The Eloquence of the Dead (7 page)

They crossed the Ha'penny Bridge, turned down Bachelors' Walk and crossed Sackville Street, making for Marlborough Street and the morgue.

Harry Lafeyre's assistant-cum-coachman, Scollan, was at work in the examination room. The evening light was weakening, and he had switched on the powerful, new electric lamps that Lafeyre had persuaded the authorities to install, replacing the old, hissing gas mantles.

‘The stiff's over there,' Scollan jerked a thumb towards the examination tables.

He had strung a white linen mask across his mouth, looping the cords behind prominent ears. It was a fruitless attempt to alleviate the stench. The G-men blanched. Mossop put a thumb and forefinger up to pinch his nose. Feore removed his cap and stuffed it around his mouth and nostrils. Swallow clamped a cotton handkerchief across his face. Harry Lafeyre, in a heavy surgical gown, had come in the door behind them.

‘Here, these will help.' He handed each of them a fat, brown cigar.

‘The cheapest and foulest you'll ever taste. They smell like boiled horse shit. It's a trick I learned from an old pathologist in the Cape Colony.'

With the first puff, Swallow acknowledged silently that Lafeyre was not exaggerating. But the acrid, poisonous smoke in his nostrils and throat did partially counter the odours of putrefaction.

‘I've tested the fluid in the bottle you gave me at the hotel with sulphide of ammonium,' Lafeyre said. ‘The result for prussic acid was positive. It's deadly, of course, in its pure form, but diluted and properly applied it can be beneficial for some conditions. There was exactly an eighth of an ounce in solution in the bottle. That's the standard dispensing dose, so it suggests that none of it was used.'

‘Yet I got the smell of bitter almonds in the room,' Swallow said.

‘So the bottle had been opened. It would emit an odour on contact with the air. But you found it corked?'

‘Yes.'

Lafeyre shrugged. ‘So the bottle was opened but none of the solution was taken. Make what you will of that.'

He glanced at the wall clock.

‘We haven't all night. Let's see how we get on with the brother.'

Ambrose Pollock's wrists and ankles were still bound. Scollan moved forward with a knife to sever the thin ropes so that Layfeyre could begin his examination.

‘Make your cut well away from the knots on those ropes,' Swallow wheezed through the choking cigar smoke. ‘I want to have a look at how they're made.'

Scollan ran the knife through the two cords, and laid them side by side at the end of the table. Then, with the tailor's scissors, he started to cut through the dead pawnbroker's clothing, putting each sectioned garment aside until the green-black corpse was bare. Mossop poised his pencil as Lafeyre started his narrative.

First, Lafeyre probed the broken skull. Fragments of white bone fell away from the rotted flesh. Then he used a steel spatula to take a dark mess of hardened blood and brain matter from the cavity.

‘I won't require the sectioning saw,' he told Scollan. ‘The visible damage to the skull is very severe. The trauma to the brain would have been enormous, causing an immediate loss of consciousness and death.'

Mossop worked his pencil swiftly, following Lafeyre's commentary. The medical examiner thrust a rubber-gloved hand under the corpse's head to turn it. With expert fingers he delineated the facial bones and probed around the eye sockets and the jaw. Globs of blackened skin and grey hair came away at the touch, showing further areas of dark red muscle and white bone.

‘There's a fracture of the jawbone on the right side that tells us there was at least one further heavy blow. That's the only fracture I can detect. But the lateral cartilage just below the nasal bone appears to be compacted. That was probably a third blow. On its own it wouldn't have caused death, but it could have stunned him.'

Swallow interrupted. ‘If he was struck on the back of the skull, and if there's evidence of a blow to the side and on the nose, doesn't that suggest attack from more than one direction? Maybe by two people?'

Lafeyre shrugged, puffing on his cigar.

‘Not necessarily. The force of one blow could cause him to turn, maybe even as an attempt at self-defence. It could have been one person. It could have been two … or more.'

‘You saw the two-pound weight that Stephen Doolan found at the scene,' Swallow changed tack. ‘He thinks it's the likely murder weapon. Would that fit in with what you've seen here?'

