The door was opened by a maid, but she was thrust aside by a young man.
‘Did you find …?’ he began and then stopped at the sight of the uniforms.
‘Come in,’ said Joseph Fitzsimon to Patrick. He had ignored Joe from the start but did not object to him crossing the threshold also. The fire in the stove at the back of the hallway had just been lit and smelled strongly of coal smoke and tarred sticks. Patrick looked from it to the face of the young man. Apprehension, he thought. That was what the face showed.
‘Any sign?’ he said now to his father, glancing uneasily at the policemen.
‘Come into the library,’ said the tea merchant and added in a rather perfunctory way. ‘This is my son, Mr Gerald.’
I’ll be damned if I call him ‘Mr Gerald’ as if I were one of his servants, thought Patrick but he followed the two men into the library and said nothing until Joe had closed the door behind them.
‘Sergeant Patrick Cashman and Guard Joe Dugan, sir,’ he said briskly to the younger Fitzsimon. He was very like the sister, he thought. Red-brown hair and very bright blue eyes – inherited from the father, he thought. Gerald gave a nod. No greeting, but perhaps that was natural. His eyes went to his father.
‘She’s been found,’ said the tea merchant – not Angelina has been found, noted Patrick. ‘She was washed up on St Mary’s of the Isle.’
Gerald said nothing for a moment, just waited, but then when his father said no more, he breathed one word. ‘Drowned.’
And then after a minute, seeming to notice his father’s eyes on him, he said in a harsh, cracked voice. ‘I have no idea of how she could have got into the river.’
There was a moment’s silence while father and son looked at each other and then the son shrugged his shoulders and looked away.
Patrick intervened. ‘Perhaps we could all sit down.’ Whenever he felt slightly ill at ease he recited part of the rule book to himself. Now mentally he went through the section on preliminary interrogation and the curt sentences that he could see before his eyes steadied him and gave him confidence. There was a highly polished table in the centre of the room with eight chairs around it. He took a chair with his back to the window. Joe pulled out two of the chairs opposite so that the two men were seated facing Patrick and then took himself and his notebook to the very end of the table.
‘We’ll just take down a few details first, sir, if you please,’ said Patrick. ‘How old was your daughter Angelina?’ That was, he thought, a nice, easy, innocuous question to start off with. It was important to get their cooperation. He had noted, though, the interchange of glances between the two. Almost as though each were suspicious of the other – it certainly was odd that neither had missed her from the ball. And what was the significance of the son’s declaration that he had no idea how his sister got into the river?
‘She was twenty – her twenty-first birthday would have been on the eleventh of June.’
Slipped into the past tense very quickly, thought Patrick as he nodded to Joe to take down the details. That was unusual for a parent – even the poor, with more children than they could feed, for days afterwards still spoke of their child as though it were alive.
‘And just a few details about you, sir; and your son, while he is here; we need full name, age, occupation.’
No surprises with Joseph Fitzsimon – he was fifty-three and looked every day of it. Young Gerald was twenty-three and was a medical student. That accounted for the fact that he was still around the house at that hour.
‘And Mrs Fitzsimon – would you like to be the one to break the news to her?’ Patrick found Joe’s eyes fixed on him, trying to convey some sort of message.
‘Mrs Fitzsimon is not … is not well, she is not present in this house. She does not live here.’
‘May I ask her address, sir?’
There was a long pause after that. Patrick looked down to the end of the table and saw Joe’s eyes fixed on him as though trying to convey a message. Joe had been to Cork Grammar School and knew lots of things about the wealthy of the city. He certainly didn’t look surprised when Joseph Fitzsimon said eventually, ‘Mrs Fitzsimon is in Sunday’s Well, at the Eglinton Asylum.’
