the inward pain

Irish Jesuit Province

The Inward PainAuthor(s): Chris MolloySource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 74, No. 882 (Dec., 1946), pp. 522-529Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20515576 .

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522

Short Story

The Inward Pain

By Chris Molloy

MY Uncle John and Hero Higgins were the first to

suggest that Katie the Creels had died no natural death.

My uncle, being our local Sherlock Holmes, and Hero his

willing Watson, there were those who heeded them and those

who scoffed. The scoffers had a large majority : daft from read

ing about murders, old Johnny Lynch was, they said ; daft and

doting, himself and the Hero. The drawing-out of Uncle J. and Higgins on their pet subject had long been a popular pastime with the prime boys of the parish. Someone would

inquire, innocent-like, how the current murder trial in Green

Street was going ; in a minute my uncle would be speech-making to beat all the legal men in Eire. Or Hero would be asked to

solve some mysterious death that had baffled the best brains of the detective division, and his brilliant deductions and irrefut able theories would stir his hearers to such remarks as :

" Hero,

it's wasted you are down here ; if Dublin Castle only knew about

you.* . , ."Or : "

You forgot half they ever learned up there ;

the 'tecs are only trotting after you, Hero."

Sometimes the two cronies would disagree ; once they almost

came to blows aibout authors, Higgins plumping for Freeman

Gregg, Wills Crofts and Bailey, while my uncle (who was not above third-degree methods) stoutly supported the Yanks?

Gardiner, Chandler, and H. S. Keeler. They even had an argu ment as to how best one could commit a murder and get away



THE INWARD PAIN 523

with it. They got so hot on that occasion that boys passing by our crossroads on their way to Croghan middlepiece (open-air dance platform to you) went no further, but stood leaning over

the handlebars of their bikes, listening to the pair of old lads ; I remember that evening well, as I was constantly being referred

to by both disputants and bystanders by reason of my quasi professional status?third medical U.C.D.?and my replies, if

not altogether orthodox, were sufficiently technical and latinised to awe the neighbours into silent esteem?

And still they gazed and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew.

But if I awed the listeners, Higgins mesmerised them ;. there was a great poisoner lost in the Hero ; what he didn't know about

cyanides, arsenic, strychnine, hemlock, ground-ivy, and other

basic ingredients of gruesome potions, wasn't worth the know

ing. (For the future I shall firmly refuse all Higgins' hospi

tality.) He eluded the law, in the person of my alert uncle, as

far as the murder proper ; it was when he went disposing of the

body that our old John nabbed him and proved him to be but a

bungler?to the satisfaction of the crowd. No such footling

methods for uncle. Something simple and accidental-looking ;

the simpler the better. While admitting that the blunt instru ment had its points (no one noticed the pun but yourself, dear

reader) he preferred to push a person off a cliff on to wave-lashed

rocks or to strangle a fellow with his own tie. The highlight of the debate, from the point of view of the schoolboy section of the audience, was when he demonstrated his methods by half

strangling Higgins and by throwing me over the cliffs of imagery on to the ersatz rocks of the road. That his masterly exposition of his theme made us overlook not only the rough handling of our persons but the more serious matter of damage to Sabbath



524 THE IRISH MONTHLY

habiliments is proof positive that he was an authority on the not

so-gentle art of murder.

Having proffered these digressions merely to illustrate the

prowess of our local sleuth-hounds, I return with haste and

apologies, dear reader, to our starting-point?Katie the Creels.

Katie was sole survivor of one of the many Ryan families in our

district. The "

Creels "

had been the appellation of Katie's fore bears from time immemorial and distinguished them from such

Ryans as the Christy-os, the Pegeens, the Long Pats, the Foxy Phils, and a hundred others?not forgetting the Kruger *Ryans, of which more anon. Katie, as I have said, was the last of the

Creel Ryans ; the last and lucky one. Drew "

High Caul Cap "

in the Sweep, more luck to the poor old creature everyone said

(meaning Katie?but not forgetting "

High Caul Cap "). Better

still, she won the ticket in a penny raffle for some Dublin

orphanage. There was luck for you ; three thousand pounds for

one penny. But the money had a queer effect on poor Katie ;

turned her mean and miserly in no time. The yarns that went

the rounds concerning her niggardliness were beyond belief.

