A Hunt in Winter

by Conor Brady

  Mallon scratched his beard.

  ‘With all these London murders the newspapers will raise a racket. Any dead female has to be linked to this Jack the Ripper business in London. I had a query from Commissioner Harrel this morning.’

  In the normal course, Swallow knew, the commissioner would only concern himself with ‘special’ crimes that had a political dimension. The security of the realm was paramount in the thinking of the Castle’s senior mandarins. It was G-Division’s primary task. An ‘ordinary’ murder, like that of Alice Flannery, would hardly merit attention. But Mallon was right: the so-called Ripper crimes were causing nerves to fray far from London’s East End.

  ‘You can tell him we’re pursuing every avenue, chief. Right now we don’t have a suspect, but we’ve just started on the investigation.’

  Mallon nodded.

  ‘I know you’re “pursuing every avenue”. It’s at once a useful and a useless phrase. But I understand you’ve just started. And at least there isn’t anything political about it. Just keep me well informed.’

  He paused, and indicated with his thumb towards the door through which Kelly and Waters had departed. ‘I told you I’d explain what those two wanted.’

  Commonality of religion, background and career experience more often than not brought Mallon and Swallow to similar thinking without the need for discussion. He guessed that whatever the secret service men wanted, it had to do with politics.

  ‘I imagine they’ve got some plan afoot that’s likely to inflame passions, give us more work and yield no profit. And they think it’s a great idea,’ he said.

  Mallon’s grin was without humour.

  ‘Precisely. They’re working flat out to cut the ground from under Parnell at the commission in London,’ he said. ‘They’re desperately looking for ways to blacken him.’

  Swallow knew that as soon as the prime minister, Lord Salisbury, had announced the setting up of the inquiry to investigate the allegations that Parnell was encouraging the Fenians to violence, Smith Berry’s secret service unit had been further augmented by security detectives, including some drawn from the Special Irish Branch at New Scotland Yard. Some retired RIC men with security experience had been quietly drawn in too. Waters was one that he knew about. They kept to themselves, working out of private offices in the Upper Yard with a military guard outside, but most G-men had got to know some of them by sight. He had encountered them coming and going along Castle Street or Palace Street. They avoided the common police canteen behind Exchange Court that served both RIC men and DMP members. They drank separately too, avoiding the public houses around the Castle habituated by policemen.

  ‘They’re digging deep to get any dirt there is on Parnell,’ Mallon said. ‘The government is supposed to be disinterested and impartial, of course, but it’s clear they’re doing all they can to support The Times’s charge that he’s working hand in glove with the Fenians, and that the more violence there is, the more political leverage it gives him.’

  ‘But we know that’s not true, chief. We’ve never got a shred of evidence to support it. If it wasn’t for Parnell there’d be a lot more young men enrolling with the Fenians.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mallon’s tone was exasperated. ‘It’s their bloody stupidity that angers me. They think they have to destroy Parnell. I’ve tried to explain, again and again, that he’s the best buffer we have between order and chaos, just as you’re saying. As long as we have him in position, moderate opinion has a place to express itself. If he’s brought down, the extremists will move in to fill the vacuum.’

  Swallow drank from his Bushmills. It was good, but he still preferred the mellow Tullamore.

  ‘So what do Kelly and Waters want of us?’

  ‘They want the originals of the protection logs.’

  G-men were assigned to Parnell’s protection every time he came through Dublin. They monitored his movements from the moment he would step ashore from the cross-channel steamer, returning from Westminster. They watched his house on Merrion Square, logging the people who came and went and the times they did so. When he visited elsewhere, they logged the address and the arrival and departure and any visitors. Swallow had done his share of it before promotion, carefully copying details into the logbooks at Exchange Court at the end of each shift. But every G-man knew that what was officially designated as protection was also surveillance. Every detail of Parnell’s life was recorded and passed up the security chain to the officials in Smith Berry’s office. And every G-man who did the Parnell ‘protection’ shifts with any regularity knew that he was frequently accompanied by Mrs Katharine O’Shea, the estranged wife of his parliamentary colleague, Captain William O’Shea. Her home was at Eltham, in Kent, which she shared with Parnell and two of the three children they had together. Their first, it was known, had died in infancy.

