Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom?

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘I’m glad to see you, so glad to see you.’ Milly glanced over her shoulder. ‘Blazes – Mr Boylan – has been very kind, but the others … I can’t think what they’re doing here unless, as you say, it is just snooping.’ She put a gloved hand on Harry Coghlan’s arm. ‘I don’t mean to imply …’

  ‘Of course, you don’t.’ Mr Coghlan gently patted her hand. ‘I want you to know, Milly, there will always be a place for you in Mullingar and we all look forward to having you back.’

  Milly began to cry.

  Mr Coghlan said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘It’s only me being silly again,’ said Milly and to show there were no ill feelings, far from it, went up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek as Hugh Boylan advanced from one direction and Inspector Kinsella from another.

  ‘We meet again,’ Blazes said.

  ‘It seems we do,’ said Michael Paterson.

  There was no offer of a handshake.

  ‘Just up for the day?’ Blazes asked.

  ‘To see our girl,’ Harry Coghlan answered.

  ‘Your girl?’ said Blazes, frowning.

  ‘My employee,’ said Harry. ‘I mean, my employee.’

  Before Mr Coghlan could dig another hole for himself Inspector Kinsella stepped up to the little circle and Milly introduced him to her friends from Mullingar.

  Inspector Kinsella said he was pleased to see Miss Bloom had made new friends in Mullingar. Mr Boylan said he and her old friends from Dublin were about to spirit her off for a spot of lunch in the Belvidere, if time permitted. Inspector Kinsella said he’d arranged for Miss Bloom to meet privately with her father in the office of the clerk of court.

  Milly promptly said goodbye.

  For a second or two after her departure the men did not speak. There was more animosity than awkwardness in the silence for it was clear that Mr Boylan cared no more for Dr Paterson than Dr Paterson cared for him.

  ‘Lunch?’ Mr Coghlan at length suggested. ‘Perhaps you can recommend some place nearby, Mr Boylan?’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ said Blazes curtly and, turning on his heel, went off to join the young men who, hooting at some filthy witticism, were already heading for the door.

  Neville Sullivan had a sweetheart. Like it or lump it, he was stuck with Alfred Tolland’s daughter, the price he’d had to pay for a junior partnership. Engagement was in the offing and marriage inevitable but, if you put a gun to his head, young Neville would admit that he didn’t really mind being cornered. Sarah Tolland, three years his senior, was quite a beauty and by no means lacking in brains and he, in spite of his airs, graces and splendid head of hair was merely the son of a humble Inspector of Schools from County Fermanagh.

  The first thing that struck him about Bloom’s daughter was how mature she seemed, aided, no doubt, by the stiff, tailored bombazine that emphasized her bust. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes more starey than starry, in spite of which he experienced an unexpected chug of desire when she first entered the room. She paid him such scant attention, however, that his ardour quickly cooled and he stepped hastily to one side to let her embrace her father.

  The embrace was oddly restrained, as if they were distant cousins who hadn’t seen each other in years. They kept the table between them, Bloom leaning over it, the girl meeting him half way; a brusque kiss to the brow, a one-armed hug, and Bloom sat down again. Neville Sullivan leapt to draw out a chair for the girl but Kinsella beat him to it. He watched Miss Bloom tuck her rustling skirts around her bottom and carefully sit down.

  Bloom said, ‘Where did you get that dress?’

  Milly said, ‘Don’t you like it?’

  Bloom said, ‘Did Boylan pay for it?’

  ‘What if he did?’

  ‘I don’t want you taking things from Hugh Boylan, Milly.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Bloom said, ‘You’re too young to be taking things from men.’

  Milly said, ‘Mr Boylan isn’t any man. He was Mummy’s friend. Who else is going to take care of me? You? You couldn’t even take care of Mummy.’

  Oh, my! Neville Sullivan thought, it’s dawned on her at last that her father’s tale of an intruder is bunkum and he might actually be guilty. He slid a pace to his right and brought both Bloom and the girl into clear view. Bloom’s jet-black hair sprayed across his forehead almost covering one eye and, with lips pursed, his moustache seemed about to disappear up his nostrils. His sullen dark eyes glittered not with tears but with anger. He offered his daughter no reprimand, no rebuttal.

