A June of Ordinary Murders (16 page)

‘I'll think about it again,' he said, placing his free hand on hers. ‘I know I said that before. And I know that you've been very patient about things. But I have to follow this case at least to the point where I can see if it can be cleared up. Something like this can't just be put away in a file and forgotten about.'

She sighed and stood from the dining table.

‘I know you so well by now and I can see that you're burdened. I don't see the same spark, the same enthusiasm that I saw even a year ago. You'll do your duty and that's one of the reasons I love you and respect you. But I ask you, please don't make the mistake of thinking that you can forever put off choosing.'

Later, they walked from Grant's to Christ Church, down the dropping curve of Fishamble Street to Wood Quay and across the river by way of Essex Bridge.

In Christ Church yard a platoon of schoolchildren carrying Union flags picked their way around the headstones and memorials. A young teacher, her features hidden under her parasol, was calling out a narrative about the Viking kings and Norman knights whose bones lay underfoot.

Dublin was usually quiet on a Sunday afternoon, but on this particular day there was an incipient sense of fiesta. Red, white and blue bunting hung from the lighting standards. Shop windows were decorated with photographs of the Monarch and her deceased consort, Prince Albert. Many of the more prominent business houses hung out floral decorations and wreaths.

They had to step nimbly to the pavement crossing Wood Quay to avoid a cycling party of young men and women, seven or eight in all, laughing and calling to each other on their safety bicycles. The women wore colourful summer hats decorated with flowers and ribbons, and the young men sported blue and white blazers. Swallow guessed they were bound for a garden party or something such, perhaps at one of the boat clubs along the Liffey at Islandbridge.

There was time to put down in the afternoon before the opening of the exhibition at the Royal Hibernian Academy.

They took a tram to Sandymount to get the cooling benefit of the sea air as a relief from the heat of the city. They walked far out across the wide, rippled sand almost to the water's edge. There was white foam and strong-smelling seaweed on the low tide.

Across the bay, the coastline of Sutton and Howth reminded Swallow of a Mediterranean scene by Monet. He had never seen the original, of course, but he knew a colour plate copy that hung in the grill room in Jury's Hotel.

Swallow was conscious of his increasing tendency to frame everyday scenes within his artistic experience. He found himself relating people and events to the images he absorbed in the galleries or in books. It was a soothing indulgence, but sometimes he worried. Was it healthy? Could it signify some sort of retreat from reality?

They made their way back to the city centre on the same tram, crowded on the upper deck with joyful, shrieking children and tired parents, returning from the fun of paddling in the sea or sitting in the sun.

The Royal Hibernian Academy on Lower Abbey Street was alive with activity by the time they got there. Suited gentlemen and ladies in bright summer dresses and colourful hats climbed down from carriages at the steps of the building, where they were greeted by a frock-coated official. A splash of red and gold among the crowd signalled the presence of army officers with their ladies.

Three or four constables stood a few feet from the door, eyes scanning the visitors and a small crowd of onlookers that had gathered. Some notables were to attend the opening, Swallow reckoned. There was always the nuisance of beggars from the nearby tenement streets to be dealt with.

One of the constables recognised Swallow and nodded a wordless acknowledgement. As a security precaution, G-Division detectives were not saluted in public. It always struck Swallow as pointless since every G-man's face was well known to the capital's miscreants.

The strains of a string quartet floated through the open door into the warm evening air. Swallow nodded back to the policemen and steered Maria into the foyer behind the frock-coat, nimbly lifting two glasses of Hock from the tray held by a waiter inside the door.

He knew that the main exhibition would be in the extension at the back of the building. Wineglass in hand, he negotiated a path for them both through the crowded ante-hall towards the high-ceilinged room where Miss Purcell's most recent paintings were hanging.

As he led Maria in, elbowing his way through the guests, there was a faint cheering and clapping from the front door occasioned by the arrival of the dignitaries. Two well-dressed men, both wearing the silk top hats that were the definitive mark of position, were flanked by officials of the Academy, clearing a pathway through the crowd.

