‘You and another couple of million Irish people,’ said Eileen. He sounded a bit like a spoiled child, but that was Fred. Always going on about his father and his hard childhood.
‘They’d allow me. I’d ask for sanctuary,’ he said. ‘I shot a man.’ He pulled his hat down over his eyes and turned away from her.
‘What, a civic guard?’
‘No, not a civic guard. Someone else.’
‘Who then?’ She was getting tired of Fred. The last time she’d met him, he managed to get himself shot by showing off and since then he clearly hadn’t improved. He was standing there, gazing out to sea, the hat pulled down to hide his eyes, but from his voice she guessed that he was weeping. Eileen felt a little ashamed of herself.
‘What’s the matter, Fred? What’s wrong?’ He was shivering now. Older than herself by at least a couple of years, but he seemed very young to her. A sob broke from him and she wondered whether he was having some sort of a breakdown.
‘Have you really killed someone, is that it?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I fired my gun at him, but I think that he was dead already. He looked dead.’ And then, almost absent-mindedly, he said, ‘There were maggots crawling around on top of him.’
‘Maggots!’ Eileen swallowed hard. ‘Sounds dead,’ she said in as judicial a manner as she could muster. ‘Someone killed him earlier, perhaps.’ Days ago, she thought. She wasn’t too sure about maggots, but didn’t think that they would appear on a newly-dead corpse.
‘Let’s get you back to Ballinhassig,’ she said. She had to give up the prospect of getting back into Cork before the printing works closed. On Monday she would explain her failure to return. They were all patriots in the Lee Printing Works. They would understand that she had no choice in the matter. She had to rescue a fellow Republican in dire straits.
‘No, I can’t do that. I can’t bring trouble on them. I’m a wanted man.’ He gazed out to sea showing his profile in a heroic fashion.
‘That doesn’t matter. The soldiers will be after anyone who took part in that raid. That’s why there are safe houses. Tom Hurley will hide you, get you out to west Cork or something.’
‘Not if I’m wanted for the death of my own father.’
‘What! Was that who you shot? The dead man.’ She had heard Fred’s tirades, often enough, against his father when she had been living out in Ballinhassig and now she felt a little sick. ‘But he was dead, already. You said that there were maggots crawling over the body.’
‘Well, I’ve confessed to the murder. That’s why I wanted to stop at the post office. I sent a confession to the Civic Guards. I signed it too.’
‘What! A confession! Where is it now?’
‘I posted it. I wrote out a confession. I told them how it was. I wrote a full account. I told how I went up to Shandon Street, how I pleaded with him, telling him that I wanted to go to university to study mathematics. If he had enough money to build a big house in Montenotte, then he had enough money to educate his eldest son. He refused and I shot him. I wrote it all down. I signed my confession. I put it in the post box. I just made the post. The woman in the post office told me that. She said a minute later and I would have missed it. I saw the bag of letters going off in the post van down to Cork.’
Eileen looked at him, speechless for the moment. And then something about his pose annoyed her.
‘You want to be hanged, is that it?’ she snapped. ‘It wouldn’t be a very noble death, though, would it? Shooting an unarmed man. And your own father, too! Not exactly dying for Ireland, was it? So what’s so terrible about him that he deserved to be killed? At least your father didn’t skip off to England as soon as your mother was pregnant, just like my father and the father of loads of others did. No, he stayed and worked hard and sent every single one of you, all twelve of you, girls as well as boys, to school and even to secondary school. What good did it do for Ireland shooting him?’ And then she melted slightly. ‘But you didn’t, did you? Tell me that you didn’t.’
‘Yes, I did,’ he said stubbornly. ‘And I’m not going to Ballinhassig. You’d better leave me now. I have only one chance and that is to get out to that American boat. That fishing boat over there might take me. Have you any money?’
