The Metropole Hotel had done its best for the funeral feast, had sent over trays of food, stacked high within vans, and had delegated some of its aproned waiters to dish out the goods. Nothing much to drink, though, thought Patrick, or at least nothing that anyone going to a Cork funeral would have regarded as real drink. Yes, there were soft drinks in plenty. There were also urns of tea, and one small bottle of whiskey which Robert Fitzwilliam added to the coffee or tea of those who had the courage or the nerve to demand it. Most of the counter hands and the apprentices contented themselves in eating vigorously, devouring the sandwiches, and bringing back their plates for fresh helpings of cake. Major Fitzwilliam did his best, conversing easily with the Reverend Mother and Dr Scher and then moving on and going from one figure to another. Most tried to say something nice about his father and he welcomed these efforts with a nod of his head at the beginning and a bow of acknowledgement when the speaker had come to a faltering end.
‘Another sandwich, inspector. Or could I get you some more tea?’ The offer took Patrick by surprise and he spun around. This man was not one of the family.
‘Nothing, thank you,’ said Patrick. ‘I must be getting back to the barracks.’ Why was this man acting as host? Not a suspect, or probably not, he added, mentally reminding himself that at this stage of the enquiry it would be unwise to rule out anyone with even the slightest connection to the murder scene or to the murdered person. Séamus O’Connor, counter hand for the Men’s Shoes department. The man who had been absent from his counter, had been down in the storeroom when his employer had fallen to his death.
‘I’d like to have a quick word with you, if I could,’ O’Connor said then, blurting the words out as though afraid lest his courage should evaporate if he hesitated.
‘Certainly.’ Patrick was annoyed with himself. He should, by now, be well used to the way in which people came sidling up to him on various pretexts, looking to pass information. Without hesitation, he picked up a plate, looked around for a napkin, but there were none and so he led the way behind the tall counter and pretended to examine the array of cake slices spread out on cheap tin trays, while making sure that no one could overhear. ‘Yes, Mr O’Connor …’ he said, without looking at the man.
‘I just wanted to have a word with you about Michael Dinan,’ said Séamus O’Connor.
‘Yes.’ Patrick bent a little lower and examined a chocolate slice. He was tempted to indulge himself, but he had made it a rule neither to eat nor to drink anything belonging to a possible suspect while he was on a job. There were still very strong feelings against the present government and the treaty that had been botched up with Britain. And their employees, the police and the army, were very open to suspicion and easy targets for accusations of bribery. Accept nothing from potential criminals, was a good rule. In any case, he thought ruefully, I’m putting on weight for the first time in my life. ‘Michael Dinan?’ he queried.
‘He’s in charge of the curtain department; just for the next few days. Got a week’s notice a few days ago.’
‘I see.’ Patrick tried to make his voice sound neutral. It was not for him to say that he knew all of this already, but Séamus O’Connor rounded on him with a certain nervous fury.
‘Easy to say that!’ The words exploded from him although he kept the tone down. ‘You don’t see, inspector. You don’t know how we live our lives here working in these shops. The boss is always right and the worker is always wrong.’ The man sounded in a state of nerves, but none of the employees looked happy. If rumour was correct the shop might be up for sale and then all of the jobs could be in jeopardy.
‘Was Mr Dinan accused of something?’ Patrick kept his voice very soft, both to defuse the spark of temper and to avoid calling attention to them. He left the tray of chocolate cakes and moved on to look at the buttered scones.
‘He was accused of giving the wrong change. No evidence. No complaint from the customer.’ Séamus O’Connor also bent down over the scones, his head very near to Patrick’s. ‘You know how it works here, inspector. None of us is trusted to give change. And the old man, I mean Mr Fitzwilliam, well I won’t speak ill of the dead, and in his own way he was a straight man, but he would wrap the docket around the change, twist it around the coins or the notes so that nothing could fall out.’
‘But this time …’ Patrick began to guess what was coming.
‘This time, Mr Robert came along just as Michael was digging out the docket and he grabbed it from him, accused him of trying to palm a half-crown, made a big fuss about it, apologizing to the customer, telling her that he would deal with the matter, insisting on spreading the change out on the counter and checking with the bill and making her feel that she had just been saved from being cheated. Everyone in the shop could hear him.’
