Poor Murphy
There was many a man named Murphy in County Cork, Ireland. There were, for example, Paddy Murphy, a butcher; Michael Murphy, a schoolteacher; Kevin Murphy, a fisherman; and even Father Daniel Francis Murphy, a parish priest. But for those people who lived near the Gaeilge Pub, there was only one Murphy of any importance: the pub's owner and bartender. Murphy had been given a first name at birth, but few people knew it, and those that did never used it. To all his friends and the patrons of the Gaeilge, he was just plain Murphy.
A man with a generous spirit, a keen sense of humor and the gift of scintillating conversation, Murphy was admired and respected by everyone who knew him. The publican's good nature and honesty drew in a steady business to his pub, which, in turn, made him a fairly wealthy man.
Being a man of means has many advantages, but it also has its drawbacks. There is the obvious danger of being robbed by desperate men who prefer to take by force or stealth what they do not earn by the sweat of their brow. Of a more subtle nature, are the gold diggers, the beautiful young women who hope to better their circumstances by marrying men of property and position. While some such opportunists take their vows seriously and make the effort to be good wives despite a lack of love in the marriage, others bite the hand that feeds them—figuratively speaking—by making their husbands' lives utterly miserable. Poor Murphy had the misfortune of meeting and marrying the latter type of female.
When Aileen O'Flaherty moved to the village from Dublin after the death of her husband, the men of County Cork, both single and married, took notice. With long auburn hair, dazzling emerald eyes and a fine figure, the pretty colleen could steal a man's heart with little effort. There was not an eligible lad in the entire county who, if given the chance, would not take Aileen as a wife. Yet it was Murphy, nearly thirty years her senior, to whom the young widow apparently took a liking.
"Murphy is a fine man," Aileen's brother-in-law contended, "but he's old enough to be her father. Why doesn't she take a fancy to one of the Donnelly boys? They're all young, handsome, hard-working lads."
His wife, Meara, rolled her eyes at her husband's naivety. She knew exactly why her sister went to the Gaeilge Pub every night to flirt with the owner: Murphy was one of the richest men in the county, second only to Lord Wickersham, the absentee British landlord.
"If poor Murphy knows what's good for him, he'll send my sister packing, for he'll get nothing but trouble if he doesn't. You mark my words!"
Perhaps someone should have warned the publican, but no one did. Three months after Aileen arrived in County Cork, she married Murphy in a small ceremony at St. Brigit's Church. Afterwards, there was a celebration at the Gaeilge, with food, drink and music aplenty. Murphy took his usual spot behind the bar while his wife basked in the attention routinely accorded to the bride.
Throughout the day good friends and regular patrons of the pub patted the owner on the back in a congratulatory gesture.
"Go n-éirí an t-ádh leat! Ádh mór ort!" they wished him luck in Gaelic.
Murphy graciously thanked them all and kept pouring free drinks and handing out free food.
Meara had mixed feelings about her sister's marriage. On one hand, she was relieved to see her sister move out of her house. The two siblings had never gotten along, and Meara had only offered her sister a roof over her head because it was the Christian thing to do. On the other hand, she hated to see Aileen take advantage of a good man like Murphy.
"As I said before," she whispered in her husband's ear so no one would overhear, "the poor man will rue the day he married my sister."
* * *
Despite Meara's dire predictions, Murphy was happy with his bride. Ironically, it was Aileen who regretted her choice of husband. Murphy, she soon learned, was a strong-willed man who was not about to let a woman—no matter how young and pretty—dictate his actions. In spite of his wife's tears, angry tirades and attempts to persuade him with her charms, Murphy would not budge an inch.
"I hate it here!" Aileen often sobbed. "You have plenty of money, and if you sold this pub, you'd have plenty more. We can buy a fine house in Dublin or, better yet, London."
"I like it right here," Murphy stubbornly insisted. "I've lived here all my life, and this is where I plan to die."
