The Eloquence of the Dead (5 page)

‘Is it dangerous? We read of terrible things happening around the country with evictions and shootings and burnings.'

Oddly, that was a question he rarely asked himself. Two unarmed policemen had been shot at Essex Gate, not half a mile from Dublin Castle. One died and the other was permanently invalided. There had been other casualties in the city since, but none fatal. G-men were always armed on duty, and many chose to carry their Bulldog Webley revolvers off duty as well.

He considered his answer.

‘Things haven't been too bad for the city police. The Royal Irish Constabulary in the countryside have been taking the brunt of it. Most of my work is investigating crime or doing protection duty around the city.'

They followed the descent of St Augustine Street towards the river and turned into Bridge Street.

‘I remember you telling me when I was a young girl that you started off in life to be doctor,' she said, ‘but you became a policeman.'

‘I did.' He heard the bitter edge to his own voice. ‘I drank my way out of medical school.'

‘I can see that you regret it,' she said. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Nobody's fault but my own. My parents worked hard to see me educated. I threw it back in their faces.'

‘Are they still living?'

‘My mother is. She's not young, but she runs the family business down in Kildare. A public house and grocery at a crossroads called Newcroft. The usual business in rural Ireland, I suppose.'

‘Do you remember you told my father that he should think about medicine for me? You told him they were training women to be doctors in England and that soon they'd be doing it here too.'

‘Advice is easily given,' he said ruefully. ‘You've heard the expression “do not as I do but as I say.” I'm not a great example. But you didn't follow my advice anyway.'

They came to the river at Usher's Quay, crossed to the pavement beside the Liffey wall and turned downriver.

The water had been sucked out into the bay by the ebbing tide. It was black and viscous where the channel ran between oozing mud banks. Across the river, Swallow could distantly see a gaggle of barristers gathered on the steps of the Four Courts. Their black robes and white wigs put him in mind of a flock of wagtails.

‘No, I didn't. My father would have been very willing to see me educated to be a doctor,' she said. ‘It would have been a great distinction for a family that started here in Dublin with nothing. But I like the business. I enjoy it and I think I'm good at it.'

A skein of geese flew past them above the water, honking to each other, following the river's line to the sea.

‘And are you happy to operate the business there with your father, or have you ever thought of spreading your wings to see a bit of the world?'

She gazed after the birds as they made their way along the water course.

‘Jewish people are often thought of as wanderers,' she said after a moment. ‘But when we find a place that gives security and comfort, we're much like anybody else. We stay where we're content. And I've seen a bit of the world, London, Paris, Berlin. I worked in the trade in London for a while.'

They reached Essex Bridge.

‘I'll leave you here,' Swallow said. ‘You're nearly home and I'm going up this way to the Castle.'

‘Thank you for your company,' she said cheerfully. ‘You know, if you're interested in seascapes you should come into the shop sometime. There's an original by Van de Velde, and quite a few English and French works too.'

For a moment she frowned slightly.

‘My father would always be glad to see you. In fact, at this time there is a matter that I think he would be happy to speak with a policeman about … a policeman he trusted.'

Then she brightened again.

‘I would be glad to see you too. And since you're not being fed by your landlady any more, I could make you a very good
kosher
dinner, you know.'

 

FIVE

Exchange Court was at action stations when Swallow walked in off Dame Street. A grim-faced Detective Pat Mossop came bustling out the main door, followed by two constables. Three police side-cars jostled for space in the narrow confines of the Court.

Swallow winced to see the pencil-thin Mossop moving at speed. He was still under medical care, recovering from the gunshot wound he had sustained during the arrest of the presumed double-murderer, Simon Sweeney, just a few months previously.

‘You're going like there's a fire lit under your breeches, Pat,' he called.

Mossop turned, but hardly slowed his stride.

‘You'd better come with us. They've spotted Phoebe Pollock at the Northern Hotel. She must be making for the Liverpool packet.'

