The site of the old city bakery and flour mill had fallen vacant. Here, according to the Councillor’s way of thinking, was an ideal location not only for a mortuary but also for a coroner’s courthouse. In no time at all, by Dublin standards, bakery and mill were gone and a dignified sandstone building had sprung up in their stead, conveniently close to Store Street police station. In fact, the cell in which Mr Bloom presently languished was separated from the place where his wife lay, though Bloom knew it not, only by a horse doctor’s yard and short stretch of pavement.
Inspector Kinsella, together with the coroner, his deputy, a clerk, an anonymous medical officer and Miss Milly Bloom, entered the mortuary building in Store Street on a cloudy Monday morning a couple of hours before the courtroom opened its doors to jurymen, reporters and those members of the public who had queued since dawn to secure a seat in the gallery.
Miss Bloom had exchanged her redbreast coat and tam for a black tailored coat and skirt and a hat of similar material, worn without a veil. Whatever pretty penny it had cost Blazes for the outfit had been money well spent, Kinsella reckoned, and whoever – one of the sisters, perhaps – had dressed Milly’s hair had done a grand job, for Miss Millicent Bloom, pale as a lily and hollow-eyed, was no longer a girl but a woman full-blown in her grief.
There was a brief but rancorous altercation with Mr Boylan who had expected that he too would be allowed to view the body of the deceased. Dr Slater was having none of it. It fell by default to Jim Kinsella to offer Milly his arm, which, rather to his surprise, she accepted without protest.
Tense but otherwise composed, Milly followed the official party along the echoing corridor and down a short flight of steps to the plate glass window beyond which, discreetly slotted in chilly pigeon-holes, the bodies of Dublin’s dubious dead were filed.
Dr Slater, hatless for once, paused.
‘Are you prepared, Miss Bloom?’ he asked.
Resolute and mature, Milly answered, ‘I am, but I’ve no intention of saying goodbye to my mother through a sheet of glass like she’s an item in a shop window.’
‘Fair point.’ Dr Slater nodded to his deputy who knocked upon the window and signalled to the mortuary attendant to open the door and allow Miss Bloom, with Jim Kinsella at her side, to enter the mortuary proper.
It was all very cool and antiseptic in the gelid light from the skylight. Molly had been placed on her back, every part of her, save her head, covered by a spotless sheet. A saddle of polished wood raised her head at a slight angle, as if she were watching the door for her daughter’s arrival.
Against the nether wall, a second draped table supported the body of a young man, identity unknown, who had been fished from the mouth of the Liffey only that morning. In a nook left of the door was a deep stone sink and a trolley bearing cutting instruments and coiled rubber tubes which, Kinsella thought, showed a degree of carelessness on someone’s part, for mortuary and post-mortem room were, or should have been, chambers separate and distinct.
Milly tottered forward to the table and looked down on her mother’s face. Clerk, medical officer, and mortuary attendant positioned themselves behind the table facing Miss Bloom while Dr Slater, his deputy, and Jim Kinsella stood by her side.
The post-mortem had been carried out by Dr Benson Rule, a qualified demonstrator in St John’s teaching hospital and recently appointed pathologist to the County and City of Dublin. He would be summoned to appear in court later that morning to explain his findings to the jury.
Rule or his assistant had done a first-class job of repairing Molly’s damaged features. The thin black lines of stitches were visible, of course, blemishing her beauty, but her eyeball had been replaced, nostril and lip sewn up and a pad of lint inserted in her cheek to fill out her sunken mouth. With eyelids closed and her long, dark lashes covering the worst of the scars she appeared almost serene.
‘Miss Bloom,’ said Slater gravely, ‘is this your mother, Marion Tweedy Bloom?’
‘It is,’ Milly answered. ‘My mother, yes.’
‘There is no doubt in your mind?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Have you seen enough, Miss Bloom?
‘A moment longer, if you please,’ Milly said then leaned over and kissed the corpse on the brow. ‘Mummy,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Mummy, what have they done to you?’ In tears, she let Jim Kinsella lead her away.
