‘I suppose that the carpenter had to make a panel above the water tank in the roof,’ she said, taking his tape measure from him and once again checking the space beside the altar. That water tank, she thought, had probably been the pride and joy of the late Mr Mulcahy. When he became prosperous enough to have running water in both houses, he had built a huge tank in the roof which rested on the party wall of both houses. She had suspected something like that as soon as Eileen had told her about the running water and the upstairs bathroom and had got Patrick to check on this.
Susan, of course, with her emphasis on gathering the financial facts together, had been the intended recipient of the poisoned chocolates. Mr Hayes, a man who knew everything about what was going on in the city, may have seen Eileen go into Rupert’s law office, just around the corner from his auctioneering rooms, and then panicked when he saw the two girls together delivering the leaflets to his rooms, may have followed them, overheard their conversation. Once his embezzlement came to light, then he would be looked upon as a possible suspect. It was ironic that Mrs Mulcahy, not Susan, had been the victim of the poisoned chocolates. The auctioneer and his accomplice had, relying on the woman’s nervous, unsuspicious nature, counted on her asking no awkward questions. The solicitor, Mr O’Sullivan, was probably an accomplice. Much better for Mr Mulcahy to will the money to his wife, than to allow Fred with his sharp mathematical brain to start looking into financial matters. Or Susan, of course. It had become important for Mr Hayes to eliminate Susan once he realized that Eileen was taking her to see a solicitor. The chocolates had not worked and so he had slipped into the house, using the same method as before, and set fire to the cupboard which held the accounts. Whether he had meant to burn the two girls to death was something that was unsure and would have to be left to the judgement of God. What an unfortunate coincidence it was that Susan had been with Eileen when she delivered the bundle of leaflets to the auctioneer’s office.
He had not replied to her last words and she knew that she had made a mistake. In her desire to elicit all of the facts in an easy-going fashion, she had turned her back on him and he had slipped quietly across the chapel floor. Moved quietly on those rubber-soled shoes of his.
When she turned around, he was standing beside her and in his hand he held his starting handle. The ideal weapon, of course, short, heavy, made from iron. Odd that it had not occurred to either Patrick or Dr Scher, both of whom regularly used a similar instrument, to name it as a possible murder weapon.
‘God above sees you, Mr Hayes, and you will not escape punishment for your murder of three innocent people,’ she said. And with a strong effort of will, she kept her voice so low that it was barely audible to him. Would he answer? The thought flitted through her mind that she was relying rather heavily on the man’s almost compulsive loquacity.
‘Well, I’m sorry about poor Bridie and the woman, but Henry Mulcahy deserved it. Wouldn’t give me a couple of months to pay up; that was all I asked for. And I’m sorry about this too, Reverend Mother. Had a great respect …’
But before the next word left his lips, the Reverend Mother had reached behind the altar boys’ seats and snatched at the church bell and hauled on it more enthusiastically than any altar boy was ever allowed to do.
‘What made you first think of the auctioneer?’ asked Dr Scher when they were both seated in her room. Once Patrick and his sergeant had removed Mr Hayes and explanations had been given to the convent for the ringing of the chapel bell, Dr Scher had taken her pulse, fed her hot sugared tea and made up the fire to an extent which made her fear for the chimney. And then, to her slight amusement, he had gone out to his car, fetched his starting handle and examined it carefully, testing the weight and balance of it with one hand and then with two. She gave a glance over her shoulder at the object, now lying behind them on the windowsill before she answered his question.
‘Perhaps, subconsciously, it was that starting handle always in his hand when he came into the convent,’ she said soberly. ‘Somehow, perhaps, the image of that stayed in my mind and then, one day, I suddenly thought what an ideal weapon it would make, and yet would arouse no suspicion in the victim’s mind. It was, after all, the act of a careful man to separate his starting handle from the vehicle itself, and that was what Mr Hayes was in the habit of doing. No one would remark on it. However, I think, consciously, it was the handwriting on the label on that trunk, and on the other labels that came to light, which made me concentrate on the auctioneer,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘The handwriting, though all different, was mostly that of my generation, or perhaps the generation after mine who had been taught by old-fashioned governesses. These people are busy emigrating, or at least selling houses too big for them and contents which will not fit or be suitable for the smaller residences to which they are reduced and so they had recourse to an auctioneer. Mr Hayes probably had a drawer full of these labels: “Old School Books” may well have been an item for sale at one of these auctions, and the card saying: “I thought I’d send you these” – that could have been some last-minute additions to a sale, perhaps some small objects like toys,’ said the Reverend Mother, thinking of that wonderful post office with the ornate copperplate style of handwriting on the label.
‘Eileen told me that she dropped off some printed leaflets to him when she was with Susan,’ she said aloud. ‘The sight of them together may well have alarmed Mr Hayes. He probably knew how sharp and clever Susan was reputed to be and he didn’t want her confiding suspicions in anyone. He could well have followed them and overheard them talk. Eileen might not have been able to keep to herself her conversation with Mr Rupert Murphy. She might have been pouring out the whole story to Susan and I know from past experience how carrying Eileen’s voice is. And that would have alarmed him. And so the poisoned chocolates.’
‘For a while I was afraid that Patrick might be thinking of Susan,’ said Dr Scher. ‘I was worried about that. I don’t mind much about Hayes; he’s better out of this world. Once someone starts on the slippery path of crime and then murders, not once, but twice more to cover up his first murder … Three people dead, well, there is no end to what they will do next!’ He looked at her sharply and poured out another cup of tea and handed it to her.
‘Don’t feel bad about him, Reverend Mother,’ he said soberly. ‘A man who has murdered three people already won’t hesitate over a fourth. It could have been you, or it might have been someone else. One of those little Mulcahy boys, a sharp little shaver who had overheard his father make a comment about the auctioneer, might have said something in his hearing and then the little fellow would have been the next victim.’
The Reverend Mother bowed her head. That, she thought, would indeed be unbearable. The quick-witted Jamie, or little Frankie, the ‘chip off the old block’, they, also, could have been in danger. It was consoling to bring those small faces in front of her mental eye and to use them to banish any regrets or scruples. After all, her patron saint, Thomas Aquinas, had condemned useless repining once action had been taken.
The rest, she thought, the rest was up to God and to the law court. She had another half dozen urgent problems to deal with, problems where the welfare of children under her care was dangerously threatened. There was no point in brooding over the past. ‘Nullum praeteritum est eligibile,’ she murmured. Then aloud she said briskly, ‘Well, Dr Scher, now tell me. How did you find Sister Assumpta, today?’
For my brother Dominic with much love.
And a hope that the book will remind him of our shared
memories of Cork city.
“Viveri bis, vita posse priori frui.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to all who have helped to bring this book to publication: my husband who keeps me supplied with strong coffee and wood for my stove; my agent, Peter Buckman, always so helpful and quick to spot a discrepancy; my editor, Anna Telfer, who is the ideal editor, combining appreciation with a clear memory for time sequences and repetitions; copy
editor, Holly Domney, who has such a keen eye to spot my many inaccuracies and all at Severn House who work so hard to turn my story into an attractive book.
A Gruesome Discovery Page 27