The Eloquence of the Dead (33 page)

‘I'd like to see it, please.'

He drew the warrant from his pocket and handed it to her. She scrutinised it carefully before handing it back without a word.

While the photographer assembled his equipment, Lafeyre dusted the glass with graphite. Then he angled himself so that he was looking across the smooth surface of the glass towards the window giving on to Capel Street.

‘This will do fine,' he told the photographer. ‘You'll hardly need any flash at all, I'd guess.'

When he had finished, Lafeyre thanked the Greenbergs and made for the street with the photographer.

‘What's the quickest you can get me prints?'

‘It'll take maybe twenty-four hours, Doctor, because I'll have to use different lights to bring them up. That's slow with all the chemical changes as well.'

‘You'll do your best for me, I know. There may be answers to a few nasty questions in what you bring up.'

 

TUESDAY OCTOBER 11
TH
, 1887

 

FIFTY-NINE

It was past midnight by the time Swallow and Vizzard reached the city on a slow goods train they had boarded at Trim. Notwithstanding the hour, Swallow knew that the chief would expect his briefing from London as well as an up-to-the-minute report on what had happened at Clonlar.

Mallon listened intently to his narrative, taking occasional notes. Swallow wondered if he knew that Jenkinson had offered him a job in London. If he did, he gave nothing away.

‘There's very big stakes being played for,' Mallon said finally. ‘Someone took a hell of a chance in killing Shaftoe under the eyes of the Scotland Yard men. And Margaret Gessel's lucky to be alive.'

He had opened a bottle of Bushmills, and poured one for each of them.

‘Arthur Clinton must have been pushed beyond the brink of sanity to do what he did. A man with a young family, like that…'

‘It's a pity we didn't get to him sooner,' Swallow said. ‘The RIC slipped up badly.'

‘You think Clinton's wife – widow – has more to tell?' Mallon asked.

‘I don't doubt it.'

‘You'd be as well to bed down in the dormitory. I'd like you to be available in the morning. I'm going to brief the Commissioner and the Security Secretary and I'll want you there.'

Swallow was glad to make it to the Spartan comfort of the Exchange Court dormitory. In spite of the hard bed, and the comings and goings of G-men on early shifts, he slept like a baby.

‘Dr Lafeyre was in. Said he was hoping he'd see you, Skipper,' the duty G-man at the public office told him when he emerged on the following morning.

‘When was that?'

‘Ten minutes ago. I didn't know you were billeted above. I told him I'd give you the message when you got in. He said if you had a minute would you drop down to his office.'

Harry Lafeyre usually worked from the morgue on Abbey Street or from his house, but he was also provided with a small office in the Lower Yard, near the Army Pay Office. It gave him convenient access when working with the police, and it provided a secure place to store exhibits that might be used for evidence.

Swallow had not yet had any breakfast, but the thought that Lafeyre probably had some news for him spurred him on.

‘Sure. I'll go down. If anyone wants me, tell them where I am.'

‘You've been travelling, I hear,' Lafeyre quipped as Swallow came in. ‘Off to London to see the lady?'

Swallow was shocked. How could Lafeyre have heard about his encounter with Katherine in London?

‘What do you mean? How did you know?'

‘I assumed you'd have an audience with Her Majesty. Didn't you do a lot to make her dim-witted grandson's visit a success here in the summer?' Lafeyre grinned.

‘Sorry, I thought you meant something else,' Swallow mumbled. ‘I was trying to identify who's running this fellow Shaftoe. But then somebody plugged him under my nose in a public house.'

Lafeyere grimaced. ‘Dear God. That's dramatic.'

‘That's not the half of it.'

He recounted what had happened at Clonlar during the night. Lafeyre shook his head as if disbelieving.

‘You've had a run of bad luck it seems. And enough drama too. Dead men everywhere. But I may have a bit of news that might help a little.'

He drew a file from his bag.

‘It's to do with Ambrose Pollock. You felt that two people were involved in his killing, or at least in tying the knots that fastened him to the chair. I think I can tell you something about them.'

He opened the file.

