Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom? (6 page)

‘Is that what you saw, Mrs Fleming?’

‘Only once, only a peek. I didn’t know he’d turned up early.’

‘Mrs Bloom was with Boylan in the bedroom, I take it?’

‘In the kitchen. On the table in the kitchen.’

‘I’m glad I never had her shepherd’s pie that night,’ Mickey Fleming shook his head. ‘On the bloody table! Jesus!’

‘It
was
Hugh Boylan, though. You’re sure of it?’ Kinsella said.

‘Ay, I’m certain.’

‘And you saw them together in an intimate situation?’

Mrs Fleming nodded. ‘I did, more’s the pity.’

‘Would you swear to it in court?’

‘No, she would not,’ Mickey Fleming jumped in. ‘None of your tricks here, Mr G-man. You’re not getting my Lizzie in court, no, sir, nor risk having her throat cut.’

‘Throat cut? By whom?’

‘Blazes bloody Boylan. Stop at nothing, that man.’

‘How long after you saw Mrs Bloom and Mr Boylan together were you given notice?’ Kinsella said.

‘Half a day.’

‘Didn’t Mr Bloom object?’

‘She didn’t tell him till after I’d gone.’

‘Did you tell Mr Bloom what you’d seen?’

‘No, I know when to keep me mouth shut.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to help Mr Bloom by telling the court …’

‘No court. No court. No bloody court,’ Mr Fleming shouted. ‘I been to court to sue for compensation and you know what the court gave me? Snap, bloody snap. You can stuff your courts up your backside, Mr G-man.’

If this had been an ordinary sort of interview he would have ordered the man to leave the room but that was hardly practical. Besides, he had what he came for, namely an eye witness who, under summons, might attest to Marion Bloom’s adultery with Hugh Boylan and thus provide Bloom with an incontestable motive for murder.

‘Has Mr Bloom been arrested?’ the woman asked.

‘He has,’ Kinsella answered.

‘Did he say he done it?’

‘No.’

‘He done it, he done. If he didn’t do, who did?’ Mickey Fleming shouted. ‘You’ve got your man, Inspector. You don’t need to go bothering my Lizzie no more.’

Mickey Fleming’s interruptions were beginning to wear on Kinsella’s nerves. He should, he supposed, feel sorry for the man and excuse his bitter tirades but it was Mrs Fleming who really elicited his sympathy. He got to his feet, thanked Mickey Fleming politely for all his help and made for the door.

Mrs Fleming followed him out on to the landing.

‘Has Mr Bloom really been arrested?’ she asked.

‘He’s been charged and held on suspicion.’

‘He didn’t do it, you know. He couldn’t do it.’

‘Couldn’t do it? What makes you say that, Mrs Fleming?’

‘’Cause she wouldn’t let him.’

It sounded glib and implausible, an emotional statement with no basis in fact. For all that, Jim Kinsella was tempted to believe that it might, just possibly, contain a grain of truth.

Lizzie Fleming glanced round, then whispered, ‘Listen, if it’ll help Mr Bloom, I’ll do it. I’ll give evidence.’

‘A signed statement might be enough,’ Kinsella said. ‘I take it you’d be willing to slip down to Store Street police station, tell an officer there what you’ve just told me and let him put it in writing.’

‘I would. Yes, I would.’

‘Mrs Fleming,’ Jim Kinsella said, sincerely, ‘thank you for your cooperation. You really have been most helpful.’

He offered his hand and she took it. He felt the weight of it in his, a remarkably strong hand for the size of her.

‘Lizzie,’ came her husband’s voice from within. ‘Lizzie, I need the pot. The pot, Lizzie, I need the pot.’

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, ‘before he …’

‘Of course,’ Kinsella said and, releasing her, hurried off downstairs.

FIVE

W
hoever was managing the Store Street barracks canteen these days was certainly doing a good job of it. The chop on Kinsella’s plate came with piping hot gravy, braised cabbage and, according to the chalked board, Potatoes Dauphinoise, which, in the cook’s interpretation, meant mashed with a sprinkling of garlic powder. Tom Machin settled for steak and kidney pudding and for the first ten minutes or so after the pair sat down there was little or no conversation. The arrival of tea things, including a brown glazed-earthenware pot, returned the officers’ attention to duty.

Machin, doing the honours, held the teapot out at arm’s length and studied it before, with a lift of the eyebrows, he filled Kinsella’s cup. ‘Well, that’s one mystery solved,’ he said. ‘At least we know how the blessed teapot got from the kitchen to the bedroom.’

‘Except there were no flowers in the vase,’ Kinsella said.

