by Glynis Smy
The murder of a popular man caused variety of emotions within the group. They were pensive, waiting for his sons to arrive.
Devlin stood back while William and Seamus moved towards the body. Blood mixed with seawater trickled in a rivulet away from Brady's head. Seamus groaned he put his hands to his face; there was no shame in the tears that fell for his father. Devlin stepped closer and he too gave into his tears. William stood between them; he put an arm around their shoulders.
‘We had better get to your mother with the news, boys. Come away, Albie and his mates will bring your father home.’
Chapter 10
Coming Home
William sent a young lad ahead and swore him to secrecy over Brady's death. The boy was instructed to tell Kitty to wait by Sarah's house until her father arrived. There were more neighbours lingering on their doorsteps than normal. Kitty experienced a sense of bad news on the horizon. She prayed that Sarah and Brady were not to be given bad news about one of their children.
As she stood under the gas lamp and waited, Kitty hoped she would not have to wait too long, there was a chill in the air. Wisps of hair clung to her face and she brushed them away. She saw three figures turn the corner, and moved her hand slowly to her side. She recognised her father, Seamus and Devlin. She knew by her father’s face that there was something seriously wrong.
‘What has happened? Where's Patrick? What's the matter?’ she asked.
‘Let’s go into see Sarah first. You will find out then,’ William replied.
Convinced that Patrick had been injured or worse, killed, it had not occurred to her that her father had only mentioned telling Sarah, not Brady. Her mind was running alive with second guesses. She was not prepared for what happened next.
She stood with her hands covering her mouth, when the news was told to Sarah. Kitty stared at her father in disbelief.
‘Brady?’
Why had she not thought of Brady?
Her father nodded his response.
‘Where is Patrick?’ She asked.
‘We have no idea. He has not heard the news yet.’ Devlin answered her.
She felt giddy and faint. To stop herself from falling, she leant against the table. She looked over at Sarah.
Sarah let out a moan and Kitty rush to her side, she gathered the devastated woman in her arms. Their tears fell in unison’ grief had taken hold.
***
Seamus and Devlin said they had better track Patrick down, but word had spread around the area so quickly he had already heard. He rushed into his home and glanced at the people gathered in the room. Their faces gave him the confirmation he needed.
‘So it is true, me da's been done for?’ he directed the question at his brothers, both of who nodded back their answer. They told him where their father lay, and that Albie had everything organised to bring him home.
He shouted and cursed loudly and ran back out into the street. William called after him, his biggest fear that Patrick would do something silly without thought for others. The younger male had a tendency to hit first and ask questions later. He was not vindictive or cruel, just a hothead at times.
Patrick ignored the calls for him to return, he brushed off Kitty's arm as she tried to restrain him. He was filled with rage and adrenalin, they fuelled him, and he ran full pelt through the streets, heading for the docks. He needed no instructions as to where his father lay. The crowd gathered on the dockside marked the spot. Colleagues from his loading bay touched his back as he moved through them. He came across Albie and five other men; they had lifted Brady onto a makeshift stretcher and were ready to take him home. Their faces sombre. Brady’s face had been covered with a blanket. Patrick knelt down and pulled it back.
The shock of seeing his father's lifeless face was too much for him to bear, tears were not brushed away, he allowed them to fall, and they splashed onto his father's brow. Patrick traced his finger through them, and he caressed the furrows of time that had etched on the face of a man he loved with heart and soul.
‘Who did this?’
It was an open question; he had whispered it to no one. Then he stood up, raised his hands to the crowd.
‘WHY?’
Someone touched Patrick's' arm, he shook it off as he had done to Kitty's sympathetic gesture. With reluctance he replaced the blanket, and instructed the men to take his father home.
He asked the crew of the cargo ship that found his father endless questions, he needed answers.
The police arrived, Brady had been one of them, part of their team, and they were not going to settle for a brief search and sign off this case. They reassured Patrick that they had been instructed to form groups, to seek out known felons. They were to work extra shifts in their search for the guilty party. Although grateful for the extra support and respect for his father, this was not enough for him. He decided the best thing he could do, was to start asking questions in the maze-like back streets of Whitechapel. He knew many people there and they would help him. He left the work gangs and police to their organised searches, and headed away from the docks.
Sarah sat with her head in her hands; she tried to find comfort in her husband's favourite chair. Her sobs were the only sound in the room. Kitty’s sadness overwhelmed her; numbness had taken over her body. All reactions were automatic ones. She put the kettle on because she felt it the right thing to do. She tried to focus on the fact that Brady was dead. He was more than a friend; he was a father figure to her. A good and honourable man. His reputation as a fair and honest policeman was often spoken about. The more she thought, the more ludicrous it seemed, that someone would kill him.
Tea, gin, and whisky were distributed around the room and the visitors started conversations amongst themselves. The noises were most welcome to Kitty; the silence was far too painful to bear. She overheard her father talking with a neighbour about the arrival of Brady's body and the woman set to work. Within a few short moments there were female neighbours upstairs, they cleared Sarah's bedroom, ready to receive the body of her husband.
