Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom?

by Jessica Stirling

‘Are there no other doors? There must be other doors,’ Mr Conway put in.

  ‘There are, but they’re both secured,’ Tom Machin said.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Conway, very reasonably, ‘if we’re going to be kept out here for long might I suggest we repair somewhere for something to drink. At the city’s expense, of course?’

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ said Gandy

  Stepping back, he aimed his boot at the door and struck it a massive blow with his heel. The draught plate rattled, the door panel cracked and the crowd on the pavement cheered.

  Thoroughly incensed now, the mainstay of the DMP’s tug-of-war team was not about to be defeated by a bloody door. He let out a lion’s roar and drove his boot directly into the lock which resisted the first blow and the second but yielded, with a squeal of metal against wood, to the third.

  The door of the house of death swung slowly open.

  ‘There!’ Gandy said and, grabbing Mr Conway by the shoulder, yanked him into the hallway. ‘Happy now?’

  Whatever had passed between Mr Bloom and his one and only had brought no fresh tears. The young woman was stiff and steely when she emerged from the clerk’s office and with barely a nod to Mr Sullivan hurried off to join her friends from Mullingar who, it seemed, had not deserted her in favour of refreshment after all.

  On the table in the clerk’s office was a little brown teapot, milk jug, sugar basin and two cups and saucers. There was also an oval plate of tinned-salmon sandwiches cut into dainty triangles. Bloom was smoking a cigarette he’d scrounged from the court officer but hadn’t touched either the tea or the sandwiches.

  Sullivan drew out a chair, seated himself and filled two cups from the little pot. ‘Better eat something, Bloom. We’ve a long afternoon ahead, I fear.’

  Bloom looked up. ‘Where’s Kinsella?’

  ‘He has business of his own to attend to,’ Sullivan said. ‘You’re stuck with me, Leopold. Have a sandwich, do.’

  Bloom pinched the cigarette between finger and thumb and blew smoke. ‘I know what Kinsella’s game is. He wants me to plead guilty to manslaughter and sweep me under the carpet. He doesn’t think I’m important enough to bother with.’

  ‘There, Mr Bloom, you’re wrong. If anyone wants your case swept up and brushed aside it’s Coroner Slater. May I have one of your sandwiches?’

  Bloom nodded, watched the lawyer bite into the soft white bread and saw, greedily, the moist pink salmon flesh squeeze out at the corners. He took a last puff on the cigarette, dabbed it into the ashtray and reached for the sandwich plate.

  Sullivan said, ‘Inspector Kinsella wants your case held over. If you agree, he’ll press Slater to adjourn the hearing for a week or so to give him time to prove your innocence.’

  Bloom tongued bread into his cheek. ‘If I am innocent.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ Neville Sullivan said, then hastily added, ‘No, no, don’t answer that.’

  Bloom swallowed, smiled. ‘Is it more difficult to defend a man who may be innocent than a man you know to be guilty?’

  ‘In coroner’s court, no,’ Neville Sullivan said. ‘In front of assize judges it’s nigh impossible.’

  ‘And why might that be?’

  ‘Because we’ll be up against seasoned Crown prosecutors who’ll strip our witnesses bare in cross examination and fetch in witnesses of their own to swear that you and your wife were at loggerheads over her pregnancy.’

  ‘What if I were to tell you, Mr Sullivan, that I didn’t know Molly was pregnant?’

  ‘I find that just as hard to believe as will a jury.’

  Bloom sipped tea and reached for another sandwich.

  ‘I assume Boylan will make an appearance in the witness box at some stage,’ he said. ‘Knowing Blazes, he’ll manage to convince the jury he begged Molly to divorce me and let him make an honest woman out of her. Love’s eternal flame. Sentiment always wins the day in the end.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken with Hugh Boylan yet, so I can’t predict what he’ll say or do. He isn’t on Slater’s witness list, though that doesn’t mean he can’t be called if you think it would help.’

  ‘Help who? Help me? Fat chance of that,’ Bloom said. ‘Blazes Boylan never helps anyone but himself. He’s taken Molly from me and now he’s after Milly.’

  ‘He’s far too old for Milly.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Bloom said. ‘Boylan’s motto: a man’s only as old as his penis. Anyway, he’s only thirty-five or -six and that’s not old these days.’