‘Can’t say I noticed that,’ Machin admitted. ‘Might we assume the teapot was left in the bedroom? Or doesn’t that fit your theory that Bloom planned the whole thing?’

‘That isn’t my theory at all,’ Kinsella said. ‘The truth of it is I have no theory, no judgement to make as yet. Is Bloom sticking to his story?’

‘Like a limpet to a rock,’ Tom Machin said. ‘Driscoll gave him ample opportunity to stumble into a confession but Bloom was too shaken, or too cunning, to fall for it. By the by, it’s Mullen who’s holding court tomorrow.’

‘You’ll object to bail, of course?’

‘I’m not sure I will.’ Machin dropped two sugar lumps into his teacup and stirred with a spoon. ‘There’s precious little evidence to either support or undermine Bloom’s account.’

‘Request more time,’ Kinsella suggested. ‘Slater signed the warrant and that, surely, will boost your objection. I mean, we know what Mullen thinks of our coroner. No love lost there. Hasn’t Bloom asked for a lawyer?’

‘No.’

‘He does know he’s entitled to one, I suppose?’ Jim Kinsella said, then promptly answered his own question. ‘Oh, of course he does. No flies on our Mr Bloom. As it stands, it’s his word against, well, ours, I suppose. Having a thumping good motive is certainly a start but on its own it won’t bring him to trial.’

‘Have you interviewed Boylan yet?’

‘I haven’t been able to find him. His office in D’Olier Street is locked and there’s no sign of his secretary. None of his cronies seems to know where he’s hiding.’

‘Have you tried his home?’

‘Not yet.’ Kinsella blew across the surface of the tea in his cup and sipped tentatively. ‘Bloom’s alibi?’

‘It holds up well. He bought two slices of calf’s liver from Dlugacz about twenty minutes to eight o’clock. Dlugacz is sure of the time because he’d only just fetched down the shutters.’

‘Did he notice anything odd in Bloom’s behaviour?’

‘He says not. Jarvis, at your suggestion, paced out the distance from Eccles Street to the shop: eight minutes. That’s a sixteen-minute round trip. If we allow Bloom four or five minutes in the shop it adds up to just a shade longer than his first estimate, not enough to make a fuss about.’

‘The neighbours, did any of them spot anything suspicious?’ Kinsella said. ‘Strange men in the street, anything at all?’

‘A certain Mrs Hastings recalls bumping into Bloom as he turned into Eccles Street at about ten to eight. She wished him a good morning and received a good morning in return. All of which seems to confirm his story.’

‘But no one saw him leave the house,’ Kinsella said. ‘No one saw him on the way to the butcher’s.’

‘What are you driving at, Jim?’

‘We’ve only Bloom’s word he spent the night in Eccles Street. If he didn’t, where was he and who was he with? And if Bloom wasn’t at home who can say who Molly might not have entertained, Boylan being the first name that springs to mind.’

‘Or someone we don’t yet know about?’ Tom Machin said.

‘Exactly. Anything in the noon editions, by the way?’

‘A paragraph in the
Star.
Be a lot more in the
Telegraph
this evening, I imagine. Our noses are clean. Driscoll wasted not a moment in delivering a preliminary account of the investigation to the Castle, which should give the Assistant Commissioner enough to gnaw on for now. I wish I had more to go on: a strange man running away from the house; a scream; a glimpse of Bloom out and about before the witching hour of – what? – seven, shall we say?’

‘Well,’ Kinsella said, ‘I do have something.’ He reached into his top pocket, carefully withdrew the folded handkerchief, laid it flat on the table and opened the corners. ‘It’s not much but it may throw a little light on what went on in the bedroom this morning.’

Machin leaned forward.

‘What,’ he said, ‘
is
that?’

‘It’s a small piece of tooth belonging, I suspect, to Marion Bloom. Don’t look so disappointed. Of course, her teeth were damaged by the blow. It’s where I found it that’s significant.’

‘Where might that be?’

‘On the underside of a bolster pushed beneath the bed. The bolster on the bed was soaked with blood but the bolster under the bed had only a few patches on it, plus this little piece of tooth. I suggest you put it in a jar and label it.’

Still frowning at the speck in the handkerchief, Tom Machin said, ‘I still don’t see …’

‘It occurs to me that Marion Bloom may not have been killed by a couple of random blows from a teapot,’ Kinsella said, ‘and the bolster might have been put over her mouth to cover her cries.’

Tom Machin sat up. ‘To finish her off, you mean?’

‘Something like that.’

‘In which case the action was murder, not manslaughter.’

‘Let’s see what the medical examiner comes up with. For all we know right now the poor woman might have been poisoned.’