‘I've been keeping up with new developments in the identification of fingerprints. Do you know anything about it?'

Swallow shrugged. ‘Not a lot. I know there's been some research. In India, I think. Nobody seems to be sure how to make any use of it.'

‘It's vague still, but the basic premise is valid: that every human's finger ridges are unique. That's accepted universally. The difficulty is how to match the finger-marks made at crime scenes to particular individuals.'

Swallow smiled. ‘I suppose you'll tell me you've found a way to do it.'

‘Afraid not,' Lafeyre shook his head. ‘There's some work being done by a Scottish doctor called Faulds and also an Englishman called Galton. He's a relation of Charles Darwin, actually. But what I've been working on is a technique for bringing up finger-marks that aren't always visible to the naked eye.'

‘So you found something at Lamb Alley?'

‘Indeed I did. The researchers who've been at this up to now have used ink powder or even fine sand to bring up finger-marks. The fingers have sweat glands. They leave a patterned mark on a smooth surface. You may not see it, but it's there. Dusting it with ink powder or sand will bring the patterns up, and in certain light you can see them. You can even photograph them if you have the right equipment.

‘Now,' he said, ‘I was watching Lily one evening sharpening some pencils and I noticed the very fine graphite that she pared off the lead, as it's called. It's lighter and finer and it's more adhesive than ink powder. So I collected a quantity of it and I dusted the smooth surfaces around Ambrose Pollock's chair and desk.'

‘Go on,' Swallow said, ‘this better be leading somewhere. I'm supposed to be going to a meeting up the Yard with Chief Mallon any minute now.'

‘Just be patient,' Lafeyre waved a hand. ‘Have a look at these.'

He dropped half a dozen photographic prints on the table. Swallow could see that each showed the distinctive whorls and loops of a human fingerprint

‘I brought these images up from Pollock's desk and chair,' Lafeyre said. ‘Do you notice anything unusual about them?'

Swallow shook his head. ‘Well, I can see that they're not all identical. Should I see something else?'

‘You're right. These marks are made by two different individuals. And they're actually blood marks. Even better than sweat marks.'

‘So they were made by the killer or killers?'

‘It's not as simple as that. One set was quite freshly made. The blood was not coagulated, so that tells us the marks were made in or around the time of death. And they were on the iron weight that we think was used as the murder weapon. The others were much stickier, if I can use the term. You can see that if you put them under the microscope.'

‘So they were made later?'

‘Anything from a few hours to the next day.'

‘Let me get this absolutely clear,' Swallow said. ‘You have finger-marks from one person who was at the scene at the time of death. Then there are marks from someone else who was there later?'

‘Yes. We know the likelihood is that Phoebe was involved in this somewhere. I think she used the rope to tie him in his chair so anybody looking in would see him there as usual. That's why the knots were different. The person who killed Ambrose tied one rope. Phoebe tied the second.'

‘I was right, then,' Swallow said. ‘There were two different knots tied by two different people.'

‘That's a sustainable thesis now that we know there were two people on the scene.'

‘It still doesn't bring us any closer to knowing who the killer is.'

Lafeyre wagged a finger.

‘Don't be so negative. I think I can take this a bit further. You don't have anything to scale them against, but in my view both marks were made by women. They're smaller than the marks made by a man's fingers. The French scientist, Bertillon, gives estimates for the dimensions of women's finger-marks, and these fall within his measures. They could be children's of course, but I guess we can rule that out as a serious possibility.'

‘Women? Are you saying that Ambrose Pollock was murdered by two women?'

Lafeyre grimaced.

‘Look, you've got your meeting in the Upper Yard. Come and see me after that. I'll give you lunch at the United Services Club. I think I might have something very important to tell you then.'

 

SIXTY

‘The Chief''s gone up to the Commissioner and the Security Secretary this past hour. He wants you up there on the double.'

Mallon's clerk had left the sanctuary of his office to deliver the summons to Swallow in the crime sergeants' office.

‘Christ knows what's up. He got a call from Mr Jenkinson in London there around 9 o'clock and took off like a scalded cat. He's been up there since.'

