Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom?

by Jessica Stirling

  Tom Machin raised a doubtful eyebrow while Mr Bloom, shoulders shaking, continued to sob.

  Kinsella pressed on. ‘When was the cat last fed?’

  ‘I don’t see what …’ Bloom began then, with a watery sigh, appeared to capitulate. ‘Last night, about half past ten.’

  ‘Before you and Mrs Bloom retired for the night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much liver did you buy this morning?’

  ‘Two cuts. Seven pence worth.’

  ‘Where did you buy your seven pence worth?’

  ‘Dlugacz’s. It’s just around the corner in Dorset Street.’

  ‘I was under the impression Dlugacz sold only the products of the pig,’ Tom Machin said.

  ‘I’m a Protestant,’ Bloom said. ‘I can eat what I like.’

  ‘How do you cook the liver?’ Jim Kinsella asked.

  ‘For the love of God!’ Bloom exploded, displaying as much temper, Kinsella reckoned, as a fellow like Bloom would ever display. ‘What do my eating habits – she’s lying – my wife is lying upstairs with her head bashed in and all you’re concerned about is how I cook my breakfast.’

  He rose abruptly, scraping back the chair.

  Startled, the cat leapt from the table and with a haughty glance at Inspector Machin, raised her tail, stalked out of the door and vanished upstairs.

  Kinsella said, ‘There isn’t much heat in the fire, Mr Bloom.’

  Bloom glanced round at the stove, at the kettle, cold and inert upon the hob, at caked ash protruding from the rungs of the grate. ‘Mrs Fleming used to do it. Clean it, light it, then when she had it going nicely we’d have breakfast.’

  ‘Who is Mrs Fleming?’

  ‘Oh,’ Bloom said. ‘She’s gone long since. Our daily woman, she was. Molly didn’t take to her.’

  ‘Why didn’t Mrs Bloom take to her?’

  ‘Because she was old,’ Bloom said. ‘Molly never did take to any of our servants.’ Collapsing on to the wooden chair, he buried his head in his hands and went back to sobbing once more.

  Kinsella retrieved his long legs from beneath the table and got to his feet. He stared down at the crown of Bloom’s head and, for an instant, felt almost sorry for the man. He had a strong suspicion that the fellow was lying but whether he had killed her or whether he had not, his wife lay dead upstairs and he, at this moment, must be struggling to come to terms with it.

  ‘Take a moment to compose yourself, Mr Bloom,’ Kinsella said, then, picking up his hat, went upstairs to talk to the coroner.

  Roland Slater was a respected member of the medical fraternity who had been coroner for Dublin County and City for ten years and, barring unforeseen disasters, would hold the post for life. A garrulous little chap, now in his sixties, he wore an old-fashioned morning coat with beetle-wing tails, striped trousers and a shirt with a collar so stiff and tall that it reminded Kinsella of a slave ring. He was rarely seen, in or out of doors, without a scuffed leather valise attached to his fist and a silk hat perched on his frosty white hair.

  He had laid the victim’s body out not on the bed but on the patch of floor between the bed and a dressing table and had covered it with a sheet. He was wiping his hands on a striped towel when Kinsella knocked on the door post.

  ‘I trust,’ Slater said, looking round. ‘that you haven’t come to queer my pitch, Inspector. I know how you Metropolitan boys love to make mountains out of molehills. If Machin needs a warrant to arrest on suspicion of murder, I’ll sign one here and now. Charge the fellow and trot him down to the station to make his statement. He can argue his case to the magistrate tomorrow. There’s no question the woman was killed by two, possibly three violent blows to the face with what appears to be a heavy china teapot. The penetrative wound to the eye socket was almost certainly fatal but we’ll leave it to an expert to decide on that. He isn’t pleading innocence, is he?’

  ‘He is,’ Kinsella said. ‘At least, he hasn’t admitted guilt.’

  ‘Do be careful how you handle him,’ Slater warned. ‘We don’t want some nit-picking barrister insisting that his client’s rights were infringed because we failed to follow the letter of the law. Blood on his clothing or person?’

  ‘No obvious traces, no.’

  ‘What’s his story?’

