The Eloquence of the Dead (37 page)

The G-men had worked late into the night, piecing together the information they had gleaned from the files at Keogh, Sheridan and James and from the National Bank.

Swallow was in by 8 0'clock. To his surprise, Pat Mossop was hovering around the crime sergeants' office.

‘The very man,' he told Mossop. ‘I need you to go up to Pollock's at Lamb Alley at eleven and meet some people there. Show them around the shop and the living quarters. Don't let them touch a thing, and don't give them more than an hour.'

Mossop blinked, uncomprehending.

‘I could take a long time to explain it,' Swallow said, ‘will you just do it? They call themselves mystics. They think they might be able to help us to locate Phoebe.'

‘Righto … Boss,' Mossop said slowly. ‘If that's what you want. But it isn't like you … if you know what I mean.'

‘It's to do with my sister … Harriet.'

Mossop nodded.

‘Ah, fair enough, I understand.'

He hesitated.

‘I think I might have something on Phoebe's disappearance, Boss. But sure, it'll wait until after the conference.'

The diminutive Belfast detective had a rare capacity to pick up connections between things that might at first seemed unrelated. He could see patterns in the masses of information that a major investigation would throw up. And he never disregarded a detail, however trivial it might appear.

Sometimes, Swallow wondered if Mossop was affected by some unusual ordering of the mind. He knew from his own foreshortened medical studies that doctors specialising in what was called ‘psychiatry' were only starting to classify such conditions. The man's capacities for concentration and focus could be unnerving. Conversely, his limited ability to understand or anticipate people's emotional responses was a serious handicap.

‘We've an hour before the conference. Out with it.'

‘We have this fella Jimmy Rowan, the hotel porter, above in Mountjoy on remand,' he said, lowering his voice. ‘He's got a record of violence against women, and his alibi didn't stand up.'

‘Sure,' Swallow said. ‘They found a few wallets he'd lifted.'

‘Yes. So he's on remand for that. He gave us an alibi that fell apart when we checked it, but we haven't been able to connect him to Phoebe's disappearance at all. He's been interviewed time and again, and he's sticking to his story. He says he never even saw her.'

‘So?'

‘Well, you'd have wonder if we should believe him at this stage. And I think we might have something else on the case.'

He drew his notebook from his pocket.

‘As a matter of fact,' he said, ‘it's not that we've got anything new on Phoebe herself. But we might have a fix on her gentleman friend, this fellow called Len or Lennie.'

Swallow felt a stir of optimism. Mossop did not go out on a limb unless he was fairly sure that his information was solid.

‘Tell me more.'

Mossop flicked through his notebook.

‘You remember that when we went to the Northern Hotel on Thursday, the first fellow you met was the General Manager?'

‘Yes. Barry.'

‘Do you remember his name?'

‘John.'

‘No, his full name.'

‘That's what he said his name was.'

‘Yes, but the plaque on the desk in the lobby gave his name as JOHN L. BARRY. I wrote it down.'

Swallow guessed.

‘You're telling me the L stands for Len or Lennie? Are you saying he's Phoebe's gentleman friend?'

Mossop grinned.

‘You're quick enough off the mark, Boss. You've got the ear for accents and you said he was from Cork. So I got the RIC to check the parish registers in Cork city against the date of birth he gave us when we got him to sign his statement.'

He took two sheets of paper from his pocket and spread them on the table.

‘This fella was born John Leonard Barry in 1842 in Cork. There were eight other John Barrys born that year in Cork, and probably every year. The bloody place down there is crawling with Jack Barrys. So he'd naturally use his middle name.'

Swallow smiled with the pleasure of comprehension. ‘And we only ever heard the staff call him Mister Barry. He'd be the right age for Phoebe's drinking companion, and he'd fit the descriptions we have.'

Mossop's eyes were alight with enthusiasm.

‘And he'd have had access all around the hotel without anybody taking notice of him. He could have been up around the corridor by Phoebe's room on any number of occasions and nobody would have remarked on it.'

‘What do we know about him, our Mister John Leonard Barry?' Swallow asked. ‘I'll be surprised if you haven't been through the records already.'