‘And what happened next?’
‘Well, Michael was stupid. Hasn’t got too good a hold on his temper. Should have just pretended that something had slipped, or just kept quiet, done what we all do, say, “Yes, sir, no, sir,” and so on, but Michael is not like that. Nothing would do him but to shout out that he was wrongfully accused and that Mr Robert was the one who slipped the half-crown from the bundle in the first place. He even went so far as to accuse Mr Robert of trying to get him into trouble.’
Not clever, thought Patrick, but he waited for the rest of the story.
‘And so, Mr Robert sacked him. Gave him a week’s notice.’
‘I see,’ said Patrick.
‘But that’s not all, inspector. You see, when I spoke to Michael afterwards, I told him that he had been a fool and that he should know by now that the boss is always right. And I advised him to try an apology even now and see if that worked.’ Séamus stopped abruptly, put a scone on his plate and moved rapidly away as Robert Fitzwilliam approached.
‘Have you got everything that you need, inspector? Can I fetch you anything? More tea?’
‘I’m trying to resist temptation,’ said Patrick. A year ago a situation like this would have left him tongue-tied, but now he had a score of little phrases memorized for occasions like this. ‘Putting on weight,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Too much paperwork these days. Used to get out on the push bike a lot, but now I’m tied to the office most of the day.’
Time for me to go, he thought. He took his watch from his pocket, said loudly, ‘Is it twelve o’clock already? Well, thank you for your hospitality, Mr Fitzwilliam, but I must get back to the office now.’ Robert Fitzwilliam didn’t pick up on the theme or even make any reply. An odd man. Young Mr Robert, he was called, but, of course, he was not young. Would be about fifteen years older than myself, thought Patrick. He put down his plate, went across to shake hands with the rest of the family and to repeat his condolences. Mrs Fitzwilliam was slumped in a chair; her head was on her chest and she appeared as though she might be sleeping. One of the daughters was in earnest conversation with the Reverend Mother and he didn’t want to interrupt that. And the other daughter avoided his eye when he looked towards her. He made his way towards Major Fitzwilliam who was whispering in the ear of a property auctioneer and who thanked him perfunctorily for coming and then resumed his story. Patrick made for the back door, leading into Brunswick Street. He had retained his coat and so did not have to pause while someone fetched it. He had needed it, he thought as he made his way past empty counters: Household Linens, Haberdashery, Millinery, Curtains, and Ladies’ Shoes. All of those names bore a significance for him now. From one of these counters that deadly barrel of gas had gone whizzing up, concealed within the change barrel and ready to be opened by the owner of the business. What was it like to die of gas poisoning? Quick anyway, but not pleasant, he thought. He felt a shiver go down his spine and rubbed his hands together vigorously. The shop was freezing cold, making him wonder what it was like to work there. Still, at least the employees were having a magnificent feast today. The lack of outside presence meant that they had more than double of what would have been allocated to them in the normal way. In fact,
when he came in first, they were lined up behind tea urns and had napkins over their arms as though they were intended to be waiters. The young apprentices, he had noticed, were then busily carrying chairs out for the visitors. They were now carrying them back to some store, but he was glad to see that most of them had cheeks distended with lumps of cake.
‘You’ll remember me to your mother and sisters,’ he said to Mr Robert who had hurried after him as though to make sure that he was really leaving. He shook hands with him, also, while wondering whether that had been the right thing to say. He would have to think about that, would have to memorize some more phrases – something conventional about condolences – as the superintendent was a Protestant, a lot of Patrick’s time seemed to be spent in going to funerals. Terrible waste of time unless the deceased had been murdered, he thought as he made his escape into North Main Street. When that was the case, however, then every opportunity to study the relations and friends was valuable. And often, the most interesting disclosures came just after he had left the scene.
He was not surprised, therefore, when, after three or four minutes, a voice from behind him said, ‘You haven’t got your motor with you today, inspector.’
