A Hunt in Winter

by Conor Brady

  The Greenbergs had recently come back dramatically into Swallow’s professional life when two London criminals set out to rob the Capel Street shop. When he came on the scene with a uniformed constable, investigating the appearance of stolen gold coins in a number of city shops, Swallow had disabled one of them with a shot from his Webley Bulldog while the other fled.

  The investigation into the attempted robbery at Greenberg’s of Capel Street had uncovered evidence relating to an earlier murder, that of Ambrose Pollock, a pawnbroker and furniture dealer, done to death in his shop at Lamb Alley, off Cornmarket. In turn, that had revealed the existence of a large-scale embezzlement of exchequer funds in the administration of the Land Acts that enabled Irish tenant farmers to buy out their holdings from their landlords. It was the success of that investigation, John Mallon had told Swallow, which ensured his promotion to the rank of detective inspector.

  Catherine made no secret of her affections for Joe Swallow. It had been there even as a young girl, when the handsome, uniformed constable would sit, drinking coffee in her mother’s kitchen, his Roman-style helmet on the table. Later, when Swallow had become a G-Division detective, he would come to visit her father. They would drink Lebanese wine from the Bekaa Valley in Ephram’s upstairs study, looking down into Capel Street. If there was stolen property on the move around the city’s art shops or galleries, Ephram Greenberg knew about it, and usually who was behind it. And as young Catherine became more involved in the business she would sit in on the conversations that ranged beyond the provenance of stolen silverware into politics, philosophy, religion and more.

  She was probably seventeen when Swallow realised he was an object of her romantic interest. He was flattered, but nothing could come of it. He was thirteen years her senior. Their faiths divided them, although she made it precociously clear that she was not interested in practising the Jewish faith or any other. And there was an economic divide. The Greenbergs were a wealthy family with an established business. Whatever about the G-Division inspector that he now was, he would have been a poor catch for her as the young uniformed constable he had been then.

  He delighted in the painting class, for all the self-doubt about his talent. When he stepped through the doors of the college he entered a different world. Crime, intrigue, dark corridors and dark minds were left behind for a blissful two hours in the company of creative, energetic people. And so it was this afternoon. He felt a lightness in his step and his spirits lifted as he settled to his customary place.

  ‘Hello, Catherine,’ he grinned. ‘I suppose you’re going to dazzle us all with your homework as usual.’

  She smiled.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t make fun of me, Joe. I’m just a muddler and I know it.

  ‘Go on,’ he laughed. ‘If there’s a real artist, as distinct from the ambitious amateurs, in the class, that’s you.’

  ‘You haven’t been down to Capel Street to see us for a while,’ she said, affecting a reproving frown. ‘My father isn’t as young as he used to be. He’s really confined to the shop and the house. He needs friends to come to see him. You know there’s always a welcome there for you. From both of us, if you understand my meaning.’

  ‘I’ll be in to him tomorrow,’ Swallow answered. He fully understood her meaning but he was not going to respond to it. ‘I need to make a purchase.’

  He had been mentally grappling with what to do about a ring for Maria. She had continued to wear her wedding ring on her left fourth finger, a silent but unmistakable memorial to her late husband. He would not ask her to displace it. At the same time, he knew it would be necessary to mark their nuptials with a gesture. He had raised the question with Harry Lafeyre over a drink at the Burlington Hotel on St Andrew’s Street.

  ‘Simple,’ Lafeyre answered. ‘Go for what they’re calling an “engagement ring”. I got one for Lily. You’ve seen it, I’m sure. Often they’re made up around a diamond, but they’re available with other precious stones as well. They’re expensive, but they’re very fashionable among the moneyed classes in London.’

  Swallow had indeed noticed the solitaire diamond ring glittering on Lily’s hand on social occasions.

  ‘It would be a pretty costly item,’ Lafeyre told him, ‘but it would be a nice investment too. The De Beers company has brought a big supply of diamonds into the market straight out of the Kimberley mines in South Africa, so the prices are reasonable, and the stones will go up in value over time. You’ll see them advertised in the newspapers.’

