Dr Scher’s medical bag was so much part of him that Sister Bernadette did not seem to have taken any notice of it. He was giving her details of the funeral, seeming to remember all of the names effortlessly and she was enjoying that – Cork was a small city and these names were familiar to all of the residents – Sister Bernadette exclaimed at every representative of the various dynasties. She eagerly offered tea, but to the Reverend Mother’s relief he put her off with a reference to the huge meal that had been offered at the funeral feast, down at Blackrock.
Eventually she was gone, and with slightly shaking fingers the Reverend Mother quietly turned the key in the lock. By the time she turned around Dr Scher had gone around the couch and was standing with his back to the fire looking down at the patient, who stared up at him defiantly.
‘This is the person who writes the column on the Cork Examiner that you admire,’ said the Reverend Mother in the tones of one performing a social duty. ‘Dr Scher; A Patriot,’ she added and saw comprehension dawn on his face.
‘Right, having made the introductions, let’s just have a look at you,’ said the doctor as Eileen, with an impatient hand, dragged off the wimple and veil. It took longer and a lot of lip-biting before she was free of the floor-length habit and then came the agony of removing the coat. Dr Scher suggesting cutting it, but Eileen was alarmed at that and insisted it wasn’t hurting her to take it off. There was an oozing of fresh blood, but eventually the arm was free and Dr Scher bent over her, feeling her forehead and pulling down an eyelid to peer into the socket.
‘You’ve been drinking,’ he said, sniffing her breath.
‘That was the Reverend Mother!’ Eileen, rather faint, but still indomitable, giggled and said demurely, ‘She kept pouring communion wine down my throat.’
‘Nuns! You can never trust them with the bottle!’ exclaimed Dr Scher with such comic emphasis that Eileen giggled again. ‘I could give you a whiff of ether, but it might be a bit much on top of the alcohol. Can you bear a bit of pain?’
‘Yes,’ said Eileen resolutely. ‘I don’t want ether. I have to be on my way soon. Don’t give me anything that will make me woozy.’
‘You’ll stay the night, and until Dr Scher says that you can go and that is an order,’ said the Reverend Mother sternly and then was almost unbearably touched to see a couple of tears ooze out from Eileen’s tightly shut eyes.
She bore the pain well as Dr Scher’s sharply pointed knife and tweezers did their job and she stayed very still while the arm was being bandaged. ‘Brave girl,’ he said gently when he had finished. ‘Now a glass of water, Reverend Mother and she can take a few aspirins. She can have a few more before she goes to sleep tonight and I’ll be around to see her first thing in the morning.’
‘Come at five minutes past ten,’ commanded the Reverend Mother, and then when he raised an eyebrow she condescended to say: ‘Mass is celebrated at ten o’clock in the community chapel.’
He gave her an amused smile and saluted in a military fashion, but she ignored him. She was concerned about Eileen, who seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness.
When he had gone Reverend Mother abandoned her pretext of work and sat beside the girl. Eileen dozed and then twitched violently a few times in what seemed to be a nightmare, but a touch on her hand woke her and she fell asleep again quite quickly. At ten o’clock she awoke feverish and thirsty and the Reverend Mother gave her a couple of aspirins. They didn’t seem to work very well, though, and Eileen was holding her bottom lip between her teeth and had her hands tightly clenched.
‘Try to relax, Eileen,’ she ordered and Eileen nodded obediently.
‘A fellow I know says that he has a great way of relaxing and that he always uses it if he’s winged by a bullet.’ she said in a voice that she strove to make sound unconcerned.
‘Thinks about his medical studies?’ queried the Reverend Mother.
Eileen giggled. ‘No, this is a different lad,’ she said. ‘He says that he imagines a pub and that when he goes in, the first thing he sees is a great, big blazing fire and the second thing is the counter completely covered with glasses of Beamish stout – and each one of the glasses has a head of froth on it and he goes along the counter, drinking each one of them, real, real slow – that’s what he says. And by the time that he comes to the back row on the counter he’s usually asleep – that’s what he says. Doesn’t work with me, though,’ added Eileen. ‘I suppose the problem is that I don’t like Beamish stout, much.’
