Read Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom? for Free Online Page B

made the buildings seem forbidding even in broad daylight. Several small children who were playing about the mouth of the stairwell stopped what they were doing and gawked at him and an old woman, dozing on a chair by a ground floor window, opened one eye and deliberately dropped a globule of spit in his wake as he went past.
    An odorous staircase led to the second-floor landing where, drawing in a breath, he knocked on the peeling woodwork. If Mrs Fleming had found another post she probably wouldn’t be at home. He was prepared to be disappointed but, no, the door opened, and a small, stoop-shouldered woman peered up at him out of the gloom. ‘Are you the copper was asking about me?’ she said.
    ‘Indirectly,’ Kinsella said, ‘I am.’
    ‘I tell you now we ha’na seen Eric in weeks.’
    ‘I’m not here about Eric,’ Kinsella said, then, ‘Is he your son?’
    ‘No son o’ mine,’ came a gruff voice from within. ‘Lodger. Bastard hawked me only decent pair o’ boots. Kill him I will he shows his face here again. Is it you the fella’s after, Lizzie? What mischief have you been up to now?’
    ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ the woman said ruefully and ushered Kinsella into the kitchen.
    One room, cramped but clean: two beds, one tight to the gable wall, the other in a shallow alcove, a table, two wooden chairs, a stool and an armchair of sorts, very worn. The window was screened by a torn blind the colour of tobacco leaf. Under it was a wash-stand with a basin and jug and a small pile of dishes. On a grid over the fire a kettle steamed, the coals beneath it providing the room’s only spot of colour.
    Dressed in an undershirt and a pair of moleskin trousers, a man crouched on the bed by the gable, legs tucked under him in the pose of an Indian Swami. He appeared to be about sixty, though a stubble beard and locks of dirty grey hair made it difficult to judge his age. Kinsella introduced himself.

    ‘I knew you was a G-man,’ the man said. ‘You’ve got that smell about you. One o’ the Castle crowd, are ye? One o’ the Lord Lieutenant’s anointed?’
    ‘Stop it, Mickey,’ the woman said, then, to Kinsella, ‘He doesn’t mean to give offence. His legs’s bad this morning.’
    ‘What’s wrong with his legs?’
    ‘Dead as mutton since me back got broke,’ Mickey Fleming answered. ‘Seven years near enough to the day since the load fell on me. We were puttin’ in the tanks on Goulding’s ground near the East Wall. Cracked me spine in two places. Lucky to be alive, they told me. Hah! Lucky, is it?’
    Lizzie Fleming hurried to pull out a wooden chair and watched, frowning anxiously, as Jim Kinsella seated himself upon it.
    ‘The gentleman isn’t here to listen to your woes, Mickey,’ she said. ‘What is it we can do for you, Inspector?’
    ‘I believe you were servant to the Blooms of Eccles Street, Mrs Fleming,’ Kinsella began.
    ‘Kicked her out, that cow.’
    ‘Mickey, hold your rattle,’ Lizzie Fleming said sternly, then, ‘Yes, I was day maid to Mrs Bloom for near a year.’
    ‘When did she let you go?’
    ‘Friday before last Christmas,’ the woman said. ‘Why are you asking about the Blooms?’
    Kinsella hesitated. ‘Mrs Bloom was found dead this morning.’
    Silence for a few seconds then a whistle from Mr Fleming. ‘So he done for her at last. Can’t say I’m surprised. Got what was coming to her, I reckon.’
    ‘What makes you suppose Mrs Bloom didn’t die of natural causes?’ Jim Kinsella asked.
    ‘You wouldn’t be here if she had,’ Mr Fleming answered. ‘You don’t rout out a G-man for natural causes. Foul play was involved, right? And that means old Bloom done her in.’
    ‘There must be some mistake,’ Mrs Fleming said. ‘Mr Bloom wouldn’t harm a fly. We used to have breakfast at the kitchen table when he wasn’t in a hurry out.’

    ‘While Madam lounged in bed like a bloody trollop.’
    ‘Some days she didn’t feel well.’
    ‘She was