  ‘He says he left his wife in bed asleep while he went out to buy meat for breakfast. He was gone, he claims, no longer than a quarter hour. He returned to find his wife dead. He ran out on to the doorstep and shouted for assistance. One of Machin’s constables, who happened to be nearby, responded.’

  ‘I assume you’ll speak to the butcher and the neighbours?’

  ‘Machin’s men will take statements, I don’t doubt.’

  ‘Damage to the door lock or evidence of forced entry?’

  ‘Bloom left the door unlocked,’ Kinsella said.

  ‘How convenient.’ Slater stuffed the towel into the valise and buckled the straps. ‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face that the fellow’s guilty. Had an argument, lost his temper, struck her with a handy implement then ran shrieking into the street, appalled at what he’d done. He’ll probably get away with manslaughter, particularly if she gave him cause. Women as celebrated as Marion Bloom …’

  ‘Ah!’ Kinsella said. ‘You recognised her.’

  ‘I may be knocking on in years, Kinsella, but I do keep in touch with what’s going on in the city. Marion Bloom was one of our best-known concert sopranos. I heard her in the Ulster Hall in Belfast last August and she was superb.’ He glanced down at the shrouded corpse and wrinkled his nose. ‘Well, she’s singing with the angels now, alas, and they, no doubt, will be glad to have her.’

  ‘You will call for a post mortem, of course?’

  ‘Haven’t I just said so?’ Slater said. ‘What I’m not going to do is present the poor woman’s corpse to an inquest jury. It’ll be enough of a show as it is. Every damned hack in the country will be clamouring for copy. Well, the vultures will just have to make do with photographs. Beautiful woman, celebrated concert artiste slaughtered by a jealous husband, and a Jew to boot. Dear God, they’ll have a field day.’

  ‘Jealous husband?’ Jim Kinsella said.

  ‘Hah!’ Dr Slater snorted. ‘Not only are you a musical philistine, Kinsella, you don’t even keep up with the gossip.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Rumours abound, lad, rumours abound.’

  ‘You mean Marion Bloom had a lover?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say.’

  ‘Did Bloom know about it?’

  ‘If he didn’t he must be the only person in Dublin who didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it would be proper for you to drop me a hint?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ Dr Slater adjusted his silk hat and hoisted the valise into his arms. ‘You might, however, want to have a quiet word with Hugh Boylan.’

  ‘Blazes Boylan?’

  ‘Ah-hah! You’ve heard of him, I see.’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ Jim Kinsella said.

  By the time the meat wagon arrived to convey Marion Bloom’s body to the mortuary in Store Street quite a crowd of spectators had gathered to goggle at the goings-on. Nurses from the training house of the Mater Hospital, a couple of noviciate nuns on the loose from the Dominican Convent and the matron of the Protestant Female Orphan School, from whose office Sergeant Gandy had made his telephone call, rubbed shoulders with window-cleaners, milkmen, postmen, tradesmen and the Blooms’ neighbours who, now that the cat was out of the bag, had cast discretion aside.

  The deceased had been celebrated for a variety of reasons but piety wasn’t one of them. Why Father Congleton from St Brendan’s was invited not only to accompany the corpse from the house but to ride with it in the curtained wagon along with Dr Slater was a point worthy of discussion.

  As soon as the doors at the rear of the wagon closed and the horse took two steps forward the buzz began.

  ‘I thought she was a Jew?’

  ‘No, he’s the Jew.’

&n
bsp; ‘Isn’t he a freemason?’

  ‘He’s that too.’

  ‘I never saw her at mass, did you?’

  ‘I heard she was forbid the mass.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Father Lafferty, I think.’

  ‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’

  ‘She had a fine voice, all the same.’

  ‘She’ll be singing sweet enough in heaven, I’ll wager, when they put the rope around his neck.’

  ‘What? Are they saying he murdered her?’

  ‘They’re not taking him away for nothing, are they now?’

  ‘Mr Bloom struck me as a quiet sort of gentleman.’

  ‘Sure and aren’t the quiet ones always the worst?’

  ‘Is that him?’

  ‘Ay, that’s Bloom.’

  Head lowered, hat slanted over his brow, a knitted scarf hiding half his face, Leopold Bloom emerged from the gloom of the hallway flanked by a constable and a bearded sergeant. He had been cautioned and charged with suspicion of murder under a coroner’s warrant and would be held in custody prior to appearing before a magistrate to answer the indictment.

