Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom? (35 page)

W
hile court officers, assisted by stalwarts from the DMP, cleared the general public from the court, Dr Michael Paterson and Dr Roland Slater, kneeling one on each side of the corpse, made futile attempts to revive it. They removed Blazes’ beer-stained collar, necktie and belt. They prized open his mouth, pulled out his tongue and applied pressure to that region of his chest where his heart might be, all to no avail. Still with two fingers resting on the carotid artery, Michael Paterson looked across Boylan’s chest at the coroner.

‘Apoplexy?’ he said. ‘A fatal insult to the brain?’

‘That would be my guess too,’ said Roland Slater which, as it turned out, was an accurate diagnosis confirmed by Benson Rule in the autopsy room behind the mortuary the following forenoon.

There was no precedent, no protocol to guide Roland Slater through the next hour or, indeed, through the inquest into Hugh Boylan’s sudden death conducted before a freshly empanelled jury on Wednesday of that same week. The hearing lasted not much longer than a couple of hours but attracted a great deal of interest from lawyers, journalists and the rabble from Trinity’s medical school to whom Blazes had been something of a hero and who, collectively, were disappointed that he hadn’t met his Maker while engaged in a strenuous act of copulation.

Present too at the Wednesday hearing were the Misses Boylan, Maude and Daphne, both, quite naturally, distraught. Decidedly less distraught, in fact rather irked at being winkled from his lair in Cork, was Boylan’s father and the skittish young wife to whom he had been married for the best part of a year. Also present was Hugh Boylan’s faithful secretary, Miss Dunne, who, brave girl that she was, managed to remain dry-eyed throughout but who, having better fish to fry by then, did not show up for the church service that preceded Blazes’ interment at Mount Jerome cemetery.

A weird assortment of mourners followed Blazes’ coffin to the graveside; gamblers, boxers, boozers and advertisers mainly, plus Bartell D’Arcy, two or three entertainers and a shadowy figure in a brown mackintosh whom no one ever managed to identify.

No tears were shed at the committal but the departed would have been gratified to know that several young women in Upper Tyrone Street sobbed into their knitting and several other ladies, in the privacy of their boudoirs, wept buckets at the news that such a fabulously well-endowed lover was lost and gone forever.

On that chaotic Monday afternoon, however, Hugh Boylan’s transition from tipsy witness to coffined corpse was the last thing on Roland Slater’s mind. Conscious of the omissions incurred in hastily bringing Bloom to book for a crime he evidently did not commit and well aware that not only was he being observed by a couple of Superintendents but by the Assistant Commissioner too, Dr Slater pulled himself together with such commendable alacrity that his impromptu decisions earned him a footnote in the next edition of ‘The Coroner’s Handbook’.

He began by snapping out an order to Tom Machin to dig up the medical examiner and fetch him at speed of light to the courthouse while the corpse, covered with a sheet from the mortuary, remained
in situ
on the courthouse floor. Only then did he permit Miss MacDowell to be escorted from the witness box, to return not to the benches but to his private office where she would be provided with a nice hot cup of tea to calm her shredded nerves, a thoughtful gesture that proved unnecessary.

Though Gerty had never seen a man die before, she was more relieved than shocked by Boylan’s dramatic exit and sufficiently in control of her emotions to touch Poldy’s hand in passing, a contact that, however fleeting, sent up a little shower of sparks, at least according to Neville’s report to Sarah over dinner that night, an exaggeration that Poppy Tolland, with a mandarin smile, chose neither to confirm nor deny.

All the journalists, protesting loudly, had been hustled from the courtroom together with the rest of the great unwashed, all, that is, save Jack Delaney who remained defiantly glued to his seat on the press bench and whose account of the last act of the tragic farce cost his colleagues more than one pint of the black stuff in the bar of the Belleville later that evening.

‘Say what you like about the old devil,’ Jack said, wiping froth from his lips with his sleeve, ‘he wriggled out of trouble in the end.’

‘It would have floored many a lesser man, no doubt,’ Mr Flanagan agreed. ‘Are we talking about Bloom here?’

‘Slater,’ Mr Palfry informed him. ‘His neck was on the block as well as Bloom’s. Right, Jack?’

‘I would hardly say “on the block”, but awkward questions would have been asked if the case had gone on to a higher court. Tolland would have made mincemeat of his handling before Assize judges.’

