The Eloquence of the Dead (14 page)

If there was any faint gleam of hope, it might be the possibility that when ‘Duck' Boyle would have completed his inquiries at Currivan's of Fishamble Street, they might identify Phoebe's gentleman friend.

‘I can't say I'm very impressed,' Mallon said testily. ‘Forty-eight hours on, with the Security Secretary's office breathing down our necks, we don't even have even a suspect, unless we include Phoebe Pollock. And we don't know if she's alive or dead.'

Swallow was unwilling to let the reprimand pass.

‘There's no point in laying that on me, Chief. You handed the case to me twenth-four hours after the event. I'm doing my best.'

Mallon sighed.

‘Don't take it personally. Carry on.'

‘There's been one other unusual development. It might be significant.'

He described the cache of silver plate uncovered in Stephen Doolan's search in the basement at Lamb Alley.

‘It's a full set of silver, more than 150 pieces, I gather. I haven't got any estimate on the value, but we're talking about big money. It could be a very powerful motive for a robbery, or even murder.'

He showed Mallon his sketch of the crest engraved on the silver, and recounted his fruitless attempt to find someone at the Ulster Office in the Upper Yard who might help him to identify it.

Mallon gave a wintry smile.

‘You won't find those gentlemen up there on a Saturday afternoon. It's only a part-time thing for Burke anyway. He's busy making money on his books about the peerage, pandering to the lords and earls.'

‘That means it'll be Monday before I can get any fix on where this stuff might have come from,' Swallow said. ‘If it's connected with the murder, it could be a costly delay.'

‘I know that. But I wouldn't advise disturbing any of the officials from the Ulster office over Sunday.'

‘Christ, I'd take great pleasure in rousing a few of those cosseted bastards and dragging them in to work.'

‘Forget it,' Mallon said sharply.

He scrutinised the sketch in Swallow's hand.

‘If you're right about the quality and quantity of this stuff, then Ambrose Pollock was way out of his league. When I was a young constable he generally traded in cast-off coats and bits of old clocks, that sort of thing. This wouldn't be the normal sort of transaction over in Lamb Alley.'

The parlour door opened slightly. Swallow knew it was a signal.

Mallon moved to the door.

‘We're in dangerous times, Swallow … problematic times. Policemen have to tread carefully. That's why I wanted you to take these cases on instead of that clown Boyle. You do the detective work and let me look after the politics with the fellows in the Upper Yard.'

Swallow bit his lip. If he was so damned good, why was it not recognised where it mattered? Why was ‘Duck' Boyle at the rank of detective inspector while he was stuck at sergeant for more than a decade?

He nodded.

‘I understand, Chief. I hope yourself and Mrs Mallon have a pleasant evening.'

He was half way across the Lower Yard before he realised that he had not mentioned the business of the Greek coins that had been brought into Greenberg's in Capel Street. In the ordinary course of events it would be a matter worth mentioning, but until young Vizzard came back from interviewing Mrs Clinton he knew nothing himself.

With a murder to be solved and the disappearance of the chief suspect into thin air, it was not an immediate priority.

 

SUNDAY OCTOBER 2
ND
, 1887

 

TWENTY

Sunday morning's murder conference was low key. In reality, Swallow knew, there was little point in holding it at all. But even if there was no progress in the investigations, appearances had to be kept up to satisfy the higher authorities.

The only man in uniform was Stephen Doolan. He had sensibly told his constables to take a rest day, leaving just one man to guard the pawn shop. Detective Mick Feore's glum expression confirmed that the trawl of guests and staff at the Northern Hotel had not yielded anything positive. The two book men, Mossop and Swann, were pretending to cross check witness statements in case there were any potential connections that had been missed. There were none.

Swallow attended Mass at 8 o'clock at the Franciscan church on Merchants' Quay. He liked the Franciscans and the Carmelites at Whitefriar Street, preferring their humility to the sense of high authority exuded by the parish clergy of the Dublin Archdiocese. That enabled him to be at Exchange Court to chair the conference at 9 o'clock.

The duty man handed him a note as he arrived. It was from Vizzard.