The lunatic asylum! Mad! Oh my God, I wonder is there insanity in the family, thought Patrick? Was the girl mad? Perhaps this would be a suicide case after all. The girl was mad and she left the Merchants’ Ball and threw herself into the river. That would be an easy solution. Old Fitzsimon was probably best friends with the proprietor of the Cork Examiner, and the affair would be hushed up. The priests would be under his control, too. Suicide, while the balance of the mind was disturbed – that would be the verdict of the inquest. Deepest sympathy to the family. A good solution. But was it the right one? There was an instinct deep within Patrick which did not allow him to accept an easy answer to everything. Police work suited him. He would gather all the evidence, make notes, put his ideas into columns, sort out possibilities. His mind looked forward to the prospect while he turned a bland and polite face towards the father of the dead girl.
‘I see, sir,’ he said. ‘And have you any more children?’
‘No, just Miss Angelina and Mr Gerald.’
‘And did you also attend the Merchants’ Ball, sir?’ he asked directing his question at Gerald.
‘Yes, I did, of course. Everyone attends the Merchants’ Ball.’
Everyone, who is anyone, thought Patrick.
‘And you danced with your sister?’
Gerald laughed in an amused fashion – not quite the demeanour that might have been expected from a young man who had just learned that his only sister, his only sibling, was dead.
‘No, Sergeant, I certainly did not. I was in the bar most of the evening with my friends.’
‘And the bar is upstairs, is that right, sir,’ said Patrick, casting his mind back.
‘That’s right.’ Gerald sounded bored. Perhaps now was the moment for the bombshell.
‘I understand that your daughter was on her way to England, sir,’ said Patrick purposefully keeping his voice flat. He looked from one to the other. He could have sworn that they would both be genuinely shocked. But that was not true. They seemed to look at each other, to look as though suddenly they understood things.
‘So that was it. That was the reason for it,’ said Gerald slowly and his father nodded.
‘The young scoundrel – he persuaded her to run away with him.’ Joseph’s eyes shone very blue. Unusual to see such a deep colour in a grey-haired man, thought Patrick. He looked down at Joe, who had just written something. He was good at shorthand, Joe. He had thoughts of being a solicitor’s clerk when he left school, but had decided that the police would suit him better.
‘That money!’ The words seemed to explode from Gerald.
‘There was a ten-pound note – that was all – found on the body,’ said Patrick quietly. ‘I will make sure that you have a receipt for that as well as everything else.’ He purposely left the last sentence a little vague and saw them look at each other.
‘And, you suspect that your daughter had planned to run away, to elope …’ He allowed the sentence to tail off. ‘And the name of the young man, sir?’ He stole a glance to the bottom of the table. Joe was looking interested rather than knowing, so this was not common knowledge in this city of gossips.
‘Eugene Roche,’ said Gerald promptly. ‘He’s a lecturer in English Literature at the university.’
Joe had finished writing, but Patrick allowed the pause to lengthen. He saw the tea merchant make a visible effort to gather himself together, to raise his chin.
‘My daughter, Sergeant, got the notion of studying at the university – nonsense, of course, I don’t know what she wanted to bother doing a thing like that for, but unmarried girls get these strange ideas from time to time. My son spoke out of turn – there was, in fact, no real relationship between this young man and my daughter – she met him purely in pursuance of this ridiculous idea. I forbade her to see
him again. For a moment, I wondered, but now on thinking it over, I am sure that there was nothing in this. In fact, I hoped that soon I would be able to announce an engagement between Miss Angelina and a business associate of mine, a Mr Thomas McCarthy, here on a holiday from his tea plantation in India. The marriage was planned to take place in May before he returned to India.’
‘Was this gentleman at the Merchants’ Ball last night, sir?’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated and then continued. ‘I believe that he danced with my daughter early in the evening, but then he came upstairs and joined my table. He said that Miss Angelina wanted to talk with a friend.’
Strange behaviour in a man who was about to get engaged to a girl, thought Patrick; but he decided not to pursue the matter. This death might well be suicide – the fact that there was madness in the family might seem to point in that direction – it would be hushed up, of course. Old Fitzsimon was a Roman Catholic and suicide was a mortal sin. Cynically, he thought that it would probably be a verdict of death by misadventure, rather than suicide while the balance of the mind was disturbed.
