Jack Delaney had never been in a witness box before. He was well used to sitting in courtrooms with a notebook in his lap and recording the sins of other men and women for the delectation of his readers, but to become part of the story was a new and not altogether welcome experience.
Clear eyed, clean shaven and exuding awareness of his responsibility as an upright citizen, Jack introduced himself and, with as steady a mien as he could muster, let Slater rip into him. What troubled him was not the coroner’s interrogation but the sight of Alfred Tolland crouched at the defence table with his pince-nez winking and a superior smile on his foxy face.
Coroner Slater had been none too pleased when Tolland had entered court. He had pointedly enquired as to the lawyer’s role, to which question Neville had answered that Mr Tolland’s intention was merely to mentor and observe; and what was the harm in that?
The harm in that, Jack Delaney might have told him, was that Tolland’s skill in undermining the moral authority of witnesses, nuns and priests included, was notorious. From the corner of his eye he watched and waited for Tolland to whisper in Sullivan’s ear or slip notes across the table, but Tolland did neither. He remained quietly attentive, unlike Bloom who appeared to have fallen asleep.
‘Are you familiar with the houses north of Montgomery Street, Mr Delaney?’ the coroner said.
‘I am.’
‘Are you a frequent visitor to these establishments?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is the purpose of your visits?
‘Partly business, partly pleasure.’
Jack was tempted to trot out the tale that he was taking singing lessons from one of Nancy O’Rourke’s girls, but the tension in the courtroom deterred any attempt at humour.
‘Where were you late on the evening of 8th March?’
‘In Upper Tyrone Street.’
‘Visiting Mrs O’Rourke’s house?’
‘I was outside in the street.’
‘At what hour precisely?’
‘Close to half past eleven.’
‘Tell the court what you saw outside in the street?’
‘Mr Bloom arguing with Mr Boylan.’
‘Were blows exchanged?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘Mr Bloom and Mr Boylan arguing together at around half past eleven in Upper Tyrone Street, that is what you saw?’
‘It is.’
‘Both gentlemen are known to you by sight?’
‘They are.’
‘Had you been drinking, Mr Delaney?’
‘No, sir, I was sober.’
The coroner continued his questioning without interruption from the jury foreman or Bloom’s counsel. Time expanded, minutes began to seem like hours, then suddenly it was over.
‘Mr Conway, do you have any questions for this witness?’
Conway shook his head. ‘I don’t believe we have, Mr Slater.’
Only when he dipped his chin to squint down at the defence counsel’s table did Jack realise that his neck was rigid and his shoulders hunched to the point of pain. He’d expected an attack upon his moral integrity, an attempt on Sullivan’s part to make him out to be not only a predator upon the flower of Dublin’s womanhood but, by inference, a liar to boot.
Neville Sullivan toyed with a pencil while Tolland, lips pursed, appeared to be silently whistling a voluntary. Only Bloom raised his eyes to the reporter in the box and, with a twitch of his moustache, looked away again, more bored, it seemed, than dismayed.
The coroner leaned from his chair and asked, ‘Have you anything you wish to add before I dismiss the witness, Mr Sullivan?’
‘No,’ said Neville Sullivan. ‘Nothing.’
‘Thank you, Mr Delaney. You may step down.’
Jack Delaney let out his breath, picked his way from the box and took his seat not with the other witnesses but beside his colleagues on the press benches.
‘Well done, Jack,’ Robbie Randall murmured.
‘Five bob for an exclusive, Jack,’ whispered Mr Palfry.
‘I’ll make that ten,’ said Mr Flanagan and sniggered.
Those who knew Hugh ‘Blazes’ Boylan, advertising executive, impresario, seducer of women, gambler, dandy, boozer and braggart, realised at once that he was not himself as he climbed the four steps into the witness box, rested his elbow on the narrow ledge and mopped his brow with a mauve silk handkerchief.