  ‘They’re going to try to bring him down over the relationship with Mrs O’Shea,’ Mallon said. ‘They’re a married couple to all intents and purposes. She and Captain O’Shea have lived apart for years, but she’s legally his wife and the relationship with Parnell is adulterous. He’ll be hard pressed to deny it. But Smith Berry believes that our protection logs would be irrefutable evidence.’

  ‘Why can’t they get their evidence in England?’ Swallow asked. ‘As I understand it they live together with their children fairly openly at Eltham.’

  Mallon scoffed. ‘Oh, they think it’ll be far more devastating for him if the adultery is revealed in Dublin. Desecration of the soil of Holy Catholic Ireland and all that.’ He grimaced. ‘That kind of thing isn’t as much a novelty in England, you understand. ‘And then the bishops and the priests will rise up and denounce him as a godless sinner, of course. Not everyone will follow their lead, but it’ll be the end of him politically. His own followers will split. As you and I know, there’s quite a few who’d like to have his place as party leader. McCarthy would love it. So would Healy or Dillon.’

  ‘So they want our protection logs . . .’ Swallow mused. ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘I wasted a good glass of whiskey on each of them before they said what they were after.’ Mallon’s face reddened with anger. ‘I told them that any significant information gathered by G-Division was sent to Smith Berry’s office as a matter of routine. Then I told them to go and take a shite for themselves.’

  Swallow grimaced. John Mallon rarely used profanities or coarse language.

  ‘That won’t go down too well, chief, when Kelly reports to Smith Berry. They’ll have the commissioner down on us.’

  ‘They’ll try, but Commissioner Harrel understands politics, and he understands about keeping Parnell in power. He won’t see his force misused to suit the purposes of the bloody Times of London. I don’t think he’ll buckle to Kelly and his type.’

  Swallow was silent for a moment. He sipped again at his whiskey.

  ‘I’d make a suggestion, chief, if you don’t mind,’ he said slowly. ‘I think if I were you I’d make sure the protection logs were put someplace safe. There’s about ten or twelve books relating to the Parnell detail. They’ve always been stored in the crime inspector’s office. They’re in the filing cabinets where we can get easy access to them if needed. If they’re left there, Kelly’s men will go in and take them, at gunpoint if necessary.’

  He paused.

  ‘Now that I come to think of it, that particular cabinet is nearly full to capacity. If the logs were removed for storage, sure you wouldn’t even be certain where they are.’

  Mallon reached for the Bushmills and poured again for both of them. He added his customary dash of water and pushed the jug across to Swallow.

  ‘Detective Inspector, you know that I couldn’t approve of the removal of official papers from G-Division. But I understand the problem about storage. And I’d be sympathetic to an overworked clerical staff that simply can’t keep track of every damned sheet of paper, wouldn’t I?’

  Swallow drained the last of his whiskey.

  �
��You would, chief. That’d be your style all right.’

  The rain cut across his cheeks as he made his way up the Lower Yard to the back entrance to Exchange Court. He climbed the stairs to the inspector’s office. It was empty, as he had hoped. He took the key to the storage cabinet from the wall-rack and brought the heavy logs out onto the table, almost a dozen in all. Then he used a pair of canvas straps with metal buckles, standard issue from Her Majesty’s Stationery Office for binding heavy files, to make two bundles. He retraced his steps down the Lower Yard to the office of the city medical examiner, the two bundles clasped against his chest to protect them from the rain.

  Lafeyre did most of his official work from the city morgue at Marlborough Street. But the authorities had also provided him with a small, secure room in the Lower Castle Yard, close to the Army Pay Office, to store evidence and files. A duplicate key, for convenience of access, was held in the crime inspector’s office.

  Even though the November evening was closing in, Swallow needed no light to navigate the room. He unbundled the books and inserted them one by one into the space behind a storage cupboard that stood immediately inside the door. Stacked flat against the wall, they would be invisible to anyone coming or going through the doorway. He stepped out into the yard and quietly turned the key in the lock.

