by Conor Brady
Doolan deployed his men on both sides of the laneway, starting from the intersection with the main roadway. They moved slowly along the poor thoroughfare, eyes scanning the grass and mud, probing the brambles with their long pikes. Within less than a minute a searcher had located a small handbag off the track beside the gate. The cheap imitation velvet was damp, but the metal clasp was secure. When Doolan opened it he counted five shilling coins—a waitress’s Friday pay.
‘Have a look at this, skipper.’
A constable by the gate tapped with his foot at a heavy wooden stake lying in the grass. Measuring perhaps four feet and sharpened at one end, it might have come from a farm fence or enclosure. Half of its length was spattered with darkened blood.
‘Don’t touch it until the photographic technician has taken pictures,’ Doolan ordered. ‘We’ll want pictures of the lane itself, the gateway and those footprints too.’
He turned to Feore.
‘Get the plaster kit from the car. I want casts of all the footmarks once the photographs are taken.’
The scene was telling Swallow little so far. The assailant might have known the gateway to the meadow as a place of concealment. Or he might have just come upon it. The bloodied stake might have been brought to the scene as a weapon, or it might simply have been a convenience. The fact that the girl’s bag and her wages were still at the scene suggested that the motive was not robbery. But equally it was possible that the attacker had been unable to locate them in the dark.
The photographer had got his tripod up and was busy at his work when a third open car drew to a halt at the end of the laneway. The constable-driver came down from his seat to assist the uniformed passenger to the ground. It was ‘Duck’ Boyle, Swallow’s former superior at Exchange Court, lately promoted to superintendent and placed in command of the E-Division. ‘Duck’ Boyle’s generously cut uniform with its silver braid was moderately effective in disguising its wearer’s advanced corpulence, but it could not remedy the distinctive waddle that had earned him his nickname among his former colleagues at G-Division.
Regulations required that the divisional superintendent should attend personally at the scenes of serious crimes. Swallow was not surprised by Boyle’s arrival, but he knew from the expression on the fat superintendent’s face that this was more than a routine compliance with regulation.
‘Good mornin’, Inspector Swalla’.’ Boyle greeted him formally for the benefit of the constables and sergeants gathered around. He took Swallow conspiratorially by the arm and walked him a few paces to the edge of the lane. ‘I’m afraid that things have taken a turn for the worse,’ Boyle intoned solemnly. ‘The victim o’ this outrage, Miss Alice Flannery, died at the Baggot Street Hospital at 9.15 this mornin’. Ye’re dealin’ now with a murder.’
Chapter 3
‘You should come to the meeting, Maria. If we go early we can get good seats. I promise you it will be very interesting, and you can be back here by six o’clock to take care of business for the night.’
Harriet Swallow enjoyed the company of her brother’s fiancée and landlady. True, there was no formal engagement between Swallow and Maria Walsh as such, but fiancée was a convenient term in an arrangement that went well beyond that of landlady and lodger but fell short of matrimony.
The relationship had not been smooth. Swallow had rented the room over M & M Grant’s for two years. It was, of course, contrary to police regulations to lodge on licensed premises. He squared his conscience on that score by telling himself that his accommodation was located over, rather than in, M & M Grant’s. It might be an interesting legal point, he sometimes reflected, if it came to an issue. Grant’s had the added advantage that it was convenient to Exchange Court and the Castle.
What started as a simple lodging arrangement had gradually blossomed. At first, he started to help Maria in the business in his off-duty hours. Because had grown up in a public house he understood its routines. The customers at Grant’s were different in many ways from the country folk who patronised Swallow’s of Newcroft, but dealing with them required much the same qualities he had seen his parents exercise. A publican had to be cheerful without being too fulsome; tolerant but firm on behaviour within the house; understanding of human frailty but not indulgent of excess. Grant’s was a well-ordered house, and few troublemakers crossed the threshold. The presence of a G-man sent a clear message to those that did: they would misbehave at their peril.