‘It’s more belonging to the superintendent than to me,’ said Patrick cheerfully. Séamus O’Connor would have made sure that he was not followed before opening conversation here with him on the busy street. ‘More trouble than it’s worth; that car,’ he added in order to keep the conversation going. It was true, of course. Cork’s medieval centre had struggled enough with horse-drawn traps and with donkeys and carts, but the advent of cars was rapidly bringing everything to a standstill.
‘Quicker on your feet most of the time,’ agreed Séamus. He had moved a little closer to Patrick and was now shoulder to shoulder with him. When he spoke, it was almost into Patrick’s ear. ‘I thought that you might like to know this, inspector. The real reason why Michael Dinan was sacked was because he overheard something that he should never have heard. I know that for a fact. You should ask him about it, inspector. You would be interested to hear what Michael has to say. Well,’ he added, still in very low tones, ‘this is where I say goodbye.’
And when Patrick turned to look over his shoulder a minute later, there was not a sign of Séamus O’Connor. He knew the procedure, though, and walked steadily on, down the narrow street until he reached the bridge. Even then, though, he did not pause, but advanced until he reached the centre. He stopped, leaned over to gaze into the murky depths of the River Lee and waited. It took a few minutes, but not long really. He was beginning to feel slightly tense when a voice spoke in his ear.
‘My grandfather used to talk about salmon coming up here,’ said the man beside him.
Patrick did not move a muscle. He did not turn to look at the speaker. ‘Is that a fact?’ he asked in uninterested tones.
‘It is, indeed,’ replied the man, almost as though they were both taking part in some sort of play.
A nod. That was all that was needed now. Patrick’s nod paid tribute to the grandfather, though he doubted the veracity of the memory. Surely, even by then, sewage was pouring into the river, making it a death trap for any self-respecting fish. Only eels frequented it as far back as his own grandfather’s tales had stretched.
‘Terrible place to live, this city of ours,’ continued the voice. And Patrick gave another nod. ‘You might as well throw yourself into that river once you lose your job.’
‘Tell me about it; tell me about how you lost your job,’ said Patrick, abruptly tiring of this oblique conversation.
‘I never had any thought or intention of stealing that half-crown, of cheating that woman.’ The voice was impassioned, now, but the tone was still low and the head, beside his own, ceaselessly turned from left to right. He, himself, took a quick, surreptitious look around. No one that he could see who might be remotely interested in the conversation.
‘I’m listening. Tell me what you think,’ he said. ‘That accusation against you. It was trumped up, you imagine. Is that it? But why? Why should anyone want to get rid of you?’
‘Because I overheard something that I shouldn’t.’ The reply shot back almost instantly. The truth? Or a well-practised retort?
‘Want to tell me about it?’ Patrick made his voice sound indifferent. The man beside him was wound up, taut, on the verge of explosion.
‘I went down to the basement,’ said Michael Dinan. ‘I wasn’t spying or anything. I just went down because I remembered that one of the rolls of curtains were down there and I seemed to remember that it had been badly damaged in the flood. I had a feeling that it was something that should be sold off in the sale.’
‘And when was this?’ Patrick introduced a note of impatience. This story was going to go on and on if he didn’t pull the man up. Sooner or later someone would stop to listen and he would be in trouble for not immediately inviting the man to come up to the barracks and to tell his story there.
Michael Dinan seemed to feel the force of this. He gulped a little and then began to speak rapidly. ‘I overheard Mr Robert ask young Mr O’Dwyer for some more time to pay the bill. You see, inspector, it’s usually the old man who pays all of the bills. On the first of the quarter. That’s the day that all the suppliers come for their money. They always use the basement. No room in that little office up there. So one of the big trestle tables that we use for cutting cloth, that is spread out with all the heaps of coins and wallets stuffed with notes. But on this last quarter day the old man had to go to a funeral and so he got Mr Robert to do it for him.’
‘And?’
‘I think that Mr Robert skimmed a bit off everyone’s bill, told them the firm were a bit short that month,’ said Michael Dinan. ‘It would be something that a lot of firms would do, you know, inspector. And Mr Robert had just bought himself a new car so he might be a bit short of money. He probably managed to pay off most of them when he got his own monthly salary, but, of course, O’Dwyer is the biggest supplier, all the haberdashery and the millinery comes from O’Dwyer so theirs would have been the biggest bill. He probably asked for a bit more time. I don’t know, but that’s what I would guess. Anyway, I was down there a week ago, sorting out some flood-damaged curtains and Mr Robert came in with young Mr O’Dwyer and they were having a conversation. And Mr O’Dwyer said that he would just give him another two weeks and if the money wasn’t paid up then, well, he would have to apply to his father, to Mr Fitzwilliam Senior.’