  ‘Well, I can’t apply for a court order to prevent Boylan from consorting with your daughter without evidence he means to harm her. Am I to take it that Boylan was your wife’s … I mean to say, that he and your wife had an intimate relationship?’

  ‘I thought you were aware of it,’ Bloom said. ‘God knows, Boylan’s not shy when it comes to bragging about his conquests.’ Another sandwich went to his mouth. He paused, then said, ‘Whichever way he tells his story he’ll be the hero and I’ll be the cucky, a poor impotent Jew man who couldn’t satisfy his wife.’

  ‘Kinsella thinks you’re protecting someone?’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ Bloom said.

  ‘May I, as your lawyer, ask who that might be?’

  ‘Molly,’ Bloom said. ‘I’m protecting Molly.’

  ‘Her reputation, you mean?’

  ‘She had the swagger and the voice and that was well enough for most folk.’ Bloom put down the half-eaten sandwich and rubbed the tip of his nose with his thumb. ‘The best I can do for Molly now is leave her with that.’

  ‘What about your daughter?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Aren’t you concerned about her future?’

  ‘I’ll see Milly right whatever happens.’ Bloom picked up the half-eaten sandwich and brought it to his lips then, as if his appetite had suddenly deserted him, dropped it back on to the plate. ‘If Slater calls an adjournment will he let Molly be buried?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Neville Sullivan nodded. ‘He’ll issue an Order for Burial at the end of the session. Have you given any thought to funeral arrangements?’

  ‘She’ll be buried at Glasnevin,’ Bloom said. ‘Rudy’s there waiting for his mama in our plot out towards Finglas.’ Bloom rubbed his nose again. ‘I’ve told Milly what I want done and’ – he shrugged – ‘Boylan may as well make himself useful. We’ll all be buried there in time, all of us together, turning to dust together. Can you get me out for the funeral?’

  ‘If you insist I’ll press for a parole. But Kinsella thinks, and I agree with him, that the ends of justice will be better served if you agree to remain in custody.’

  ‘The ends of justice being what?’

  ‘Your unconditional release.’

  ‘What if I don’t agree?’

  ‘Then Slater will send your case up for trial at the April assizes whatever verdict the jury reaches today. It may appear to you like a false promise but Kinsella’s on to something.’

  ‘What?’ said Bloom, warily.

  ‘He won’t say. I’ll be ready to wave a writ for habeas corpus if there’s any undue delay. You, meanwhile, will spend an unpleasant week in Kilmainham.’

  ‘And the alternative is what? Admitting to manslaughter?’

  ‘No, the alternative is a trial before High Court judges under a new warrant. Both strategies involve risk, Leopold. I won’t deny it.’

  ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘If you agree to let Slater call an adjournment and don’t insist on bail then your statement to the police will be read out to the court and I’ll refuse to let you be questioned by jury or coroner, which I’m fully entitled to do. The police will appeal for more time to advance their enquiries, other witnesses, such as they are, will be bound over and the inquiry will be suspended.’

  ‘And Boylan won’t be called?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure Boylan won’t be called?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘In that case,
’ Bloom said, ‘let Kinsella have his way.’

  The jurors returned to the courthouse at 1.48 pm, not much enlightened by their tour of the house of death and grumbling because they hadn’t been fed. The coroner, who had been fed, placated them by announcing that he intended to detain them only long enough to read a statement by Leopold Bloom followed by a request from Superintendent Driscoll of Rotunda Division that his officers be granted more time to gather evidence, after which he, the coroner, would formally bind over witnesses and jurors to appear in seven days’ time, instruct Mr Rice to proclaim an adjournment and send the jurors home. There being no dissent from the jurors, proceedings closed at twenty-eight minutes after two o’clock, and the courthouse emptied.

  By ten to three Dr Slater was seated in his office filling out the Order for Burial while his clerk gathered depositions and recognizances to file for safekeeping. Having said farewell to Milly Bloom, Harry Coghlan and Michael Paterson were sitting down to afternoon tea in the lounge of the Belleville before catching a train back to Mullingar. Inspector Kinsella was on his way to Lower Castle Yard to log the day’s events and Tom Machin was organising transport to convey Bloom to Kilmainham jail to sample the austere life that awaited him if his gamble went horribly wrong.

