A Gruesome Discovery Page 17

  ‘So you don’t think that Bridie did the murder, do you?’ Dr Scher turned the question back onto Patrick. ‘But she could have, couldn’t she? It’s a possible story. I’ve seen it happen myself. A woman who has put up with injustice, abuse, even serious violence, over the years, put up with it patiently and silently, can suddenly go over the edge for something small. This business of turning the cillín, that little unofficial graveyard for the poor little unbaptized babies, into a tanning yard, that might just have been the trigger for a poor woman like Bridie.’

  ‘And then why was she not willing to tell the Reverend Mother how she killed the man?’ said Patrick.

  ‘It seems strange, doesn’t it? It was only one small step forward, wasn’t it? She could have just said, quite simply, “I took up a bar” or “I took up something heavy and I hit him across the back of the neck when he was bending down to pick something up”. That would have been easy enough to say. Nothing to shock the Reverend Mother in that.’

  Patrick nodded. ‘And the Reverend Mother was never one to show any appearance of shock. I’ve known her all of my life and never seen her to be shocked. After all, she had just listened to a confession of murder, why should she be shocked at the method. And she’s always been a person who listens very carefully, an easy person to talk to. Even when I was a child, I found this. Other nuns, like Sister Mary Immaculate, would shout you down, but she listened.’

  ‘So you are inclined to think that the Reverend Mother is correct. Bridie did not kill Mr Mulcahy. But, of course, that doesn’t mean that she did not commit suicide,’ pointed out Dr Scher. ‘She had been persuaded into confessing, but then panicked. Perhaps she saw no future for herself with the Mulcahy family and she didn’t know what to do or where to go.’

  ‘But you don’t think so, do you? Medically speaking. Not after the autopsy. Not even before. I saw your face in the boat when you were looking at the body. Even then you were suspicious that it might not have been suicide.’

  ‘It’s very difficult to tell,’ confessed Dr Scher. ‘She fell down over those rocks; that you saw. But somehow I think that she was dead when she went over the edge. Just something about the angle of the head as though it had been loose as she tumbled down. And the body, too, when I got her on the table. There was a certain amount of bruising all over the body, but to my mind, it looked more like post-mortem, than ante-mortem bruising, all except for the neck; that could have been done before death. Something about the location of the bruises, also. Just a feeling that I have that an inert body tumbled down.’

  ‘But if she had resolved to kill herself she might have just let herself go …’

  ‘I have a theory that, even in suicide cases, at the last moment, it’s human nature to struggle, to grasp at a tree stump, or a rock. There were no marks on the palms of the hands. Not anything that I could swear to, certainly not any fresh mark, lots of old scars. I suppose that it could have been suicide.’ He brooded on this for a moment and then said decisively, ‘No! I don’t like it; don’t think that it was suicide.’

  ‘I’m sure that you’re right. I thought that all along. It just doesn’t make sense for the woman to commit suicide. Even if she lacked the courage to say no, she could always have just gone away, even taken the boat to Liverpool. She lived free in the Mulcahy household. She probably had a few shillings put away somewhere, enough for the fare, but if not, well, she need not have stayed with them. And she was accustomed to bringing her troubles to the convent which would surely have sheltered her in an emergency. No, I think that she was on the way to the barracks to save Fred Mulcahy. Before her courage failed her or before she was persuaded out of it. I know she mentioned suicide to the Reverend Mother, but that was to be after confession was made to the guards.’

  ‘So, let’s plump for murder,’ said Dr Scher. ‘Why should anyone murder her?’

  ‘I wonder did this woman, Bridie, pose a threat. Did she know something?’ Patrick stirred restlessly. ‘But that doesn’t make sense. If she knew something then all that she needed to do was to come and see me. I might even have released Fred within days if the story was tested and found to be true. But then, perhaps, she didn’t know that she knew something.’ Patrick mused on that for a few moments, bending a thin metal ruler into a hoop-like shape and then allowing it to spring back. ‘But our murderer suspected her,’ he continued energetically, ‘and followed her, followed her to make sure that she did go to the barracks, saw that she went into the convent, instead, and stayed there for some considerable time. And perhaps when she came out, this person joined her, somebody that she knew. Accompanied her, perhaps, and then told her that this was a quick way to the barracks, something like that, strangled her and pushed her body over the weir. The confession had been made to the Reverend Mother. Our unknown assailant could have made sure of that, could have questioned her and got it out of her. Might have realized that she knew something that would be dangerous to him or her. Suicide could have been a likely scenario in preference to a trial and death by hanging. This would have been believed by the coroner and his jury and the hunt for the real murderer could have been abandoned.’