‘So Bloom walked?’ said Robbie Randall.

‘Of course he did,’ said Jack. ‘What choice did Slater have after what amounted to Boylan’s deathbed confession?’

‘I always said Bloom was innocent, did I not now?’ said Mr Flanagan. ‘Now, Jack, be a good lad, tell us exactly what happened.’

‘Oh, dear me, no,’ said Jack Delaney, grinning ear to ear. ‘If you want the lurid details, chaps, you can read all about it in tomorrow’s edition of the
Star
.’

The details were a good deal less lurid than Jack Delaney led his colleagues to believe. The only colourful item in the court room was Blazes Boylan’s shrouded corpse stretched out on the floor where it remained, toes up, while Roland Slater addressed the members of the jury and, waiving anything as convoluted as a point by point review, told them, more or less, how to frame their verdict and what that verdict must be.

‘Gentlemen,’ the coroner said, ‘so far as I am aware we have now concluded our examination of the witnesses. In less unusual circumstances I would retire to review the evidence and present it to you in the form of a summing up tomorrow morning. However, I do not propose to delay you longer than is necessary and will, with your permission, bring proceedings to a close tonight. May I begin by reminding you that this is a court of record and the fact that a witness died during it must not divert you from reaching a fair verdict in respect of the death of Marion Bloom.’

At the defence table Mr Bloom and his counsellors sat quiet as mice, though whether out of respect for the dead man at their feet or in the knowledge that Slater was heading for the door was moot.

The coroner went on, ‘There is no doubt as to the cause of death: Dr Rule was specific on that point. It is, therefore, given to you to find a verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown, which means an open verdict, or to decide that one particular person was guilty of the murder of Marion Bloom.’

The pace of Roland Slater’s delivery slowed, not to create tension but simply to allow Mr Devereux to catch every word of what he hoped might be a monumental decision or, if not that, at least not another legal blunder.

‘It is a rule of court that the coroner does not express an opinion,’ Slater continued. ‘But as we have here encountered a unique situation I will take it upon myself to give you additional guidance. First, let me assure you that as Boylan had not been dismissed, his final statement was made under oath and is, thus, admissible. In other words, the fact that Mr Boylan subsequently died does not negate his testimony. What you must ask yourself is this; was Mr Boylan rational during the last few minutes of his life and was his statement tantamount to an admission of involvement in Marion Bloom’s death? Was he, in fact, the intruder upon whom Mr Bloom laid blame all along?

‘I cannot make your verdict for you, but’ – Slater cleared his throat – ‘it seems to me that whatever one may think of her decision to run off with Mr Bloom, Miss MacDowell’s evidence was substantially truthful and very telling. That being the case, Boylan’s account of how the crime was committed should also be taken at face value. We heard from Miss MacDowell that Bloom was anxious to protect her but, acting out of concern for his wife’s safety and believing Boylan to be capable of inflicting harm, he put his own interests to one side and returned to Eccles Street when he could well have fled on the morning boat and no one any the wiser, which, I feel, goes some way to explaining Mr Bloom’s reluctance to give evidence before you.

‘What you cannot do is find Boylan guilty of the crime. I am categorical on that point. He was not on trial here. If the Crown Prosecutor wishes to pursue an investigation into Boylan’s part in Mrs Bloom’s murder then that is for him to decide. It has no bearing on your verdict. Therefore, an open verdict,’ Roland Slater said, ‘may be the only safe conclusion. I will express no further opinion than that. Now, I must ask you to retire and consider all that you have heard during this long and difficult inquiry.’

The jurymen went into a huddle without leaving the box while Mr Rice read them, rather superfluously, the customary oath to keep without meat, drink or fire until they had reached their verdict, a process that took all of three minutes. Mr Conway scribbled something down on a sheet of paper and rose to his feet.

‘Mr Conway,’ Slater said, ‘do you have a verdict to give me?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘Do you wish to hand me your verdict in writing, Mr Foreman, or will you read it out?’ Slater said.

‘I will read it out,’ said Mr Conway.

‘Read it slowly, please.’

‘After careful deliberation of the evidence submitted to us,’ Mr Conway read, ‘the jury unanimously agree that the evidence is too conflicting to establish the guilt of any particular person and consequently return a verdict of wilful murder against a person or persons unknown.’

