A Shocking Assassination Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Selection of Recent Titles by Cora Harrison From Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Selection of Recent Titles by Cora Harrison from Severn House

  The Reverend Mother Mysteries

  A SHAMEFUL MURDER

  A SHOCKING ASSASSINATION

  The Burren Mysteries

  WRIT IN STONE

  EYE OF THE LAW

  SCALES OF RETRIBUTION

  DEED OF MURDER

  LAWS IN CONFLICT

  CHAIN OF EVIDENCE

  CROSS OF VENGEANCE

  VERDICT OF THE COURT

  CONDEMNED TO DEATH

  A FATAL INHERITANCE

  A SHOCKING ASSASSINATION

  Cora Harrison

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2016

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2016 by Cora Harrison.

  The right of Cora Harrison to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8596-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-727-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-788-2 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  This book is dedicated to my dear brother, James, my friend and companion in the Cork of the 1940s and 1950s. It is also dedicated to the memory of my father and mother who told me many tales of events that occurred in the early 1920s in that deeply divided city. As the one was a young solicitor with ‘west Briton’ leanings and the other was a convent schoolgirl with Republican connections, I hope that I have correctly remembered both sides of the story.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks, as always, are due to my wonderful agent, Peter Buckman, as hard-working and shrewd as he is humorous and entertaining; to my editor Anna Telfer, who still, after so many books, manages to say nice things about my writing and to be perceptive as well as enthusiastic. And also to the team at Severn House who choose such wonderful covers and make my books a joy to behold.

  Thanks to fellow author, Peter Beresford Ellis (Peter Tremayne), who has given me permission to quote from the writings of his father, Allan Ellis, a journalist on the Cork Examiner during the burning down of the city of Cork. I owe a debt of gratitude, also, to the authors of The Burning of Cork, Gerry White and Brendan O’Shea; and to Diarmuid and Donal O’Drisceoil for their fascinating book, Serving a City, the story of Cork’s unique ‘English Market’.

  ONE

  St Thomas Aquinas:

  Sustinare est difficillius quam aggredi.

  (To endure is more difficult than to attack.)

  Reverend Mother Aquinas was buying buttered eggs in the English Market on the Friday morning when the city engineer was assassinated.

  No one screamed. She remembered that afterwards. They just moved away.

  The gas lamps in the gallery above the stalls had been extinguished, quite suddenly. Seconds later the shot rang out. Her heart thudded, just a single stroke, and her breath quickened as she was swept back by the moving bodies all around her. The thick darkness intensified the smell of blood, of raw meat, of wet clothes, stale sweat, dung and the pungency of damp sawdust, mixed in with the almost palpable odours of fear. There was an uncanny silence for a moment after the shot when, like a well-drilled platoon of soldiers, the crowd of people all stepped back from the centre of the market, back behind the stalls, crowding into the shadows, huddling against the walls on either side. The woman beside the Reverend Mother sucked in a great gulp of air and sobbed audibly. There was a rattle of rosary beads as though someone had started to pray and she herself sent up a quick appeal to God that she might be spared, not for her own sake, but for the work that she would leave unfinished. And, like everyone else, she held her breath waiting for the next shot.

  Gun shots were an almost daily occurrence in Cork city – had been for years. Even now, even in the April of 1923, when the War of Independence was drawing to a close and Liam Lynch, chief of staff of the Republican Army, had been assassinated over a fortnight ago; yet in this rebel city the guns still rang out. At the sound of an explosion no Cork person hesitated. Even the youngest of the children instantly dived for cover.

  A few more moments’ hush, but no more shots exploded. Michael Skiddy lit a candle from his own stall and one by one the stallholders followed his example. The gas system at the market was notoriously unreliable and everyone was prepared with a candle by the till or money box. Michael Skiddy, the Reverend Mother suddenly remembered, had a candle lit even before the gas lamps went out. She remembered seeing on the tiled wall the shadow of a man who had been leaning over the stall talking earnestly in his ear. It had been a man in a belted raincoat with a slouch hat pulled well over his face. A member of the Republican Army, she had thought when she had seen him first – they were notorious for this unofficial uniform. She noticed that others avoided the stall, that they hesitated and then passed on. The Shadow of a Gunman, she said to herself remembering reading the review in the Irish Times of the Seán O’Casey play now showing in the Abbey Theatre in Dublin. We live our lives in the shadow of the gunmen, she was thinking now, as the superintendent of the market shouted, ‘Patsy’, handed the keys to the gallery to the woman and then, a few minutes later, one by one the gas lamps on the overhead gallery popped into life again.
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  But it had only needed one lamp to illuminate the body on the ground. Black coat, black trousers, top hat a yard away leaving the bald scalp with its fringe of grey hair exposed to view and the face hidden in the sawdust on the floor. No sign of an injury, but the people of Cork were used to dead bodies, used to the smell of death and this body looked undoubtedly dead. No one moved forward. It was best not to interfere with public assassinations.