  FIFTEEN

  There was nothing remotely sensual in the care Maude Boylan devoted to dusting the plump curves of the two near-naked nymphs who guarded the staircase. According to Daphne, the figures, representing Prudence and Chastity, were fashioned from finest translucent alabaster and had been painted over with dark green paint only to preserve them from Dublin’s abrasive fogs. In Maude’s view, however, they were naught but a couple of chubby adolescents slathered with thick green paint to disguise the fact that they were cheap plaster casts left over from the days when the house had belonged to a demented tea-broker who, according to local legend, had been found hanging from a hook in his bedroom with the most enormous erection and a blissful smile on his face.

  In memory of, if not respect for, the dear dead demented, Maude polished off her daily round by flicking each protuberant buttock with her feather before, chuckling to herself, she lugged bucket, mop and duster along the passageway to the kitchen to get down to the really serious business of scrubbing floors, sinks and lavatory pans.

  What brother Hughie made of the statues the sisters never inquired. It hadn’t escaped their notice, though, that some of the girls Hughie had smuggled into his room in his shaping years had borne more than a passing resemblance to the pair in the hall and, if young Milly Bloom was anything to go by, his tastes hadn’t changed much.

  ‘She’s a child, Maude, a mere child.’

  ‘That,’ Maude said, ‘she’s not.’

  ‘Fifteen,’ said Daphne, ‘is not a woman.’

  ‘Mother was married at fifteen,’ Maude reminded her.

  ‘No,’ said Daphne, ‘Mother was pregnant at fifteen and married at sixteen before she knew which end was up.’

  ‘Well,’ said Maude, rinsing her mop at the sink, ‘I doubt if Hughie has marriage on his mind. He’s resisted so far and I see no reason to suppose if he ever does decide to take the plunge it’ll be to a penniless waif.’

  ‘Is she penniless?’

  ‘Of course she is,’ said Maude. ‘She’s Bloom’s daughter and when did Bloom ever have two farthings to rub together?’

  Daphne paused in the act of dicing carrots. ‘Hughie wouldn’t marry a Jew, would he?’

  ‘The girl isn’t a Jew. Her mother wasn’t a Jew and Leo converted years ago. In any case, if Hughie’s mind is made up then it wouldn’t matter if the girl were a Hottentot.’

  ‘I’m thinking of the bloodline,’ said Daphne.

  ‘The bloodline!’ Maude scoffed. ‘What bloodline? We’re mongrels, my dear. If Papa hadn’t invested his horse profits in the Friendly Society we’d all be in the workhouse by now.’

  ‘Surely not Hughie.’

  ‘No,’ Maude conceded, ‘possibly not Hughie.’

  A saucepan of minced beef spluttered on the stove. Daphne finished chopping and tipped the carrots into the pan. ‘Why has he brought her here, Maude?’

  Maude was scouring out the mop pail with a bristle brush, her broad back bent over the task, her muscular arm, bare to the elbow, pumping. ‘Guilt,’ she said. ‘Conscience, if you prefer it.’

  ‘Hughie doesn’t have a conscience.’ Daphne popped the lid on the saucepan and turned down the gas. ‘Where is Milly, by the way?’

  ‘Resting,’ said Maude. ‘She’s putting on a brave face but what happened in court today really upset her. I gather Bloom’s been sent to Kilmainham to cool his heels while the investigation gathers steam. I rather thought it would be over by now.’

  Daphne leaned on the dresser and folded her arms over her small, hard bosom. She looked down the length of the kitchen, which, like so many of the rooms in the house, suffered from a paucity of light. The door to the yard was open, though, and an arc of daylight framed her sister at the sink.

  ‘Maude, do you think he killed her?’

  ‘Bloom?’ Maude did not look up. ‘I greatly doubt it.’

  ‘If he didn’t …’

  Maude flushed the pail with a gush of cold water and rounded on her sister. ‘Say it, just say it. Very well, I’ll say it for you: why did a detective come knocking on our door? Isn’t it obvious even to you, Daphne, that our brother was more to Molly Bloom than her concert manager?’

  ‘I’m not altogether blind, Maude. I knew something was going on.’ Daphne said. ‘Is it because he and Molly Bloom were … were friends that he’s looking after her daughter? If so, I’d call that charity, not conscience.’

