The Convictions of John Delahunt (19 page)

About an hour after midnight, Kavanagh announced that he was locking up. I was the first of the stragglers to make my way to the door, which was wedged in its frame, warped by the heat of the fireplace and the cold outside. On Gardiner Street, a breeze whistled down the hill towards the river. I set off for home, stepping gingerly between frosty patches on the path. A hansom cab came towards me. The cabbie was wrapped in an oilskin coat, and the wide, soft brim of his hat was pulled down on both sides by strings that tied beneath his chin in a slipknot. He slowed as he drew near, but when I made no motion to hail him, he carried on.

A few others had left the pub. Two of them stopped the cab and climbed aboard. Domenico had also emerged. He stepped out to cross the street towards a church further up the hill, but had to pause to allow the hansom cab to pass by.

He was being followed by Cooney, and I stopped in order to observe. By the time Domenico reached the opposite pavement he must have heard footsteps, for he turned to face his pursuer. They stood near the entrance of a stable-lane – one of those lanes that appears as an archway in the terrace with windows above, as if it had been tunnelled through someone’s front parlour. Domenico lifted his hands with his palms held out, before Cooney grabbed his lapel, and forced him backwards and out of sight.

Faint sounds drifted on the cold street, but they may have been tricks of the wind, or the remote rumble of carriages.

In less than a minute, Cooney came back out alone. He stuffed something inside his coat as he turned north towards the junction with Dorset Street. Domenico should have emerged soon after, shaken and bloodied perhaps, but a couple of minutes passed, and there was still no sign of him.

The houses at that end of Gardiner Street were newly built and mostly unoccupied, though a few cracks of light could be seen in the shuttered windows. A street lamp close to the entrance of the stable-lane cast a diagonal shadow across its mouth, the edge of the darkness made jagged where it scaled pieces of rubbish, or dipped into the contour of a dry pothole.

Domenico was slumped against the wall near the back entrance of the tunnel, as it emerged into the open stable-lane at the rear of the houses on Mountjoy Square. His head came up. Blood dripped from his upper lip into the mud. His left eye had already begun to close over and his face had become discoloured, though bruises hadn’t yet formed. He slowly leaned his head to the side as if he was going to be sick, then spat on to the cold dirt beside him. With his head still bowed he said, ‘The man at the bar.’

He refused to take my handkerchief, and flinched when I wiped the blood and grime from his chin.

Under his coat, Domenico’s grey flannel shirt was darkened by blood, as if he’d been stabbed, but the cut was only to his hand. When held towards the street light, a neat slice could be seen on his bloody palm, bisecting the life-line. It had created a fold of skin that looked as if it could open and close like the lip of an envelope. His fingers were slender and grubby; the thumbnail was particularly long and cut square.

I used my handkerchief to clean the wound, then I tied it tightly over his knuckles. Domenico’s whole body began to shiver. He was in danger of losing consciousness, and once or twice his head perked up, like a gentleman dozing over a book.

‘Angelo is going to kill me,’ he said. ‘All our money was in the wallet, everything we saved for more than a month.’ It also contained travel documents and letters of introduction to an Italian businessman in London. He took a deep breath and rubbed his uninjured hand over his forehead. ‘We’ll never get them back.’

‘There are people in Dublin Castle who can help. As long as Cooney doesn’t destroy the letters, the police will be able to retrieve them, and probably most of the money.’

He kept his head bowed. ‘The police won’t care.’

I said there was one department that cared about everything. Once a report was made, it could be arranged for Cooney to be arrested and his home searched.

He rolled his head and squinted through his good eye. ‘I thought you were just a …’ and then a word in Italian.

‘Tell me what happened.’

Domenico now sat with his back to the wall and his knees gathered up. His head bent forwards in the crook of his elbow. ‘When I left the pub I wanted to see if the doors of the church were still open, but the man followed me.’ He looked towards the mouth of the tunnel. ‘There was a knife in his hand. He said he was going to take my wallet and pushed me into the alley.’

The information was probably worth a few shillings. It was no doubt a violent crime, but Domenico was correct – the authorities wouldn’t care much about the mugging of a foreigner.

‘I tried to tell him there was no money, only personal stuff, and he got angry.’