‘I've got a good bit,' Mossop riffled through his notebook. ‘Aged forty-five, born in Cork, as you know, no convictions. I pumped some of the staff down there. He's not known to have ever married, but there's been talk of some romantic encounters with women working at the hotel.'

He flicked another page on his notebook.

‘He patronises one or two of the local public houses, which is a bit odd for a respectable man of commerce. The taverns are all as rough as a terrier's arse down there.'

He turned another page.

‘He has two rooms at the top of the hotel, a bedroom and a sitting-room or parlour. He takes his meals in the dining-room downstairs.'

Swallow grimaced. ‘Not exactly the profile of a brutal murderer. But he's the only Len or Lennie in the scene so far.'

‘There's one other small thing, Boss,' Mossop added. ‘According to the local public houses, when he does drink it's Jameson Twelve-Year-Old, same as Phoebe's man, as you heard it from ‘Five Times' Currivan.'

Swallow smiled appreciatively. Mossop missed nothing.

‘I think we should take this Barry fellow in and do a search on his rooms at the hotel. We'll go down at a decent hour and do it discreetly. The man is entitled to a bit of privacy until we know for sure that he's the fellow we want.'

 

WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 12
TH
, 1887

 

SIXTY-SIX

Swallow was at Mallon's office at nine. Boyle and Feore were there before him, waiting in the outer office.

‘He'll have had a report from me last night,' he told the clerk. ‘I think he'll very likely want to see us.'

‘Right y'are. Yer to go in the minute you were all here, that's what he said.'

Mallon was at his desk, the crime sheets spread out in front of him. Swallow saw the file he had put together late the previous night. The three G-men drew chairs to the front of the desk.

‘Jenkinson just messaged me,' Mallon said. ‘He's got Lady Gessel on the evening sailing out of Holyhead, accompanied by one of your friends from Scotland Yard. We'll meet them at Kingstown and take over the escort.'

‘That's fast work, Sir.'

‘She's a very angry woman. That's good from our point of view. She wants to do everything she can to pin down whoever's behind the attack at her home.'

‘She sounds a formidable individual.'

‘You'll get your chance to make a judgment for yourself on that,' Mallon said. ‘We're putting her up at the Shelbourne. Under-Secretary's instructions. I'm aiming to interview her tomorrow morning, and I want you there.'

‘Now,' he reached for the file. ‘You had a productive night. Grace Clinton confessed to the Pollock murder. Well done.'

‘Thanks, Sir. We might have a fresh lead on the sister's disappearance too.'

He told Mallon of Pat Mossop's tentative identification of John Barry as Phoebe Pollock's gentleman friend.

‘I detailed Mossop to do a check at DCR on Barry. He's at it now.'

Mallon nodded enthusiastically.

‘That sounds promising. We might have got the wrong man in that fellow Rowan, the porter. But he's been up to no good anyway, lifting wallets.'

He turned to Boyle.

‘Inspector, will you lead the arrest party for this fellow Barry?'

Swallow knew it was Mallon's way of trying to restore Boyle's bruised pride. By right, the arrest party should be led by Pat Mossop. Boyle swelled a little.

‘Of coorse, Sir.'

Swallow guessed that Boyle could already see his name in the newspapers, maybe even being mentioned to the Commissioner as the arresting officer.

Mallon tapped Swallow's report.

‘Bring me back to Grace Clinton and her statement last night. She confirms your suspicions about what her husband was at. Pillaging valuables off the Gessel estate and working some sort of fraud on the land transfers.'

‘She genuinely doesn't seem to know the details,' Swallow said. ‘Or who else was involved.'

‘Inspector Boyle, anything else in from the searches at the bank and the Land Office?'

‘Nothin' great that I know of, Sir. We checked through all the sales and transactions around the Gessel estate. The level of co-operation was good,' he said obsequiously. ‘I s'pose that was because it was yerself that authorised th'operation and, of course, in the light of his Lordship's order.'

‘You can pass on the warmth of the reception, Inspector,' Mallon said impatiently. ‘Tell us what you learned.'

