Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom? (14 page)

‘I rambled a bit, I’m afraid. I wasn’t quite myself.’

‘Understandably,’ Neville Sullivan said. ‘Now, this intruder? You didn’t actually
see
an intruder, did you, Mr Bloom?’

‘No.’

‘The existence of an intruder in your house is speculation on your part, is it not?’

‘I was only gone out for twenty minutes.’

‘Speculation,’ Sullivan went on, ‘upon which the police have singularly failed to act.’

‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t murder my wife.’

‘The police are convinced you did,’ Sullivan said. ‘So convinced, in fact, that they’ve ignored all other possibilities. Now, it doesn’t matter what I think. Indeed, if pressed, I’d be inclined to agree with the constabulary which’ – another toss of the head – ‘is why I’ll do everything possible to keep you from being sent to trial.’

‘You mean, you think I’m guilty?’

‘There’s no evidence to the contrary,’ Mr Sullivan said. ‘I mean, no evidence being offered to the contrary. The distinction is not as subtle as it may seem. Where, Mr Bloom, are your
witnesses?’

‘I have none.’

‘You’ve the butcher, for a start, and this woman mentioned in police depositions – Mrs Hastings – whom you encountered in Eccles Street on the morning of the crime.’

‘I’d forgotten about her.’

‘Fortunately, she hasn’t forgotten about you,’ Sullivan said. ‘The coroner, bless his heart, has seen fit to summon both the butcher and the woman to balance your account. Now, tell me, has anyone thought to inform you that you do not stand before a coroner’s jury as a prisoner and no charge is preferred? No, I thought not. However, the magistrate, for reason beyond fathom, has passed the onus on to the coroner, possibly because he believes Dr Slater was presumptuous in issuing an arrest warrant in the first place.’

Neville Sullivan played another silent tune on the accordion file and bestowed on Mr Bloom a smile that while very white and pretty was not particularly reassuring.

‘Let’s be blunt, Bloom: this is a case of homicide,’ he continued. ‘It requires no medical expertise to deduce from the nature of her injuries that your wife was struck down by the hand of another. The coroner’s jury will be expected to bring forth a verdict of wilful murder and the coroner will issue a fresh warrant committing you to be tried at the Assizes.’ Another pause, a faint smile. ‘However, the presentation of the written statement of the jury, if it contains the subject-matter of accusation, is equivalent to the finding of a grand jury and you, I’m afraid, may be tried upon it alone.’

‘Then I’m as good as hanged,’ said Bloom.

‘Not for manslaughter.’

‘I’m not clear on the difference,’ said Bloom.

‘Malice aforethought,’ Mr Sullivan said. ‘In other words, was the violent act committed on an irrational impulse or planned in advance of commission? The line betwixt the two can be exceeding fine. Lacking witnesses, the decision usually hangs upon the credibility of the accused. Incidentally, any statement you choose to make in the coroner’s court will not be under oath.’

‘Are the witnesses examined under oath?’

Young Mr Sullivan, who had been whistling through his guidelines more or less by rote, stared at Mr Bloom as if he, Mr Bloom that is, had suddenly grown horns. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Is Boylan … Hugh Boylan on the list of witnesses?’

‘I don’t believe he is.’ Sullivan scanned a sheet of paper attached to a more formal-looking document. ‘The name doesn’t appear anywhere.’ He stared at Bloom again. ‘Does this man have something against you?’

‘No, but I have something against him,’ said Bloom.

‘And what might that be?’

‘He’s stealing away my daughter just as he stole …’ Bloom bit off the tail of the sentence. ‘What, Mr Sullivan, can you do to ensure I’m released on bail?’

Sullivan hesitated. ‘If the jury are unconvinced by the facts put before them they may find there is no case to answer and it would be left to the coroner to dismiss you or, on his own judgement, hand you up for trial at the assizes. In the latter event the granting of bail would be a formality.’

‘What if I were to admit to manslaughter?’

‘What are you saying, Mr Bloom?’

‘Would I be released on bail before sentencing?’

‘No, you would not.’

Bloom frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand the mechanics of the law.’

Neville Sullivan let out his breath and punished a curl that threatened the integrity of his brow. He studied Bloom for a moment longer, slapped his knee and jumped to his feet. ‘Fortunately for you, Mr Bloom, I do,’ he said. ‘Now, have you fresh linen and brushes for your suit and shoes?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Good, I’ll send someone along with hot water, a razor and soap. In court you must appear to be just what you are, sir: a thoroughly respectable gentleman.’