Sergeant Swallow, G-Division

Sir,

I wish to report that I visited the address of Mrs Grace Clinton at North Circular Road at 7.15 last evening. There was no response at the front door and there did not appear to be anyone present in the house.

I identified myself to a neighbour, who advised me that Mr Clinton, Mrs Clinton or their children hadn't been seen that day. Sometimes on a Saturday they went to visit relatives, he said. He advised me that Mr Clinton works as a clerk in a solicitor's office in the city centre. He was unable to state the name of the firm.

I will revisit this address again tomorrow (Sunday).

I remain your obedient servant,

John Vizzard (Constable)

Nothing much of benefit there either.

He had felt increasingly tetchy since the previous afternoon. The closure of the Ulster office continued to rankle, and Mallon's insistence that the civil servants should not be disturbed annoyed him more.

With no leads and no new developments, the conference was going to be little more than a formality.

‘Would you tell the team about the silver in Pollock's, Stephen?' he asked Doolan. ‘It'll take the bare look off the morning's work.'

Doolan described the crates of silver plate in the basement at Lamb Alley. Eyebrows were raised. G-men scratched details in their notebooks.

‘I'm trying to get an identification for the coat of arms,' Swallow said. ‘But the Ulster office is shut until Monday.'

‘But there's nothing to link it to the murder, beyond the fact that it's well out of the range of ordinary trade at Pollock's,' Pat Mossop interjected.

Doolan shook his head.

‘Look, there has to be a connection. This silver isn't recorded anywhere in the books, so it's got some sort of a story to tell. Ambrose Pollock is dead. The sister is missing. It links up some way, I've no doubt.'

At that moment, ‘Duck' Boyle arrived. He installed himself on a chair beside the door, looking somewhat the worse for wear.

Swallow allowed himself a smile. ‘That must've a tough night, Inspector, drinking with the select clientele across at Currivan's.'

Boyle attempted a countering grin.

‘Well now, Swalla', the pint in Currivan's isn't too bad. And when you're spendin' official money and not your own it's even better.'

He leered around the room with a satisfied look.

‘I can reveal that Miss Phoebe Pollock has been in the habit recently of repairin' to Currivan's o' Fishamble Street in the company of a gentleman.'

There were expressions of surprise. One or two G-men giggled.

‘In consequence, I took up duty in the said establishment last night. And, as the sayin' goes, I spread me bread upon the waters to see what would happen.

‘In the evint, I think the Chief Commissioner's money wasn't entirely wasted.'

Boyle paused momentarily for effect. ‘I might've got a name for Phoebe Pollock's gentleman friend.'

Heads jerked up in sudden interest.

‘Tell us more,' Swallow said.

Boyle opened his notebook.

‘There wasn't any point after a while in trying to present myself as anythin' other than a G-man. I just moved around from one client to the next and asked did anyone remember Phoebe Pollock drinkin' in the place in the past few weeks.'

He grinned.

‘I offered a fair share of drinks, and they weren't refused, I can tell you. I pressed one or two fellows fairly hard because they told me they were regulars – every night in there. And sure enough, I got two witnesses who said they remembered her, always in the snug, comin' in wid yer man, maybe half an hour before closin' time.'

‘So who is the bloody man?' Swallow interjected, impatient at the laboured narrative.

Boyle glanced at his notebook.

‘I didn't get a full name. But I got a good description. Well dressed, comfortable lookin'. The two fellows said they heard her call him ‘Len' at one stage and ‘Lennie' at another.'

‘Len,' Stephen Doolan said. ‘That's all?'

‘She didn't exactly introduce him around to the social circle in Currivan's,' Boyle said defensively.

‘Len,' Swallow repeated bleakly. ‘Or maybe Lennie.' He shrugged. ‘I suppose we'll have to try to work on it.'

The ever-optimistic Pat Mossop fell into role again.

‘Ye're right, Skipper. Work on it we will. Isn't it better to light one candle than sittin' here cursin' the feckin' darkness?'

