‘No doubt you confess your sins to your chaplain,’ said Dr Scher.
‘No, I don’t,’ said the Reverend Mother in decisive tones. Not even to Dr Scher would she confess that her opinion of the elderly chaplain was that he was a meddlesome gossip. She rapidly changed the subject. ‘How important would it be to get little Frankie out of the city?’ she asked.
‘Vital,’ said Dr Scher. ‘You are a Latin scholar, Reverend Mother. You know the origin of the word, vital.’
‘So, life itself, may – no, according to you, does – depend upon a father being able to get funds together to move the child well outside the city, even, perhaps, to pay for someone to care for him by the sea while the father travels up and down to the city.’ There would be, thought the Reverend Mother, her mind busily working on the problem, several fishermen’s wives who would be willing, for a fee, to board and lodge a well-behaved boy and his father. The child could go on with his schooling at the village school in Youghal. Her eyes went to the gate. Pat Pius had disappeared through it, and she could see the top of his head bobbing above the well-trimmed hedge. He would run all the way back to the city. Take his child to his unwilling sister, bribe her, perhaps, to forego her earnings from the market and to keep the child at home from school and in isolation from the deadly diphtheria.
‘You haven’t asked the question, but yes, I do think that Frankie’s life would be of far greater importance to Pat Pius than the life of a gentleman like Mr James Musgrave.’ Dr Scher’s eyes had followed hers.
‘On the other hand, with James Musgrave out of the way, there remain four more candidates. As for Pat Pius, I would not, myself, have put him in the second place,’ said the Reverend Mother quietly. She now looked towards the bishop and the builder as they both surveyed the flat landscape of the city of Cork that lay beneath them. Where was the new church to be situated, she wondered and endeavoured to banish from her mind a speculation as to its cost.
Dr Scher’s eyes followed hers. ‘There’s an architect that I know, lives in Cobh, told me that he estimates the cost to be about thirty thousand pounds – a lot of money, that. Might be more if he wants a lot of fancy statues and stained-glass windows.’
The Reverend Mother shelved the figure of £30,000 in her mind and decided that, at her next meeting with the bishop, she would ask the cost of building a road of council houses to rehouse the slum dwellers from the narrow lanes behind North Main Street. She wondered whether the solicitor candidate, Miss Maureen Hogan, might have such a figure memorized, and if not, she was sure that she could get the information from either her pupil, Eileen, or even from Mr Philip Monahan, the city council manager.
‘I suppose that the figure of thirty thousand pounds includes the fee to the builder, the architect and the cost of the materials,’ she said thoughtfully, her eyes still upon the squat, almost square figure of Mr Robert O’Connor. ‘Bob the Builder’ suited him as a nickname, she thought and wondered whether he had any worries about his safety. Even Patrick, careful though he was, had seemed to think that the murder might have had something to do with the politics.
‘Do aldermen on the city council get paid a good salary or stipend, Dr Scher?’ she asked.
‘Pretty good, I’d say,’ he replied. ‘Certainly, Pat Pius has worked that out. He knows that the extra money would mean he could afford to take a house by the sea in Youghal and to travel up and down by train. Great things, trains, he was telling me. And the little fellow has drawn a map of the railway line going from Kent Station to Midleton and onto Youghal. He got him to show it to me. They’d been talking about it together. Clever child, little Frankie. Very well done for a little fellow of seven.’
Dr Scher’s voice held a note of sadness. He identified very strongly with his patients and the Reverend Mother knew from his tone that he had little hopes for the survival of this clever, but delicate little son of Pat Pius. Not unless his father could get out of the city. She sighed heavily. There were so many problems in the world, so many children who could not be cared for, or who were neglected. She wished that she were back where she belonged and made up her mind that as soon as Lucy came she would make her apologies to the bishop, tell him about the diphtheria epidemic, and then beg a lift back into the city.
