by Conor Brady
As soon as he had taken his seat he had reached for his notebook. Not the police-issue one but the one he always carried to record information that would, in all probability, never form part of any official report. He used the twenty-minute journey to record in full detail what Polson had told him about his presence in Madrid and the death of Richard Pigott there. Swallow had known Pigott, as he knew many of the editors and journalists around the city. He was not a man to be trusted, selling his skills corruptly to the highest bidder. And Swallow had not been particularly surprised when the Newry-born barrister, Charles Russell, had exposed him for a forger and a perjurer at the Westminster commission.
It was possible that the drunken Polson had simply spun a story to impress him, or to lay a false trail. His explanation for the scar on his face was a fabrication. Perhaps he was a fantasist. Or simply a blow-hard. But if what he had told him was true, the official version of Pigott’s death was a fabrication, probably put into circulation with the complicity of equally corrupt journalists and security or police operatives. He had not taken his own life. He had been murdered, probably to prevent him revealing who had put him up to forging the letters, supposedly written by Parnell. The political ramifications would be more than far-reaching if it became known or even suspected that Pigott’s death was not suicide but the work of government agents. What Polson had told him in drink was dangerous to know. Men had been killed in Ireland for a lot less.
He had filled four pages by the time the tram turned along the Rathgar Road. He descended at the first stop after the Church of the Three Patrons, sometimes referred to disparagingly as ‘the servants’ church.’ It had been built, it was said, on the instructions of the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Dublin, William Walsh, to cater to the spiritual needs of the Catholic servants working in the newly-built homes of the wealthy, predominantly Protestant, residents of this affluent suburb.
It was a brisk ten-minute walk along Garville Avenue, through Brighton Square and across the Blessington Road. The open countryside began here. The light was fading now, and the lamps had started to come on in the front rooms of the fine, redbrick residences that lined the road. Here and there, behind granite-trimmed garden walls and cast-iron gates, he could hear noisy children, making the most of the extra playtime afforded by the long, summer evening. The thought of his own lost child saddened him as they called and laughed at their games in the gloaming.
He had located the McCartan house, Templeogue Hill, on the ordinance survey map. Surrounded by mature oak and beech, it was approached by a short, gravelled drive, fronted by granite pillars and iron gates. It was a solid, three storey building, probably built originally to be a family home for a wealthy local farmer. There were many houses rather like it in his native rural Kildare, Swallow thought, as he mounted the steps to haul on the front door bell. Waiting for a response, he could see that there were lights burning in the front room on the middle floor, in the hallway and downstairs in what would be the kitchens and probably the servants’ quarters.
The tiny maid who opened the door looked terrified. She could be no more than sixteen or seventeen, he reckoned.
Now he could see the bruising on her face and neck.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Swallow, from Dublin Castle,’ he said gently.
She seemed frozen. Unable to speak.
‘I’m from the police. Could you tell Sir John I’d like to have a word with him, if it’s convenient.’
‘Police … wait there,’ she said after a pause, before turning back into the house.
For a moment he thought she was about to close the door in his face or redirect him downstairs as she was undoubtedly required to do with functionaries and messengers. He stepped across the threshold and stood in the hallway.
After perhaps a minute, a grey-haired man, tall but somewhat bent, came slowly down the staircase. His right hand was heavily bandaged and his forehead was masked with adhesive medical plaster. The expression on his face was somewhere between anger and distress.
‘What’s this about? I’m very tired and so is everyone in this house. Why are you here?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Swallow, Sir John. I’m the crime inspector at G-division.’
The man paused on the bottom step. He stared at Swallow for a moment and then glared disapprovingly.
‘I know you, don’t I?’
‘I’ve given evidence at a couple of trials where you were for the defence, Sir.’
The glare intensified.
‘Yes, I remember you.’
It was clear that his recollection was not a positive one. Swallow recalled that their exchanges during cross-examination had been less than cordial. At one point when Swallow had skilfully rebuffed the lawyer, McCartan had told him he was impertinent.
‘So now you’re a detective inspector? About time I heard from someone of appropriate rank. Yes, I remember you alright. I hope you’re here to tell me you’ve apprehended the ruffians who broke in here last night. My poor wife has been in delicate health for years and she’s been in a state of hysteria since last night. I’ve had to call out two eminent medical specialists to calm her. Thankfully she’s physically unharmed. This is what they did to me.’
He jabbed a finger towards his bandaged forehead.
‘That required six stitches this morning at the Royal Hospital.’
‘I’m afraid we haven’t got that far, Sir. I’ve come to express my regret and the regret of the entire detective division at these events. And I want to assure you that we are leaving no stone unturned in our investigation. I would be grateful if you could give me a little more information about what happened.’
McCartan’s expression became more angry.
‘Empty words, Inspector. I spent more than an hour already telling two of your detectives everything I know. To be frank, they both seemed rather slow on the uptake. If you people were doing the job you’re paid for and if the city was properly policed this sort of outrage wouldn’t happen. Surely you must know who’s responsible.’
