by Conor Brady
‘But she had told you she didn’t want you paying so much attention to her?’ Swallow said.
‘That wasn’t Alice’s own thinking; it was her brother’s. As I told you, he’s very religious. But like a lot of these young revolutionary types, he’s hostile to the clergy. They have this notion that we’re supporting English rule and siding with the landlords in the country.’
‘He says you bought her books.’
‘Yes, cookery books. She wanted to be a cook, to work in the kitchen of some big house or a hotel or a restaurant. It was a laudable ambition, wouldn’t you agree? And anything I could do to further it was quite proper. She was very happy to have them. She asked me for money to buy a couple of law books too.’
‘Law books? You mean the ones on the shelf in the kitchen at her home?’
‘I cannot say, Inspector. I was never in that house. So I can only surmise that if you saw books there that they were the ones I paid for. She said she wanted to know her rights. She said it was important for a woman in particular to know her entitlements.’
‘I think, Father, we’re going just a little beyond pastoral care here,’ Swallow said slowly. ‘You were taking more than a general interest in the girl, weren’t you?’
Swallow saw him blushing.
‘Mr Swallow, I wish to be true to my priestly vocation, and I will be. But I won’t deny, I can’t, that there are times when the simple beauty of a young woman, the exquisite formation of such a creature, physically and intellectually, can be a challenge to one’s vows. Sometimes one wonders how it might have been had one chosen a different pathway.’
Swallow answered slowly.
‘Well, we’ve all had choices to make in life, Father Cavendish. And we have to live with those choices and maybe answer to God for it in the end.’
‘I understand that very well, Mr Swallow. I don’t believe a policeman needs to lecture me in moral theology. I studied it for three years in the course of my formation as a priest. So let me assure you that I am fully seized of the relationship between actions and consequences.’
Swallow smiled.
‘Do you know anything about the French writer Balzac?’
‘Honoré de Balzac? Of course.’
‘Well, Father, Balzac writes that the policeman, the priest and the artist have all got to be seized of the same moral values. Now that’s rather compacting his argument but it’s a fair summary. So maybe it’s not entirely inappropriate for a policeman to be able to point out some moral principles to a priest.’
He got to his feet and nodded to Mossop.
‘I think that will be all for the present. Detective Sergeant Mossop and I have some other inquiries to make. We’ll also need some time to consider the information that you’ve given us here today. I appreciate that some of what we have discussed may not be very easy for you, but we may ask you to facilitate us again.’
Mossop stood too.
‘Before we go, there are two further questions, I’d like to ask you,’ Swallow said.
‘Please, go ahead.’
‘May I ask what size do you take in footwear, and what sort of shoes would you have been wearing on Friday night when you left here to attend to the sick call?’
Cavendish became agitated again.
‘It appears in spite of my willingness to co-operate and my openness with you, Mr Swallow, that you insist on treating me as a criminal suspect. Why should I consider myself obliged to answer these ridiculous questions?’
‘I’ll give you two good reasons, Father,’ Swallow said. ‘First, along with other evidence from the scene of the assault on Miss Flannery, we have taken plaster impressions of footprints left in the mud. Second, if you don’t answer the questions I will procure a warrant to search this house and seize the footwear of all the occupants to enable us to determine the answers anyway. So, to be blunt about it, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. I’d hope you’ll choose the easy way.’
‘Your behaviour is outrageous,’ Cavendish spat out the words. ‘And believe me, there will be consequences. For what it’s worth I would have worn my heavy outdoor shoes on Friday night. The ones I have on me now. It’s a good walk from the parochial house to Belgrave Square. And the weather, as you know, has been very inclement. As to my shoe size, I take size nine.’
Wednesday November 7th, 1888
Chapter 15
The complaint from Archbishop’s House to Sir David Harrel, the commissioner of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, came forty-eight hours later. Swallow was surprised it had taken so long.