She shifted restlessly on the couch. She looked close to tears and the Reverend Mother sought for something to distract her thoughts.
‘Do you remember the body I found,’ she began, and then stopped. This was something that might distract Eileen, but it certainly wouldn’t be a peaceful image, which would lull her off to sleep. Then she thought of the dress and knew what to do. She remembered the time when there had been a pitched battle between the Republicans and the Black and Tans auxiliaries, right on the street outside the convent. Sister Philomena, normally a rigorous disciplinarian, whose usual response to the most alarming battle noises was ‘Keep your head down and get on with your sums’, had melted at the terrible distress of the young children under her care and had put them sitting, squashed into the corner of the room, furthest from the windows, had herself sat on the floor in front of them, spreading out her voluminous skirts, like a mother hen, and had told them the story of a fairies’ banquet, to which, normally a very truthful person, she swore that she had been invited to for her seventh birthday by the Fairy Queen herself. Lost in the wonders of fairy cakes iced with pink and blue, of jelly and cream in tiny acorns and of sweet honey-flavoured drink delivered in miniature buttercups by some orange and brown striped bees, the children stopped listening to explosions and to the rat-tat-tat of the rifles and were soon eagerly contributing suggestions to the banquet.
‘You remember you asked me what the dress on that girl was made from and when I told you that it was satin, it reminded me of something,’ she went on. A story was something that she prided herself on telling and so she embarked into a description of how, before her first ball, she had gone to Dowden’s department shop and had picked out the most beautiful gown.
‘It was satin,’ she said, her voice quiet and reminiscent. ‘It had been made in London by the famous designer Mr Charles Worth. He made wonderful dresses from satin. It was his favourite material.’
‘Satin,’ repeated Eileen and it seemed as though her tongue caressed the two syllables with a slightly sibilant sound. ‘What did it feel like?’
‘Very smooth, almost as smooth as glass when you stroked it with your hand – different though when you wore it – it seemed to glide – it’s different wearing satin to wearing silk – silk rustles, satin just sort of …
‘Slithers,’ Eileen put forward.
‘That’s right, that’s the way it goes when you walk in it, it slithers along with you.’
‘What colour was it?’ Eileen’s eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her search her mind for the details of that wonderful gown.
‘It was chartreuse,’ said the Reverend Mother – her tone, she noted with amusement, was almost reverential, but that was the way that she had felt about it then. ‘The most beautiful shade of green, green with a sort of lemon glow from it,’ she went on and saw Eileen nod and probably store the new word for future use.
‘Would have looked good on you – you have those kind of eyes,’ she said kindly.
‘And the skirt,’ went on the Reverend Mother solemnly, ‘the skirt was floor-length, and six foot across the diameter – just like a big circle on the floor – and I wore a crinoline under it, I think it was five hoops of whalebone, held together with tapes – started just above my waist …’ Her voice went on describing every detail, of lace and embroidery, while her mind went back to those months in Bordeaux and to Lucy’s words about the crinoline concealing her pregnancy.
‘And when I put the dress on over t
he crinoline and looked in the mirror – we had no gas lamps in the bedroom, then, but since I was getting ready for a ball I had twenty-four candles – and so the light from the candles seemed to be reflected from the sheen on the satin and instead of the dress being one colour, it just looked as though it were woven from forty shades of green and lemon.’
The Reverend Mother let her words tail out gradually. Her thoughts went from that first ball – she had danced with Richard McCarthy first of all – and with Thomas Copinger, and then he had danced with Lucy while she looked on from the sidelines. That dance was very clear in her mind and in order to banish it, she went on talking about the precious lace and the shaping of the bodice, of the necklace of emeralds and aquamarines that her father had bought for her, of the shoes made from satin and dyed to match the dress. By then the black eyelashes had come down over the grey eyes. Eileen had dropped off to sleep. She waited for a few minutes, then rose carefully and got out a notebook. She was compiling a list for the Bishop of some of the worst cases of deprivation that had come to her notice in the school. She did this every year and every year he thanked her effusively and praised her efficiency – but, of course, he did nothing. And yet, she thought, he was a man of influence.
