Mrs Irene Bergin discovered the lifeless body of Edward Sharkey, travelling salesman, in Room One of Bergin’s Boarding House at Duke’s Lane. She found him sitting in the hard- backed chair wearing a navy pin-striped suit and a tie with a crest in Latin which Mrs Bergin didn’t understand. His black shoes were immaculately polished, his dark hair well-oiled and a brown fedora hat rested in his lap. This happened in June 1951. Many years later, with the benefit of perspective and prosperity, she would tell her neighbours that Sharkey resembled a contented man who had just sat down at mass after reciting the Our Father.
Her first thought, however, that June evening was that the whiskey-loving Mr Sharkey was asleep under the influence.
‘Mr Sharkey. Wake up,’ she sang. ‘Time for your supper.’
Sharkey was not an unattractive man —late thirties, slim build and —as far as she knew—unmarried. She pushed him lightly on the shoulder but there was no response. She then tapped him on his recently-shaved cheek with her right hand. His skin was less than warm and felt oily to the touch. She tapped him again with her left hand. Nothing.
Mrs Bergin stepped back from the new corpse and blessed herself three times. ‘May the Lord have mercy on your soul.’ Sharkey was the second person she had found-on-dead in Duke’s Lane. The first had been the man responsible for her widowhood —the late Cornelius ‘Con’ Bergin—a hard working but fatally weakened consumptive.
She took a look around the room for anything that might be worthy of comment to the gawking classes about to descend upon Duke’s Lane. The white walls, painted last spring, were bare— except for a framed black and white print of the local castle. The print also served to cover a six-inch crack in the plasterwork and also as a resting place for a withering sprig of Passion Sunday palm. In the corner of the room was a chest-of-drawers, non-matching mirror and a coat stand—from which hung an impressive long navy overcoat.
Evident on the plain white blanket on the bed were the curved contours left behind by Edward Sharkey —who at least had been fortunate that his final hour had found him well-dressed in a respectable house. Visible under the bed was the brown leather suitcase which she remembered from when Sharkey first appeared on her doorstep three years ago. ‘Mrs Bergin, isn’t it? Edward Sharkey from Folachmore. I wonder if you might have a room. First Monday and Tuesday of every month.’ He had tapped the suitcase which he carried in his right hand. ‘Agricultural and domestic consumables.’ She never asked him the exact nature of those agricultural and domestic consumables. The fewer the questions—the fewer the lies.
Mrs Bergin opened the window a few inches at the top and walked back to the door. Other than his dead body, overcoat and brown leather suitcase underneath the bed, there was nothing of Edward Sharkey about the room.
She smoothed down her hair at the sides, took three deep breaths before shouting down to the serving girl. ‘Mary, go fetch the sergeant. Immediately.’
*
Sergeant Joseph Brady stood sweating under his cap in the centre of Room One. He was a tall broad man in permanent need of a decent shave and a larger uniform. He was forty-two years of age, unmarried and lived alone in the local Barracks. He had never fully settled among the townies—with their narrow streets and accents.
Brady recognised the deceased, but smartly-dressed, travelling salesman. ‘Good night sergeant,’ were the only words he had ever heard him say.
‘Good night indeed,’ said the sergeant out loud in response to his private thoughts.
He produced his notebook and pencil and turned to face Mrs Bergin. She was a few years younger than him, on the slim side of plump, dressed in respectable grey and decently made up for the occasion. ‘Could you tell me again Mrs Bergin how you came across the body?’
‘Not much to tell sergeant. I knocked on the door when he didn’t appear for his supper— which was unusual for him. When he didn’t answer I opened the door and there he was in that chair. May the Lord have mercy on him.’
‘Yes Amen.’
Brady was a slow and attentive in his penmanship and hardly looked at Mrs Bergin during his note taking. When he had everything recorded to his satisfaction, he returned his pen and notebook to his uniform pocket. He wanted to say something to her by way of comfort and acknowledgment—how it must be a terrible thing for a well-widowed woman like herself to happen upon a dead body under her own roof. These thoughts he attempted to structure into a sympathetic but not too personal narrative. He could feel his lips move in a silent rehearsal.
‘That’s his case there under the bed?’ he asked.
‘It is sergeant. He was a salesman, you know? Agricultural and domestic consumables.’
‘So I heard. I might take a look inside to see if there is anything …anything germane to the death.’ He eased himself down onto his right knee and retrieved the suitcase. He tried the lock on the right and on the left. Both locked. He stood up and pulled at the back of his shirt collar. ‘Yes, farm consumables. Good business I hear.’ He wanted to redirect the conversation away from the commercial viability of Sharkey’s business. ‘I’m sure you must have got a fair fright just the same.’
‘Oh, for sure sergeant. Although he’s not the worst corpse I ever saw. Poor man.’
‘He’s not,’ agreed Brady. Sharkey dead was certainly a finer man than many walking about the town. ‘Well, there’s no sign of any foul play. Some kind of heart attack I’d say.’
‘Probably.’
‘You never really know what’s going on inside.’ He pulled at the end of his shirt sleeve which was just visible below his uniform.
‘True too sergeant.’
‘Right, I need to go and take care of a few things back at the Barracks. I’ll be back shortly.’
*
Sergeant Brady returned to the Barracks, shaved for the second time that day, drank one cup of tea, smoked two cigarettes and then activated his post-death protocol.
He first called the Folachmore station. The local sergeant agreed to inform the deceased’s brother—a well-established farmer of fifty decent acres. He then rounded up his ‘blessed trinity’ of Dr Meyler, Fr Power and the undertaker Patrick Bruscardi to complete the formalities. Meyler, trembling and ancient, confirmed there was no suspicion of foul play and certified coronary failure as the cause of death. Fr Power and Bruscardi, each half full of drink, managed to reconnect sufficiently to their sober parts to supervise the prayerful removal of Edward Sharkey to the Bruscardi Funeral Home.
