In the Dark River

by Conor Brady

  Chapter 16

  Thursday, June 6th, 1889

  The spell of fine weather started to break in the morning. The sun started its ascent over the bay into a clear sky at dawn. But by nine o’clock, as the crime conference assembled at Exchange Court, grey clouds were coming in over the city from the west.

  ‘There’ll be rain runnin’ down there before the Angelus bell,’ Pat Mossop nodded towards the grimy windows facing into the Lower Yard, as the dayroom filled with G-men and uniformed constables.

  Duck Boyle had sent word that he would not be present because he was due in the Magistrates’ Court. The courts did not begin until eleven o’clock and Swallow surmised that he was probably enjoying the benefit of a lie-on in bed. So he took the rostrum at the top of the room himself as the others settled on chairs and desks or propped themselves against the walls. There was little of the easy relaxation of the early week. It was as if the darkening day was a metaphor for two investigations that seemed to be going nowhere.

  His own mood reflected it too. He had slept badly after returning from Templeogue Hill to Thomas Street. For the second night in succession, Maria had retired to bed before his arrival just before midnight. But this time there was no supper, cold or otherwise, awaiting him in the parlour. He wondered if Carrie, the housekeeper, had simply forgotten to provide for him or if he was being sent a deliberate message.

  The public house was closed but he could hear the sounds of the staff cleaning and readying the bars downstairs before locking up. He went down the back stairs and into the public bar.

  ‘I’ll take a Tullamore, there,’ he called to Dan Daly, across the counter.

  Dan looked tired and displeased.

  ‘You’re late, Mr Swallow,’ he observed, reaching for the bottle behind him.

  ‘I am that, Dan. It’s been a long day.’

  Daly put the whiskey in front of him.

  ‘It wasn’t a great time here either.’

  Swallow took a mouthful of the Tullamore.

  ‘I don’t really want to know about business matters here, Dan. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.’

  ‘Fair enough, Mr Swallow. But don’t say I didn’t try to mark your cards in time.’

  He finished his drink and retraced his way upstairs to bed alone in what had been his rented room. He could see that Dan Daly was troubled and he did not doubt that it was on account of some difficulty with Maria, but there was no reason to believe he could do anything about her deteriorating relationships with her staff. He had tried and been rebuffed. He did not intend to put himself in a position where that would happen again or where he could be accused of interfering in her business.

  He put his head to the pillow and slept, but it was a troubled and uneasy sleep, with his subconscious turning over what Polson had told him in the Burlington as well as what he had seen and heard at the McCartan house at Templeogue Hill. The night of supposed rest did not refresh him. He woke with a pounding head and a dry mouth. It was difficult to concentrate. As a precaution, he jotted down a list of possible inquiries and actions for review at the crime conference.

  Now he cleared his throat that still tasted of last night’s whiskies.

  ‘We’ll deal with the murder case first, Gentlemen. Pat, would you bring us up to date please?’

  Mossop opened the murder book and started leafing through the loose-page job reports that he had collected before the conference from the investigation teams.

  ‘There’s three, maybe four, possible matches on the missing persons list on the basis that they lived somewhere close to the river. Mary Dunne is around thirty. Hasn’t been seen since Christmas. She has a husband and five children in Pimlico. Reported missing by the eldest child, a girl who’s just twelve, at Kevin Street. And there’s Matilda Evans, also around thirty, from Dean Court, on Patrick Street. She disappeared early in May. Also reported at Kevin Street, in this case by the husband.’

  He turned the page.

  ‘Out at Portobello, there’s Mary Nelson. She’s been missing since April. She’s aged thirty-five, with six children. She’s widowed. Reported missing by her brother at College Street. The children have been taken into care by the sisters out at Goldenbridge. And there’s Anne or Annie Boland, she’s single, aged around twenty-five, no children and worked in a dairy at Rathfarnham. But she lodged with cousins out by Crumlin, close to where the Poddle flows overground. She was reported to Rathmines at the end of April by her employer when she didn’t come collect her wages. It’s too early to rule any of them in or rule them out.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Swallow said. ‘Anything significant to be learned from talking to the locksmiths?’