’It doesn’t worry me.’ Mallon dropped the commissioner’s minute onto the desk. ‘And don’t let it worry you either. Willie has to make a stink about one of his priests being questioned. But I have to go through the motions for the commissioner.’
Dublin’s new Roman Catholic archbishop, William Walsh, just three years in the post, had already shown himself to be fiercely assertive of the rights of his Church and his clergy.
He had given the go-ahead for the construction of a palatial residence at Drumcondra to replace the four-storey Georgian house on Rutland Square, which his predecessors had found adequate as a base from which to direct their flock. Scores of acres of land were being bought up by the Catholic Church close to the location of the new episcopal palace. There would be colleges, seminaries and training centres for priests and teachers. And it was common knowledge that he was seeking a site upon which to construct a new cathedral that would put the city’s two Protestant cathedrals, Christ Church and St Patrick’s, in the shade.
Swallow sat opposite Mallon’s desk in the Lower Yard office.
‘I understand that, chief. What does Commissioner Harrel say?’
Mallon picked up the minute. He grinned mirthlessly.
‘He’s had a strong note from the archbishop. Willie claims that any Crown officer questioning one of his priests is acting outside the law. And he’s outraged that the slightest suspicion should be attached by “low-ranking detectives from Dublin Castle” to one of God’s anointed ministers. Scandal and innuendo. You can imagine the rest. So tell me, Swallow, what were you doing interviewing this Father Cavendish?’
Swallow recounted his interview with the dead girl’s brother and his suspicions about the priest.
‘You might have told me you were going to interview him under caution,’ Mallon grumbled.
‘Actually, I did tell you I was going to interview a suspect, chief,’ Swallow answered. ‘But I must have forgotten to say who it was.’
Mallon’s eyes narrowed.
‘You mean you didn’t tell me because you thought it better I didn’t know.’
‘Ah, you’ve enough on your mind, chief. So how are you going to reply?’
‘I know what I’d like to say, but first I’d like to hear what you have to tell me. At all events, I need a full briefing on the investigation.’
‘There isn’t much progress, I’m afraid. No new witnesses. Nothing coming in from the usual informants around the city. The footprints at the scene show a size nine shoe or boot. No nails or studs, so probably a city dweller. We’ve interviewed her employer at the New Vienna. The German fellow, Werner. Can’t say I warmed to him. He says she had become troublesome at work, but there doesn’t seem to have been anything that could have led to violence. The investigating team is interviewing the employees one by one, of course.’
He flicked to the next page of his notebook.
‘The girl’s brother, Dan, is telling us the story that led me to Father Cavendish. Dan left work half an hour before she was attacked, but he said he was still at work at midnight. He’s not a bad lad, just twenty, very intense. He seems to be some sort of a religious enthusiast. He keeps quoting scripture and God’s laws. He’s political too. He says he’s a member of the Gaelic Union. Uses his Irish name, Domhnal Ó Flanbharra. I know it from the surveillance reports. He turns up at Land League meetings too. Low-level stuff, but active. He says he left work to walk Alice home, but miss
ed her in the fog, and that he met a friend at Huband Bridge. We’re checking on that one, and if his version is confirmed it makes it unlikely that he would have been in the vicinity of Blackberry Lane when the attack took place.’
‘Hmmm . . . why would he want to walk the sister home? Was that usual?’
‘That goes to the issue, chief. He says that Alice was being bothered by this Father Cavendish. He says he wanted to protect Alice from him. He says there was some sort of unhealthy relationship between the priest and the girl.’
Mallon cocked his head.
‘Go on.’
‘But then Father Cavendish tells us that he was worried about Dan having some sort of obsession about the girl. He says he tried to place himself as some sort of a guardian or saviour to her. Dan says he bought her books and took her to the parochial house for lessons in voice projection, as he called it. It involved a degree of physical contact. She eventually realised it wasn’t innocent and told him she wouldn’t visit any more. Then he started intercepting her on her way home from work. He more or less persecuted her, if the brother is to be believed. Eventually the brother decided to confront him. He says he believes the priest attacked the girl.’