Brady would lie in death, attended and watched by loved ones until his burial. He would have a traditional Irish funeral and wake. The community had taken over now, and Sarah would be pulled into its bosom, she would be comforted and protected.
William was concerned about Patrick and offered to go and get him, Sarah said nothing. Then she lifted her head and looked towards her children, her eyes spoke volumes and theirs to her. They went to her and she held open her arms. Their mother gave them the comfort that they sought.
‘I will go and track Patrick down,’ William said.
Kitty turned away from the mirror she had just hung a black shawl over, and sat at the table. William rested his hand on her shoulder. She reached up and covered his with her own, he was precious, and her love for him was expressed in that one small touch. They silently watched a female neighbour open all the windows to ensure evil spirits did not linger. Their eyes followed her as she opened the glass front of a large clock that Brady had bought as a gift for Sarah one Christmas, and stop its hands. All superstitions had to be attended to; the family needed no more bad luck brought into the home. A gentle tap on the cottage door disturbed the moment. Kitty watched as her father opened it, she drew in her breath at what she saw. Brady had been brought home. William stepped back into the room and indicated the stairway to the men who had stretchered home their friend. The scream that reverberated around the small cottage, made the blood run cold of those who stood with heads bowed. Then in the quiet respect for the dead man, the occupants of the room, genuflected and murmured amen. Brady was carried into his home and Sarah followed upstairs, it was time to attend to her husband for the last time.
Chapter 11
The Search
Patrick moved amongst the crew of the cargo ship who had found his father. He had several questions and he needed answers. He hoped that someone might have seen one small thing that would have given him the answers he sought. Was it murder? Maybe
it had been an accident and they were scared to come forward. He asked what time they found him, was there anyone else on the dockside, and was there any word on the streets yet as to who may have done it.
His colleagues gathered around him. There appeared to be a lot of guesswork, fear, and anger. Not one of them seemed to be able to accept the dreadful news. There had been no witnesses that had come forward. No rumours of anyone harbouring a fugitive. People would normally give away any information for a few pence, but tonight there was none to be given. Brady’s death was a mystery. The police arrived, Brady had been one of them, part of their team, and they were not going to settle for a brief search and sign off this case. They reassured Patrick that they had been instructed to form groups, to seek out known felons, and work extra shifts in their search for the guilty party. Although grateful for the extra support and respect for his father, this was not enough for him. He decided the best thing he could do, was to start asking questions in the maze like back streets of Whitechapel. He knew many people there and they would help him. He left the work gangs and police to their organised searches, and headed away from the docks.
The streets were narrow and dingy, the stench and smog was dreadful, yet none of this bothered Patrick. His mission was to find the person who murdered his father, nothing else mattered. The police had given him enough information about his father's injuries, that it was a definite case of murder.
He asked questions at the endless rows of boarding houses, he stopped anyone he saw, he moved like a crazed man from street to street. Word was out and people had gathered in small groups. They called out their condolences as he moved among them. They gave reassurances that they would let him know if there was any news. Despite being a policeman, Patrick's father was a well-liked man in these quarters, and many times he had put his hand into his pocket to help the needy. No one liked the thought that a criminal was at large. Life was hard enough without having to worry about being safe in the streets they called home.
Patrick turned the corner and entered a narrow lane, as he approached the last house in a row of run-down buildings he saw Arthur coming down the steps. His companion was a blousy unkempt looking woman. Red lipstick stains were smeared across her cheeks, and she stood at the doorway. To Patrick, her trade obvious, his first reaction was to turn away; Arthur might be embarrassed to be seen with a prostitute. However, Arthur would want to know about his friend, it was obvious he had not heard.
***
‘Arthur! Hold up!’ Patrick ran towards a startled looking Arthur.
Fear set into the pit of Arthur's stomach. Did Patrick know what he had done?
If he did not, Arthur knew if he ran now he would show his guilt, he must behave normally.
‘Why Patrick, what brings you out so early and in this neck of the woods?’
He leant over the railings, and looked down at Patrick in the street. He tried to act as casual as he could, although his legs felt like jelly. He winked, one of suggestion and innuendo.
‘I can recommend a few ladies to entertain you, if you're not too attached to anyone in particular.’
‘No Arthur, haven’t you heard? Me da's been murdered. I am on the lookout for the bastard. You know folk round these parts, have you heard anything? Seen anything? Any plans to attack the police or just me da'?’
Arthur heard the desperation, anger, and sadness in Patrick's words. He drew a large intake of breath. He must stay in control.
‘Your Pa's been what? Murdered? Surely not, are you sure it is your father?’
Arthur tried to make his voice sound as shocked as he could. He knew if he were found out his life would end on the spot. He had ensured he had an alibi for the night. His time with the woman was active and the alcohol flowed, she would not register the time he arrived at her home.
‘I haven't heard anything, I was here all night with my friend Liz here, was not I sweetheart?’
He looked to the woman he had acted out his fetishes with during the night; he had ensured she would not forget him as her nighttime companion. The woman nodded and went back inside the house. She was eager to impart the latest gossip - another murder had been committed. She was also eager to get away from the creep of a man who had left bruises and bite marks over her body. It would not be long before the place would be swarming with police, Brady had been one of their own, and to discover he had been murdered meant they would leave no stone unturned. She had people to warn. Arthur watched her go inside, relieved that she had covered his alibi without a hitch. He turned his attention back to Patrick.
