A Shameful Murder

by Cora Harrison

  When Patrick went back to the barracks, he found the superintendent fulminating over the Cork Examiner. ‘Republican rag!’ he snorted.

  Patrick said a dutiful ‘Sir’ following it up with an inaudible mutter. It didn’t matter. The superintendent didn’t want to hear his opinion, anyway. He melted down the corridor to his office, sorted out a few notes, gave Joe a few more tasks to do at the shipping office, the bank and the Imperial Hotel and then decided to visit the university. He could, he thought, pick up a meat pie in South Main Street on his way.

  The Western Road was still a little flooded, but the pavements were dry so he made rapid progress. He walked up the road thinking about some of his friends at the North Monastery. Many of them, though from no better homes than himself, had desperately wished to win the Honan Scholarship, just one single scholarship for the whole of the province of Munster! They had spent nights and days studying for it in a frantic attempt to attend university. Patrick, he thought, looking back at his young self, had put that aside, calculating soberly the odds against it, bearing in mind the numbers who so desperately wanted to win it. A position where he earned money would be good enough for him, he thought, and once he had successfully sat his School Certificate he had started work at a tailors’ establishment, keeping their account books in meticulous order, and issuing beautifully penned bills and, better still, assiduously and tactfully haunting clients until the money owed was paid. Then he had joined the RIC – ignoring the taunts and mockery of those around him. When the advertisements for a newly formed civic guard service had appeared, he had applied at once and had got the job. Now all he had to do was to make a success of a high-profile case like this murder and he would be well on the way to be trained for a more senior position: to be an inspector was his dream.

  Reluctantly, his mind went to the Reverend Mother. She wanted a finger in the pie; he knew that. He would, he thought, not ignore any helping hand towards the fulfilment of his ambition. Somehow there was something about that elderly woman that made him sort out his thoughts and impose a logical structure on the masses of remembered words and impressions.

  The thought lent him energy and he pounded along the pavements and did not draw breath until he reached the beautiful hump-backed bridge that spanned the southern branch of the River Lee at the entrance to the college and passed beneath the magnificent grey stone archway.

  The former Queen’s College, now University College, Cork, was built of limestone. There was good stone available in Cork – rose-red old Devonian sandstone on the east side and superfine, very white limestone to the west. Shandon’s steeple was built of the sandstone on the north and the eastern side and the limestone on the southern and the western side; many buildings in the city combined the two stones, but it was the limestone on its own that had been chosen for the building of this first university of the south. It was a good choice and it had weathered in its first almost eighty years of life until now it looked like one of the colleges in pictures of Oxford or Cambridge University.

  Where Finbar taught, let Munster learn was engraved in fancy letters below a shield bearing the tri-part emblem of Cork: a ship and two castles; the heraldic lion of England, and the three crowns of Munster.

  The lower grounds where the river ran were still flooded but the roadway leading up to the college had been well built with good drains on either side of it so the surface was dry. Patrick marched up grimly, conscious of his uniform and ignoring jokes and teasing glances aimed at him and went through the archway at the top and into the quadrangle. It was crowded with young men, wearing gowns over heavy overcoats, all chatting animatedly.

  ‘Could I possibly see Professor Lambert?’ he asked the porter, showing his badge with assurance.

  ‘Yes, sir. What name, sir?’ The porter stood up to answer him and was leading the way out down the stone corridor almost before Patrick had proffered his name.

  ‘Through here, Sergeant.’ The porter took him through the Aula Maxima. They went down the corridor side by side, without a word spoken, until they reached a door with a brass plaque that bore the name of Professor Cyril Lambert. The porter rapped, opened the door almost immediately and announced:

  ‘Sergeant Cashman to see you, sir.’

  ‘My sins have found me out,’ said a deep voice, slightly amused. Seen close up, Professor Lambert was younger than he expected, although he had glimpsed him at the funeral. Like most people, he thought, he had looked aside quickly not wishing to stare at the disfigurement. Not an old man, but only in his early forties, big voice for not a very tall man. He looked clever, thought Patrick, forcing himself to look him in the face as the man rose to his feet and held out a hand.

