The Eloquence of the Dead (40 page)

He went to the crime sergeants' office and sent for Feore.

‘Chief Mallon has a court order to enter the Land Office to seize all the papers relating to the sale of Mount Gessel. I want you to collect two or three men and execute it as soon as you can.'

‘Sure, Boss, I can get a couple when the 2 o'clock shift comes in for duty. What do want me to do with the papers?'

‘Bring them to Mr Mallon's office. His clerk will put them under lock and key.'

Swallow was apprehensive about meeting Katherine Greenberg for the first time since their encounter in London. He resolved that as far as he was concerned it would be business as usual.

She was there before him. She had settled in at her usual place and was laying out her materials. Swallow moved across to take the adjoining place as usual.

‘Good afternoon, Katherine.'

She turned, smiling.

‘I wasn't sure if you would be here. When did you get back from London?'

There was no trace of knowing in her tone. She might have been making an inquiry of a casual acquaintance or a commercial colleague just returned from a business visit.

‘I took the late Sunday night crossing,' he said. ‘And yourself?'

‘I had some calls to make on Monday. I travelled on Monday evening.'

She turned from her easel.

‘Did your investigation in London succeed … with that man Shaftoe?'

‘Shaftoe's dead,' he said simply. ‘He was shot before he could lead us to his bosses.'

She seemed momentarily taken aback. Then he saw a hardening in her eyes.

‘I'm sorry you didn't find out what you needed. But I'm glad that he's got what he deserved.'

‘You could say that. But it's never a pleasant sight to see any man shot to death.'

There was an awkward, elongated silence as he laid out his brushes and colour box. He realised that he had not brought his own work in progress with him. Anyway, he reckoned, his attempts at capturing Charlie Vanucchi's flesh tones were so poor they were better not seen.

‘You might have told me that the police were coming to the shop to take photographs,' she said. ‘I thought you were in charge of the investigation.'

The tone was reproachful.

‘I didn't know,' he answered truthfully. ‘Dr Lafeyre was checking other aspects of the case.'

She did not need to know that Harry Lafeyre had identified her, even briefly, as a suspect in the murder of Ambrose Pollock.

The classroom was filling. Lily Grant's pupils were nothing if not enthusiastic. They eagerly scrutinised their neighbours' work or invited comments on their own. The air was filled with a hubbub of questions and comments. When Lily came in she had to call for silence more than once before she could make herself heard.

‘Good afternoon, everybody. Today is going to be a little bit different. So far you've done all of your work indoors. But of course more artists are inspired by nature, and that means that they want to paint in the open where the light is different, very much stronger as a rule even than in the best studio.'

She waved a hand towards the windows.

‘As you can see, it's a bright day. Not very warm, but there are clear skies and strong light. So I'm going to take you to the open outdoors and ask you to do some work for me on colours in the sunlight. You won't need to carry your easels because I've arranged with the porters to set up a dozen of them where we're going. Simply bring your books and your colour boxes. We're off to the Royal Hospital.'

It was a fifteen-minute walk from the Art School on Thomas Street to the spacious acres surrounding the Royal Hospital at Kilmainham. The class moved in crocodile formation, Lily leading the way. They turned off Thomas Street into Bow Lane, past Jonathan Swift's hospital for the mentally ill, before crossing the little River Cammock that flanked the Hospital grounds.

Approaching the end of Thomas Street, Swallow glanced upward at the window of his old room. Grant's was quiet, settling into the slow pace of the afternoon. Swallow wondered if Maria was upstairs. He saw Tom, the senior barman, in profile through the window, polishing glasses behind the counter.

Lily had clearly done this before. She bade a cheery ‘good afternoon' to the red-coated pensioner in the sentry box at the gateway. Then she led her little battalion across the grass to the north side of the building, constructed on the order of King Charles II as a home for retired soldiers and sailors.

The afternoon sun came across the top of the building to flood the broad flight of steps leading to the North door. Two porters from the Art School were busy unloading easels from a hand cart and setting them up on the steps. One man dropped a side shelf from the handcart and put out jars of water to be used for dipping and washing the painters' brushes.