Mr Bloom had barely downed a last spoonful of lumpy porridge and still had flecks of oatmeal adhering to his moustache when the door thumped open and a young man in a narrow four-button morning coat, striped trousers and spats burst into the cell with glad-hand extended. Bloom’s first inclination was to pass the lad his empty bowl but in spite of his flamboyant appearance there was about the stranger something that discouraged levity.
Glossy brown locks rimmed his collar and bounced softly when he dipped his head and invited Bloom to shake his hand. ‘Bloom?’ Before Mr Bloom could answer, he rattled on with his introduction. ‘Neville Sullivan, partner in Tolland, Roper and Sullivan. I believe you have need of our services.’
Bloom put down the bowl, wiped his fingers on his trouser leg and shook the lawyer’s hand.
‘I’m not sure I can afford your services.’
‘Um, yes, the matter of cost is always a concern.’ Sullivan brought up a shiny new valise and propped it on the cot. ‘I’m here only to offer advice, to ensure that your interests are protected in the coroner’s court. No more, sir, no less and, for the time being at any rate, no fee.’
Bloom, still standing, said suspiciously. ‘Who sent you?’
‘Did you not ask for a solicitor?’
‘Yes, on Friday.’
Mr Sullivan flipped the tail of his morning coat, seated himself on the bed, and reached for the valise. ‘We are, relatively speaking, but piglets in the legal sty, Mr Bloom. It occurs to me, shamelessly mixing my metaphors, that Tolland, Roper and Sullivan may have been the last port of call or, to put it another way, the bottom of the hopper. Sit, do, please sit.’
Bloom lowered himself on to the bed beside the solicitor who, still talking, opened his valise and pulled out an accordion file.
‘Superintendent Driscoll, I believe, cornered our senior partner, Mr Tolland, after church last evening and suggested we might assist in your defence. I have’ – he let the file spill from his hands – ‘barely had time to scan your statement and the list of witnesses the coroner intends to examine.’
‘Are you sure Boylan didn’t hire you?’
‘Boylan? Great heavens, no. Now, about your statement …’
‘Which one?’ said Bloom.
‘Oh!’ Mr Sullivan paused. ‘You made more than one statement to the police, did you?’
‘Two.’
‘How many did you sign?’
‘One … the second one.’
‘Um.’ Mr Sullivan shook his chestnut locks again, a habit vain enough to be irritating. ‘I don’t have a copy of the original and, since it wasn’t signed, the police are under no obligation to give me sight of it. Do you recall what you said in it?’
‘I rambled a bit, I’m afraid. I wasn’t quite myself.’
‘Understandably,’ Neville Sullivan said. ‘Now, this intruder? You didn’t actually see an intruder, did you, Mr Bloom?’
‘No.’
‘The existence of an intruder in your house is speculation on your part, is it not?’
‘I was only gone out for twenty minutes.’
‘Speculation,’ Sullivan went on, ‘upon which the police have singularly failed to act.’
‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t murder my wife.’
‘The police are convinced you did,’ Sullivan said. ‘So convinced, in fact, that they’ve ignored all other possibilities. Now, it doesn’t matter what I think. Indeed, if pressed, I’d be inclined to agree with the constabulary which’ – another toss of the head – ‘is why I’ll do everything possible to keep you from being sent to trial.’
‘You mean
, you think I’m guilty?’
‘There’s no evidence to the contrary,’ Mr Sullivan said. ‘I mean, no evidence being offered to the contrary. The distinction is not as subtle as it may seem. Where, Mr Bloom, are your witnesses?’
‘I have none.’
‘You’ve the butcher, for a start, and this woman mentioned in police depositions – Mrs Hastings – whom you encountered in Eccles Street on the morning of the crime.’
‘I’d forgotten about her.’
‘Fortunately, she hasn’t forgotten about you,’ Sullivan said. ‘The coroner, bless his heart, has seen fit to summon both the butcher and the woman to balance your account. Now, tell me, has anyone thought to inform you that you do not stand before a coroner’s jury as a prisoner and no charge is preferred? No, I thought not. However, the magistrate, for reason beyond fathom, has passed the onus on to the coroner, possibly because he believes Dr Slater was presumptuous in issuing an arrest warrant in the first place.’