  Later he bought a copy of the London Daily Telegraph and found half a dozen display advertisements for ‘engagement rings’ among the classifieds. He did some financial calculations. The Telegraph’s advertisers were mainly London-based, but he guessed that Irish prices should be comparable and certainly not higher. And he remembered that Greenberg’s displayed trays of rings under its glass showcase counters. He would see what was on offer. Ephram was sure to see him right both on quality and price.

  ‘A purchase?’ Catherine looked surprised. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to start investing in fine art.’

  Before he could answer, Lily Grant took her place at the top of the classroom and clapped her hands, bringing the class of perhaps a dozen students to silence.

  ‘Good afternoon, everybody. It’s encouraging to see the loyal few who’ve braved it through the terrible weather.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Now before we get to work, we have some good news. First, I think you’ll be delighted to know that Miss Greenberg’s still life, Silver Plate on Marble, has been accepted by the Royal Dublin Society for inclusion in their December exhibition.’

  A spontaneous round of applause spread across the room. There were calls of ‘well done’ and ‘congratulations’. Catherine smiled and nodded in acknowledgment.

  ‘And,’ Lily added, beaming, ‘we have some romantic news. I’ve heard from a little bird, no pun intended, that Mr Swallow is to make the big step into matrimony this week. In fact, he is to marry my sister, Maria. So it’s congratulations all round!’

  There was more applause. Somebody clapped Swallow on the back and wished him well. Lily’s face shone with delight. But Catherine Greenberg had gone as pale as chalk. Swallow heard her gasp as she absorbed Lily’s words. Then with knuckled hands clasped in front of her face, she ran to the door and into the corridor outside. Lily looked after her with an expression of mock horror.

  ‘Oh dear. Poor Miss Greenberg. The shock of having her painting accepted for the RDS exhibition next month must have been too much.’

  Chapter 17

  Swallow was still in Lily Grant’s painting class when the men from the office of the assistant under-secretary for security arrived at Exchange Court.

  Major Kelly led four of them through the front door into the public office, where Pat Mossop was working as duty officer. Another four came through the door that opened into the back of the detective office from the Lower Yard. Mossop looked up from the duty roster he was working on to find Kelly dangling a sheet of official foolscap, topped with the royal coat of arms, in front of his face.

  ‘Major Kelly, office of the assistant under-secretary for security,’ he barked at Mossop. ‘Your name and rank please.’

  If Kelly thought that bawling at the scrawny G-man would intimidate him, he had miscalculated. Mossop yawned lazily, scratched under his armpit and leaned across the counter without rising from the high stool on which he was perched.

  ‘Was somebody expecting you, Major . . . what did you say the name was? I wasn’t told anything about it.’

  Kelly responded with a cold smile.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t have been told anything about me. Read this please; it’s a warrant to search these premises. My men are armed and they will shoot anyone who resists their lawful authority.’

  Mossop affected an air of bewilderment.

  ‘Oh Jesus, now we’ve never had anything like this here before. Let there be no talk of shooting or the like. Will you
let me read that, sir?’

  Kelly dropped the sheet of foolscap onto the counter. Mossop took his time turning it about so he could read it. The gas mantles were already burning, and he held the sheet at various angles, giving the impression of seeking maximum illumination. Then he started to read the warrant out loud, slowly stumbling through the lawyerly jargon.

  ‘By Jesus,’ he said after a long interval, ‘that’s impressive stuff. A warrant signed by the assistant under-secretary in his capacity as a Justice of the Peace, no less . . . authorising Major Nigel Frederick Kelly to enter and search the premises known as Exchange Court . . . otherwise the detective office of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. . . .’ He turned the angle of the paper again. ‘. . . and to seize and take away from the said premises . . . any papers, documents . . . or things . . . that may seem material to the said Major Nigel Frederick Kelly in connection with . . . felonies and crimes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.’

  He folded the sheet and handed it back to Kelly.

  ‘So . . . what’s this all about, sir? These documents . . . or things? Are we in trouble here?’

