Locked.
Patrick felt in his pocket. His penknife. No, not there. Nothing but a few coins. He had taken it out! He remembered now, had emptied his pockets to allow the tailor to clean his jacket. He could kick the door. It looked pretty flimsy. He could easily knock the glass out of the top section. Could easily climb through. He could do all of those things, but he could panic the criminal; he could cause the baby to be dropped. He glanced back at Eileen and she gave him another nod. Somehow it filled him with confidence and instantly he remembered. His trouser pocket, the hip pocket. That was where he had put it.
He slid the knife out, unfolded it. Yes, that was the blade. He had a moment’s gratitude towards Charlie Mac, now serving a prison sentence for burglary. Couldn’t stop himself boasting, that was Charlie. Just like a lot of them. Had to demonstrate exactly how he had got the door of the insurance office open without attracting the notice of a policeman on the beat. Had insisted on Patrick locking the door of the interrogation room and trying his hand with a penknife. Pointed out the right blade to him.
And it had been easy. Easy while a professional was guiding him and a comic relief at the end of a successful piece of investigation.
Not like now when it might well be a matter of life or of death.
Patrick slid the blade into the lock, shut from his mind the shrill, distressing sound of the frightened and cold baby, turned the blade with the twist of hand that he had been taught and then … nothing.
Once again, he said to himself. Concentrate. Shut your ears. Eileen is there. That baby is tiny. No more than catching a ball, he tried to tell himself.
The narrow, slim knife blade was in the keyhole now. Don’t rush it! Listen for the click! Charlie Mac’s words in his ears. Everything was now blotted from his mind. Absolute concentration.
And it failed again.
Third time lucky, he said to himself and the knife turned once more. No result.
This time no words came to his mind. He focused on Charlie Mac. Not the worst of them, Charlie Mac. Robbed the rich and gave to the poor. The ‘poor’ being himself, of course. But not a bad fellow all in all. He might drop in and see him some time. The thought made him feel relaxed. Charlie was a character.
Now just a calm feeling from head to toe.
Click. It was open.
Softly he depressed the handle, slipped through into the kitchen. Very tidy, nothing lying around, nothing but an opened jar of Bovril on the table. A tablespoon lying beside it.
The stairs. Nicely carpeted. New house. No creaks.
No hesitation, now. He had broken up enough late-night dangerous fights in public houses and domestic violence situations to know how to handle this. Terrible sound of retching from within. No time should be lost.
‘Good morning,’ he said as he opened the door. ‘Sorry to let myself in, but I couldn’t make anyone hear.’ That usually worked well; not confrontational, nevertheless put a man or a woman slightly on the defensive. It worked, now. The figure holding the baby swung around, took a step towards Patrick, but said nothing.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Patrick. ‘I can see that Mrs Kelly is not well. Should you get a doctor, or an ambulance? What do you think?’
The woman was vomiting into a basin on the washstand. He walked over towards her, very conscious of the tiny baby still in terrible danger. Not screaming too much now. Exhausted. Slightly warmer, too. Possibly even conscious of its mother’s presence. When did they learn to recognize different faces? Patrick weighed up the consequences of any movement on his part. Desperation could do terrible things.
‘Perhaps you should go across the road and phone for an ambulance,’ he suggested without looking around. Anything to ensure that the baby was put down. No movement could be made, no possibility of an arrest until the baby was safe. At least it had been taken away from the window and the crying was less intense. Patrick stood very still, willing himself to make no sudden movement.
And then a sound from the window, a booted leg swung over the windowsill, tweed breeches, tweed jacket, hair concealed inside a leather helmet. Then she was in, the window slammed shut behind her. The catch engaged.
And the gas light caught a glint from the rim of a pistol. She held it very steadily, pointed it very accurately. The danger was minimized for the moment.
‘Oh, Miss MacSweeney, could you take the baby, please.’ To his pleasure, Patrick heard his own voice, as steady as a doctor giving orders to a nurse. He himself took the little wet, cold bundle first and then handed it over to her. No resistance.
One arm sufficed. She took the baby, but the pistol never wavered. For a moment Patrick’s mind went to the official report that he would have to write. He knew instantly that no mention of this pistol could be allowed to appear upon it. Rapidly he produced a pair of handcuffs. They were on and snapped shut while he was still reciting the official warning. Only then did he relax and only then did he give himself a chance to look around.