  ‘Who could it have been?’

  Patrick was silent for a moment. ‘According to the Reverend Mother, three people knew that Bridie was on her way to the barracks to see me and they were Mrs Mulcahy, Susan Mulcahy and Richard McCarthy. Mr McCarthy, I gather, was the one that assured her that she would get regular meals and would only spend a few months in prison. A solicitor advised him of that, according to the Reverend Mother’s account of the conversation with Bridie.’

  Patrick got to his feet and took his coat and cap from its stand. ‘I think that we need the body to be officially identified now. I’ll go up to Shandon Street and get hold of the mother and daughter, both if possible.’

  ‘Interesting to watch their reactions, but at best they must be a cold-blooded pair to force poor Bridie into that confession. That poor woman worked in their house, probably slaved for them for over twenty years, apparently. Do you want a lift?’

  ‘No, thank you, Dr Scher. The walk will do me good, clear my head.’ He didn’t like to say that Shandon Street was somewhat steep for Dr Scher’s elderly Humber. He would be quicker walking.

  ‘Joe!’ He gave a quick knock on the sergeant’s door and then put his head inside. ‘Joe, I want you to get hold of Mr Richard McCarthy, I want to have a word with him about the Mulcahy murder. His place of business is up on Shandon Street, quite close to the cathedral. Take a guard with you in the car and bring him back here. I’m off, but I will be back within the hour.’

  ‘Yes, inspector.’ Joe was on his feet, looking slightly astonished. ‘What shall I do with him if I’m back before you?’

  ‘Put him in a cell, no, that won’t do. Put him in room eight. No cups of tea or anything. Just tell him that I will be back shortly.’

  Room eight was probably worse than a cell. It was very damp with one small, barred window that faced onto a fifteen-foot high wall. It was seldom used because of the problems of damp and lack of sunlight, but it had a couple of chairs and a desk with three sound legs that was propped up by a wooden box. Mr McCarthy could brood on his story while he waited there.

  Susan came to the door to answer Patrick’s knock on the Shandon Street house. He thought that she looked at him expectantly, but otherwise could read little from her face. She wanted to be a doctor, according to the Reverend Mother. A strange occupation for a girl, he thought disapprovingly. Probably showed that she was a bit cold-blooded.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Mulcahy,’ he said politely. ‘Could I come in, please?’

  She led him into the office and found him a chair and then seated herself opposite to him with her back to the window that overlooked Shandon Street. Plain-looking girl, he thought. Wonder what Richard McCarthy sees in her. Still, perhaps, he had wanted to cement the alliance with her father. But what about now? Did he still want to marry this tough-looking young lady who wanted to go
to university instead of settling down to have a family? And, even if Mr Mulcahy had left plenty of money behind him, it would soon shrink once shared out between a widow and twelve children.

  ‘Could you call your mother, please,’ he said aloud and watched her frown.

  ‘My mother is not well, inspector, she has gone to lie on her bed. She has a bad headache.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I would wish to see her, Miss Mulcahy.’ Firm and polite. He was well-practised in this voice by now.

  ‘Why?’ And then when he did not respond to that monosyllable, she added, ‘Is it something to do with Bridie? If so, I can assure you that I know all about that business.’

  ‘What business?’

  She eyed him angrily. ‘I know that Bridie has confessed to you that she was the one who murdered my father. And let me tell you, inspector, that I am not surprised.’

  ‘No.’ He leaned back a little in the chair and watched her as well as he could. The room was lit only by the light from the street window and even in the early afternoon, it was quite dim. She showed no impulse to hide her face or to look down but opened her eyes at him defiantly.

  ‘My father, inspector, was not a man who treated women well. My mother had a lot to put up with, and so had Bridie.’