There wouldn’t be much call for a file on the tinker Cooney either, a penniless drunk who lived beyond the city limits.

‘He kept telling me to hand it over. He said other things but I couldn’t understand his accent. I still said no, so he punched me.’

Domenico was still shivering. The blows he had taken to the face began to show as bruises. If he got sick and died, then maybe the information against Cooney would be worth more.

‘He hit me three times, more while I was on the ground. I asked him to stop. He came at me with the knife. I thought he was going to kill me.’

If no one had come, then he would have lain here until he lost consciousness. It was already an hour past midnight. Another hour or two in the elements and he’d freeze to death. The enclosed laneway was a lonely spot. Cold air funnelled past its cheap grey bricks, vaulted ceiling and uneven ground. Unless someone walked through directly, he wouldn’t be spotted until morning. And if he died out here, then Cooney would be liable for murder.

‘But he only began to hack at my belt. I tried to stop him. He said if I made a noise he would cut my throat.’

Information for a murderer would bring forty pounds. Enough money to last half a year.

At the bottom of the wall, the mortar around some of the bricks had become rotten. One brick in particular rocked back and forth like a loose tooth. It was damp to the touch, and pieces of it fell away as I took it out.

I tried to judge the brick’s heft.

‘He cut the belt, then took the wallet and walked away. He didn’t say anything else. I just lay here.’ He looked up at me. ‘And then you came.’

When I brought the brick down on his head it broke apart like a clod of earth. It made a sound that I often hear in this place: the rhythmic crumbling impacts that drift from the stone-breakers’ yard. Tiny pieces slipped down into the dark creases of his clothes, and the finest particles clung to his hair as if he wore a powdered wig. He slumped forward and to the side. For a moment he was still, lying face down. I allowed the last fragments of the brick to sift through my fingers.

The strike hadn’t been hard enough. He stirred and began to crawl towards the lane’s entrance to Gardiner Street. I knelt back down at the wall, but the other bricks were set fast, so I picked through the rubbish that was strewn about the laneway. My eyes fell upon a brown, empty whiskey bottle.

I glanced up. Domenico had managed to get close to the point where light from the street entered the lane. I closed on him and took up both of his legs by the ankles. With shuffling steps, I dragged him back into the middle of the alley as if he was a wheelbarrow. His hooked fingers could find no purchase in the ground.

I picked up the bottle by its neck, held my left arm across my eyes and swung it against the wall. A hollow peal rang out in the tunnel and my arm recoiled as the bottle bounced back, completely intact. If I had been launching a ship it would have been cursed. I swung again, with enough force that the glass shattered. Shards went everywhere. The broken neck was left in my hand but it had no sharp edge. I bent down and felt about for a large enough piece. Domenico had resumed his crawl towards the street and I had to keep glancing over my shoulder to check on his progress. Each flake of glass was too small, or the edge too dull. At one point I found two shards containing parts of the whiskey label, which fitted together like pieces of a jigsaw.

My hand fell upon the smooth round disc of the bottle’s base. It had a slight concave bump which was easy to grip, and a long fragment of the bottle’s side still attached. I touched its edge, which was sharp like a knapped piece of flint.

I’ve often wondered what went through Domenico’s head that night. First, to be set upon in a strange city, beaten and robbed and left for dead. Perhaps he prayed for someone to find him, to somehow stumble across him in the small hours. And those prayers were answered. He was revived. His wounds were bound. Not only that, he was told that justice would be done; that his possessions would be returned and his robber punished. Then the brick came down. Was he trying to think what had he done as he crawled away? What had he said to make me turn against him? He died not knowing.

I re-entered the street and stopped beneath a gas-lamp to examine the blood that covered my right hand. I rubbed the fluid between my thumb and forefingers, as if testing its thickness.

Domenico had been walking towards the Church of St Francis Xavier before Cooney stopped him. It was a little farther up the street and fronted right on to the pavement. Behind the railings, four large columns supported a triangular pediment, which covered a shadowy portico.

A marble font of holy water stood adjacent to the entrance, and a fragile pane of ice had formed on its surface. It broke apart as I pushed my hand through. Red tendrils expanded in the water like tea leaves in a cup. The cold was unbearable. I examined my hands, saw a scarlet tinge between my fingers, and beneath my nails, and plunged them back in to scrub again. The water rolled and fell from the rim of the font to splash upon the flagstones.

