Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom? (23 page)

‘Your transgressions.’

‘Eh?’

‘Now, now, Anne-Marie.’ Miss Dunne tapped her friend’s arm. ‘You promised you wouldn’t let him upset you.’

Bloom drew himself up in the chair. Though he didn’t feel particularly threatened by doting Anne-Marie, Boylan’s secretary’s intentions were patently malicious. He said, ‘Whatever you may have heard to the contrary, or whatever you may choose to believe, I did not murder my wife, not even to be with you, Miss Blaney.’

‘She was sick, she was ailing. She couldn’t give you what a man needs from a woman,’ Miss Blaney said. ‘You told me so yourself.’

‘Bare-faced lies,’ said Miss Dunne. ‘False promises.’

Bloom, risking rebuke, said, ‘You lied to me, too, Anne-Marie.’

‘I gave you my heart, Henry, and you trampled on it.’

‘Which,’ Miss Dunne said, ‘is why we’re here.’

Bloom said, ‘Blazes won’t be too pleased when he finds out his telephone has been left off the hook. And you, Miss Blaney, what will your employers say when you fail to turn up at your desk this morning?’

‘I’m sick,’ Anne-Marie said.

‘Heart-broken,’ Miss Dunne said. ‘Her health’s been undermined by your cruelty. I’ve read your letters.’

‘So Boylan
is
behind it. I
knew
it.’

‘Mr Boylan has nothing to do with it,’ Maureen Dunne said. ‘We’re here to inform you that Miss Blaney has preserved all your letters and intends to present them to an appropriate authority at the first opportunity unless—’

‘Unless what?’ said Bloom. ‘Unless I promise to marry her? Are you barking mad? I’m jugged up on a murder charge. Do you think a few saucy letters will make any difference?’

Miss Dunne said, ‘How will a breach of promise case sit with the judges in a court of Assize? Ask yourself that one.’

‘What,’ Mr Bloom said, ‘do you want from me?’

‘Two hundred pounds,’ Miss Dunne said promptly.

‘In the name of God, woman, I don’t have two hundred pennies, let alone two hundred pounds. Where do you think I’ll find that sort of money?’

‘Sell your house.’

‘I don’t own the blessed house. It’s rented.’

‘Sell your furniture, your clothes,’ Miss Dunne said. ‘Borrow from your wealthy friends for all I care. Two hundred pounds is the price of our silence. Isn’t that right, Anne-Marie?’

‘It is, Henry. I’m sorry to say, it is.’

‘And what’s the price of
my
silence,’ said Bloom after a pause.

‘Your silence?’ Anne-Marie said, puzzled.

‘Do you think you’re the only one who keeps letters?’ Bloom said. ‘There are two sides to every correspondence and, by Gum, Anne-Marie, your letters to Henry Flower are a blessed sight more interesting than mine. Racy isn’t the word for it. I’ll bet the tufts of hair you sent me would fetch a few quid in the right quarter too. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve any hair left down there.’

‘Have I not suffered enough?’ Miss Blaney said, ‘Surely you wouldn’t subject me to more humiliation?’

‘For two hundred pounds I would,’ Bloom replied. ‘Where do you work? A lawyer’s office, a city merchant’s, a bank, perhaps? It shouldn’t be too difficult for my lawyer to find out. Imagine how you’ll be treated when a selection of your letters, even without the curls, arrives on your employer’s desk. You’ll be a laughing stock, an object of derision, and lucky to find another job in Dublin.’

‘Maureen, is that true?’

‘No, he’s bluffing.’

‘Am I?’ Bloom said. ‘You, I gather, have had sight of the letters Blazes stole from me. Well, I’ve dozens more like them, dozens and dozens, each more explicit than the last.’

‘Two hundred pounds or we go to the police.’

‘Wait,’ said Miss Blaney. ‘Maureen, wait.’

‘Where are these letters, may I ask?’ Miss Dunne said.

‘In safe keeping,’ Bloom said. ‘If the detectives couldn’t find them, or bloodhound Boylan either, rest assured they’re well beyond your reach. But if one letter of mine – of Henry Flower’s – turns up in court be in no doubt I’ll produce Martha Clifford’s replies. I’m sorry, Anne-Marie, but my life’s at stake and I can’t afford to be a gentleman. I suggest you burn them.’

‘If I do,’ Anne-Marie said, ‘will I ever see you again?’

‘Considering that I may be found guilty of murder,’ Bloom said, ‘I think it’s highly unlikely, not to say inadvisable. Burn my letters and forget Henry Flower ever existed.’

‘He’s doing it again,’ Maureen Dunne said testily. ‘He’s seducing you, Anne-Marie, don’t you see?’

