Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom? (24 page)

The man padded up behind her and then around her so she couldn’t escape. Tipping back his hat and stooping, he looked into her face and said, ‘Miss MacDowell, is it? Miss Gerty MacDowell? Inspector Kinsella.’ He politely took off his hat so she could see his face. ‘Dublin Metropolitan. May I have a word with you?’

She felt blood rush to her cheeks, swayed a little and rested her bottom on the wall, not caring if her skirt got soiled. She had her breath back but her heart had gone to the races and she needed the wall for support.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you. I thought it best to catch you before you reached home. If you wish we can go to your house and have a chat there.’

‘No,’ Gerty got out. ‘Here.’

Kinsella could readily understand why Bloom found her attractive. She was pretty in a pale, china-doll sort of way. She had blue eyes and stencilled brows that gave her face definition and what his daughter, Violet, would call feminine mystique. She had beautiful hair, short cut, dark brown and wavy, and wore just exactly the right sort of little hat to show it off. The navy skirt was stride cut, he noticed, and her blouse not just clean but spotless. He pondered her age: six or seven years older than Milly Bloom, probably thirteen or fourteen younger than Leopold: twenty-three or -four would be his guess.

‘Do your parents approve of your friendship with Mr Bloom?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t you read the newspapers?’

‘No.’

Mr O’Shea, one of her father’s boozing friends, went past, stepping wide of the policeman, and slid an inquisitive glance at her. It was all up with her now. Even if the policeman didn’t take her off to jail she’d have to answer to her father. There would be more shouting, more raging, another excuse for him to stamp out of the house to drink away money they didn’t have.

In the window of the living-room of the painter’s house behind her a light went on. She knew, without looking round, that Mrs Gorman, the house painter’s wife, would be squinting to see who was sitting on her wall.

The detective put on his hat and, crouching slightly, said, ‘If you’re going to lie to me, Miss MacDowell, I’ll have to escort you to the police station, and you wouldn’t want that would you? So, I’ll ask you again: your friendship with Leopold Bloom, do your parents know of it?’

‘Who told you about Leopold? Was it Cissy?’

‘No,’ Kinsella said. ‘Whoever Cissy might be, it wasn’t her.’

‘Leopold and I aren’t … we don’t do what married people do. Mr Bloom would never take advantage.’

‘He’s a gentleman, in other words?’

‘He is, he is.’

There was a rhythm to questioning, a beat like the beat in music, like the tick-tock of the metronome on top of Marigold’s piano. All he had to do to get Miss MacDowell to answer his questions was find the right tempo.

He said, ‘How long have you known Mr Bloom?’

‘Since August.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘At Mrs Dignam’s.’

‘Where does Mrs Dignam live?’

‘Newbridge Avenue.’

‘Is Mrs Dignam a friend of yours?’

‘She’s a widow. My mother sent me round with a fruit pudding to give the children a treat.’

‘Mr Bloom, what was he doing there?’

‘Making sure Mrs Dignam received her insurance money.’

Darkness was settling quickly and the east wind had a keen edge. The young woman shivered. Jim Kinsella resisted an urge to cut short the informal interview and let her get off home. He was curious about the circumstances of that first meeting, though, and how the affair had progressed.

He said, ‘Did Bloom visit your house?’

‘Once, just once, before Christmas. My father tried to throw him out but Poldy wouldn’t leave. He said he had nothing to be ashamed of. My father said did he think we were low life and he could do what he liked with me. Poldy flew into a temper and told my father off good and proper. After that, we met outside.’

‘How often?’

‘As often as we could.’

If I press her too hard she’ll break, Kinsella thought. He could pull her in but he didn’t want to do that just yet.

He said, ‘Did Mr Bloom give you presents?’

‘Yes, soap.’

‘Soap?’

‘Lemon soap, for Christmas, in a lovely box.’

‘Perfume, did he give you perfume too?’

‘No, he said he liked the scent I wore.’

‘What sort of scent do you wear, Miss MacDowell?’

‘Halcyon Days
it’s called
.’

‘My daughter likes that one. I think she gets it from Winterbottom’s.’

‘That’s where I buy mine too,’ said Gerty MacDowell.

‘Were you ever in Mr Bloom’s house?’

Curtly: ‘No.’

‘Did you ever meet Mr Bloom’s wife? I assume you knew he was married?’