‘And is Mr McCarthy staying here with you, sir?’ he asked.
‘No, in town, at the Imperial.’
You needed plenty of money to stay at the Imperial – the most expensive hotel in Cork. This McCarthy from India must be pretty rich if he were going to reside for a couple of months there.
‘You mentioned money, sir,’ he continued, looking across at Gerald. Let them do the talking.
‘My son is referring to the fact that my daughter demanded money from me a few days ago.’ Fitzsimon stopped after that. There was silence in the room, but from outside, in the hallway, he heard someone call: ‘Ellen! Have you those fires done yet?’
The sound of the servants’ voices seemed to galvanize Joseph Fitzsimon. Patrick could see the thought cross his mind that his servants might be questioned. He gave a short laugh.
‘My daughter became a little hysterical. Demanded money. Wanted fifty pounds. Made quite a racket. I suppose that you wouldn’t know much about girls of that age, Sergeant, but they do have those fits of hysteria, from time to time.’
Fifty pounds – that was quite a sum, thought Patrick. Aloud he said: ‘You used the word “demanded”, sir.’ It wasn’t quite a question and Joseph Fitzsimon didn’t take it as one. He stared stonily ahead, perhaps reliving that interview with his daughter.
He said no more, though, so Patrick continued: ‘Had Miss Fitzsimon an income of her own?’
It was a long shot, but he knew from Joe’s quick glance that he might have hit the nail.
Once again they looked at each other. Joseph Fitzsimon tightened his lips.
‘Or perhaps it would be easier for you if I asked that question of your solicitor,’ said Patrick. He had to force himself into saying that. A boy from Cove Street didn’t interrogate one of the merchant princes from Blackrock.
‘She was under twenty-one,’ said Joseph Fitzsimon after a minute.
‘But once she became twenty-one … in three months’ time …’ Patrick was conscious that Joe’s pencil was lifted and remained poised in the air.
Again there was an exchange of glances.
‘Once she was twenty-one my daughter was to inherit her grandmother’s fortune – her grandmother left the money in trust for her.’
‘And what was her grandmother’s name?’ Once again Patrick was conscious that glances were exchanged.
‘Woodford,’ said Joseph Fitzsimon briefly. Patrick saw Joe’s busy pencil hesitate before he wrote the two syllables. Poor Joe. He would be bursting to enlighten his boss about all the ins and outs of family connections in this case. Joe’s father had risen in the world and now had a good position in the menswear department of the Munster Arcade and brought home all the gossip about the well-off and the wealthy of Cork. But even Patrick knew that Woodford, in Cork, meant money; they were hugely rich. The tea merchant’s fortune would pale beside what his daughter was due to inherit. How did Mr Fitzsimon like the thought of that money going out of his family, or would he have preferred it to be left to his son?
‘And if Miss Fitzsimon died before the age of twenty-one?’ Patrick heard the interrogative note in his statement and paused for a reply, deciding to say no more.
The answer was a long time coming and then it was the brother, not the father, who answered.
‘The money would come to me,’ said young Gerald defiantly.
He was going to be a very rich young man, now, thought Patrick. He could give up the medical studies – probably not that interested in them – otherwise what was he doing hanging around the house at eleven in the morning – been drinking most of the night, of course, but that was no excuse. For a moment Patrick thought of the midnight hours that he had spent studying, of the times when, at two o’clock in the morning he had gone out and walked up to the top of Barrack Street, gazing down at the sleeping city, feeling as though his head were going to explode. And, of course, not just Gerald would benefit. He must be costing his father a lot of money at the moment, and perhaps the father might think that there would be no end to it – that Gerald would never qualify as a doctor – and presumably he had no interest in his father’s business. So he would be on his father’s hands for the rest of Joseph’s life.
It must have been very tempting to divert the Woodford fortune from a girl, who sooner or later would marry and bestow her money on a husband, and have it safely in the hands of the son who was possibly costing his father a lot of money, and seemed certain to cost him more.