  Milly went on, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Fists on the chair back, Kinsella inclined forward, eager to catch Bloom’s reply. Bloom said nothing. ‘You must have known, Papli. Surely you must have known about the baby.’

  ‘Papli’ was an unusual endearment, Neville Sullivan thought. Why not Pappy or even Poppy; Sarah Tolland called her father Poppy, however inapt. He’d heard that Bloom’s father had hailed from Hungary and wondered if Papli was Hungarian for father, or if it was Yiddish or, more likely, a contraction held over from childhood.

  ‘Another Rudy,’ Milly went on. ‘Another Rudy, and you said not a word. Did you think I’d object to having a brother or a sister now I’m grown up?’

  Bloom said, ‘You’re staying with him, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Don’t fret yourself, his sisters are there too.’

  ‘Daphne and Maude?’

  ‘Oh?’ said Milly, a little taken aback. ‘Do you know them?’

  Bloom’s cheek twitched, almost a smile. ‘Many years ago. The Reckless Rechabites. Nothing reckless about them now, I imagine. Where’s Boylan?’

  ‘Outside.’

  Bloom glanced up at the Inspector. ‘May I speak with him?’

  ‘No,’ Kinsella said.

  ‘Not even a word?’

  ‘Not even a word.’

  To Milly, Bloom said, ‘What’s he been telling you about me?’

  ‘He says he’s going to get you out of here by hook or by crook.’

  ‘Is that what he says? Well, I don’t doubt he means it.’ Bloom looked up again. ‘I thought someone mentioned tea?’

  ‘I believe it’s on its way,’ Kinsella said.

  ‘See if you can hurry it along, please,’ Bloom said. ‘And take Mr Sullivan with you.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s allow—’ Neville Sullivan began.

  Kinsella interrupted him. ‘You want a little time alone with your daughter, Bloom, is that it?’

  ‘What do you say, Inspector? Five minutes?’ The crinkled half smile again: ‘I’m not going to bolt.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get far if you did,’ Kinsella reminded him, then, taking Neville Sullivan by the arm, led the lawyer out of the office and left Bloom to appease his huffy daughter as best he could.

  Up in the gallery they were eating sandwiches and drinking soda pop from sticky brown bottles. The din floating down from above was deafening. The consumption of alcohol was forbidden, court officers were strict on that point, which didn’t, of course, prevent some wily boozers nipping from hip flasks and quarter bottles.

  The hall below had emptied a little but the stairs were crowded with examples of Slater’s great unwashed, some sitting, some standing, almost all smoking, the air thick with tobacco smoke and countless variations of rich Irish brogue.

  If she hadn’t been so tall – and alone – Kinsella wouldn’t have given her a second glance. He had more to occupy him than ogling girls, especially ten-for-a-penny not quite working girls in from the suburbs for the show. She was striking, though, not just because of her height, curly black hair and full lips. Something in her pose gave him pause: confident and just a little insolent, shoulders resting against the wall at the bend of the stairs, looking down her nose at him. When he hesitated, drawing Sullivan up by the elbow, she turned her face away, hiding it with one long-fingered hand as if she were playing peek-a-boo which, Kinsella thought, was patently ridiculous.

  He moved quickly on, ste
ering the lawyer along the corridor into the all-but deserted courtroom.

  Slater, his deputy and clerk were closeted in the coroner’s office, fortifying themselves with a lunchtime snack. Tom Machin had hastened off to find a police van for the jury’s trip to Eccles Street for it was the DMP’s responsibility to ensure no juryman was ‘lost’ during the excursion and the route from Store Street passed too many pubs to take any chances.

  Once inside the courtroom, Kinsella released Sullivan’s arm. ‘I require a private word with you, counsellor.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Neville Sullivan said. ‘Thank God. I thought I was being arrested. Speaking of which, you’re taking a frightful risk leaving Bloom without a police guard. He may not be presented as the accused but he’s still in custody.’

  ‘On suspicion,’ Kinsella said.

  ‘Suspicion my backside,’ Sullivan said. ‘You’ve nothing worth snuff to charge him with. Your case is circumstantial, all circumstantial. You haven’t one shred of evidence to prove Bloom did anything wrong.’

  ‘And you haven’t a shred of evidence to prove he didn’t.’