He recognised the taller of the two. He was perhaps 50 years of age with dark hair turning to grey. He was well-featured, clean-shaven apart from a dark moustache, with a pleasant smile and the easy, confident carriage of a man who considers himself safe against the world. It was Thomas Fitzpatrick, a senior nationalist Alderman of the City Corporation.

The Dublin Corporation was long wrested from the traditional control of the Protestant business classes. As senior Alderman, Fitzpatrick was in line to become Lord Mayor. He was reputed to be one of the wealthiest Catholic businessmen in Dublin. Swallow had read somewhere in a popular newspaper that, although various Dublin matrons had sought to match him over the years with their daughters, he had remained unmarried.

Swallow had never met Thomas Fitzpatrick or spoken to him, but when threats had been made against his life by a Fenian splinter group he had done protection duty at his house on Merrion Square.

Fitzpatrick's wealth was inherited. Swallow knew that his late father had built a fortune exporting Irish cattle to feed Her Majesty's forces overseas.

Fitzpatrick senior had been one of the earliest of his faith and political persuasion in Dublin to achieve significant wealth. His son followed in his footsteps into business and politics. He was a director of the largest cattle-exporting company in Ireland as well as sitting on the boards of half a dozen other leading commercial companies, including newspapers, hotels and retail stores.

Thomas Fitzpatrick was also a patron of the arts. He had contributed to the city's cultural institutions such as the National Museum and the National Gallery.

The second man was younger, with a neatly trimmed beard, shorter in height and somewhat overweight. Swallow recognised him as Howard Smith Berry, the Assistant Under-Secretary, assigned to the Castle from London a year ago with responsibility for security. Swallow had never met him either, even though he had seen him on occasions when business brought him to the Castle's Upper Yard.

Knowledgeable Castle officials understood him to be more influential even than his immediate boss, Sir Redvers Henry Buller, the Under-Secretary. It was said that he was considered a shade too sympathetic to the Irish National League by the government at Westminster. Security issues were now paramount. The Security Secretary, as his title was abbreviated, was pre-eminent in influence among the Castle bureaucrats.

He led Maria through to the main exhibition. Taking two catalogues from a stand, he gave one to Maria and started a circumnavigation of the room.

Miss Purcell specialised in portraits of the aristocracy and persons prominent in the administration. It was said that she could command an astonishing 50 guineas for a commission. Swallow recognised the framed features of a judge before whom he had once given evidence. There were images of military men and aristocratic-looking women in the adjoining frames.

Stopping in front of the image of a robed and mitred archbishop, he thought ruefully of his own amateur dabblings on leave days. With practice, he would improve on his seascapes and still life, he knew. But to capture a human face so perfectly, with the character and the soul shining through, was a talent to which he knew he could never aspire.

‘I'll wager that this is a good deal more pleasant than crime work,' a bantering voice said beside him.

It was the
Evening Telegraph
reporter, Simon Sweeney. He was turned out for the warm evening in a smart, lightweight suit, a silver-topped cane in one hand and copy of the exhibition catalogue in the other.

‘Mr Sweeney,' Swallow acknowledged the greeting. ‘You'll have to understand that policemen can have an artistic side too. I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine, Mrs Walsh.'

Maria smiled when Sweeney bowed. ‘I'm enchanted,' he said, ‘and very glad to see that a hard-working detective can have such delightful company on an occasion like this.'

He turned back to Swallow. ‘I wouldn't doubt that you had an artistic side, Sergeant. But until you introduced me to the charming Mrs Walsh, I thought you might be on duty, what with the day that's in it and the presence of these important dignitaries.' He gestured with his catalogue towards the party of guests now advancing across the lobby.

‘I'm here to discharge a family commitment,' Swallow answered. ‘But as it happens, I do admire Miss Purcell's work.'

‘And what about you, Mr Sweeney?' Maria asked pleasantly. ‘Are you a man who appreciates the arts?'

Sweeney smiled self-deprecatingly.

‘I'm a bit like Sergeant Swallow, Mrs Walsh. I'm just an admirer. But in fact I'm working here this evening. I'm a member of a species that Mr Swallow doesn't much approve of, the press that is. I have to cover Alderman Fitzpatrick's speech. Then I go on to a dinner being given by the Lord Mayor for Mr Parnell at the Mansion House. The press has to provide a full record of public events.'