In time, the relationship developed into intimacy. It was at once private and discreet, as well as being apparent to anyone with eyes to see. But when Maria, five years widowed, had pressed Swallow for a commitment, he had funked it. She would have liked him to finish with the police and come into Grant’s as her husband and business partner. It was a generous and tempting offer, but he was unwilling to relinquish being a G-man. Instead, when his promotion to inspector came through, with an enhanced lodging allowance to match his new rank, he had moved out to share a rented house on Heytesbury Street with his sister.
It was not as convenient for Swallow, but it suited Harriet. She enjoyed the freedom of having her own home after two years in the confined routine of teacher training college, with fixed mealtimes, early curfews and a strict ban on visitors outside appointed hours, and even then within the stifling formality of the parlour.
At the same time, she liked the sense of security that came from living with her policeman brother. Dublin was a safe city unless one went looking for trouble. But Dubliners had been made nervous, as had the citizens of every other city across the kingdom, with the terrifying reports of murders from London’s East End.
‘Four poor women, done to death in the most brutal way since August. It’s absolutely horrible. And the police in London don’t seem to be doing anything to stop it.’
Harriet had thrown the statement at Swallow across the breakfast table after the murders of Catherine Eddowes and Elizabeth Stride in Whitechapel in September.
He had waved a hand in what was intended to be reassurance.
‘London isn’t Dublin, Harriet. Heytesbury Street isn’t Whitechapel. And the dangers that face unfortunate women of their class aren’t going to trouble you. Scotland Yard will have these cases cleared up fairly quickly.’
She misinterpreted his hand-wave as dismissive.
‘Well they don’t seem to be making much progress so far,’ she retorted. ‘The London newspapers have a name for the killer, you know. “Jack the Ripper” they call him.’
‘The London newspapers are much like our own,’ he sighed. ‘When they have no information, they make it up.’
She poured more tea, filling both their cups.
‘It isn’t just in London.’ she snorted. ‘There are murders in other cities too. And it could happen in Dublin. This “Ripper” might even be Irish. There’s lots of Irish people, it seems, in the East End of London.’
‘Yes, there are.’ She caught a tone of exasperation in his voice. ‘And there are lots of Russians, Jews and Poles. God knows, there’s even a few English, I’m told. As for murders elsewhere, yes there are murders every week. There always are. But if some barmaid gets killed in Dundee it doesn’t mean this “Ripper” is going up and down the country attacking all and sundry.’
‘It’s easy for men to take that position,’ she said sharply, gathering the books she needed for the school day from the sideboard. ‘Men aren’t being murdered by some maniac. They don’t have to worry, do they?’
A few days later, when Swallow told her he was going to go back to live at Maria’s, she was initially distressed. But she had moved quickly, identifying a colleague now teaching at the Loreto Girls’ School on St Stephen’s Green and seeking shared accommodation. Harriet still felt nervous for a time without Joe coming and going around the house, but as time went by it seemed to work out quite well, she told herself.
In the ordinary course, Harriet would have asked her new co-tenant to accompany her to the National Land League meeting at the Mansion House
. But the Loreto sisters were running a sale of work, and the teaching staff were expected to help at the stalls. Harriet had decided that she would call on Maria to persuade her to abandon the public house during the quiet hours of the afternoon.
‘Mr Davitt will speak,’ Harriet pressed her. ‘It will be a big meeting. In the Round Room. It will be a wonderful experience.’
Maria was still hesitant.
‘He doesn’t make many appearances now,’ Harriet enthused. ‘His health is poor. But people have travelled hundreds of miles to hear him in the United States, in Australia, in Africa, even in Russia. He’s a world figure, you know. I think he’ll probably speak on Mr Parnell’s difficulties too. Come on, a few hours away from the business will do you good. And you’ll have Joe here in the evening to help out.’
That was true, Maria conceded privately. He had told her he would finish work no later than six o’clock.
‘All right. I’ll come with you,’ she agreed without enthusiasm. ‘I’ll leave Tom in charge until Joe gets here.’
Tom was the senior barman at Grant’s. After more than thirty years in the trade he knew his business, and there were few situations he could not handle. The house would be in good hands for the afternoon.