Neville Sullivan played another silent tune on the accordion file and bestowed on Mr Bloom a smile that while very white and pretty was not particularly reassuring.
‘Let’s be blunt, Bloom: this is a case of homicide,’ he continued. ‘It requires no medical expertise to deduce from the nature of her injuries that your wife was struck down by the hand of another. The coroner’s jury will be expected to bring forth a verdict of wilful murder and the coroner will issue a fresh warrant committing you to be tried at the Assizes.’ Another pause, a faint smile. ‘However, the presentation of the written statement of the jury, if it contains the subject-matter of accusation, is equivalent to the finding of a grand jury and you, I’m afraid, may be tried upon it alone.’
‘Then I’m as good as hanged,’ said Bloom.
‘Not for manslaughter.’
‘I’m not clear on the difference,’ said Bloom.
‘Malice aforethought,’ Mr Sullivan said. ‘In other words, was the violent act committed on an irrational impulse or planned in advance of commission? The line betwixt the two can be exceeding fine. Lacking witnesses, the decision usually hangs upon the credibility of the accused. Incidentally, any statement you choose to make in the coroner’s court will not be under oath.’
‘Are the witnesses examined under oath?’
Young Mr Sullivan, who had been whistling through his guidelines more or less by rote, stared at Mr Bloom as if he, Mr Bloom that is, had suddenly grown horns. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Is Boylan … Hugh Boylan on the list of witnesses?’
‘I don’t believe he is.’ Sullivan scanned a sheet of paper attached to a more formal-looking document. ‘The name doesn’t appear anywhere.’ He stared at Bloom again. ‘Does this man have something against you?’
‘No, but I have something against him,’ said Bloom.
‘And what might that be?’
‘He’s stealing away my daughter just as he stole …’ Bloom bit off the tail of the sentence. ‘What, Mr Sullivan, can you do to ensure I’m released on bail?’
Sullivan hesitated. ‘If the jury are unconvinced by the facts put before them they may find there is no case to answer and it would be left to the coroner to dismiss you or, on his own judgement, hand you up for trial at the assizes. In the latter event the granting of bail would be a formality.’
‘What if I were to admit to manslaughter?’
‘What are you saying, Mr Bloom?’
‘Would I be released on bail before sentencing?’
‘No, you would not.’
Bloom frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand the mechanics of the law.’
Neville Sullivan let out his breath and punished a curl that threatened the integrity of his brow. He studied Bloom for a moment longer, slapped his knee and jumped to his feet. ‘Fortunately for you, Mr Bloom, I do,’ he said. ‘Now, have you fresh linen and brushes for your suit and shoes?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Good, I’ll send someone along with hot water, a razor and soap. In court you must appear to be just what you are, sir: a thoroughly respectable gentleman.’
Bloom rose and shook the lawyer’s hand.
‘Thank you for your advice. I have sore need of it, it seems.’
‘That you do, Mr Bloom,’ said young Mr Sullivan. ‘That you do,’ then hurried out of the cell and loped off down the corridor like a hound on the scent of a hare.
Roland Slater had served his time conducting inquests in draughty halls and the odorous back rooms of public houses, places where the respect due to a coroner and the traditions of a court that could trace its history back to Edward I was scant to nonexistent. He was eternally grateful to Councillor Nannetti for providing him with a courthouse that befitted the dignity of the office and had promised the Councillor that if he, Joseph P. Nannetti, ever decided to run for mayor of Dublin, he, Roland Slater, would be right behind him.
Slater was no vinegary bachelor creeping home at night to a cold supper and a colder bed. He had a plump, jovial wife and two married sons who were as fond of music and gossip as he was, plus six tuneful grandchildren and another little minim on the way.