Swallow laughed, uncomprehending. He knew Phoebe Pollock. Crime investigations had brought him many times into the pawn shop on Lamb Alley.

‘Why in God's name are you chasing Phoebe Pollock?'

‘Come on,' Mossop took him by the arm. ‘You mustn't have heard. Ambrose Pollock was found murdered this morning above at Lamb Alley.'

‘Jesus Christ. What happened?'

Mossop climbed aboard the first of the police cars and beckoned Swallow to the seat beside him. He snapped at the driver.

‘Northern Hotel, North Wall Quay. As fast as you can.'

He leaned across the car as the driver flicked the reins over his horse.

‘It looks as if she's robbed the place.' He wheezed, drawing breath. ‘And she's done for Ambrose. Stephen Doolan and a couple of bobbies from Kevin Street had to break in this morning. He's been dead a week or more. Phoebe's gone, and so is all the cash from the shop.'

‘Jesus,' Swallow said again. ‘Who's on the scene? Did they get Harry Lafeyre up there?'

‘Boyle's in charge. Dr Lafeyre says the skull was crushed with an iron weight. They sent out an urgent ABC. A beat man down by the North Wall says he saw Phoebe going into the hotel there a couple of hours ago.'

The police driver was skilful. The horse's hooves sparked off the tram tracks as he weaved through Dame Street's traffic. They flanked the Bank of Ireland on College Green, turning into Westmoreland Street and clattered over Carlisle Bridge to swing eastward along Eden Quay.

Swallow gripped the handrail. His sense of excitement stirred as they picked up speed along the quay, the wind from the river whipping their faces. He liked this part of the job, the urgent challenge of the unknown, the almost childish delight at the prospect of adventure, danger perhaps. It compensated for the long days and nights of tedium and routine. Who could tell what might lie at the end of a dash like this?

They passed past Butt Bridge and Gandon's Custom House, the driver negotiating his way past the drays and delivery wagons that crowded the busy quayside. Swallow noticed that the first of the autumn leaves were dropping from the plane trees in the Custom House garden.

They slewed to a halt on the cobbled quayside. The Northern Hotel was a drab, functional building, put up in dark red brick between the Dublin Port and Docks Board's granite depot and the water's edge.

Its business was almost wholly based on feeding, watering and accommodating the passengers who travelled between Dublin and Liverpool. The cross-channel packet,
Maid of Cumberland
, was berthed at the quay directly across from the hotel, a wisp of grey steam hissing from the funnel.

The waiting constable who had spotted Phoebe Pollock stepped forward to meet them. Swallow knew him by sight. A senior man. Reliable.

‘You're sure it's her?'

‘Ah sure, I know her well from me days in th' A-Division. I checked that shop more times than I care to remember.'

‘How long since she went in?'

‘Comin' up on two hours.'

‘On her own?'

‘Yes. Carryin' two small cases.'

‘You didn't think to arrest her?'

‘No grounds,' he said sharply. ‘And how was I to know at that stage that you fellas wanted to see her?'

‘True enough,' Swallow conceded. ‘Come on so.'

They took the front steps together while Mossop went to the back of the hotel.

A porter in a greatcoat that had seen better days hauled the front door open, bidding them good afternoon.

The lobby smelled of old cooking. Swallow's nose told him there was fish and vegetables and bacon fat in it. Two or three men sat reading newspapers or working on account books. An elderly couple were drinking tea at an alcove table.

A middle-aged man in morning dress behind the reception desk came to alert as they strode across the lobby. A small brass plaque on the desk said: ‘JOHN L. BARRY, GENERAL MANAGER.'

‘Police,' Swallow told him unnecessarily. ‘We're looking for a lady on her own, seen coming in here maybe two hours ago. She was carrying two cases. Perhaps forty years of age. Respectable, but maybe a bit under the weather.'

The man gave a little snort. ‘Lots of ladies come and go. It's a hotel. I imagine you can see that.'

‘Less lip and more co-operation might be better if you want to keep your licence,' Swallow snapped. He turned to a grey-haired clerk seated behind the general manager.

