A Hunt in Winter

by Conor Brady

  Smith Berry’s jaw dropped. For a moment, he struggled for speech. Then he pointed to the door, his hand trembling in anger.

  ‘Out,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Get out . . . get out.’

  They made their way through the outer office and down the staircase. A blast of chilly air coming up from the river swept across the Upper Yard.

  ‘Jesus, Swallow,’ Mallon said quietly once they were in the open space. ‘You believe in living dangerously.’

  ‘You’re doing a bit of risk-taking yourself, chief. Threatening Smith Berry with the press is fairly raising the stakes, I’d have thought.’

  ‘A bit, I suppose. But it’s one thing the frocks are terrified of. You know, a line of adverse comment in any of the newspapers, especially the London ones, sends them into total panic.’

  Mallon stopped in his stride.

  ‘It’s true though about the risks, Swallow. We live dangerously in G-Division. We’re Irishmen reporting to Englishmen who don’t understand the difference between the two races. It’s too late for me to do anything else with my life, even if I wanted to. But you’re younger and you have choices. I told you before. Marry that good woman with her fine public house in Thomas Street. The way things are going you might never see your pension.’

  They descended to the Lower Yard and found the entrance into Exchequer Court. Swallow wondered if what Mallon had just said gave him an opportunity to tell him that he was, indeed, going to marry Maria. In fact, police regulations required that he should seek permission and have his superintendent’s approval to enter into matrimony. But it might turn into a longer conversation than he needed now. He decided to leave it for another time.

  ‘How’s the murder inquiry coming along?’ Mallon asked.

  ‘If you don’t mind, chief, could I brief you on that a bit later? I’ve got to pick up Pat Mossop inside and we need to talk to a potential suspect.’

  ‘A suspect? Good. Is he in custody?’

  ‘No, chief. But he might be after Alice Flannery’s funeral Mass.’

  Chapter 14

  Alice Flannery was buried at Mount Jerome cemetery, near Harold’s Cross, south of Dublin city, on Monday morning after requiem Mass in the Church of Mary Immaculate at Rathmines.

  Swallow and Mossop came into the church at the back of the nave and moved up to the transept, selecting a viewing point from which to survey the mourners. ‘Duck’ Boyle and an inspector from the E-district, both uniformed in fulfilment of regulations, solemnly took seats in a pew to the front, behind the row that was customarily reserved for next-of-kin.

  The congregation, as Swallow expected, was comprised largely of local people, denizens of Blackberry Lane and the poorer cottages scattered behind the newly developed streets and avenues of the Rathmines township. They crowded deferentially in the middle and back pews, leaving the forward seating for the bereaved family and any important people that might be in attendance.

  From his vantage point in the transept, Swallow recognised the figure of Stefan Werner from the New Vienna, seated in the same pew as Boyle and his inspector. His fine Crombie coat contrasted with the poor jackets and shawls that predominated among the mourners in the farther pews.

  The coffin containing Alice Flannery’s remains had already been brought from the mortuary chapel and placed on trestles facing the high altar. Bridget Flannery sat, huddled with her children in the front pew. Daniel sat next to his mother, a protective arm around her shoulders, his siblings ranged on his other side. The pews behind the immediate family were filled, according to custom, by the extended family, aunts, uncles and cousins.

  The church bell tolled above the dome of St Mary Immaculate at the moment the doors from the sacristy were opened, as by an invisible hand.

  ‘Father Cavendish, a grand young man, God bless him, Father James,’ an elderly woman in the pew behind the G-men whispered aloud to her neighbour as the celebrant came out to the altar, preceded by two acolytes.

  Swallow recognised the young priest who had briefly appeared when he and Mossop had interviewed Monsignor Feehan in the parlour of the parochial house on Saturday.

  Swallow saw Mossop pencil the detail into his notebook. There was no sign of Monsignor Feehan, or indeed of any other priests. That was odd, he reasoned, given the involvement of both the dead girl and her mother, however humbly, in the work of the parish. If it were a requiem Mass in his native rural Kildare, Swallow knew, there would be multiple celebrants.

