The Eloquence of the Dead (19 page)

Harrington shrugged. ‘Perhaps. One can't be certain. A lot of these estates have been so burdened with debt, and so badly managed, that the families have just wanted to get out. You could try locally around the family seat. It's a place called Mount Gessel, predictably enough. But your colleagues in the RIC would be the ones best able to answer your questions, I'd guess. The nearest town is Loughrea.'

Swallow thanked him. He made his way to the Lower Yard and the Police Telegraph Office, and instructed the constable-operator to despatch information requests to the office of the District Inspector of the RIC at Loughrea. He planned to retreat to the Crime Sergeants' Office to start work on a statement about the shooting at Greenberg's.

Johnny Vizzard was waiting for him in the corridor. He leaped to his feet when Swallow came up the stairs.

‘I heard what happened over at Greenberg's, Sergeant. Is it connected with these coins?'

Swallow decided this time to be gentler in his response to the young recruit's zeal.

‘Hard to tell. We don't know yet who these fellas are and who they're working for. But they didn't cross over from England and decide to rob Greenberg's on a whim. They wanted to know who had sold the coins.'

He led Vizzard into the office.

‘Did you make any progress in finding this Mrs Clinton?'

‘I did. The family left the house yesterday morning with a fair amount of luggage. They hired a cab to the Broadstone. I established that they caught the 9.30 train to Athboy in County Meath. There's stops at Ashbourne, Dunboyne and Trim.'

‘You've notified the constabulary?'

‘Telegrams gone this past hour.'

‘Good man. How are you rostered now? You should try to see what you can pick up from the train crew, conductors and ticket men.'

Vizzard was a ‘live-in' man. Newly recruited members of G-Division were required to reside in Exchange Court for a year. This ensured a ready supply of manpower for unexpected circumstances. And it caused little resentment among young detectives who saved money in accommodation and messing.

‘I'm on protection duty at the Viceregal Lodge tonight, ten to six.Give me a couple of hours' sleep after that and I can be back on the inquiry tomorrow morning.'

‘I'll have you rostered so you can talk to the train crew.'

He returned to the office to get a start on the paperwork.

No sooner had he rolled the first sheets of foolscap and carbon paper into the Remington typewriter than Inspector ‘Duck' Boyle put his head around the door.

‘I kem to tell ye, Swallow, I'm th'investigatin' officer in this shootin' yer after bein' involved in. Ye'll have to do me a statement.'

Swallow was not unduly concerned. Regulations required that when a policeman opened fire it had to be investigated by an officer of more senior rank. And ‘Duck' Boyle, for all his faults, had a reputation for making things as easy as possible for any man involved in a spot of bother while on duty.

‘Don't worry, Inspector, I have it in hand. Give me an hour.'

‘I will.'

Boyle hesitated awkwardly.

‘You done good work there, Swalla' … from what they tell me.'

‘Thanks. I got a chance at a good shot. The bastard could have killed the woman.'

‘Aye, that's what they're sayin'. Anyway, there's two of the lads sittin' at the fucker's bedside across in th' infirmary, waitin' until the doctors are done with him. I imagine you'll be goin' back to have a talk wid him.'

‘I'm looking forward to it.'

‘Right so. I'll let ye get on with it here.'

‘No progress in finding the second fellow with the gun?'

‘Nah, he got away. But whin we – whin you – get this first fella' talkin' we won't be long findin' him.'

Swallow was anxious to get started on the Remington.

‘Let's hope so.'

‘We put out a request to the English forces askin' if any of their clients were known to be in Ireland,' Boyle said. ‘But so far we've got nothin' back on that.'

Before closing the door behind him, he added ‘And ye'll remember to put in the bit about shoutin' a warnin' before ye fired?'

An hour later, as he finished his statement for ‘Duck' Boyle, a constable from the Telegraph Office brought a telegrammed message from the District Inspector's clerk at Loughrea.

From: District Inspector's Office, Loughrea; Division of County Galway.

To: Det Sgt Jos Swallow, G-Division, DMP, Dublin Castle.