  Chapter 6

  The Exchange Court crime conference on the murder of Alice Flannery was depressingly brief. Pat Mossop and Johnny Vizzard had taken a few hours’ rest in the dormitory above the public office before resuming duty. Mick Feore had travelled in from Rathmines with Superintendent ‘Duck’ Boyle and Sergeant Stephen Doolan in a closed cab that protected them from the freezing rain.

  A dozen uniformed constables from the search teams sat on wooden forms, smoking and drinking hot tea. Their sodden capes dripped icy water from coat-hooks along the side of the parade room.

  ‘No suspect in the area,’ Feore summarised gloomily, gesturing to the pages of the murder book. ‘No motive that we know of. No witnesses worth talking about. We’ve got a likely murder weapon though, and plaster casts of a pair of shoes.’

  ‘Who’s talked to the family? Immediate neighbours?’ Swallow asked

  ‘I did that,’ Stephen Doolan answered. ‘The mother is Bridget. Works part-time as a cleaner at the church across the Rathmines Road. Jack, the husband, died two years ago. Hit by a load of timber at Grand Canal Dock. One boy, Dan, aged seventeen. He’s apprenticed as a cellar man at Coyle’s public house in Rathmines. The others are just kids, twelve, ten, six and four. The neighbours say they’re a very devout family. If the mother isn’t cleaning the church, she’s praying in it. Young Dan attends Mass every morning and goes to confession every week, it seems.’

  ‘And the neighbours? What do we know about their movements?’

  ‘All accounted for. They’re what you’d expect: labouring men, or unemployed. A couple of the women run fruit and vegetable barrows on Camden Street. One or two of the working men were out and about, but they all gave alibis. We’re cross-checking them, but so far they seem solid.’

  Duck Boyle made a loud harrumph. Swallow had become well-accustomed to this signalling of an impending pronouncement in the years when Boyle was crime inspector in Exchange Court.

  ‘It is me own experience, an’ I speak with rank and seniority,’ he intoned, ‘that a crime like this is rarely a random act. There’s a motive somewhere but we’re just not seein’ it yet.’

  ‘Very true, superintendent.’ Swallow could not fully conceal his sarcasm. ‘The truth is,’ he added in a more conciliatory tone, ‘we’re seeing very little.’

  Boyle shrugged. ‘All I can do is put every man I have out on the beats tonight. Question everyone they encounter. I’ll get the off-duty lads out buckshee in plain clothes. They’re bloody keen, all of them. We don’t know if this killer could strike agin’, do we? If nothin’ else we’ll do our damnedest to ensure there’s no repeat.’

  Swallow nodded. In fairness to Boyle, his instinct was protective. Not every superintendent always put the care of the community ahead of administrative police convenience. The ‘buckshees’ were young uniformed men who aspired to detective work. Given an opportunity, they would often work in plain clothes to prove their mettle. Putting them out on the street in numbers was a wise move.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he responded. ‘Mr Mallon’s already had Commissioner Harrel on to him. If he can tell him we’re doing everything we can to keep the streets safe, that’s at least better than nothing.’

  The conference broke up with nods of agreement, but Swallow could sense the air of dejection. The atmosphere would be very different if there was a clear line of inquiry or if there were solid clues to be followed up.

  ‘What’s next, boss?’ Pat Mossop asked.

  ‘I’ll go to visit the Widow Flannery and her kids out at Blackberry Lane,’ Swallow said. ‘I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.’

  Chapter 7

  The murmur of prayers carried the length of the darkened Blackberry Lane as Swallow and Mossop made their way slowly through the throng of neighbours gathered outside the small cottage. Mercifully, the rain had eased off and men and women knelt bare-headed around the door, picking up the responses to the Rosary.

  They stepped into the room where Bridget Flannery knelt beside her daughter’s body. Two candles flickered on a makeshift trestle, scenting the low-ceilinged space with oily smoke. A heavy-set priest of perhaps fifty years, in surplice and stole, stood beside the sobbing woman, giving out the prayers in a solemn recitation.