  When the Communion had concluded, Father Cavendish’s homily was clinical and formulaic, the predictable promises of eternal life and resurrection. Formal condolences were extended to the bereaved family. There was an exhortation to anyone with information concerning the crime to come forward and to confess. Curiously, Swallow thought, there was no reference to the dead girl’s work in the very place of worship in which she now lay. Everything about the obsequies and Father James Cavendish’s manner reinforced his unease. There was no sense of warmth or compassion in the service, rather a cold compliance with necessary formality. Swallow often found himself disquieted at the growing opulence and sense of privilege that he sensed in many of the pastors of his own church. The church’s new and growing wealth was given physical form in the magnificence of St Mary Immaculate’s rich interior. Yet he thought he detected something else here. It was as if Father Cavendish’s Mass and homily were no more than a show, performed to a carefully prepared script.

  After the final blessing, the coffin was wheeled down the nave, followed by the dead girl’s immediate family and other relatives. Swallow and Mossop moved swiftly to the back of the church in order to observe the congregation as it emptied out into the concourse at the building’s front. There was nothing of any significance to note. Swallow recognised one or two middle-aged men who in earlier years would have figured as minor criminals in police reports.

  They followed the funeral cortège in a police side-car through Rathmines and Harold’s Cross to Mount Jerome. Along the route, shops temporarily drew down their blinds as a mark of respect. Men on the footpaths removed their headgear and women blessed themselves as the hearse came by. A light flurry of snow came out of the leaden grey sky as the coffin was taken from the hearse at Mount Jerome. Swallow felt cold flecks on his face as it was lowered into the ground.

  The priest said the final prayers and led the mourners in a decade of the Rosary, finishing hurriedly with the traditional prayer for the deceased. ‘May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace, Amen.’

  There had been nothing of investigational value to be gleaned. No suspicious behaviour. No confidential whispers from any of the mourners. No giveaway comments that might give the G-men a possible line of inquiry. As the gravediggers came forward to start shovelling the earth onto Alice Flannery’s coffin, the priest stepped back, removed the purple stole from around his neck and began to make his way to his waiting cab. Swallow stepped forwards, holding out his warrant card as the priest stepped up to the footplate.

  ‘Father Cavendish, I’m Detective Inspector Swallow. This is Detective Sergeant Mossop. We’re investigating the murder of Alice Flannery. I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time to help us in our inquiries.’

  Close up, James Cavendish had sharp blue eyes. For a moment Swallow thought he was about to protest that he had other things to do or that he had to be away urgently for some reason, but then he smiled confidently and stepped down from the footplate. He might be thirty, Swallow estimated, but he could pass for younger. Women would find this priest attractive, he reckoned.

  ‘Of course, if I can help I will. I’m going back to the parochial house. We can talk there. Would you like to share my carriage? Or have you got your own transport?’

  ‘Thank you, Father. We have our own car here. We’ll follow you to the parochial house.’

  It was curious, he reflected, this priestly preference for retreating to their own redoubt for any conversation where they might be put under any pressure. Monsigno
r Feehan had expressed the same preference two days earlier.

  Cavendish’s carriage covered the distance back to Rathmines at a trot. The police driver pulled in behind it when they reached the parochial house, and Swallow and Mossop dismounted swiftly. Cavendish dropped lithely to the ground once his driver had opened the carriage door. He led them into the house and took them to the same parlour where they had interviewed Monsignor Feehan.

  A housekeeper appeared at the door as they were about to sit on the same hard-backed chairs they had occupied two days previously.

  ‘Will you want your dinner soon, Father?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs O’Reilly. If you’d just keep it warm for me, I’ll be with these gentlemen for a short while. Perhaps they might like some tea? It’s been a bitterly cold morning.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Father,’ Swallow responded, against his inclinations. The idea of hot tea with sweet sugar was tempting after the cold of the cemetery at Mount Jerome, but something told him that it was wiser to be strictly formal with Father James Cavendish in spite of his veneer of congeniality.