Bloom rose and shook the lawyer’s hand.

‘Thank you for your advice. I have sore need of it, it seems.’

‘That you do, Mr Bloom,’ said young Mr Sullivan. ‘That you do,’ then hurried out of the cell and loped off down the corridor like a hound on the scent of a hare.

Roland Slater had served his time conducting inquests in draughty halls and the odorous back rooms of public houses, places where the respect due to a coroner and the traditions of a court that could trace its history back to Edward I was scant to nonexistent. He was eternally grateful to Councillor Nannetti for providing him with a courthouse that befitted the dignity of the office and had promised the Councillor that if he, Joseph P. Nannetti, ever decided to run for mayor of Dublin, he, Roland Slater, would be right behind him.

Slater was no vinegary bachelor creeping home at night to a cold supper and a colder bed. He had a plump, jovial wife and two married sons who were as fond of music and gossip as he was, plus six tuneful grandchildren and another little minim on the way.

In all aspects of life, Dr Slater was a happy man, though, it must be said, never happier than when poring over the multitude of forms that attached themselves to the office of coroner and happiest of all when he took his seat in the big green-leather chair and heard Mr Rice, his court officer, proclaim, ‘Oyez, Oyez, Oyez,’ to set the inquisitorial ball rolling.

Seated on the coroner’s right were fifteen jurymen, good and true, in a raked box two rows deep. Below them, facing the not-too-lofty witness box, was the coroner’s clerk, Mr Devereux. To Slater’s left was a long table for counsellors, solicitors and the parties they represented and, directly in his line of sight, benches for the press, the court officer and officers of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. Last, and most definitely least in Roland Slater’s view, up there, facing him, was a gallery for friends and relatives of the deceased and, of, course, the usual curious representatives of the great unwashed.

The elected foreman of the jury, George Conway, a bookbinder by trade and formidably well read, was fully aware of both the law and his rights. If Dr Slater thought for one moment that the jury would agree to be palmed off with photographs of the handsomest corpse ever to grace the Store Street mortuary he had another think coming.

After the calling of the jurors and a lengthy swearing in, Mr Conway gathered his flock and waited patiently for Mr Rice to lead them off to view Mrs Bloom’s remains through the mortuary’s plate glass window. If any juryman was roused by the sight of the woman’s voluptuous body naked beneath a sheet he kept his feelings to himself as the procession wended down the narrow corridor and, in due course, filed back into the courtroom.

In the interval, Dr Slater seized the opportunity to remind the gentlemen of the Press that they were forbidden to publish anything about the inquest until after a verdict had been reached and that he, backed by the full weight and majesty of the law, would be down on them like a ton of bricks if they did.

Tom Machin leaned into Kinsella and murmured, ‘Slater loves all this blarney, you know. Look at him, puffed up like a toad.’

‘He’s only doing his job,’ Kinsella said. ‘Give the beggar his due, Tom, he does keep everyone in order. What do you make of Bloom’s choice of legal council?’

‘Young Sullivan? He wasn’t Bloom’s choice. Driscoll took it upon himself to dig up an advocate on Bloom’s behalf.’

‘He looks like a boy,’ Kinsella said.

‘He is a boy,’ Tom Machin said. ‘He’s the most junior of junior partners in Tolland’s firm and this is his first criminal case.’

‘Is that the best Driscoll could do?’

‘Better a young warhorse snorting for recognition than some tired old nag who’s only interested in filling his feedbag. However, yes, he’s the best Driscoll could find on short notice.’

‘Bloom’s certainly getting his moneys worth by the look of it. Sullivan hasn’t stopped talking since they sat down.’

‘Instructing his client, I believe it’s called,’ Machin said and, with the coroner giving him stern looks, folded his arms and sat back.

TWELVE

‘W
hat,’ Slater began, ‘is your name?’

‘Leopold Bloom.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘7 Eccles Street, Dublin.’

‘What is your occupation?’

‘I am employed by the
Freeman’s Journal
to sell advertising.’

‘Have you seen the body that the jury have viewed?’

‘I have.’

‘Do you recognise the deceased woman?’

‘I did. I mean, I do.’

‘What was her full name?’

‘Marion Tweedy Bloom.’

Roland Slater had been through this rigmarole a thousand times. He had the pace off pat, deliberate enough to allow the clerk to record every word but not so studied as to irritate the jury. Neither threat nor tedium evident in his tone, he addressed the witness in a manner more avuncular than theatrical.