Many things was Sergeant Gandy but a nursemaid wasn’t one of them. He had sponged Mr Boylan’s natty suit as best he could and had gotten him back from the Belleville to the courthouse with just enough time to wash his face and comb his hair before the court reconvened. No suitable replacement could be found for his beer-stained shirt, though, and Mr Boylan carried into the box with him more than a faint whiff of the brewery.
‘Mr Boylan,’ Roland Slater said, ‘are you quite well?’
‘Fine, fine, yes, grand, thank you, your honour.’
‘Mr Rice, will you administer the oath, please.’
The oath was duly administered and the Bible kissed with not altogether appropriate passion. ‘Be good enough to state for the record your full name, address and place of business,’ the coroner instructed. Blazes, after pause for reflection, supplied the necessary information.
‘Mr Boylan,’ said the coroner, frowning, ‘have you, by any chance, been drinking?’
‘Medicinal brandy,’ Blazes answered. ‘One small snifter to calm my nerves.’
The lie slipped easily off his tongue. Confidence restored, he pulled himself together, tucked the handkerchief into his breast pocket and bestowed upon the coroner and jurymen a smile that seemed to say, ‘Sure we’re all men of the world, are we not now, and what’s one brandy after all?’
‘Your nerves?’ said Coroner Slater, who apparently was not a man of the world. ‘Do you have reason to be nervous, Mr Boylan?’
‘I’m not used to appearing in public, your honour.’
‘I am not “your honour”, Mr Boylan. I’m not a judge.’
‘What do I call you then?’
‘You do not have to call me anything,’ Slater said. ‘If you insist on addressing me by a title, Mister Slater will do well enough.’ He watched Blazes’ smile fade and went on, ‘I rather thought a concert performer would be used to appearing in public.’
‘Are you going to ask me to sing?’
‘No, I am not going to ask you to sing, Mr Boylan, not, at any rate, within the musical definition of the word.’
The boys on the press benches, well versed in transatlantic slang, guffawed at the coroner’s remark but Blazes failed to pick up on it and, discomfited, whipped out the mauve handkerchief and mopped his brow once more.
The coroner pressed on, ‘How long have you been acquainted with Mr Bloom?’
‘Since back in the days when we were neighbours in Clanbrassil Street, though it was mostly Jews lived there. We moved out quick when my father’s fortunes improved.’
‘Did you keep in touch with the Blooms?’
‘We bumped into each other when Bloom worked at Hely’s, the stationers, but I can’t say – no, we – we drifted apart.’
‘When was the friendship renewed?’
‘About a year ago.’
‘How long have you known the deceased, Marion Bloom?’
‘Somewhere in the region of fifteen years.’
‘How did you advance your relationship with Mrs Bloom?’
‘I heard her sing. I thought she was a star and would be good for a concert tour I was organising. Lovely voice, sweet as an angel’s. I met with Bloom by chance, then he brought the wife along and I put it to them she might take to the platform with me.’
‘Did Mr Bloom object to your proposal?’
‘Not him. Molly was keen and he could no more refuse Molly than pigs can fly. Any roads, he had his mind on other things.’
‘Other things?’ said Slater.
‘He had a woman he was seeing on the sly.’
‘A woman? Is she in court today?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? You accuse Mr Bloom of conducting an out of marriage relationship, Mr Boylan, yet you don’t know if the woman is here or not. Can you corroborate your statement with a name, at the very least a name?’
‘Martha.’
‘Where might this Martha woman be found?’
‘Can’t say. I couldn’t track her down.’
‘Why did you want to track her down, Mr Boylan?’ the coroner said. ‘Could it be that you hoped to further your own cause with Marion Bloom by inventing a mistress for Mr Bloom?’
‘My own cause? Oh, you mean with Molly. Nah, I didn’t need any excuses to get aboard that wagon.’