Now Eileen had put the baby into its cot, warmly wrapped in a blanket. It still cried, but more quietly, almost hiccoughing now as though exhausted. The mother tried to go to it, but had to return to the basin. Badly poisoned, he thought. While the pistol still pointed at the murderer, he spoke over his shoulder.
‘We need an ambulance, Miss MacSweeney. There’s a post office across the road. Could you get one immediately, please. Mention my name. Say it is very urgent. A case of poisoning by ethylene glycol. Ask for the message to be passed to Dr Scher.’
She proffered her pistol before she left, but he shook his head. He was quite happy with his truncheon and he had faith in the handcuffs. Still swinging the truncheon, he went across and locked the door, removing the key and putting it into his pocket. No way of locking the window, unfortunately, but the truncheon was heavy enough to fell the toughest of men and he would not hesitate to use it.
His eye went to the mug on top of the chest of drawers. Smelled only of Bovril. It was completely empty, even its dregs had been drained. Only a dark stain remained around the rim. He must remember to secure that for Dr Scher. It would be part of the evidence.
The baby had stopped crying now. For a moment he worried about it, took a step forward. Could it have been poisoned, also? That crying had stopped very abruptly. Keeping the truncheon poised in his right hand, he leaned over the cot and moved the blanket with his left.
The baby was asleep, sleeping peacefully, dark eyelashes on flushed cheek. Gently he put back the blanket and looked towards its mother. She too seemed to be sleeping, slumped on the bed. A strange snoring noise coming from her.
‘I could give you a cheque for five hundred pounds. Just take these things off while I write it.’ The first words spoken and he didn’t bother replying. Funny the way criminals were always so optimistic. Never gave up. Not even when the prison door slammed on them. Always trying to pull some sharp trick.
A loud groan from Betty Kelly. Another violent attack of vomiting. This time she did not manage to make the bowl on the washstand, but vomited straight onto the mat by the bedside. A white mat, now stained yellow with a crimson centre. He looked at her uneasily. Vomiting blood. That seemed a very bad sign. He waited. Nothing else that he could do, but the time seemed endless until he looked at the small clock on the mantelpiece. Less than five minutes.
And then Eileen was back. He heard the footsteps, coming up the hallway, running up the stairs, banging on the door. He went to it, unlocked it, but kept his eyes on the prisoner. And just as she came in, he heard the siren of an ambulance.
‘I’ll go down and open the front door,’ she said. ‘Everything all right?’
‘The sooner the better,’ he said with a nod towards the woman now slumped exhausted upon the bed. Her eyes went to the bloodstained vomit but she made no comment.
‘I rang the barracks. Told them you’d made an arrest. Joe is on his way with a couple of constables and the van.’
‘You’d better put that thing away before he arrives.’ He indicated the pistol with
a movement of his head.
‘I’ll go with her to the hospital and take the baby, too,’ she said, ignoring him. ‘That baby should be checked over. He’s very young, poor little fellow.’
To his relief, she did put the pistol in her pocket before she scooped up the baby, keeping him well wrapped in his blankets and went toward the door, giving him, as she passed, a smile which he ignored.
‘Tell them that she was poisoned with ethylene glycol,’ he said and she gave a brisk nod which, somehow, annoyed him as much as the smile.
‘Stand up,’ he snarled to the prisoner. ‘Let’s make sure that you don’t get any bright ideas about escaping.’ Flexing the truncheon in his hand in a menacing manner, he took a cord from the dressing gown on the back of the door and bound the ankles together, just leaving room to hobble, but making anything faster an impossibility. The ambulance had gone. He heard the siren sounding and knew that they had recognized an emergency. He hoped that they would be in time and that Dr Scher was at the hospital. Still, even if he were not there, surely the hospital could cope. He was glad that Eileen had gone with the woman. She was not one to be backward. She would ensure that the stomach was pumped. And he could rely on her to remember the words, ethylene glycol. He had seen her lips move and knew that she had memorized the words.