‘Now,' Lily announced. ‘You have a ready-made lecture theatre here with as fine a view as any artist can ask for.'

The pupils dispersed themselves on the stone steps. Below them, the ground fell away to the river, rising on the other bank to meet the wooded curtilage of the Phoenix Park.

Behind the trees, the Wellington monument stood like a great, shining sword that a giant might have plunged into the ground above the city. Brief puffs of blue-white steam formed in the air and then vanished, marking the progress of a train exiting from the King's Bridge terminus hidden below in the valley.

Swallow had kept to himself on the walk from the Art School, but now, by coincidence or otherwise, he found himself on the uppermost step, side by side with Katherine.

‘I want you to look first at the greens,' Lily called to the class. ‘Start with the grass here in the grounds and see which of the greens in your colour boxes might best match it. Then I want you to look across the valley at the greens and the yellows of the Phoenix Park, the different trees, the pastures and so on.'

There was much commotion as easels were adjusted and paint boxes were precariously balanced. Some pupils were dabbing colour down onto the paper almost immediately. Others seemed to be hesitant and unsure, watching the changing light in the sky and looking doubtfully at their materials.

‘It's impossible to get any constant light,' Katherine said. There was a note of irritation in her voice. ‘The sun comes in and out and changes everything. It's very confusing.'

‘Sure,' Swallow said. ‘What you'd imagine as a strong green looks washy when the sunlight hits it.'

‘I think you'll have found that it's a lot more difficult to get your colours right when you're out here in the sunlight,' Lily told them. ‘So don't just stick with your greens. Be experimental. It's autumn, after all. Try to mix with your browns, your yellows, your white, even your greys.'

After half an hour or so, Lily started her inspection of her pupils' work. She moved from one to the other, offering a suggestion here, giving a little praise there. To Swallow's eye, most of what had been done by the class was dreadful. When Lily passed behind him, appraising his own effort, she nodded curtly.

‘It's easy to be dazzled, isn't it, Mr Swallow?'

They worked for an hour and a half. The sun arced behind the building and began to drop in the October sky. A chill came on the wind from the valley below. Lily gave the signal to finish and wash up.

A few pensioners from the Hospital had gathered to watch the class at its work. Two or three sat contentedly on a wooden bench a few yards away from the steps while their companions stood around. As the class finished, a couple of the elderly men wandered up to examine the painters' work.

‘Oh, begod you've done terrible damage to the poor oul' Phoenix Park there,' one of them joked to Swallow, leaning forward crookedly to get a closer view of the painting.

‘Sure ye have it in a shade o'colour that God nivvir invinted,' he cackled. ‘Now, yer lady friend there, she's closer to hittin' the target.' He nodded towards Katherine's easel.

Swallow and the pensioner recognised each other simultaneously. The old man was a retired militia sergeant and a regular at Maria Walsh's public house. Swallow occasionally slipped him a quiet drink on the side.

‘It's yerself, Misther Swalla'. Sure I didn't recognise ye outdoors. God, yer a man o'many talents, out here paintin' and the like.'

He turned to his companion. ‘This gintleman happens to be a friend o'mine, an' him a G-man, a sergeant no less.'

The second pensioner looked impressed and made an instinctive salute.

‘Yer gone lately from the Widda' Walsh's,' the old militia man said. ‘Yer missed, ye know. Sure, the place isn't the same widdout ye.'

Swallow smiled. No doubt the odd free whiskey passed out across the bar had been appreciated.

‘I'll tell ye somethin', Misther Swalla', if ye'll listen to me.' The old man tugged at Swallow's coat sleeve. ‘Ye were well off where ye were above in Grant's.'

He saw Katherine's face instantly darken in annoyance.

‘Ye should go back up there to the Widda' Walsh this evenin' and make up whatever differences yiz have. Take an ould fella's advice. Sure yiz made a grand pair. Didn't the whole o' the Liberties know it? Didn't the whole o' Dublin know it?'