When all trace was gone, I dried my hands against my trousers, then dug them into my coat pockets, balling my fists to try and get the blood flowing. I set off towards Grenville Street. My hands began to cause me some concern. They had become painful; patches of skin had begun to itch and I wondered if I was suffering from frost-nip. I blew on them and rubbed them together. It was odd to see my fingers writhe over each other while numb to any feeling, as if they belonged to someone else.

A carriage approached from behind. As it bore down, the clatter of hooves grew louder and I considered ducking into an arched doorway. But I would attract far less attention by continuing to walk normally. Cooney was the killer. At this stage it didn’t matter if I was spotted on the street, for how else could I have been a witness to his crime? Still, I had an uncomfortable sensation as the carriage drew near, like a drop of water rolling beneath my collar. The driver pushed the horses, and I feared the din would wake the entire street. I couldn’t help but turn my head as the carriage trundled by, like an actor delivering an aside.

In Grenville Street, I glanced up at the garret where the Italians were living. The shutters were open and a faint light flickered in the window. Then a shadow moved across the glass and I looked away. Was Angelo surveying the street? He would have known that the pub had been closed for more than half an hour.

I hurried up the steps of number six, fumbling in my waistcoat for the front-door key. My fingers were so cold they could hardly function. I glanced over my shoulder, and saw a dark figure outlined in the top-floor window across the street. The key slipped from my hand and chimed on the granite step. I swept it up and stuck it in the keyhole. I looked back again. The figure hadn’t moved, but then I realized it was only a shirt hanging against the window frame. I finally managed to grip the key properly, and turn it with a clunk. I pushed through the door and swung it shut, catching the handle just in time so it wouldn’t slam, then leaned against the frame and listened to my own heavy breathing in the pitch-black hallway.

Helen had placed more coal on the fire before she went to sleep, so the room would be warm when I returned from the pub. The embers provided a scant light. I entered as quietly as I could. A few loose pages remained on her writing desk, together with an opened inkpot. The floorboards creaked as I passed the bed, but she didn’t stir. I knelt at the hearth, removed the guard and held my hands close to the cinders. I could feel my fingers begin to thaw, and had to pull them back when the heat became too great. The glow from the fire made my hands look red, and I checked more closely to ensure they were clean.

How should a man react to witnessing a murder? He would go to the police, of course, but on a cold night such as this he could be forgiven for stopping off at home first. Would he shake his wife awake and tell her what happened? I looked over at Helen in the bed. Her sleeping face was visible over the covers, her mouth agape and crooked, snoring softly.

Perhaps he’d cross the street and bang on the door of the victim’s only friend, rouse the household, move past candlelit figures in the hallway wearing nightclothes, seek out Angelo and tell him the terrible news?

I recalled my first payment from the Castle, and how I’d lost out on thirty pounds when I told on Captain Craddock’s killers a day too early. What was it Devereaux said?
The information you collect is precious
. I’d let Domenico be found in the morning, and the police investigation begin. Let them flounder for a couple of days. Only then would I go to Fownes Street and make my report.

The problem was what to tell Helen. She would be upset at the young man’s death and insist I tell Angelo what I knew straight away. I moved to the bedside and brushed a lock that had fallen over her eye. News of the killing was going to cause a sensation in these streets over the next few days, and I would have to pretend to her I knew nothing of it. I ran my hand down her cheek. Once the money arrived she would forgive me. I curled my finger and lifted her chin to close her mouth. In her sleep, she moved her head away from my cold touch.

What would be the best way to describe Cooney’s attack to the authorities? The more detailed my account, the more I was leaving myself open to awkward questions. Such as why I didn’t intervene; why did I not check on the boy when I saw Cooney leave the alleyway alone; and if I did, why not report the murder straight away? I fetched a tumbler and dipped it in the drinking cask. Somehow, I had to report the fact that Domenico’s purse was stolen from his belt. If the wallet or any items within it were found on or about Cooney, then my report would be confirmed as the key piece of evidence, and the reward would follow. I knew about the contents of the purse – the money and letters of introduction – but I couldn’t admit to it, since I gleaned that information by interviewing the victim.