Murder in an Orchard Cemetery

by Cora Harrison

  ‘It’s all part of growing up, isn’t it,’ she said affably. ‘Children blurt everything out and all is forgiven but as you get older, you don’t make rash promises and you learn to weigh up requests. I’m so glad that you understand that. Now tell me, what would you hope to learn from an apprenticeship?’

  Eileen, she was pleased to see, had a rather thoughtful expression on her face when, after stumbling through a few expected outcomes from an apprenticeship to a solicitor, she left to go back to her friends and her celebrations. The Reverend Mother hoped that the girl had not committed herself to this Maureen Hogan and that there still might be time to arrange an apprenticeship with some firm where she would learn the trade and gain useful experience on how to manage the affairs of moneyed clients. She finished her accounts, wrote cheques for the many bills on her desk and then turned to the problem of a family of twelve children whose mother was faced with eviction at the end of the week. Something must be done about them.

  ‘Dear Mr O’Connor,’ she wrote, and continued fluently, pointing out to the builder that, although the woman had been newly deserted, there was a possibility that the father of the twelve children might send money from Liverpool and that, in any case, she was sure that a reputable citizen like himself would not want to see a woman and such very young children condemned to sleep on a doorstep. She filled the page with bright optimism and a veiled threat of bad publicity and then, with a sigh, folded her letter, stamped and addressed its envelope, added it to the pile and went off to telephone her cousin Lucy, wife of the foremost solicitor in the city, owner of a large law practice, and employer of four or five solicitors, a practice where surely there might be room for a clever young apprentice.

  As she walked down the corridor, she decided on her strategy, announcing Eileen’s spectacular results and mentioning her choice of a mentor. She could bet that the name of Maureen Hogan would not meet with approval from Lucy’s husband. Absent-mindedly she gave the number to the switchboard lady, discouraged chat about the lovely weather, thankfully heard the sound of a loud street band in the distance, and then waited in silence for her cousin’s voice, knowing that for once privacy would be ensured, and that no bored member of the telephone switchboard could surreptitiously lift another receiver and eavesdrop on the conversation without betraying themselves by a loud burst of ear-splitting music.

  ‘I know,’ said Lucy immediately as she picked up the receiver. ‘You’re ringing up about your retreat, aren’t you? Even Ellen knows. When she came to tell me that you were on the line, she said, “The Reverend Mother will be off on her retreat, tomorrow.” Of course, it’s always around this time of the year, the week before the feast of Corpus Christi, isn’t it? And not just nuns, priests, and brothers, this year, either. The Cork Examiner ran a front-page piece on it, photos and all. You’ll have the five candidates for the alderman vacancy hanging around looking hopeful, listening with immense interest to everything that you have to say and, of course, all of them pretending to be extremely pious. They’ll all be very respectful towards you. They know, of course, that, secretly, the bishop is frightened of you.’

  The Reverend Mother smiled. She had been about to explain about Eileen, but should have known that Lucy would have all the gossip at her fingertips; would want to talk about the forthcoming election; would know about the undercurrents, also. She might as well milk this source before getting onto young Eileen’s future.

  ‘So, who are all those people who are supposed to be joining us?’ she queried, endeavouring to make her voice sound indifferent.

  ‘Only one that matters; well, perhaps, two. The bishop is very keen on that builder, Mr O’Connor, quite rich, very keen to be lord mayor. And, of course, it’s time we had a properly elected lord mayor before we are all bankrupted by that Philip Monahan with his plans to build millions of houses at the taxpayers’ expense! I went to a party last night and everyone was saying that. Of course, the bishop is keen to have some new churches so he’ll favour that builder, but that shouldn’t be of paramount … Not that the churches aren’t important, of course …’ Lucy tailed off in a meaningful way and the Reverend Mother’s lips twitched.

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed piously. Both of their minds, she was sure, were on that wealthy builder Robert O’Connor and the implications of the bishop’s interest in him. He, of course, could probably be relied on to give the bishop a good discount on the building costs of a new church in gratitude for his lordship’s support.

