A Gruesome Discovery Read online

  ‘You’re going off the point, Mr O’Sullivan,’ she said doing her best to make her voice sound light and slightly bored, the voice of a person with superior brains and superior knowledge. ‘Miss Mulcahy just wants to have an indication of the worth of her father’s estate, before legal costs,’ she added hastily, thinking once again of Bleak House and of how the entire Jarndyce fortune had been used up in paying legal costs. She wouldn’t put it past this greasy lawyer to help himself to any money that was going. One of the lads out in the safe house in Ballinhassig had been studying commerce at the university before he joined the Republicans. She might try to get in touch with him, if they could only get hold of this will. ‘Just stick to the figures, Mr O’Sullivan,’ she said and hoped that her voice sounded patronizing. ‘Make them lose their tempers,’ that was Tom Hurley’s method of questioning. ‘Words come out, when tempers are lost,’ had been his motto.

  Mr O’Sullivan, though, did not seem to be taking too much notice of her. His head was turned towards the door, his ear noticeably cocked for a sound. Eileen saw Susan turn also. Definitely there were steps, heavy steps, coming rapidly down the uncarpeted stairs leading to this grubby basement. Very assured sound to those steps. No hesitation at the door or in the outer office. A perfunctory knock and then the door was flung open.

  Richard McCarthy. Eileen recognized him instantly. He had been at the funeral, standing officiously beside Mrs Mulcahy, almost elbowing the boys away. Susan’s intended husband, at least intended by himself, and possibly by her mother who seemed to be the sort of woman who would always take the easy way out. A lot too sure of himself. A quick glance at the solicitor, a smile and a nod at Susan and a suspicious glance at herself.

  ‘Sorry, I’m late. Got delayed. A consignment of hides arrived hours too early. Good morning, Susan. And who is this?’ He looked straight into Eileen’s face, though his words were addressed to Susan.

  ‘Miss MacSweeney,’ said Eileen promptly. He wasn’t going to be allowed to call her by her first name as though she were a child. ‘We met at the funeral of the late Mr Mulcahy.’ She decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘Miss Mulcahy is very worried about her father’s estate. She feels, probably wrongly, that you implied that there might be financial problems in the way of her pursuing her education. She has asked me to look into the matter.’

  That would be enough for him to be going on with. She faced him, keeping her expression as cool and calm as she could manage and feeling pleased that she was wearing her new skirt.

  ‘Don’t know what you mean by “imply” or what business it is of yours, but I suppose that Susan brought you here and she must regard you as a friend and tell you her affairs and so I suppose, Susan, it doesn’t matter if I tell this young lady, what I told you, does it?’ He rounded on Susan and she stared back at him with, Eileen noted approvingly, an expression of contempt. She herself gave a pitying smile.

  ‘My knowledge of the law, Mr McCarthy, would indicate that you, as executor, should be informing the wife and adult children of the financial position in which they find themselves. That would be your duty.’

  Was this true? Surely it must be. After all, they had a right to know. Especially if someone was pressurizing them to sell the house that Mr Mulcahy had so recently purchased.

  ‘Miss Mulcahy,’ she bit back the words, ‘my client’, this man might just laugh at her, but she tried to sound very at ease as she finished, ‘Yes, Miss Mulcahy, is anxious to see whether the figures that she has in her possession agree with the figure mentioned in the will.’

  To her slight annoyance, Susan opened her bag and produced the well-used, slightly battered accounts book. That, she thought, should have been kept in reserve. Perhaps he might snatch it from her. Deliberately she got up from her chair and went across to stand beside Susan.

  He stared back at her with a wide blue stare. His beard seemed to jut out a little more, almost as though every hair in it was alive. Suddenly he looked quite dangerous. His eyes went to Susan’s account book and then back again to her and she saw those eyes narrow. There was an appraising look on his face, just as though he were weighing up the risks of disposing of the two girls in order to get his hands on the accounts book.