  ‘Just for myself then, please,’ Cavendish told her. ‘A shocking thing, the murder of young Alice, and so close to her own home. So close to this church. Now, tell me how I can be of assistance.’

  Swallow was direct.

  ‘I need to tell you, Father, that I am interviewing you under caution because certain evidence has come to light in the course of our inquiries. I am advising you that you could be suspected of involvement in a criminal matter, and that while you are not obliged to say anything, what you do say will be recorded and may be used in evidence. Do you understand this?’

  The young priest paled. He blinked rapidly. It seemed as if he wanted to speak, but was unable to.

  At that moment, the housekeeper came through the door carrying a small tray with the priest’s tea.

  ‘Pardon me now, Father.’

  She laid it on the table and left.

  It was as if her intervention had shaken the priest out of a stupor. Now his eyes filled with anger.

  ‘Mr Swallow, you cannot believe you have authority to question a priest? Do you not realise that I am answerable to canon law, not the criminal law? Your suggestion that I might be guilty of a criminal act is utterly outrageous, but even if it were true you are acting beyond your remit.’

  ‘I haven’t suggested that you are guilty of anything,’ Swallow said. ‘I said that certain evidence has come to light which requires that I caution you, as I have done. As to your status under canon law and the criminal law, you are answerable to both. Canon law has its own strictures, but I represent the Crown and its laws, including the criminal law. I’m sure you understand that.’

  Cavendish laughed lightly.

  ‘I think the failure of understanding is on your part, Mr Swallow. I am beyond your jurisdiction.’

  Swallow reached into his pocket for his handcuffs. He sensed Mossop stiffen with tension beside him as he clanked them noisily between his hands.

  ‘Now, Father, there’s something that you have to accept, difficult as it may be in your calling. These will fit around a priest’s wrists, if they have to, just as easily as any other man’s. I don’t want matters to go in that direction. So can we get on with our questions? The sooner we can be on our way, the better it will be for everyone.’

  Cavendish’s eyes flickered from Swallow’s face to the handcuffs, then back again. There was a long, silent interval before he ceded ground.

  ‘I have no wish to cause an incident either, Mr Swallow. I will try to answer any reasonable questions you may have. But I warn you, you will hear more about this . . . exceeding of your authority. Do you understand me?’

  Swallow ignored both the threat and the question. He put the handcuffs back in his pocket, silently giving thanks that he and Mossop did not have to grapple physically with the young priest.

  ‘Father Cavendish,’ he began, ‘I have reason to believe that you had an unusual relationship with Alice Flannery, to the degree that you were in the habit of accompanying her home late at night after she had finished work.’

  Cavendish shifted in his chair.

  ‘Don’t you dare to make any suggestion of impropriety, Mr Swallow. I was concerned for her safety. She was . . . vulnerable . . . if you like. I was exercising pastoral care over a young woman I judged to be at risk.’

  ‘At risk from whom, Father Cavendish?’

  ‘Well, at general risk. With these London murders, decent women are in great fear.’

  ‘It’s a long way from London to here, Father. And the victims in London aren’t what you’d call “decent women”.’

  ‘I understand that, of course. What I mean is that Miss Flannery . . . Alice . . . was, as I have said, vulnerable.’

  ‘So would you wait around Portobello Bridge for other supposedly vulnerable young women to see them safely home?’ Swallow asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘No, of course not. Miss Flannery was special.’

  ‘The truth is that you had an interest in her that would be, shall we say, rather unpriestly, didn’t you?’ Swallow said.

  The air of confidence seemed to dissipate from young Father James Cavendish. His shoulders slumped. The easy grin was replaced with a deep frown.

  ‘I cared for her, yes. But strictly in a spiritual way . . . a pastoral way. She was so full of promise, of ambition, from such a difficult background. I wanted to protect her, to see her safe and see her take hold of the bright future that might have been hers.’