  ‘But James Musgrave, another of the candidates, is a really nice man, a neighbour of ours. I’m sure that you will like him immensely when you meet. He’s an accountant, a stockbroker, really. His girl was at school with one of our granddaughters. Does a lot for charities. A great speaker. A very religious man in a nice sort of way.’ And Lucy, always careful in her attempts to manipulate her cousin, seemed prepared to leave it at that, while the Reverend Mother, who was in a slightly waspish mood, wondered aloud how Mr Musgrave could be deemed religious ‘in a nice sort of way’.

  ‘I suppose you are going on about that business of dismissing the cook, but he felt he had to. After all, he had young children who could be contaminated by bad example, especially if she kept the child, as she had wanted to do,’ said Lucy. The Reverend Mother thought about James Musgrave. Had met him once, about six or seven years ago at a party he had held to celebrate Lucy’s birthday, where he had apologized to Lucy for a badly cooked birthday cake from a new cook and had told the story of the former cook and her lack of morals.

  ‘His daughter is now a novice in the Sisters of Charity order, I seem to remember,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right. Funny that! She was very wild when she was at school. I wasn’t too keen on my granddaughters having too much to do with her. He’s had no luck, poor man. He is all alone. His wife is dead, died in a car crash when the children were young – Peter and Paul, the twins, were about eleven and Nellie was just eight, the day before her eighth birthday, poor little thing. Used to be very quiet then, just a little shadow to her mother, always out in the garden helping her with planting and weeding. I can just see the two of them.’

  ‘Very sad,’ said the Reverend Mother.

  ‘Dreadful,’ said Lucy emphatically. ‘Poor man. He was driving, coming back from a party, had a bit too much to drink, I suppose, skidded on a piece of ice on the Straight Road. Spun across the road and crashed into a wall. She was killed, but he was perfectly all right. Poor fellow! He’s had a hard life. His daughter in the convent, and his two sons, the twins, instead of following in their father’s footsteps and studying accountancy, went off to Australia to try their hands at farming, if you please. A constant drain on the poor man, probably. Does anyone make money with farming? Though perhaps it’s different in Australia. Went off when they left school. Not that they are much of a loss to Cork. A wild pair, those twins! Always up to mischief, dressing up, pretending to be Germans or something like that. Could mimic any accent in the world. Do you remember me telling you the damage they did making a dam in that little river at the back of our house? Made an explosive by packing some fertilizer into an iron can and burying it in the mud. Came into the kitchen to borrow a bag of sugar and half an hour later back again. I’ll never forget the sight of that boy, Peter, or was it Paul – they were so alike in every way, same blond hair, same enormous pale blue eyes – well, it was one of them and I’ll never forget the sight of him, when he rushed into our kitchen, streaming blood! My hands were shaking when I phoned for the doctor. Their cook rushed in with bandages and a terribly sweet raspberry drink for the boys and I drank some myself for the shock.

  ‘An adventurous pair. Probably wouldn’t have been suited to accountancy.’ The Reverend Mother was automatically on the side of youth and of enterprise.

  ‘Should probably have gone into business. Lots of charm,’ said Lucy. ‘All the old ladies around loved them for their beautiful blue eyes. A neighbour of ours, you remember Maureen Clay, very frail now, poor thing, thoug
h still got all her wits about her – you should hear her about Kitty O’Shea and her two lovers – predicting a dual, she was, the last time I visited her in the Bons nursing home in Cobh – anyway, she always asks about the Musgrave twins. Loved the pair of them. Said she used to look forward to them coming home from school. Never a dull moment during the holidays. She loved the pair of them! Of course, James had to send all three of them to boarding school after their mother died …’

  Loved by all, except their father, thought the Reverend Mother. She began to feel a slight prejudice against James Musgrave. A dull, prissy man, she pictured him as, bundling his motherless children off to boarding school, sacking the cook who had loved and cared for the children. Well, he had reaped what he sowed. To have one of your children want nothing to do with you, was, perhaps, not so unusual, but to have all three distance themselves with such finality seemed to show a poor relationship between the widower and his offspring. She began, unfairly she knew, to feel a slight revulsion against Lucy’s friend and suspected him of prompting Lucy to get her cousin, the Reverend Mother, to influence the bishop in his favour. At least poor old Pat Pius was open and honest and signed a handsome cheque. And why shouldn’t Pat Pius be a better alderman than someone like James Musgrave, born into money and spending his time making more, instead of being more of a companion to his motherless children. Pat Pius had nothing, no expensive schooling, no father to hand down money to him, nothing but his own enterprise and energy to stand between him and destitution.

