Murder at the Queen's Old Castle Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Cora Harrison from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Cora Harrison from Severn House

  The Reverend Mother Mysteries

  A SHAMEFUL MURDER

  A SHOCKING ASSASSINATION

  BEYOND ABSOLUTION

  A GRUESOME DISCOVERY

  DEATH OF A NOVICE

  MURDER AT THE QUEEN’S OLD CASTLE

  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

  AN UNJUST JUDGE

  MURDER AT THE QUEEN’S OLD CASTLE

  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.

  First published in Great Britain 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY

  First published in the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2018 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: 978-0-7278-8830-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-956-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0165-2 (e-book)

  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 living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  There was a smell of gas in the Queen’s Old Castle.

  Although the Reverend Mother had not been there for over fifty years, the shop looked more or less the same, but the smell, she thought, was new. It caught in her chest and brought on the cough that had been troubling her for the last week.

  Despite its royal name, the Queen’s Old Castle was nothing but a fairly low grade of department store housed within the decrepit walls of what had been one of two castles, built at the entrance to the city of Cork, over seven hundred years ago in the time of King John. Its subsequent history had not kept up with its origins, the Reverend Mother had often reflected, as the name tripped off the lips of her pupils as a source of cheap stockings and other bargains.

  The castle had become a court house, then a manor house and then an abandoned ruin. Sometime towards the end of the last century it had fallen to the heritage of an enterprising member of the Fitzwilliam family who had plastered the medieval stone walls, removed the dangerously unstable upper storeys, replaced sections of missing roof with sheets of glass, re-laid the ancient flagstone slabs on the ground floor, added an enormous boiler with a series of hot pipes leading from it, snaking up the walls, and had turned the whole into a shop selling cheap clothes and household linens.

  Today the shop, though enormous, was full. Everyone looking for a bargain. Garish posters in the windows and on boards throughout the city had announced in large, bright red letters the magic word: SALE. In the background, a past pupil of hers, Eileen MacSweeney, who worked for the printers, was standing, holding a large bundle of similar posters. The Reverend Mother congratulated herself silently on her quick-wittedness. Having read the article in the Cork Examiner, entitled ‘QUEEN’S OLD CASTLE CALAMITY’, detailing the damage done by the recent floods, she had immediately written to Joseph Fitzwilliam, expressing her sympathy and reminding him of their acquaintanceship of over fifty years ago.

  It had worked even better than she had expected. He had written back, thanking her and inviting her to come and take her pick of the river-damaged goods, had implied tactfully that no money would change hands and when she arrived on the Monday morning, punctually at nine o’clock, he had been on the look-out for her, had escorted her past the queue, allocated to her the use of a young apprentice, equipped the lad with an enormous basket, and told her to take whatever would be useful for her school and assured her that it would be his donation to her charitable work among the poor of Cork city.

  An immense sacrifice for a man who, reputedly, was so fond of money that no one who worked in the shop was ever allowed to handle even a single penny of the intake.

  Joseph Fitzwilliam was very proud of his shop. As the Reverend Mother looked around, she admired the way light came in from the huge sheets of glass that had replaced the remaining slates on the roofs and from the gas lamps on the bronze pillars set at intervals throughout the shop.

  ‘Twenty-seven of them,’ he said proudly, following her eyes as she looked up at the gas bracket over her head. ‘Had to have the pillars to support the glass in the roof, so I made a feature of them. You wouldn’t believe how much that bronze cost, but I don’t grudge it. Lovely glow they make, don’t they? Hollow they are. The gas pipe goes up through the middle. Makes a feature of them, you see, Reverend Mother,’ he repeated. ‘I’m a great one for making features, you know.’

  ‘I can see that, Mr Fitzwilliam,’ she said, wondering when the talking would end and the shopping begin. Mr Fitzwilliam was not to be stopped, though, and he continued with the guided tour.

  ‘Look at those change carriers, Reverend Mother,’ he said enthusiastically, pointing to the small, barrel-shaped canisters, strung on wire that went from each counter, right up to the top of the building, to where his office was perched, supported against the ancient walls on a wooden platform by a series of iron bars. ‘The change canister fits inside the barrel,’ he explained and then went into a series of elaborate calculations designed to show how much time this saved the counter assistants as they would just post the sales document and the customers’ money up to him and the change and receipt would come whizzing back. ‘Have them all over the place in England,
you know. You’ll have read about them in Mr Wells’ novel Kipps. Might be some places in Dublin have them, but I’m the only one in Cork.’