Reluctantly, she took her leather wallet from the inner pocket of her jacket. It held three brand-new one-pound notes issued by the Bank of Ireland. Her whole week’s salary. He snatched it from her before she could say anything and then he was off, striding down the pier looking out to sea. There were numerous small fishing boats heading in towards Douglas Harbour and behind her, men with donkeys and carts were arriving to purchase the day’s catch to deliver to the shops and the markets in the city. Perhaps one of these fishing boats would take him to Cape Clear. Eileen doubted that, though. The sea was very rough around west Cork and these fishermen would trawl the easier waters on the east side of the city. Most of them probably did not venture more than half a mile outside the harbour.
I can do no more for him, she told herself, as she turned her motorbike to head back to the city. If he has really killed his own father, and been stupid enough to write a confession to the Civic Guards, then Tom Hurley would not welcome his presence in Ballinhassig and would do nothing to help him. It was annoying to lose her wallet, though it was a second-hand one. But losing her salary was terrible. It meant that she had nothing to give her mother for food this week.
Nevertheless, she felt almost glad that he had done that, had stolen from her. It did, she thought, absolve her from taking any more risks on his behalf. In the meantime, she had better get quickly out of Douglas before she was identified as the friend of a murderer. She would ride at a reasonable speed, she thought. Give no one the notion that she was escaping, but she wouldn’t stop until she reached the printing works off South Terrace.
And then, quite suddenly, her motorbike spluttered and stopped. She clung to the handlebars, jolted by the sudden jerk. No petrol? Surely not. She was meticulous about filling it up, had felt glad that she had done it this afternoon, or else Fred might have taken even more of her money. Nevertheless she got off the bike, carefully parked it by the pavement and then examined the petrol tank. No, that wasn’t the problem. It was almost full. She did a few tests that Eamonn had showed her, but could find nothing wrong.
‘In trouble, sonny?’ The post-office van slowed to a halt across the road from her. She wished that she could grab his bag of letters, but that was stupid, so she just nodded.
‘Garage just down the road, you’ll have to push the old bike,’ he called out of the window. He jerked his thumb towards a side road, just a few yards ahead of her. ‘Down there; they’ll sort it out for you.’
And then he was gone, bringing the fatal letter to the Cork sorting office. It would probably be on the superintendent’s desk in Barrack Street in the morning post. Eileen got off her bike and began to push it. Perhaps that hill up towards Douglas had been too much for it. She hoped, desperately, that she could afford the repair. She had about ten shillings in her purse. Would that be enough? And would the garage be still open? It was getting quite late in the evening. She turned down the narrow side road and was cheered to see lights and a petrol pump only a few yards down the road. Puffing heavily she rolled the bike inside.
‘Broken down, are you?’ The man inside seemed sympathetic.
‘That’s right.’ She took off her cap and ran a hand through her damp hair. His grin widened.
‘Don’t get many young ladies pushing motorbikes in here, do we, Tommy? Take a seat over there, girlie, and we’ll have a look. Run out of petrol, I’ll be bet.’
‘Run out of petrol, that’ll be it,’ echoed Tommy.
‘I checked that,’ said Eileen and watched indignantly as Tommy lowered the dipstick into the petrol tank.
Half an hour later, though, she wished that it had been that, even if it had made the two men laugh. Running out of petrol would have been an easy thing to cure. The longer the two men
worked over her beloved bike, the more that they pursed their lips and shook their heads.
‘Carburettor,’ said Tommy and the tone of finality in his voice made her heart sink.
‘Carburettor,’ agreed the first man.
‘Can’t do it tonight, missie,’ he said to her. ‘I’m afraid that’s a long job. We’ll have to strip the whole thing down. You’ll have to leave it with us. Come around tomorrow at about five and we should have it done for you.’
‘Oh.’ Eileen gulped a little.
‘Where do you live?’
‘In the city?’
‘That’s all right, don’t you worry. The trolley buses keep going until late. Go back into the village. You’ll get back to the city in no time.’
Eileen nodded. At least her mother would not be worried if she got the trolley bus back. She could get off at the quay and walk home.
‘How much will the repair cost?’ she asked.