‘I loved you, Leopold, and you let me down. Why didn’t you keep our rendezvous? Were you afraid?’

‘Yes,’ Bloom said. ‘I was afraid I’d fall in love with you.’

‘It’s not too late,’ said Anne-Marie Blaney. ‘You’re free now, free to marry, free to … to love me.’

‘Or murder you,’ Maureen Dunne put in.

Bloom sighed. ‘Miss Blaney,’ he said, ‘if I had money I’d give it to you willingly. I have no money and, whatever the court decides, no future in Ireland. If I’m released then I’ll be gone, vanishing as if I had never been, as if you’d never known me … or Henry Flower.’ He sighed again. ‘What I will have, what I will take with me, is the memory of our friendship.’

‘I’ll do it. I’ll do it for you, Leopold. I’ll … I’ll burn them.’

‘Anne-Marie! Are you blind and deaf?’ said the strident Miss Dunne. ‘He’s conning you again
and
fleecing me out of two hundred pounds into the bargain.’

‘You?’ Bloom said. ‘What do you have to do with it? Are you so in thrall to Hugh Boylan you can no longer recognise love?’

‘Doomed love,’ Anne-Marie amended.

‘Exactly,’ said Bloom, sweating a little. ‘A love that might have been between two ships that passed in the night.’

‘Blather, pure blather,’ Maureen Dunne said.

‘You believe me, Anne-Marie, don’t you?’ Bloom said.

‘Yes, Leopold, I do. I believe you.’

‘Then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for, Anne-Marie Blaney.’ Miss Dunne scrambled to her feet. ‘Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this, Mr Smug. I’ll teach you to trifle with a woman’s affections and throw her over like … like a piece of orange peel.’

‘Did you really keep all my letters?’ Anne-Marie asked.

‘I did. I did, indeed,’ Bloom answered. ‘Every last one.’

‘If, by some miracle, you escape the gallows,’ Maureen Dunne said, ‘the day you step out of that court you’ll be hearing from us with a writ for breach of promise.’

‘No, he won’t,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘My word on it, Leopold. You won’t hear from either of us again.’

‘It’s more than I deserve,’ said Bloom humbly.

‘Too bloody true, it is,’ said dumpy Miss Dunne.

Anne-Marie Blaney said, ‘It was my fault as much as yours. You didn’t treat me very well but I was wrong to open my heart to you, a stranger. I’m glad we met, though. A lifetime of wondering would have done me no good at all. It’s best for both of us if we let Henry and Martha rest in peace.’

Bloom stifled a whoop of relief. He rose with as much dignity as he could muster and bowed. ‘Thank you, Miss Blaney. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.’ He hesitated, then, going the whole hog, took her hand in his and bussed her knuckles. ‘Goodbye, Martha, my dearest. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, dearest Henry.’ She paused. ‘Forever.’

Bloom turned discreetly away to hide his emotions while McGonagall showed the ladies out into the yard and pointed them in the direction of the tram stop on the O’Connell Road.

The jailer lingered for a moment at the door to watch the older woman link arms with the younger and wondered what they could possibly be saying and why, when they reached the pavement, the tall one in the feather boa and blue toque gave a merry little skip.

‘Well,’ said Miss Blaney, ‘that was a lucky escape, I must say.’

‘What?’ said Miss Dunne. ‘Why?’

‘Now I’ve met him,’ said Anne-Marie Blaney, ‘I don’t fancy him at all,’ then, to the bewilderment of jailer McGonagall, gave another little skip just as the tram arrived to carry them away.

One of the perils of being the junior partner in Tolland, Roper and Sullivan was that you were expected to juggle a dozen clients at once and, for the sake of the fees, let alone your own reputation, keep them happy while their cases bogged down in legal limbo.

It was not, therefore, all fun and games and coroner’s courts for young Neville who, immediately on his return from Glasnevin, had to deal with a delegation from a Dutch shipbuilder whose contract to build a suction dredger for the Dublin Dockyard Company had been blocked by an upstart geologist from the Port Authority who was concerned about rising silt levels which, as Neville and several irate Dutchmen tried to point out, was exactly the problem the dredger was designed to solve.

The geologist became more recalcitrant and the Dutchmen more irascible as morning gave way to afternoon and the large scale tidal maps that Mr Oram, Neville’s clerk, had spread about the office were in danger of being ripped to shreds.

It was into this melee that Miss Sarah Tolland – with some egging on from Mr Oram – intruded.