  In any case, the assassin was still there, still standing, still holding the gun in his hand. Only two minutes ago, James Doyle, the city engineer, surrounded by colleagues and market shoppers, had been halfway through a well-rehearsed speech about the wisdom of waiting to rebuild the whole market instead of just repairing the two stalls burned down over two years ago and the next minute he was lying dead on the ground and his audience had rapidly distanced themselves. All except for that one man. For a moment all that the Reverend Mother had seen, left exposed in the centre space, was the slumped figure of James Doyle, City Engineer, but then she recognized the other figure. Young Sam O’Mahony was standing a few yards from the body, standing very still and holding a small pistol in his hand. No one moved, but the Reverend Mother noticed that every head had turned to look at him. There was a long minute of silence, almost as though all were frozen and she wondered why he had not taken advantage of it in order to escape. Then Sam started violently, gave an inarticulate cry and flung the gun from him towards the stone fountain in the centre of the stalls. It hit the scalloped top basin, bounced against the beak of an elegantly carved long-legged heron, missed the second basin and fell with an audible splash into the murky waters of the curved stone bowl at the base. That seemed to break the spell; a low buzz of voices began. One or two people emerged from the shadows and went hesitantly towards the body. Mrs O’Mahony from behind her drisheen and tripe stall screamed, ‘Sam!’ and then stopped abruptly as though the sound was choked off.

  In the frightened silence that followed, fifteen-year-old Lizzie Carlton dropped a box of onions. They rolled across the tiled floor and Lizzie hastily retrieved one from under the nose of the dead man. The two Murphy brothers, both butchers, came out from behind their stall, red-stained choppers and saws in hands, almost as though the chief engineer of Cork city was a mere carcass dragged in from the nearby lane and lying ready to be carved into neat joints.

  The superintendent of the market shouted, ‘Everyone stand still! Stay right where you are!’

  The town planner, Robert Newenham, came forward, bent down and put a hand on the man’s heart and Thomas Browne, the city engineer’s assistant, followed him, looked back at the market superintendent and then said hesitantly, ‘Shouldn’t someone get the civic guards?’

  At those words the two beadles, dressed in their official uniform, leaped forward and each grabbed one of Sam O’Mahony’s arms. For a moment he looked stunned and then realisation dawned. His face was contorted as he struggled violently, shouting, ‘I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it, I tell you. That gun landed on my foot. I just picked it up! I flung it away in case it would go off. I know nothing about guns! I’ve never touched a gun in my life.’ He looked across the heads of the crowd over towards his mother’s stall and yelled at the top of his voice, ‘I didn’t do it, ask my mother. She’ll tell you that I’ve never owned a gun, never handled a gun. I don’t believe in violence. I’m not a Republican or a Free Stater. I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’

  There was an inarticulate, choking sound from Mrs O’Mahony, and all heads turned towards her as she came forward, red, swollen hands extended in front of her, held out towards her son. Her mouth opened, but no words came, just a sound of dry retching followed by a great gush of blood that spurted from her nose and dripped down her chin, soaking the rough apron of pale brown sacking that covered her dress. She mopped her nose impatiently with the edge of her black shawl, but her eyes never left her son.

  There had been times during the last fifty years when the Reverend Mother had wondered whether she had missed something from her life by not bearing children, but the anguished expression on Mrs O’Mahony’s face made her feel that no joy could compensate such agony. Sam, she knew, was an only child, a good-looking young man, dark hair sleeked back, a slight build, not tall, but an intelligent face. He struggled violently in the grip of the beadles, but they overpowered him after a minute, twisting his arms behind his back. One placed a heavy boot on the young man’s foot and Mrs O’Mahony took another step forward, her hands still outstretched in a passion of protectiveness while blood still haemorrhaged from her nose. Patsy emerged from the door to the gallery, offering the corner of a threadbare towel, but Mrs O’Mahony ignored her.

  ‘Sam!’ She choked over the word and another flow of blood came from her nose. Once again she put the shawl to her face.

