The Eloquence of the Dead (32 page)

 

FIFTY-SIX

Arthur Clinton probably reckoned he had done a good job of it. He had climbed to the top of the winter hay, stored high in the barn behind the house. Then he worked his way out along a roof beam. From there, he looped the rope around one of the rafters and launched himself, as he hoped, into eternity.

Now he was dangling eight feet above the ground, where the yellow light from the police lanterns caught the kicking and thrashing of his legs. A constable had tried to manipulate a ladder to reach him but it had fallen short, bringing the man and the ladder crashing on to the floor.

Vizzard was first through the barn door.

‘Here, give me that.'

He seized the nearest constable's sabre from its scabbard before the man could react, then he was scaling the piled hay and scrambling his way out along the beam.

If Clinton's intention had been to make a quick end of himself by breaking his neck with a hangman's knot, he had miscalculated. Instead, he was being slowly strangled. Even as Swallow and Devenney gazed up in horror the thrashing of his legs started to slow.

Vizzard swung himself forward on the rafter, one hand grasping the rough timber, the other reaching out with the sabre to where Clinton had looped the rope. The steel cut through the fibres with the force of Vizzard's downward slash, sending Arthur Clinton plunging to the floor below.

Swallow and Devenney heard the crack of bone. His face had turned purple around bulging eyes, the rope scarcely visible in the deep groove it had cut into the neck. Devenney dashed forward and started to dig his fingers between ligature and flesh. At first, he could get no purchase, but then he got one finger under the cord and pulled hard, drawing it away half an inch. He cut the noose with a swift upward stroke of his penknife. For several moments, Clinton was immobile, apparently unable to breathe, then he started drawing air.

Grace Clinton had followed Swallow and the other G-men from the house into the barn. When she saw her husband immobile on the floor, she screamed.

‘Oh Jesus, no … no.'

For a moment she failed to comprehend the scene of Johnny Vizzard climbing down from the hay, sabre in hand, to the congratulations of the constables.

Then she saw the severed rope and understood.

‘Get that off its hinges and take him into the house,' Devenney ordered, indicating the side door of the barn. ‘Put him lying down and get blankets to keep him warm.'

They put the would-be suicide on it and carried him to the house, laying him on a sofa in the parlour. Both of his feet were at a crooked angle, and a splinter of white bone protruded from one leg above the ankle.

As he came to consciousness, the pain flared in his broken bones and the contusions around his neck.

‘The big danger is shock,' Swallow said. ‘Is there anything to stimulate the blood? Whiskey? Brandy'

Elizabeth Armstrong found brandy in the sideboard cupboard. Devenney uncorked it and held it to Clinton's lips. He took a little, swallowed and then drank some more.

There was a sudden commotion as two little girls burst into the parlour, eyes wide with fright and confusion. Elizabeth Armstrong intercepted them as they ran to their father on the sofa.

‘Hush now, girls … hush … out of here.'

She ushered them back to the door and into the arms of a woman that Swallow reckoned to be a maid or a cook. He heard their wailing as they were taken away to some more tranquil part of the house.

‘Your husband is badly injured,' Devenney told Grace Clinton. ‘We'll need to get him to hospital. It looks to me as if he's got two broken ankles and maybe more fractures. The open car is the fastest and the safest way of getting him there. I'll send two men with him.'

‘You'd better go too,' Swallow told Johnny Vizzard. ‘And get a message to Mr Mallon. Tell him what's happened.'

When they had gone, Devenney and Swallow went back to the parlour with Grace Clinton and her mother.

Elizabeth Armstrong had regained much of her composure. Her daughter, by contrast, had collapsed, sobbing into a chair, her face buried in her hands.

‘I'm sorry to have to press you,' Swallow's tone was firm, ‘but if there's to be any salvation out of this for yourself … for your children … you'd be best to tell us what's been going on. What drove your husband to that desperate course?'

She emitted a long, deep sigh.

‘I know … I know. I've already told you about the gambling … and the lack of money. To be reduced to coming home here to my mother … in these circumstances.'