By ten o’clock only Sergeant Brady and Mrs Bergin remained in Room One.
Brady stood with his hands behind his back—a pose he frequently struck in the nearby square among the scrawny townies. It seemed less appropriate under the watchful eyes of the widow—who remained at the door with one hand on the circular door handle. He removed his hat, wiped his forehead and bald head with his handkerchief and replaced the hat.
‘I’ll need to take possession of that suitcase and any personal effects for the family tomorrow. I expect they’ll be here by the afternoon.’
‘Most likely.’ She pointed to the vacated chair. ‘Thanks for your help with all of this business sergeant.’
‘You’re welcome Mrs Bergin.’
He tried to manage a smile but his lips remained frozen shut. He moved his arms to his side and then behind his back again. Mrs Bergin’s eyes remained on him. They were the youngest part of her he thought. Clear, unblemished blue.
Brady walked over to the coat stand, the floorboards creaking under his steps. He smoothed the sleeve of the navy overcoat. ‘It would make a fine impression on any man—this coat.’
‘And it did too on poor Mr Sharkey. Although it takes more than a fancy coat to make a dacent man.’
Brady tapped at the pockets of the orphaned coat. Inside the right front pocket he could feel the shape of a round object. He reached inside and retrieved an unblemished red apple. He carefully polished the apple with his handkerchief. When he had finished, he offered up the dead man’s apple to the widow. ‘Have a nice Kerry Pippin.’
‘No thank you sergeant. I was never very fond of apples. You keep it.’
‘I will so. Sharkey won’t be needing this wherever he’s going.’
The apple was sweet and firm as Brady remembered from the orchard in the home place. He hadn’t been back in a long time. The brother’s wife tried her best, but a house was never the same without the mammy.
Mrs Bergin remained standing at the door and watched him eat the apple When he had finished her eyes moved to the suitcase underneath the bed.
‘Shall we try the case again Mrs Bergin. One last time?’
‘Let’s do that sergeant. I may be able to help. You know this wouldn’t be the first time that a locked case needed opening around here.’
She disappeared from the room and returned wearing silver-framed glasses and carrying a small collection of metal keys. She walked over and lifted the suitcase onto the bed. It took her three attempts to successfully open each lock. Brady moved from the coat stand and stood beside her at the side of the bed.
‘If you don’t mind sergeant, I’ll let you open the case.’
‘Yes of course.’ He had never seen her wearing glasses before. She looked older and younger at the same time. ‘Probably best. I’ll need to take possession of everything.’
Brady clicked the locks simultaneously and lifted open the suitcase. Inside was the professional life of Edward Sharkey travelling salesman. Catalogues and an array of samples of farm consumables —detergents, mops, buckets and farm utensils. Spiral sample holders of lino, curtains and carpet. He removed each of the items in turn, recorded the details in his notebook and passed them to Mrs Bergin. When she had finished her inspection of each item she placed it on the bed—until recently slept in by Edward Sharkey. There followed a collection of small perfume bottles.
Brady watched Mrs Bergin remove the lid from only one of the bottles and hold it to her nose. She sprayed the clear liquid onto the back of her left hand. He could smell the perfume, florid and fruity, infiltrate the staling room.
The final item removed was a Player’s tobacco tin.
It reminded Brady that he needed a smoke but he was not going to light up on duty in front of the widow woman. He removed the top of the tobacco tin.
The tin was stuffed not with tobacco but hundreds of packets of contraceptives—rubber johnnies. Smuggled over from England. He picked out a fistful of packets and let them fall onto the bed among the product samples and catalogues. Beside him he could sense Mrs Bergin and the perfume.
‘I’m going to have to forfeit these,’ he told her. He pointed to the chair vacated by Edward Sharkey. ‘It’s against the law —whether he’s dead or not.’
*
Mrs Irene Bergin watched the sergeant close over the suitcase and retrieve the overcoat from the coat stand. There were no other guests in the house. Next day she would get started on the scrubbing out of Room One. Clear away the residues of Edward Sharkey and prepare the room for new visitors and their secrets.
Outside she heard the sound of a football against a gable-end and further away the useless, tuneless singing from Main Street. The town would already be digesting the news of the passing of the travelling salesman at Duke’s Lane. Already the gossip would have started about Sharkey — a blow-in who was too well-dressed for his own good.
The sergeant’s fat fingers tapped at the pocket of his uniform where he had concealed the Player’s tin of contraband — Mr Sharkey’s agricultural consumables.
‘You needn’t worry about any ..’ said Brady.
‘Sergeant?’
Brady’s face reddened and he tapped again the chest pocket of his uniform. He wasn’t the worst sergeant they had ever had in the town thought Mrs Bergin. Didn’t say too much but maintained a respectable enough level of law and order.
‘There’ll be no more said outside of this room about any of this …material. Not to his family or anybody else for that matter.’
‘No sergeant. Probably for the best. I suppose people do what they do. Always have done.’
Mrs Irene Bergin removed her glasses, crossed Room One and closed the window and drew the curtains. She moved slowly towards Brady in the gloomlight of the June evening.
‘You’ll have a drink sergeant — before you go. We can sit downstairs.’
***
Eamon Murphy is from Wexford Ireland. He has a MA in Creative Writing from Lancaster University. His short stories have been short listed for the Fish Publishing Short Story Prize, the Colm Toibin International Short Story Award and broadcast on Irish radio. His story ‘A Drihid Lullaby’ was featured in The New Guard Journal (USA).