‘You there, you must have seen her,' he gestured across the lobby. ‘Where did she go?'

The clerk jumped. ‘She asked for a room. Said she was tired. So I told her she could sign the register later. She went upstairs. I gave her number nineteen.'

Swallow glared at Barry. The general manager raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

‘I can't see everything.'

‘Go and get a female member of your staff. We need her to go up there with us,' Swallow told the clerk.

The man scurried out through a door behind the desk. He reappeared after a few moments accompanied by a stout, unsmiling woman with black hair in a greasy bun. She scrutinised Swallow.

‘Youse want me to fetch down a guest?'

Swallow nodded. ‘I'd be thankful. We need to speak to her on police business.'

‘I'm the housekeeper, not a bailiff.'

‘Jesus, we seem to be dealing with a full cast of smart arses here.'

He affected an exaggerated politeness.

‘Your assistance would be greatly appreciated, Madam, if you can spare us a few moments.'

‘Am I riskin' me life in goin' up there? Is this individual violent?'

It was not an unreasonable question in the circumstances.

‘Oh, not in the slightest,' he lied. ‘And we'll be right behind you. We just need a female for the sake of decency.'

She led them along the first floor corridor and knocked at room nineteen.

‘Housekeeper … this is the housekeeper.'

There was no response. She called twice more.

She put a key in the door, turned the handle and stepped inside.

‘Youse must be practical jokers,' she called. ‘There's no wan here.'

Swallow and the constable were through the door in an instant. The room was empty. Swallow got the smell of bitter almonds.

‘Prussic acid,' he told the constable. ‘A tincture of that and nobody lasts more than a minute or two.'

He scanned the room.

A pool of water had formed on the floor beside the bed with a shattered earthen pitcher and a wash bowl in the middle. Swallow surmised that they had probably been swept off the small dressing-table beside the window. The bed itself was at an angle to the wall, as if it had been pulled away. The coverlet was drawn half way up, creased and rumpled.

‘Somebody musta tossed the place. Or there was a struggle,' the constable muttered.

‘That's her bag anyway.' He pointed to a small travelling case on the floor at the end of the bed.

‘She had it when I spotted her outside. But she had another one as well.'

Swallow saw a small brown bottle on the mantle shelf over the fireplace.

‘Don't go near that. It's very likely the prussic acid.'

The desk clerk and the housekeeper hovered at the door.

‘I'm closing off this room,' Swallow called. ‘The medical examiner will be coming. Nothing's to be touched.'

By now, Pat Mossop had arrived, accompanied by Barry, the manager.

‘Get across to Store Street,' Swallow told the constable. ‘Message Exchange Court. Tell the duty officer we have a suspicious situation here. We need the medical examiner and the photographic technician.'

He lifted the small case to the dressing-table. Mossop snapped open the locks. There was a blue dress and a white blouse, a brush and comb set and a pair of shoes. Mossop reached into the case. He made a little whistle. When he withdrew his hand, he was clutching a bundle of money.

 

SIX

Dublin was a city where news usually travelled more quickly than the press could report it.

By early afternoon, before the evening newspapers were able to publish any details, most of the population knew about the murder of Ambrose Pollock and the disappearance of his sister, Phoebe.

It passed along the city streets from business house to business house. Passengers relayed it to cab men and tram drivers. It spread into the public houses and shops. It travelled through the courts and alleyways and into the tenement houses of the once-prosperous Georgian streets on both sides of the river. The prostitutes in the brothels around Gloucester Street and Mecklenburgh Street learned about it as they prepared to receive their early clients of the evening.

Reports of outrages might briefly engage the minds of all classes. But the pawnbrokers, the jewellers, the silver and goldsmiths and the watchmakers across the city were particularly alarmed.

Violent crime was not a frequent occurrence in Dublin. But if there were murderers and robbers abroad, any business that dealt in precious goods would be vulnerable. Their stock in trade, being portable, valuable and saleable, was highly prized by criminals.