The Eloquence of the Dead (8 page)

‘Now,' he drained his glass too. ‘We'll drink to the late Mr Pollock'

 

TEN

In one respect, at least, Swallow had to acknowledge, he was blest in his sister. She believed that he had to be fed. And, contrary to her own modern, egalitarian principles, she had decided that she should play out an almost maternal role in her care for him.

Convinced that he would never look after his own nourishment, she insisted on providing for it herself. There had never been any evidence to justify her fears in the matter, but there was always food waiting for him no matter what time he arrived home. And so it was tonight.

Harriet was twenty-two to his forty-three. The gap between them, though, encompassed much more than a chronological span of years. His view of the world and hers were literally generations apart. They could agree on hardly anything: politics, music, religion, literature, the place of women – but above they quarrelled about politics.

Swallow cared nothing for it, and less for its practitioners.

‘If the King of the bloody Zulus came to rule Ireland, I couldn't be bothered to see him ride down Sackville Street,' he had told her in an argument.

‘The Zulus aren't the problem,' she retorted. ‘It's a much more savage crowd – the English. And mind your language. It reminds me of your drinking days.'

She could still be angry about the grief he had caused at home when he threw away his medical studies for alcohol. Their parents had worked hard in the public house in rural Kildare to provide for their children's education. Swallow's father had died shortly after learning that his son had been expelled from the Cecilia Street College.

‘Those days are long gone,' he had said. ‘And I'd rather you didn't bring them up.'

‘I don't want to,' she answered. ‘But I can't pretend they didn't happen. I love you. You're my brother. But you hurt us. All of us.'

Harriet had been swept up by the new Irish nationalism over her time in the Blackrock teacher training college. Established to provide teachers for the newly formed national schools system, it had acquired a reputation as a seedbed of separatist thinking. Some members of the staff figured in G-Division's files, noted for their hostility to everything British.

Harriet's political views were potentially a problem for a detective sergeant in G-Division. On one occasion already, when she had become involved with a group calling themselves the Hibernian Brotherhood, he had to engage in some quiet skullduggery to get her out of trouble.

‘Your own grandfather carried a pike to take a stand against England,' she had told him angrily afterwards. ‘I appreciate that you're trying to look after me, and I love you as a brother, but don't ask me to respect what you do for a living, you and the rest of … of … England's hirelings in there in the Castle.'

He had learned to ignore the clichéd rhetoric, borrowed from badly printed pamphlets and political speeches reported in the press. Occasionally, though, he wished that she might acknowledge that it was his modest G-man's salary that would pay the rent until she moved up the teaching pay scale.

After Harry Lafeyre had completed the post-mortem on Ambrose Pollock, Swallow and Mossop had found ‘Duck' Boyle drinking with a couple of clerks from the Army Office in Morton's bar in Dame Court.

‘Bad news,' Swallow told him. ‘It looks like there were two people involved in the attack on Pollock.'

Even with his brain fuddled with alcohol, Boyle realised that this was serious.

‘Oh Jaysus. There must be some mistake. Is there any chance d'ye think that Lafeyre's slippin' up?'

‘I doubt it.'

He knew there was no point in rehearsing the details of the knotted ropes to the half-soused inspector.

Boyle was anguished. Mallon insisted that information on all major crime developments be brought to him immediately, if necessary outside office hours at his house in the Lower Castle Yard. But he had enough sense not to turn up to his boss with signs of alcohol on board.

‘Fuck it … fuck it anyway. We had it all grand and neat, hadn't we? You'll have to take this on, Swalla', seein' as I'm off duty now.'

He wiped froth from his beard with the back of his hand.

‘Put it all in the report for tomorrow mornin' and drop a copy over to Chief Mallon's house.'

Swallow felt his fury rising. It was Boyle's case and Boyle's responsibility. He had agreed to attend the post-mortem in order to assist the investigation. But now he was being pushed into the lead role because his line superior was drunk.

Mossop saw his anger. He put a restraining hand on Swallow's arm.