  Was he a criminal? Or more exciting still, was he a murderer? He could be, she thought. He had the look of a murderer. Looked as she would imagine Bill Sykes in Oliver Twist to look like. That stupid Fred. Why did he have to muddle things? First shooting a dead body, covered in maggots and then posting a confession to the guards’ barracks. This man, she thought, looking at the hard eyes, would probably have killed without compunction. And he could quite well be the murderer of his business rival. How he must have laughed contemptuously when he heard of Fred’s confession. Somehow, or other, he had got his hands on Mr Mulcahy’s money, knew that he could bamboozle the widow and was prepared to marry Susan in order to silence her.

  But he had reckoned without Eileen MacSweeney. She turned back to the solicitor. ‘A round figure, Mr O’Sullivan,’ she said. ‘That is all that Miss Mulcahy wants at this stage.’

  ‘He could even round it up to the nearest hundred,’ put in Susan and Eileen gulped.

  To the nearest hundred, she thought. Susan’s father must have been incredibly rich.

  ‘No,’ she found the courage to say. ‘I’m sure that a solicitor should do better than that. You must have the figures, by now, Mr O’Sullivan. The bank have told Miss Mulcahy that they gave them all to you.’

  For a moment she thought that she had won. The two men looked at each other, almost as though they were exchanging information with that glance. Mr O’Sullivan half-opened his mouth, but then Mr McCarthy swung around at Susan.

  ‘You’ll have to come back on another day, Susan,’ he said roughly. ‘There’s no way that I can talk to you without your mother’s presence. She’s named under the will, but you are not. You have no right whatsoever to any legal information. You are a minor, you know. And you can leave that account book behind, too. That should have been handed over to me as executor of your father’s will. Give it here, now, please.’

  ‘No,’ snapped Susan, hastily replacing the book into her bag. ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘Give it here!’ He reached out a hand and seized the strap of the handbag.

  ‘Don’t give it to him, Susan!’ yelled Eileen. ‘That’s assault and battery. Don’t you lay a finger on her, my man!’

  This would not be enough; she knew that. She peered up through the bars of the grimy basement window and saw a pair of dark blue trouser legs walking briskly past.

  ‘Help!’ she screamed, running to the door. ‘Help! Susan, there’s a policeman up there. Help. My friend is being attacked. Help! Get the guards!’

  Quickly she seized Susan’s arm and dragged her to the door. McCarthy had released the handbag and turned towards the window. She slammed the door in his face as soon as they were over the threshold. No key, otherwise she could have locked them inside. As it was, she contented herself by continuing to scream, ‘Get the guards!’ as they both rushed up the steps, through the hallway and into the streets.

  An elderly postman was standing near to the building, looking at them in a concerned way.

  ‘Are you all right, ladies?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, we’re fine,’ said Eileen hastily. ‘A couple of men tried to get fresh with us. It’s all right now. Don’t you worry!’ She waited until he had gone on his way and then said, ‘Let’s go across the bridge and then up to the barracks, Susan. I think that we should report this pair to the guards. There’s something very fishy going on.’

  SEVENTEEN

  St Thomas Aquinas

  ‘Da mihi, Domine Deus, cor pervigil, quod nulla abducat a te curiosa cogitatio: da nobile, quod nulla deorsum trahat indigna affectio; da rectum, quod nulla seorsum obliquet sinistra intentio: da firmum, quod nulla frangat tribulatio: da liberum, quod nulla sibi vindicet violenta affectio.’

  (Grant me, Lord God, a watchful heart which
shall be distracted from Thee by no vain thoughts; give me a generous heart which shall not be drawn downward by any unworthy affection; give me an upright heart which shall not be led astray by any perverse intention; give me a stout heart which shall not be crushed by any hardship; give me a free heart which shall not be enslaved by passion.)

  The Reverend Mother very seldom made social visits. Her time was normally fully occupied with her duties as a superior of a convent of nuns, a headmistress of a school – and a teacher – an organizer of hundreds of charity appeals, a counsellor and confidante for the unfortunate of the parish.

