Almost as though she were stricken by horror.
Aloud, she said calmly, ‘If I am any judge, Lucy, I think that Agnes Fitzwilliam was horrified by the death of her husband.’
‘Horrified at what she had done? It is possible, you know!’
‘I don’t think so,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘Just horrified. Perhaps she wondered about the possibility that it was a member of her family. One of her sons, or one of her daughters. I don’t see her able to carry out a murder like that. She seemed to think it was all a mistake. I really don’t believe that she murdered him. Unless she is a better actress than I think she is.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Lucy. ‘It did take a bit of nerve, didn’t it? To put one of those canisters into the change barrel. I suppose the real barrel would be put under the counter, but one would have to be very quick and slick with movements, wouldn’t one? How many of the barrels had been sent up when he tumbled over the rail?’
The Reverend Mother thought about it. ‘I’ve forgotten the names of the counters,’ she said, ‘but I seem to remember that two of them came from people who worked in the shop, one came from an unmanned counter and the other three were from Agnes and her two daughters.’
‘Unmanned!’ Lucy seized on the word. ‘That means that anyone could have sent that one whizzing up. Could have been Robert, or it could have been James. Whoever killed him, it seems likely that it was one of his family, doesn’t it?’
‘I don’t know, Lucy,’ said the Reverend Mother. Her mind had gone to the angry face of Michael Dinan, the man who had been sacked, according to the chatterbox apprentice, Brian Maloney. ‘He’s mad, furious about getting the sack. Didn’t do nothing. They just do that here when people get too old to be apprentices or learners,’ Brian had said and remembering the man’s face, she could see what the boy had meant. Michael Dinan, she reckoned, facing facts, soberly and realistically, had looked as though he could kill.
‘Tell me about the daughters,’ she said. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it? Their brother referred to them as “the girls” and I, too, think of them as a pair, almost as though they had been Siamese twins, joined at the hip as a life sentence, and having no difference, no individuality, no separate hopes and ambitions. Did they go to school?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Lucy cheerfully. ‘But I don’t suppose that school is important, one way or other. The fact is that both are plain-faced; Kitty very sharp and Monica with an odd and uneasy manner; and that neither had enough of a dowry, I should imagine, to make it worth any man’s attention. And now they are too old. They would be about forty to forty-five, I’d say. What would you think?’
‘About that, I suppose,’ said the Reverend Mother sombrely. Too old to be considered for matrimony; too young to be reconciled to a life of drudgery, making money for a father who was too busy to spend it and for a mother who was lost in a sea of depression. ‘But, according to you, they got nothing much from the will. Neither of them,’ she said aloud.
‘All the more reason for them to kill him,’ said Lucy in a practical tone which belied the ghoulishness of what she was saying. ‘He had robbed them of their youth, had denied them of marriage and of motherhood. I was reading something about Freud, the other day,’ she went on. ‘He would have had plenty to say about these two. The more I think of it, the more I think that one, or both of them, murdered the old man. I must say that if any man treated me like that, well, I’d feel like murdering him,’ pronounced Lucy. She then added placidly, ‘I say, what really excellent cake this is. That Sister Bernadette of yours is a treasure. I can never get my cook to make a nice moist fruit cake like that.’
The Reverend Mother ignored this. She was not personally too fond of cake and did not consider herself a judge. Nor did she find the subject to be of any interest. Her mind was on the murder, the deliberate cutting off of a human life. Could one do that out of anger, out of rage about lost youth, lost opportunities? After all, it wasn’t wholly the fault of their father that Kitty and Monica had never married, that they had acquiesced dully and without any overt rebellion to spending their days in the shop. Was working in a shop any worse than hanging around the house with nothing to do? In her youth there had been many ‘old maids’ as she and Lucy had designated them and they would sit for hours on end in chilly drawing rooms, putting a few stitches in needlework, doing a little knitting, playing patience and yawning over stale stories about their youth. At least when Kitty and Monica went home, although they would be tired, they would have spoken to many people, seen a good cross-section of the Cork population, would have had the satisfaction of knowing that their work had contributed to the comfortable circumstances of their lives.