  ‘I’m here to take possession of G-Division’s recent protection logs. They are required in the interests of Crown security.’

  ‘Well, you’re in the right place, sure enough, sir,’ Mossop said agreeably, endeavouring to convey the continuing sense of being a fool. ‘This is G-Division, not a doubt about that. You’re in the right place, sure enough. Sure enough.’

  He dropped his hands as if to slide off the stool, and then brought them up swiftly, holding the double-barrelled Remington shotgun that always sat, loaded, under the counter in the public office. He thrust the weapon hard against Kelly’s chest, pushing him back momentarily on his feet.

  Kelly’s men reached into their coats to produce short Webley revolvers. All four guns were levelled on Pat Mossop.

  ‘Now, Charlie,’ Mossop said slowly. ‘I don’t know who the hell you are, or why you think you can walk in here and walk out with official police records. But as you say, this is G-Division. We’re very careful with our records, and we’re careful about who we let in here. So without authority from my direct superiors, you’re not going to get beyond this desk. Some of your four pals might get in all right, the one or two who might . . . just might . . . not get their eyes blown out with my buckshot. But if you try to get past me, you’ll just be a big, red hole with a lot of lead in the middle.’

  Kelly’s eyes narrowed as he flushed to an angry crimson.

  ‘You stupid little Paddy. Take a look behind you. Then put that damned thing down, and you can thank your lucky stars if I don’t have your job and your pension.’

  Mossop’s eyes flickered to his right. Half a dozen G-men men who had been in the back offices or in the dormitory filed into the public office with their hands held over their heads. The other half of Kelly’s detachment came behind them, their guns pointed at the G-men’s backs. One carried a shotgun similar to the weapon in Mossop’s hands.

  ‘Get them up against the wall there,’ Kelly instructed. ‘Keep them covered. Then take their weapons.’

  Everyone in the room heard the double-click as Mossop engaged the hammers on the Remington.

  ‘Don’t move, lads. Stay where you are,’ Mossop called to his colleagues, his eyes never wavering from Kelly’s face. ‘We’re calling this fella’s bluff. Let them take your guns and we’re done for. And take your hands down. G-men don’t give way to anyone.’

  Slowly, one after another, the G-men lowered their arms. Then they followed each other to cross the room, joining Mossop at the desk.

  ‘You obstinate bastard.’ Kelly spat the words. ‘Do you realise you’re being given a direct instruction from the office of Her Majesty’s Permanent Under-Secretary?’

  ‘And do you realise that you’re getting a direct instruction from the Remington Firearms Company of Connecticut to piss off now and get out of this room along with your English pals?’

  Kelly’s frame shook with anger.

  ‘Stupid bastard . . . you stupid Paddy.’

  Mossop grinned.

  ‘My first name is Patrick, true enough. Patrick Edgar Mossop, Detective Sergeant, since you asked my rank. But I’m no Paddy in the sense that you use the word. I’m a Belfast Protestant, a King Billy man, through and through. True to the Crown. A bit like yourself, Charlie, only more so.’

  Kelly glared. For a moment Mossop thought he would try to grab the barrel of the Remington, but instead he took a step back. He gestured to his men to lower their guns. One after another the Webleys went back into their shoulder-holsters. Kelly nodded towards the door. The men nearest to it started towards the street outside.

  ‘You’ll live to regret this I promise you, Detective Sergeant Mossop,’ Kelly hissed. ‘I won’t be responsible for a bloodbath here, and I won’t let you provoke one either. But I will be back. And when I come, you’ll learn to respect rank, and you’ll understand your duty to those in authority.’

  Mossop grinned.

  ‘You don’t hold any rank in this department, Charlie, me chum. And I know my duty, never you fear. So if you do come back, maybe you’ll remember to bring your manners with you. Then we can a nice chat without my having to bring out this fellow to make you behave yourself.’

  He tapped the Remington’s wooden stock, and gently eased the twin hammers to safety. Then his whole body started to tremble.

  When they had gone, he turned to the G-man standing nearest.

  ‘You’d better go down the yard and tell the chief what’s after happening here,’ he said slowly.

