The Convictions of John Delahunt (7 page)

He took a sip, then returned his cup to the saucer with a clink. ‘There is something I have to tell you, though.’ He passed me the newspaper. ‘Did you see this?’ he said, pointing to a column in the corner.

It was that morning’s
Dublin Gazette
. The article announced the death of Captain Craddock from his injuries in the early hours two days ago. It said the case was now a murder investigation. The main thrust of the article was to denounce the despicable electoral tactics of the Repealers, but it ended by saying the police were on the cusp of making arrests.

Two mornings ago. I looked at Devereaux. ‘You knew he was dead when I spoke to you.’

‘If you’d only waited another day, the reward would have been increased to fifty pounds. You’d been too eager. You couldn’t wait to tell, and it should be a lesson. The information you collect is precious.’

‘Why didn’t you let me know?’

It had been Sibthorpe’s decision. That was why he had gone to fetch him early in the interview. ‘If it had been up to me, I’d have filled you in, arranged to split the extra thirty.’ He took the newspaper back and wedged it beneath his saucer. ‘But you don’t cross Sibthorpe.’

A waiter came over and asked me if I wanted anything. I shook my head without looking at him.

‘We’d been preparing to announce Craddock’s murder on the morning you arrived.’ He said the Castle had a printing press in the basement of the barracks for its own proclamations, confiscated from some underground newspaper back in the twenties. ‘After you left I had to rush down and tell the operator. He had already cranked out a hundred bills announcing the new reward.’ The printer was sorely disappointed because he had acquired a new typeface to spell out ‘Murder’ in huge Gothic capitals, and was looking forward to seeing the results posted in the city.

Devereaux seemed to think I’d find this amusing, and he chuckled into his cup, but the laugh died in the silence between us. After a moment, he began a slow thoughtful nod.

‘Murder,’ he said. ‘That’s where the money is.’

The key Helen gave me was poorly cut, and tended to jam in the wrought-iron gates of Merrion Park. Muttered oaths and whitened knuckles were of no avail. It required some finesse, gradually increasing pressure with a faint waggling until the bolt released with a satisfying thud. For some reason it was always much easier to relock. I would spot Helen walking alone and fall into step beside her, tipping my hat as if I had stumbled across an old acquaintance. The start of May was warm, as it always seems to be in the weeks before examinations, and the cut of Helen’s dresses loosened and the necklines lowered. She no longer wore headgear, and her mousy hair shone lustrous or lank, depending on when she last bathed.

The enclosed paths were well trod, and not suitable for open conversation or displays of affection. When a path cleared, Helen was emboldened, closing the space between us to take my hand, which I would shake off at the sound of voices or footfall.

One afternoon she spotted a gap in the undergrowth, which barely concealed a disused trail. Without a word she disappeared along it, and I had little option but to follow. After a few yards it emerged into a grove, unkempt and overgrown. The main paths of the garden skirted close by, but were hidden by trees and thickets. The small space was wreathed by the limbs of elms and willows, its floor covered in uncut grass, not too tall because of the shade, all dotted with wildflowers. An old bench with black iron legs and green wooden slats sat beneath the awning.

Helen was delighted at the discovery. She walked into its centre and playfully twirled once with her arms outstretched. She looked towards me with a smile so open that I knew: if ever there was a moment to march over, cup her face in my hands, lean in and let her lift her chin to seal the kiss, it was now.

‘I don’t think we’re allowed in here.’

Her shoulders sank and she said I worried too much.

Over a number of weeks we would meet at that spot. Its seclusion meant we could arrive and depart separately, converse freely. Helen always spoke at length, and I wondered how she thought of so much to say. I believe what she valued in me most was my acceptance of ideas others thought eccentric or improper. She would describe to me her dread at the life that had been set out for her – the monotony of afternoons in the salons of respectable women, all creativity and spontaneity withering in restrictive dress and stifling air. She was adamant that she wouldn’t be married off against her will, to some ageing rector with creeping fingers, or some preening soldier with thick fists. She admitted she had no intention of ever bearing children; she could not abide their clinging and mewling. Perhaps others tried to dissuade her from these notions, but to me they seemed perfectly reasonable. I think she mistook my indifference for approval, or at least understanding, and it seemed to give her comfort.