Mallon nodded.
‘He gave a statement?’
‘For what it’s worth, yes.’
‘A brave enough stand for a young man to take against his local priest. But it’s a long way from making Father Cavendish a murderer. You interviewed him under caution, I gather.’
‘Yes, sir. There’s nothing positively linking Father Cavendish to the killing. But there could be motive, and there was opportunity.’
‘Explain.’
‘When Mossop and I interviewed him he said he was absent from the parochial house answering a sick call around the time Alice Flannery was attacked. He says he was at a house on Belgrave Square. Mossop has checked with the family. He was there all right, administering the Last Rites to an elderly lady. But they gave Mossop contradictory versions of what time he came and went. He could have been at Blackberry Lane around midnight.’
Mallon scratched pensively at his beard.
‘Hmm. He wouldn’t be the first young man in the priesthood to find that the vow of chastity isn’t so easy to keep. It’s led more than a few of them into trouble. What do you make of him?’
‘He’s intelligent, as you’d expect. A handsome young man. I could see him breaking young ladies’ hearts if he weren’t wearing a clerical collar. Maybe even if he was. He’s confident too, as you’d expect. Strong on his priestly privileges. He told me he wasn’t answerable to any law other than canon law. So I came back on him fairly sharply on that. I got the sense though that behind the bluster and the confidence he’s not keen on having trouble with us. When I pushed him, he gave ground.’
‘You pushed him?’ Mallon raised an eyebrow, tapping the archbishop’s letter. ‘Is that what I’m to take from His Grace’s note here? How exactly did you “push” him, Swallow?’
There was no point in dissembling.
‘I, ah, gave him sight of my accoutrements, chief.’
Mallon drew a breath.
‘You’re telling me you threatened him with handcuffs?’
‘In a manner of speaking, sir, yes.’
Mallon raised his hands to his forehead and leaned forward on his desk, his fingers massaging his temples for perhaps a minute in silence.
‘Please, Swallow . . . in the very unlikely event that you’re ever interviewing Archbishop Walsh or the Pope or anyone like that, could I ask that you’d tell me first? And that you’d leave your handcuffs behind.’
‘Yes, chief. Of course, chief.’
‘Now, tell me,’ Mallon fingered the commissioner’s note, ‘how you intend to move forward on this.’
‘We’re doing a full review of evidence tomorrow after the crime conference. But to be honest we haven’t got a lot in hand. It’s possible but unlikely, I think, that it was a random attack. We’ve eliminated the two soldiers that found her. The priest’s a possible suspect. So is the brother. But we don’t have a clear motive. Either of them could have been close to the scene. They both take a size nine in shoes, so either of them could have left the imprint at the scene. So unless we get something else, I think we’ll have to re-interview and increase the pressure if necessary.’
Mallon nodded.
‘I agree. I’ll advise the commissioner accordingly. And he’ll have to tell His Grace the archbishop that there may be more unpleasantness ahead for Father Cavendish.’
Swallow stood.
‘Two other things, sir. One relating to the job; the other totally personal and unrelated to the case. If I may, sir.’
Mallon looked puzzled for a moment.
‘Yes, go ahead, Swallow. What’s the job issue?’
‘Just to say that we’re continuing to search around the offices for the protection logs but so far we haven’t had a lot of luck. I wanted you to know that we’re doing all we can.’
Mallon looked him in the eye.
‘Yes, Swallow, thank you. I understand exactly what you’re saying to me. I’ve already had a further query this morning from the office of the assistant under-secretary. I’ve assured him that no stone is being left unturned in the search. And what’s the other matter you want to raise?’
Swallow grinned.
‘You’ve told me often enough that I should, ah . . . pop the question to Mrs Walsh. So I’ve done it. And we’re tying the knot down at Merchants’ Quay on Saturday. Maria, the soon to be Mrs Swallow, and I would be honoured if you and Mrs Mallon might be in attendance.’