FOUR
St Thomas Aquinas:
… quia Deus bonus est, sumus, inquantum sua bonitas est ei ratio volendi omnia alia …
( … because God is good, then so, also, are we; since his goodness is the reason for all else … )
The Reverend Mother thought about the dead girl from time to time throughout the day. None of my business, she told herself as the children went home from school at three o’clock. I don’t suppose I will hear any more about it. Nevertheless, she was not entirely surprised when a few hours later Sister Bernadette ushered Dr Scher into her study.
‘Just thought I’d pop in,’ he said with a casual air as he was seating himself on the leather armchair. ‘I’ve had a look at Sister Assumpta – she’s doing as well as can be expected.
Sister Assumpta was as ancient as the old red sandstone hills around the city. She had been gently fading away for the past twenty years and would probably have another year or two in the same state. She was of great use as a perpetual excuse to Dr Scher to visit the convent whenever he wanted to have a gossip – either to impart some, or try to pick some up. Nevertheless, the Reverend Mother had to admit to herself that she was glad to see him.
‘You’ll join me in a cup of tea,’ she said, not bothering to introduce a query into her voice. Dr Scher was never known to refuse and Sister Bernadette could be relied upon to bring it just the way that he liked it – strong enough for the spoon to stand upright, as they said in Cork, and to accompany it with some fruit cake. In the same mood of candour, she didn’t bother making any further queries about the welfare of Sister Assumpta. There was something that he was on edge to communicate to her and she was willing to facilitate him.
‘Funny you should say tea,’ he said with emphasis as soon as the door closed behind the lay sister.
‘Funny?’ Now she did allow a query to enter her voice.
‘Tea!’ He nodded portentously, his round face creasing with the movement. ‘They’ve put a name to the girl.’
Not one of the Fitzsimons, she thought, her heart suddenly giving a painful lurch. There had been something about that girl, something about the bright blue eyes and the red-brown hair, that rare shade of a perfectly ripened horse chestnut …
Dr Scher smiled as though he had access to her inner thoughts.
‘That’s right. She’s a Fitzsimon, all right, from Blackrock. You remember the house.’
She nodded slowly. She
remembered the house. She remembered everything. The eyes, the hair; she remembered everything. She looked at him closely but there was nothing to be seen on his face but the inveterate pleasure of conveying sensational news.
‘It was a shock to him, a shock to Joseph Fitzsimon,’ he said with relish, ‘he came along himself, identified the body, young Patrick told me. Well, I suppose he got a shock,’ he amended and then said: ‘Nothing to the shock that he’s going to get, though,’ He waited for a moment, eyeing her and she said nothing, knowing that he would not be able to resist unburdening himself.
‘Of course, I can rely on you to say nothing,’ he said after a minute and then, eagerly and without waiting for a reply, ‘Anyway, it will all have to come out in the inquest, so young Patrick says. That girl was pregnant; would you believe it? One of the Fitzsimons!’
For a moment she had felt sick and dizzy, but then pulled herself together as he went on.
‘What was the cause of death?’ she asked briskly.
‘Drowning,’ he said briefly. ‘She had a bit of a bruise on her throat – dare say you noticed that, but I knew straightaway, once I examined her properly, that was not the cause of death. The eyes would have been more popping out. Strangulation makes them do that, poor things.’ It made sense to her now, as she remembered Patrick’s hesitation. He had looked at the eyes and had noticed that they were wrong for a victim of strangulation. A clever young man – discreet, too; he had waited and allowed the medical examination to reveal the facts. She bowed her head and listened to Dr Scher’s account. He fell silent as Sister Bernadette’s step was heard in the corridor and she made an effort to overcome the slight dizziness that had attacked her. The news had been a terrible shock to her. She saw Dr Scher look at her and saw a shadow of concern pass over his face. He knew her well, better perhaps than any of the sisters with whom she lived in such close company. He sensed this had disturbed her greatly.
A Shameful Murder Page 4