But had they seen matters in that light?
‘The more that I think of it, the more I feel that it was one of them,’ said Lucy suddenly. ‘After all, you said yourself that the mother looked horrified. What if she had suspected, had known that one of the twins felt murderous towards her father? What if she had overheard them talking about it? Perhaps they had drawn lots for it. One to kill and the other to lie about it.’
The Reverend Mother ignored this. Her mind was on the youth of those two unhappy-looking women. ‘Surely they must be about the age of your Anne,’ she said. ‘Did she know them at all?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said Lucy. ‘They wouldn’t have been our type,’ she said firmly.
The Reverend Mother thought about that. ‘Strange, isn’t it, how much money matters? You and I, Lucy, are descended from quite a modest ancestor; our grandfather was a man who had a good nose for tea and later on for fine wines. He made a lot of money importing it and selling it to his betters, the descendants of the Anglo-Norman families. People like the Fitzwilliams,’ she added, ‘well, they go back to the White Knight, don’t they? The Gilbert line, wasn’t it? I suppose that’s how he inherited the Queen’s Old Castle.’
‘That terrible old ruin!’ Lucy dismissed the pretensions of the Queen’s Old Castle. She would be thinking of the modern elegance of her own large house in the salubrious and wealthy suburb of Montenotte, well out of reach of the slums and smells of the ancient city. The Reverend Mother thought it was time to get back to the present-day descendants of the ancient family.
‘I was just wondering,’ she said mildly, ‘whether Anne might not have known them, seen them at dances, at parties. Anything like that.’
‘Didn’t know them at all,’ said Lucy emphatically. ‘I’m sure of that. I was talking to her last night and she asked me whether I was going to the funeral and I said that I thought not. Rupert will, of course, but I don’t see any reason for me to go, as well. I don’t think I’ve ever exchanged two words with the woman, or with him. And Anne said that she wasn’t going either. I got the impression that she didn’t know any of them. I believe that one of the twins, Kitty, I think, used to go in for amateur dramatics at one stage, according to Anne, but that was that. No, I won’t go to the funeral.’
The Reverend Mother sighed. A lot of time in Cork was spent in attending funerals and grave offence could be given if there were any unwarranted absences. ‘I suppose that I will have to. After all, the man dropped dead at my feet, literally. And I was very sorry for the wife at the time. She looked so stunned. And now, after what you have told me, I feel sorry for the whole family. There will be a lot of unhappiness.’
‘I wouldn’t waste your time feeling sorry for Major James Fitzwilliam,’ said Lucy tartly. ‘And don’t put on any “holier than thou” airs with me, Dottie. I know you. You’re as curious as the cat. You can’t wait to have another look at them and make up your mind. I suppose I should go with you. I would, but I know that you would insist on going to that dreary funeral meats’ meal afterwards. Would you believe it: they’re having it in the shop! Very, very strange. Is she ashamed of her house, do you think? Did she refuse to have it? Anyway this is Major Fitzwilliam’s idea. My housekeeper tells me that he is getting food and staff in from the Metropole Hotel, if you please. Goin
g to put it on the counters, I suppose. Can you imagine anything drearier? Still, if you want me, I suppose I’ll have to go.’
‘It’s very kind of you, Lucy,’ said the Reverend Mother decisively, ‘but I know how busy you are. I’ll manage on my own. Dr Scher will probably be going and I’ll ask whether I can go with him.’
The custom of giving food to those who went to a funeral was a very deeply ingrained one. It had originated in the country where relatives and friends might have walked long miles to pay a last tribute and would need to be fortified for the return journey. It had spread to the city and even the poorest tried to put on some sort of meal for those who attended a funeral. The wealthy made a big show of it; the not-so-wealthy did their best, and neighbours and even nearby shops came to the rescue of the slum dwellers. The idea of having the funeral repast in the family shop was, indeed, a remarkably odd idea.
Dr Scher, thought the Reverend Mother, as she made her way to the phone after saying goodbye to her cousin, would undoubtedly accompany her to the burial service at Brunswick Street and afterwards to the meal at the Queen’s Old Castle. But it would be interesting to see how many others of Cork’s professional and merchant class accepted this form of strange hospitality.