In the distance, she saw a car, shining in the sunshine, making its way slowly through the gates. She recognized the dark-green paint of Mr Rupert Murphy’s stylish Bentley car and the sight of it cheered her. She turned to Dr Scher. ‘My cousin is arriving. She is – was – a near neighbour of the dead man, Mr James Musgrave. The police need to have a word with his daughter who is now left without any near relative, but I persuaded them to wait until Mrs Murphy arrived. She knows the girl well and will, I hope, be able to support her, as well, of course, as giving the police any information about the family. Will you come with me, Dr Scher and be present during the interview? I’m anxious that the child will not be taxed beyond her strength, and I suspect that the mother superior is not too sympathetic. As soon as she comes back from that ill-advised expedition to the stricken poor of the city, you might be able to persuade Mother Teresa to send the girl to bed or even, perhaps, allow her to go home with a neighbour and prepare for the funeral. My cousin Lucy, I know, is practical and sensible and has granddaughters of the same age as Sister Mary Magdalene.’
‘What’s her real name?’ asked Dr Scher. He had a note of distaste in his voice at the sound of the name and she wondered how much of the New Testament someone of his faith would know – but, of course, the word Magdalene was synonymous with prostitution. She herself, despite the ultimate sainthood status of Mary Magdalene, found that the name of a former prostitute, no matter how much she might have repented, was, perhaps, rather an odd choice for a young girl entering the convent.
‘I have no idea what name she had before she entered the convent,’ she said now, ‘but, here comes someone who will know,’ she added, as the green Bentley purred its way through the gates, opened by the gardener. ‘Come and see my cousin Lucy,’ she said as she went forward.
However, there was a disappointment for her. Only the chauffeur sat in the roomy car. He got out immediately when he saw her and stood beside the door, waiting for her to approach.
‘I’m very sorry, Reverend Mother,’ he said. ‘Mrs Murphy is not able to come today. One of the little ones in the family is ill and her mother wanted Mrs Murphy to come. She tried to telephone you, but apparently the person who answered the phone said that it would be impossible to find you. Mrs Murphy sent me to explain and in case you wished to return to St Mary’s of the Isle this afternoon.’
TEN
Eileen aligned her sheet of paper in the typewriter and carefully rolled it to the correct position. She bit her lips to suppress the smile of sheer pleasure upon her lips, the feeling of satisfaction at a piece of work well done and appreciated by experts. The chief reporter had been very complimentary about her piece entitled THE DESECRATION OF THE ORCHARD CEMETERY; had liked the way she had framed it as if coming from the gardener’s thoughts; it had, she hoped, an immediacy as if penned within minutes of the atrocity, and he had invited her to do another piece for the following day’s Cork Examiner.
An idea had come to her as she had walked back to her desk and now, quickly, she typed the headline: WHO PLANTED THE BOMB? and then carried on, typing fluently, allowing the words to go straight from brain to fingertips. She would, she knew, subsequently correct, adjust and polish, until it was as slick and professional as any full-time reporter could produce.
This is the question on everyone’s lips today, she typed. As you walk down Patrick Street and visit – she stopped for a few seconds – the Oyster Tavern. The Cork Examiner prided itself on being local, and knew that advertising revenue flowed after the mention of a place of business, and she intended to weave in names of public houses, cafes and shops as a source for her quotes. It would give the impression that she had been out and about, garnering opinions. Quite a good technique, she thought, as
the smile came back to her lips.
‘All this rubbish about the IRA,’ said a voice behind her. She knew from the Northern Ireland accent who it was. John Fitzpatrick was the paper’s foreign correspondent. He had been brought up in Cork, but worked for about ten years on the Belfast News and then moved back to Cork when partition had made him unacceptable. He had never lost his northern accent, though, and the harshness of his speech formed a strong contrast to the soft, singsong voices of Cork. Eileen suspected that he had deliberately retained his Belfast way of speaking with its strong vowels and sharply enunciated ‘r’ and ‘t’ to intimidate those softly spoken citizens of what had been his native city.
‘Y’re on the wrong track, me wee girl,’ he said now. ‘Never saw so much rubbish in my life.’
‘Mind your own business,’ she snapped. He had made her lose track of her thoughts and her hands dropped from the keyboard as she turned to glare at him.