  However, today she had telephoned her cousin Lucy and proposed visiting her for supper.

  Lucy had been most enthusiastic. The chauffeur would be sent to collect her cousin, would be available to take her back at any hour of the day or night. They would have a splendid supper and she would, personally, do the flowers on the table.

  ‘Don’t go to any trouble,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘A chat with you and a chat with Rupert. That will be enough for me.’

  There was a silence for a moment while Lucy digested that and then she said enthusiastically, ‘Won’t that be lovely! No troublesome convent bells ringing and no interruptions from people urgently wanting your presence.’ And with that insult to Sister Bernadette, who would not have dreamed of allowing any interruptions while the Reverend Mother was chatting to her cousin, Lucy put down the phone. No source for gossip from that conversation, thought the Reverend Mother and smiled to herself at the thought of Miss Clayton informing the other ladies that the Reverend Mother was going to have an evening out, visiting her cousin in Montenotte, if you please.

  The chauffeur called for the Reverend Mother punctually at six o’clock. There was a stir of interest in the convent at their Mother Superior going out so late in the day. Sister Mary Immaculate waited on her for last instructions with the martyred air of one who is left to bear a heavy burden, alone and without support, and Sister Bernadette assured her that she would position herself by the doorbell during the evening so that the Reverend Mother would not be left to wait for more than a minute or two on her return.

  ‘You will make sure that the chauffeur comes to the door with you, Reverend Mother. The streets are not safe at night,’ she said earnestly.

  The Reverend Mother thought that, Cinderella-like, she should promise to be home on the stroke of midnight, but then repressed the temptation. It was very kind of dear Sister Bernadette to be so concerned and so she assured her that her cousin’s well-trained chauffeur would always accompany her to the door and ring the bell for her. The entire convent, she knew, was seething with something like indignation at the late hour appointed by Mrs Murphy for her cousin’s visit. Hopefully it would not come to the ears of the bishop, but she feared that in a city that lived on gossip, it would not be too astonishing if the matter were not brought up at the next diocesan convention. A family anniversary, she decided, as she repinned her veil to her wimple. Yes, short answers were always best. ‘A family anniversary, Your Excellency’; then a slight tightening of lips and an obvious change of the subject. The bishop would, of course, have access to knowledge about her own date of birth and the anniversary of her entrance to the convent, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he knew all about Lucy, also. But a family anniversary was good. Even the bishop would not press for further details if she bore the air of one who wanted to say no more.

  To Sister Bernadette’s satisfaction, when the bell rang punctually at five o’clock, it was not the chauffeur, but Mr Rupert Murphy himself sweeping off his hat, who was standing at the door ready to escort his wife’s cousin to the waiting car. The chauffeur was standing stiffly to attention with the car door held widely open and the Reverend Mother could not resist the temptation to glance over her shoulder before climbing into the back seat and, with amusement, she saw that there was a cluster of white wimples and black veils peering over Sister Bernadette’s shoulders as the convent witnessed their Reverend Mother being swept away into the dark night.

  ‘Now, Rupert, you entertain the Reverend Mother while I go and see about the dinner,’ said Lucy, once her cousin was cosily ensconced in front of a fragrantly smelling wood fire. The parlour maid looked at her mistress with alarm at that announcement, but a minute later the sound of Lucy’s footsteps climbing the stairs to her bedroom would reassure the cook and servants that their mistress was not going to attempt to do anything so uncharacteristic as to peer into pots or check oven temperatures.

  Rupert sipped his sherry meditatively and looked across the fireplace at his guest. He was obviously waiting for a question. A highly-strung man. Success had brought wealth, well beyond what he had inherited, but no thought of retirement had crossed his mind. She felt sure of that. He was one of those people, and perhaps she was one herself, who felt that the show could not go on without them. His advice was valued throughout the city of Cork.