‘What relation was the woman to you?’

‘She was my wife.’

‘Where did she live?’

‘With me in 7 Eccles Street.’

‘Did she have an occupation?’

‘She sang professionally from time to time but had no regular employment other than that of housewife.’

Whether following Sullivan’s advice or his own inclination to be infernally polite, Bloom answered with just the right note of deference. He fixed his gaze not on the coroner or the jury but on the nib of the recorder’s pen as if to watch the story of his life being written under his nose.

‘And your wife’s age?’

‘Thirty-four last birthday.’

‘What would you say was the general state of her health?’

‘Very good. Excellent, really.’

‘Mr Bloom, when did you last see your wife alive?’

‘About half past seven on the morning of 9th March.’

‘Can you be more precise?’

‘She was still in bed, still asleep.’

‘I mean,’ Slater said, ‘as to time.’

‘I left the house about … I returned about ten minutes to eight. No, that’s right, if not to the minute: half past seven.’

‘She was in bed and asleep when you left the house?’

‘She was.’

‘You left the house for what purpose?’

‘To buy meat at Dlugacz shop in Dorset Street.’

‘When did you return to number 7 Eccles Street?’

‘At ten minutes to eight.’

‘And what, Mr Bloom, did you find?’

‘I found her … found my wife dead in bed.’

‘How can you be sure she was dead?’

‘She wasn’t breathing.’

In the rear of the gallery some fool tittered. Dr Slater hoisted himself up by his arms and, half standing, glared at the culprit. With evidence regarding the instrument of death – a teapot – looming, the warning that he would brook no levity in his court was timely. He lowered himself slowly back into his chair and continued. ‘How could you be sure that your wife wasn’t breathing, Mr Bloom?’

‘Because she was lying out of the bed with her face bashed in.’ No hint of laughter now just a general in-suck of breath, a sound as sibilant as sand blowing across a dune.

‘What did you do then?’

‘I ran out into the street and called for help.’

‘And was help forthcoming?’

‘A constable came running round the corner. I took him into the house and showed him …’ Eyes still fixed on the recorder’s pen, Bloom paused. ‘I showed him the body.’

‘Very well, Mr Bloom. One final question for now. Was the body of the woman discovered in the bedroom of number 7 Eccles Street that of your wife, Mrs Marion Tweedy Bloom?’

Bloom lifted his head and flicked a single glance up at the gallery before meeting the coroner’s eye. ‘It was, sir. Yes, it was.’

‘Thank you, Mr Bloom. You may …’

George Conway, jury foreman, was on his feet immediately.

‘Coroner Slater, we have questions for this witness.’

‘I’m sure you do, Mr Conway, and you’ll have ample opportunity to put them, just not at this sitting. The primary purpose of the session is to establish the identity of the deceased and cause of death. Mr Bloom’s statement will be read to you later. Any questions the jury may have will be answered then. To eliminate all possibility of error or deceit in the matter of identification,’ Slater went on, ‘the deceased’s daughter, Miss Millicent Bloom, viewed the body before witnesses this morning. Miss Bloom is in court and may be brought forward without subpoena, but not under oath, if you require it. Miss Bloom has been resident in Mullingar for the best part of a year and hadn’t seen her mother since Christmastide. I would respectfully suggest that the young woman is unlikely to contribute anything material to our inquiry. Do you wish me to bring Miss Bloom before you, Mr Conway?’

‘No, sir, we do not.’

‘Very well,’ Slater said. ‘Stand down, Mr Bloom.

Kinsella watched the anguished husband descend from the witness box and, groping a little, seat himself at the table beside his solicitor. Sullivan laid a hand on Bloom’s shoulder but whether the gesture was one of congratulation or commiseration was difficult to determine.

‘Mr Rice,’ said Slater, ‘summon the next witness, if you please.’

‘Who is it, Jim?’ Machin whispered.

‘The pathologist, Benson Rule.’

‘Ah! Now we’re beginning to get somewhere.’

‘At long last,’ said Jim.

Benson Rule was a small man in his late twenties, clean-shaven and lean-cheeked. His brow was creased by a brooding frown that seemed fitting for a gentleman who whittled away at corpses for a living. He stood ram-rod straight, chin up, glanced down only occasionally at his notes and arranged each page with hands so tiny that they were almost swallowed up by his cuffs. He repeated the oath in a light, crisp baritone, stated his name and credentials and, without further preamble, plunged in.