‘It would crack any bone. I took it with me from Lamb Alley. It's got blood spatters.'

He gestured to the storage cupboards that ran the length of the room.

‘I have it safely if it's needed as an exhibit. I want to look at the blood spatters because there are finger-marks.'

Lafeyre made a ‘Y' incision from the shoulders to the abdomen. Swallow had expected a wave of putrid gases, but Ambrose Pollock's body had advanced in decomposition beyond that point. One by one, Lafeyre removed the organs, stomach, intestines, liver and kidneys, placing them in variously sized steel trays. He probed around the organs.

‘Nothing of significance,' he said finally. ‘But any signs of injury would be masked by putrefaction in the soft tissues.'

Swallow had been fingering the severed sections of rope with which the pawnbroker's wrists and ankles had been bound. He offered the stump of his stinking cigar to Scollan.

‘Is there some place that you could dispose of this … object … for me please? I need both hands to demonstrate something.'

Lafeyre drew heavily again on his cigar. ‘If you don't mind, I'll persevere with this for the present. What's in your mind?'

Swallow took the length of rope that had bound Pollock's wrists and extended it, holding the severed ends at arm's length between thumb and forefinger.

‘Look at the knot. It's a double hitch, right over left and then right over left again. It's the easiest knot in the book, the sort a child would make. But it could loosen with tensing and flexing.'

He placed it on the table and took up the section of rope that had secured the dead man's ankles. As before, he extended it at arm's length, displaying the knot in the middle.

‘But this knot, as you'll see, is different. It's a double hitch, but it's right over left and then left under right, making it far more secure. The more tensing and flexing, the tighter the tie is going to be. It's a more professional knot.'

‘Professional,' Lafeyre said. ‘Do you mean like a sailor's knot?'

‘It wouldn't have to be a sailor. A shop assistant would be trained to use it to tie a string around a parcel.'

Lafeyre ran an index finger over the section on the table, and then did the same with the length that Swallow still held.

‘I can see they're different. Is this leading up to something?'

‘Nothing that's absolutely conclusive. But it could indicate that the knots were tied by two different people. Most people use one kind of knot all the time. They don't vary it, particularly when they're repeating an exercise.'

‘You're a mine of information.'

‘I learned a few things at medical school when I wasn't drinking. Like how to knot bandages.'

Lafeyre started to remove his apron and gloves.

‘I'll do some further testing on his organs since there's poison here somewhere in the story. And I'll see if there's anything to be learned from the marks on the iron weight.'

‘Are you hopeful, Doctor?' Mossop asked.

‘Who knows?' Lafeyre answered. ‘Bodies can tell you a lot. There can be an eloquence about the dead. But you have to be able to interpret what they're telling you.'

Mossop sighed. ‘If Sergeant Swallow is right about the knots, it seems that there might have been two people involved. Phoebe Pollock didn't act alone.'

‘That's at least a possibility,' Lafeyre agreed.

Mossop put down his pencil and placed his hands over his face.

‘But it could mean that we've got two murderers still loose.'

Swallow grimaced.

‘The crowd in the Upper Yard will make a big meal out of it. But these things aren't supposed to happen where the Queen's loyal subjects live in safety, protected by the Dublin Metropolitan Police … and all that sort of shite.'

Mossop grinned mirthlessly.

‘Hah. Loyal subjects, me arse. I'd find it hard to name any o' that kind up around Lamb Alley.'

 

NINE

There was a time when Arthur Clinton was content to drink in public houses like the Bleeding Horse on Camden Street. He enjoyed the warmth of its mahogany fittings and the brilliance of the polished mirrors in which he could admire himself.

He was rather handsome if a bit short. Intelligent looking, he thought. He dressed well. That was important if one did not want to stay forever as a poorly paid law clerk. But a man on the way up should be seen to patronise the better hotels rather than run-of-the-mill public houses.