She started to sob bitterly again.

‘I took the coins from Arthur's wardrobe, but when he found out, he flew into a terrible rage. When he heard that there had been an attack on the shop in Capel Street where I sold them, he got into a panic. Then we learned that the police had been at the house. He said we were all in mortal danger and that was why we came here … for safety.'

‘Safety?' Swallow asked. ‘What was the danger?'

‘I don't know … I don't know … I tried to get him to explain, to tell me. He told me he shouldn't have had the coins at all, but he would never tell me what he meant by that. He was like a man being hunted.'

‘I think, Mrs Clinton,' Swallow said slowly, ‘that the coins, and maybe some other valuables, had to do with his work on some land transfers.'

‘I think that's so. And I think he had got caught up in something that was wrong and that he couldn't get out of. He's not a bad man; he's just not very strong in certain ways.'

‘Did it occur to you at the time that the coins might not be his? Or that he had come by them improperly?' Vizzard asked.

‘Arthur is not a thief,' she said indignantly.

Devenney shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

‘Of course Ma'am. Nobody was suggesting that.'

Swallow wished Devenney had stayed quiet.

‘You say he told you he shouldn't have had the coins. What do you make of that now?'

‘I don't … I don't know.'

She fell silent, staring at the floor.

‘Is that all, Mrs Clinton?' Swallow asked after an interval. ‘There's nothing more you want to tell us?'

When she looked back at him, he saw that her eyes had hardened. Swallow decided that this was a woman who could mobilise strength under a show of grief.

‘No … I've told you everything.'

‘We're going to have to go to the infirmary to interview your husband now. You'll be needed here with your children. Sergeant Devenney will leave some of his men here so you'll be safe. You don't need me to tell you that someone badly wants to know where the coins came from. And they're prepared to use any means to get that information.'

‘Are there … legal consequences for my daughter from what she has told you?' Elizabeth Armstrong asked.

Swallow answered carefully.

‘On the basis of what she's told us, I doubt it. She took property that belonged, as she thought, to her husband. Unless he wants her charged, I can't see that she has committed any crime.'

But he knew he was still only hearing parts of the story. What Grace Clinton had told him was not nearly the full version.

 

FIFTY-SEVEN

An hour later, Swallow and Devenney joined Johnny Vizzard at the Navan Infirmary.

The open police car had bucked and swayed along the rutted road from Clonlar, its lamps flaring against the trees. The October night was dark and a strong wind had picked up, whipping their words away across the bogland.

‘I presume you know what's going on here?' Devenney called against the gale. ‘Because I'm damned if I do. What's this land business and the thing about stolen coins?'

‘I'm not a lot wiser than you,' Swallow shouted back, cupping his hands to his mouth to amplify his voice. ‘I think it's basically about stripping the big houses that are being closed down in the land transfers.'

He was not going to have a local sergeant of the RIC, living among a rural community, aware of a possible corruption of the land transfer process.

‘So you think Clinton was fingering this stuff? Making a bit of extra money on the side, lifting property out of the estate?'

Swallow shrugged. ‘Maybe. Hopefully he'll tell us. The wife had been selling the coins for a fraction of their value. Our job was to find out where she got them from.'

His voice trailed off as the wind picked up. Now there was rain too, driving across the scrub, spinning leaves and bits of branches before it. By the time they reached Navan, they were soaked. They were thankful to dismount and find the shelter of the Infirmary's gloomy hallway.

But Arthur Clinton was not in a position to tell them any more than they knew. The expression on the doctor's face was grim. Clinton's legs were encased in plaster and he had been heavily dosed with laudanum to counter the pain of his two shattered ankles. Even so, shortly after arriving he had begun to vomit blood.

‘We did our best,' the doctor told Swallow, ‘but I had to pronounce him half an hour ago.'

‘What happened?'

‘We'll do a post-mortem shortly. At a guess, given what I'm told, I'd say there's a punctured lung or maybe the pericardial sac. There's four or five broken ribs. Any one of them could have thrown out a splinter. He drowned in his own blood, I'm afraid.'

