Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom? (7 page)

Luck was not on Bloom’s side. Of all the stipendiary magistrates who administered justice in the County and City of Dublin, Patrick Mullen happened to be the one engaged in conducting hearings that session. Mr Mullen might have contrived an excuse for ducking the chore if the victim had been anyone other than Marion Tweedy Bloom and if he, Patrick Mullen, had not been a leading light in the Dublin Musical Society.

‘Molly?’ he cried. ‘Molly’s dead?’ A question delivered with such profound horror that any half-decent lawyer would have declared Patrick Mullen unfit to judge the fiend who had allegedly done her in. In fact, Patrick Mullen had been only one of Molly Bloom’s admirers and had known her rather less well than many another. He was, however, a man so dedicated to music that the untimely demise of any one of Dublin’s songbirds affected him like a dagger to the heart.

‘Bloom,’ he said in a menacing baritone. ‘Bloom, that ruffian,’ though he had never met the man. ‘How did he do the foul deed?’

‘Split her head open with a teapot, apparently,’ his clerk said.

Inured by a dozen years of dispensing Irish justice, Patrick Mullen did not seem to regard the mode of death as unusual. ‘Where’s the culprit being held?’ he asked.

‘Store Street police station.’

‘Who issued the warrant?’

‘Dr Slater.’

‘Slater? Huh! On what grounds?’

‘Suspicion of murder.’

‘What does the prisoner have to say about it?’

‘He claims he didn’t do it.’

‘Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?’ said Patrick Mullen in a tone that boded ill for Bloom.

On the stage of the Lyric, the Gaiety or the brand new Abbey theatre an arc light would have isolated Hugh ‘Blazes’ Boylan and Milly Bloom while the others faded into shadow. Unfortunately the living room on the first floor of the Coghlan’s house in Castle Street had no arc lights and Blazes Boylan’s performance was, therefore, subjected to a noisy serving of tea.

Total concentration had long been Boylan’s forte and had helped him through many a tricky situation. He had developed the ability to focus, eyeball to eyeball, on the person with whom he was engaged, as if he, or she, was, at that moment, the centre of Mr Boylan’s world. Thus, seated on the divan with Milly almost but not quite on his knee, he imparted the circumstances of her mother’s death and her father’s arrest, punctuating the narrative with frequent pauses to allow the young woman to absorb the grim news, sip, as it were, by sip.

The final touch – the crusher Mr Coghlan called it – was the tear that trickled down Mr Boylan’s cheek when, falling silent, he wrapped his arms around Milly and allowed her to shed buckets into the lapels of his chequered tweed morning coat.

‘Lemon or milk, sir?’ Janey, the Coghlan’s servant, enquired.

‘Oh, you’ve lemon, have you?’ Reverend Stephens said.

‘Fresh off the tree,’ said Janey.

‘I’ll have the lemon with a dash of hot water, and two extra lumps,’ the clergyman said then, with a lift of the shoulders and a sheepish grimace, glanced at the couple sobbing on the divan and whispered, ‘Sorry, sorry.’

‘Will the gentleman be taking tea too?’ Janey bellowed.

To which Blazes replied, ‘Only if you’ve nothing stronger.’

‘Oh!’ said Mr Coghlan. ‘Ah! Yes, brandy. What am I thinking of? Brandy, it is. Coming right up.’

He hastened to the decanter on the sideboard, wiped a glass with his forefinger and poured into it a generous helping of the French stuff. He glanced at his wife, in search of her approval or, at worst, permission and, on her nod, tip-toed across the room to the divan and stood by while Mr Boylan extracted a mauve silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and, holding it to Milly’s nose, let her honk into it.

‘No brandy for the girl,’ Michael Paterson stated.

Blazes Boylan said, ‘Why not? What harm can it do?’

‘Alcohol and chloral hydrate don’t mix,’ the doctor told him.

‘You have this on good authority, do you?’

‘He’s a doctor,’ Mr Coghlan apologetically pointed out.

‘Is he?’ said Blazes. ‘I thought he was the boyfriend.’ He snapped up a hand and removed the brandy glass from Harry Coghlan’s grasp. ‘Won’t do
me
any harm, though, will it, Doctor?’

Dr Paterson paused, then, smiling thinly, said, ‘Probably not.’

Blazes crossed one leg over the other and sipped. ‘Much appreciated, Mr Coghlan. Thank you.’

Gratified, Harry retreated.

Tea cup and saucer balanced on the palm of his hand, Dr Paterson said, ‘Are you related to Milly, Mr Boylan?’

‘By blood? No, no. I’m an old friend and colleague of her … of Mrs Bloom. Known Milly since she was a tiddler. Haven’t I, sweetheart?’

