The Eloquence of the Dead (10 page)

 

THIRTEEN

Margaret Gessel decided that in her first month in London she would stay at the Langham Hotel. Facing up Portland Place towards Regent's Park, her third-floor suite was comfortable and spacious. From her sitting-room she had a fine view in one direction along Regent Street and towards Marble Arch in the other.

There was a sense of liberation in leaving Mount Gessel. She was a healthy woman, energetic for her age. She could perhaps begin to enjoy life a little again. There were no more tenants, no more agents, no more armed policemen patrolling the driveway, no more shooting in the night.

But the Langham was expensive. And it seemed to be full of Americans. That was hardly surprising, she told herself, when she learned that the general manager was a former officer of the Union Army who promoted the hotel to his visiting fellow-countrymen as a desirable London address.

Although she had registered as ‘Lady Gessel,' she found that official correspondence, including her weekly account, was addressed to ‘Mrs Gessel.' She complained to an assistant manager, insisting that she should have her title.

‘I am not ‘Mrs Gessel.' I do not know anybody with that name. I am Lady Gessel.' She had demanded that someone in authority should come to her suite.

The assistant manager was young, but he was sufficiently experienced to understand that his only recourse was humility.

‘I do most sincerely apologise, Lady Gessel. The error is unforgivable. A new clerk in the accounts office, you understand.'

‘I do not understand. Do you not train these people?'

‘Of course we do, Milady, but he is quite inexperienced. If I may say so, the title may not be very well known in London. It would not be one with which the accounts staff would be familiar.'

‘Does the name Sir Richard Gessel mean anything to you?' she demanded crossly.

‘Why yes, Milady … of course, I should have realised. We have had the honour of Sir Richard's presence here on occasion at the Langham.'

‘Indeed you have. He called on me last week.'

‘I can only apologise again, Lady Gessel,' the assistant manager pleaded. ‘I assure you, there will be no repeat.'

In reality, she was both angry and disappointed at Richard's failure to make her welcome in London. He was a busy man at Westminster, she knew. He had a young wife and three children and lived in a smart house in Ebury Street. She knew from
The Times
that they entertained. But he had little interest in extending hospitality to an elderly Gessel relative lately arrived from Ireland.

He called on her shortly after she had established herself at the Langham. She thought he looked tired and strained compared to when he had visited Mount Gessel earlier in the year. He seemed nervous too.

‘It must be very demanding to work in such a powerful position,' she said. ‘Even for a young man it has to be stressful. Now that I am in London, perhaps I could be of some help? It's a long time since I had anything to do with small children, but I'm sure I could play the occasional role of an aunt very well.'

He had been polite.

‘Thank you, Cousin Margaret. Perhaps when you have established yourself, become a little more accustomed to London, we could think about that. You must call upon us some day.'

He seemed more interested to know about the sale of Mount Gessel. How had her departure been viewed by other landed families in the district? Was the tenant purchase scheme considered to be successful? Would other landowners follow her example?

‘It's essential to the government that the land transfer programme is taken up. The landlords are being offered good money,' he told her.

‘I think some will do as I did,' she replied. ‘But others are reluctant, understandably. They don't want to appear to be driven out. And some believe that they may get a better price in the future.'

‘They're idiots,' he had told her. ‘Don't they realise how difficult it has been to get agreement even among the Cabinet on putting up the money to buy them out? They won't get a better deal, I promise you. And if there were to be a change of government, the whole scheme could be withdrawn. Gladstone's party is divided on its Irish policies.'

A week later, she called at the Ebury Street house. None of the family was at home. Margaret had left her card with the maid who answered the door, but no response came.

She had not expected a bustling social life in London. London society was not especially warm in its welcome for middle-aged landholders from Ireland, even if their bank accounts were now a good deal healthier than before.

At the end of the first month, she found herself questioning the wisdom of her decision to leave Ireland. To her own astonishment, she even started to feel a hint of nostalgia for Galway and Mount Gessel.