‘Before we allow ourselves to be lured from the facts by unfounded accusations,’ Roland Slater said, ‘I’d like to turn to the evidence given by Mrs Fleming. I take it, Mr Boylan, you heard Mrs Fleming swear under oath that she saw you and Marion Bloom engaged in a debauched act. I will have her testimony read out to refresh your memory if you wish.’
‘Not,’ said Blazes, ‘necessary. I admit I was doing Molly. I mean Marion Bloom.’
‘When did the affair begin?’ the coroner asked, loudly enough to rise above the din of the gallery.
‘June, last year.’
‘Did it continue unabated until Mrs Bloom’s death?’
‘It did.’
‘Mrs Bloom did not resist your blandishments?’
‘No, Molly was always game.’
The drone from the gallery grew louder. This time Roland Slater waited until it died down before he took up the reins once more. ‘You do not deny that you were engaged in an adulterous relationship with Mr Bloom’s wife?’
‘Why deny it? It’s common knowledge.’
‘Common, I think, being the word,’ Slater said, then, ‘Did Bloom know what was going on between you and his wife?’
‘’Course he did.’
‘Did he confront you with the knowledge?’ Slater said. ‘By which I mean, did he try to deter you from continuing the affair?’
‘I can’t see the point in this,’ Blazes said.
‘Oh, can’t you?’ Roland Slater said. ‘The point, Mr Boylan, is that a woman has been brutally murdered and it is the business of this court to determine a reason for her untimely death. Is that point enough for you?’
‘I suppose it has to be,’ Blazes conceded.
Slater did not rebuke Mr Boylan for his impertinence. He lowered his voice to a purr. ‘Now, you have heard the medical evidence and I must ask you if you knew that Mrs Bloom was in a gravid state?’
‘Dead?’ said Blazes. ‘I didn’t know she was dead till—’
‘Pregnant,’ said Slater patiently. ‘With child.’
‘How would I be knowing a thing like that?’ said Blazes.
‘As you were engaged in intimacy with Mrs Bloom it’s no stretch to assume you actually conversed from time to time. Did Mrs Bloom inform you that she was carrying a child?’
Blazes sucked his cheeks and declared, ‘No, she did not.’
‘Liar,’ muttered Mr Bloom, without looking up.
‘You were unaware that she was pregnant?’
‘I was.’
‘Liar,’ Bloom once more muttered.
‘Your client, Mr Sullivan, must not interrupt.’
‘My apologies,’ Neville said. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘Mr Boylan’ – the coroner moved in for the kill – ‘we have heard from Mr Delaney that you were seen arguing with Bloom at half past the hour of eleven in Upper Tyrone Street on the night immediately preceding the murder. What was that argument about if it wasn’t about your relationship with Bloom’s wife?’
‘He wanted to borrow a fiver and got all hot and bothered when I refused.’
‘Are you saying that Mrs Bloom’s name wasn’t mentioned?’
‘Never a peep.’
‘Did Mr Bloom tell you why he wanted money?’
‘He said he was leaving Dublin.’
‘Did he say why he was leaving Dublin?’
‘Said it was none of my business.’
‘Did it not seem obvious to you that Bloom’s reason for leaving Dublin was connected to your affair with his wife?’
‘He’s a Jew. You never know what Jews are up to.’
Roland Slater grudgingly decided to let the answer pass without comment. ‘Did you believe Mr Bloom when he told you he was leaving Dublin?’
‘I thought he was trying to land me in the shi … soup. Look,’ said Blazes, ‘I was slathered. I admit it. I’d had a few too many. All I wanted to do was get on home to me bed.’
‘Did you give Mr Bloom money?’
‘No.’
‘What did Mr Bloom do then?’
‘Wandered off.’
‘And you, Mr Boylan, what did you do?’
‘Went home to bed.’
‘How?’
‘How?’ said Blazes. ‘Oh, cab. Yes, by cab.’
‘In spite of Inspector Machin’s diligent inquiries no cab driver has come forward who remembers transporting you to Sefton Street.’