Maria Walsh was first and last a businesswoman. She had no interest in Michael Davitt’s efforts on behalf of the dispossessed, whether in Ireland or anywhere else. She was equally unmoved by Mr Parnell’s current difficulties. A special commission had been sitting in London since September probing allegations that he was in league with the violent leaders of the Fenian organisation. Each day’s newspapers carried columns of the proceedings, faithfully reporting the cross-examination of witnesses by some of the most able members of the English Bar. Parnell’s supporters, who included most of nationalist Ireland, followed the accounts assiduously. Some thought their hero was on the rack. Others held that his evidence was so strong and clear that his enemies were confounded.
Harriet was fervently political and nationalist. She was a member of the Gaelic Union and the Society for the Preservation of the Irish Language. In reality, Maria told herself, she would go along with Harriet to make sure she did not get into trouble.
It had happened before. Her G-man brother had to engage in some unorthodox tactics to disentangle her from the malign influence of a young man whom she said she loved. He happened to be a leading member of a revolutionary group that sometimes called itself the Hibernian League and at other times the Hibernian Brotherhood. It took an amount of clever footwork to prevent her name going on the Castle’s intelligence files as a subversive to be watched.
Harriet and Maria caught one of the new steam trams that were gradually replacing the horse-drawn vehicles that had served the city for twenty years. It took them along Thomas Street, across Cornmarket, past the two churches named for St Audoen, the little Norman saint who was the patron of the city walls, past Christ Church Cathedral and down to the city centre.
The November afternoon was dry and mild with a watery sun slanting over the rooftops as it dropped away to the west of the city. When the tram clanked past the City Hall, Maria strained to peer into Exchange Court, where the detective office was located. As often as she had passed the building where Swallow worked, she had never seen him enter or leave it.
The vehicle circumnavigated the curtilage of Trinity College. They dismounted at the first stop on Nassau Street and made their way through the afternoon crowd along Dawson Street towards the Mansion House.
The Round Room, where it was said the acoustics were so perfect that even those in the back rows could hear a speaker whisper on the stage, was filling rapidly. A Land League steward, wearing a green sash, recognised Harriet and came forward, beckoning her and Maria to two seats by the alcove. ‘Míle buíochas, a Sheathrúin,’ she smiled at the young man. Maria thought he blushed. He smiled back. ‘Fáilte romhat, Harriet. Agus fáilte roimh do chara álainn.’
Maria grimaced as they sat. ‘The only bit I understood was “Harriet”. What did he say?’
Harriet laughed. ‘Actually, he was paying you a compliment. Sean trained at Carysfort too. He called you my “beautiful companion”’.
‘Hmm, maybe I’ll try and learn a bit of the Gaelic then, if it’ll get me that sort of comment.’
‘You should.’
‘What’s his name?’ Maria asked. ‘He seemed to know you well.’
‘Oh, don’t draw any unwarranted conclusions,’ Harriet laughed. ‘He’s Seathrún Ó Brolcháin. He was in training at Marino College while I was in Carysfort. He’s very active in nationalist activities. I admire him.’
By the time the meeting was to open, the Round Room was packed. Scores of latecomers found only standing room, while stewards argued with people trying to hold empty seats for friends. A fug of smoke was already beginning to fill the hall, rising to the high ceiling. The body heat generated from the crowd was starting to draw out smells of sweat and damp clothing.
Maria surveyed the audience as she might the customers on a busy night in Grant’s, sizing up possible troublemakers, noting where the louder voices were coming from. But this was an orderly if unusual congregation. Rough country men with strong accents sat side by side with others whose softer, pale features marked them as city dwellers. Cloth caps and soft hats mixed with bowlers. There were smart, well-cut overcoats and bulky friezes in coarse tweed. She was surprised to see that maybe one in five or six of those present were women.
Three pipers in kilts marched on to the stage. A stout man with a megaphone commanded the audience to silence, and the pipers played ‘A Nation Once Again’. The crowd burst into applause and cheering as they squeezed out the last notes.