  Unfortunately the police vehicle, a black van with no windows, had been delayed by a coal cart slewed across the mouth of Nelson Street. The brief hiatus allowed the two journalists who resided respectively at numbers 13 and 16 Eccles Street to sprint from their houses and, shouldering through the crowd, fire questions at the bewildered Bloom who, as an employee of the Freeman’s Journal, they regarded as a colleague of sorts.

  ‘Did you catch her in the act, Poldy?’

  ‘Did she beg for mercy?

  ‘Did you use an axe or a hammer?’

  ‘What was Molly wearing? Was she in her nightclothes?’

  ‘What were her last words, Poldy?’

  ‘Did she beg for mercy?’

  ‘Five quid for an exclusive statement, Mr Bloom.’

  ‘I’ll make that ten,’ bawled a young man from the Dublin Morning Star who, to the chagrin of his peers, hurled himself from a hired cab and advanced on Bloom waving a fistful of notes. ‘Ten, cash in hand, for your side of the story, Mr Bloom.’

  ‘How about twenty for a thick ear?’ Sergeant Gandy growled, giving the cocky young reporter a nudge with his forearm and, nimbly for such a large man, placing himself before the suspect. ‘Stand back, all of you. Stand back.’

  It was less the voice of authority than the appearance of six burly constables that caused the crowd, including the gentlemen of the press, to retreat while the constables formed a double line, like a guard of honour, from doorstep to pavement’s edge and Mr Bloom, not bloody but certainly bowed, was hoisted up into the Black Maria and swiftly whisked away.

  ‘How the devil did they get here so quickly?’ Kinsella said. ‘The Dublin grapevine is famously resourceful but the woman’s only been dead for a couple of hours and they’re already queuing up to see her hubby hanged.’

  ‘They smell blood, that’s all.’ Tom Machin shrugged. ‘We don’t have too many murders in our fair city so naturally the press are all agog. I wouldn’t want to be in Bloom’s shoes if and when he’s brought to trial.’

  ‘Even if he pleads guilty,’ Kinsella said, ‘the Crown will still have to prove the case. It’s not open and closed, by any means. If Bloom elects to stick by his story we’ll be expected to collect enough evidence to convince a jury he committed the crime. On the other hand if we ignore the obvious and take Bloom at his word, the sooner we begin a search for an intruder, the better. I take it you’re hastening back to the station?’

  ‘I am. I’ll have to rake up a jury for the inquest for one thing and that’s never easy.’

  ‘Please have your Super make formal application for G Division assistance. I doubt if there will be a problem on that score. I assume you’ll put a constable to guard the premises but I’d be obliged if you’d let me have Jarvis as my runner for an hour or two, if, that is, he’s willing to do an extra turn after night patrol.’

  ‘Why Jarvis?’

  ‘He’s young enough to be keen.’

  Tom Machin laughed. ‘Oh, we’re all keen here, Inspector. Do not be fooled by our side-whiskers and ruby red noses. Will one officer be enough for you?’

  ‘For the time being,’ Kinsella said. ‘I’m going to poke about here while your whiskered loons are checking what passes for Bloom’s alibi.’

  ‘Precisely what are you hoping to find?’

  ‘Evidence of motive,’ Kinsella said. ‘I gather from Slater that Mrs Molly Bloom was not as pure as the driven snow.’

  ‘She did have a certain reputation for being – how do they put it – “game”. How game is a matter of conjecture.’

  ‘Game enough to take on Blazes Boylan?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Tom Machin said. ‘Now if I were a detective …’

  ‘That’s where you’d start?’ Kinsella jumped in.

  ‘Yes, that’s where I’d start,’ said Machin.

  THREE

  An interview with Blazes Boylan would have to wait. Jim Kinsella’s first problem was to locate the house key. When he brought Constable Jarvis in from the step and took another look at the front-door lock it dawned on him that the key was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t hanging on the little hook by the coats in the hall or anywhere obvious in the kitchen.

  Kneeling, he examined the tin draft-plate at the bottom of the door and, swinging the door forth and back, listened to the loud click-clack the plate made against the sill of the step. He went into the bedroom at the hall’s end, closed the bedroom door and called out to Constable Jarvis to do the same to the street door, close it and then open it again from the outside.

