Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom? (32 page)

Six was the earliest she could honestly place him in the Hall, an hour at which she’d found him half naked in the kitchen washing a shirt and removing stains from his suit with pumice and a damp cloth. He had not been drunk: indeed, she’d seldom seen him so sober. He’d offered no explanation for his behaviour and neither she nor Daphne had asked for one.

Milly Bloom’s outburst and the hints Inspector Kinsella had dropped regarding Hugh’s involvement not just with Molly but with Leopold Bloom added greatly to Maude’s uncertainty.

She was by nature a positive person, but being positive was all very well in the sheltered sphere in which she lived and bullying Daphne no preparation for standing up to G-men, lawyers and judges with whom a scowl and a Norfolk jacket would cut no ice. Hoisting up her tweed skirt, she dropped the cigar butt between her knees and tugged on the chain to flush it away.

Buttoning her jacket and smoothing down her skirt, she opened the door of the cubicle, shouldered past the seething throng and headed for her seat in the back of the public gallery, determined, more or less, to see it through.

‘Miss Boylan?’

She recognised the fellow as Milly Bloom’s man friend from Mullingar, the person the girl had been clinging to through most of the morning session. She stopped not out of courtesy but out of curiosity. She knitted her brows, stuck out her chin and said, ‘Yes?’

What she mistook for a handshake turned out to be nothing of the sort. At first his hand was empty, then, like a conjurer producing a card, a comb appeared between forefinger and thumb, the same tortoiseshell comb Daphne had been wearing that morning.

Maude Boylan’s blood ran cold.

‘What have you done with my sister?’ she asked.

‘Not a thing.’ He spoke softly. ‘She’s just where you left her.’

‘You had words with her, I take it?’

‘I did,’ said the man from Mullingar. ‘And I have to tell you that your sister is prepared to come to court and tell the truth.’

‘What does this have to do with me?’

‘That,’ said Michael Paterson, ‘is for you to decide.’

‘I see,’ Maude Boylan said and, plucking the comb from his fingertips, pushed him to one side and stalked out into the street, taking Hughie’s alibi with her.

TWENTY EIGHT

J
ack 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.’