Re Information Request in respect of Gessel family, Mount Gessel House.

Sir,

I beg to inform you as follows.

The above family are no longer resident in this District, having disposed of their estate, with houses and outbuildings, in accordance with the terms of the Land Acts recently applied.

Approximately 1,250 acres of land were purchased by the Land Board and have been distributed among 45 local farming families. Full details are available if required. A large house, numbering more than 30 rooms in all, has been vacated and remains unoccupied since May of 1886.

The vendor to the Land Board was Lady Margaret Gessel, widow of the Second Baronet Gessel, who deceased in 1855. Her last known address, as advised today by her solicitors here, is at The Orchard, Folkestone Road, Dymchurch, Sussex.

The family have been established in the area for many generations, and would have been held in high regard by persons of quality. However, a number of agrarian outrages have been committed in this District and some of these have been directed at the family and its property.

For further information, please be aware that Sir Richard Gessel, an Under-Secretary at the Prime Minister's office in London, is a relative (second cousin) of the late Second Baronet Gessel.

I remain Sir, your obedient servant,

John Kelly (Clerk)

(On behalf of DI)

Swallow felt himself wearying.

Establishing the provenance of the silver was proving to be a long and tortuous challenge. Now it seemed that the person most likely to throw any light on how it had ended up in Ambrose Pollock's cellar was a widow living somewhere in the depths of rural Sussex. Was the game worth the candle? Even if he succeeded in establishing the story behind the silver, would it bring him any closer to solving the murder or locating the whereabouts of Phoebe Pollock?

One side of his brain told him it was a side-issue. He would be better to focus on the technical clues that had been yielded from the murder scene, from Harry Lafeyre's post-mortem and from what they could learn about Phoebe Pollock's love life. But something more instinctive than deductive told him that the story of the Gessels' family silver was also at least partly the story of Ambrose Pollock's murder and the disappearance of his sister.

If the trail had led to the widow in rural Sussex, then so be it.

He reached for
The Police Directory for England and Wales
.

It listed the town of Dymchurch within the jurisdiction of the East Sussex Constabulary. Not surprisingly, it did not have a detective office or any equivalent of the G-Division. His inquiry would have to be routed through the Special Irish Branch at Scotland Yard.

He would brief Mallon in the morning. But he needed to eat and to get across to the infirmary at Jervis Street. When the doctors would have finished their work on the captive knifeman he had questions for him.

Evening was closing in as he left Exchange Court. It would be quicker and more convenient to go to the police canteen in the Lower Yard, but he did not relish the barrage of comments and questions he would face from colleagues, however well-meaning they might be. He decided to treat himself instead at the Dolphin Hotel on Temple Bar.

He took a mixed grill along with a pint of Guinness's stout. He savoured the Dolphin's sausage, bacon, a lamb chop and pudding. After a large Tullamore to clear his palate, he set out across the river for Jervis Street.

 

THIRTY

The doctors at the Dublin Charitable Infirmary on Jervis Street had done well for the knifeman.

He had been brought from the operating theatre to a room on the first floor of the hospital with two G-men posted outside. Swallow's .44-calibre slug had lodged in the muscle of the right shoulder, and the doctors removed it without difficulty. There had been considerable blood loss, but the man was strong and healthy.

When Swallow arrived, the man was conscious although his eyes were glazed. Swallow guessed that he had been given a heavy dose of laudanum to dull the pain. He seemed childlike and thin in the grey, hospital-issue nightshirt. His left wrist was handcuffed to the iron mattress-frame. Swallow estimated he might be twenty or younger.

He gestured to the G-men to move to the corridor and drew a chair to the bedside. The young man had the pinched, hollow face that spoke to Swallow of childhood malnutrition and hardship.

He leaned forward.

‘Detective Sergeant Swallow. I want to talk to you.'

The prisoner turned his head away.

‘Fuck off.' The voice was a whisper, dulled with the laudanum.

Swallow tapped him smartly on the cheek.

‘Mind your language, young fella, and pay attention. I want your name for a start.'

‘I told … you … to fuck off.'