‘Could be anything up to about £3, I’m afraid.’ He must have seen the shock in her face because he said, ‘Sorry, love, but carburettors going wrong make for a big job. And there could be parts needed, a needle valve or something else. You never know until you get the thing stripped down. Still, keep your fingers crossed, love, might be able to do it for a bit less.’
‘Thank you,’ said Eileen. She felt slightly dazed when she walked out. Where could she get the money to pay for that? And then a wave of anger came over her. How dare Fred help himself to all of the money in her wallet? She started to run back up the road and then turned down towards the harbour.
She would get that money back from him.
THREE
St Thomas Aquinas
‘CONCEDE mihi, misericors Deus, quae tibi sunt placita, ardenter concupiscere, prudenter investigare, veraciter agnoscere, et perfecte adimplere ad laudem et gloriam Nominis Tui.’
(GRANT me, O merciful God, to desire eagerly, to investigate prudently, to acknowledge sincerely, and to fulfil perfectly those things that are pleasing to Thee, for the praise and glory of Thy Holy Name.)
The Reverend Mother thought about Fred Mulcahy for a moment or two after Dr Scher’s words. There had been something very odd, almost theatrical in the way that he had fired at the body of his father. And then he had an unloaded gun when he encountered Patrick and his men. Lucky for some civic guard, for Patrick perhaps, that he was unable to fire. Perhaps even lucky for the boy himself. This business of the assault on Douglas Barracks was probably not anything that Patrick would be too involved in. Douglas was a small village, certainly a few miles at least outside the city boundary. The army would take over there. It was probably quite difficult to get evidence that any particular young Republican had been involved in an attack, but a shot policeman would have meant certain death by hanging. Then she switched her mind from the problem of the son to that of the father.
‘Have you a torch in your car, Dr Scher?’ No doubt, she could find one in the convent, but for the moment, she did not want any interference in the community’s hour of rest and relaxation.
He gave her an appraising look, but then went towards his car without question, returning with an impressively large torch, clicking on the beam and testing it against the convent wall. She thought of saying ‘Prepare for a shock’, but then decided that dead bodies were the norm for a man who was professor of anatomy at the university and who regularly conducted autopsies for the police.
And so, walking steadily, and saying no more, she led the way to the old disused coach house, inserted her key into the lock of the door and pushed it open. The smell now filled the chilly building and she saw him stop and sniff the air, before he switched on a powerful beam which illuminated the whole building. Once again, but this time with apprehension, she clicked open the latches, and cautiously lifted the lid of the trunk. The stench seemed even worse now and in the light from the torch the maggot activity increased rapidly.
‘Well, well, well,’ said Dr Scher. ‘What a woman for surprises you are, Reverend Mother! Where did this come from?’
‘From Mr Hayes, the auctioneer, number 23 Princes Street,’ said the Reverend Mother precisely. ‘Purchased for me by my cousin, Mrs Murphy,’ she added.
‘A friend of yours?’ he queried, with a nod towards the macabre contents of the trunk.
‘Known to me,’ amended the Reverend Mother. ‘That is Mr Mulcahy from Shandon Street, a hide and skin merchant.’
‘I see. Well, that accounts for the sere cloths,’ he said flippantly.
She should reprove him for this frivolity, but his calmness in the face of death somehow comforted her. A certain measure of steadiness flowed back into her legs. She straightened her shoulders and found the courage to ask the question which had been troubling her.
‘How long has he been dead?’
‘Couldn’t tell you that until after I get him on the table,’ he said. ‘And that will be Monday, I’d say. I have a poor girl who was dragged from the river to see to first, not that anyone seems too interested in her, poor thing. Pregnant, I suppose, pregnant and hungry, condemned by church and state. Nothing to live for.’
The Reverend Mother bowed her head. There were too many bodies taken from the river these days. Whether it was a case of suicide, murder or a political street battle, the two channels of the River Lee were dumping places for the unwanted dead of the city.
‘Perhaps you could give me some idea, very roughly, of when death could have occurred, and …’ She hesitated. ‘How did he die?’