After ‘A Nation Once Again’, the pipers struck up ‘Let Erin Remember’ and then ‘The West’s Awake’, followed by ‘The Lament for Owen Roe O’Neill’. The applause rose to a crescendo, accompanied by stamping of boots and clapping of hands. In spite of her detachment Maria felt herself being lifted with the mood of the crowd.
A thin young man stepped to centre stage, and introduced himself using an Irish name that Maria could not understand. Then in a surprisingly strong voice he started to recount details of evictions in Galway, in Roscommon, in Mayo, in Sligo.
‘These attacks on Irish farms and Irish families are taking place even as we gather here today,’ he announced angrily. ‘But we will not be slaves or serfs. Nor will Irishmen turn and run at the sight of a policeman’s carbine or a soldier’s bayonet. We are the race that has withstood the might of England, from Cromwell to Balfour, and we will not yield in this struggle.’
The harangue lasted perhaps twenty minutes. Then the young man was followed by another. And another. With each successive speech the atmosphere in the hall grew more fervid. Finally, the stout man stepped forwards again. Harriet cupped her hands to Maria’s ear. ‘That’s Mr Andrew Kettle. He’s one of Davitt’s most senior men,’ she told her.
Kettle spread his arms in a gesture to quiet the crowd. ‘A chairde Gael . . . Irishmen and Irishwomen . . . fáilte, fáilte agus fáilte arís . . . welcome on this great occasion. You have heard at first hand now of the state of our brothers and sisters and our children across the country and of their struggles to hold on to their birthright. Now we have the privilege of hearing the words of the man who has inspired and led that struggle—the struggle to give the land of Ireland back to the people of Ireland.
‘This great Irishman who has suffered at the hands of England and her lackeys is no stranger to us. He is flesh of our flesh and blood of our blood. We have heard him speak across the length and breadth of this island, in fair weather and foul, threatened and harried by police and military and by the mercenaries of the landlords. But he has taken your cause, your just and undeniable cause, around the world. And now the world knows that the Irish race will not be kept down or denied what is theirs by right. Now he is back amongst us. A chairde Gael, it is my privilege to make way for a man who has given us back our birthright and our
pride, that noble son of Mayo, Michael Davitt.’
Maria had expected an imposing presence, but the man in his forties who came forward as the crowd roared its approval was gaunt, with thinning hair and a slight stoop, the sort of man that one would pass without noticing in the street or on the tram. He waved his one arm in a gesture of greeting to the crowd. The other arm of his jacket, empty of the limb he had lost as a child factory worker, was pinned neatly at the pocket.
‘My good friends, Irishmen and Irishwomen, I thank you for the warmth of your welcome. And I salute you for the courage and the constancy you have shown in your great struggle.’
There was an extraordinary projection in Davitt’s voice. His words were as clear in Maria’s ears as if he were standing beside her. The accent was a curious blend of Irish with the north of England and a touch of something else thrown in. Maria recalled she had read somewhere that his wife was American. But the crowd hushed and was still for this seemingly unexceptional man. Not a foot stirred now. Not a cough was heard. Although he carried no notes, he spoke steadily and without hesitation for well over three quarters of an hour. Extraordinarily, he appeared to know where everybody in the great hall had come from. He broke his address at intervals to welcome one group or another.
‘I recognise the Wexford branches of the league. “The Boys of Wexford, who fought with heart and hand.” There they are.’ He gestured with his one arm to a far corner of the hall. By the time he had finished, Maria reckoned, he had identified every Irish county she knew as well as a few that she had never heard of.
When his oratory was drawing to its climax, he drew a watch from a breast pocket. ‘I’ll not detain you much longer, good people. I know that you have made great sacrifices and you have been required to show great courage. But I also tell you that you have made great progress in your struggle. Each day we hear of once-powerful landlords agreeing to the terms you have forced from the government in London and returning the estates they have robbed from the Irish people back to their rightful owners. But much remains to be achieved. Too many of the thieves and robbers are still in possession. Even yet, we know of evictions, in Donegal, in Kerry, in my own native Mayo. The struggle is far from over.