Boyle smoothed out his papers in front of him. ‘We secured the documents relevant to the sale of the lands. There was a powerful lot o' paperwork, I don't mind tellin' ye.'

He tapped a pudgy finger to the file.

‘Accordin' to the documents provided by the solicitors, Messrs Keogh, Sheridan and James, Mount Gessel estate comprised lands that totalled 1,280 acres, 60 square roods and 22 square perches. This was valued at £88 on average of per acre, makin' a total purchase price of £10,240, 10 shillings and 6 pence.'

‘Now,' he licked his lips, ‘this acreage was divided between 72 families, all former tenants of the estate, into an average farm size of 17 and seven tenths of an acre, with the largest holdin' at 38 acres and the smallest at just two and a half acres.…'

Mallon raised a hand.

‘We don't need to know the mathematics of who got every patch of grass. What we need to know is do the figures tally. Is there any sign of anything irregular?'

Boyle's shoulders slumped apologetically.

‘Indeed, there's ne'er a sign of any irregularity, Sir. The acreage certified be the solicitor an' confirmed be the Land Office are the same. The value put on the land and th' amount drawn down be the Land Office from the Treasury all tally.'

‘What about the files at the bank?' Mallon asked Feore.

‘The bank figures match those on the property files, Sir,' Feore indicated to his notes.

‘The bank paid over the sum of £10,240, 10 shillings and 6 pence to Lady Margaret Gessel on the fourteenth of August of last year. The draft is drawn on the government's Land Office account. Two days later, on August the sixteenth, the cheque was cleared and the sum was paid into her account at Barclay's Bank, Great Portland Street, in London.'

‘That's disappointing,' Mallon looked crestfallen. ‘Arthur Clinton and Ambrose Pollock were thieves and fences. But we're no closer to finding any conspiracy to defraud the Exchequer.'

‘No proof, Sir,' Swallow said. ‘But there's more to this than a law clerk with a gambling habit lifting a silver table service and a few Greek coins. We can't see the connection yet, but I'm sure it's there.'

‘I agree. But we're still working on supposition and instinct, not evidence.'

‘Where do ye want us to go from here, Sir?' ‘Duck' Boyle asked glumly.

‘Since we haven't found anything irregular in the handling of the sale, the next step might be to trawl through the other estates that Clinton handled,' Mallon said wearily. ‘But that'd involve going back for more court orders. We mightn't get them, and it would take time.'

Swallow tried to strike an optimistic note.

‘We've still got a couple of boxes of deeds to go through at Keogh, Sheridan and James. I'd like to finish the job anyway for the sake of completeness.'

Mallon stood.

‘Very well, but we'll have to finish tonight. I'll report to the Commissioner and the Under-Secretary shortly and try to buy a bit more time. They'll not be overjoyed that we haven't found something conclusive.'

‘It might be said we're at an impasse, Sir,' Boyle volunteered. ‘It's a legal term, Sir. Impasse. From the French, I believe.'

Mallon glared at him. ‘I'm most grateful for that, Inspector. It's very helpful.'

 

SIXTY-SEVEN

John Leonard Barry recognised only one of the three G-men who came through the door. It was the small Belfast detective called Mossop. But he had no doubts as to the professions of the other two, in particular the jowly fellow with the waddling gait who seemed to be in charge.

‘Mr Barry?'

‘Of course, what I can do for?'

‘Duck' Boyle was the soul of discretion. ‘Detective Inspector Boyle, G-Division. Have ye a quiet room we kin use for a chat?'

Barry took them into his office. Boyle drew the arrest warrant from his pocket.

‘John Leonard Barry, I am arresting you on suspicion that you murdered one Phoebe Pollock on September 29th last, contrary to Common Law, at the Northern Hotel, North Wall, such premises being situated within the Dublin Metropolitan Police Area.'

Barry saw that one of the G-man had moved to block the door.

‘Bloody ridiculous,' he said emphatically.

‘You were there,' he told Mossop, ‘you saw what happened.'

‘You're not obliged to say annythin' unless you wish to do so,' Boyle droned on. ‘But annythin' you do say will be written down and may be used in evidence. D'ye understand?'