‘Mr Foreman, you do realise that amounts to an open verdict?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Conway. ‘We do.’

‘Thank you, Mr Foreman,’ Roland Slater said.

Mr Rice formally pronounced the court closed.

And the inquest on Marion Bloom was over.

THIRTY ONE

N
eville Sullivan solemnly shook Bloom’s hand. Poppy Tolland, rising, gave Dr Slater a long hard look, as if to say that, thanks to Hugh Boylan’s timely stroke, the coroner had gotten off lightly. Roland Slater, in turn, treated the advocate to what may have been a grin and, gathering up his papers, headed for the side door, followed by Mr Rice, Mr Devereux and the Assistant Commissioner who, far from being peeved at the outcome, wished only to offer the coroner his congratulations on a job well done.

Tom Machin arrived with the medical examiner who, brusquely stripping the sheet from poor old Blazes, confirmed that the fellow was indeed dead, agreed to issue a certificate to that effect and instructed the constables to lug the body off to the mortuary.

By that time Michael Paterson had gone in search of Milly who had been shepherded out of the gallery and into the street with the rest of the herd and had found herself in conversation with a tall, fussy-haired young woman who introduced herself as Gerty MacDowell’s best friend and seemed to think that they had something in common. Milly too had experienced nothing but relief plus a certain grisly satisfaction in watching her mother’s lover drop dead. No whit of pity tainted her belief that Blazes had got what was coming to him, that Providence – call it what you will – had meted out just punishment for his gross appetites.

‘Gert’s all right, you know. She’ll take good care of your Pa,’ Cissy Caffrey said. Milly could do no more than nod while Cissy extolled the virtues of the young woman whom Papli had chosen to run off with. ‘I expect he’ll marry her now. No option, has he? Now our Gerty’s found her man she’ll never let go. She’ll fatten him up, you’ll see.’ Cissy chuckled, then, as the courthouse door opened and a constable appeared, added, ‘Nice to meet you. Got to go,’ and, long legs flashing under her bedraggled skirt, darted off to waylay Archie Jarvis before he could reach the safety of the barracks.

Mr Coghlan came down the steps carrying Milly’s suitcase. Behind him a gaggle of policemen and jury members emerged and then, at last, her father, the young woman, Gerty MacDowell, clinging to his arm as if her life depended upon it, which, Milly thought wryly, perhaps it had.

The crowd outside the courthouse had thinned considerably. No longer a celebrated murderer, the public’s interest in Leopold Bloom had rapidly waned. Reporters rushed forward, though, calling for quotable comments on Boylan’s deathbed confession, asking what Mr Bloom would do now and would he really leave Dublin, while photographers tried to snap ‘the mysterious stranger’, whose evidence had blown the coroner’s case right out of the water.

In that uncertain moment, Milly longed to have the slate wiped clean, her mother still asleep in the bedroom in Eccles Street, Pussens in the kitchen, her father, braces hanging down his back like a monkey’s tail, standing by the sink shaving and humming to himself, happy, she supposed, or at least contented. But no one could put the clock back for, as Papli had once told her, time ran on like the Liffey flowing ever into the sea.

‘Milly,’ said a quiet voice behind her. She felt Michael’s arms about her and rested her head on his shoulder while Mr Coghlan, puffing a little, put the suitcase down by her side.

As if he had read her mind, Michael Paterson said, ‘You can’t go back to Eccles Street, Milly. Harry and I have booked rooms in the Imperial and one of them is for you if you want it. If your father has other plans for you, of course, we’ll understand.’

She had lost him in a sea of heads, lost her father, her first love. He had cast her off in favour of another woman.

In spite of Michael’s comforting arms, she experienced a pang of resentment as if Papli, not Blazes Boylan and her wayward mother, had ruined her life. And then he was with her, her Papli, unsmiling, dark sorrowful eyes looking down at her. Behind him she glimpsed the MacDowell woman, a pretty, dainty thing, enjoying the attention but needy too and watching, sharp-eyed, lest her man, her Poldy, slip away.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Milly said.

‘Tell you what?’ her father said.

‘Everything.’

‘Because,’ Papli said, ‘there are certain things it’s best to find out for yourself.’

‘Do you love her?’