  ‘Call it what you like,’ Maude said, ‘it doesn’t alter the fact that Hughie’s a suspect.’

  ‘What!’ Daphne exclaimed. ‘Hughie was here at home with us and drunk into the bargain.’ She paused, blinking nervously. ‘He was, wasn’t he? At home with us?’

  ‘Of course he was,’ said Maude.

  Daphne, not convinced, dampened a washcloth under the tap and wiped the chopping board while her sister poured hot water from the kettle into the gleaming pail. ‘I feel sorry for her,’ Daphne said. ‘Child or not, she’s lost her mother and her father’s in jail.’

  ‘You’re too soft by half,’ said Maude. ‘Milly is Molly Bloom’s daughter and you know what a conniving creature Molly Bloom was when she wasn’t much older than Milly.’ She hefted the pail from the sink, dropped into it a pellet of lye soap and gave it a shake. ‘Look how badly she treated Leo and what a dance she led him.’

  ‘Especially after she lost the little boy,’ Daphne said.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. A kind of revenge, I suppose.’

  ‘On Leo? Why?’ said Daphne. ‘The little boy was his too. In any case, I really can’t imagine what all this has to do with Milly or, come to think of it, our Hughie.’

  ‘It’s murder, my dear, cold-blooded murder. The police are exploring all avenues of inquiry, isn’t that how the Journal puts it? Naturally, they want to talk to Hughie. As long as we stick to our guns we’ve nothing to fear.’

  ‘Stick to our guns? What do you mean?’

  Maude lifted the pail, toted it down the length of the kitchen to the water closet that faced into the yard, placed it on the flagstones and returned to pick up the mop.

  Loitering by the sink, Daphne held the mop at arm’s length. ‘Hughie did come home that night, didn’t he, Maude? You did let him in and help him to bed, didn’t you? That’s what you told the policeman.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Maude, ‘and if that G-man comes calling again that’s what you’ll tell him: Hughie was home by midnight, drunk as a lord, and we both helped him to bed.’

  ‘Now that you mention it,’ said Daphne, blinking once more, ‘of course, we did,’ and handed her sister the mop.

  It was just as well that Mr Bloom arrived in Kilmainham jail inside a Black Maria and did not see the prison walls close around him. He was hauled from the ba
ck of the van and hustled through two doors and down a short corridor by a couple of prison guards who clearly had no notion who he was. He had no reputation as a hero of the cause, hadn’t blown up a post office or stabbed a member of the English parliament. He was a milk-and-water Home Ruler who had once booed Joe Chamberlain at a public meeting but he was no staunch citizen of the underground elite. Consequently no one cheered when, after booking, he was led across the floor of the Great Hall and up the spidery iron staircase to the first floor gallery, carrying his blanket, pot, mug and spoon.

  Mr Bloom had never thought of himself as anything other than an ordinary man struggling to earn a crust and snatch a little pleasure in the passing. But here, in the vast, vaulted East Wing of Kilmainham jail, he realised he was, in fact, invisible. He doubted if the jailers even knew he wasn’t a convict but a prisoner on remand and, unlike the other short-term inmates in this cathedral of confinement, had been found guilty of no crime.

  For seven days he would be a captive of his own conscience, locked alone in a white-plastered cell with a window too high to reach and nothing to do but dwell on his grief, his fears and fantasies and, in the darkest hours of the leaden night, remember the good times with Molly and plan for the better times ahead.

  It was many a year since Blazes Boylan had last had the shakes. The fit came upon him out of the blue or, more accurately, out of the dusk for now that the sun had set, D’Olier Street was filled with shadows. He had never liked the half hour when day was not quite over and night had not begun. Even he, famed for his self-assurance, was prone to brooding and, on that evening in particular, had begun to question not if but when he had lost his way.

  If chance hadn’t taken him into the tailor’s shop on Eden Quay a year back in September he wouldn’t have bumped into Bloom who was there to have his trousers altered. They’d been neighbours once, briefly, Boylans and Blooms, in a tenement in Clanbrassil Street. Later, he’d flirted with Molly, to no good effect, when she hadn’t long been married. But then the Blooms had become nomads moving from one address to another and eventually he’d lost touch with them, which had been no excuse for Bloom pretending not to recognise him that day in the tailor’s shop.