chauffeur swung smoothly on to the Western Road, might come easily to one whose moral fibre was undermined by the use of drugs.