Eileen woke an hour later. She lay for a moment looking around her in a bewildered fashion and then seemed to remember. The Reverend Mother was touched to see the look of relief that came over her face once she realized where she was. Since Eileen admitted to being a little thirsty, she made tea for both of them from the small spirit lamp that she kept in her room in order to refresh herself when working late.
Eileen, she thought, five minutes later, was looking much better. There was a tin of biscuits – left over from the numerous Christmas presents that were showered upon the Reverend Mother – in the bottom of the cupboard. She was pleased to see the girl tuck in hungrily, demolishing the chocolate-coated ones in three bites. She began to look alert and more like herself, so the Reverend Mother chanced a question, again.
‘Eileen,’ she said, ‘do you recollect when you came upon me in the lane on the morning of the last flood, when the body was there, was that the first time that you had seen that girl?’ Eileen, she remembered, was also seventeen years old. Of course, by the time that she left, only a few of the most promising, the most intelligent of the year group remained in the school. The others had left at the statutory age of fourteen or even before that. Perhaps she would not remember these. It was only the old, she thought, who remembered youth properly.
Eileen looked up at her and her glance was clear of fever and quite penetrating. ‘I didn’t kill her, Reverend Mother,’ she said. ‘Why should I?’
‘I know that, but I wondered whether you recognized her in any way?’
Eileen frowned. ‘Yes, funnily enough, I did, I did in the beginning,’ she said, hesitantly, ‘and then I knew that I couldn’t have, when I looked at the dress. Satin,’ she added, impressing the word on her memory. ‘I don’t suppose I ever saw her before in my life.’
‘Yes, but if you forget about the dress, think back to the face? Did it mean anything to you?’
Eileen closed her eyes. Her face looked suddenly very weary now and she almost seemed drowsy and relaxed.
‘Never mind,’ said the Reverend Mother softly. ‘You go to sleep. Don’t worry. The door is locked and I’ll spend the night in the armchair here, beside you.’
The Reverend Mother roused herself at six o’clock. She left Eileen sleeping behind the locked door to the study while she went into her bedroom, washed and made sure that she was neat and tidy for the Sunday morning, while planning carefully her next move. Sunday was the holy day of the week and Sunday morning brought its rituals within the convent. It would be important not to scandalize any of her nuns.
‘Sister, I am going to twelve o’clock mass at the south chapel.’ She ignored Sister Mary Immaculate’s startled expression – the only occasion when the Reverend Mother went to the parish church of the area was when the Bishop was present, confirming the children from the schools on the south side of the city. ‘I shall leave you in charge, here,’ she went on and was gratified to see the expression of self-importance come over her subordinate’s face. I dislike this woman intensely, she thought and wondered whether it was something that should be mentioned at confession and then decided against it. Thomas Aquinas, she had been glad to read, had taken it for granted that there would always be enmity and antagonism between different human beings. Only the stars, he had thought, were able to go on their way without warfare.
The convent was completely empty, when Dr Scher’s ring at the door came at precisely five minutes past ten o’clock. He raised his eyebrows when the door was opened to him by the Reverend Mother.
‘I am honoured,’ he said ironically. ‘Have you run out of minions?’
She ignored that. She had a favour to ask and she wanted to ask it out of Eileen’s hearing.
‘You have a nice big house, there on South Terrace, don’t you, Dr Scher?’ she said. She wondered whether to mention that Professor Lambert thought that it was much too big for him, but then decided that might not be good tactics. These old bachelors were often as touchy and gossipy as old maids. There was no telling whether the two men might not be secretly quite antagonistic to each other. ‘Do you think,’ she asked tactfully, ‘that your housekeeper would mind having a quiet visitor for a few days – that’s probably all that it would take, wouldn’t it?’