When she spoke, her thoughts would play on her face, and I’d note each detail: the way her eyelids would widen or narrow or languidly blink, the small quaver in her throat, and the motion of her lips as the words were formed – they hardly required any movement at all. Once, I was so absorbed that I failed to notice she had stopped speaking, and was regarding me coolly.

She said, ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I do completely.’

I wasn’t put off by her taste in literature, which tended towards the Gothic and fantastic; I even read some titles she recommended – though I didn’t finish them. She in turn was intrigued by what I studied, so I lent her some volumes on natural philosophy. I remember she asked for them tentatively, as if scared I would refuse or scorn her request. It never occurred to me that she might not understand the contents, or that the knowledge would be wasted on her.

Whenever I spoke, it was about Cecilia’s marriage, or my father’s health, or my prospects after college. While caressing my hand, she noticed my little finger wouldn’t bend at the middle knuckle, and I told her of the time it was injured, when I fell from the banister of our nursery in Fitzwilliam Street.

One afternoon, thick clouds darkened the grove, squalls shook drops loose from the canopy, which fell through the leaves in an arrhythmic patter, and Helen confessed that she loved me. I considered my response. I had never before had a companion like her, but still I remained reticent. During our next few meetings she repeated her declaration. The fact that I had not yet said I loved her in return didn’t escape her notice, and she pointed it out.

I said I’d soon rectify that.

We had been leaning back on the bench, her head in the hollow of my shoulder. She sat up and turned to look at me.

‘Say it now.’

I regarded her face: an anxious pout and eyes serious like a scolded child. It wasn’t particularly becoming. ‘I love you. Helen.’

She considered for a moment, then her eyes softened and she leaned back against me. If she’d but given me a moment I would have artfully worked it into the conversation.

Neither of us proposed to the other. Instead, our conversations turned to the kind of life we could lead if we remained together, and soon the idea that we would be married became a given. My twenty-first birthday was at hand, but Helen’s was still two years distant – she celebrated it during my trial. If she married before then, we would require the consent of her parents.

After one such discussion, Helen said, ‘You know, if we took the boat to Scotland, we could marry without their say-so.’

She spoke of it in a matter-of-fact fashion, not as some romantic notion to elope. Still, I was quick to discourage the idea. We would be much better off seeking the permission of her father, for then her dowry, annuities and legacies would be still forthcoming.

Helen thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘You may be right.’

She reached across and pulled my watch from its fob pocket, checked the time and said she had to return home. ‘Will you be able to come tomorrow?’

‘I can’t. There’s somewhere I have to be.’

‘What is it?’

I took the watch from her hands. ‘Just something for college. I can be here the day after.’

I could see she wanted to enquire further, but instead she leaned over and kissed me. ‘The day after tomorrow then.’

Barristers, litigants and idlers milled in the unwholesome air of the rotunda. The main hall of the Four Courts was a gathering place for every class and rank. Lawyers and their clients huddled in conference, and stole glances across the chamber towards their opponents. Senior fellows meandered from one cause to the next, beset by an array of applicants clamouring for particular notice. One QC exited Common Pleas, flushed from battle, and marched directly into Exchequer, a new client and set of assistants in his wake.

Pallid members of the junior bar stood in small circles, or trudged the hall in pairs, hoping for some manner of professional engagement. I could see in their countenance the melancholy of their unemployment. They were caped and bewigged, their faces sickly and jaded, their hands bereft of briefs, and I wondered at the superior air of legal students I had met in college.

Plaintiffs and defendants from every walk of life commingled. The most alien were the rural petitioners, in their coarse woollen coats and spurred boots. One scraped before his young counsel, and gently unfolded a tattered deed as if he opened a sacred text. The lawyer disdained to read it. He had probably copied out a thousand such leases while a novice, and could recite the clause that meant his client faced eviction.