If there was one thing Poppy Tolland’s daughter was good at it was pouring oil on troubled waters; Lord knows, she’d had enough experience arbitrating between her father and her mother over the years. Good manners dictated that she apologise and retreat but common sense prompted her to hold her ground and, it being past lunch time, swords were sheathed, a truce declared and, with Neville’s promise to convene another meeting soon, both parties repaired to the Parador to continue the argument over beef steaks, apple charlotte and a bottle or two of burgundy.

Closing the door of the office with his heel, Neville kissed his intended’s ear, her neck and finally her lips with a fervour that owed more to gratitude than passion.

‘Thank God, darling,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d never get rid of them. Billing’s one thing but bull-headedness is quite another.’

‘Is there no resolution in sight?’

‘Absolutely none.’

‘Can it be taken to arbitration?’

‘Civil court? It may come to that. If not I may just have to …’

‘Resign?’ Miss Tolland said.

‘Elope,’ said Mr Sullivan.

When Miss Sarah Tolland smiled the effect was nothing short of dazzling. ‘I’m not averse to that,’ she said, ‘but I would prefer to have lunch first, if it’s all right with you.’

‘Sound idea,’ Neville said. ‘A little fizz to wash away the taste of silt and graveyards would go down a treat. I have’ – he consulted his pocket watch – ‘one hour and twenty-two minutes before my meeting with a market gardener who feels he’s been diddled over a load of horse manure.’

‘I’m sure Poppy would have something to say about that,’ Sarah said. ‘Speaking of which, I didn’t drop by just to scrounge lunch. Father asked me to give you this?’

Neville took the envelope and turned it over suspiciously, as if he expected it to explode in his hand. ‘What is it?’

‘Poppy’s not going to confide in a mere blood relative, especially a female. Perhaps if you open it …’

‘Um, yes, of course,’ said Neville and, with his thumbnail, slit the seal of the envelope and tipped out a printed card –
Mercury Life Assurance Society, Established 1888, Unusually Low Premiums on Family Life Policies and Endowments. Dublin Office, 18 Smile Street. Secretary for Ireland, J.F. Leonard –
across which in
heavy pencil
Mr Tolland had scribbled, ‘Bloom.’

‘How on earth did he track it down?’ said Neville.

‘Ah,’ said Sarah, tapping not her own nose but Neville’s. ‘Poppy, like God, moves in mysterious ways. Is it of use to you?’

‘I’ll say,’ Neville answered. ‘Smile Street? Is there such a street in Dublin or is it made up?’

‘I’ve never been entirely sure that Dublin itself isn’t made up,’ Sarah said, ‘but, yes, I know where Smile Street is. It’s a tiny street off the bottom of Amiens Street, not far from the courthouse.’

‘Hardly the Equitable Life then?’

‘Hardly,’ Sarah agreed. ‘Are you going there now?’

‘No, I’m accompanying a beautiful woman to lunch,’ said Neville gallantly. ‘Tomorrow will do. I assume the Mercury does business on Saturday.’

‘If it does any business at all,’ said Sarah and, adjusting his necktie and handing him his hat, steered him away from the office before he could change his mind.

TWENTY

M
iss Gerty MacDowell was hastening home from Irishtown down the length of Tritonville Road. Dusk now, or almost so. A stiff easterly layered the sky above the Bay with turbulent clouds, within which the beams of the lighthouse flickered in sullen flashes.

The lamps along the road were being lighted and the lamps in the houses too. Walking as fast as her legs would carry her, Gerty passed gardens and hedges shawled in shadow. In spite of traffic on the road, kiddies playing on the pavement and the familiar tea-time troupe of men and women returning from work, she felt exposed. The foot was dragging and the straps of her shoe would be scuffed if she didn’t slow down. She was all too aware of the man behind her, a big man in a belted mackintosh and brown fedora who had picked her up somewhere shy of London Bridge Road and had dogged her footsteps every since.

It wasn’t the first time in the past week she’d felt as if she was being followed. She’d told Cissy and Cissy had tried to laugh it off but hadn’t quite managed. Cissy too had lost her – what was the word Poldy used? – her insouciance and took everything, or nearly everything, seriously these days.

She knew it couldn’t be Father O’Grady. He’d dropped in mid-morning when she’d been out in the back hanging sheets in the hope it wouldn’t rain. He’d come out to her – her mother watching from the window – and had told her he’d seen Mr Bloom and had given him her note and Poldy had said, ‘I understand,’ which was all the reply she’d needed and had made her feel much better.

She glanced over her shoulder. The man was still there, matching his step to hers, slowing when she slowed and starting up again when she did. She wasn’t far from home. She could see the privet hedge that her father never cut hanging over the pavement, leaves rustling in the wind in the lamppost light. She was cramping, her calf cramping. She had to stop, just had to and, hand braced against the wall in front of the house painter’s house, she did.