‘Very hoity-toity, aren’t we?’ he said. ‘Can’t get over having been praised for a girly piece like that rubbish about the gardener and his hedge? Catch yourself on! I could tell you something interesting if you want to listen.’
‘I’m listening,’ she said. It took her quite an effort to get the words out in a reasonably polite fashion, but she knew him to be clever, astute and what was even more important, she knew full well that he had plenty of sources of information. It was rumoured among the reporters that his telephone bill was enormous, but that the owner of the Cork Examiner paid it without protest as his information was always so good. ‘I’m listening,’ she said again and turned slightly away from the typewriter. He dropped to his knees beside her.
‘Ever wonder what Wee Willie Hamilton is doing all the way down south here?’ he said, not whispering, but speaking in such a low voice that she had to strain her ears to catch his words. ‘Ever wonder why, if he wanted to leave the Protestant north of Ireland, he didn’t go to Donegal, Cavan or Monaghan; ever wonder who paid for him to be set up in business down here in this god-forsaken country? Or who is putting him forward to go up for alderman? And how he is going to make use of the job if he gets it? I’ll tell you something, my wee girl, there’s a crowd around down here that are not happy with the way things have gone, that think we were better off in the good old days when King George ruled over us. You ask a lot of people with money and they’ll tell you how it’s only their British shares that are worth anything, that land has lost its value and their standard of living has fallen because of all this fake nationalistic, independence stuff.’ He had dropped the strong Belfast twang which had so distinguished him among his fellow journalists and now he spoke with the language and accent of his upbringing. Someone had told her that John Fitzpatrick had his schooling in the Presentation Brothers fee-paying school and then went onto Cork University where he had attained a first-class honours BA in English sometime in the early years of this century, before wandering up north to work on the prestigious, almost two-century-old Belfast News.
Eileen felt that slight tingle that she had become used to now while investigating a news story. She had no idea how she could handle this, no idea how she could find out details, but she knew in her bones that there was an exciting story there to be discovered behind his cryptic words. Without a pang, she unrolled the page from the typewriter, put it aside and then took up her handbag from the floor beside her. She was not too badly off at this moment. She would be paid for that story in the Evening Echo and she still had time, especially if she stayed up all night, to produce something that might make tomorrow morning’s Examiner.
‘I’ll stand you lunch,’ she said, endeavouring to make the words sound as though she uttered them every day. She had heard many of the journalists say that to an informant; it would be fish and chips for some, the Oyster Tavern for those further up the line. Lunch was, she knew, the road to getting information.
‘You couldn’t afford it,’ he said with a slight laugh in his voice. ‘I’m a man with expensive tastes. Get your hat. No, I suppose that you don’t bother to wear one, do you? You can leave the motorbike, though. We’ll walk.’
She half-hoped that he might take her to an expensive hotel, even perhaps the Imperial, but he didn’t. He took her to a small dark restaurant in Academy Street where the waiter greeted him by name and escorted them immediately to a table by the window, spread with a snowy linen tablecloth and already adorned with a carafe of rich, dark, red wine. The table had been laid for one, but within seconds, one waiter had taken Eileen’s leather jacket and the other had laid a second set of cutlery, and a pair of crystal clear drinking glasses, one a wine glass and the other a tumbler.
‘I don’t drink wine,’ said Eileen defiantly.
‘Don’t tell me that you are a teetotaller,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Just poor and ignorant. I wouldn’t know if it is good or bad so it would be wasted on me. I’ve read about it in books, though.’
‘Well, let’s not leave you in a state of ignorance. This is a good St Émilion, but for the moment, let’s just have a Beaujolais for comparison’s sake.’
Without being asked, the waiter brought an extra glass for both and carefully poured a small measure into each.
‘Which is the best one?’ She asked the question, half knowing the answer and he did not surprise her.
‘No such thing. Which tastes best to you? Bite a bit of that roll, in between sips.’
‘I like the Beaujolais, best,’ she said after a few minutes. She hoped that it would annoy him. He had obviously chosen the St Émilion for himself.
