Death of a Novice

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Oh, so, so,’ she said carelessly. No point in trying to pretend that she was madly in love or anything. Power was what mattered to men like Rory Duffy. He would respect her if he thought she had the ear of powerful men. Otherwise, he would just throw her to the dogs.

  ‘Very great with that policeman, aren’t you? I hear you were in school with him, lived in the same street as him, before he joined the Peelers.’

  So Rory had been talking to Tom Hurley. Otherwise he wouldn’t have known all of that. He was not a Cork man, himself, had moved down when his native town in Monaghan had become too hot to hold him. Now she knew the reason for the ‘Back in Half an Hour’ notice. He had popped out to see his master. She didn’t show her thoughts, though. Best to play the innocent for the moment.

  ‘That’s right; he was not so dishy, then,’ she said with a giggle.

  ‘Dishy! Him! Long string of misery. You can do better than him. You’re not a bad-looking girl, you know.’

  ‘Well, it’s something to have a man who will do anything for you,’ she said carelessly and gave him a minute to absorb that piece of information, while she ran a finger along one of the shelves and then dusted off the finger of her glove.

  ‘Well, I still feel that you could do better. Clever girl, too. I was talking about you to someone the other day. “Yon one could mind mice at a crossroads”; that’s what I was saying about you.’

  ‘Really!’ She laughed as he had expected her to. ‘I must tell my mother that one! She’s always saying that I would forget my head if it wasn’t tied onto me. I like the idea of minding all those little scuttling mice, shooting off in different directions. I never heard that expression before.’

  ‘It’s a saying that we have in Monaghan for someone that has their eye on the ball all of the time,’ he said, but he didn’t smile, just watched her intently. ‘So you’re determined to stick to the long-faced policeman, are you? Not telling him any little secrets, are you?’

  She ignored that. Let him wonder.

  ‘What’s a girl to do,’ she said with a careless shrug. ‘Not too many fellows around who have a good job these days.’

  ‘What about that fellow Raymond Roche? Pots of money in that family. I hear that he’s keen on you. You could do very well for yourself with a man like that. Lots of nice little presents, drives out into the country in that Bugatti of his, spins around the harbour in his yacht …’

  He had given her an opportunity, probably deliberately, but she seized it quickly. ‘Oh, I’m keeping away from him,’ she said with a shudder. ‘That business with the young nun. You’ve heard about that, haven’t you? Wouldn’t want anything to do with him.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ He raised his eyebrows and his Monaghan accent became very strong. His eyes were intent upon her. ‘The one that was murdered. Read about that in the paper.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard then about Raymond; didn’t they tell you,’ she asked injecting a note of surprise into her voice and saw him wince. These fellows were all very insecure. Not one of them liked to be in a position where they were not kept informed. To be excluded from information meant that you were doubted. And from being doubted meant that you were only a couple of steps from a tribunal and then perhaps a bullet in the head and a lonely burial in some remote bog, or in the corner of a field. She could see him scan through his mind for information, weighing up facts and impressions. He had come straight from Tom Hurley, had checked on Eileen. Surely something should have been mentioned about the death of the nun.

  ‘You knew about the two dupes, didn’t you? The nuns with the Foreign Mission collecting box?’ She saw a flicker of humour in his eyes and knew instantly that he had been informed of this. ‘And, of course, the other one, the third nun, well, she found out all about it. Was going to put a stop to it.’

  ‘Heard that from your policeman friend, did you?’ He said the words with an ugly sneer, but she didn’t deny it, just allowed a smile to pucker her lips. She was playing with fire; she knew that, but it gave her an oddly exhilarated feeling.

  ‘Well, have to find something to talk about down the Mardyke on a dark night,’ she said carelessly. The Mardyke was well known as a place for courting couples who would walk down the tree-lined path beside the dyke that drained the western marshlands and kiss and cuddle in the darkness there.