  ‘Impasse is not a word you’ll find in any book of law. Besides, I’ll have him out on bail on a writ of habeas corpus in a trice.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t,’ Kinsella said. ‘I’ve lost felons who were as guilty as sin to lawyer’s writs before now.’

  ‘So you think Bloom’s guilty, do you?’

  ‘In fact, no, I don’t. I think he’s shielding someone.’

  ‘Shielding someone?’ Neville Sullivan said. ‘Um, yes, now that might explain why the stubborn fellow won’t plead to manslaughter.’

  ‘There’s no other suspect,’ Kinsella said. ‘If you don’t offer a reduced plea on the back of a confession, the best you can hope for is a fresh warrant handing him up for trial at the April assizes.’

  ‘What are you driving at?’

  ‘If Bloom didn’t do it, as he claims, then someone else did,’ Kinsella said. ‘My guess is that Bloom knows who that someone is, and I would very much like to find out.’

  ‘Wouldn’t we all,’ said Sullivan. ‘Go on, do.’

  ‘Slater’s no fool. He knows perfectly well the case against Bloom is creaky and he won’t let it go as it stands. For reasons of pride, mainly, he wants to send Bloom to the assizes with a noose round his neck. Yes, I know: whatever happens Bloom won’t hang, but one week in jail compared to a life stretch is not to be sneezed at.’

  ‘A week?’

  ‘I’m asking Slater for an adjournment.’

  ‘The devil you are!’

  ‘This is your first criminal case, is it not?’

  ‘What if it is?’ Sullivan said.

  ‘In High Court circumstantial evidence carries a great deal more weight than it does here,’ Kinsella said. ‘I have witnesses not on Slater’s list who’ll testify that Bloom had motive as well as opportunity, a motive strong enough to lead to a murder conviction.’

  ‘You’re bluffing.’

  ‘One pregnant wife with a lover?’ Kinsella said.

  ‘She had a lover?’

  ‘See what I mean, Mr Sullivan. If you think I’m bluffing about the weight a High Court jury will give to motive then I suggest you ask your mentor, Mr Tolland. God knows, he’s sent enough men to the clink on the strength of not much more than rumour.’

  Sullivan cocked his head. ‘What do you want, Inspector?’

  Kinsella held up a forefinger. ‘One week’s adjournment, which I’m certain Slater will concede. One week’s adjournment without resistance from you and with Bloom still in custody.’

  ‘Bloom will never accept. He’s keening for bail.’

  ‘In which case, all he has to do is tell me whom he’s protecting or plead to manslaughter and take his chances at the assizes. One uncomfortable week in Kilmainham in exchange for a chance to walk out of that door a free man in seven days’ time, that’s my offer.’

  ‘You can’t guarantee a dismissal.’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ Kinsella admitted. ‘I can’t even be sure I won’t unearth proof that Bloom committed the crime. I am, however, acting on the premise that he didn’t.’

  ‘Um,’ Sullivan said. ‘I need a little more than that, sir.’

  ‘I have a lead, several leads.’

  ‘Will you tell me what they are?’

  Kinsella shook his head.

  Sullivan said, ‘Do they involve the lover?’

  ‘They may do.’

  ‘And I thought Alfred Tolland played things close to the chest,’ Sullivan said. ‘Still, I suppose secrecy comes as second nature to the men of the detective division. Well, I’m prepared to trust you, Inspector, but, frankly, I doubt if my client will.’

  ‘Then it’s up to you to convince him.’

  ‘All right,’ Neville Sullivan said. ‘One week.’

  ‘One week is all I need. Believe me, it’ll be better for all concerned if this case goes no further than the coroner’s court.’

  ‘Do you think I’m incapable of steering Bloom’s defence before a bench of High Court judges? Is that it?’

  Kinsella grinned. ‘In a nutshell, Mr Sullivan.’

  Neville Sullivan saw the joke. He laughed. ‘Do you suppose I’m capable of finding someone to fetch my client a dish of tea?’

  ‘I do hope so,’ Kinsella said. ‘And one for the little girl too.’

  ‘The little girl?’

  ‘Miss Bloom.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Neville Sullivan. ‘Listening to your pappy denying that he murdered your mother must be thirsty work. Where’s the kitchen in this warren?’

  ‘I honestly have no idea.’