  What was she implying? He lacked the finesse to put that question to her. After all, she was an unmarried girl.

  ‘What made Bridie decide to go to the barracks and to confess to murder?’ he asked. The woman must have a surname, but no one had mentioned it. Even the Reverend Mother, meticulously polite, had never called her anything other than Bridie.

  ‘I don’t know, inspector; what did she say to you?’ A tough girl, he thought. By all accounts the poor woman had brought her up. Surely she should be showing a bit of concern, a bit of compunction that she had been one of the persuaders. Unless, of course, that concern for her brother had overridden any feeling for her nurse.

  Or concern for herself.

  Patrick found himself considering the girl opposite to him. Sturdily built, quite tall for a girl, probably helped in the tanning yard from time to time. Women, he knew from his upbringing, could be as strong as men when they needed to be. She would have developed good muscles over the years, would know where to find a weapon and where to conceal one. He remembered the tenement that sheltered himself and his mother and remembered how the women, in the absence of men, coped with seeming impossible feats of strength. His own mother had by sheer force of will and determination, once held up the collapsing timbers of an abandoned coal house so that she and he could escape with their meagre bag of nuggets.

  But was it possible for a daughter to murder her own father? Would that be possible? He almost laughed at the question that had come into his mind. He must be getting soft. In his experience people often hated members of their own family more than strangers. His eyes wandered to a basket placed beneath the counter. A large cabbage, a bottle of Jeyes Fluid and a tin with ‘Beamish & Crawford’ printed on it. It would be yeast, of course, yeast from the brewery. Yeast-baked bread, always a great treat for those who had an oven, after weeks and weeks of griddle-baked soda bread. The Jeyes Fluid and the cabbage could have been bought locally on Shandon Street, but for the yeast, she would have had to go right down to the river, down North Main Street and South Main Street, almost as far as St Mary’s Isle, itself, where the Beamish & Crawford brewery sold off yeast at a low price.

  ‘You’ve been shopping, Miss Mulcahy,’ he said.

  He saw her glance hastily at the basket and for a moment could have sworn that she paled slightly. But then she faced him courageously. She had been quick-witted enough to see the implication of the yeast.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I walked down with Bridie. She asked me to come with her. I did some shopping on my way back.’

  ‘But you didn’t accompany her to the barracks.’ He watched her carefully as he said that. Would there be a hesitation, an acknowledgement that the woman had gone to the convent.

  ‘No,’ she said. And yes, there had been a slight pause before the word. But that could be explained. It was a bit cold-hearted not to accompany the woman and to sit by her when she confessed. Especially if Bridie were just doing it to save the girl’s own brother.

  ‘You didn’t think that you would have been a support to her?’

  ‘No, she didn’t want me to come any further. We parted at Hanover Street. She went off towards the barracks.’

  He considered her for a moment and he didn’t like what he saw. A tough young woman, he thought. Surely any decent girl would be showing signs of anxiety by now.

  ‘Bridie was found dead in the river, just by St Mary’s of the Isle, about an hour ago, Miss Mulcahy,’ he said and purposely made the words harsh. ‘What do you know about that?’ The second sentence came out from him like a follow-up punch, but he wasn’t sorry. If this girl had killed her own father; induced an unfortunate woman, a woman who had brought her up, to make a false confession, and then pushed her into the river, well, then, it wasn’t safe to leave her at liberty. Those who have killed once, will kill again, was his experience.

  And she didn’t bat an eye, didn’t show any surprise, any horror. Didn’t ask any questions. She looked at him steadily, but almost as though she were not seeing him, just turning matters over in her mind.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ she said after a long moment.

  ‘Not surprised! Do you think that someone pushed her over the bridge, then,’ he queried and then waited to see the effect of his words. Would she show alarm? Would she introduce the idea of suicide?

  ‘Was that what you meant?’

  ‘Was what?’

  ‘I thought, originally, that you meant that she committed suicide,’ she said and there was almost an air of relief about the words that puzzled him.