 

TWENTY-ONE

The aroma of roast goose permeated the upper floors of Maria Walsh's house on Thomas Street.

Swallow had taken a corner chair in the parlour directly above Grant's public bar. A turf fire burned in the grate, sufficient to take the edge off the chill of the October evening. Harry Lafeyre had poured him a Tullamore, to which he had added a dash of soda water, giving it a nice lift. In other circumstances, he reckoned, he might be happy to relax and enjoy a sociable gathering. This, though, would be an evening fraught with peril. It would be his first extended encounter with Maria since he had taken up the rented house at Heytesbury Street with Harriet.

The interval of three months had done little to clarify his thinking, whatever about Maria's. She declared that she'd had enough of the uncertainty and unpredictability of his job. He had been hesitant about making a commitment that he felt he might not be able to sustain.

‘We can't go on indefinitely like this,' she had told him reasonably, two years into the relationship. ‘Your work makes terrible demands, and you say yourself that it's not acknowledged. You could make all the difference to this business if you were prepared to do so. And we could plan for some sort of a life together.'

If she found the situation this evening in any way stressful, it was not showing, arranging herself with her back to the windows that faced the street. Her fine, blonde hair was stylishly shaped in her customary French roll. It contrasted classically with a green silk dress, stitched with small pearls at cuffs and neckline. When she laughed, the evening light caught her strong, high cheekbones. Swallow had not forgotten how strikingly attractive she was.

Lily and Lafeyre, along with another guest, were already seated in the parlour when Swallow arrived. Lafeyre introduced the stranger.

‘I'd like you meet a friend of mine from my Cape Colony days, George Weldon.'

Swallow had heard Lafeyre mention him, and that he was connected to a landed family in the South of Ireland. He knew that Weldon was now a civil servant, acting in some sort of a liaison role between Whitehall and one of the Chief Secretary's departments in Dublin.

Weldon dressed well, and there was a faint scent of an expensive cologne. Swallow estimated he was in his mid-thirties. He smiled broadly and his handshake was firm

‘Mr Swallow. I know you do a lot of work with Harry.'

Swallow was about to sit with his whiskey when Harriet arrived, accompanied by a delicate looking young man with longish hair and gold-rimmed spectacles.

She introduced him to Maria and then to each of the others.

‘This is my elder brother, Joseph,' she said when it was Swallow's turn. ‘And this is Mr William Yeats.'

Swallow extended his hand.

‘Mr Yeats. Very nice to meet you. My sister has told me about you.'

‘Now,' Harriet said, taking her guest by the arm, ‘we'll have Harry get you something to drink.'

Weldon took a chair beside Swallow.

‘I read in the newspapers that you're a busy man,' he said. ‘I'm sure you're glad to get away for a few hours from that murder case.'

Swallow realised now that had seen Weldon on occasion at the Castle. The body of officials controlling the country from within the walls of the Castle, and in the various government offices around the city, numbered no more than a few hundred. But each cohort guarded its privacy. A policeman and a civil servant might recognise each other. A bureaucrat might identify an army officer out of uniform. They might even know each other's names. But they would rarely socialise.

Swallow wondered if Weldon had been invited to dinner because of his association with Lafeyre, or as a not-so-subtle attempt to remind him that other men might come into Maria's line of sight.

‘Detective work doesn't follow the clock, Mr Weldon,' he smiled. ‘You have to fit your social life around it.'

He shot a sidelong look at Maria, but she had turned to talk to another of the guests, the Franciscan, Friar Lawrence from Merchants' Quay. The elderly friar was seated across the room from Swallow.

‘Will you say Grace for us, Father, when we go across to the dining-room?' Maria asked.

Lawrence smiled and raised his glass of whiskey, well-filled earlier by Harry Lafeyre.

‘Of course, Mrs Walsh. That lovely smell of cooking coming up from below is almost sinful, you know. We'll need a prayer.'

‘Oh, you must think of this dinner as a religious occasion, Father,' Maria laughed. ‘We're celebrating Michaelmas, the feast of St Michael. It's a tradition to eat a goose. At least, I'm making it a tradition now.'