Aileen was nothing if not persistent. Day after day she hounded and nagged her husband, often belittling him in front of his customers.
"I never dreamed that when I married you I'd be condemning myself to living with a boring old man in this god-awful place."
To her, the peaceful, scenic Irish village was a bucolic purgatory. Yet despite his wife's displeasure, Murphy remained adamant. He had no intention of moving to a more cosmopolitan area. County Cork was his home, and the Gaeilge Pub was his life.
The rift that developed in the marriage was apparent to everyone who came into contact with the couple. Public opinion naturally sided with Murphy. Although the men of County Cork still envied him having such a good-looking young wife, they also sympathized with him for having to put up with her shrewish temperament.
"Let her holler and curse all she wants," Murphy would say good-naturedly. "It doesn't bother me one damned bit."
"But how can you put up with it?" a friend once asked.
"Because she's a good wife despite all her whining and caterwauling. She cooks my meals and warms my bed at night. What more could a man ask for?"
"A little peace and quiet, for one thing."
Murphy laughed.
"I'll have plenty of that when I'm in the grave."
His friend shook his head, thinking that with Aileen's constant nagging, Murphy would be in his grave sooner than the good lord intended.
Murphy took a damp towel and wiped the bar clean.
"I know people in the county are talking about me and Aileen," he said, "and I know what they're saying. They think my wife is a heartless, money-grubbing shrew and that I'm an old fool so blinded by love that I can't see past the end of my nose."
His friend made no denial, for what Murphy claimed was essentially true.
"They've got it all wrong," Murphy declared with a mischievous wink. "My wife hasn't got the better of me. You wait and see." Then he added cryptically, "What goes around comes around, as they say."
* * *
Meara looked at her brother-in-law's face, wiped a tear from her eye and declared, "Poor Murphy! A fine man he was."
"Aye," many of the other mourners echoed.
In accordance with tradition, Meara and some of her neighbors had been called upon to help lay out the body. They washed and shaved Murphy, dressed him and laid him out on his bed. Once the body was prepared, Meara placed a crucifix on his chest and a pair of rosary beads in his hand. Finally, candlesticks were placed near the body and the candles lit.
While the women commenced with crying and keening, two men were chosen to get a coffin while the others brought food, drink and tobacco to the Gaeilge. Both in the pub and in the house, the clocks were stopped and the mirrors turned toward the wall. The fiddle player who had performed at Murphy's wedding now plucked the strings with his bow at the poor man's wake.
The widow, rather than having to put on a brave face for the attendees, had to contain her joy in respect for the dead.
Murphy is gone, she thought with relief. And as his widow, I'll inherit his house, his money and the Gaeilge Pub.
Once the inheritance was in her hand, she would leave County Cork for good. In a month, maybe less, she would be living in London, or perhaps Paris or New York. She did not know exactly how much money her husband was worth or how much she could get for selling the pub, but she assumed it was a great deal. After all, she would not have killed him unless she was going to be amply rewarded for her efforts.
As the wake drew to an end just after midnight, the mourners, in a final tribute and farewell to their friend, raised their glasses and mugs and cried, "To Murphy!"
Although they offered the widow their condolences for her loss, their words were insincere. No one guessed that the former Aileen O'Flaherty had murdered her husband, yet they all believed her sharp tongue had contributed to his death.
"I knew it would come to this," Meara told her husband as they made their way back to their cottage. "Poor Murphy."
It was a sentiment expressed by nearly everyone in County Cork that night.
* * *
Aileen began packing her belongings the day after her husband was laid to rest. With Murphy gone, the pub doors were shut tight and its lights remained off. The widow waited three days for word of the inheritance, but none came. She was about to take matters into her own hand and request an interview with her late husband's solicitor, when she received a visit from the local police.
The detective came right to the point, taking Aileen by surprise.
"We're here to arrest you for the murder of your husband."
The startled young woman had no believable story prepared.
