The Eloquence of the Dead (29 page)

A few minutes later he saw Katherine emerge from one of the lifts. She spotted him as he rose from the chair, made her way across the busy lobby and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Swallow was unsure whether he should be embarrassed or pleased at the unaccustomed intimacy. He felt himself blush.

‘It's good that you came,' she said. ‘I didn't know if you could, being on duty this morning when we met. There's a private lounge here for residents. We can at least hear ourselves talk in there.'

The residents' lounge was surprisingly uncrowded. She led the way to a place by the windows, looking out onto Buckingham Palace Road.

‘Wasn't that an extraordinary coincidence that we should meet this morning?' she said smiling. ‘When did you come over from Dublin? And what are you doing here, or can you tell me?'

‘Business,' he said. ‘Police business.'

Her face darkened momentarily. ‘I assume it has something to do with that wretched man who beat my father with the gun. I only saw him for a few seconds when they attacked us, but I recognised him going into Moser's.'

He grimaced.

‘I can't tell you everything. But yes, it's to do with him. I'm working with some detectives from Scotland Yard on it. You wouldn't have seen them at Hatton Garden, but they were with me this morning.'

A waiter appeared. They ordered tea.

‘And what about you?' he asked. ‘What are you doing here?'

She waved a hand at her surroundings.

‘Oh, this is a regular visit. I come to London from time to time in connection with the business. My father isn't strong enough to make the journey any longer. He used to love it, meeting his old friends in the trade, making bargains, all of that.'

‘So what do you do when you come here?'

‘I usually bring stones, rings, watches, rare items that we know we can make a good profit on. Coins too, of course. The Dublin market is small, and there's a much greater demand in London. You'll always get a good price.'

‘Are you telling me that you travel on your own from Dublin carrying these things? Don't you realise that you're a dream opportunity for robbers? Some of them would murder a woman for a sixpence.'

She shrugged. ‘The only time anything ever happened was last week in our own shop in Dublin, as you know. And I'm not foolish. I take suitable precautions.'

Swallow believed her. He wondered what they might involve.

The waiter brought the tea. She poured for them both.

‘Now, we've had enough discussion of police work and the jewellery trade for a while,' she laughed. ‘What are your proposals to entertain me for the evening? Or do I act as your guide?'

They agreed that the programme should be a compromise. He would entertain her to dinner. She would choose the venue. There was still an hour of light in the October evening. She would use it to introduce him to some of the London sights that he not seen.

They walked to Westminster. She showed him the Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. They waited to hear Big Ben strike the hour before crossing Bridge Street to the Victoria Embankment.

Katherine slipped her arm through his as they made their way along the river front. To anyone watching, they might be any courting couple taking the Embankment air, he reckoned.

The gas lights had been lit, forming a pearly chain that followed the river's curve to Waterloo Bridge. The Embankment's wide pavement was dotted with strolling couples. Here and there a brazier glowed where men roasted chestnuts for sale.

She pointed towards the arches of Waterloo Bridge.

‘Did you know that Constable painted this scene? And Monet too.'

Swallow did not know that, but he could understand how the perfect proportions of the bridge, the reflection off the water and the backdrop of the city would appeal to an artist. For a moment, he allowed himself to think that what he was looking at was actually a painting. He was aware that increasingly he tended to frame the world in terms of art. It disturbed him. He came back to reality.

‘I thought Constable always liked to paint rural scenes,' he said. ‘Trees, lakes, river crossings, that sort of thing.'

‘I imagine it was a commercial decision. For many years the poor fellow didn't sell very well in England. Nobody was particularly interested in images of the countryside.'

‘You know your London well.'

She laughed.

‘I should. I lived here for three years, you know. My father put me to an apprenticeship with a friend of his who had a fine business. He had a workshop near Hatton Garden and a really good outlet at Bond Street. Very fashionable. I learned a lot about the jewellery trade. It wasn't usual for a girl, of course, but my gender has never been a problem in the business. It might even have been an advantage.'

‘You obviously liked it here. You weren't tempted to stay?'

They came to Cleopatra's Needle. She stopped, looking out across the river.

‘I fell in love,' she said. ‘But the man didn't love me. Oh, he said he did, of course. There was a year of courtship. In the end, he didn't think the daughter of a Dublin Jewish shopkeeper was a good enough match.'

‘Was it a question of religion? Was he of your faith?'

‘Oh yes, he was Jewish. As Jewish as you can get.' There was an edge of anger to her voice. ‘His family were high up in the community here. Big people in the synagogue. They finally drove me away from any religious practice.'

‘But your family was well established in Dublin. And well off too. Your parents built up a good business.'

‘By their standards they saw us as struggling.' For a moment she looked sad. ‘I went back to Dublin as soon as my three years were up. My mother was gone. My father needed support. It was time to put what I had learned back into the business.'

They left the river front at Lancaster Place, and walked through Aldwych to Drury Lane. By now the light was fading, and the streets were filling with theatre-goers. Elegantly dressed men and women stepped down from carriages or emerged from the restaurants and chop houses. The pavements were alive with the buzz of laughter and conversation.

The Albion was warm and welcoming. They were offered a glass of cider punch, and shown to a table with a cheerful view of the fire. They were early diners, the waiter told them. The place would really only get busy when the theatres began to close.

The menu of the evening was chalked up on a blackboard that stood beside the fireplace. Swallow had never seen such a thing. The supper house had an air of informality that he liked.

They chose from the menu, starting with fried eel, on Katherine's advice.

‘They're a London specialty,' she told him. ‘They catch them in the Thames estuary and they cook them in a flour batter. They're very tasty.'

When he had finished, Swallow was sure he would not seek them out again.