  ‘I would have thought that your Rupert would be voting for the young solicitor, Maureen Hogan – his own profession,’ said the Reverend Mother.

  ‘So, you do know all about the candidates. I thought that you would. You’ve always got your finger in every pie,’ said Lucy, the affection in her voice coming across the crackling phone line. ‘Don’t be fooled by the brass plate on the door,’ she added. ‘That’s another one that disappointed her father, and mother. Nearly broke her father’s heart. Joining up with Sinn Fein and then getting mixed up with the IRA, just like her brothers. But her father daren’t let her near his own practice. He’d lose three-quarters of his clients if he did so. She’d be pushing IRA propaganda down their throats, quoting James Connolly at them.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ said the Reverend Mother seizing the opportunity. ‘Oh, dear! I wish I had known that. I’d have discouraged Eileen from making contact with her. You remember Eileen, don’t you, Lucy? Well, she has done brilliantly in her final examination, got first honours in her bachelor’s degree and top of the class, her Honan Scholarship extended and now she has plans to study law and to do her apprenticeship with this very same Maureen Hogan. Oh dear!’ she repeated and waited expectantly.

  ‘Talk her out of it,’ advised Lucy. ‘And, yes, I’ll have a word with Rupert. That’s what you rang up about, I suppose. I know you! Do have a nice time at your annual retreat. And you won’t forget to give my best wishes to James Musgrave, will you?’ The last sentence was uttered in a careless manner, but the Reverend Mother was not fooled. Life was like that, she thought. A series of bargains. She would gently use her influence with the bishop to bring forth the manifold virtues of this Mr Musgrave and Lucy would persuade Rupert to take Eileen on as an apprentice.

  ‘Why does Mr Musgrave want to be an alderman?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I told you,’ said Lucy impatiently, ‘there’s a vacancy for an alderman and the present lot are all as old as the hills and set in their ways, have been there for years. They just do what that city manager, Mr Philip Monahan, tells them to do. Everyone is hoping that there’ll be an election for lord mayor next year and then James, if he gets this vacancy, will have an excellent chance of being elected. The rest of the aldermen are far too old. And, of course, being a stockbroker will give him an advantage as all the other stockbrokers and probably most of the solicitors, all of our crowd, you know – well all these sort of people – they will give him one or more of their votes. And by the way, strictly between ourselves, he’s hoping to marry Kitty O’Shea.’

  ‘Kitty O’Shea. The widow of that alderman who died last year. Someone told me she was going to marry the builder.’

  ‘Amazing how you nuns know all the gossip!’ said Lucy tartly. ‘All the more reason to encourage the bishop to favour poor James. You don’t want all that O’Shea money going to that appalling builder, Robert O’Connor. Rupert is trying to get as many people as possible to vote for James Musgrave. He’ll probably succeed in getting him in.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said the Reverend Mother. Rupert’s support would be valuable. Like most other solicitors, barristers and stockbrokers, Rupert would have three votes in the election – one for being a householder, one for owning a business premises and one for holding a professional qualification. There were no votes, at all, of course, for people like the unfortunate mother who was faced with eviction from the room which she occupied with her twelve children. ‘What does this Mr James Musgrave hope to achieve if he is elected as lord mayor?’ she asked.

  ‘Talk to him,’ advised Lucy. ‘Put ideas in his head. Goodness knows you have enough of them. But don’t overdo it. Remember it’s the ratepayers who have the votes and they don’t want sky-high rates to pay for utopian schemes.’