‘Ah sure, we'll get that done in half an hour, Skipper. C'mon, we'll go across to the office.'

For a moment, Swallow was going to brush off Mossop's gesture and knock the glass out of Boyle's pudgy fist. But an altercation between two G-men in Morton's would not be good for anyone.

‘Fair enough, Pat.'

They stepped out into Dame Court.

‘And at least the fucking thing will be done right,' Mossop said. ‘Christ knows what he'd put in the report, the state he's in.'

Exchange Court was quiet. Mossop lit the gas mantles in the crime sergeants' office, and Swallow rolled foolscap and carbon paper into one of the G-Division's ageing Remington typewriters.

Swallow was the more proficient typist. He battered out the words as Mossop read from his notes taken at the morgue. They were finished by 11 o'clock. Swallow sent Mossop home, and he crossed the Lower Yard to deliver the report to Mallon's house.

Dublin Castle was no longer a castle in any architectural sense. Over the centuries, a jigsaw of yards and courts had grown up around the original site of the stronghold that had been put up in the reign of King John. Apart from the medieval Record Tower, all that was left of the early fortress was some underground foundations, now superimposed with faux crenellated curtain walls.

The courts and yards housed the many agencies and commissions that made up the British administration in Ireland. The most important of these, including the Office of the Chief Secretary, the Office of the Under-Secretary, the Gentlemen Ushers and others, were located in the Upper Yard around the State Apartments. This was where the Queen's deputy – the Viceroy – held his court, hosting receptions, balls and audiences in the Dublin ‘season' from February to the end of March each year.

The Lower Yard, divided from the Upper by a three-storey block, accommodated the less prestigious agencies, including the separate headquarters of Ireland's two police forces: the Royal Irish Constabulary and the Dublin Metropolitan Police.

The house allocated to the chief superintendent of the G-Division was a substantial one, more than sufficient to the needs of John Mallon and his family. Constructed in yellow-brown brick, it stood facing across the cobbled Lower Yard towards the apse of the Chapel Royal and the Record Tower beyond.

A light burning on the ground floor told Swallow that Mallon was still in his sitting-room. When the chief superintendent opened the front door in response to his tap on the window pane, Swallow found him clad in a woollen dressing-gown. The embers of a dying turf fire glowed faintly in the room behind.

‘I'm sorry for disturbing the house at a late hour, Chief. There's been some developments in the Lamb Alley case from this morning. I've brought an updated file for you.'

‘I thought Boyle was in charge of the case.'

‘He is, Sir. He's gone off duty and he asked me to brief you.'

Mallon's grunt was ambiguous.

‘Other than the delay in discovery, it seemed fairly straightforward from what I heard earlier.'

He gestured Swallow to an armchair.

‘As I heard it, he was dead for several days and the sister had gone on the run. The last report from Boyle said that she'd disappeared at a hotel on the North Wall. Weren't you on the scene?'

‘I was, Sir, but it's turning out to be more complicated. I was at the post-mortem with Mossop and Feore. There's a possibility that more than one person might have been involved in the murder.'

Mallon's shoulders slumped.

‘Two murderers?' he said after a moment. ‘Have you any idea where the sister is?'

‘No, Sir. She can't be found anywhere. We're sure she was in the Northern Hotel, and there were signs of a struggle in her room. There was a bottle of prussic acid there too. Unused, apparently. And she had two cases. We recovered one of them with £300 in it. I'd be concerned for her safety at this stage.'

Mallon stretched out his hand.

‘Let me see the report.'

He leafed through the file, his sharp eyes travelling across Swallow's typed pages. After a couple of minutes, he raised his head.

‘It still looks as if Phoebe had a hand in it, doesn't it? The question is, who else was involved?'

‘Yes, Sir, that's one of the questions.'

Mallon nodded.

‘She might have met someone at the hotel. Maybe the person who was with her when the brother was killed? An accomplice?'

‘It's possible.'

Mallon tapped the file. ‘Find him – or her – and you've got either a prime witness or a suspect.'