‘Well, that ain’t my fault.’
‘You said, you saw no more of Mr Bloom that night?’
‘Not a hair.’
‘When was the last time you saw Mrs Bloom? Alive, I mean.’
‘Oooo,’ Blazes pondered, ‘must have been the Monday afternoon before she – you know – died.’
‘In the house in Eccles Street?’
‘Yes, in Eccles Street.’
‘Where, we may assume, an act of intimacy took place?’
Blazes grinned, ‘More than one, if you must know.’
‘How long did you remain with Mrs Bloom on Monday?’
‘Couple of hours. No, closer to three.’
‘Where was Mr Bloom?’
‘You’ll have to ask him. He always steered clear till Molly was good and … until I left.’
‘Did you see Mrs Bloom again after your Monday visit?’
‘No.’
‘Think carefully before you answer, Mr Boylan: you were not in the house in Eccles Street in the small hours of Thursday?’
‘I told all this to Kinsella,’ Blazes grumbled. ‘I certainly was not in the house in Eccles Street on Thursday. I was home in bed by midnight. You can ask my sisters if you don’t believe me. They’ll swear …’
‘I’m sure they will, Mr Boylan.’ Slater turned to face the jury. ‘No doubt you have questions you are eager to put to this witness. I am, however, anxious to get to the root of the matter in respect of both Bloom and Mr Boylan’s whereabouts in the wee small hours of Thursday. According to witnesses, one, other or both is patently not telling the truth. I propose to excuse Mr Boylan for the moment and allow him an opportunity to collect himself. I will recall him after we hear from the next witness when you’ll be at liberty to put your questions. Does that sit well with you, Mr Conway?’
‘It does, sir.’
‘Good,’ Slater said. ‘Mr Sullivan, do you have any objection?’
‘None whatsoever,’ Neville said.
‘Will Mr Bloom then take to the witness stand,’ Slater said.
‘No,’ said Neville. ‘Mr Bloom will not.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Roland Slater said.
‘Mr Bloom has chosen not to take the stand again.’
‘Do you not wish your client to have an opportunity to refute the accusations made against him by the present witness?’
‘There is nothing to refute,’ Neville said,
‘On the contrary, Mr Sullivan,’ Slater said. ‘If we are to give credence to the testimony of Mr Delaney let alone that of Mr Boylan then your client has been caught out in a lie.’
‘Has he?’ said Neville.
‘Of course he has. Did he not claim to have been home in bed with his wife at half past ten o’clock? Yet here we have two reliable – fairly reliable – witnesses who will put him in Upper Tyrone Street at or close to that hour. Does that not have the smell of deception to it, Mr Sullivan, and require an explanation?’
‘I don’t believe it does,’ Neville said.
‘In his statement …’
‘No, Dr Slater.’ Neville rose abruptly and tossed down the pencil. ‘You will find no such claim in Mr Bloom’s signed statement.’
‘Inspector Kinsella …’
‘Ah, yes,’ Neville interrupted. ‘The “cat’s meat” conversation, a conversation that took place before Mr Bloom was cautioned.’
‘You’re hair-splitting, Mr Sullivan. In this court …’
‘The application of the law is, it seems, selective,’ Neville said.
‘Mr Sullivan! How dare you!’
‘My client will not take the stand to have his word weighed against that of a self-confessed fornicator. And, with respect, sir, I trust you will remember to remind the jury that no prejudice must be shown against my client or guilt implied for his decision not to put himself in the witness box.’
During the exchange Mr Devereux had sifted through the files upon his table and, without a word, handed up to the coroner a copy of the signed statement Bloom had given to Superintendent Driscoll. For an instant Roland Slater’s control deserted him. He snatched the file with ill-disguised anger and, flicking over the pages with a rampant forefinger, scanned it while Neville Sullivan rocked gently from heel to toe and lightly stroked his hair.
Mr Boylan, who had not been dismissed, lolled meanwhile against the ledge of the witness box, pale-faced and sweating.