‘Where was he killed? You sure it was murder?’
Patrick filled him in with the few details he had been given before he left the quayside. Arthur's mind was whirling; he wanted to get away from the conversation. He could feel the sour bile churn in his gut, a combination of fear and excessive drinking.
‘What can I do for you my friend?’
Now was the time to show concern. He stepped into the street and moved towards Patrick. His face expressed nothing but kindness, and he put his arm across the grieving man's shoulders. The game of pretence had started.
‘Did he mention anyone threatening him? What areas have you searched?’ Arthur put his hands and cradled his head. ‘Your poor mother. Does she know? Of course she must. Patrick, I am lost for words.’
Suddenly through the haze of the hangover, he remembered the argument from the night before. Ma Parker's place would be alive with gossip by now; they would make him a suspect with their recollections. It must be mentioned carefully and casually. He had to pretend there had been nothing out of the ordinary between him and Brady.
‘Listen, Patrick. Your father and I, we...we had a row last night, a big one. I had lost my temper with him, he teased me, and I did not like it. I threw beer at him and we left on bad terms. In fact it was so bad Ma Parker had to step in, I was out of control.’
He manoeuvred himself in front of Patrick, and placed both hands onto the man's shoulders. He looked straight into his face, and kept his eyes focused on his.
‘I want you to know this; others will say I killed him. There was a lot of anger, a table got overturned, but you know what it is like when you have a beer with an old friend. The conversation gets heated; it is all hot air and beer talk. Within the hour you are back to being friends.’
With relief he knew his act had convinced Patrick. An arm went to his shoulder.
‘For goodness sake man, you are almost a member of the family. We’ve known you enough years now to know you would never harm us. I can guess what got under your cap. You and da’ spark off each other over politics all the time. A stranger might mention the squabble, but anyone who knows the pair of you, knows it is brotherly love. We will find his killer I swear. There will be another murder on the cards when I find them I can tell you.’
The pair walked together in silence. There was no further need for conversation. Both were in deep thought. One man saddened and angered to the core. The other mentally plotted and planned for his future.
Chapter 12
Business Matters
Kitty hurried along the road. The clouds above looked grey and threatened rain. She had selected her outfit with care that morning and did not fancy getting wet. Thank goodness she had thought to bring the umbrella.
Today was important to her, she wanted to look and feel like a businesswoman. She had browsed through a few magazines for ideas, and she had come across pictures of modern, independent women, and they had made quite an impression on her. Her choice of outfit was a brown, flecked woollen skirt and jacket, with a white frilled necked blouse. To this she added, a little bonnet with cream flowers. A cameo brooch at the throat finished off the look. Her hair was pulled back and she tied it with a brown, velvet ribbon.
Kitty knew she looked confident, but she also wanted to look as if she had only just enough money to meet the rent of the shop she was about to view. Her idea was to look keen, but not over enthusiastic. It was hard because of t
he excitement that surged through her body, and the anticipation of what might be.
The property owner she was meeting, did not know she knew the price, and she did not want to look as if she could afford more.
Aggie from the tearooms in the market place had given her the information about the shop. The Landlord had rented it out to a tailor for several years. Now he had died the place was empty. Kitty approached the area where the large, red-bricked building, sat in a prominent position. It was on the corner of two roads Jubilee Street and Smith Row. There were two medium sized windows on the ground floor and the same above. When Kitty looked at the shop face straight on, the two windows to the left looked out onto Jubilee Street and the other two faced the lighter, brighter Smith Row. The brown, shop door was central to the windows. Kitty could see a tall, smart dressed man standing in front of it. The owner of the building was on time. Kitty took a deep breath and strode towards him holding out her hand.
‘Mr Brennan? Miss Harper, how do you do?’
‘A pleasure to meet you Miss Harper, Shall we?’
He moved inside the shop and indicated that the tour was about to begin. Once inside Kitty saw an elderly woman seated by one window, Lloyd Brennan started to introduce her, but was cut short.
‘My mother, M....’
‘So you are a gal who wants to set up shop? My son said you were a man. Well played, young lady. What are you, a seamstress? This shop has a history of tailors but it has never had a seamstress run it. You modern females are beyond me. Get yourself a husband, not worry your pretty head with business matters. My husband, God rest his soul, was a wonderful tailor. Mr Franklin, who took on the place when my dear Bernard passed over, was good but not a patch on my husband.’
Mrs Brennan had stayed seated throughout the whole speech, and Kitty was convinced that the woman would never draw breath. She listened politely, but the whole time she wished the woman would stop, the shop was screaming out to be looked at. She could see the counter from where she stood; behind it were bolts of cloth in many colours. A basket of buttons sat on the counter, alongside a mountain of threads. A large black till sat on the bench on the back wall. There was evidence of a fireplace that had been blocked up, a chair sat in front of it, and books of different sizes were stacked upon the mantle. Everything looked as if it waited for the owner to return and claim them; the room looked as if he had just stepped out.