‘What did he say to that?’ enquired Patrick.
‘One of the rolls of curtaining slipped and Mr Robert came around the corner and saw me.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Asked me what I was doing and told me to get back upstairs. Pretended nothing was going on. But I was shaking in my shoes. And then, the next day, he set up a fake and said that I had been robbing a customer of half-a-crown and I was sacked. Given a week’s notice.’ Michael Dinan finished his story, but Patrick could feel the intensity of the man’s gaze.
‘Is that all you have to tell me, Mr Dinan?’ he asked.
The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not for me to tell you what to think, or what to do, inspector,’ he said. ‘But if I were you I’d be wondering who had a motive to kill the old man. Theft is a serious thing, not just for people like me, but for people like Mr Robert, too. His father wasn’t the type to have any mercy on him if it was discovered. There’s jail for the rich as well as jail for the poor, you know.’
It was a good story, and well-told, thought Patrick. It gave Robert Fitzwilliam a motive. But what if the story was told just to disguise the murder by Michael Dinan. He, like the rest of the staff, had seen the use of these deadly little gas canisters, shaped as if to fit into the small barrels. If the owner of the shop died, then all would be chaos for a while. Everything, more or less, had been left to the major, that was the word on the town. And nothing, not a farthing, to Robert. It seemed as if old Mr Fitzwilliam had found out about Robert not paying the s
uppliers. That would have formed a good reason for his disinheritance.
But, of course, there could be another side to this story. Patrick was conscious that Michael Dinan sent furtive glances at him while pretending to watch the busy scene as the ship moved in to dock at the quay. Perhaps it was old Mr Fitzwilliam who sacked Michael Dinan. Surely that would fit more with his knowledge of the shop. Robert was floor manager, but seemed always to work under his father’s directions, often shouted down from on high, and often, doubtless, embarrassing him in front of all the staff and customers. A fairly unpleasant old man. No terrible surprise that he was murdered. But who did it? A member of the family, or one of the staff? Patrick mentally checked through the list of those who had access. Mrs Fitzwilliam and her two daughters. And then there was Michael Dinan on Curtains, Miss Maria Mulcahy on Ladies’ Shoes, and the possibility that Séamus O’Connor, though supposed to be organizing the damaged goods in the basement, might have slipped back to his own, unstaffed counter and sent the deadly gas canister up to the office. Did he have a reason? Not that Patrick knew, but he also knew that patient and meticulous questioning and investigation of every possible aspect might possibly bring something to light.
‘Séamus O’Connor is a good friend to you, is he?’ He asked the question in an idle fashion, but was immediately aware that the man had tensed.
‘Not particularly.’ The answer was very abrupt, almost angry, but a note of fear underscored the annoyance. And why should he object to that question? And why had O’Connor gone to so much trouble to set up this meeting between the inspector and the suspect? Patrick kept his face tilted upwards, his eyes fixed on a successful seagull who was being mobbed by the other birds. But he was conscious that there was an unnatural rigidity about the man next to him. He turned his head slightly, still following the triumphant seagull as the bird dived down to the river again. Yes, as he had thought, Michael Dinan was casting sidelong glances at him. Wondering how much of the story the policeman had swallowed. The Curtains counter, he now remembered, was quite close to the Gentlemen’s Shoes counter. It would have been very easy and quite natural for Séamus O’Connor to leave his work in the basement and come up to his own counter on the pretext of fetching a pen, or a pair of scissors. And if he had done this, then Michael Dinan would definitely have spotted him. Were they going to give each other alibis? Had the news about the inheritance leaked out? If so, both men would be looking for a new job. I’ll get Joe on to this, thought Patrick. His assistant was excellent at this sort of work, matching statement against statement and drawing neat and detailed ground plans.
Murder at the Queen's Old Castle Page 9