At length the coroner looked up. He hesitated, licked his upper lip and then addressed the jury. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘it appears Mr Bloom’s counsel is correct. The point was not put directly to Mr Bloom during police questioning. It is therefore not entered into evidence as sworn testimony.’ A breath, a beat: ‘I’m grateful to Mr Sullivan for pointing out the error and acknowledge fully his client’s right to stand, without prejudice, on his original testimony. I will instruct you further in the course of my summing up. We will move on to another witness and you, Mr Boylan, may …’
‘Wait.’
‘What is it now, Mr Sullivan?’
‘With your permission and on behalf of the jury, may I put a couple of questions to Mr Boylan before he leaves the box?’
‘Can’t it wait, Mr Sullivan? Mr Boylan will be returned to the box in due course and you may put your questions then.’
‘I would prefer to put the questions now, if it please you.’
The jury members were already whispering among themselves and Mr Conway, making no attempt to silence them, was wryly shaking his head. Roland Slater knew when he was beaten. ‘Very well, Mr Sullivan,’ he conceded. ‘Two questions only and as briefly as you can, if you please.’
At the defence table, Poppy Tolland sat up and removed his spectacles while Bloom, craning his neck, looked up at Blazes Boylan for the first time.
‘Mr Boylan,’ Neville began, ‘you said in evidence that you were unaware that Marion Bloom was carrying a child. Is that true?’
Blazes had lost the rhythm and with it his bantering arrogance. He mopped his cheeks with the sodden handkerchief and answered uncertainly, ‘It … it is.’
‘Are you acquainted with a certain Mrs Bella Cohen who keeps a house in Upper Tyrone Street, adjacent to that of Mrs Nancy O’Rourke?’
‘I … I’ve heard the name.’
‘With your permission, Coroner Slater, may I jog the witness’s memory?’ Neville asked.
Though he would not admit it even to himself, the coroner was intrigued by Sullivan’s line of questioning and, having little or no alternative now that he had ceded the floor, nodded.
Neville said, ‘Mrs Bella Cohen, like Nancy O’Rourke, is the owner of a house in Upper Tyrone Street where girls may be hired for sexual purposes. I have it on best authority, Mr Boylan, that you are a regular visitor to both establishments. Is that true or false?’
‘True,’ said Blazes grudgingly.
‘Then you do know Mrs Cohen?’
‘Matter of fact, I do.’
‘Have you in the course of let’s say the past month engaged Mrs Cohen in conversation in respect of obtaining the services of a woman practised in terminating pregnancies?’
The din from the gallery drowned out any answer that Blazes Boylan might give. Court officers called for order and Roland Slater, with a face like thunder, stood up and remained standing until the racket died down.
‘Oh!’ said Blazes. ‘Me, who loves kiddies and babies. I’d never do such a terrible thing.’
‘In which case my information must be wrong,’ Neville said.
‘What information?’ Blazes said then, voice rising, shouted. ‘Who told you? Was it that fat bitch Cohen?’ He thumped a fist on the ledge of the box. ‘Damn the bitch to hell! Is she here? Have you got her here? I’ll kill her, so I will. I’ll kill her with my own bare …’ The threat trailed off and he stood there, shivering a little, aghast at his outburst.
‘Thank you, Mr Boylan,’ said Neville. ‘I have no more questions to put to this witness.’
‘In which case, you may leave the box, Mr Boylan,’ Slater said and waited, still on his feet, while Blazes negotiated the four shallow steps and groped for a seat on the witness benches.
‘Mr Sullivan,’ the coroner said, ‘do you have a witness you wish me to call, a witness who is not already on my list? Mrs Bella Cohen, for instance?’
‘No,’ said Neville. ‘I have no additional witnesses.’
Slater allowed himself the ghost of a smile and seated himself once more while Blazes Boylan, shrunken and shivering, put his head in his hands and groaned.