The question gave her pause. He wondered what they talked about, Bloom and she, or if Bloom saw in her a blank slate upon which he could draw his own pattern.

‘He told me he was married. Anyway, Mrs Dignam knew he was married. She told me he was unhappy at home and it wouldn’t be wrong to be friends with him provided I didn’t … you know. If I didn’t do it I could still go to confession and take the mass.’

‘And Mr Bloom’s wife?’

‘I never met her.’

‘Did Mr Bloom ever talk about her?’

‘Now and then. Not much. I’m sorry she’s dead. Poor woman to pass like that.’

‘You’re sure you never visited number 7 Eccles Street?’

Again curtly, too curtly: ‘No, never.’

She waited for him to ask again, to browbeat her into revealing the truth. Poldy had told her she must say nothing to anyone until his trials were over and, if a jury found him guilty, must forget she’d ever known him. Thoughts of Poldy in prison, thoughts of never seeing him again filled her with dread. The only person she’d told about that night was Cissy. She hadn’t even told Father O’Grady.

She said, ‘Have you seen Poldy— Mr Bloom today?’

‘No, not since we left court.’

‘Didn’t he get out to go to her funeral?’

The Inspector shook his head. ‘He didn’t request parole.’

‘Were
you
there?’ she asked. ‘At Glasnevin?’

‘I was,’ Kinsella answered.

‘Were there wreathes?’

‘Yes, several.’

‘And flowers?’

‘No, no flowers.’

‘Poldy told me she loved flowers. Did anyone sing?’

Kinsella shook his head again.

‘Poor woman,’ Gerty MacDowell said. ‘Poor woman, though she had only herself to blame, I suppose.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I don’t know. I just said it.’

She stamped her foot, the lame one, not, he thought, petulantly but to ease a cramp. He wondered if she’d been born with the deformity or if an accident had caused it. Without that blemish she’d probably have been married by now.

She was shivering again, white-faced.

‘All right, Miss MacDowell,’ he said. ‘I think that’s enough. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘Have I?’ She seemed surprised. ‘How?’

‘Every crumb of information is useful.’

‘Will he … will Poldy go free?’

‘I believe there’s every chance of that happening.’

‘Oh!’ She smiled for the first time. ‘Oh, that would be the answer to all my prayers. Thank you.’

‘Thank
you
, Miss MacDowell.’

Tipping the brim of his fedora, Jim Kinsella nodded and headed off in the direction of the tram stop, leaving Bloom’s naive little ladylove to limp off home for her tea.

If she’d still been living in Eccles Street Milly was sure it would all have been too much and she’d have collapsed under the strain. In her year away from home, however, her outlook had changed. Dublin was no longer the hub of her universe. Even so, all the lovely things that had made her childhood a happy one should have counted for more than they did. She’d loved her mother, though not quite as much as her father. She recalled how when Mummy was being what Papli called ‘unreasonable’ he would slip away with his little Milly to ride on a tram-car or stroll round town and was never ashamed to be seen holding her hand or, when she was small, carrying her on his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. But Papli too had changed. During those first weeks in Mullingar she’d wondered if she’d been sent away as a punishment or because she’d become, to use one of Mummy’s favourite expressions, ‘an inconvenience’.

Papli had explained that he’d arranged for her to train to be a photographer so she’d have a career to fall back on and wouldn’t have to marry just any Tom, Dick or Harry. She hadn’t really believed him and her first thought on learning in court that Mummy had a baby inside her was that she’d been packed off to make way for a new Rudy or another little Milly, which, of course, was impossible; she’d been in Mullingar for fully eight months before the baby had even been conceived.

The way her mother had met her end would have disturbed her more if the weapon had been a dagger or a pistol. That was the way heroines died in all the plays and operas she’d ever seen. Being murdered with the painted teapot of which her mother was so proud seemed more like a comic sketch than anything else. Seeing her mother laid out on the slab in the mortuary had shocked her, though. But self-control was expected and the funeral had been a brave show on her part. It had pleased her no end to see Michael Paterson from Mullingar there,
her
friend, not one of her father’s cronies or her mother’s admirers but someone who’d come from the country to pay his respects to
her,
and no one else.