 

FOURTEEN

The voyeurs and gawkers who had gathered at the pawn shop were gone now. Only the occasional layabout lingered on the pavement to try to peer in the windows of the notorious murder site. But a detective and a uniformed man remained on duty.

Swallow found Stephen Doolan shirt-sleeved in the basement. A young constable, similarly
d
é
shabill
é, worked with a pad and pencil as Doolan told off the contents of the stacked shelves that ran from floor to ceiling. The place smelled of clay and damp. There was no natural light or gas and two Bull's-eye police lanterns smoked on the floor.

One wall was stacked with fiddles, violins and other musical instruments. Another section seemed to comprise items of medical and scientific equipment, their brass casings making dull gleams in the poor light. A collection of oil lamps was piled one on top of another in a corner.

Each pawned item had a numbered tag. The policemen's task would be to check each one against the shop's ledgers to ascertain their ownership. In theory, every customer would have to be given the option of redeeming their property and paying off the loan that had been advanced against it. Then, each item that had not been redeemed would have to be checked against the lists. The process carried no guarantee of success, but it offered a possible way of ascertaining what, if anything, had gone missing. If Ambrose Pollock's killers had robbed the shop, they just might be traced along the stolen goods trail.

It was going to be a mammoth task.

‘Jesus, we'll be here till Christmas,' Doolan mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘This is like bloody Ali Baba's market. We haven't even started on the rooms with the watches and clocks, not to mention the jewellery.'

He jerked a thumb to the constable. ‘Take a break for yourself. Go and make a drop o' tea upstairs.'

He leaned back against the shelving.

‘Any progress elsewhere?' he asked.

‘To be honest, not a lot. I've been down at the Northern Hotel with Mossop all morning. They've questioned the staff, the guests, any delivery men and so on. But there's nothing solid coming out of it.'

‘Do you think she's gone? You know, deceased, dead?'

‘Could be. Or she might be on the run. Or she could have been abducted. Held somewhere.'

‘That wouldn't be a nice thing to contemplate,' Doolan said softly. ‘She's not the strongest in her mind, I'd say.'

Doolan had worked often enough with Swallow to know the signs of an investigation that was stuck. There were gaps and silences between sentences. When he was frustrated, the G-man had a habit of staring at his feet and scuffing his shoes against each other. He was doing it now.

Then he grinned.

‘But I did come across one interesting item of information. I was in Currivan's of Fishamble Street earlier. Matt Currivan tells me that Phoebe Pollock has been in and out of the place with a gentleman friend. And she's been well able to lower a few ports and gins.'

Doolan whistled. ‘That explains why she was coming home as drunk as a fish the other night. Who'd have thought that she'd have found romance at that stage of her life?'

‘There seems to have been another side to Phoebe, at least in recent times,' Swallow said. ‘We're going to have to start a search of the living quarters to see if we can learn more.'

‘It's a bloody big house,' Doolan said doubtfully. ‘There's three storeys above this one. What are we looking for?'

He gestured around him. ‘You can see for yourself. This could take weeks.'

‘I'd start with her bedroom. If a woman has secrets, that's where you're likely to find evidence of them. We want information on her personal life, love letters, tokens, maybe a photographic likeness of this romantic gentleman. She probably had places for any letters and things.'

He saw apprehension in Doolan's eyes.

‘I'll do a search of the bedroom myself,' he said. ‘I might be lucky. But if we need a full search, I'll get you all the help I can. We'll need experienced men.'

By now, the shirt-sleeved constable had returned with three mugs of tea. Doolan took his and propped his backside against the window ledge. Sipping at his brew, he shook his head in disbelief.

‘Phoebe Pollock. Who'd have thought it? As me old mother used to say, if you keep a thing long enough you'll likely find a use for it.'

 

FIFTEEN

Christ Church's bells announced 7 o'clock as Swallow left Lamb Alley. He had spent three hours searching Phoebe Pollock's bedroom and the living quarters over the pawn shop without any success.