  ‘I went to Donaldson’s myself,’ Mossop told the room. ‘There isn’t anything particularly unusual about any of the keys recovered from the river. They could be for use either in a domestic building or a place of business. Donaldson says most of them are copies rather than originals that would have come with the locks when they were installed. One in particular seems to be for a heavy-duty lock, perhaps a strong door or maybe even a safe, they told me.’

  ‘Any point in trying some of the other locksmiths around town?’ Swallow asked. ‘Presumably some of them are more knowledgeable than others.’

  ‘Donaldson’s are probably the best,’ Stephen Doolan said. ‘But there’d be no harm in trying a few of the others too.’

  Swallow gestured to Doolan.

  ‘Since you have the floor, Stephen, what about the examination along the course of the river itself? Anything to suggest where the body might have been put into the water?’

  Mossop nodded to Stephen Doolan, sitting in the front row of the conference.

  ‘Sergeant Doolan, would you tell us how your searches are going?’

  Doolan stood to face the group.

  ‘We’ve covered all the stretches of the river that are open and above ground, from out near Fettercairn, through the countryside to the crossroads of Templeogue. Both banks. We’ve found nothing beyond a dead badger and a bag of drowned kittens. According to the City Engineers there’s about a score of traps and access points where it’s underground, between the canal and the Liffey. But the truth is there may be some that aren’t on their maps. So, we’re following our own course and we’ve got about half of them done. The rest we’ll do today.’

  ‘What are you looking for, Stephen?’

  The question came from Detective Mick Feore.

  ‘Any signs of recent disturbance, mainly. Broken locks or grates, maybe drag marks in the earth. If we find anything of note, we’ll have to go down below at that spot.’

  Doolan had extensive experience in searches. He and his team of hand-picked constables had a good record in recovering both missing people and missing goods in the city’s waterways, in the sewers, in cellars and attics, in gardens and backyards, even in the city’s public parks.

  ‘There’s a few tributaries to the river as well,’ he added. ‘If we don’t find anything along the main watercourse, we’ll have to start checking them as well. But the body could have been put in anywhere. It could have been close enough to where the skeleton was found. It was more or less intact and that might suggest it hadn’t been carried very far by the water. But the flow of that river is slow and easy. So it could have been carried a distance without being broken up, I’d say.’

  Swallow knew Doolan and his squad could be left alone to do what they did best. However, he would need men with detective experience to follow up on the four missing women. Their families and acquaintances would have to be questioned carefully and skilfully. If there was any foul play, or even secret tales of unhappiness behind the disappearances, individuals with important knowledge could be evasive and resistant.

  He nodded to Feore.

  ‘Mick, pick anyone you want from the day’s roster and start on the four women. Their families, friends, neighbours. See does anyone know anything about that collection of keys. But the fact that she had some gold in her teeth is abou
t the most likely lead. Don’t be too direct about it. Come at it indirectly, if you can.’

  The advice to Mick Feore was unnecessary, he knew. It was delivered for the benefit of the wider audience of less experienced crime investigators. He had learned early in his career as a detective that if a policeman suggests details to potential witnesses or informants they will sometimes agree or concur with the questioner in order to give a good impression or sometimes simply in an effort to please.

  ‘I understand, Sir,’ Feore grinned. ‘I’ll aim for gentle extraction on the teeth.’

  It was a poor joke, but it drew a brief ripple of laughter from an otherwise sombre group.

  ‘So,’ Swallow stepped back to the rostrum, ‘we need to talk about the Templeogue Hill robbery. I went out there myself last night. Chief Mallon wanted me to reassure Sir John McCartan and his wife that we were doing everything in our power to track down the perpetrators.’

  Somewhere down the room there was a short, hollow laugh.