He raised his voice to a shout.
‘All you need to do is go out and arrest them. I’ll give you all the evidence you need to put them into Maryborough until they rot.’
Was it possible that the man was still in shock, Swallow wondered? He was not young and he had been through an ordeal. He trembled and shook as he shouted again.
‘Useless, damned useless. The whole bloody lot of you. You have no business here.’
It would be pointless to try to engage in any conversation that might yield useful information. Swallow realised it was better to make a tactical withdrawal.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Sir. I’ll go now. But I’ll ensure that you’re kept fully informed of any developments. I know that this has been a shocking experience for you and your wife. And I hope that you might see your way to having a longer conversation with me in due course.’
McCartan suddenly stepped off the staircase and stood in front of him. He wrinkled his nose, sniffing.
‘You’ve been drinking, Inspector. I can smell whiskey.’
Swallow felt himself blush.
‘Yes, Sir. I had a drink earlier in the course of a meeting. Police business.’
‘How dare you come to my house in this condition and under these circumstances? I’ll report you to the Commissioner. I know him very well.’
He turned and shouted the length of the hallway.
‘Cathleen. Come here at once.’
The young maid who had admitted him appeared from the return stairs.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘This man is under the influence of alcohol. He’s drunk. You should have been able to see that. He should never have crossed the threshold.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t realise.’
McCartan groaned loudly.
‘At times like this I wish Mrs Bradley was still here. She would have used her wits. You’re a useless girl. Go back downstairs.’
Swallow raised a han
d, indicating to the girl to stay. It was his turn to raise his voice now.
‘There’s no need for that, Sir. I’m not drunk, or anything like it,’ he said sharply.
‘Are there no police regulations anymore?’ McCartan snapped.
‘Indeed, there are, Sir. They permit members of the detective office to consume alcohol while on duty in certain circumstances. So don’t threaten me and don’t be abusive to the girl. She’s done nothing wrong. Now, if you want the men who broke in here to be made amenable, I suggest that you start helping me by giving me the information I need. I can see, however, that you are in a distressed state at this time and I can understand that. I can come back at a time when we are more composed, but for this evening, I would like to ask your servants some questions.’
After a moment, McCartan appeared to deflate. His shoulders slumped. He stepped back towards the stairs and put his hand to the newel post to steady himself.
‘I’m extremely tired so I’m going back upstairs. If you think it could be useful to talk to the girl, I have no objection. The other servants are not here. The cook leaves once our dinner is prepared, my coachman is gone to County Cork to bury his mother, and our housekeeper left recently without notice. Lady McCartan hasn’t been able to find a suitable replacement yet.’
He turned to ascend the stairs.
‘You can use the day parlour, if you want. But you may feel more comfortable downstairs. Cathleen can make you some tea. She can just about do that.’
Chapter 15
He was glad of the tea. More than he realised, he needed refreshment other than alcohol. It was sweet and strong but curiously cooling in the warm night air.
Cathleen seemed to know what she was doing. But she was nervous, moving about the spacious, downstairs kitchen. He sat at the long, scrubbed table as she took the steaming, metal teapot from the range and placed it down in front of him. He saw that her hands trembled as she brought a cup and saucer, milk jug and sugar bowl, all in blue willow, from the dresser. Then she stood facing him, hands clasped in front of her, across the table.
‘Won’t you sit down, Cathleen? I need to ask you a few questions.’
The bruising was dark on her neck and face, but he could see that she was a pretty young woman, well-nourished and healthy. After a moment’s hesitation, she lowered herself slowly on to a wooden chair. She bowed her head slightly and fixed her eyes on the table top.
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Are those bruises sore?’
‘They are … a bit, Sir. Thank you.’
‘Did you have them looked at?’
‘I did, Sir. One of the doctors that came examined me and said I’d be alright. He gev me some pills for the pain.’
‘So, tell me about yourself. What’s your name and where are you from?’
It took a few moments, as if she had to concentrate, to get her answer.
‘It’s Cathleen, Sir … Cathleen Cummins. Them’s the names I was gave.’
‘And where are you from, Cathleen?’
‘I kem from the country, Sir. From the school where childer live that don’t have any people o’ their own.’
‘Ah, do you know what school that is? What county is it in?’
There was a long moment as she concentrated.
‘St Mary’s ’tis called … ’tis a long way away. In the county Wexford. That’s all I know, Sir.’
‘Do you like it, working here?’
She raised her eyes, looking quizzically at him.
‘I don’t mind it, Sir. ’Tis that I’m well fed, and I have a little room to meself at the back. And ’tis better here for me since Mrs Bradley went.’
‘Mrs Bradley?’
‘Aye, Sir. She was the house-keeper but she left.’
‘Why is it better for you with her gone?’
She cast her eyes down to the table top again.
‘She’d be cross with me … very angry. She’d give out that I wasn’t doin’ me work proper, like.’
‘How long is Mrs Bradley gone, Cathleen?’
‘A good spell now, Sir. T’would be a while.’
