Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom? (33 page)

‘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.

TWENTY NINE

‘M
r Rice,’ the coroner said, ‘those steps can be rather hazardous. Would you be good enough to give the witness your arm and assist her into the box.’

Gerty picked up her skirts as she’d seen it done on stage and, giving the press boys an eyeful of her ankles, allowed Mr Rice to hand her up into the witness box. From the floor of the court the box seemed cramped but as soon as she stepped into it its dimensions expanded alarmingly and she felt as if she were standing alone on top of Dalkey Hill. Leaning a little – more of a stagger, really – she peeped down at Poldy who had shifted his chair to bring her into view. He smiled and nodded and, no longer alone, Gerty lifted her head and faced the coroner.

‘What is it it that you have in your hand, Miss MacDowell?’ Slater asked in a kindly fashion.

‘My beads,’ Gerty answered.

‘Ah, your Rosary,’ Slater said. ‘A comfort to you, I take it?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Gerty cleared her throat and, with another glance at Poldy, added, ‘A great comfort, sir.’

‘If you tell the truth, which I am quite sure you will,’ Slater said, ‘you have nothing to fear, young lady. Mr Rice, the oath, if you please,’ and Gerty MacDowell from Sandymount was duly sworn in and, for the record, identified.

Miss MacDowell was twenty-two years old but Roland Slater insisted on treating her as if she were a child. He propped his right elbow on his left knee, brought himself as close as possible to the witness and spoke so quietly that it was all the great unwashed could do to catch the gist of the exchange.

‘Do you know why you are here today, Miss MacDowell?’

‘Inspector Kinsella had me sent for.’

‘That’s true, but do you know why?’

‘Because of Poldy … Mr Bloom.’

‘Poldy? Is that what you call him?’

‘Yes.’ Gerty blushed like a beacon. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ Slater assured her. ‘We all have our special names. Do we not, Mr Tolland?’

‘Uh?’ said a startled Poppy Tolland. ‘What? Yes, I suppose we do,’ and hastily clipped the pince-nez to the bridge of his nose again. Used to the ways of his master, Mr Devereux prudently omitted the aside from the record.

‘Mr Bloom – Poldy – is a friend, is he not?’ the coroner said.

‘Yes.’

‘Is he a close friend, Miss MacDowell?’

Not as naïve as she appeared to be, Gerty said, ‘He’s not my lover, if that’s what you mean.’

Somewhat taken back, the coroner uncoupled elbow from knee and sat up. ‘Well, yes, I suppose that is what I mean. You’re saying, are you not, that the relationship is platonic?’ Gerty looked blank. ‘Unconsummated, not – ah – physical.’

‘Mr Bloom is a gentleman,’ Gerty declared. ‘He hasn’t sought to take advantage of me.’

‘I see,’ the coroner said. ‘How long have you been acquainted with Mr Bloom?’

Gerty tactfully removed their first encounter from her calculation. ‘Seven months,’ she said, ‘and two weeks.’

‘Did you meet … what, by chance?’

‘We were properly introduced,’ Gerty said, ‘by a mutual friend, a widow lady, Mrs Dignam. She said it was all right for Mr Bloom and me to be acquainted.’

‘In spite of the fact that Mr Bloom was married?’

‘That didn’t matter.’

‘Did it not occur to you, Miss MacDowell, that it might have mattered to Mr Bloom’s wife?’

‘I never met her.’

‘That,’ said Slater, ‘is not the point.’

‘What is the point then?’ Gerty spoke out. ‘I love him.’

Steering away from the sticky topic of sense versus sentiment, Slater said, ‘You live at home with your family, do you not?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do your parents approve of your friendship with a man so much older than you are, a married man at that?’

‘My mother was all right with it. My father put his foot down, but he puts his foot down about everything. I wasn’t going to let Poldy … Mr Bloom escape just because of my father, You don’t find many like Mr Bloom in a bunch.’

‘I’m sure you don’t,’ said the coroner. ‘May I ask what you hoped to gain from your friendship with Mr Bloom? I mean, what end had you in view?’

‘End?’

‘He could not marry you.’

‘He can now,’ said Gerty.

In spite of Boylan’s half-cocked admission that he had a motive for murder, Roland Slater continued to believe that the love-struck young woman would, if given enough leeway, hand him Bloom’s head on a plate. While the court buzzed with excitement, he pondered his next set of questions.

‘Did Mr Bloom promise you marriage?’ he said at length.

‘He said he loved me and would never leave me.’

Ignoring the theatrical groans from cynical pressmen, Slater rephrased the question. ‘Did Mr Bloom, at any stage, indicate that you and he would become man and wife?’

Gerty nervously fingered her Rosary. To Slater’s satisfaction cracks were beginning to show, faint cracks like those on the top of a breakfast egg at the first tap of the spoon. She looked now not at Bloom but up into the gallery where a tall, sallow-skinned girl with bushy hair was making frantic signals of what might be encouragement or, more likely, disapproval.

‘Miss MacDowell, I must insist on an answer.’

In a whisper Gerty replied, ‘He said he loved me and would take care of me for all our days together.’

‘Marriage, Miss MacDowell, marriage? When did Mr Bloom promise to marry you?’

‘I think it was about Christmas time. No, it was January,’ Gerty, confused, corrected herself. ‘On the tram home from town. He took me for supper at a place on O’Connell Street. It was lovely, all lovely, with candles on the tables.’