‘Try again when the soup comes,’ he said. And then when the waiters had disappeared into the kitchen, he leaned across the table and said in a low voice, ‘We are discussing a man called Tom.’
Eileen nodded seriously, but within she was filled with the desire to laugh. This was like a spy story, a bit like The Scarlet Pimpernel, or John Buchan. She began to feel quite excited and gulped down some more of the Beaujolais wine. ‘Here’s to Tom,’ she said carelessly, but then saw that she had annoyed him. He had his back to the window, but he sat so that the curtain obscured him from the passers-by on the street before him. There was hardly anyone but themselves in the restaurant, nevertheless, his eyes wandered ceaselessly around the small room, stopped for a second at a man sitting by himself at the back of the room and always returned to the curtain which hung over the door to the stairs as if he were on the alert to check every newcomer. He said nothing, though. Just crumbled a roll, sipped his wine and drank down his soup when it arrived. She began to feel that she might have disappointed him, and an inner caution prevented her from reopening the conversation. The soup was good, but she drank it without comment and tried a few sips of the stronger wine in between gulps. It was only when the main course arrived, a highly flavoured version of a stew which her mother used to make, that she began to appreciate the St Émilion. Her mother’s stew was made from scraps of meat left over at the butcher’s shop on Saturday nights, and some battered vegetables from the market stalls, but this was immensely succulent and she guessed that it was made with more expensive ingredients. Cautiously, after a few sips, she kept to the lighter wine and allowed him to drink his carafe on his own. Alcohol, she knew after three years at university, could do odd things and so she drank in moderation, in between mouthfuls of food and waited for the conversation to open. It was only when a noisy crowd of lawyers came in and occupied the largest table at the front of the restaurant, beginning instantly to discuss a case and the judge’s verdict in increasingly loud voices, that he began to relax.
‘Tom, I reckon, must have been very well paid,’ he said, holding up his glass to the light as though occupied with assessing the quality of the wine. ‘After all, the place from where he came was an infinitely better-off area. And what an immense expense it must have been to move lock, stock and barrel, a journey of about two hundred and sixty miles, I’d reckon, wouldn’t you?’
‘Nearer three hundred,’ said Eile
en. She hadn’t the remotest notion about how far Belfast was from Cork, but she thought that she should keep up the appearance of a conversation. He rewarded her with a nod and emboldened, she took another sip of the second wine. It really was a good meal, she thought, and the wine was beginning to grow upon her. She wondered how much it cost and whether, if she got a second article accepted by the Cork Examiner, she should try to buy a bottle for her mother and herself to share over their Saturday night meal.
‘Whatever it was,’ he went on, still speaking in a normal, though low tone of voice, ‘whatever it was, we can take it that our friend Tom must have had a strong purpose behind coming here. Money behind him, wouldn’t you say.’
‘The labourer is worthy of his hire,’ said Eileen. She was about to take another sip of wine but thought she should play it safe and match alcohol for water, drink for drink, as one of her IRA friends had once advised her to do.
‘They meet in a place in east Cork, greyhound racing, training the animals, not a sport that is too popular in Cork. Limerick, yes, Cork no,’ he said with the air of an expert. ‘Wouldn’t be your idea of fun, would it, Eileen?’
‘I like horses best myself,’ said Eileen. She wondered about this place in east Cork. Quite a good place to choose, east Cork. There was a time when west Cork was swamped with safe houses for the IRA, young men on the run, hiding from the British soldiers and then from the police, but east Cork was full of well-groomed farms and large country houses. A place for the rich, and where the land was so good that in the time, when the English still ruled, no cottage went neglected and abandoned, but each was filled with a willing labourer and his offspring. Now all that was changed and if she read between the lines correctly, it seemed as though the positions were reversed.
‘So the craic is good, is that it?’ she queried, copying his tone of voice, keeping it light and casual and taking care to eat between sentences and to lean back in her chair when she sipped her Beaujolais. The Irish word for gossip usually figured in most conversations in Cork where the opening sentence was usually: ‘What’s the craic?’ And the closing words: ‘Well, that’s the craic for you.’
Murder in an Orchard Cemetery Page 13