  Perhaps, though, to give Miss Mulcahy her due, the girl was thinking about Bridie’s immortal soul. There was a belief in Cork that, although someone who committed suicide would go straight to hell, that the victim of a murder would have all of their sins forgiven – on the vague grounds, he thought, that they were not given time to make a last confession. He had never heard a priest endorse this viewpoint, but, nevertheless, had always been glad that the relatives of those mutilated bodies in the barracks’ mortuary would have that means of consolation. Nevertheless, this girl was a cool customer. He made up his mind instantly.

  ‘I’m afraid that I must ask you and your mother to make a formal identification of the body, Miss Mulcahy,’ he said.

  ‘What about Fred?’ The words came out in a slightly faltering tone.

  ‘Not possible by the rules,’ he said curtly.

  You make the rules in your own department. The superintendent had said that to him after a few drinks to celebrate Patrick’s appointment as inspector. The man was quite drunk at the time, of course, but Patrick had stored up the words at the back of his mind. He scrutinized the girl’s face. Tough and all as she was, this had disconcerted her. Boldly he swung open the door and walked out into the hall.

  ‘Mrs Mulcahy,’ he called up the stairs. ‘Mrs Mulcahy, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m afraid that I need your presence. Could you come down, please?’

  He stood in the hallway, waiting. In a moment the girl came out. Without saying anything, she took a coat from the hallstand and put it on. There were two coats there, both black. Once she had buttoned up her own coat and pulled on a hat, she took the second coat and held it; held it oddly, almost as though she nursed it within her arms. There was a sound of footsteps from overhead and then the opening and closing of a door.

  Mrs Mulcahy was very white. Patrick knew a moment’s compunction as he watched her come down the uncarpeted stairway. She moved heavily and slowly, almost like an old woman. She did not look at him, but at her daughter, and there was a measure of fear in the gaze. She said nothing for a moment, just turned her back and held out her arms, rather like a child waiting for an adult to dress her. It was only after she had
buttoned up the coat that she spoke, and then it was to her daughter rather than to him.

  ‘Is it Bridie?’ she asked and Susan nodded.

  ‘She threw herself over the bridge at St Mary’s Isle, Mam,’ she said. There was a warning note in the girl’s voice, almost as though she wanted to forestall a comment, or a question from her mother.

  Interesting, thought Patrick. Susan had gone back to the suicide idea. And yet he had said nothing to deny that she might have been pushed, rather than have jumped. The bridge leading to St Mary’s Isle was a populous one. There would have been many witnesses to any suicide from that place. The matter would not have been in doubt. The lonely, derelict and deserted weir upstream from the river was a different matter.

  ‘I want you and your daughter to come and identify her body, Mrs Mulcahy,’ said Patrick. He felt another moment’s compunction as he saw how her face paled even more, but he eased his conscience with the thought that he would get Joe to make them a cup of tea and then drive them back up the long steep hill to Shandon. Somehow, he felt that he would get more of the truth out of Mrs Mulcahy than from her taciturn, clever-eyed daughter. He went to the front door and held it open and they passed through without a word to him or without another glance at each other.

  Their appearance on Shandon caused a certain amount of excitement. Women in shawls clustered in small groups, eyeing the trio and whispering to each other. Upper windows were darkened by figures peering down onto the street. Doors opened and women with mops, women with bags for the rag-and-bone man, women feeding babies, women throwing the contents of buckets into the gutter, appeared and even the pawnshop owner came to the doorway, an old-fashioned bellows in one hand and a customer at his shoulder. Patrick felt rather sorry that he had not brought the Ford. He had wanted to think, wanted to work out the implications of Bridie’s death, but this was hardly fair on the women. He thought that perhaps he should engage them in light conversation, make some remarks about the weather, perhaps, but a glance at the two aloof faces made the words die on his lips. In any case, the pavement was very narrow, very full of holes and very slippery between the holes. One needed to pay attention and to look for a safe place to step. And so they walked in silence, the two women ahead and he behind, all the way down the street until they reached the quay. Neither asked a question as they crossed the first bridge, and then the second bridge, but when they came to Clarke’s Bridge, only a few minutes away from St Mary’s Isle, Patrick saw the two women look at each other and then Susan glanced at him. A very rapid glance, but he had been waiting for it and without turning his head, had kept her face within his vision.