However?de mortuis nil nisi bonum, my mother reared me well

?as you may have observed. Miser and all that she was, having the name of the money was enough to attract people to Katie.

A few, who had never shown any particular friendship for the Creel Ryans during that family's penurious past, now oozed

neighbourliness to the last of the Creels. Joe Breen ploughed the lea for her, just in case the tillage inspectors would be coming down on the poor old woman ; you wouldn't put it past the likes of them. Mike Ryan (Kruger) saved the hay and the bit of harvest for her ; Mrs. Kinsella and Nellie took the care of the cows off Katie altogether, milking and churning and all. Only for the Kinsellas she might have died without the priest ; they heard her moaning as they passed by the gable-end one evening



THE INWARD PAIN 525

after milking and Nellie made off for the priest and doctor. The

priest was in time, but the poor thing was dead when Doctor

Duggan arrived. She died of an inward pain we were told by the Kinsellas, that being a common and usually fatal complaint among the generation that was Katie's. Kruger and Breen dug the grave and saw to the funeral arrangements. The Kinsellas

waked Katie decently, pipes and snuff and all as it should be.

Though there were no mourners and no next-of-kin, the three

parishes turned out to a man to pay their respects to the last of

the Creel Ryans. Some time later we heard that Breen and the Kruger and the

Kinsellas were, all four, making claims on the Ryan estate for

services rendered to Katie during her last years. There was no

will, it would seem : the place was heavily mortgaged since old Bill the Creel's time, and as Katie's poor duds and belongings weren't worth a tinker's curse, the time had come, thought the

Kruger and Company, to cash-in on their neighbourliness. But

there was no cash to cash-in or -out, the Creel's solicitor informed

them, the which story they refused to believe until the bank

manager himself was brought along to convince them.

Katie had not been one of those who place their trust in banks ;

despite the remonstrances of her legal and financial advisers she had drawn the three thousand pounds out in sums of twenty or

thirty pounds, and the last of it had gone to her only a month

previously. Though the solicitor sympathised deeply with the kind neighbours who had so generously volunteered to meet wake and funeral expenses, he feared the sale of the mortgaged farm

and effects would hardly realise his own fees, much less recoup them for their losses. The bank manager couldn't help wonder

ing what she had done with the money or where she had hidden it. His speculation roused his hearers. The

Kruger and Breen fairly raced the Kinsella women from town




to the Creels, and the crowbar brigade had nothing on the four of them in the matter of demolition ; dwelling-house, out-houses,

ricks of hay and straw, they levelled them all and pulled every

thing asunder in a couple of days. It was the talk of the parish, and the very next Sunday the parish priest came out strong on

greed and rapacity. Some old people fidgeted and a few young ones giggled from sheer nervousness. Nellie Kinsella, it was

remarked afterwards, kept her head bowed, and Joe Breen's ears

reddened, but Mrs. Kinsella's back was as straight as a ramrod,

and the Kruger stared the P.P. full in the face for the whole

length of the sermon. Oh, a tough man the Kruger. . . .

But where, you may well ask, were my uncle and his aide-de

camp all this time ? Sleuthing, dear reader, sleuthing. Shadow

ing Kruger and Breen and the Widow Kinsella and Nellie ;

watching for someone to start spending three thousand smackers ;

poking about in the Ryan ruins for tins of weed-killer. (Weed killer contained 66 per cent, of arsenic, the Hero told us?and

who were we to contradict him?) Katie's symptoms in her last

moments, so graphically described by Mrs. Kinsella at the wake, and so glibly explained away by her as an inward pain, were -none

other than the symptoms of arsenic poisoning, so the Hero said.