  ‘Do you take a similar interest in other young girls in the parish? Would you be solicitous of others too?’

  Cavendish’s face flushed with anger again.

  ‘I resent the implication of what you are saying there, Detective Inspector. I try to help young people where I can, Mr Swallow. That is part of my vocation. Jesus said “suffer the little children to come unto me”, as you’ll know from your catechism.’

  ‘I don’t think Jesus had in mind the kind of close attention you were paying to Alice Flannery.’ Swallow hardened his voice. ‘We know that she resented it too. So did members of her family.’

  Cavendish spread his hands in a gesture of emphasis.

  ‘So that’s it then? That’s what you call evidence? That’s why you tell me I’m a suspect? Members of her family indeed. It’s that young man Daniel Flannery, isn’t it? Well, I can tell you, Inspector, he’s a very strange young man indeed. And I can tell you furthermore that absolutely nothing improper ever occurred or was in contemplation in my contacts with his sister, Inspector. I can assure you of that.’

  Swallow could see Pat Mossop struggling to keep up with his note-taking. He paused for a few moments.

  ‘You describe Daniel Flannery as a “strange young man”. Would you care to elaborate on that for us?’

  Cavendish shrugged.

  ‘I’m always pleased to see a young man who is committed to his faith. But Daniel Flannery is almost fanatical in his Catholicism. He will often stop me and quote to me from spiritual books he has read but for which he has had no training.’

  ‘Are you saying he is something of an extremist?’ Swallow asked.

  ‘That would not be an inappropriate term.’

  ‘Can you tell us where you were on Friday night last between half past eleven and midnight?’ Swallow asked after an interval. ‘And I’m reminding you again that while you’re not obliged to say anything, anything you do say will be recorded and may be used in evidence.’

  ‘Yes, I can answer your question, Inspector. I was on duty in the parish that night. As the priest on duty, I was on a sick call. I went to administer the Last Rites to a parishioner at Belgrave Square. And you will find that all of this is recorded here in the pastoral diary in this house.’

  If the priest was telling the truth about being at Belgrave Square, Swallow calculated, he would have been at most a ten-minute walk from Blackberry Lane. But diaries only reflect what people write into them. />
  ‘I presume, Father Cavendish, apart from the parish books, that someone else can corroborate that? In particular, I’d be glad to have someone confirm the times at which you arrived at Belgrave Square and when you left.’

  ‘Yes, the elderly lady in question has lingered, although her condition is very frail. I stayed with the family and we prayed by the bedside until well after midnight. The other members of her family were present, and they will confirm what I say if you doubt me.’

  ‘In my work, Father Cavendish, one doubts everyone and everything. I’ll ask you later to give details of the address and the family to Sergeant Mossop and we will make inquiries. If your account is verified, so much the better.’

  The priest smiled, a little too comfortably for Swallow’s liking.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help on, Inspector? I’ve told you what I can. I cared deeply for Alice, in the pastoral sense, of course. Her brother appears to have had a very warped view of that. It’s regrettable, but I can’t alter his thinking.’

  ‘Of course,’ Swallow said non-committedly. ‘What would you say was his relationship with his sister?’

  ‘I think that relationship was . . . well . . . obsessive. He seemed to think he needed to protect her from some unspecified threat.’

  ‘That’s not so different from what you’ve told us about your own relationship with the girl,’ Swallow said.

  Cavendish seemed genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Do you not understand, Inspector? I am a priest of God; my motives and intentions can only be the purest.’

  Swallow grimaced.

  ‘I meet many people, not all of them priests, who would describe their motives in a great many circumstances as pure. So let me ask you, Father Cavendish, can you think of anyone who would have wanted to harm Alice Flannery? We don’t think this was a random attack.’

  Cavendish shrugged.

  ‘Frankly, no. But are you ruling out a random act of violence? As far as I am aware she was not keeping company, so there would not have been issues of jealousies or any crime of passion.’