Nonetheless, the Bleeding Horse suited the purpose of the meeting to which he had been summoned. The man he had to meet had to be discreet. His coming and going would not be remarked upon here. Their muted conversation would be lost in the hubbub of the bar.

The other man was there first. He sat with a whiskey and water in one of the booths by the small windows that gave on to Charlotte Way. A copy of the
Evening Mail
was spread out on the table, opened at the main news page.

Clinton ordered himself a brandy at the counter, and installed himself opposite. He nodded to the open newspaper.

‘You've read the news.'

‘Of course. What happened?'

‘How would I know?' Arthur replied defensively. ‘I only know what I've read in the newspaper.'

His companion could pass for a Londoner or even a Parisian with his pencil moustache, pale complexion and well-cut suit. Clinton reckoned him to be about the same age as himself, in his mid-thirties with cold, grey eyes. Arthur always found himself a little frightened in his presence.

He seemed to consider Arthur's answer for a moment.

‘The current consignment of … merchandise … is still there? At his place?'

‘As far as I know, yes.'

The eyes shone like ice.

‘It's your business to know, Clinton. I've set up everything across the water. All you have to do is make sure the stuff is kept safe and then shipped. It's not very difficult.'

‘You can say that. But there's a lot of organising. And there's paperwork at the office. I have to be very careful.'

‘The reason I wanted to meet you is because I'm hearing reports … rumours … that some items are beginning to turn up in shops around the city. Can you throw any light on that?'

Arthur became defensive again.

‘I told you, everything is taken care of. I don't know what you're talking about.'

The man nodded.

‘I'll do my own checking. I just hope for your sake it's as tight as it should be.'

Arthur felt he had to defend himself.

‘If you know so much, you tell me what happened to Pollock.'

‘Don't be ridiculous. I'm as far removed from that sort of thing as could be. But I'll have to inform London. It won't be well received.'

He shrugged. ‘It may just be that someone did for him, that's all. It happens sometimes, in that part of the city.'

‘You've no reason to believe it's connected with our … business?'

‘How can I tell?'

‘It says there's an investigation. Do you think they'll … discover things?'

‘That's usually what they do in an investigation.' The tone was sarcastic. ‘It might be a simple robbery. In which case, nothing should emerge that would concern us.'

‘But supposing it does. I've got to think of myself and my family. My livelihood.'

‘We've all got to think of ourselves. You've been doing very well out of our efforts. Well enough to be able to make sizeable wagers on some doubtful racehorses, if my information is correct.'

Clinton felt himself flush.

‘Sometimes I get a good tip … I know people in the bloodstock business. There's no harm in the odd wager among friends and gentlemen.'

The man snorted. ‘What you do with your money is your own business. For my part, I'd count my fingers after shaking hands with some of those “friends and gentlemen”.'

Clinton pointed to the newspaper. ‘It says there's an Inspector Boyle been put on the case.'

‘I know about him. I doubt if he could count two bottles on a tabletop, so I wouldn't worry too much about his investigation. It says the police are seeking his sister to help in their inquiries. That's their way of saying she did it.'

He paused.

‘Are you sure there's nothing for them to discover? No records, no papers, nothing traceable at the pawn shop?'

‘I don't believe so,' Clinton said. ‘I've been very careful.'

‘In that case, we probably have nothing to be concerned about. It's an inconvenience, but no more than that. We'll find someone else for the job.'

Clinton's brandy was warming his gut. His companion's confidence made him feel a bit more comfortable. He downed the remains of his drink in a gulp, and signalled to the barman to replenish the glasses.

‘I got a hell of a shock earlier,' he said, raising the refill to his lips.

The other man furrowed his brow and sipped again at his whiskey.

‘I don't like the sound of that. You wouldn't be having some sort of doubts, or losing your confidence, I hope.'

It was not an expression of concern. It was a threat.

‘No, I wouldn't be worried about that,' Arthur said after a moment. He attempted an unconvincing laugh, and put his empty glass on the table.

‘That's good,' the man said. ‘I'm travelling to London tomorrow anyway and I'll be seeing our friends there. I'll fill them in.'