  ‘I’m very glad to have the opportunity of a word with you, Rupert,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘I had a visit yesterday evening from Inspector Cashman and he related to me something quite distressing.’ Rupert was a busy man and she did not want to waste a minute of his time. ‘He told me that he had received a visit yesterday afternoon from Eileen MacSweeney who had brought Susan Mulcahy, the daughter of the dead man, Mr Henry Mulcahy, to see him.’ Patrick had put the two girls in that order and the Reverend Mother had interpreted it to mean that Eileen was the one who did most of the talking. ‘The two girls had paid a visit to the solicitor, Mr O’Sullivan of Pope’s Quay.’ She paused there and saw his eyes flicker with interest. He put aside the sherry glass and sat up quite straight. ‘This girl Susan had repeatedly asked her father to fund a university education for her; but he had always refused. She has brains. Did extremely well in her Intermediate Certificate Examination, but her father insisted on her leaving school and helping her mother to look after her young brothers.’

  ‘And now that he is dead …’ Rupert looked interested.

  ‘She thinks that there is plenty of money, certainly money enough to see her through university, and I gather that Mrs Mulcahy has no objection.’

  ‘No, poor woman. I don’t suppose that she has ever had much of a mind of her own. As for the question of finance, well, not that I know anything about it, of course, except what common gossip tells, but I would have thought that man had plenty of money. I happen to know that the house here in Montenotte was paid for with cash – no bank loan, nothing. In fact, the man had a reputation of always paying cash for everything.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said the Reverend Mother sedately. Amazing, she thought, how everyone in this city knows his fellow men’s business. Rupert, despite his claim to know nothing, probably knew the extent of the Mulcahy bank account down to the last few sovereigns. She looked across at his smooth, well-shaven face and thought that it was a face that could hide secrets very effectively.

  ‘So what’s the problem with the young lady?’ he asked. ‘If she has brains, as you say, and she has money behind her, well, why not go ahead? She wouldn’t be the first woman to qualify as a doctor from our university here.’

  ‘She’s been told that there is no money. That the house in Montenotte has to be sold to pay debts; that her mother must sell the business; send the older boys off to England to get jobs and exist for the rest of her life on what the business might fetch.’

  ‘Told! Who told her that?’ Rupert sat up very straight and pushed his sherry glass aside.

  ‘A Mr McCarthy, executor of the will, speaking, I suppose, on behalf also of this Mr O’Sullivan, the solicitor from Pope’s Quay.’

  ‘McCarthy. McCarthy the Skins. He was in the same line of business as Mulcahy, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. Susan made an appointment to see the solicitor, to see Mr O’Sullivan in his office at Pope’s Quay. She asked Eileen, my former pupil, Eileen MacSweeney, to go with her for moral support.’

  ‘And what happened?’

&n
bsp; ‘Mr O’Sullivan refused to give Susan a rough figure of her father’s estate and was very evasive until Mr Richard McCarthy, the executor of the will, turned up. He, apparently, was quite threatening and abusive, especially—’ the Reverend Mother raised her eyes from the richly patterned Turkey rug at her feet and looked across at Rupert – ‘especially,’ she repeated with emphasis, ‘when the girl revealed that she had been the one who had been keeping her father’s accounts during the last few years. She even, apparently, produced the accounts book from her handbag.’ She sat back, then, and watched the quick expressions darting across his face.

  ‘Didn’t give it to him, did she?’ Rupert’s rejoinder was swift, but she could see how his rapid brain was shuttling the pieces of information and making a pattern from them.

  ‘No, she didn’t. But that was the moment when he became quite menacing. He laid his hand on Susan’s handbag and attempted to take the accounts book by force.’

  ‘But he didn’t, did he?’

  ‘No,’ said the Reverend Mother, attempting to keep a note of pride from her voice. ‘Eileen, my Eileen, shouted through the basement window, told him that it was assault and battery, screamed for the civic guards, hustled her friend out of the room and up the steps and made straight for the police barracks. No one followed. Of course, Pope’s Quay would have been very busy at that hour and Eileen, even as a small child, was confident and uninhibited. Susan, I think, may be a different character.’