In all aspects of life, Dr Slater was a happy man, though, it must be said, never happier than when poring over the multitude of forms that attached themselves to the office of coroner and happiest of all when he took his seat in the big green-leather chair and heard Mr Rice, his court officer, proclaim, ‘Oyez, Oyez, Oyez,’ to set the inquisitorial ball rolling.
Seated on the coroner’s right were fifteen jurymen, good and true, in a raked box two rows deep. Below them, facing the not-too-lofty witness box, was the coroner’s clerk, Mr Devereux. To Slater’s left was a long table for counsellors, solicitors and the parties they represented and, directly in his line of sight, benches for the press, the court officer and officers of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. Last, and most definitely least in Roland Slater’s view, up there, facing him, was a gallery for friends and relatives of the deceased and, of, course, the usual curious representatives of the great unwashed.
The elected foreman of the jury, George Conway, a bookbinder by trade and formidably well read, was fully aware of both the law and his rights. If Dr Slater thought for one moment that the jury would agree to be palmed off with photographs of the handsomest corpse ever to grace the Store Street mortuary he had another think coming.
After the calling of the jurors and a lengthy swearing in, Mr Conway gathered his flock and waited patiently for Mr Rice to lead them off to view Mrs Bloom’s remains through the mortuary’s plate glass window. If any juryman was roused by the sight of the woman’s voluptuous body naked beneath a sheet he kept his feelings to himself as the procession wended down the narrow corridor and, in due course, filed back into the courtroom.
In the interval, Dr Slater seized the opportunity to remind the gentlemen of the Press that they were forbidden to publish anything about the inquest until after a verdict had been reached and that he, backed by the full weight and majesty of the law, would be down on them like a ton of bricks if they did.
Tom Machin leaned into Kinsella and murmured, ‘Slater loves all this blarney, you know. Look at him, puffed up like a toad.’
‘He’s only doing his job,’ Kinsella said. ‘Give the beggar his due, Tom, he does keep everyone in order. What do you make of Bloom’s choice of legal council?’
‘Young Sullivan? He wasn’t Bloom’s choice. Driscoll took it upon himself to dig up an advocate on Bloom’s behalf.’
‘He looks like a boy,’ Kinsella said.
‘He is a boy,’ Tom Machin said. ‘He’s the most junior of junior partners in Tolland’s firm and this is his first criminal case.’
‘Is that the best Driscoll could do?’
‘Better a young warhorse snorting for recognition than some tired old nag who’s only interested in filling his feedbag. However, yes, he’s the best Driscoll could find on short notice.’
‘Bloom’s certainly getting his moneys worth by the look of it. S
ullivan hasn’t stopped talking since they sat down.’
‘Instructing his client, I believe it’s called,’ Machin said and, with the coroner giving him stern looks, folded his arms and sat back.
TWELVE
‘What,’ Slater began, ‘is your name?’
‘Leopold Bloom.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘7 Eccles Street, Dublin.’
‘What is your occupation?’
‘I am employed by the Freeman’s Journal to sell advertising.’
‘Have you seen the body that the jury have viewed?’
‘I have.’
‘Do you recognise the deceased woman?’
‘I did. I mean, I do.’
‘What was her full name?’
‘Marion Tweedy Bloom.’
Roland Slater had been through this rigmarole a thousand times. He had the pace off pat, deliberate enough to allow the clerk to record every word but not so studied as to irritate the jury. Neither threat nor tedium evident in his tone, he addressed the witness in a manner more avuncular than theatrical.
‘What relation was the woman to you?’
‘She was my wife.’
‘Where did she live?’
‘With me in 7 Eccles Street.’
‘Did she have an occupation?’
‘She sang professionally from time to time but had no regular employment other than that of housewife.’
Whether following Sullivan’s advice or his own inclination to be infernally polite, Bloom answered with just the right note of deference. He fixed his gaze not on the coroner or the jury but on the nib of the recorder’s pen as if to watch the story of his life being written under his nose.
‘And your wife’s age?’
‘Thirty-four last birthday.’
‘What would you say was the general state of her health?’
‘Very good. Excellent, really.’
Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom? Page 11