He was not especially surprised that he found nothing in drawers, desks, or under mattresses. The search that would be necessary would involve nail bars, metal probes and lamps. Floorboards would be lifted. Hollow spaces in walls would be tapped and opened. Cupboards and panels would be prised out.

When he went to put on his jacket, he felt Katherine Greenberg's letter in the pocket. The air had been heavy and fetid as he worked through the upper rooms in Pollock's. It was at most ten minutes to Capel Street. The walk would be refreshing.

He crossed Cornmarket, and turned down High Street. Then he passed under the Christ Church arch to Winetavern Street, making for the river. The city was slow and quiet with the offices and shops now empty. A solitary tram, drawn by two tired horses, creaked slowly along Essex Quay, its proclaimed destination the Phoenix Park. Swallow reckoned that the willing animals were due their rest and a good feed at the end of the day.

A man walking upriver on Essex Quay called him by name through the dusk and stopped him. Swallow recognised him as Friar Lawrence from the Franciscan Monastery on Merchants' Quay.

‘That's a shocking thing to happen up at Lamb Alley … absolutely shocking to think of a man done to death in his own business, may the Lord have mercy on him. Do you think you'll be long getting whoever did it?'

‘Ah, we'll get them all right,' Swallow attempted to sound confident.

Friar Lawrence wagged a finger.

‘It better not take too long. The people are frightened … terrified.'

He went on his way up the Quay, still muttering.

Greenberg's was one of the oldest houses on Capel Street. In its heyday, before Dublin society moved south to the fine squares around the Duke of Leinster's house, this had been the most fashionable street in the city, home to wealthy merchants and professionals. Greenberg's was a spacious Georgian building with the double-fronted shop on the ground floor and with living quarters above.

The Jewish community around Capel Street was not as numerous as it had been when Swallow was a young constable. There had even been a
shul
– a synagogue – close by, incongruously located in the site of the medieval Cistercian Abbey of Saint Mary.

Many families had migrated to ‘Little Jerusalem,' the area around Clanbrassil Street across the river. But Capel Street still had a dozen Jewish businesses; tailors and hatters, a bakery, a kosher butcher. And there was Greenberg's, dealing in statuary and paintings, valuable coins and
objets d'art
.

Swallow knew the shop's cycle of business from his days on the beat. At 6 o'clock in the evening, Ephram Greenberg would draw down the blinds and fix a metal grille across the porch. Then he would lock the shop door from inside and climb the back stairs to the living quarters for his supper.

Swallow's haul on the bell cord at the side door was answered by a young female servant. When he stated his business, she led him up the narrow staircase and showed him in to the parlour at the back of the house.

He knew this room. Velvet drapes framed high windows that faced westward across the city to the Four Courts and the Phoenix Park. A heavy Persian carpet warmed the pine floor. Two matching Highland scenes in layered oils faced across from the walls. A Carrara mantle filled the space between the windows.

He remembered sitting here as a young beat man, talking with Ephram Greenberg, his Roman-style police helmet on the tabletop. There would be strong Arabica coffee and sometimes small iced cakes from the kosher bakery down the street. The household smells surged back, bridging the years; wax, camphor and something hinting of cinnamon.

‘If you'll take a seat, Sir, I will tell Mr Greenberg that you are here.'

The girl's English was perfect, but deliberate and accented. Swallow guessed it was from somewhere in Eastern Europe.

He sat facing the windows, and realised he was looking at the scene that Katherine Greenberg had painted for Lily Grant's class. The silver fruit bowl and the fluted decanter sat on the same damask tablecloth. The backdrop of the tall mantle with its dark marble was true to life.

He heard voices in the corridor. When the door opened, it was Katherine.

‘Mr Swallow. It was good of you to come. You got my letter?'

‘I'm sorry I couldn't get to see your father at the shop while it was open,' he said. ‘I've been engaged in a serious crime investigation all day.'