Mallon’s face broke into a smile that Swallow rarely associated with the man who headed G-Division.
‘Swallow, my friend, I knew that underneath all that Kildare bone-headedness there was a spark of intelligence. I’m glad to hear of this. She’s a fine woman, and I can tell you that you’re making no mistake. Mrs Mallon and I’ll be there with the greatest of pleasure.’
Thursday November 8th, 1888
Chapter 16
Swallow’s painting class was on Thursday afternoons at the Municipal Art School. Before his promotion he had juggled his leave every week, taking on extra shifts to wheedle the half-day off duty from his then boss at Exchange Court, Inspector ‘Duck’ Boyle. He had thought initially that it would be easier to plot his week’s work at his new rank, but in fact, as he realised quickly, it put him under more pressure to stay with the job. Nonetheless, he rarely missed the class. The Municipal Art School was on Thomas Street, just a few minutes’ walk from Exchange Court.
He took a pork chop with potatoes and parsnip for his midday meal at the police canteen in the Lower Yard. Another blast of chilly November rain, driven before a sharp northern wind, hit him full in the face as he stepped through the Palace Street gate. He turned his coat collar up, jammed his bowler down on his head and set off towards Thomas Street.
He had always been a sketcher, drawing birds, animals, trees and buildings around the scenes of his childhood in rural Kildare. The family finances did not allow for the purchase of sketch pads, but his pencil and charcoal drawings filled the pages of innumerable school copybooks. He had never painted, and it was Maria’s sister, Lily, who taught a weekly painting class at the Art School who had suggested that he should enrol with her.
‘You’d enjoy it, Joe,’ she enthused one evening as she and Harry Lafeyre were having dinner with Joe and Maria at Harry’s club, the United Services, on St Stephen’s Green. ‘If you’ve worked only in pencil or charcoal, you should try out your hand with watercolours. I’ll help you.’
‘All I did as a boy every day was to draw what I saw,’ Swallow had explained. ‘I wanted to record things, reduce them if you like, to images on paper. I’ve always done that. Even still, I want to frame the reality that I see within . . . some sort of medium of my own.’
‘Hmmph,’ Lafeyre had grumbled, forking sole bonne femme into his mouth. ‘Sounds as if you should have been a photographic
technician. Cameras are very good at that sort of thing; far better than people scratching away with pencils. Painters can lie. Flatter to deceive. But the camera doesn’t lie.’
Lily rolled her eyes.
‘Oh dear, I’m afraid I’m going to marry a complete philistine.’
Despite being more than a year into the course, he felt that he had learned only of his limitations. Lily was a good teacher, patient and tolerant, but even getting him to understand primary colours was a challenge. He had thought initially that using watercolours looked easy, but he learned quickly that if one got something wrong it almost always required a completely fresh start. Moreover, there were some talented people in the class whose work was so superior to his efforts that he sometimes felt embarrassed.
‘Good afternoon, Joe.’
Catherine Greenberg greeted him as she set up her easel next to his in the art room. She was one of those talents. Catherine could infuse a still-life—a silver bowl with fruit or a lamp draped in satin—with colour and vitality that seemed to give it an existence beyond its mundane reality.
It was in the blood, Swallow reckoned. Catherine’s father, Ephram, operated one of Dublin’s finest dealerships in objets d’art and antiques from his premises in Capel Street. Unusually among the Jewish community, Catherine had not married, and at thirty or so she was was probably considered beyond marriageable age among her own people. She was now in the business as a partner with her father. As well as an aesthete and an artist, Swallow knew her to be a competent businesswoman.
He had known the Greenbergs, as he knew all of the Jewish community around Capel Street, from his days as a constable on the beat from the D-Division’s Bridewell Station. Miriam Greenberg, Catherine’s mother, would give him poppy-seed bread and strong coffee when he would slip into the Greenbergs’ kitchen off his beat. She had died in a local influenza outbreak ten years ago. Catherine had inherited her mother’s dark good looks, deep eyes, and a slight tendency to plumpness.