  The Reverend Mother nodded silently, looking around at all the water-stained goods piled on the counters and wondering how quickly she could get her hands on some of those gymslips – a boon for poverty-stricken girls whose mothers could not afford to dress them decently. She had already expressed her thanks for his generosity and now could not wait to join the bargain hunters. Thankfully, at the sight of a couple of small barrels hurtling above their heads, he hurried off, climbing the steep stairs like a man of half his age, leaving her to the apprentice and the enormous basket.

  ‘I’m Brian, Reverend Mother,’ said the husky-voiced youngster. ‘Brian Maloney,’ he added.

  ‘Goodness, Brian, I didn’t know you. How is your mother?’ This Brian had not been the first Brian, and would not be the last to spend his early years in the convent at St Mary’s Isle where boys of tender age stayed until they had made, at the age of about seven, their first confession and their first holy communion and were then supposed to be equipped to face the rigours of the Christian Brothers. However, by some miracle she remembered him. A bright and enterprising boy, she thought, an only child. Fatherless, also. His mother had done well for him to get this apprenticeship. The shop, she thought, looking around at the huge number of counters, employed a lot of Cork people. It would have been a disaster if the floods had caused irreparable damage. Its owner would have got insurance, but the employees would be left with little option than to pick up a reference and to get the boat for England. Young Brian Maloney had been lucky and his mother clever to pick up this apprenticeship which might guarantee him a permanent job as a shop assistant.

  ‘Hey, Maloney, don’t you touch them wellington boots!’ The tone was extremely harsh and the Reverend Mother turned around and looked at the middle-aged man behind the counter.

  ‘Brian is fetching these for me,’ she said clearly and distinctly, and the man muttered something.

  ‘Don’t you worry about Mr Dinan, Reverend Mother,’ said Brian, returning to her side with the boots. ‘He’s had the sack yesterday and he’s got the hump, stupid old bolger.’ He spoke with the easy insouciance of youth, but the Reverend Mother looked back at the face of the man and at the dark shadows under his eyes. Not an old man, well under thirty, she thought, but there was a look of premature aging about the tight lines around the mouth and bent shoulders. She had a shock when Brian continued, ‘Just finished his apprenticeship. He was an Improver, but he didn’t improve enough for Mr Fitzwilliam and so he got the sack. They do that here in this place. As soon as they have to pay you a decent wage, you get the sack. He’s married, of course; that’s what is upsetting him. Shouldn’t have done it, should he? I’m not going to get married and have kids, Reverend Mother. Never, ever, not in a thousand years! I’ve made up my mind about that. I’m off to England before that happens. I want to be a soldier but if I can’t manage that, I’ll try one of the big shops in London. I’ll get a job there easy once I’m trained. I’d like to try haberdashery while I’m here, get myself trained to do that. You get haberdashery everywhere.’

  A cheerful lad whose spirit had not been broken. Still, optimism didn’t always guarantee success. The unfortunate Mr Dinan was now taking out his feelings on another young apprentice who was staggering under the weight of a heavy roll of curtain material. Perhaps eight or nine years ago he, too, had been a fresh-faced youngster, but now he was embittered and prematurely aged.

  ‘Look at them over there, want some of them, Reverend Mother?’ The Reverend Mother’s mind left the unfortunate Mr Dinan and returned to business. She nodded at Brian who shot off on one of his detours, this time to get her some damaged kitchen cloths.

  The Reverend Mother went back to thinking about Joseph Fitzwilliam, now ensconced in his little office on high, and, as far as she could see, rapidly unloading the contents of the change barrels, refilling them and sending them shooting back, each on its own wire, down to the correct counter in the cavernous shop. Not a great way of spending one’s days for a wealthy man as old as herself. Still, perhaps he was silently making the same remark about her, she thought as she wandered down the aisle and picked out river-stained socks, a few pairs of child-sized trousers, some blouses and a pair of navy gymslips, some towels and sheets, too. Not of top quality, and marked with water stains, but serviceable and a boon to a Reverend Mother who never seemed to be able to make ends meet and balance her books to the satisfaction of the bishop’s secretary. She took up a kitchen towel, felt it, popped it into the basket and somewhat shamefacedly, added another couple. There were water stains right down the middle of each one, but that was something that she was sure the efficient Sister Bernadette and her kitchen team would be able to get rid of. Did Joseph Fitzwilliam, looking down from on high, wonder about her, someone he had known in his youth and danced with at parties, or was he just too busy, unloading the contents of the barrels and sending them whizzing back down again? Perhaps both were satisfied with a demanding and active life, she thought, as she fingered the goods on display.