NINE
‘Going to the Fitzwilliam funeral, are you? Holding it in that church in Brunswick Street, aren’t they? And the meal afterwards in the shop. Did you ever!’ Patrick, on his way out from the barracks, was met by the superintendent. The old man didn’t wait for an answer. He was full of a piece of gossip.
‘Heard something interesting at the club last evening,’ he said. ‘You’d never guess, but there’s a rumour going around that the old man left the entire business to the eldest son, to the major. Not a penny to the younger son, to the fellow that has been working in that shop since the day that he left school. Robert, that’s the name, isn’t it? Makes you think, doesn’t it? Amazing how these things get around,’ he added.
‘I heard that, too,’ said Tommy.
‘All sorts of rumours going around,’ went on the superintendent. ‘You’d want to keep your ear to the ground, Patrick.’
‘Yes, that’s true. I’ve been hearing lots of rumours, too,’ said Tommy.
That might or might not be true, thought Patrick as, with a nod to both, he left the barracks. Tommy always did like to be in the know. And as he and the superintendent were the only Protestants in the barracks now, both of them leftovers from the time of the RIC, the British Royal Irish Constabulary, Tommy always echoed everything that the superintendent said.
But they were probably right about the inheritance, thought Patrick later in the morning, as he came out of the church after the funeral service. It was very noticeable that there was a small crowd of businessmen clustering around the major, while Mr Robert Fitzwilliam stood alone and awkwardly to one side, neither supporting his mother and sisters, nor joining his older brother. Funny how news travelled fast around Cork! He could have sworn that all of these men knew the contents of old Mr Fitzwilliam’s will. Even the reporter from the Cork Examiner went to the major first, and completely ignored Robert. Reporters always liked to keep on the best side of the man with power and money, he reflected as he joined the queue to pay his respects to Mrs Fitzwilliam, before moving on to say a few words to Robert.
‘You’ll be welcome to come back to the shop, for a cup of tea and something to eat, inspector? Are you coming? You might as well. See us all at close quarters.’ Robert Fitzwilliam gave a hoarse laugh. A man with a perpetual cold. There were a lot of them around Cork where the permanent damp and the constant fogs affected its unfortunate population with chronic bronchitis and catarrh. There was an awkward note in Robert’s voice and because of that Patrick agreed immediately. Hard on a man, he thought. Almost everyone there, under a polite appearance of condolence, was avidly wondering why on earth the son, who had devoted so many years to his father’s business, had been cut out of an inheritance.
‘Yes, of course; very good of you to ask me.’ The words now tripped off his tongue, though there had been a time when he had practised these forms of acceptance in front of his bedroom mirror. I’m not ashamed of my upbringing. Poor but honest. He tried to tell himself these things, but knew, that in a class-conscious society like the city of Cork, that he was always struggling under a disadvantage. He gave Robert a nod and moved on to say his piece to the major and then stood back, trying to look unobtrusive.
‘Good morning, inspector.’ A very upper-class accent and he knew instantly who it was. Mr Rupert Murphy, one of the foremost solicitors in the city. Married to a cousin of the Reverend Mother. Very posh, very suave, the type that always knew the right word to say. Discreet, too. Patrick admired the way in which the man had turned his back on the crowd and slightly urged him into a triangular space where the chancel widened out into the nave of the church. Out in the open but with their backs to two walls. No chance of being overheard.
‘I’ve been having a word with Major Fitzwilliam,’ he said, his voice low, but not exaggeratedly so. ‘The major does realize,’ he went on, ‘that in view of the circumstances of his father’s death, that there will be certain enquiries that the police will be, quite rightly, making about the late Mr Fitzwilliam’s financial circumstances and about the distribution of his estate. He feels in that case it might be just as well for you to attend the reading of the will, which will take place at the house, at two o’clock and to ask any questions of me after that has taken place. The major and his family are quite happy to have you in attendance.’ The voice was smooth, but the man’s eyes were sharp.