Devenney groaned in frustration. He finally abandoned the disciplined restraint he had maintained since returning to duty.

‘Ah, Fuck it. Fuck it, anyway, after all that. If he'd hanged himself properly at least we'd be warm and dry.'

 

FIFTY-EIGHT

Just after 4 o'clock in the afternoon, while Swallow and Vizzard were on their way to Clonlar, policemen with warrants signed by Dr Henry Lafeyre, the City Medical Examiner and
ex officio
Justice of the Peace, visited a number of premises around Dublin. They included a number of dwelling houses, as well as Greenberg's jewellers shop on Capel Street.

Three bangs on the door of the Clinton house on the North Circular Road failed to elicit any response, so a constable put a jemmy bar to the lock and levered it against the frame. There was a sharp snap as the bolt was sprung from the receiver. The door swung open. Lafeyre led the way in.

‘Nobody here to be interested in this,' he muttered, waving the search warrant in the air before putting it back in his pocket.

‘Where do you want to start, Doctor?' Stephen Doolan asked.

‘The bedrooms first, then work down.'

A brass-framed double bed, two wardrobes and two matching dressing-tables identified the principal bedroom on the first floor. It was a bright, airy room, recently decorated. Lafeyre opened one of the wardrobes to reveal dresses on hangers.

He drew a grey metal box from his bag, along with a small, fine brush.

‘You won't mind if I watch?' Doolan asked. ‘I've heard of this but never seen it done.'

‘Of course. This is fine graphite,' Lafeyre told him, dipping the brush into the open box.

He dusted the polished surface of the wardrobe with the black powder. Then he opened the wardrobe door so that it caught the light from the window.

‘Have a look at this.'

Doolan angled himself to peer along the mahogany.

‘Christ, I wouldn't have believed it. You can see the finger-marks like they were put on with pen and ink.'

‘Over here please,' Lafeyre signalled to the photographer. ‘Get your lens to take the same angle as the Sergeant and you'll see the marks.'

The photographer trundled his tripod and camera across the room. He adjusted it for height and range. Then, firing off phosphorescent flashes, he started taking pictures.

As the room filled with acrid smoke from the flashes, Lafeyre and Doolan went downstairs, making for the front garden and the fresh air.

‘So how does it work from here?' Doolan asked.

Lafeyre grinned.

‘I'll tell you that in a few days when I know the answer myself.'

When the photographer had finished, the police party mounted the open car and made for Capel Street and Greenberg's.

The G-man on protection duty recognised Lafeyre and Doolan. He accompanied them into the shop.

Doolan introduced himself to Ephram and Katherine.

‘Beg your pardon, Sir … Ma'am … for the inconvenience. I have instructions to take photographs for evidence. It'll only take half an hour at most. Can I take it you have no objections?'

Ephram spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

‘As you can see, there are no customers here. You are welcome to do what you must, but please be as quick as you can, and if any customers come in please understand that I will have to deal with them as a matter of priority.'

Lafeyre beckoned to the street. The photographer and his assistant climbed down from the car and came in, burdened with their equipment.

‘Is all this necessary?' Ephram Greenberg asked Lafeyre. ‘And who are you?'

‘I'm Dr Henry Lafeyre, Justice of the Peace and also the City Medical Examiner. These men are photographers who work for the police. As the sergeant told you, we'll only be a short time here.'

‘Are you investigating the attempted robbery here?' Katherine asked, puzzled.

‘Yes, Miss. That, and a number of other crimes.'

‘Is the case not being investigated by Detective Sergeant Swallow?'

‘Yes, we work together. He's engaged in other duties today.'

‘I don't understand,' she said sharply. ‘We made full statements to the police. What are you looking for? Nobody told us to expect a visit from … photographers.'

‘Put the camera there,' Lafeyre instructed the photographer, pointing to the glass counter top in front of where Katherine stood.

‘That may be so,' he told her firmly, ‘but there are matters on which I have to gather evidence. I would hope for your co-operation. If I need to, I am possessed of a warrant that I can invoke.'