Milly sniffed and nodded.

‘Where are you taking her?’ the doctor said.

‘To Dublin, to be close to her father.’

‘He sent you to collect her, did he?’

‘Well, no. How could he? He’s incommunicado, shall we say, for the time being; just for the time being.’ Blazes knocked back the brandy and put the empty glass on the floor behind the leg of the divan from which position, Janey, kneeling, retrieved it. ‘Fact is, as soon as I heard the evil news my first thought was for Milly.’

‘So you haven’t spoken to Mr Bloom?’ Mrs Coghlan said.

‘Not possible,’ Blazes said. ‘Without conceit, however, I might safely claim to be the man Poldy would choose to break the news to Milly. Right, sweetheart?’

Obediently, Milly nodded and sniffed.

Dr Paterson said, ‘How did
you
hear the news, Mr Boylan?’

‘My profession brings me into contact with newspaper men, reporters and the like, and—’

‘Precisely what is your profession?’ Dr Paterson interrupted.

Blazes raised an eyebrow to indicate surprise that his name wasn’t known in Mullingar. ‘I’ve a finger in a number of pies. I lease out advertising space – hoardings, you know – and I promote things.’

‘Things?’ the doctor said. ‘What sort of things?’

‘I’m an agent for singers and musicians,’ Blazes said, ‘a bit of an impresario. I organise concert tours and do a spot of warbling myself. I also have a stake in the fisticular arts. Boxing, in a word.’

‘And a horse,’ Milly reminded him. ‘Half a horse.’

‘Ah, there you are,’ Blazes said. ‘Are you feeling a little better?’

‘A little. I want to see my daddy.’

‘And so you shall.’ Blazes hopped up, extended a hand and hoisted Milly to her feet. ‘There’s a connection to Dublin at eighteen minutes after four. Why don’t you wash your face, comb your hair and pack your togs, sweetheart. Perhaps Mrs Coghlan would be good enough to help you.’

The men watched Milly gather herself. Her lip trembled and she was shaky on her pins but she stiffened her knees, squared her shoulders and, still clutching Boylan’s handkerchief, bravely followed Biddy Coghlan from the room.

Dr Paterson put his teacup, untouched, on the sideboard.

‘If you want my opinion, Mr Boylan, which I’m rather sure you don’t, Milly is in no fit state to travel. It would be better for the girl to stay here until she’s less distressed.’

‘I’m always open to expert advice,’ Blazes said, ‘but in this instance, Doctor …’

‘Paterson.’

‘Doctor Paterson, I feel Milly would be more comfortable at home in Dublin. No, comfortable isn’t quite what I mean.’

‘What do you mean?’ the doctor said.

‘Look, Bloom’s in jug,’ said Blazes. ‘Chances are he’ll be granted bail. Milly’s the only thing he’s got to hang on to right now.’

‘What if he doesn’t get bail?’ said Mr Coghlan.

‘Then Milly will stay with me,’ Blazes Boylan said.

‘With you?’ Reverend Stephens put in. ‘Well now, sir, that doesn’t sound at all proper.’

‘What sort of fellow do you take me for?’ said Blazes indignantly. Then, tethering his high horse, he went on, ‘Of course, you don’t know me and you’re right to express concern. Too many scoundrels in the world today. It’s the times we live in, I suppose. However, you may rest assured Milly will be safe in my house; a house I happen to share with my spinster sisters, ladies of strict moral principle who will stamp very firmly upon any hint of hanky-panky.’

‘There you are then,’ Mr Coghlan said. ‘All above board.’

‘Besides,’ said Blazes, ‘it’s what Milly wants that counts, and what Milly wants is to return to Dublin.’

‘For how long?’ Michael Paterson asked.

‘I have honestly no idea,’ Blazes answered.

‘Presumably until Mr Bloom is bailed,’ Reverend Stephens said.

‘He will get out, won’t he?’ Harry Coghlan asked.

‘For sure, for sure he will,’ Blazes answered.

‘He didn’t …’ Mr Coghlan hesitated. ‘I mean, you don’t suppose he actually …’

‘Did it? No, no, no,’ Blazes said. ‘What possible reason could he have for doing it?’

‘In short, he’s innocent?’

‘As a new-born babe,’ said Boylan.

SIX

T
he bar of the Belleville Hotel, with its marble table-tops, mahogany panels and gilded mirrors, was a far cry from the sour, smoky, piss-smelling dens where loud-mouthed bigots were wildly cheered for their tawdry eloquence. Here, in the Belleville’s relative peace and quiet, a few of the gentlemen of Dublin’s fourth estate assembled to discuss matters of national import and exchange racing tips. Horse flesh was not top of the agenda that afternoon, though, for, with first copy duly posted and the story gone cold, there was precious little for the boys to do but sit tight, sup porter and theorise on who might have done the dirty deed if justice miscarried and Leopold Bloom was released.