  ‘Everything nice and dry,’ she remarked to her young assistant.

  ‘We’ve had all the stuff in the boiler room for the last few days,’ said Brian with the same chatty confidence that he had displayed at the age of seven. ‘Holy Mack! Didn’t half smell after that flood! Worst stink that you could imagine, Reverend Mother. Oh, not now,’ he added rapidly as she dubiously lifted a towel to her nose. Old age, she had discovered recently, to her horror, had diminished her sense of smell and was rapidly reducing the acuity of her hearing. ‘Not now, Reverend Mother,’ he assured her confidently. ‘Mr Fitzwilliam’s son, the major, he’s got them gas things, had them in the war. You put everything into a room, shut the windows, throw in one of them little canisters, shut the door and the gas gets rid of the smell. They used to use them during the war to get the stink out of places, the major told me that. Told me all about it, “fumigate” that’s what he called it. Got the idea from tree growers in California who used to shoot them into trees to get rid of the fungus that grows on them. The major told us all about it. And the army bought thousands of them so they could fumigate the uniforms and boots and everything. I’d like to be a soldier in England, Reverend Mother, but me mam won’t let me.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got a good job here, Brian,’ said the Reverend Mother, feeling an obligation to support the mother of this fresh-faced youth who might well be lost to his parent for ever if he went off to join the English army. The shop was doing a great business, she thought. The change barrels from at least twenty of the numerous counters in the enormous shop were whizzing up towards the proprietor, seated in his little office, high above the shop, and a similar number were whizzing back down again. Six barrels were queued up, she counted, looking upwards. Perhaps the owner of the shop allowed six barrels to accumulate before he took out the contents and returned the receipt and the change, or had he just taken a quick break from the demands of his task. Did it really save such a lot of time for the counter assistants or was it, as rumour hinted, a way of keeping complete control over the cash that came into the store.

  ‘Your mother must be pleased for you to have this apprenticeship,’ she added. The mother, she recollected hearing, had gone back to her own family farm in Mallow, north of Cork. Brian’s father, like a lot of men in the city, had disappeared. Gone to England, probably. Possibly to be a soldier. A lot of Cork men still seemed to join the British army despite the numbers that were killed or maimed during the war.

  The boy made a face at the mention of his mother. ‘She’s gone off with my new dad. Not my dad, really,’ he added after a minute. ‘Left me here.’

  ‘Well, if you work hard, you’ll get a job when you are older,’ said the Reverend Mother trying to sound cheerful and positive though she doubted the truth of her words. Brian, she thought, was not impressed.

  ‘I don’t like it
here, Reverend Mother,’ he said. ‘We have to work for twelve hours a day, here. I hate it. Start at eight in the morning, end at eight in the evening, when the shop closes on time, and that’s not often. If there’s only one or two people left, Mr Fitzwilliam won’t close the door. I’m here for more than twelve hours. They never let you sit down for a minute even if there’s nothing to do. Makes your legs ache. Boring, too. And you should see the place where we have to sleep, Reverend Mother. Terrible place. Desperate damp. Water running down the walls. All right for those who live out. At least they can see their friends sometimes. Though I wouldn’t want to work here even if I lived out. You don’t see Major Fitzwilliam working here. Not usually anyway. He’ll be off as soon as they can get another war going in Germany or Africa or something. He was telling me that he’ll be off soon. Wish I could go too. Sixpence a week, that’s all I get for working from morning to night. And it’s so boring here! It’s dead boring. Have to work all of Saturday, too. I just get Sunday afternoon to see my ole mates. And if it rains, I’ve nowhere to go except sit in that stinking dormitory.’ Brian turned a hopeful face towards her, looking, she thought with dismay, as if he felt she might do something about his woes.

  But just as the Reverend Mother sought the words to encourage him to make the best of the present, to believe that his mother knew best, she became aware that something was going wrong in the shop. The traffic of change barrels upwards had not ceased, but the traffic downwards had come to a complete halt. Looking up to the office forty feet above their heads she could see that there was an accumulation of change barrels waiting to be dealt with. The shop assistants, women and men, were looking upwards, dismayed, uneasy. A young man in an old-fashioned morning coat, with tails flying out behind him came running up from the back of the shop and then started to climb the stairs. All eyes followed him and then swung around to look towards the front door. The crowds had parted, had left a passageway. Another man, this one dressed in a uniform, had just come through the front door, pausing for a moment and then breaking into a run and following rapidly the young man in the morning coat.