^My uncle confined himself to dark hints about the murderer in our midst. The upshot of their researches and surmises was that

all sorts of rumours got abroad and soon reached the ears of the

Guards. Before long we had the Chief Super, himself and a

couple of plain-clothes men ranging the seven townlands, ques

tioning and crosshackling everyone. My Uncle John gave it out as his opinion that any day now the coroner would be getting out

an exhumation order ; that was a new one on the Iboys, and uncle

had a grand time putting them wise. A Sunday came when the ^police were waiting at the church

before last ?Mass. We were full sure they were going to miikc



THE INWARD PAIN 527

an arrest, but my uncle assured us all that it was the exhumation

order ; they went into the sacristy to the P.P., and after spend

ing about a quarter of an hour with him, drove away. That

Sunday, for the first time in years, the parish priest gave no

sermon- "

Please remain in your places after Mass ; I have an

announcement to make," he said. I could see the short hairs

bristling on the Kruger's neck as he steeled himself?but he

needn't have worried.

When Mass was over the priest said: "

I won't keep the

school children ; stand up, children, and answer me one

catechism question before you go : tell us all what's commanded

and forbidden by the eighth commandment ; and don't forget the ALSO."

Off went the youngsters like the Cork mail: "

We are com

manded by the eighth commandment to speak of others with

justice and charity. . . . The eighth commandment forbids all false testimonies, rash judgments, and lies. . . . The eighth commandment ALSO forbids backbiting, calumny, and detrac

tion, and all words and speeches hurtful to our neighbour's honour and reputation." "

Good children ; you may go now. Quietly please, quietly ; no noise in the house of God." Their footsteps pit-patted down the aisle and through the flagged porch.

" I want to read you

this letter," said his reverence, opening an envelope he had in

his hand. You could hear the rustle of the paper all over the church. He fixed his glasses and started to read :

St? Columba's Orphanage,

Dublin.

Dear Reverend Father,

For some years past this orphanage has been deeply indebted to an anonymous donor who sent regularly sums




of ten, twenty, and sometimes thirty pounds. The money was usually folded in a slip of paper signed K. Ryan, Creels.

Recently1 a Sister read a death notice of a Miss K. Ryan,,

Creels, in your local paper ; and someone else discovered

that we have in our records the same name and address as

having drawn a prize-winning sweep-ticket in a penny raffle we held in 1941. The subscriptions ceased coming a few months ago ; if you can identify the late Miss Ryan as our benefactress please let us know, as we would like to

arrange to have Masses and prayers offered for her soul's

repose.

Faithfully yours in Our Lord, Mother Mary Joseph.

The P.P. folded the letter, gave us all one look, and went in off the altar. The congregation filed out, slightly dazed. No one seemed inclined to make any comment. I bethought me

of my uncle and, not seeing him about, moved over the Forge road after him. I overtook himself and the Hero at the cross

roads ; they were catching it hot and heavy from the Superin tendent.

fifi It's only your age that's saving you from being

charged with being a public mischief ; wasting the Guards' valuable time," shouted the Super, at my uncle.

" As for you

and your weed-killer," he snarled at the Hero, "

the symptoms were those of an

' inward pain '?acute appendicitis in modern

language?after all ; put that in your pipe and smoke it and leave

weed-killer to people who know what they are talking about."

The police took their departure. "

Uncle John/', I said

anxiously, tfi

if I were you, I'd make tracks for home before the

Kruger comes along ; he might have heard some of the rumours

that were going. He's a tough man. ''

" The Kruger can't t^row," said my uncle.

" He may nol



THE INWARD PAIN 529

he a murderer, but he can't deny that he's the butt-end of a

grabjber, and I'd tell him that to his face. Didn't he try to lay unlawful hands on three thousand quid?"

" But, uncle-" I began. ifi

Home with you, young fellow," he dismissed me peremp

torily, "

can't you see you're interrupting myself and Hero.

As I was telling you, Hero (before the police and my nephew came along), there's one writer who isn't a Yank but he beats

them all at writing gangster murders ; he's a dinger at the

American language. Cheyney, that's the lad I mean ; I'm sur

prised at a well-read man like yourself knowing nothing aJbout such a classy detective writer ; all sorts of quare words he has

too ; ' frails

' and

' dicks

' and

' Mickey Finns '. Quit your

grinning, young fellow, and clear away home out of that ; or

I'll murder you in real earnest ; can't you see I want to tell Hero

about the yarn where the frail gave the dick the Mickey Finn?"



the inward pain

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