And then another siren. A raucous one, this time. The Gardaí Siochána van. He recognized the sound of it. They had put the siren onto it because it often made a riot easier to break up. A surprising amount of people left the scene once they heard that siren. Rather unnecessary here, but the prisoner might be impressed by it.
‘All right, sir.’ And there was Joe, reliable as ever, always knowing his place, but ready to support and to ensure the success of his superior officer. Joe, thought Patrick, was a very good fellow.
‘All right, Joe. Everything under control.’ That could be a question, or an assertion. In any case, everything was going well. Joe and one of the constables hustled the prisoner into the van, himself at liberty to make a quick note of everything. Once he was back in his office, he would write up the whole matter. Eileen, he thought, could appear, very legitimately, as a concerned acquaintance of Mrs Betty Kelly. Nothing wrong with that. Everyone in the small city of Cork knew everyone. No strangers here, he had once heard a Cork person say that and he had recognized the accuracy of the remark.
‘We’ll take a statement as soon as we get back,’ he said to Joe and hardly waited to see Joe nod. There was an admiring look on his face. I must do my best for Joe, thought Patrick. He was an ideal assistant. Mentally he began to draft his report for the superintendent as he followed the prisoner down the well-carpeted stair of the opulently furnished house. He would, he thought, make a mention of Joe and how supportive he had been. As for Eileen, well, she would not thank him for any account of the role she had played in the final arrest.
Poor John Donovan, he thought. One daughter murdered, another in danger of death from the same murderer and his little grandson only just rescued from having his skull split open on the concrete path below his parents’ bedroom.
It just showed that you needed to be very careful about whom you trusted. He climbed into the driving seat of the van and waited for Joe to turn the starting handle. He himself, he decided, would be very careful to whom he entrusted that nice little bank account that was building up in the Cork Savings Bank when the time came for him to get married.
NINETEEN
St Thomas Aquinas
Et ideo si aliquis homo sit periculosus communitati et corruptivus ipsius propter aliquod peccatum, laudabiliter et salubriter occiditur, ut bonum commune conservetur, modicum enim fermentum totam massam corrumpit, ut dicitur I ad Cor. V.
(Therefore if a man be dangerous and infectious to the community, on account of some sin, it is praiseworthy and advantageous that he be killed in order to safeguard the common good, since ‘a little leaven corrupteth the whole mass’. (1 Cor. 5:6).
‘How is she, doctor?’ The Reverend Mother had been on edge all of the morning. As Sister Bernadette closed the door softly leaving the doctor there, facing her, she rose to her feet and approached him. Several times during the previous afternoon and this morning she had found herself going towards the telephone, now restored to its crackling normality, and had then stopped herself. Dr Scher would let her know about Betty as soon as possible; she knew that. He was here now, in person, and she hoped that was not a bad sign.
‘Recovering rapidly,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have left her if there were any concerns. We pumped the stomach. She’s doing well. No liver damage. We’ll keep an eye on her for a while, but she’ll be fine. A healthy young woman. And the baby is fine, too. We kept him in overnight, but not a thing wrong with him, so her aunt took him home with her this morning. I’ve been to see Mrs O’Sullivan just now. She’s very relieved. The little fellow was crying and I could see that she had been crying too. She told me that she had been sitting there, nursing him, thinking that he might be an orphan with his mother dead and his father in prison charged with the murder of his aunt.’
‘Excuse me, Reverend Mother, Inspector Cashman would like a word with you,’ said Sister Bernadette, popping her head in through the door less than two seconds after her knock. She had an air of suppressed excitement about her. There was nothing Sister Bernadette enjoyed better than the excitement of continual coming and going, of taxies being ordered, phone calls coming and now both Dr Scher and Inspector Cashman in the Reverend Mother’s room.
‘I’ll bring the tea in two seconds, Dr Scher; Sister Imelda is laying out the trolley,’ she promised with a beaming smile at the doctor, who was always her favourite visitor.
Patrick, thought the Reverend Mother, as they waited for the approach of the tea trolley, was looking well. Calm and purposeful. She had heard all about how he had arrested the man, slipped the handcuffs on, after a reading of rights. Eileen had told her all about it, had said that Patrick, once he had made up his mind, had been very decisive. They had met on the previous evening, had a meal together, apparently, and she had got out of him how he had turned the man over to Joe, how he had explained to his subordinate in an undertone that the charge would not be drafted until they received news from the hospital about the survival of the latest victim of poisoning. And, of course, how he had carefully sealed up the mug with its tell-tale stains of Bovril that had been left on the kitchen table.