Swallow could not resist the opportunity for gentle retaliation.

‘Well, I guess the Lord Mayor's dinner will be a good deal more pleasant than visiting crime scenes at dawn.'

‘You shouldn't misunderstand, Sergeant. Journalists work hard at these events. What people like Fitzpatrick say at this time can have consequences. It's not more than a few months since the whole balance of power at Westminster rested on the Irish members. And who knows when that might be so again? Misquote one of the politicians or miss an important point in what they say and your head is on the editor's chopping block.'

‘With any luck the speeches mightn't be too lengthy,' Swallow ventured hopefully, ‘and we can all enjoy the exhibition. I doubt that this is an occasion for making important political statements.'

‘I wouldn't be optimistic,' Sweeney grinned. ‘It's going to be a week of long speeches. I imagine the police will be at full stretch too. Speaking of which, that's an extraordinary development in the Chapelizod Gate inquiry. How on earth did you take a dead woman for a dead man?'

Swallow felt himself growing irritated. ‘I'm not really going to discuss that with you here. Not in the presence of a lady. You can use your own imagination.'

Sweeney looked concerned for a moment.

‘Of course. I apologise, Mrs Walsh. That was very thoughtless of me.'

He turned back to Swallow. ‘So has there been any progress on the cases? The whole city seems to be terrified. We heard that the Lord Lieutenant has asked for extra protection at the Viceregal Lodge because Lady Londonderry and her ladies are in mortal fear.'

‘You can inquire of course, Mr Sweeney, but I can't tell you anything,' Swallow retorted. ‘And if there's extra protection being put on at the Viceregal Lodge I wouldn't know about it.'

‘Joe, over here.' He heard his name being called by a woman's voice from across the room. ‘Joe, Maria, hello.'

It took him a moment to realise that the smart-looking lady in the green summer dress calling his name was Harriet. He had to adjust from the childhood image of his younger sister to that of a 21-year-old, grown woman.

Harriet was waving from beside a window giving out onto the rear of the building. Swallow saw that she was with a group of four or five young people, all talking animatedly, wineglasses in hand.

‘Will you excuse us, Mr Sweeney,' he said. ‘Mrs Walsh and I have to meet someone.'

They crossed to where Harriet stood. She kissed them both on the cheeks and greeted them in Irish.

‘
Dia daoibh, tá súil agam go bhfuil sibh go maith.
'

Swallow hoped his irritation did not show. He disliked the conceit that was becoming commonplace with Irish nationalists of greeting others in a language that they could not understand.

When neither he nor Maria responded, Harriet said tersely, ‘It means ‘God be with you both. I hope you're keeping well.'

She turned to her companions. ‘I'd like to introduce you to my brother, Joseph, and to his friend, Mrs Maria Walsh.'

Swallow was relieved that at least she had the wit on this occasion not to use what she claimed was the Irish language form of his name. When she introduced him previously as ‘
Seosamh
' he had been angry.

She smiled at Swallow and Maria.

‘I'm very glad you could come. Now, I'd like you to meet my friends.' Harriet nodded to two young men. ‘This is Mr John Horan and I believe you have met Mr James –
Seamus
– O'Donnell already.'

Swallow recognised O'Donnell as the young man he had encountered previously with Harriet in the coffee shop. He was perhaps 24 or 25 years of age, not tall, slightly built, with a full, dark moustache and prematurely thinning hair. His suit was damp with perspiration from the heat of the crowded room.

There were polite nods from the two men and more greetings in Irish.

‘I'm sorry I didn't get to call yesterday as I had hoped,' Swallow told Harriet. ‘I'm involved in a serious investigation and I had to drop everything else. But what I really want to know is how did the examinations go?'

‘Oh, they were fine, Joe. It wasn't pleasant being locked indoors with this wonderful weather outside.' Harriet grimaced. ‘I read about those dreadful murders at the Chapelizod Gate and I knew you were involved in the inquiry. Your name was in the newspaper.'