  ‘I wouldn’t believe everything that he says to you.’ He was thinking hard; she knew that. ‘Not Raymond. Not his style at all,’ he said after a minute. ‘Tom Hurley wouldn’t use Raymond Roche for something like that. He’s in the top class in this city. Courting the granddaughter of Mr Murphy, the solicitor in South Mall. Now that’s a man with influence. If Raymond manages to marry the girl, then that might be a useful link. No, Tom Hurley is a cute hoor, as we say up north. Can’t see him using a fella like Raymond for delivering death notices. He’d prefer to keep him in reserve, keep him for the showy stuff.’

  ‘Would he then?’ She said the words in the manner of one who knows better and he frowned again. Unsure, but unconvinced of the possibility that Raymond might have been guilty of a murder.

  ‘The business was done, you know. There would have been no point.’ More talking to himself, than to her. She knew what he meant. After all the letters were delivered and had done the job required. She knew that. The men, contacted by those letters, had responded to them and travelling by different means, had turned up in Cobh, had boarded the yacht, one by one, dressed as deckhands. Once moored beside the pier at Spike Island, they had swum ashore and that night had blown up the ammunition. They had not come back with Raymond. She knew that because Raymond and she had returned to Cobh and he had driven her home almost straight away. Some other boat, a fishing boat, perhaps, would have picked the men up some time in the darkness of the night. So Rory Duffy was right. Tom Hurley was saving Raymond for the showy stuff, like landing the men while he, and she, kept the officers busy. She was beginning to be convinced that Raymond might not have known anything about the murder of the third nun. He was a plausible fellow, though, and he knew Sister Gertrude from the Irish lessons. There was a possibility that he gave her something with poison in it. Malachy had seen them walking off together. Could have bought her a bar of chocolate, or something like that. Something that she put in her pocket and ate later on.

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ she said, endeavouring to convey the air of one who is taking her business elsewhere, to more well-informed sources. ‘See you, Rory,’ she said jauntily and walked straight to the door and had closed it behind her before he thought to say a word. She gave a scornful glance at the cabbages as she passed them. She had promised her mother that she would buy something for their evening meal, but she wasn’t going to buy that rubbish. Rory’s shop was more a cover for other business. He certainly didn’t take too much trouble in stocking it with fresh and attractive produce.

  When she returned from the market she went straight back to his shop. She made no effort to conceal the shopping bag full of food. She knew how to manage men like Rory. Show him that she did not care a fig for his opinion, that she did not regard him as a person of importance. He knew that she had access to Tom Hurley and now he had seen an example of her familiarity with a police inspector. He would wonder about her, would be unsure, and, she was fairly certain, would be anxious to conciliate her. And that was good. She could perhaps get out of him whether he felt Sister Gertrude was murdered by Raymond without instructions. Nothing would be said straight out, of course. Eileen knew how to do this sort of thing, how to ask for and how to receive information that was so wrapped up in irrelevant words that it would be hard for a bystander to pick up what might be going on. She would be quite safe in doing this, she thought. She knew how to play these dangerous games.

  That’s if no one from Tom Hurley’s mob had decided that she could be a spy. In which case, Rory would play her along and she might find herself in custody. She cast a quick glance at the door and then at a barrel of turnips standing in the middle of the floor.
If he showed any signs of approaching her, she would start firing the turnips and empty the barrel in his face and be out of the door before he had recovered from the onslaught of hundreds of these hard round vegetables.

  ‘Been thinking about what you said.’ He opened conversation the minute that she came into the shop. Abrupt. But that was the Northern style. ‘You might be right.’ Now he was talking as much to himself as to her. ‘Not too pleased with your posh friend. I got that impression. He might be finding himself a bit short of the readies in the future. Them above not too pleased with him. They don’t like any private enterprise.’ He gave a nod towards the ceiling. Might mean he had someone upstairs, but it might also mean someone high in the hierarchy. These Northern men used one word where a Cork person used ten. Anyway, no one could call Patrick ‘posh’ so he must be talking about Raymond. Was Raymond out of favour, then, she wondered. And if so, why? Tom Hurley didn’t mind murder but he didn’t want his men showing any private enterprise. Was that it? Was the murder of a nun a step too far for Tom Hurley? Something that had not been authorized. Or had Raymond simply outlived his usefulness to the organisation. The regiment on Spike Island must be a bit stupid if they did not wonder about a connection between his visit that afternoon and the blowing up of the ammunition a couple of hours later. They might keep quiet, but they would have put two and two together.