  The sound was plainly audible, click-clack, in the back room.

  He went out into the hall again, frowning.

  ‘Mr Bloom did say he’d left the door unlocked, sir,’ Constable Jarvis reminded him. ‘Maybe the key’s in his pocket still.’

  ‘I expect that’s it,’ the Inspector said. ‘If, however, Mrs Bloom was awake and heard the door plate rattle …’

  ‘She’d think it was Mr Bloom going out.’

  ‘Or coming in again,’ Kinsella said.

  ‘If it wasn’t Bloom, though,’ Jarvis said, ‘she wouldn’t know the difference. Do you wish me to look for the key, sir?’

  ‘No, you’re probably right and Bloom still has it. Besides, there’s something else I need you to do for me,’ Kinsella said. ‘Is there a man on guard on the step?’

  ‘Constable Fegan, sir.’

  ‘Have the journalists gone?’

  ‘I believe they have.’

  ‘Good,’ Kinsella said. ‘I want you to find out where the woman who used to be Bloom’s day maid lives. Her name’s Fleming. Someone around here is bound to know her. If the worst comes to the worst try the greengrocer.’

  Constable Jarvis grinned. ‘Ay, Mrs Moody knows everyone’s business and she’s not shy about sharing it. When I find Mrs Fleming shall I be fetching her back with me?’

  ‘No, I only need to know where she’s living now.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ said Constable Jarvis and so far forgot himself as to deliver a salute.

  Kinsella watched the constable leave, then, closing the street door, stood alone in the hall and let out his breath. He’d been a Metropolitan copper for twenty-two years and a G-man for fifteen of them and he still couldn’t shake off the excitement that possessed him at the start of an investigation.

  He took off his hat and overcoat and hung them on the hook by the door, sharing for a moment the habits of Mr Bloom, then, rubbing his hands, he headed eagerly downstairs to the kitchen.

  Fishwives had nothing on policemen when it came to gab and gossip and it was a rare treat for the lads of Store Street to entertain a genuine felon. It was all Superintendent Driscoll could do to deter them from sneaking down the corridor to the cells to peek at a prisoner who was already on the road to becoming famous.

  Opinion as to Bloom’s guilt was divided. S
ome of the lads were of the view that the suspect must be out of his nut to dispose of such a tasty armful as Mrs Molly Bloom who, if she’d been their wife, would have been brought to heel by nothing more drastic than a clout on the mouth followed by a damned good cocking. Others, more charitably inclined, argued that Bloom could hardly be blamed, morally at least, for blowing his top at his wife’s goings-on.

  It was given to Sergeant Gandy, a man of many talents – not least of which was his ability to sink four pints of black stout in under five minutes – to empty the prisoner’s pockets, remove the prisoner’s necktie, belt, scarf and boot laces and, while he was at it, check that Mr Bloom’s clothing wasn’t blood stained, though a few spots here and there would surely not detract from his claim of innocence.

  On his return from the cell, Sergeant Gandy handed the items to Superintendent Driscoll who examined them carefully and found nothing more damning than a dribble of what smelled like mayonnaise on the necktie. Bloom’s belongings, including a pocket watch, a house key, four shillings and eight pence, a picture postcard of Galway Bay, with no address or message on the back, and two soiled handkerchiefs, would be returned to him before his court appearance first thing tomorrow.

  Slumped on a straw mattress on an iron cot with his collar sprung, waistcoat unbuttoned and trousers bunched in his fist, Mr Bloom resembled a tramp rather than a respected employee of the Freeman’s Journal, for which newspaper, apparently, he sold advertising space. When Sergeant Gandy brought him a plate of buttered bread and a mug of tea, he stood up, then, to preserve his dignity, promptly sat down again. He put the mug on the floor between his feet and, pressing his knees together, balanced the plate on his lap and hungrily attacked the bread.

  He chewed, swallowed, then, glancing up, said, ‘Someone had better tell Milly.’

  ‘Milly? Who’s Milly?’ Sergeant Gandy said.

  ‘My daughter,’ Bloom said. ‘Someone had better tell her that her mother’s dead.’

  ‘Is Milly your only child?’

  ‘The only one alive.’

  ‘Where will we find her?’ Sergeant Gandy asked.