‘A long while?’
‘A good spell, Sir.’
The girl wasn’t being evasive, he reckoned. She just seemed to have no sense of time. Perhaps it had something to do with being raised in an institution where the routine of the day, the week and even the year was set and regulated by those in authority.
He tried once more.
‘And how long are you working here in this house?’
‘A while now, Sir.’
‘Weeks? Months? Years?’
‘I … I can’t count them things terrible well, Sir.’
‘Well, let me see. Were you here at Christmas time?’
‘I … I’d say I was, Sir.’
‘Do you remember Christmas, Cathleen?’
‘I’m not sure I do, Sir.’
He realised it was not the smartest question to ask. There was probably very little in Cathleen Cummins’s unhappy life to make Christmas memorable. But he began to understand but not excuse why McCartan was brusque and impatient with the girl. She was borderline intelligent.
He topped up his teacup and added a little milk. Interviewing Cathleen was hard going.
‘So, tell me what happened here last night.’
The girl’s eyes filled with tears and she put her hand to her bruised neck.
‘Them men kem in the back door. I was sittin’ here on me own and one o’ them just grabbed me be the neck and he hit me a few times, tellin’ me to be quiet. I suppose I was screamin’ or makin’ noise. I was terrible frightened, Sir.’
‘How many men, Cathleen?’
‘There was three or four, I’d say.’
‘Would you recognise any of them if you saw them again?’
The girl shuddered.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to see them men agin.’
‘I understand that, but if you did, do you think you’d recognise them? Would you know their faces?
‘I don’t think so, Sir. ‘Twas that they had masks, cloths like, over their faces. There was one o’ them seemed to be givin’ orders to t’others. I heard one o’ them call him “Sir”, I think.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘They ran upstairs, for the master was gone to bed. The lady doesn’t very much come downstairs anyways. She’s delicate. So I’d say she was asleep too. Then I heard shoutin’ and roarin’. Then I heard the master shoutin’ and there was bangin’ whin they dragged him down the stairs into his office there. Wan o’ them held me be the neck here all the time so I couldn’t see anythin’. He had a big knife wit’ a white handle an’ he tol’ me that if I made another sound he’d cut me throat. Then after a while they all wint out the back door agin. The man holdin’ me threw me on the floor and kicked me legs a few times. And the master kem down here into the kitchen an’ he covered in blood and his clothes all tore.’
‘So, it all happened fairly quickly?’
‘I suppose so. But it felt a long, long time, Sir. I was in fear o’ me life.’
‘I’m sure you were, Cathleen,’ Swallow said gently. ‘But don’t worry now, they won’t be back. Tell me what happened then.’
‘Then the lady appeared on the stairs. She’s not a well woman an’ she can’t use the stairs. But she kem down to the hallway be holdin’ on to the rail an’ draggin’ herself along. She was screechin’ and tryin’ to wipe the blood off of the master. An’ she said to me go to the next house down the road and get help straight away. An’ I did an’ one of the young lads in there ran down to the village to get the polis and the doctor.’
She started to sob loudly.
‘I don’ think it would have happened if Bran an’ Rua hadda’ been here still.’
‘Who?’ Swallow asked.
‘Them’s the two big dogs the master had here when I started work. I got on great with them. They’d a’ kept the house safe. But they died.’
‘What happen
ed to them, Cathleen?’
‘I don’t know, Sir. It’s just what the master tol’ me.’
There was nothing significant in the girl’s account that had not been in the initial report by Shanahan and Keogh, the G-men who had attended the scene. And there was little point in pressing her memories of what would have been a terrifying ordeal even for someone stronger and more mature.
‘That’s fine for now, Cathleen,’ he said, draining the last of his tea. ‘I’m sorry the dogs weren’t here to keep the robbers away. So would you show me where the men came into the house?’
She led him to the end of the kitchen and opened a door to a short, narrow passageway. The end of the passage, perhaps ten feet away, framed a solid wooden door with a handle at its centre and two six-inch metal bolts. Neither of the bolts was in its shackle. When Swallow stepped closer he saw that there was also a keyhole set in a small metal plate, with MILNER stamped on it in capital letters.
‘Who has the key for this lock, Cathleen?’ he asked.
‘I think it must be the master, Sir.’
‘And you’re sure this is how the men came in last night?’
‘I … I think it must be, Sir.’
‘Would those bolts not be locked across at night?’
She hesitated, confused and frightened.
‘That wouldn’t be my job, Sir.’
‘No, Cathleen, I’m not asking that. I’m asking is it usual to have them open or locked?’
‘I couldn’t rightly say, Sir.’
‘That’s alright. But this would have been locked?’
He pointed to the keyhole.
‘Yes, Sir.’
If the girl’s information was correct, he realised, there had been no forced entry at the house. The door showed no sign of having been damaged. The mortice lock was a Milner, one of the best, and could not have been easily picked. The men who had robbed Sir John and Lady McCartan had either been admitted by someone inside the house or they had a key. There could be no other explanation.