  ‘Yes, I know we’re stretched and we’re struggling to do what we’re required to do. But a lot of what us polismen do these days is just maintaining public confidence. Even if we’re in the dark, we’ve got to make people believe that we can see what we’re at.’

  Pat Mossop pointed to two sheets of foolscap on the desk.

  ‘I have a fuller report from Shanahan and Keogh on Templeogue Hill, Boss.’

  ‘Best take us through it, then, Pat.’

  ‘There’s not a lot that’s new. The statements from Sir John McCartan and his wife and from the maid don’t give us anything much on the identification of the attackers. They kept their faces concealed. Sir John says the man who seemed to be the ring-leader shouted in a “rural” accent but that could mean anything. They’re not even agreed on the number of attackers. He says four, she says three. The maid says three or four. She also says one of them seemed to be the gang leader and she heard another one call him “Sir” a couple of times.’

  Shanahan, seated by the wall, raised a hand.

  ‘The maid, Cathleen Cummins, was held downstairs in the kitchen so she didn’t see very much. And she’s not a great witness. She’s a timid little thing and it’s hard getting any information out of her.’

  ‘Have we an inventory of what was taken from the house?’ Swallow directed the question to Shanahan.

  ‘We have, Sir. What we were told by Sir John himself is there in the report. But in truth he was so agitated and angry that it was difficult to get clear information out of him as well. In fairness, he’s not a young man and he got a fair going-over from these fellows, whoever they were.’

  Mossop read aloud from the file.

  ‘Cash in banknotes, approximately two hundred pounds, mainly in one or five-pound notes. Cash in coin, approximately, ten pounds. A solid silver jewellery box, containing eight rings belonging to Lady McCartan. Estimated value of box one hundred pounds. Estimated value of rings, two thousand pounds. A necklace in pearls, strung on gold and a bracelet to match. Estimated value five hundred pounds. Other items of importance but without saleable value were left in the safe. These included property deeds, share certificates and two cheque books.’

  ‘They seem to be smart enough to leave what they can’t get any value for,’ Swallow observed. ‘But it’s a very big haul, around two thousand eight hundred pounds based on McCartan’s account.’

  ‘Do we know how they got the safe open?’ he asked Shanahan.

  ‘It isn’t a safe in the real sense, Sir. It’s more a strong-box, and not very strong, at that. I’d say it’s more tin than steel. So a few bangs of a lump hammer or a bit of leverage with a jemmy and it’d open like a can of sardines. What’s puzzling though, is that they seemed to know it was there in the first place. It was concealed behind a wall panel in McCartan’s study.’

  ‘How did they get into the house in the first place?’ Swallow asked.

  ‘They forced the back door, Sir.’

  ‘Did you examine it?’

  Shanahan paused.

  ‘I … I thought someone else did that. Maybe the uniformed men, they were first on the scene.’

  Shanahan was a careful, conscientious detective, but like every man in G-division he was working long hours and extra shifts in an effort to meet its workload. He looked tired and crestfallen and Swallow had no wish to embarrass him by highlighting an obvious omission.

  ‘Maybe they did,’ he said without conviction. ‘I had a look myself earlier when I was out there, but I didn’t see any signs of damage. They might have been let in or they might have had a key for the door. There are two big six-inch bolts on it, but they may not have been left open.’

  ‘They could have had inside help, do you think?’ Mossop asked.

  ‘It’s beginning to look like it,’ Swallow answered. ‘It’s at least a possibility. So we need to find out about the servants, who they are and if there’s any with doubtful connections. And maybe also any tradesmen or workmen through the house in the recent past.’

  ‘I’ve got names for the servants and some other information on them,’ Shanahan said, brightening as he flipped the pages of his notebook.

  ‘Tell us,’ Swallow said. Around the room, pencils were poised to take down the details.

  ‘The coachman and groom is Timothy or Thady Spencer, aged thirty-five years, a native of Benson Street, Cork city,’ Shanahan read slowly. ‘He was away last night, gone to Cork to bury his mother, according to the McCartans. The cook is Nora Cahill, aged fifty-five years or so, from the village of Terenure. She had left the house around half-past six after she had prepared dinner. The maid is Cathleen Cummins, from Tipperary, aged seventeen. She served dinner to the McCartans around seven o’clock. That’s them all.’