  ‘Take a seat, will you, Sergeant.’

  The place was cosy – small enough to be heated by the coal fire that seemed to banish the traces of the damp air that still lingered outside of the window. Patrick introduced himself and explained that he was investigating the murder of Angelina Fitzsimon.

  ‘You knew her well, Professor?’ He had decided on a straightforward approach in those interviews. In a city as small as Cork, everyone would know his business.

  ‘Yes, I knew her.’ The professor did not enlarge on that. He seemed shocked, reticent.

  ‘Have a whiskey,’ he said then.

  ‘Not me, sir, we’re not allowed to drink on duty,’ said Patrick. ‘But you take one, please.’ And then as the man poured out the liquid – from a nice cut-glass decanter, he noticed – he thought he would start on the questioning quickly. The college bell had just chimed the quarter hour and the professor might have a lecture at ten o’clock.

  ‘You said that you knew Miss Fitzsimon well?’ he stated. ‘Perhaps you could …’

  ‘I knew her, poor, poor girl, but I wouldn’t say that I knew her that well,’ the professor interrupted. ‘I met her a few months ago …’

  Patrick carried on. ‘I understand from Mr Fitzsimon that you told him you danced with his daughter at the Merchants’ Ball. How did she seem to you – depressed in any way – anything like that?’ And if the man were to infer from his words that Angelina could have committed suicide, well that didn’t matter.

  ‘I didn’t notice anything much,’ said the professor reflectively. ‘Angelina was a quiet, reserved sort of girl. Come to think of it, she was extra quiet that night; I could hardly coax a word out of her. I handed over to one of my young students, nice lad, one of the Spiller family; I thought to myself that I was getting a bit old for the dancing game so I went upstairs and joined her father at pre-dinner drinks at his table and then moved on to one of my colleagues’ tables, spread my company around, didn’t go downstairs again until later on!’

  ‘Perhaps you can help me with another matter. Gerald Fitzsimon is one of your pupils, isn’t he?’ Patrick made a mental note to see young Spiller. Grain merchants, the Spillers, he thought. ‘Was Mr Gerald Fitzsimon downstairs dancing?’

  ‘Yes, he’s the right age for it,’ said the professor. ‘It’s a good idea, the Merchants’ Ball – dancing and music downstairs, eating and chatting upstairs; young and old have a good time, but ne’er the twain shall meet.’ The smile vanished from his face and his voice was grave when he said: ‘But when was she missed? I stayed to the very end and I would have noticed if there had been a hunt for her.’

  ‘I understand that Mr Fitzsimon and his son went home separately. Each thought that Miss Fitzsimon was with the other.’

  ‘Poor girl. I suppose now that I am thinking back there was something a little odd about her on Monday night. She hardly seemed to be listening to me. I think perhaps that I could go so far as to say that she appeared, if not distressed, to have something on her mind, something worrying her. The music was very loud when we danced together and I couldn’t hear her very well.’

  ‘So you thought that she might be better with … with someone else?’ Patrick had been going to say someone nearer her own age, but decided that it might not be tactful.

  ‘That�
�s right.’ Professor Lambert smiled. ‘I could see her thinking that she had not got all dressed up in a gorgeous dress in order to dance with an old man like me – so I grabbed young Spiller.’

  ‘Perhaps you could introduce me to Mr Spiller, Professor?’

  ‘Yes, of course. He should be at my next lecture if the young layabout has got himself out of bed in time.’ Professor Lambert opened a large cupboard, put on his overcoat, buttoned it up and then took out a black academic gown with flowing sleeves and added it as a top layer. A fine dust of chalk whirled around the room for a minute and then settled down on the tops of the furniture. A nice man, thought Patrick, clever, too, by all accounts. According to Dr Scher, Professor Lambert was a foremost physician in the field of tuberculosis – consumption they called it in Cork – and that he had saved lots of lives that would have been lost by other, less-skilled doctors. It was surprising that he also had time for his work with the St Vincent de Paul Society.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said and Patrick followed him.

