Whoever 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.’
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.