They had a glass of Hock with the eel. Then they both decided to take the waiter's guidance in favour of the house beefsteak. Swallow ordered a bottle of Medoc when they had finished the Hock.

‘So how much are you going to tell me about your business in London?' she asked. ‘I imagine that Mr Shaftoe must have turned out to be a serious criminal to bring you all the way to Scotland Yard. It makes me nervous to think of him on the loose again.'

‘You needn't worry for the moment. He's safely locked up in the Tower of London now.'

‘In the Tower? I thought they only used that for kings' wives before they cut their heads off.'

Swallow smiled. ‘Well, they do. But it has other uses too.'

He sipped the Medoc.

‘We know he was sent to Dublin by someone to find who had sold the tetradrachms. We're not sure who sent him or why he wanted the information. And we're still searching for Grace Clinton, who sold them to you. ‘

‘That poor woman. I didn't know who she was or where to find her.'

‘We'll locate her eventually, I hope.'

‘I don't understand. The coins are not worth sending someone from London with a gun.'

‘Shaftoe tells us that there's a plan here in London and in Dublin to defraud the Treasury in the transfer of land in Ireland.'

She looked puzzled. ‘But what has that do with the coins?'

‘I don't know. I think it might have something to do also with the murder of the pawnbroker Ambrose Pollock a couple of weeks ago.'

‘My father knew him, but I don't think I ever met him.'

‘It seemed at first that he'd been killed by his sister. It might have been some sort of family dispute. But it became clear once we started into the investigation that there were two people involved in his death. She might have been one, but she's gone missing. We don't know if she's alive or dead.'

Katherine looked puzzled. ‘Then it wasn't his sister?'

‘I can't say that. I can't say much with any certainty. This may not be the glittering peak of my police career.'

‘I don't know much about how the police authorities view these things, but it seems to me that you've had lots of successes,' she said firmly. ‘I've been forever reading about you in the newspapers. It would be unfair if you were to feel down because of one case.'

‘You're only as good as your last job in the police. Credit for past successes dries up pretty quickly.'

By now the supper house had become busy. The theatres were emptying, and tables began to fill with couples and larger groups, animatedly discussing the shows they had just seen.

The waiters redoubled their speed of service and the air became thick with cigar smoke. When an attractive young woman entered on a gentleman's arm and was shown to a reserved table by the window, the restaurant broke into a round of applause and cheering. Swallow surmised that she was a leading lady or at least a prominent role in some nearby stage production.

The Medoc was finished. He ordered a second bottle.

When the wine was poured, the waiter asked if they would like to choose a dessert. They both opted for raspberry sorbet.

‘They're good,' he said approvingly, savouring the raspberries. ‘But they're not as good as the ones my mother grows in Newcroft.'

She smiled. ‘Where's Newcroft? Is that where you grew up?'

‘It's a little place in Kildare, hardly on the map. It's not even a village, more a crossroads really. My people have a business there. The usual combination, a public house and a grocery. My father died a few years back, but my mother still runs it.'

‘Were they disappointed when you left your medical studies?'

‘It wasn't so much that I left them,' his tone was serious. ‘I told you before. I threw them away like a fool because I was too fond of drink.'

‘Wouldn't you be interested in going home to take it over? Or is there someone else in the family to do that?'

‘No, I'm an only son. My sister is a teacher, and she doesn't want to go back to it.'

‘Maybe it's not my place to ask,' she said cautiously, ‘but would it not be … well … suitable for yourself and Mrs Walsh?'

‘Mrs Walsh was my landlady.' He knew his tone was sharp. ‘And we … found each other's company congenial. In other circumstances, there might have been more to our relationship in the long run, I won't deny that. But there's no commitment and no expectations on either side now.'

She seemed to recoil a little at his vehemence.

‘Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that you seem, well, unhappy.' Katherine finished her drink. ‘I've had my own experiences of unhappiness,' she said, ‘and I can recognise it when I see it.'

They had reached the end of the Medoc. A troupe of three men in evening dress with violins was making its way across the restaurant, playing for each table party. Katherine smiled and reached across and touched his hand.

‘I'm not one for music, really. I think you should see me back to The Grosvenor.'

 

FORTY-NINE

No shot had not been fired in anger in Dymchurch for as long as anyone could remember. Some older residents claimed to have heard of an incident many years ago, when a gang of smugglers had been intercepted by Revenue men one winter's night on the Folkestone Road.

There was virtually no crime there, apart from poaching and, occasionally, some petty thieving from outhouses, usually the work of vagabonds or gypsies.

It had taken Margaret some time to adapt, to move away from the routine of constant vigilance that she had been required to follow at Mount Gessel. At the height of the Land War she had slept with a loaded shotgun by her bedside. She never went out in the open car or on horseback without her small .32 Smith and Wesson revolver.

Each night every door and window at the house had to be locked and barred. Her bedroom door had been reinforced with steel stanchions from the smithy at Loughrea. When the attacks on landlords' homes were at their height, she slept lightly, subconsciously registering the tread of the sentries on their rounds under her window.

The dimensions of her new house were exhilarating after the confines of living at the hotel in London. She delighted in the spacious proportions of the hall and the gallery, and she determined that she would make full use of the drawing-room and the dining-room when she had established herself socially in the town.

The well-tended orchards from which the house had been named were a delight. When she moved in, the apple blossom was full, scenting the air around the house. Now the fruit had been taken by the pickers with their ladders and wicker baskets, but the trees still held their leaves. She wondered how they would look after the first winds would have stripped them for winter.

For the first few weeks, she had been thorough about the house's security. She instructed the servants to ensure that the doors to front and rear were locked and bolted every night and that the shutters on the ground floor windows were folded out and barred.