  ‘I’m always right,’ she said smugly. Keep him guessing, that would be the way to handle him. She was still unsure, though.

  ‘I suppose that you might know,’ he said slowly. ‘After all, you were in the centre of things. Good as a play to see you; that’s what I heard, anyway.’

  ‘Well, I’d better be off,’ she said. ‘Got all those mice at the crossroads to see to.’

  ‘You’d be a match for them,’ he said grimly, but made no attempt to detain her.

  ‘Just going to pop around to see Eamonn, Mam. Think there might be something wrong with the old bike,’ said Eileen carelessly. She had walked down to the pub where her mother worked and had escorted her home. From now on, she told herself, she had to be very careful, careful of herself and careful of her mother. At least her mother was home safely and so tired-looking that she would probably fall asleep in front of the fire after she had her supper. Eileen could leave her with a clear conscience. There would be nothing wrong with seeing Eamonn; she did so at least once or twice a week, but she wouldn’t put it past Rory Duffy to have someone watching her. It wouldn’t do for her to go straight to the convent after a conversation with him about the murder of a nun.

  And so she decided to stay for a couple of hours with Eamonn and leave her bike with him. She would be less conspicuous walking, she would blend with the evening crowd, going to the pub or doing Pana as Cork people called spending a few hours walking up and down Patrick Street with a crowd of friends, meeting and greeting other friends. She could pick up her bike tomorrow. Her mother, the most unsuspicious of women, would not question that. Eamonn had been the original owner of the bike and was supposed to know all about its idiosyncrasies.

  ‘I’ll walk up with you,’ said Eamonn when she rose from the table after consuming one of the huge suppers which Eamonn’s mother, delighted to have got him back from the clutches of the IRA, invariably cooked for her darling only child. Eileen was glad of his offer. It would distract attention from her if Rory Duffy or any of his spies were around. Eamonn’s parents’ house was on Western Road and it was a normal routine for the two of them to stroll along through the busy shoppers in South Main Street and to stand looking down into the river from the bridge and chat idly. Eamonn was worried about a coming examination. His years as an active member of the IRA, hiding out in a safe house, south of the city, had made him fall behind with his studies and now he had to work twice as hard in order to catch up. Eileen volunteered to wheedle out of Dr Scher his impression of how Eamonn was doing and they argued a bit about that until Eileen turned the conversation.

  ‘Does your man ever trouble you these days, spy on you, or try to get you to do jobs for him?’ she asked. Eamonn would know who she meant. Tom Hurley was always ‘your man’ to them.

  ‘Not a peep nor a sound to be had from him,’ said Eamonn. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder. ‘I keep away from him and he keeps away from me. That’s the way that I want it. And that goes for you, too, Eileen. You’d want to keep away from all of that. Let the police do the job that they’re paid to do. The trouble with you, Eileen, is that you always want to be managing everything.’

  ‘I feel sort of responsible. I should have guessed that something was going on. Those two stupid young nuns.’ Eileen, also, looked over her shoulder. One of the enormous Beamish and Crawford’s horse-drawn wagons was about to cross the bridge. This would be the opportunity to slip away. If anyone was watching her from a doorway across the road, then their vision would be blocked and she knew a few good shortcuts to the convent.

  ‘Bye,’ she said in his ear and saw him mingle with a crowd of slightly drunken sailors steering an unsteady way towards The Castle Inn on South Main Street. She briefly attached herself to the nearside of a fat woman with an overflowing shopping basket and then slipped away down a small alleyway. It was second nature to her to walk on the dark side of the street and to keep looking over her shoulder. She took even more care than usual. If Tom Hurley thought that she was frustrating him in any way then he might still carry out his threat to her mother. Somehow, though, she felt sure that Tom Hurley now would have lost interest. Eileen had served her turn. Had acted as a smokescreen, kept the regiment occupied and amused, allowing the yacht to remain moored for an hour at the pier and given the opportunity for the raiders to slip ashore. The daring raid on the ammunition in Spike Island had taken place and had been successful. Raymond, she thought, might well be sacrificed. She doubted whether he had enough information to pose any danger to the IRA. But if so, he would be shot. But, in any case, it would be unlikely that he would be used again as a decoy in a high-profile affair. Tom Hurley would be finished with him, now. There would now be another plan generating in that active brain.