‘And I told you, I want your name. I want the name of your pal with the revolver. And I want to know what you were after in that shop.'

The man burrowed his face into the pillow.

‘I said I wanted your name,' Swallow said sharply.

The response was something between a snort and a laugh.

‘Take a … guess. Maybe I'm … the Duke of fuckin' York.'

Without rising from the chair, Swallow kicked hard at the metal bolt that secured the mattress-frame to the iron bed end.

Frame, bed ends, mattress and prisoner collapsed in a sequence of bangs and crashes. The young man screamed as the heavy frame fell across him. Swallow planted his foot on it and pressed hard. The scream rose louder as the steel springs bit through the flimsy nightshirt into the flesh.

‘Jesus … Jesus Christ … you're fuckin' killin' me! Mad Irish bastard!'

Swallow added more weight and, for good measure, kicked again with his heel at the mattress-frame.

‘By the time I'm finished you'll see how mad I am … and how much of a bastard I am. Now, what's your name?'

The door opened and one of the G-men peered in, looking alarmed. Swallow waved him away.

‘Bit of a mishap here. Keep everyone out for a bit.'

The prisoner raised his free hand. He tried to bring his eyes into focus, fighting the effects of the tranquiliser.

‘I'm Darby … Jack Darby.'

‘Address?'

‘Forbes Street. You wouldn't know it.'

‘London?'

‘Where else?'

‘And your friend? The hero with the gun?'

‘Calls 'imself Teddy. I … don't know 'is full name.'

Swallow did not believe the last bit, but he eased the pressure on the mattress-frame.

‘That's a bit more like it.'

He pulled him to his feet, and sat him lopsidedly on the chair, his wrist still manacled to the mattress-frame.

‘It's best to be truthful with me, Jack, because I'm going to check everything you tell me through criminal records. The quicker I can do that, the sooner you'll get back into your comfortable bed here.'

He lifted the mattress-frame and propped it against the wall so that the pressure was taken off the prisoner's manacled wrist. Then he caught him by the hair and turned his face upward.

‘If you feed me any false information you'll be taken out of here to Dublin Castle where I'll beat the living shit out of you for as long as it takes. Do you understand that?'

The young man nodded. The eyes were a little clearer, but the expression was still dull and slack-jawed. Swallow wondered if what he had taken for the effects of laudanum might not, in part at least, be symptomatic of some mental deficiency. He reopened with a soft question.

‘How long are you in Dublin, Jack?'

Darby's face was vacant. ‘A few days, I think.'

‘No idea beyond that? Can you read the calendar?'

‘Nah, never 'ad any need to.'

‘All right, how did you get here?'

‘I come up from London, didn' I? I met Teddy in a pub. I knew 'im from doin' a stretch … Wandsworth. There wos this geezer with 'im. A toff. And 'e says there's a job for us to do in Dublin. Says 'e's got a few quid for us. Showed us the money too. Said there'd be more when we'd come back wiv the job done. So we gets on a ship and 'ere we are.'

He looked quizzically at Swallow.

‘This is it, then, ain't it? This is Dublin…?'

Swallow was sure now that Jack Darby was not the full deck of cards.

‘Who was this toff type you met? Have you a name?'

‘Nah, it wos Teddy wot knew 'im. But I'd figger 'im again if I seen 'im.'

‘What was the job? What were you told to do?'

Darby attempted a grin.

‘Just go to this bloody shop, get some fucking old coins that the Jew girl 'ad bought. Find out who 'ad sold 'em to 'er, come back to London. That was it.'

‘That was it? So why the gun and the knife? You could have just gone in and done your business like you were told.'

‘It wos Teddy's idea. 'E said we could 'it two birds wiv one stone, like. We'd get the information and then 'elp ourselves to whatever was lyin' around in the shop. You know, rings, watches, wha'ever. But it was all Teddy's idea, you understand. I let 'im do the plannin' and thinkin'.'

Swallow saw his opening.

‘If that's true, if it was his idea and you just followed along, I might be able to do something for you, Jack. But I need to find Teddy.'