He gave her a quick glance, turning the beam of the torch in her direction. He said nothing, though, and bent over the body, touching the skin without hesitation and flexing the joints of the dead hand.
‘Depends on where he has been kept,’ he said, ‘but in an unheated room in this dank fog, I suppose that he could have been dead a few days. Would have been popped into the trunk when he was fresh, though, I’d guess. Why do you ask about how he died?’
‘His son shot him through the heart about an hour ago. In my presence,’ she added.
‘Well, well, well.’ Once again he bent over the body and shone the powerful beam of the torch onto the black coat, delicately lifting the lapel of the broadcloth with finger and thumb and peering down at the starched shirt front. He made no comment, but now she could see for herself that there was a small, shiny, dark patch of stiffened blood on the white linen. And once she had identified that, she could see that the black cloth of the man’s jacket and waistcoat also had been stained with blood.
‘Was he shot?’ She asked the question, but knew that he probably could not tell her the answer to it. The blood on the shirt, the blood on the black coat; that blood was old blood, hours, perhaps days, old.
‘That or knifed,’ he said. ‘Killed anyway.’
‘But not by his son, not ten minutes ago.’
‘Who’s his son?’
‘Fred Mulcahy, the man that you were talking about a little while ago.’
‘The young fellow wanted by the police. So he had paid you a visit previously.’ Dr Scher looked startled. ‘You were here with him, alone? You should be more careful. There are a lot of dangerous men around, Reverend Mother. I would be wary of inviting strangers in off the street. You have a good lock on your gate so keep it locked.’
‘I didn’t invite him. I think that he must have followed the auctioneer’s men in. He just appeared at my shoulder after they had left. He thought this trunk was for him. He expected a delivery. It was to be handed over to him outside the Douglas Street Sawmills. I think that he was as shocked as I was when the lid was opened.’ She would have to tell her story again to Patrick, but in the meantime Dr Scher’s matter-of-fact reactions were a comfort to her. Death was death, she told herself. Whether it happened in a hospital bed or violently, like this one, the result was the same. An abrupt cessation of living functions, decay, dissolution and eventually reintegration with the earth. When the police were finished with the body, then a decent burial would have to be organiz
ed.
‘And he was surprised to see his father, this young friend of yours?’
‘I think so.’ She hesitated over that for a moment but she did not add anything. Time enough later for a more precise recall of that moment when she had thrown back the lid of the trunk.
‘Here’s Patrick.’ Dr Scher had begun to move towards the door before she had fully registered the sound of a car outside the convent fence. He handed her the torch and then went outside, closing the door behind him. Left alone, she went on thinking. Why had Fred Mulcahy shot his father in that ostentatious gesture? What was the point of it? Surely a gunman would know that the man was already dead? Even to her, the man had looked like a corpse. And what about that stiffened plaque of blood on the man’s clothing? Someone had killed him. But why should Fred kill his father. He had escaped from the family home and the work that he disliked so much. She turned away from the body and went towards the door to meet the two men. Patrick was looking grim-faced and worried. Dr Scher gave a half-shake of his head when she looked at him and so she decided to ask no questions.
‘Any more bodies for us, Reverend Mother?’ queried Dr Scher and she gave a half-smile in appreciation of his efforts to normalize the situation. Patrick did not smile. He had a tired look and the Reverend Mother was not surprised that he was worried about the situation. Douglas was less than two miles away from where they stood, but Cork Harbour was an enormous one; the second largest in the world, she understood. It was nine miles long from end to end if you measured a straight line from its entrance at Roches Point, but its sides snaked in and out of villages and small seaside towns. By the terms of the treaty, Britain still owned Cork Harbour and British troops were on Spike Island – still some Americans around, also, she seemed to remember hearing. Nevertheless, given the huge volume of ships coming in and out of the harbour with passengers and goods on them, and the amount of yachts, pleasure boats, rowing boats and dredgers, it was probably an easy way to smuggle in weapons. The superintendent of the police barracks would be annoyed when he heard that young Fred Mulcahy had managed to give the slip to the inspector.
A Gruesome Discovery Page 3