  When Eileen reached the side gate of the convent chapel she knew that she had timed her visit well. The nuns were streaming out. The evening service was over. Eileen waited behind a thick-leaved Portuguese laurel until they were followed by the elderly priest who ministered to this convent of nuns. The Reverend Mother, she knew from past experience, had taken on herself the task of locking up the chapel in the evening. She would go for a little walk around the grounds first; that was her custom. Eileen watched while the elderly nun came out, walked down the path and then bent over a neatly heaped row and pulled out what looked like a turnip, gleaming very white in the moonlight. She did not start at the appearance of Eileen, but shot a quick glance around the garden to make sure that no one else was present.

  ‘Go into the chapel, my child,’ she said quietly. ‘I will join you in a minute.’

  When she came in, two minutes later, the turnip still dangled from her fingers. With her usual composed manner, she laid it on the bench and dusted her fingers free of the damp soil that clung to them.

  ‘We’re growing these to close the gap between one season’s potatoes and the next; I hope the children like them,’ she said to Eileen. ‘Not sure whether they are ready yet. What do you think? Are they big enough?’

  ‘I’ve seen bigger,’ said Eileen cautiously. Her mind went to the barrel of turnips in Rory Duffy’s shop and she gave a giggle when she remembered her plan to fire them at him if he became troublesome. ‘I’d leave them a bit longer, Reverend Mother.’

  The Reverend Mother heaved a sigh. ‘I’m afraid that gardening is not my forte,’ she said. ‘I’m too impatient, should have left that in the soil. Now tell me, my child, what brings you here.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about the murder of Sister Gertrude,’ said Eileen and watched the elderly face in front of her tighten and pale a little. ‘I’ve been poking around a bit, Reverend
Mother. I know someone who went to the Gaelic League classes, a fella called Malachy. He was the one who dropped me a hint about what was going on. Well, he was talking about Raymond Roche, and how he walked home with her, with Sister Gertrude, that evening when the two younger ones had gone off doing that job for Mary MacSwiney. I’ve been poking around a bit, because I thought that you would like to know.’ Eileen stopped and eyed the Reverend Mother uncertainly. She didn’t appear to be offended, though. Seemed to be thinking, staring ahead at the altar, her head bowed and her hands tucked into those big wide sleeves.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ she said after a minute. ‘Yes, I would like to know. We have to know, don’t we? The Bible tells us that not even a sparrow will fall to earth unheeded. A violent death cannot go unremarked and unsolved. We must know. No matter what the consequences,’ she added and Eileen noticed how much the elderly voice hardened on the last words and how the Reverend Mother raised her head and looked at her former pupil with a very direct gaze.

  Eileen nodded. ‘That’s what I think. That’s what I thought you would say. You have to know.’ She hesitated for a minute, wondering if that seemed a bit of a cheek on her part, but the Reverend Mother said nothing and seemed to be waiting.

  ‘I know Raymond Roche. Don’t like him much, don’t think much of him,’ said Eileen rapidly. She would not relate to the Reverend Mother the part that she had played in the attack on Spike Island, she thought, and so she continued rather hurriedly. ‘I wasn’t sure whether he had killed Sister Gertrude, done it for the man in charge, done it to get money.’

  ‘To get money,’ repeated the Reverend Mother.

  Eileen ignored this. ‘I was talking to a fella in the know, a spy, not Malachy, a fella from the north of Ireland, from Monaghan. He spies for the man in charge of the local unit, and I thought that he would know all about it. He didn’t, but I could see that he didn’t think that Raymond would have been given a job like that.’