‘We're doing what we can on that, Chief. I put Mick Feore down there. I told him to get whatever help he needed from Store Street and to do all the usual things – seize the guest registers, employee lists and so on.'

‘Feore's a good man. He'll get whatever there is to be got.'

‘The Liverpool packet went out about an hour after we found her,' Swallow said. ‘She wasn't on it. But it's possible someone who assaulted her or abducted her could be. It's due to dock around midnight. We've asked City of Liverpool Police to have someone at the gangway to run another check on the passengers.'

Mallon grunted approval.

Dublin and Liverpool were virtually one city as far as the criminal classes of both were concerned. The short sea crossing connected rather than divided them. Scores of Irishmen served in the Liverpool Police, many in the Criminal Investigation Department. In all probability, the officers sent to watch the arrivals would be Irish themselves, well able to identify any habitual criminals.

‘There'll be a bloody great racket from the civil servants about Pollock being dead for a week,' Mallon said. He looked exasperated.

‘The pawn shops are supposed to be checked regularly by the beat men. They musn't have been doing that up at Pollock's.'

‘G-Division can't be blamed for that, Sir.'

‘No. But we're the people who're expected to clean up the mess.'

Swallow left the Castle by the Ship Street Gate, nodding to the sentry. He passed the barracks, making for Heytesbury Street. He felt a pang of regret that he was not turning right, as he had done so many times in the past, to travel along Werburgh Street and Thomas Street towards Maria and the warmth of M & M Grant's.

At Bishop Street, the night smells of fresh bread came out on the air. Yeast, wheat, milk, all carried on a wave of passing warmth from the bakery.

It would be after closing time at Grant's now. The barmen would be clearing the counter and the tables in the snug, washing off the glasses and preparing to lock up for the night.

Maria would probably be gone upstairs. He would join her in the parlour, sipping a whiskey or sharing a late night pot of tea. If he was hungry there would be a hot plate of something prepared earlier by Carrie, Maria's cook, in the kitchen. They would tell each other about the business of their day, the good and the bad of it, its triumphs and its tribulations.

By contrast, Heytesbury Street seemed cold and empty. The terraced houses were silent and shadowed, their inhabitants safely in bed, lamps doused, sightless windows facing the street, doors barred.

In the kitchen, he lit the gas mantle for a few moments to locate the cold supper of ham sandwiches that Harriet had left on the work table before she retired. He took the plate with him, biting into the first of the sandwiches even as he climbed the dark stairs to his room.

 

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 30
TH
, 1887

 

ELEVEN

The resources of the G-Division were stretched from early morning.

At Lamb Alley, Stephen Doolan with three constables from Kevin Street had started to inventory the contents of Pollock's pawn shop and furniture store.

Knots of sightseers and idlers, drawn by morbid curiosity, continued to gather, peering through the grimy windows on Cornmarket. Mallon partially subscribed to the adage that the criminal sometimes returned to the scene of the crime. So he ordered that the G-men should watch the crowd and note their names.

The Exchange Court conference was brisk and brief. ‘Duck' Boyle was hung over and liverish.

Swallow had half expected that Phoebe Pollock might have been located during the night. Every patrolling constable and G-man had been searching for her. But there was nothing.

‘Orders of the day, Inspector?' he asked hopefully.

Boyle managed to wave a hand.

‘Whatever ye think best, Swalla'. You're close to it all. Use yer rank and decide yerself.'

‘The best chance of turning something up on Phoebe Pollock is probably at the Northern Hotel. I'll go down there again with Mossop.'

They checked every inch of the hotel room again. The water had dried around the shattered pitcher and bowl on the floor, but there were no clues to tell them why the missing woman had come here, much less where she might be now.

G-men and constables from Store Street questioned staff members and any guests who had been present the previous day. Did they see Phoebe Pollock? Did she meet anyone or speak to anyone? Did anyone perhaps follow her to her room?

Other G-men went through the names and addresses of guests who had been present but who had since checked out. Details of delivery men and tradesmen who had called during the previous twenty-four hours were noted.