And all the while there was the din of hurried steps on the marble floor, fervent conversation, tipstaffs bawling out notices from the doorway of each court, all echoing within the dome. The oppressive smell of the throng was made worse by the stink of the Liffey outside. The situation of the courts is so low and marshy, the river saps at its foundations. The great legal edifice is constantly undermined.

I stood apart in an alcove. The trial of Craddock’s killers was imminent, but I wouldn’t be called as a witness. Devereaux had sent word to say that my affidavit was to be considered during the trial; however, I would remain anonymous. His estimation of the defendants was correct. Under questioning, one admitted to the guilt of the whole party, including the third man who was subsequently identified. The Castle was loath to expose an informant if it could be avoided, and the courts tended to acquiesce. So I had come to Inns Quay just out of curiosity, to sit in the gallery and view the final turn of a wheel I had set in motion.

The case was announced and the jury called to the box. Twelve men detached from the crowd and assembled at the entrance to the court. A clerk led them inside. After a few minutes, the doors were opened to the public.

There was an aisle between rows of seats, like pews in a church, leading towards the elevated bench. The high-backed judges’ chairs were still empty. Behind them, a royal insignia was fixed to the wall, beneath a draped half-circular canopy. Barristers and clerks surrounded tables near the front. Some bent and scribbled notes, others leafed through briefs, a few slouched, seemingly indifferent. Many of the benches in the public gallery were sparsely populated, though the first few were filled with the defendants’ loved ones, just like at a wedding, or funeral.

I took a seat near the door and waited for the opening exchanges. Another man joined me. He appeared to be a reporter, judging from his lank hair and somnambulant expression. As he sat down he was breathing heavily, and he looked at me. ‘I thought I was going to miss the start.’

I ignored him. The prisoners sat cuffed together in a box to the right. The two I had identified looked at their families, the one unknown to me regarded his twelve supposed peers who sat in the jury box, which was raised to the same level of the upper-tiered gallery on the left. By their dress it was clear the jurors would never have known the society of the accused, and it’s likely none even professed to the same faith. One of the twelve leaned forward on the edge of the box to survey the court, size up the defendants and their manner, and the demeanour of the respective lawyers. I think I should have liked to have been on a jury once.

An official called for everyone to stand, then barked at those in the galleries to take off their hats. Three judges in wigs and ermine-lined robes emerged from behind a worn green curtain to take their seats on the bench.

The trial wasn’t quite the spectacle I had hoped for. Much of the day was taken up with obsequious exchanges between the barristers and judges, mostly out of earshot. My interest was piqued when the defence counsel brought up the issue of my affidavit, and the legitimacy of an anonymous statement in these proceedings; indeed, the legitimacy of the system by which information was collected in Dublin Castle. A prosecutor pointed out that the statement had been used primarily to secure warrants for arrest, but since it agreed in so many particulars with the confession of one of the defendants, it was in fact a vindication of the methods employed by the authorities. The defence barristers didn’t pursue the matter.

They produced one witness, a pockmarked young woman who lodged with one of the defendants, and stated that he had been home with her throughout the night of the attack on Captain Craddock. However, she was caught in several lies under the examination of the crown prosecutor. He bullied her with questions about her own life, and continually insinuated that she was a prostitute by referring to her as a ‘gay woman’. She left the witness box completely discredited, fixing her questioner with a hate-filled stare.

The journalist leaned towards me. ‘If that is her profession, I’d say her clients get more than they bargain for.’

I didn’t know what he meant.

‘She’s a wasp.’

When I frowned at him he said, ‘You know, she’s infected. She has a sting in her tail.’ He looked up to note another exchange between the barristers.

During the session after lunch, a flash of colour made me notice a man who sat towards the front of the gallery. I could only see the back of his head, and partially the side of his face. But when he turned to whisper something to his neighbour, his yellow cravat peeked out above his collar.