The one thing of which she was certain was that Papli would never strike a woman. Her father had too much respect for women. Besides, he’d loved her mother and had never laid a hand on her that she’d ever seen. What sustained her was the conviction that her father was innocent and that, in due course, the police would lay the intruder by the heels. Meanwhile, she’d few qualms about letting Mr Boylan take care of her. Blazes had not only been her mother’s friend but also her manager and, according to Papli, had more than cleared his feet, financially, out of their engagements.

Shaky and sour in mood, Blazes had insisted on returning to his office immediately after the funeral. He’d sent her on by cab to his sisters’ house where Daphne made a great fuss of her and, seeing that she wasn’t totally beside herself, had suggested they might go out for lunch and do a little shopping. Maude had elected to stay at home for the upstairs rooms needed dusting and someone had to do it. Over lunch in the Dame Street DBC, Daphne had asked her all sorts of questions about the funeral. Milly had answered as honestly as possible, but when Daphne had quizzed her about her mother and father and other personal matters, she’d taken refuge in a shower of crocodile tears that had put an end to Daphne’s prying.

As soon as they got back from the outing, Milly had gone to her room to shed a few more tears, genuine this time, and, slipping off her shoes and top clothes, had lain on the bed and had fallen asleep.

She had no idea of the hour, whether it was early or late. For a confused moment, she imagined that the wan light in the window might be dawn and not the last vestiges of that awful day.

She stirred and sat up.

The figure of the man beside the bed was indistinct. For a split second she thought it might be Dr Paterson and her heart gave a little bump in her chest. Then she saw it was only Blazes, coatless, collarless and with his waistcoat unbuttoned.

‘You really are beautiful when you’re asleep,’ he said.

‘What time is it?’

‘Coming up for half past six.’

‘I’d better dress. Is dinner ready?’

‘No, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Not just yet.’

A faint wisp of smoke curled around him. She smelled his cigar before he brought it to his lips. With languid deliberation he put out his tongue, sucked on the end and filled his mouth with smoke.

He said, ‘You didn’t tell Daphne about me, did you?’

‘No,’ Milly said. ‘I thought you wouldn’t want me to.’

‘No sense in making a fuss.’ Blazes inhaled again. ‘You look so like your mother, like Molly.’ He picked a fleck of tobacco from his tongue. ‘She would be proud of us this day, Mill, for giving her a grand send-off.’

‘It didn’t strike me as especially grand.’

‘Respectful, then. Call it respectful.’

He shuffled closer to the bed. ‘God,’ he said in a voice thickened by cigar smoke, ‘you really have grown up down there in the country, haven’t you? You’re going to make some man very happy one of these days.’

She recalled Buck Mulligan pinning her down and Alex Bannon’s hands all over her. There was no love, no affection in them or, she realised, in Hugh Boylan. She reached for the bedspread and pulled it up to her chin just as the bedroom door flew open.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Hughie?’

Unperturbed, Blazes blew a stream of smoke in Maude’s direction. ‘Making sure our guest’s all right.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be a lot better without you breathing all over her,’ Maude Boylan said. ‘Dinner’s in half an hour so come away and let her get dressed.’

‘By all means,’ said Blazes – the old insolent Blazes – and, puffing on his cigar, sauntered from the room and closed the door.

Night fell and with it Mr Bloom’s spirits. ‘Martha Clifford’ and Boylan’s typist showing up together out of the blue had reminded him just how cramped Dublin could be and how everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business.

After his panic subsided, the meeting in the Lawyers’ Room had turned out to be quite entertaining. Martha, or, rather, Anne-Marie had piled it on just too thickly. Beneath the gush he’d sensed disappointment and in the speed of her departure a note of finality. As for the hobble-hipped, melon-breasted Miss Dunne, quick thinking on his part had thwarted her ham-fisted attempt at blackmail. Even for a share of two hundred pounds, Anne-Marie Blaney wouldn’t risk her secret desires being dragged into the limelight to titillate every leering tippler from here to Bantry Bay.

Barring the two he’d carelessly left inside the Froude, he’d kept none of Martha Clifford’s letters and still couldn’t fathom what Boylan had been searching for in the Eccles Street bookcase or what possible use the rogue might make of two mischievous letters from a woman unknown. He could see no logic in it, no angle by which Boylan might benefit, save to furnish the Crown with a motive for murder which, thanks to Boylan himself, the Crown already had in trumps.