Patrick nodded. ‘I see,’ he said in neutral tones. Why did the major want him present at the reading of the will? To stop the police from asking any awkward questions of the lawyer? Unlikely. The major would know better, would fully realize that the solicitor would have to answer any police questions either sooner or later. And that Patrick could easily pop around to the office on the South Mall later on if any more information was needed. No, he thought, if what the superintendent had said were to be true, then the major, an unexpected heir of his father’s business, was doing this in order to prevent an outbreak of fury among members of his own family. The presence of the police would be enough to stifle protests and accusations.
‘Quite soon after the funeral meal,’ said Mr Murphy. He gave a quick glance at his watch. ‘I’ve told Major Fitzwilliam that I will arrive at the house at two o’clock. Now I must leave you. There are some affairs that I have to deal with at the office before then.’
A neat way to escape the funeral meal, thought Patrick and wished that he could make a similar escape.
Patrick reluctantly returned to the Queen’s Old Castle once the ceremony in Brunswick Street had been completed. He had a lot of work waiting for him, but as inspector in charge of the investigation he felt that he should attend the traditional meal. He had received an invitation, not a particularly warm one, but an invitation, nevertheless, from the dead man’s younger son, though not, he noted, from the older brother nor from the wife or daughters.
‘Thank you, major. It’s very kind of you.’ Patrick overheard that said quite a few times as he passed the crowd clustered around the major. He watched surreptitiously to see how many of those who had attended the burial would accept the invitation and now go on to have a meal with the mourning family. Not many, was his impression.
And, of course, it was an odd idea to hold it in the shop. Made one think that the reasoning behind the choice was that since the shop had to be closed out of respect for the death of its owner, then it might as well be used. Also, of course, it probably saved a certain amount of money. ‘Food sent over from the Metropole!’; ‘Did you ever!’; ‘Who on earth thought of that!’ He heard these words uttered by many as he walked rapidly down the street.
Whoever had thought of the idea, it had not been a popular decision, was Patrick’s opinion when he arrived at the shop. The food was placed on the counters, and most people helped
themselves from there and ate standing up, although eyes continually went up to that eyrie-like office, perched forty feet above floor level and even those who had not been present had little difficulty in picturing the body falling down and hearing the tremendous crash as the body landed. Patrick himself did his best not to look upwards, but found, nevertheless, from time to time, that he was speculating about those change carriers, wondering whether it would have been possible for an innocent party to send the fatal gas barrel up by mistake. Unlikely, he decided. The counter staff were all old hands, had all worked since their childhood in this shop. It would all have been automatic to them, that process of taking the customer’s money, filling in the docket with name and price of the item to be purchased and then inserting the canister into the lightweight barrel, pulling the rod and sending it on its journey up to the sky-high office. Joe had checked the receipts on the dead man’s desk. Five of them; five neat little piles: receipts and change for a pair of curtains from Michael Dinan’s counter; six spools of thread from Kitty Fitzwilliam at the Haberdashery department; four pillow cases from her sister Monica’s Household Linens; one straw hat and a pair of ladies’ slippers sent up by Miss Maria Mulcahy at the Ladies’ Shoes department. Five receipts, but six barrels. The deadly contents of one of those six barrels was now sitting on his office desk, still with a faint smell of gas about it. Joe and Patrick had been over those barrels again and again, checking that the docket and the payment would have fitted in the barrel, outside of the inner canister. In fact, Joe had guessed that originally the barrels may have been meant to be operated without that inner canister. That may well have been an invention of Joseph Fitzwilliam himself, a double security for the money. It would have been still quite possible for the money and the docket to have accompanied the gas barrel, though it seemed slightly more likely that the gas container had come from the Men’s Shoes counter. That empty department and the idle barrel standing ready to be despatched would have been a great temptation to any passing boy or a bored child, accompanying his mother while she shopped. Joe and he had confessed to each other that the flying barrels had always tempted them when young. Patrick gave a long speculative glance at the contraption. Odd to think that if Mr Joseph Fitzwilliam had trusted his employees a little more, that he might now be alive.
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