The Eloquence of the Dead (26 page)

‘So I was on the right track.'

Mallon ignored it.

‘You'll bring him back to London, like you said. You'll lodge him in a cell at one of the prisons. We'll try to avoid places like Wandsworth or Brixton or Pentonville. I'll arrange it with Jenkinson.'

‘How will we hold him? Or rather, how will they hold him?'

‘He'll be sentenced to fourteen days on some minor charge, maybe public disorder or drunkenness. Then he'll have to identify who he's working for. If the information is good, he'll be released at the end of his two weeks. Otherwise, you produce this.'

Mallon handed him a document topped with the Royal Arms of the Lion and Unicorn.

‘It's an warrant entitling you to bring him back to Dublin to face charges of attempted murder, attempted armed robbery, possession of a firearm with intent to endanger life and conspiracy. All you have to do is countersign it.'

Swallow understood.

It was more than clever.

Shaftoe would not like it. It still left his fate in Swallow's hands. But as an alternative to Maryborough prison, a short spell behind bars in London before regaining his freedom would have to be an irresistible offer.

He pocketed the warrant.

‘What about the Pollock murder investigation here? Mossop and Feore are bringing this fellow Rowan in this morning for questioning.'

‘I'll make sure that they stay on top of the case. But I need someone with a bit of wit and diplomacy to do the London end of things.'

Swallow thought for a moment.

‘I'll need help in London. I can find my way about. I might even enjoy the sights. But this sort of trick will only work if the authorities there are on board.'

‘I'll arrange that through Jenkinson. And you won't have much time for seeing the sights. I want you to go down to this place, Dymchurch, in Sussex, and take a formal statement from Lady Gessel. If we end up charging people we'll need to prove that she was the lawful owner of the silver and the coins.'

Swallow could still be impressed after more than twenty years working for the man by John Mallon's ability to see around corners he had not even reached yet.

‘Now,' Mallon said, ‘today was supposed to be a rest day for you, Swallow. I suggest that you make the most of what's left of it, go home, pack a suitcase and be back here at nine in the morning. My clerk will have your tickets and a cash advance ready for you to take care of accommodation, subsistence, that kind of thing.'

He sat, indicating that the conversation at an end.

‘Collect Shaftoe from the cells after that. Explain the deal to him and be on the noon sailing from Kingstown. When you're settled in London, telegraph me.'

The shadows of the October evening were darkening the Lower Yard as he left. A chill wind, hinting of the coming winter, cut across the cobbles from the direction of the river.

He met Pat Mossop and Tony Swann going out the Palace Street Gate. They were in good spirits.

‘‘Duck' Boyle is standin' for everyone in the Dolphin,' Mossop said. ‘He's got notification that he's on the list for superintendent. Are ye comin' with us, Joe?'

He thought about declining the offer, but it would be interpreted as begrudgery. He went to the Dolphin.

Mostly he listened to the gossip, keeping his counsel, standing his round to the other G-men and accepting theirs. When the wall clock in the bar showed close to eleven, he decided to go. Packing for London would not take long, but he needed to explain to Harriet that he would be away for a few days.

He felt the cool air in his lungs when he left the Dolphin. He turned along Parliament Street and, at the top, turned right out of habit towards Lord Edward Street. Without willing it, his steps took him across High Street, past the two churches of St Audoen and into Thomas Street.

His progress should have been towards the rented house on Heytesbury Street but some instinct was bringing him back along Thomas Street to Grant's and Maria Walsh.

When he came abreast of Grant's he crossed the street and sought the shadows get a better view. The upstairs rooms were in darkness, but the lights in the bar were warm and inviting. He recognised the rituals of closing time, the barmen clearing the counters, customers draining their glasses. And there was Maria moving across the illuminated rectangles of the windows, elegant in her dark, formal dress, her blonde hair catching the light.

He sensed a convergence of emotions. He felt angry, but he was not sure at whom. At himself, perhaps more than anyone else, he guessed. There was sadness too. Or was he just feeling sorry for himself? By right, he should be in there, in the warmth and comfort of Grant's, with Maria. But instead he was standing, half drunk, on Thomas Street with wind and rain whipping around him. Well, whose fault was that but his own?

