Nursery Crimes Part 14

He wasn't just terribly drunk, was he? No, of course not. You weaved around when you were drunk. Or were too steady like Daddy. He might have tried to dose himself with something and had too much. His stomach probably needed rest -- like hers had, after the picnic. He had seen her vomit. She had burned with shame that he should have seen. Seeing him as he was now evened things up a bit. What to use for a cloth to put on his head? There was a drying-up cloth near the sink and it was clean- well, fairly. She rinsed it under the tap.

My blood is running into my eyes, Murphy thought in sudden panic as he became aware of something wet on his forehead. He shot up in bed and began threshing out with his arms. Zanny, caught across the chest, gave a little grunt of pain and moved away hastily.

Murphy, his eyes wide open, informed her calmly that the last time blood had been taken from him it had been taken from his arm. He couldn't remember why.

Having delivered this statement, he fell flat on his back again, and descended through a night sky, crackling with purple clouds, and flashed here and there with lightning.

Zanny, abandoning the cloth as being too dangerous, drew the chair a little away from the bed and sat again, watching him cautiously. People in delirium did strange things. What had he been talking about? What, for goodness sake, should she do?

Had the decision been left to Sergeant Thomas he wouldn't have arrested Murphy at twenty minutes to midnight. A good night's sleep followed by a substantial breakfast were, he believed, comforting shock absorbers. And even for the toughest it was one h.e.l.l of a shock. Detective Inspector Warrilow, however, possessed an English streak of hardness like steel in an old-fashioned corset. Since his arrival a few months ago backbones had stiffened to wary attention. The men didn't even have the satisfaction of swearing at him in Welsh. He could speak it. A fact he had kept treacherously to himself for quite a long time. Thomas, prepared to be charitable, had suggested that perhaps his motive for a night arrest was to spare the nuns the embarra.s.sment of seeing Murphy removed. He didn't give a tinker's cuss for the nuns' embarra.s.sment, he had replied. When wrenched roughly out of sleep, the brain was not alert. Confessions, guarded by day, tumbled out into the night air. Three a.m. was probably the best time, but he had some regard for the well-being of his men.

But regard for Murphy? What sort of joke was that supposed to be? He hadn't had any regard for Bridget O'Hare when he'd thumped her over the head and flung her over a cliff. The blood test had shown that the child she was carrying wasn't his. Had it been, he would probably have preserved the two of them. Being a Catholic. Witnesses had heard them quarrel before they went up on the cliff. The word b.a.s.t.a.r.d had been used. He had returned from the cliff alone. He had pretended he had seen her. What more proof did anyone want? A confession? Well -- go get the man. Batter the door down. Frighten the living daylights out of him. Play rough, boys, play rough.

It wasn't in Thomas' nature to play rough, but he had to do as he was told, within reason. He took P.O. Stevie Williams with him. Williams captained the local rugger team and looked a bit of an ape. One look at Williams and you suddenly didn't want to argue.

Zanny, awakened from a light doze by the sharp rapping on the door, felt her stomach shoot up into her throat. Somebody had split on her! Dolly had told Mother Benedicta. No, not Dolly. Somebody. G.o.d! Who? Her fingers had somehow got entwined in Murphy's. In a panic she pulled her hand free.

Mother Benedicta was bursting down the door. She was kicking it. Thumping it. Murphy was still asleep. She wanted him to fling himself in front of her. Protect her. He was snoring gently. Mother Benedicta had gone mad. She was crashing around like a raving lunatic. Get under the bed, for G.o.d's sake - quick!

Zanny disappeared just as Thomas and Williams discovered that all they had to do was raise the latch. Well, they'd been told to make a noise. They'd made it.

Zanny was aware of two pairs of feet in boots. They were marauders come to kill. Not Mother Benedicta. Oh, Mother Benedicta, better you! And then one of them spoke quite gently, his accent soft and Welsh.

"Boy bach," he said, "oh, boy bach, a skinful you've had. Light a match and the place will explode."

"A hair of the tail of the dog," the other one said, "to get him on his feet."

"Soaked right up," the first one replied, "a drop more and it will come out through his ears."

They had spoken in Welsh then, debating on how to rouse Murphy enough to make him stand. A gentle rolling about on the bed caused the feather mattress to sag. Zanny felt it a couple of inches above her head. The springs of the bed were rotten. One sc.r.a.ped her hair. There was dust under the bed and a spider's web in the corner. She closed her eyes and prayed. "Hail Mary, full of grace . . . Holy Mary, Mother of G.o.d."

The bed was swinging like a ship at sea.

Naked feet between two pairs of boots at the bedside. Murphy's voice: "Would you hold the room steady a bit! Would you apply the b.l.o.o.d.y brakes! Would you b.l.o.o.d.y lay off."

Thomas, very soothing. "Got to get you dressed, boy bach. Off on a little trip - see."

Murphy, disliking the idea of a little trip, attempted to get back into bed. Williams stopped him. Anybody gripped by Williams couldn't move. Thomas dressed Murphy sketchily, the best he could.

"Better say it then," said Williams, "while I hold him."

"Seems a waste of time," Thomas replied. Nevertheless he said what had to be said. He gabbled it rather fast and Zanny had to strain to hear. It wasn't until that moment that she realised that the two men were police officers and that they had come to arrest Murphy on a charge of suspicion of murdering Bridget O'Hare.

Murphy heard the charge with equanimity. He was leaning up against the bedroom door, held there by Williams' arm. He felt slightly better standing up as if the fluid were circulating in all directions and not gathered like a reservoir in his stomach and in his head. He began softly to sing about the Mountains of Mourne.