  The open space of the quad was emptying rapidly as the bell for ten o’clock began to toll. A few professors in flowing gowns with long sleeves, like Professor Lambert’s, strolled along the gravelled paths, while undergraduates in their shorter gowns, with lapels instead of sleeves, rushed through doors.

  ‘In here.’ Together they plunged into another stone corridor and the professor opened one of the doors and Patrick followed him to find that he was on a stage at the bottom of a hall tiered into rows above them like an ancient Roman amphitheatre. The benches at the very top were packed, the boards before them piled high with notebooks and textbooks, but the front few rows were comparatively empty. A sudden silence fell when the professor came in and all rose to their feet until he signalled to them to sit. There was a mutter of conversation – everyone eyeing Patrick with interest.

  ‘There they are, Sergeant; that’s who you are looking for, every single one of those layabouts in the back row. Take them all off to the gaol. The university will be all the better without them.’ The professor’s voice boomed through the hall and there was a roar of laughter. He was obviously a character in the eyes of his students and Patrick rather liked him when he said gravely, once the merriment had died down, ‘But seriously, gentlemen, a very tragic event has taken place. The sister of a Mr Fitzsimon in the second year – most of you will know him, Mr Gerald Fitzsimon, his sister, Miss Angelina Fitzsimon, was missing after the Merchants’ Ball on Monday night and very sadly has been found dead.’ He looked around. There was complete silence. ‘Now I remember Mr Spiller danced with her at my request, but if any others were there also, and either saw the young lady, talked with her, or danced with her, then the sergeant here would like to have a word about how she seemed …’

  Several had been there, but the only one that had remembered Angelina was the young Mr Spiller so Patrick took him out into the corridor.

  ‘Odd, isn’t it, Mr Spiller, that you are the only one who remembers dancing with Miss Fitzsimon, or even seeing her,’ he said once they were out in the corridor. Young Spiller was a good-looking lad with a clean-shaven face and well-oiled jet-black hair.

  ‘Not really, Sergeant,’ said the boy. ‘Most of our crowd like to get a few drinks in them before they start dancing. The parents and old people dance in the early stages – they don’t start serving that big dinner until about nine o’clock and that’s when the hall clears a bit. In fact most of our crowd don’t go down until we’re away with the slates,’ he said with naive pride. ‘I was on the way up to the bar myself when Professor Lambert nabbed me so I had to finish the dance for him.’

  ‘Can you remember what Miss Fitzsimon talked about?’

  The boy thought for a moment. ‘I can’t, you know. Shy sort of girl, I think. Don’t suppose I did too much talking myself. One thing at a time, that’s what I say. When you drink, drink; when you dance, dance.’

  ‘But do you think that she seemed distressed, worried, anything like that?’ persisted Patrick.

  ‘Can’t say that I do. Sorry, Sergeant, but I got very drunk afterwards so the whole night is a bit of a blur. Just remember Lamb, I mean Professor Lambert, landing me with this girl in a silver dress and then skipping up to the bar himself.’

  ‘And did you see Gerald Fitzsimon; you would know him, wouldn’t you? Was he there?’

  ‘In the bar, I think, can’t honestly say that I remember.’

  ‘But you do know him, don’t you?’ persisted Patrick and then, not leaving a pause, he said quickly, ‘Someone told me that you were at one of his ether parties, is that right?’

  Spiller made a slight face and then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just the once. Didn’t like it much. Prefer the good old porter.’

  So Gerald Fitzsimon was the one holding ether parties, thought Patrick with satisfaction. Dr Scher knew that, also, he guessed. Motive, means and opportunity; Gerald Fitzsimon had them all. How much was Mrs Woodford’s fortune worth, he wondered, and decided that he would drop into the Mr Sarsfield’s office on the South Mall and get that piece of information out of him.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr Spiller, I hope I haven’t made you miss too much of your lecture,’ said Patrick and the boy gave a grin.