‘Or raped,’ said Machin.

‘Do you know,’ Kinsella said, ‘I never thought of that.’

When she opened her eyes her first thought was that she was safe in her bedroom in Eccles Street waiting for Papli to bring her tea. The ceiling was different, though. Her bedroom in Eccles Street had plaster cornices, not beams, and it didn’t smell of cinnamon and coriander. Then the man-shape loomed over her and she was on the point of crying out when a sudden sharp stinging sensation shrivelled her nostrils, filled her mouth with the taste of sal volatile and caused her to suck in a great lungful of air.

‘There, there,’ Mrs Coghlan crooned from somewhere behind her head. ‘There, there.’

She heard Mr Coghlan’s voice, too, and that of Reverend Stephens muttering quietly but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then she realised that the man-shape stooped over her was Dr Paterson from Greville Street, near the bank, where Mrs Coghlan had taken her last October to get a tincture to relieve her cramps.

Dr Michael Paterson was clean-shaven and had a long chin that, viewed from the underside, wagged weirdly when he spoke. He was young, or at least not old, and the blink of sunlight from the living-room windows made his ears appear transparent.

‘Is it true?’ she heard herself say. ‘It’s not true, is it?’ She struggled to sit up. ‘Tell me.’

The tinkling of a spoon in a glass was not an answer. Perched on the edge of the divan, Dr Paterson pushed the glass towards her lips and an oily liquid, bitter as aloes, trickled on to her tongue.

‘That’ll help,’ the doctor said, ‘as much as anything can.’

‘Should we tell her?’ Mr Coghlan said. ‘I mean, is it wise?’

‘She’ll have to be told sooner or later,’ Reverend Stephens said.

Dr Paterson stroked her brow and said, ‘I’m afraid it is true, Milly. Your mother died this morning.’

‘Oh, God! Oh, God!’ Milly said. ‘Poor Papli, poor, poor Papli.’

‘Papli?’ said Reverend Stephens.

‘She means her father,’ Mr Coghlan said. ‘Who’s going to tell her about
that
situation?’

‘What situation?’ Milly said. ‘I’ve to get up, get home to Papli.’

‘Would she like me to say a prayer?’ Reverend Stephens asked.

‘Not now, Reverend,’ Michael Paterson replied.

‘What are we going to do with her?’ Mr Coghlan said.

‘Keep her by us,’ said Mrs Coghlan, ‘at least for tonight.’

‘Is there no one else?’ said Reverend Stephens. ‘A relative who might take responsibility? A friend of her father’s, perhaps?’

‘How many friends will he have now, poor devil?’ Mr Coghlan said. ‘Who’ll take charge of the funeral arrangements, I wonder?’

‘Oh,’ said Reverend Stephens. ‘Won’t there be a post …’

‘Hush,’ said Mrs Coghlan brusquely, then again, ‘Hush.’

Milly felt the liquid the doctor had given her slide down into her chest, burning and soothing at one and the same time. Her eyes watered worse than ever but she couldn’t be sure if it was the medicine or if she was crying real tears.

There was something so unreal about all of it and, with tears running down her cheeks and Dr Paterson still perched on the divan beside her, she wondered if this was not the moment when she would swim up out of sleep to discover that it was nothing but a bad dream.

She closed her eyes in the hope that when she opened them again she would be lying in her own bed in her own house with Pussens curled up on her tummy, the smell of frying coming from the kitchen and Mummy shouting, ‘Poldy, Poldy, something’s burning, something’s burning.’

‘There must be someone we can contact,’ Reverend Stephens said. ‘Should I pop over to the house and telephone the police in Dublin on the off chance there’s been a mistake?’

‘If there had been a mistake they wouldn’t have telephoned Constable Harris in the first place, would they?’ Mr Coghlan said. ‘On the other hand, I suppose he might be out on bail.’

‘Who might be out on bail?’ Milly said.

She opened her eyes as wide as they would go and, leaning into Dr Paterson’s arm, sat up. She rubbed her wrist across her nose, a gesture that her mother would call unladylike, and then, with the same wrist, wiped her streaming eyes. ‘Has someone been arrested?’ she said. ‘What’s it got to do with my mother? Has there been an explosion? Did a bomb kill my mother?’

‘Milly,’ the doctor said, ‘do try to keep calm. We’ve very little information so far and …’

Then a voice, a warm familiar voice, said, ‘Excuse me for butting in. The shop door was open. I took the liberty of finding my way upstairs.’

‘Who the devil might you be?’ Reverend Stephens demanded.

‘Hugh Boylan,’ Blazes answered and shook the minister’s hand. ‘I’ve come to take Milly home.’