  A well-built young constable with a head of thick, black hair, perched on a window-sill half way down the room, raised a hand.

  ‘Wit’ your permission, Sir,’ he called to Swallow, ‘I can tell you about Timmy Spencer.’

  The constable’s sing-song accent was unmistakably Cork.

  Swallow nodded.

  ‘Go ahead. Identify yourself.’

  ‘Constable Dunphy, Sir, 126B. I’m from near to Benson Street in Cork meself and if it’s the same Timmy Spencer as sat in school with me, he’s a bad one. There’s a whole family o’ them. Thieves and gougers and troublemakers. If he’s been workin’ in this house, I’d say that someone should find out who he’s associatin’ with here in Dublin. Because I can tell you, they won’t be annythin’ but trouble. He likes to pretend he’s with the Fenians but that’s only an excuse for crime.’

  Swallow acknowledged the young constable’s information with an upturned thumb.

  ‘Good man. We’ll start by checking the criminal registry and we’ll contact the RIC in Cork straight away. And if he’s been holding himself out as political that should be in their security records too.’

  ‘I think we’d better check the other servants against the records as well, Pat,’ he told Mossop. ‘They’re probably harmless. But you’d just never know.’

  He checked his own notes. The pounding in his head was receding and his concentration seemed to be restored. But there was a comforting reassurance in having the written checklist.

  ‘Nothing significant from the registers in the boarding houses or hotels, I assume.’

  Mossop shook his head.

  ‘Nothing out of the usual. There’s a few places yet to be visited today. None of the lads on surveillance with the Vanucchis, the Cussens and the Downes outfits have noticed anything out of the ordinary.’

  The wall clock showed half-past nine. Time for the investigation teams to be about their tasks.

  ‘Alright, Men,’ Swallow closed his notebook. ‘I think we’ve covered all we can for this morning. If anyone turns up anything that might seem even marginally significant on either the murder or the robbery, I’m to be informed immediately and the information logged with Sergeant Mossop, needless to say. We’ll meet again in the morn
ing.’

  Now he could see the rain streaking down the day room windows.

  ‘Take your coats and hats, Gentlemen. That’s going to be down for the day.’

  Chapter 17

  The young G-man on duty in the public office appeared to be struggling over the occurrence book as he took details across the counter from a well-dressed but angry lady whose pedigree dog, from what Swallow could hear, had been stolen from her garden somewhere.

  The officer called over her shoulder as Swallow started up the stairs to his room.

  ‘Chief Mallon wants you in his office down the Yard as soon as you’ve finished the conference.’

  He made a mental note to have Mossop or a senior man take the novice officer through the proprieties of dealing with distressed lady complainants. He could start with offering them a seat in the waiting room rather than having them stand at the counter. He might also be firmly reminded that a senior officer was always addressed by rank in public.

  John Mallon worked mainly from the DMP headquarters building at the end of the Lower Yard. His principal office was beside that of the Chief Commissioner, Sir David Harrel, although he also had a secondary office on the first floor of Exchange Court. The distance from the back entrance of Exchange Court to the police headquarters was no more than a hundred yards. But it was sufficient for the rain to give Swallow a wetting as he traversed it.

  ‘I think your warm summer is gone for a bit, Chief.’

  He grimaced as he shook water from his head before taking a chair in front of Mallon’s heavy oak desk.

  ‘We’ve got worse news than the weather,’ Mallon said tersely. ‘But first, tell me, did you go to see Sir John McCartan?’

  ‘I did, Chief. In truth it didn’t go very well. In fact it may have made things worse.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was still angry and I’d say probably in shock from what happened. He threw out a lot of abuse about the police not doing their job, about the G-men who’d attended the scene. And he accused me of being drunk. He’s going to make a complaint to the Chief Commissioner.’