  ‘Some detective you are,’ Neville Sullivan said and, with a toss of his handsome head, went off to find an officer to fetch the Blooms some tea.

  FOURTEEN

  Pussens had wisely abandoned No 7 and had taken up residence next door. She sat now in the ground-floor window on a ledge shared with a shabby castor oil plant and watched impassively as Sergeant Gandy and two constables herded fifteen good, grumbling men and true from the back of a horse-drawn van, lined them up on the pavement and attempted to call the roll. She, the cat, had no inclination to leave her cosy perch for a chilly pavement and, recognising no friendly faces in the crowd, just an array of heavy, tail-nipping boots, soon lost interest and, with a yawn, stretched out under the drooping leaves of the castor oil plant and fell asleep.

  Sleep was the last thing on Sergeant Gandy’s mind. He was furious at being handed an additional duty, his temper frayed by snivelling jurymen who, to hear them clatter on, had been treated worse than cattle and were sore and hungry after a journey that had lasted all of ten minutes.

  Deprived of lunch, a stealthy pint or two and an opportunity to sell ‘inside’ information, most of it fabricated, to a bunch of gullible journalists, Sergeant Gandy was in no mood to cosset his charges.

  In a voice rasping enough to strip lichen from a rock, he shouted out the names of the jurors while the constables arranged the men into groups on the step of the so-called house of death to await the arrival of Inspector Machin, who had elected not to share the over-crowded police van but, as befitted a person of his rank, travel by tram instead.

  ‘Lyons?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Tarpey?’

  ‘I thought we was bein’ fed first.’

  ‘No, Mr Tarpey, you’re not being fed,’ said Gandy. ‘You’re here to view the crime scene and you’ve only yourselves to blame. Gregory? Mathew Gregory?’

  ‘Sah.’ Gregory answered with a sarcastic salute that added fuel to the sergeant’s smouldering temper. ‘Where do you wish me to put meself?’

  ‘Over there, out of my way,’ snarled Gandy. ‘MacDougall?’ Answer came there none. ‘MacDougall? Where the devil’s MacDougall?’

  Any sort of street theatre inevitably drew a crowd and the arrival of a police van outside the Blooms’ house was no exception. Twenty or so citizen
s heard the whiskered sergeant shout, ‘MacDougall, you bugger, will you answer your bloody name?’

  Johnny MacDougall, a meek little chap, had toddled off to find a place to empty his bladder. He appeared, unabashed, from the steps that led down to the Blooms’ cellar door still fumbling with the buttons of his fly.

  ‘Now did I hear you callin’, Sergeant?’

  Gandy’s nostrils flared. He bit his lip and in a menacing tone enquired, ‘Are you John MacDougall?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Then, Mr MacDougall,’ the sergeant seethed, ‘will you kindly get your arse over there before I kick it for you?’

  ‘All in order, Sergeant Gandy?’ Tom Machin breached the ring of spectators in the nick of time. ‘No trouble, I trust?’

  ‘Winding up the roll call, sir,’ Sergeant Gandy replied while behind his back the jury smartly reassembled itself into three groups of five without any help from the constables.

  ‘Good, very good,’ Tom Machin said. ‘Now if you’ll just unlock the door, Sergeant, we’ll get on with it.’

  ‘I ha’n’t got a key, sir.’ The sergeant patted his pockets with big red-knuckled hands. ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘No, I have not.’

  ‘You must have, sir.’

  ‘I tell you I haven’t.’

  Quick to sense confusion, the jury muttered and shuffled.

  Foreman Conway asked, ‘Is there a problem, officer?’

  ‘No, damn you, there’s no problem,’ Sergeant Gandy shouted and, tossing jurymen right and left, surged up to Bloom’s front door and, grabbing the handle in both fists, wrenched and tore at it with all his might. Then, sheepish and breathless, he looked round.

  ‘It’s locked, Mr Machin.’

  ‘I know it’s locked, Sergeant,’ the Inspector said.

  Mr Conway said, ‘I do hope we’re not going to be kept waiting out here in the cold while you sort this out.’

  ‘Didn’t you retrieve the key from Miss Bloom?’ said Machin.

  ‘Miss Bloom?’ Gandy said. ‘She’s got it, has she? What the hell is she doing with our key?’

  ‘It’s her house,’ Machin patiently explained.