"I ... I ... didn't kill him," she stammered.
"Murphy was poisoned, and the empty bottle was found in your dresser drawer."
"But I had no reason to kill my husband."
"You were the sole heir to his estate. With Murphy dead, you stood to inherit more than a million pounds."
"A million?"
The amount was staggering. Aileen had no idea Murphy was worth that much money.
"Furthermore," the detective continued, "we were informed by many of your late husband's friends and business acquaintances that the two of you fought on numerous occasions."
Aileen was speechless. Even after she was placed under arrest and taken off to prison, the pretty two-time widow had nothing to say in her own defense.
* * *
The barrister looked at his client, his face grim, his eyes harbingers of doom.
"It doesn't look good," he announced.
Hearing these words, Aileen's usual rosy complexion paled considerably.
"You must do something," she sobbed, on the verge of hysteria. "I'd sooner die than spend the rest of my life in prison."
The lawyer raised his hands in resignation. There was nothing he could do.
When Aileen walked into the courtroom the following day, she was a changed woman. Her head, normally held high, was cast down in defeat, her eyes deliberately avoiding the triumphant stares of the spectators in the courtroom.
The prosecution's case began with several witnesses testifying to the widow's unhappiness with her marriage and her oft-repeated desire to live in a fine home in London. Murphy's housekeeper was then called to the stand to tell how she discovered the empty bottle of poison in Aileen's dresser drawer. The prosecutor saved the most damning testimony for last: the coroner's explanation of the cause of death.
After the physician was sworn in, the prosecutor instructed him to tell the court what brought about the death of the defendant's husband. The coroner confirmed that Murphy was poisoned, that he had been a victim of foul play. When he made his pronouncement, many of the people in the courtroom turned and glared at Aileen, who lowered her eyes to avoid the contempt in their faces. But at the doctor's closing comments, her head raised with a snap.
"The deceased was murdered," the coroner concluded, "which makes his passing all the more tragic because he would have died within six months anyway."
A murmur traveled through the courtroom.
"What do you mean?" the prosecutor asked.
"The man was terminally ill. As you may be aware, in addition to serving as coroner, I have a private medical practice. Murphy came to see me several months ago, and I gave him my prognosis at that time."
"Do you know, Doctor, if the deceased ever told his wife of his condition?"
"I doubt it. He gave me strict instructions not to tell Mrs. Murphy. He said he didn't want to worry her, but I suspect his real motive was that he didn't want her to pity him."
In the face of the prosecution's strong case, Aileen's lawyer was unable to convince the jury of his client's innocence. When the verdict was read, the spectators expected the accused to either angrily deny her guilt or to collapse in tears and beg the jury for mercy. Her reaction, therefore, took everyone by surprise: when Aileen was pronounced guilty of her husband's murder, a smile appeared on her face. The smile was followed by a girlish giggle and then by uproarious laughter.
It's quite a joke, she thought.
She had risked all and murdered her husband to get his fortune, when all she had to do was wait six months for nature to take its course.
* * *
Meara and her husband purchased the Gaeilge Pub from the dead man's estate and reopened it under the name Poor Murphy's. Since the fare changed very little under the new owners, the people of County Cork continued to frequent the establishment, where from time to time patrons claimed to have seen the smiling ghost of the dead publican standing behind the bar he had loved so much.
Meanwhile, the widow and convicted killer was serving her life sentence in an insane asylum rather than a prison. Her auburn hair had turned a premature white, and her emerald eyes were void of all expression. Although she had inherited Murphy's money and was the richest woman in County Cork, she would never enjoy a shilling of her ill-gotten gains. For Aileen Murphy would never be released. She would grow old and die within the imposing stone edifice of the asylum. The remainder of her life might just as well have been an ongoing wake with the clocks forever stopped and the mirrors permanently turned toward the wall.
Salem likes to visit the Irish pubs in Boston--for both the Guinness and the music of the Dropkick Murphys.