  He fumbled in his pocket and handed the man a half-crown.

  ‘And before you come back, slip across the street to Brogan’s and get me a naggin of whiskey to save me life.’

  Friday November 9th, 1888

  Chapter 18

  The night shifts at the Dublin Gas Company’s furnaces on Sir John Rogerson’s Quay were timed so that the men who had been labouring in the burning heat since the afternoon could have time to cool themselves with drink before the public houses shut down. It was an arrangement that suited the company, the men and most of all the proprietors of the public houses in the streets around the great industrial complex that stretched back to Hanover Quay on the Grand Canal Dock. This was said to be the unhealthiest square mile in Dublin. The air was heavy with sulphur. The canal water was the colour of rust from the chemicals that leached from the plant. It was popularly believed that a scientist from Trinity College had lowered a cage with three salmon into the dock water some years previously. They all died within five minutes.

  At ten o’clock, 200 stokers, pump men, loaders, furnace attendants and miscellaneous general labourers handed over their tasks to the incoming shift. Tired, dehydrated and stinking of coke, they dispersed to the rough but functional licensed premises along the Liffey quayside or in the maze of streets behind.

  Two furnace men whose tenement homes were situated close together on Great Brunswick Street habitually made their way to Duggan’s on the corner of Misery Hill and Cardiff Lane to slake their thirst. The cold of the November night had quickly sucked the heat of the gasworks from their hands and faces and they eagerly anticipated the comfort of high stools at Duggan’s counter and the yeasty sustenance of their pints.

  ‘Oh, Jesus, Jesus help me . . . help me.’

  They both heard the faint cry from a darkened corner of the junction where the gas light scarcely penetrated the darkness. One, then the other, saw a movement, dark stirring upon dark, a shadow moving on a shadow where the pavement met the street. Then a hand raised, faint and weak, and another cry.

  ‘Jesus, help me someone . . . for pity’s sake.’

  They stepped past the pool of light and saw a bundle lying against the wall that bounded Cardiff Lane. It moved, just a little, then shuddered in the half-darkness. One of the men struck a match that showed a woman on the ground, her face striped with blood, eyes open in terror. She was young, maybe in
her twenties. Dark unkempt hair fell loosely over the cheap shawl around her shoulders. She was barefoot.

  ‘Can . . . you . . . help me?’

  One of the furnace men took off his jacket, leaned down and placed it around her upper body. She shuddered.

  ‘What happened, miss? Are you hurt?’

  ‘Is he . . . gone?’ There was terror in the whispered question.

  ‘There’s no one here but us, miss. We’re no harm to you. Can you stand now?’

  They raised her slowly from the ground, each holding a trembling arm. Then they walked her slowly to the doorway of Duggan’s and into the warmth of the public bar. The line of men at the counter turned almost as one and the hubbub of conversation tailed off.

  ‘Drag over a couple of forms,’ one of the furnace men shouted at the startled barkeeper. ‘We’ve a woman here . . . she’s hurt, hurt bad.’

  Two benches were put together to form a makeshift trestle. The score or so patrons, mainly dockers and labourers, gathered around. The first furnace man took off his jacket and placed it under her head. Her face contorted in pain.

  ‘Oh Jesus . . . I’m hurted . . . I’m hurted terrible.’

  One elderly patron put his pint glass onto the counter and stepped forward.

  ‘I did me time as a surgeon’s orderly in Crimea. Let me see.’

  He leaned over the trestle and gently traced the lacerations on her face. Then he probed her torso. When he touched her ribs, she grimaced. When he sought to straighten her right arm, which seemed out of place, she screamed.

  ‘She’s been beaten bad,’ he said. ‘There’s broken bones in the face and in the ribs. A broken arm too, I’d say. She needs the hospital. We can get an ambulance from Baggot Street. And someone needs to call the polis.’

  The barman indicated to his assistant.

  ‘Get up to the fire brigade station on Brunswick Street and tell them to get an ambulance down here quick. And go into the police station or find a bobby on the beat. Tell them what’s after happenin’ here.’