He shut his eyes, closing off the picture, and turned for Heytesbury Street.

 

FRIDAY OCTOBER 7
TH
, 1887

 

FORTY-TWO

At about the time that Swallow was wakening Detective Johnny Vizzard in his bunk at the Exchange Court dormitory, the station sergeant of the Royal Irish Constabulary in the small market town of Trim, County Meath was preparing to resume his duties.

Sergeant Timothy Devenney had been granted a five-day furlough on compassionate grounds. The purpose was to enable him to attend the obsequies of his wife's mother in County Roscommon.

His leave had started at noon on the previous Sunday. At the same hour on this Friday he would again take charge of the Trim barracks, relieving the replacement sergeant who had been transferred temporarily from Navan to take his place.

Devenney was never content merely to be on time. It was his lifetime habit to be early. He believed it was a good maxim for a policeman, offering a margin of protection against surprise inspections and sometimes yielding other advantages. Thus, while he was officially free of duties until noon, 11 o'clock found him descending the back stairs from the married quarters to the offices below.

Once he entered his office, he saw the tell-tale signs of laxity over the period of his absence. Ash spilled from the remains of the turf fire onto the hearthstone. The station registers were scattered untidily across the table. A copy of Thursday's
Daily Sketch,
opened at the sports pages, was spread out beside the official books.

Of infinitely greater seriousness, potentially at least, was the bundle of unopened post in the wire tray on the sergeant's desk.

He cursed under his breath. The replacement sergeant from Navan was a notorious idler, heavy on the alcohol and addicted to the racing of any species of animal upon which bets could be placed. Five days away from the oversight of his superiors at Navan would have been a boon for the shirker, an ideal opportunity to indulge his favourite pastimes without having to undertake the inconvenience of duty. And it was very likely, Devenney reflected, that he would have found a keen apprentice in the young recruit constable lately posted to the Trim barracks as well.

Devenney had tried to do his best for him since his arrival, but he knew that the new recruit had no natural inclinations to police work. Only hours before he had started his period of compassionate leave, the sergeant had marched with him to the railway station, there to observe the comings and goings of passengers on the Great Southern and Western Railway, as required at regular intervals by routine orders.

He had sought to instruct him regarding the ways in which a policeman should observe a train.

His position in daylight hours should be in the waiting-room, or in a railway office from which he had a good view of the platform. He should use a window receiving direct daylight so that its reflection on the glass would render him invisible to passengers or others on the platform.

At night, the opposite procedure should be applied. A man in a lighted room is clearly visible to anyone outside in the darkness, while at the same time his capacity to see them is greatly reduced. The watching policeman in hours of darkness should choose the exterior shadows of a building, taking care not to allow reflected light to catch his buttons or badges.

He knew that his apprentice was not listening, being more interested in the progress of some young ladies as they made their way aboard the Galway train. If Jesus Christ and the Twelve Apostles landed on the platform at Trim, he reckoned, the recruit constable would hardly notice them.

Sergeant Devenney swept the dated newspaper aside, sat at the table and started into the unopened post, reordering it so that he could start with the oldest. He saw Post Office Telegram in its distinctive red and blue envelope dated from Monday. He cursed again. His replacement's laziness was such that even a telegram, by definition an urgent communication, had remained unread.

He slit the envelope and read the telegram.

FROM DI/RIC NAVAN

INFORMATION REQUESTED G-DIVISION DMP WHEREABOUTS OF MR MRS ARTHUR AND GRACE CLINTON THREE YOUNG CHILDREN TRAVELLED BROADSTONE TRAIN SUNDAY MORNING STOP URGENT CRIME INQUIRY

Oh Dear God. Although it was the greater part of week ago, Sergeant Devenney recalled clearly the young couple with their three children, laden with bags, as they stepped down from the Dublin train on Sunday morning.