Eileen, to the Reverend Mother’s satisfaction, had been full of praise for Patrick and now, on the morning after the crisis, he looked thoroughly pleased with himself. The arrest of Denis Kelly, stopped in the act of poisoning his own wife, was from Patrick’s point of view a satisfactory end to the affair. Just as well to have no IRA connections, or no connections with a wealthy family engaging a team of top-class lawyers to concoct a lily-white background for their client; no hunger strikes or anything like that, if it had been Mary MacSwiney. And, of course, any connection with a young nun would have been appalling and would have aroused strong feelings in the city and brought the bishop down on the barracks like a ton of bricks. Patrick had, thought the Reverend Mother, the look of a man who had satisfactorily wrapped up an awkward piece of business. With a few giggles Eileen had told her about the gun and how Patrick’s face had showed how appalled he was and the Reverend Mother decided not to mention Eileen’s presence to him. Let him celebrate the successful arrest of a murderer. He, unlike Eileen, had not been gifted with exceptional brains, but had made the best of lesser gifts such as tenacity of purpose, strong mindedness, complete concentration and the self-discipline to devote the necessary amount of work to a project, no matter how much it cost him. She admired him for this and allowed him to bask in the satisfaction until after he had swallowed his tea and demolished his slice of cake with two bites, before she said quietly, ‘Of course, Patrick, Denis Kelly did not murder Sister Gertrude.’
They both swung around to stare at her.
‘But you said it yourself,�
�� said Dr Scher. ‘You said that his wife Betty had known that he was guilty, had put the empty chocolate box on top of all the clothes in the trunk in order to show him that she knew.’ He was frowning in a puzzled manner. It had begun to strike him that there was something wrong about this.
‘Denis Kelly was indeed guilty of a murder, as well as the attempted murder of his wife, but he was not guilty of the murder of Sister Gertrude,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘After all, Patrick, think about it. What could have been his motive? Her death would have been of no particular benefit to him. She had nothing to leave to him. His wife Betty had inherited the entire fortune from his father-in-law. I suspect that the birth of the baby, of John Donovan’s grandson, may have prompted the will which left everything to the younger sister. John Donovan had, if the aunt is right, made an earlier will where he left to her a sufficient sum of money to recompense his sister-in-law for her care of his motherless girls, and presumably in that will the rest of his estate would have been divided between the two girls. Then when the elder sister entered the convent, he may have changed the will, again, but possibly not. The will I have seen was made just a few months ago, probably around the time of the birth of the baby son to Betty. But he may have made another will in the meantime, and I have known a case where this happened, that left half of his fortune in trust for the older daughter where she would inherit if she left the convent. You must remember that Sister Gertrude had not taken any final vows and she would have been free to go at any moment if she decided that was right. But the birth of a grandson may have weakened the bonds between him and his favourite daughter and he may, like many men, have enjoyed the thought of bequeathing a good sum of money to Betty and her husband so that the little boy could be brought up in comfort and be well educated.’
‘And so the last will left everything to the younger sister,’ said Dr Scher.
‘Yes,’ agreed the Reverend Mother. ‘That will of course was the important one. And that will was what brought about his death. The man was dead within a couple of weeks of making it. John Donovan could have lived for another twenty or even thirty years in the normal way of things. Denis Kelly did not want to wait as long as that. And so he bought a box of chocolates, injected ethylene glycol into them. I must say,’ said the Reverend Mother, ‘I did have him in my mind as a source of the deadly stuff. You said it yourself, doctor. Don’t you remember? I remember your words very clearly. “It’s a sort of syrup, thins out paint, and liquefies solids. They use it in lots of factories.” I blame myself for not following up my first idea. But you see, we were all thinking of the death of Sister Gertrude. I, or any of us, I imagine, couldn’t think why Denis Kelly should kill Sister Gertrude. In fact, if I am any judge of people, he was devastated by her death. Shocked and horrified. That was the reaction that I noted myself when I met him. Excessively so, I thought at the time.’
Death of a Novice Page 24