The short odds were on Blazes Boylan, but Mr Flanagan, a hack from the
Journal’s
stable of reporters, professed to have heard from a reliable source that Molly Bloom was not the first mutilated female to be found in recent months and that the DMP had been instructed by the Home Secretary to hush up the crimes to avoid panic. Spurred by the gravity with which his peers appeared to be treating his blathers, Flanagan predicted that before the year was far advanced the gutters of Dublin would run red with the blood of more slaughtered whores and virgins.

Jack Delaney nodded solemnly. ‘An Irish Ripper? Now why didn’t I think of that? God, man, but I wish I had your imagination. There is, however, one small flaw in your premise, Arthur.’

‘And what,’ said Arthur Flanagan loftily, ‘might that be?’

‘Bloom’s wife was neither whore nor virgin.’

Robbie Randall, general dogsbody for the famously inaccurate
Advertiser
, chipped in. ‘Well, you know what they say: in the dark all whores are virgins. Even murderers can’t be right all the time.’

‘If we discover there’s been a sudden run on painted teapots then, by jingo, Flanagan, I’d say you’re on to something,’ said Mr Palfry of the
Sun

‘How did
you
find out about the teapot?’ Flanagan said. ‘I thought I had that on the q.t.’

‘What did you fork out for the inside dope, Arthur?’

‘Three bob.’

‘Bargain. I paid five,’ said Charlie Palfry. ‘You, Jack?’

Delaney shrugged. ‘Same: five.’

‘Do you know, if we pooled together and put Gandy on salary we could save our proprietors a fortune,’ Palfry said. ‘Jack, the truth now, have you sprung the leak about the teapot in your evening edition?’

Jack Delaney snorted. ‘Sure and it’s a gift wrapped in silver for all of us but I’m not risking the spike for a fact so outlandish it may not be true at all.’

‘Gandy’s usually reliable,’ said Charlie Palfry.

‘About as reliable as Arthur here,’ Delaney said and the men, all bar Flanagan, laughed. ‘Besides, when you boil it down – if you’ll pardon the phrase – there’s nothing particularly comical about having your head stove in. Teapot, baton or billy club you’re still dead and it’s still a crime against nature.’

‘That’s true,’ Palfry conceded. ‘But isn’t there something in Hebrew scripture that says taking a life with a teapot keeps the victim’s ghost at bay?’

‘Butter, that was,’ Flanagan said. ‘Butter in a lordly dish. Jezebel, I think, did in her hubby with a butter dish.’

‘No,’ Jack Delaney corrected him. ‘It was Jael, wife of Heber the Kenite and, if memory serves, she did the actual deed with a hammer and a nail: Judges, chapter five.’

‘Hark at the scholar,’ said Robbie Randall. ‘Judgement it’ll be for Bloom whether it was a teapot or a butter dish he did it with. He’ll swing like as not.’

‘He won’t swing,’ Palfry said. ‘He’ll do a stretch of hard time and be back among us before you know it. Justification.’

Elbow on the bar, Jack Delaney lifted steadily his half full glass and gazed into the dark depths. ‘Is it, though, the manifest destiny of women to be punished for adultery while men get off scot free? Now there’s a subject for your next column, Palfry. Did Molly Bloom really think she could get away with putting the horns on her Poldy without ever paying the price?’

‘Or did he relish it?’ said Flanagan.

‘Relish it? Relish what?’ said Mr Randall.

‘Nibbling nightly on a buttered bun.’

‘Now that,’ said Palfry, ‘is a step too far even for you, Arthur.’

‘Following in Boylan’s wake,’ Flanagan pressed his point, ‘might not be so bad. At least Bloom didn’t have to oil the lock before he fumbled for the key.’

Jack Delaney thumped his glass on the bar counter and, swinging round, squared up to the three at the table behind him.

‘There,’ he said, ‘see what a joke you’re making of it. It isn’t a joke at all. How can we hope to strike a reasonable balance between tragedy and farce if you go on like that? There’s a daughter – think of her – and a man betrayed who’s now in peril of his life, and a woman cut down in the prime of her life lying dead on a slab in the mortuary. How can you sit here and make fun of their sufferings?’

‘Because that’s what our readers will do,’ said Palfry.

‘What our readers will shovel up,’ Robbie Randall added. ‘Adultery, a good-looking woman with a reputation for sharing her favours, a cucky …’

‘And a Jew,’ Flanagan intruded.

‘To make no mention of a teapot,’ Randall concluded. ‘It’s the teapot you can’t get away from, Jack.’