‘All right, thanks. I was expecting he'd send for me,' Swallow said, making for the door.

He crossed the Upper Yard to the Georgian block that housed the Chief Secretary's department. A clerk led him through an outer office populated by a cohort of other functionaries to the Under-Secretary's room.

In spite of the chilly October weather and the early hour, the room was warm. It was also more crowded than Swallow had ever seen it on any previous visit.

The Under-Secretary, West Ridgeway, sat at his desk, flanked by the Assistant Under-Secretary for Security, Howard Smith Berry. Swallow thought that Smith Berry looked distraught.

John Mallon sat on a straight-backed chair in front of the desk. The Commissioner of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, Sir David Harrel, sat beside Mallon.

Major Nigel Kelly, the head of the secret service group established to report directly to the Assistant Under-Secretary, stood by the window, staring down into the Lower Yard. Swallow and Kelly had clashed in the past. Swallow detested Kelly, and he knew the feeling was mutual.

‘Sergeant Swallow,' West Ridgeway greeted him solemnly, pointing to a vacant chair beside John Mallon.

‘It appears that we have a situation on our hands that is potentially very serious for the government. Mr Mallon has briefed us. Is there any further news from London?'

‘I'm afraid there's none that's either conclusive or very helpful, Sir.'

‘I've briefed the meeting on the purpose of your London visit as well as what happened last night in County Meath,' Mallon said. ‘Would you take us on from there?'

‘I hoped to find the principal mischief maker, the top man, in London,' Swallow explained. ‘Shaftoe had undertaken to identify him for me. But Shaftoe's dead, shot almost in my sight.'

West Ridgeway nodded. ‘Do you suspect that there was a leak somewhere? Was this top man, as you call him, tipped off?'

‘It's hard to say with certainty, Sir, but it looks like it.'

‘Outrageous,' Kelly said, turning from the window.

West Ridgeway gestured him to silence.

‘That would be a matter of the utmost seriousness, but as of now it is only speculation. Go through last evening's events in County Meath, Sergeant.'

‘Cutting it short, Sir, the RIC found the Clintons on this farm at Clonlar. It's not far from the town of Trim. Mrs Clinton's home place, it turns out. She says she took the coins from the husband. So the next question is: where did he get them? And then, while we're interviewing her, he hangs himself out in the barn at the back of the house.'

Mallon raised a hand to pause the narrative. Swallow could hear shouted commands below in the Yard at the changing of the guard at the Justice Gate.

‘Mrs Clinton told Sergeant Swallow enough to confirm his original suspicion,' Mallon said. ‘Clinton was engaged in conveyancing the assets of the Mount Gessel estate, and he was stripping off valuables as he did so. That's how he got the coins. It seems likely that he also misappropriated the Gessel family silver and arranged for it to find its way into Pollock's basement.'

West Ridgeway nodded.

‘It's a pity that Clinton isn't around to tell us more. I still can't see how this connects to the murder of Ambrose Pollock.'

Smith Berry waved a hand impatiently.

‘With respect, Sir, the Pollocks don't matter. What's at issue here is a challenge to the government's policies. The Devil knows, it's been hard enough to get the Land Leaguers and the landlords to agree to anything.'

‘Oh, I can understand Sergeant Swallow's concern about the Pollock murder.' Kelly's tone was mocking. ‘He's a policeman first and last. A squalid murder in a squalid laneway by definition engages his interest. He's hardly worried about government policy.'

Mallon shot Kelly an icy look.

‘You seem to forget that I too am a policeman, Major Kelly. The sergeant and I are well aware of the importance of the land transfer programme. But so far the only crime that we can say for certain has been committed is the murder of Ambrose Pollock. Are you suggesting that we should be indifferent to murder?'

‘Gentlemen,' West Ridgeway raised his hands. ‘This isn't very helpful. I need to determine our actions from this point and to do so swiftly.'

He swivelled to Mallon.

‘Chief Superintendent, please summarise what you know and what you suspect. And make the distinction clear between the two.'