‘You mean me to aid and abet your illicit concealment of a person wanted by our friends, the civic guards,’ he said annunciating his words very primly.
‘They’ll never even think of you,’ said the Reverend Mother robustly. ‘Anyway, it’s a shame to have that big house empty and just one man in it. Eileen will be no trouble to you. Give her a book and you won’t know that she’s there. And you can discuss Karl Marx with her.’
He looked around the empty hall and she could see him look slightly puzzled.
‘The Sisters are all at Mass,’ she explained. ‘We could take her over there now and no one would know a thing about it.’
‘You never thought of joining the Republican Army yourself, did you? I can see you master-minding a raid on the armoury at the barracks, or something like that.’
‘But you’ll do it, will you? I can’t think of any other way of keeping her safe.’
She knew what he meant and felt obscurely pleased by his words. She often had thought that she had a good brain for organization. It was odd that as a nun she had such scope for stretching her brain and acquiring new skills. At the age of seventeen she could never have guessed how much she still had to learn and how fulfilling her life would be within the walls of the convent.
He didn’t answer her question but went into her study and put his hand on Eileen’s forehead. ‘How does the arm feel this morning?’
‘Sore,’ said Eileen with a grimace. ‘Aches a bit.’
‘It will do, for a few days, but the fever is down. You won’t die.’ He looked down at Eileen’s breeches and at, on the floor beside her, the blood-stained military coat, with the pistol protruding from the pocket, and grimaced.
‘We can dress her in these things.’ The Reverend Mother picked the large habit, the veil and the wimple from the neatly folded pile on the chair. ‘I’ve packed a couple of linen nightdresses for her in this bag. Your housekeeper needn’t know anything about who she is.’ He had, in the past, she knew, kept a severely ill patient in his own house until a hospital place could be found for them. His charity towards the poor and the sick was well known in Cork.
‘Oh, very well,’ he said testily. ‘But no guns, young lady! You can leave that pistol here with the Reverend Mother. She’ll look after it. I’m a pacifist myself.’
‘Take this rug out to the car; we’ll follow in a moment.’ The Reverend Mother stored the pistol on a high shelf, just behind a large Bible.
Once he was out of the way, she got Eileen to dress in the nun’s hab
it, arranged the wimple, pinned the veil – the girl’s own boots would not be seen under the long flowing skirt.
‘I’ll return your clothes in a couple of days,’ she promised, wondering how to get out bloodstains as she stuffed them into a bag and put it into her cupboard. Sister Bernadette would know all about stain-removal, but that military-style coat could not be entrusted to her. ‘Let’s go,’ she said as soon as the girl was ready.
Eileen made a convincing nun, with a saint-like profile showing beneath a linen-swathed forehead. She said nothing, but she seemed steadier on her feet and her grey eyes were not as full of pain as they had been yesterday. Side by side they walked to the car – there was no one on the street outside – most of their neighbours would be at Mass in the convent chapel – and the steady rain would put off any purposeless street strollers. Nevertheless, the Reverend Mother kept her well shielded within the enormous umbrella.
By a piece of unexpected luck the housekeeper and the maid were both out at Mass when they came to the house at South Terrace. Dr Scher unlocked the door, ushered them upstairs, went back downstairs allowing the Reverend Mother to get his patient into a nun’s cotton nightdress and then into bed, before appearing with a glass of lemonade and telling Eileen to take some pills with it.
‘She’ll sleep now,’ he said after a few minutes while they both stood and watched the girl’s eyelids droop over the white cheeks.
‘I’ll take the nun’s clothes back to the convent; that will save you a few explanations,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘You’re very good. There’s no one else that I could ask a favour like that of.’ She made the words as warm as she could, but her mind had already left Eileen and had gone back to the puzzle about the dead girl who had been washed up into the convent’s side gateway.
‘You’ll have something to eat before you go,’ invited Dr Scher.
A Shameful Murder Page 17