Devenney had seen the man cross the station platform to approach a jarvey on his side-car in the forecourt. He watched as the jarvey helped the woman and children to board the car and then loaded the baggage.

Devenney calculated quickly. Wherever they went, they could not have travelled far. Two hours later, when the sergeant and Mrs Devenney had gone to the station themselves to take the train to Athlone on the first stage of their sorrowful journey, the jarvey was back on the forecourt. Were the sergeant not preoccupied with comforting his wife in the circumstances of her bereavement, he believed he would have inquired of the driver, out of professional curiosity, who his passengers had been and the destination to which he had brought them.

Four days on and the damned telegram had not even been read. He would report his replacement's slothfulness and deal with the recruit constable's neglect of duty in due course, but an urgent situation had now arisen.

Fifteen minutes later, Devenney was questioning the jarvey at his cottage in a laneway off the main street of Trim. Where had he brought the young couple, their children and their baggage?

The driver was co-operative. He told Devenney how the husband had resisted his friendly efforts to have him identify himself or to state their business in the area. But the young wife had cried with joy when they came in sight of the solid, two-storey house in the townland of Clonlar that she told the driver was the home of her widowed mother, a Mrs Armstrong.

Devenney knew Elizabeth Armstrong as he had known her late husband, James. They had almost 100 acres of good land at Clonlar. There were no Armstrong sons, and after James's death the land went to local farmers. The sergeant knew there were two daughters, Helen and Grace. The coincidence of names, he surmised, probably meant that Grace was the elusive Mrs Clinton.

He hurried to the Post Office on the main street. Once inside, he composed an urgent telegraph:

FROM DEVENNEY SERGT IN CHARGE TRIM STOP REPORTING LIKELY LOCATION OF CLINTON FAMILY PER DMP INFORMATION REQUEST SUNDAY STOP INSTRUCTIONS PLEASE

He handed it to the postmaster and told him to wire it personally and immediately to the District Inspector's office at Navan.

 

FORTY-THREE

Jimmy Rowan, alias Regan, had a lot of experience of police stations. He knew the procedures. First, they would take everything you had off you. If that included anything valuable, like money or a watch, you were likely not to see it again. Then they would throw you in the cell. Depending on the mood of the peeler who took you down, there you might get a few belts of a baton on the way. Then there would usually be a long wait in the dark among the odours of bodily excretions and coarse disinfectant.

Eventually, a couple of them would fetch you from the cell and take you to an office. One would tell you what you were to be charged with. Sometimes the charge was right, sometimes not. Sometimes, where drink might have been involved, you might not even be sure yourself. It hardly mattered. In the end, perhaps after some show of defiance followed by a hammering, you would sign the statement of admission. It never varied.

It was a surprise to find that it seemed to be a bit different in Dublin, at least with the plainclothes fellows at the Castle. They had been polite as they went in and out of the hotel over the days, and he had come to recognise them by sight.

When Barry, the general manager, told him that two of the G-men wanted to talk to him, he had briefly entertained the notion of fleeing. He guessed that they had found his record. One way or another it would mean the end of the job at the hotel. When he saw that two constables had been strategically positioned on the street outside, though, he reckoned it was best to go willingly to the manager's office.

Feore, the big fellow with the west-of-Ireland accent, led the questioning.

‘We won't waste each other's time,' Feore said. ‘I know who you are and what you are. Your name is Rowan. You've six convictions for violence and a few more for theft, drunkenness and obstruction.'

Rowan shrugged.

‘So ye know who I am,' he said, throwing a sidelong look at Barry, who stood to one side. ‘I'm usin' a false name here. If I didn't, there'd be no work for the likes of me.'

‘You're right on that,' Barry interjected.

‘I've done me time,' Rowan ignored him. ‘I'm not on yer books for anythin', so go ahead. Ask me any questions ye want.'

‘For a start, you're on the books again on suspicion of theft,' Feore said. He tossed three leather wallets on the desk. ‘We found these in the cupboard beside your bed. There's no money in them now, of course. But it's a fair bet that when you lifted them, maybe from fellows with a few drinks on them, there'd have been cash in there.'