  ‘Very true,’ said the Reverend Mother with a sigh as she put down the phone. In theory, the rich of the city would prefer the poor to live in more sanitary conditions, would prefer not to see rats on the streets or to watch sewage bubble up from drains whenever the River Lee had one of its frequent floods, would like an end to these queues stretching half a mile along St George’s Quay of unemployed, tuberculosis-ridden men, patiently waiting their turn to collect some meagre social security payment and spitting onto the pavement, but in practice they were not willing to pay the rates which might have achieved these desirable situations. Normally she enjoyed her conversations with Lucy but this one had not cheered her. And the prospect of this retreat where she would be constantly accosted by ambitious, would-be politicians or worse, the bishop himself, did not cheer her. Even the memory of the delightful apple orchard cemetery at the convent was not enough to soothe her troubled mind. Seven days peace, just seven days, was it too much to ask for, she muttered impatiently as she searched her drawers for an enormous and ostentatious set of silver and jewelled rosary beads that had been gifted to her by the parents of some novice. Surely even an ambitious would-be lord mayor, on seeing this symbol of prayer from a distance, would hesitate to approach her and perhaps she would have some peace if she produced it while sitting among the blossoms in the orchard cemetery.

  TWO

  The apple orchard cemetery of the Sisters of Charity, the Reverend Mother had always known, had been planted in the last century, during the terrible winter of 1846/47. The ‘Black 47’ as it was named in folklore, had been the worst winter in a generation with the deadly potato famine followed by a devastating pandemic of typhus fever. The rural poor fleeing from starvation and evictions poured into Cork city; special constables were organized to expel vagrants from the city; the workhouse and the city hospitals were full; starving beggars died on the streets. The cemeteries in the city could not cope with the numbers to be buried. Often, the mass graves contained so many coffins that those interred near the tops of the graves were insufficiently covered with earth allowing the foetid odour of decaying corpses to escape.

  Matters were so bad that several convents, though not her own, had consecrated a piece of land for a peaceful resting place for the sisters. But only the Sisters of Charity had come up with this splendid idea of not just consecrating the field beside the convent chapel, but of planting eight rows of apple trees, donated by a farming cousin of the mother superior of the time, and these had been widely spaced so as to leave room for graves. And year by year the spaces had been filled with graves, those from the famine and the fever years headed with modest field stones of limestone and the later graves with more ornate slabs of limestone. The Reverend Mother, who h
ad a practical mind, envied the Sisters of Charity their peaceful and productive graveyard, but had been unable to see any possibility of purchasing land for such a purpose beside her crowded city plot.

  There was an air of peace about the place, she thought, as on the fourth day, she opened the gate, closing it gently behind her. The trees were all in bloom, the air faintly scented and the birds singing among the blossoms. The limestone of the region had been near to the surface and when the trees were planted and graves dug, great rocks and slabs had been excavated. And over the years, probably when the site was occupied by a monastery, the rocks had been turned into a dozen or so stone pews, carved with great skill. Some were single seats, while others were long benches, curved into graceful semi-circles, large enough to fit two people in comfort. As always seemed to happen during the bishop’s retreat, an unwritten law had arisen where groups of friends or those who preferred to meditate alone, had established rights to individual seats or to groups of pews, choosing shade or full sun according to their preferences.

  The Reverend Mother went towards her usual shady seat, designed for one, but then stopped with a grimace of annoyance. Some large bird, probably a seagull, had perched on the back and deposited a large and unattractive mess on the seat. If it were in her own convent, she could have dealt with the matter quickly and easily, but here she hesitated to summon the gardener, or to go into the kitchen for a bucket and a brush. She looked around. A few seats were occupied, but very few and these were at a distance. Many still chatted outside the church or had gone to partake of a mid-morning snack after the morning service, so she was the only one standing there. After a few seconds she chose the long bench near to the gate where the stockbroker, James Musgrave, usually sat, reclining against the sculpted curved end of the stone and with his long legs stretched out and his shoulders cushioned by the leather attaché case which seemed to accompany him wherever he went. A man who seldom appeared at this time in the morning, but if he did, as he was a tall man, she would see him instantly he came through the small gate by the church and could rise to her feet and either choose another bench or else retire to her room.