  Patsy put a compassionate arm around her and the market superintendent shifted his feet uncomfortably.

  ‘Poor woman,’ said the owner of the buttered eggs stall and then said no more as all heads turned to look at her before swivelling back to look at the man who had held the gun.

  The Reverend Mother knew about Sam, although he was not one of her former pupils. His widowed mother worked for twelve hours a day with her tripe and drisheen stall and had managed to make enough money out of her sales of these two Cork specialities to send her only child to a fee-paying school from where he had gone on to become a journalist and, by all accounts, the pride and joy of his mother’s heart. But then Sam, she had heard, had lost his job after his outspoken article in the Cork Examiner about waste and corruption on the city council and now, she had been told by one of the lay sisters who normally did the marketing for the convent, Sam worked with his mother at the market. Perhaps he had got another reporting job; he certainly had been holding a notepad and pencil poised ready to take down the words of the great man. She had noticed that, just before the shot rang out.

  ‘Take it easy, Sam. Take it easy, lad,’ said the superintendent and the Reverend Mother wondered whether she was the only one to notice a slight tremble in his voice. Mr O’Donnell had been superintendent at the English Market for over twenty years and dealt efficiently with cases of drunkenness, fights, dirty stalls and disposal of refuse, but a murder was something new for him. And yesterday’s paper had announced that the city engineer, Mr James Doyle, had been tried in a secret Republican court and found guilty of embezzlement of the money to reconstruct the city. If this were an assassination, it would not be unknown for the Republicans to stage a rescue of their gunman.

  It took him an anxious minute of looking up and down the shadowy passageways before he turned to one of the messenger boys from the butcher’s stall. ‘On your bike, lad,’ he barked. ‘Get to the barracks as fast as you can and tell Inspector Cashman what happened. Tell him that the city engineer has been assassinated. Go on, Georgy. Fast as you can. Nobody is to move until the civic guards come. I’m shutting the Princes Street gate now and Jeremiah and John, you put up the barrier between your two stalls and don’t let none of the traders or the shoppers from the Grand Parade side of the market get through.’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ said Sam loudly and hoarsely. He struggled again for a moment, but the beadles were solid, squarely-built men, used to dealing with tough and sometimes drunken traders and they held him grimly.

  ‘Now take it easy, Sam,’ said the superintendent again. ‘Look, you’re upsetting your mother. ‘Take it easy, now. The inspector will be along in five minutes. Won’t take him more than that. He’ll sort everything out.’

  ‘It must have been somebody else. I never saw that gun in my life.’ Sam was sweating heavily now. Patsy had lit the gas lamp just beside Mrs O’Mahony’s stall and it showed the perspiration beaded on his forehead and cheeks. His voice was hoarse and cracked but he held himself very straight. ‘It must have been one of the Republicans,’ he said and there was a note of desperation in his voice as Patsy Mullane in a dazed fashion went methodically along the line of stalls beyond the tripe an
d drisheen stall, lighting each gas lamp as she went, until the superintendent made a signal to her and then she stopped, standing hesitantly with the taper in her hand and the old bloodied towel still draped over one arm.

  Poor Patsy. She had been an excellent children’s librarian, but the Black and Tans had burned down the Carnegie Library as well as the city hall beside it and Patsy was given a week’s notice. That was a couple of years ago and still the library had not been rebuilt. Waiting to make a palace out of it; that Mr Doyle has big ideas. Patsy had answered her query earlier with a sour grimace and the Reverend Mother did not blame her. Patsy, so good, she had heard, at her job in finding the right book for a child, was fairly poor as a sweeper in the market and she would be earning less than ten shillings for long hours spent sweeping soiled sawdust from under the feet of the shoppers.

  ‘That’s better,’ said the superintendent with a false heartiness. ‘Now we can all see what we are doing.’ Like everyone else he now averted his eyes from the despairing face of the young man held so securely by the two officials and looked all around him.

  A spectacular building, thought the Reverend Mother, built when the British Empire was at its height and able to spare some money for its far-flung outposts – wonderfully tiled floors and walls in warm colours of red, orange, green and yellow with striped awnings over each individual stall. The stalls, though, could certainly do with being better lit during the dark days of fog and rain which happened nine days out of ten for three seasons of the year in this marsh city. The money to run the market properly was lacking in 1923. Prices and wages had stagnated during the last few years. The stallholders could not afford higher rents and the place could not be run properly unless extra revenues were generated.