  Police business had brought Swallow to poor homes like this on many occasions. Flannery’s rented cottage would not be classified among the lowest grade of Dublin housing, but it was far from palatial. The earthen-floored room in which the dead girl was laid out served as kitchen and living space. To left and right of the open fireplace, rough wooden doors led to two small rooms that comprised sleeping quarters. Ideally, one would be for males and one for females. There would probably be a small yard behind with a dry privy. Less fortunate families living in the city’s courts and lanes might have to share such a facility among forty people.

  He took in the sparse furnishings. A deal table, covered with a cheap oil-cloth. A wooden dresser with some simple crockery. A few boxwood chairs. A wicker basket, laden with turf sods taken down from the boggy hills behind the city. A crucifix hung on the wall over the fire. On the opposite wall there was a faded paper portrait of the young patriot Robert Emmet, executed in Thomas Street for his abortive rebellion against the Crown. Swallow smiled inwardly at the familiar image: it was one of a series published some years earlier in the pages of The Nation newspaper, edited by Thomas Davis, who had initiated the Young Ireland movement. His mother had another in the series, depicting the rebel pikemen of 1798, which she hung behind the bar of Swallow’s public house in Newcroft.

  His mother’s father and two of her uncles had been ‘out’ in the rising of ’98, fighting the redcoat yeomanry in the flat countryside where Kildare borders on Queen’s County. Only one of the three brothers, Swallow’s grandfather, had survived.

  Swallow’s mother remained staunchly rebellious even as she advanced in years. But notwithstanding her insurrectionary instincts, she had no qualms about selling drink to the soldiery of the nearby Curragh camp, said to be the largest military installation in the empire. Swallow’s of Newcroft had the reputation of being a good house, frequented by senior NCOs as well as private soldiers. Payday at the Curragh was also payday for the adjacent public houses.

  He looked around the room. Half a dozen or so books occupied a small shelving space built into the wall beside the fireplace. He strained to see the titles. The Holy Bible. A copy of Butler’s Lives of the Saints. A heavy volume telling the story of the supposed apparitions of the Blessed Virgin at Knock in County Mayo. Two cookery books. A compilation of Moore’s Melodies. Incongruously, there was a battered copy of Blackstone’s Discourse on the Study of Law.

 
Swallow fell into the rhythm of the prayers, answering the Aves, Paters and Glorias easily and naturally, as in his childhood. Mossop, being Church of Ireland, maintained an awkward silence at his side, rocking slightly on his feet and staring at the ceiling. When the last responses had finished, Swallow stepped forward to the dead girl’s mother and introduced himself and Mossop.

  ‘We’re truly sorry about this, Mrs Flannery. The G-Division will do all we can to bring whoever did this to justice. We’ve got every available policeman in Dublin on the case now. Do you understand?’

  Bridget Flannery nodded. For a moment she attempted to speak, but the words did not get beyond a sob. Swallow guessed she might be forty, though she looked two decades older. Grey-streaked hair and a deeply lined face spoke of a life of want and struggle.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she finally managed. ‘Thank you indeed. She was a very good girl. A very good girl, sir. She was always in the state of grace, and she’s in heaven tonight with God and his saints.’

  Swallow was momentarily unsure how to respond to Bridget Flannery’s fervour. He found it disquieting, but it seemed to give her strength. He decided to ignore it.

  ‘Have you any idea who might have been responsible for what happened to her? Is there anyone who might have wished her harm?’ he asked.

  The priest stepped forward, folding his stole.

  ‘You can see that this poor woman isn’t in any fit state to answer your questions, constable,’ he said sharply. ‘Shouldn’t you have found the brute that did this already?’

  Swallow disliked him instantly. ‘And you are, Father . . . ?’

  ‘Monsignor, actually. Monsignor Feehan. I am in charge of this parish of Mary Immaculate.’

  Swallow raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, a monsignor. Very good. I’m Swallow. Detective Inspector, G-Division . . . actually. And I’m in charge of this investigation.’