 

SATURDAY OCTOBER 15
TH
, 1887

 

SEVENTY-THREE

From the content of the newsboys' billboards, Swallow reckoned that in all the circumstances it would be a good day for G-Division.

The
Freeman's Journal
announced:

‘WOMAN CHARGED WITH MURDER OF AMBROSE POLLOCK'

The Irish Times,
usually more sceptical, seemed to be less certain of its ground, but it was still positive.

‘LAMB ALLEY MYSTERY MAY BE NEAR TO SOLUTION'

It was the sort of good news that Mallon liked to bring to the Upper Yard. The police were on top of the situation, crime had been grasped by the throat and the citizenry could sleep easily again in their beds.

‘Duck' Boyle was running the morning parade at Exchange Court. When Swallow arrived, the place was humming with good spirits. Every G-man knew it was a day when tails would be up, when even curmudgeons like Boyle would be in good humour.

‘Good man, Swalla', great work there.' Boyle gushed. ‘Sure, we're on the pig's back now.'

Swallow was surprised there was no report from Feore awaiting him in the crime sergeants' office. He assumed that Feore had executed the warrant to seize the Mount Gessel papers at the Treasury Office and that the material had been deposited, as he had instructed, with Chief Mallon's clerk. There was no report, though, and no sign of Feore.

The duty G-man from the public office stuck his head around the Parade Room door.

‘The chief wanted you to check in with him as soon as you arrived, Sergeant.'

Swallow took the back door from Exchange Court and crossed the Lower Yard to Mallon's office. The clerk pointed to a chair.

‘Sit down and don't move. Himself is up with the Assistant Under-Secretary. He said he'll send for you, and I'm not to let you out of me sight. Here, have a read of the rags.'

He tossed a
Freeman's Journal
and an
Irish Times
across the desk.

‘Did you get a deposit of files from Mick Feore for the Chief?' he asked the clerk.

The man shook his head.

‘Not this morning. Maybe it came in last night after I'd gone.'

That was odd, Swallow reckoned. He sensed that something was wrong. He would have to wait until he met Mallon to get an explanation. He had an hour to go through the newspapers. He had started into the classified ads in
The Irish Times
when a messenger arrived.

‘Yer wanted up the Yard now, Sergeant.'

The group assembled at Smith Berry's office was smaller than that brought together on the previous day by West Ridgeway.

Smith Berry sat at the head of the table. Swallow thought that he looked as if he had eaten something disagreeable. His chief security adviser, Major Kelly, was to his right.

Kelly was squashing a heavy cigar into an ashtray in the centre of the table. Swallow registered his smug expression. Across from Kelly, the Chief Commissioner, Sir David Harrel, nervously folded and refolded a sheet of blotting-paper.

John Mallon sat halfway down the table with a face like a thundercloud, dark and angry.

‘Sergeant Swallow. Sit, please.' The Assistant Under-Secretary struggled to form a joyless smile.'

‘Thank you for joining us.'

‘Thank you, Sir.'

The Assistant Under-Secretary coughed nervously.

‘Now, Swallow, here's how it is. You've done excellent work on this matter. No doubt, no doubt whatsoever about that at all.'

He looked at the others as if seeking corroboration. Harrel nodded silently. Mallon continued to glare at all around him.

‘Major Kelly has examined all of the papers from the Treasury Office relating to the sale of Mount Gessel estate, and several other properties handled by the late Mr Clinton,' Smith Berry continued.

‘Major Kelly?' Swallow asked. ‘How did that happen? I was under the impression that everything relating to Mount Gessel is in the hands of my officers?'

Smith Berry raised a hand.

‘Please, Mr Swallow, I'll come to that. In each case, the sales and the values were signed off by one very senior individual who had been authorised to do so. This was fraud, embezzlement perhaps, on a grand scale, at the very heart of the administration. The Treasury Office, as you know, is the Holy Grail.'

‘Well, it was pretty clear that Clinton could not have acted alone,' Swallow said. ‘He needed help at the highest level.'

‘Yes, that is why I've discussed these developments with the Chief Secretary. And the Chief Secretary, in turn, has consulted with his Cabinet colleagues in London.'