  ‘Actually, we usually just write limericks during this lecture – he teaches us medical ethics and no one takes much notice – different, of course, when we’re doing things about lungs, tuberculosis and so on. But he’s a decent fellow and gives everyone a jolly good mark at the end of the year – so the second years say, anyway.’

  It all fits, thought Patrick as he walked out into the deserted quad. No one much noticed her because these students didn’t go down to dance until they had got pretty drunk and by that time she had disappeared. In fact, it seemed as though it were the older men and their wives were there at the beginning, waiting for the dinner to be served.

  And the prospective bridegroom, if he were to be believed, only danced with the girl once.

  And what about Eugene Roche, lecturer in English, Patrick asked himself as he made his way back to the porter’s office.

  ‘Any chance of a word with Mr Eugene Roche?’ he asked and added apologetically, ‘Sorry to keep bothering you.’

  ‘No bother at all, no bother at all, just having a look at the timetable. No, he’s not teaching. Wonder is he in the Common Room? No, I’ll tell you where he’ll be, probably playing chess in the restaurant. He’s a great chess player. Let me take you to his room and you can sit there in peace for a minute. He’s not there, because I’ve just been in there to make up the fire.’

  A good-looking young man, thought Patrick, left alone in the cosy room and studying the portrait over the fireplace. It was a large picture of Eugene Roche in hood and gown and holding a scroll in his hand. They didn’t get paid too well, these lecturers, he had heard that. They did a bit of teaching and bit of research and all in all it probably was a nice life. He had some beautifully bound books, too, not arranged in matched sets as in Joseph Fitzsimon’s house in Blackrock, but tumbled around, some askew, some lying on top of other books, some open and face down on the desk. This was the room of a man who read a lot. He wondered whether Angelina Fitzsimon had been very much in love with him. Her father had seemed to hint at that. He was looking through one of the books when the man came into the room and he put it down hurriedly, fishing out his badge and introducing himself.

  ‘I just wanted to talk to you about Miss Angelina Fitzsimon,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes.’ There was a question in his voice and he looked apprehensive. ‘I heard that she had died,’ he said. ‘I was out of town for the last few days, but I heard something about it this morning.’

  ‘She was murdered,’ said Patrick, purposefully brutal.

  ‘What!’ The man moved quickly, went to the window, flung it open and took in deep and audible swallows of the foggy air. Patrick waited for a moment and then went over and touched him on the shoulder.

  ‘Could I get you a glass of wat
er, sir, or something stronger?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ The young man spoke in a muffled voice but after a moment he turned around. His face was ashy pale and he wiped it with a handkerchief. He closed the window down again and went to sit by the fire.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said after a minute. ‘That was a shock. I had heard of the death, but I thought that it was a heart attack, or something. Do sit down, won’t you. I thought that it was just an accident. I’ve been away for a couple of days – I had no idea.’

  Patrick sat down and looked across at him.

  ‘You were in love with her, were you, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said the young man. ‘No, what put that into your head.’ His voice did not sound startled, though. However, that might be because the aftermath of the shock had deadened all further feelings.

  ‘The young lady’s father thought that there was some sort of understanding between you, sir.’

  ‘No, no, he, well, I don’t like to say too much, but he isn’t a very nice man, Sergeant, he wasn’t very nice to poor Angelina. But I assure you, Sergeant, there was no hint of a love affair between me and Angelina.’ Not Miss Fitzsimon, noted Patrick, but Angelina. Still, perhaps Eugene Roche was that sort of informal person. He waited. Let the man talk. He was the type that would spill out everything.

  ‘I was just sorry for the poor girl; that was all. I used to tell her that she should try to get away from him.’

  ‘And what was her response to that?’

  ‘Said she couldn’t: not until she was twenty-one.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me all about your rela … about how met Miss Fitzsimon and what sort of terms you were on.’

  ‘I met her at a tennis party and we discussed literature. She was really well read and she would have loved to take a university degree. We discussed it and I told her that she would be welcome to attend a few classes and to see for herself. She told me that her father was very against the idea but that she could suit herself in a few months’ time, when she reached the age of twenty-one.’