The two Welsh policemen eased him gently in the direction of the door.

The last words Zanny heard were Thomas'. "The Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea," he joined in with a rich deep ba.s.s. "Oh, boy bach, boy bach, sing while you can, boyo, sing while you can."

Four.

When Zanny returned to the convent, bedraggled, dirty and deeply distressed, Dolly thought she had been raped. Which would have served her right. The middle cla.s.ses were extraordinarily dim. Although she had been catapulted amongst them and was taking her place there with some ease, Dolly still had a firm grasp on life's realities. She knew what human nature was all about. Murphy was a male animal and a dainty morsel had been presented to him. He had devoured her in one gulp - on the floor by the looks of things. She pushed Zanny into the nearest bathroom and closed the door quietly behind them.

"Well," she hissed, "what happened?"

Zanny began to cry. Genuine, low, moaning tears. It was difficult to cry quietly. She wanted to sit on the side of the bath and howl.

Murphy . . . Murphy . . . Murphy . . . Oh, Murphy . . . Murphy . . . Murphy . . . They've taken you when they should have taken me . . . What am I going to do?

"Take your filthy mack off," Dolly said, and helped her to do just that. "And if you can't shut up, then push your head into it." It was fortunate that Sister Clemence wasn't on dormitory duty. Her hearing was as sharp as her tongue.

It took some while for Zanny to tell Dolly what had happened. Dolly received the news in silence. She was shaken. Not unduly surprised, though. One of her uncles had been put away once for a burglary he hadn't committed. He hadn't stolen a thing in his life, he had commented bitterly, just been landed with the stuff.

Planted had been his word. The police hadn't believed him.

Zanny's predicament, as Dolly saw it, was less moral than practical. Murphy might have an alibi, in which case he would be let off. If he hadn't, he might talk his way out of it. All Murphy had to do was to speak sweet reason to the police. The Irish were supposed to be golden-tongued, weren't they? Blarney kissed and persuasive. The uncle she barely remembered had dropped his words like clods of earth and looked as if he needed to be swept up with a brush and pan. He hadn't stood a chance. Murphy's rating was rather better - though not much. Now, if Zanny's father had been accused of pushing Zanny's mother over a cliff he would have raised an eyebrow in polite astonishment. "Good Lord, Inspector," he would have drawled, "this is really too funny for comment. My dear fellow, you're not serious?" Abject apologies would have followed.

Dolly came out of her reverie to hear Zanny's tear-choked question. "What am I going to do?"

"Nothing," she said. "Wait. Shut up. Do nothing."

Zanny, not too shattered to follow Dolly's self-motivated reasoning, had a vision of university towers and mortar boards. "There are such things as honour and a conscience," she said bitterly, "and not letting people suffer. But you wouldn't know anything about that."

"Honour and a conscience," Dolly said blandly, "you have to be able to afford. As for suffering - do you suppose Bridget O'Hare landed on a mattress?"

Neither knew how to break the ensuing silence.

It was necessary to go to bed.

They went.

Of all the teaching staff at the convent Miss Sheldon-Smythe took the news about Murphy with the greatest show of indignation. The day the news broke she stormed over to Mother Benedicta's study and rapped on the door. "This," she said, entering without invitation and waving the newspaper, "is absolutely absurd. Ignatius Murphy is one of the kindest, most controlled men I know."

Accustomed to being laughed at - politely, of course, and not overtly - control for Miss Sheldon-Smythe was synonymous with being taken seriously. Murphy hadn't found her amusing at all. He had had a pet ferret once, he had told her, and he had liked it as much as she liked her budgerigars. Sure, it was no trouble to dig up groundsel for them - and there were apples to spare on the convent trees, no call to go buying any. A bit of apple - a bit of groundsel - and something hard to sharpen the beaks on - and she'd have the best pair of birds in all of Wales, sure she would. As for the way Miss Sheldon-Smythe chose to dress when the Royals had occasion to celebrate, that was up to her. He never raised an eyebrow at the red, white and blue waistcoat, and when she had tentatively invited comment he had said something about the Irish wearing of the green. A song, he had explained kindly.

Now, confronting Mother Benedicta, Miss Sheldon-Smythe was in deepest black. As a sartorial protest it was effective. Mother Benedicta's gloom deepened. She had no firm opinion on Murphy's guilt or innocence. He was being committed for trial and was being held in custody. The police must think they had a case. They had allowed her to see him.

Embarra.s.sment on both sides had been almost palpable. Murphy, now quite sober, had been brought to the interview room by Sergeant Thomas. Inspector Warrilow, (though Mother Benedicta hadn't known this), had told Thomas to get rid of the nun - Mother Superior, whatever she was - as fast as he could without antagonising her. There were no grounds for objecting to the interview. "Just see it's brief."

Murphy, still numb with shock, hadn't yet warmed up into indignation. Mother Benedicta, also numb with shock, found it extraordinarily difficult to talk to him. Sergeant Thomas, not in the slightest degree shocked, wished one of his minions could have taken over. He just happened to be the only one who knew Mother Benedicta - and knowing her in this context wasn't an advantage. He had to resist a desire to offer everyone tea.

Mother Benedicta had at last asked the accused if he needed anything from the cottage. Such as his pyjamas?

Murphy, unnerved to be talking about pyjamas with Mother Benedicta, had shaken his head. He wondered if he should explain that he didn't wear them and then decided he shouldn't. This conversation wasn't at all proper. It was much easier to say that he hadn't pushed Bridget over the cliff than it was to say that he went to bed naked. He had accordingly protested his innocence.

Mother Benedicta said that she would pray for him. A non-committal response - as she had meant it to be -and that had been that.