In the Dark River

by Conor Brady

  ‘He might,’ Swallow answered flatly. ‘But with luck we’ll take him by surprise and there won’t be any real trouble. The one thing we don’t want is a young man dead in a religious monastery. He’s a criminal now, with a long record. But with a policeman’s bullets in him, he’ll suddenly be transformed into a hero and a patriot. There’ll be ballads about him fighting and dying for Ireland.’

  Vizzard laughed nervously.

  ‘Aye, that’s the way it happens, alright.’

  He was twisting a blue cotton handkerchief fiercely between his fingers.

  ‘Come on,’ Swallow said, rising from his seat. ‘It’s a long journey and a hot day. I’ll stand ye all a drink.’

  The buffet bar was busier than the relatively small number of passengers might have suggested. A cluster of men with craggy, sun-burned faces and strong southern accents took up one end of the bar. Cattle-dealers, Swallow reckoned, heading back to Limerick after disposing of their fattened animals, now destined to be shipped to Liverpool, at the auction pens on the city’s North Circular Road. Two or three others in business suits, gathered by the doors that connected theirs to the next carriage, were probably sales representatives, he guessed.

  He ordered whiskeys for himself and Swift. Pat Mossop took a pint of porter. He usually chose plain rather than stout on the grounds that it was a penny cheaper, but as Swallow was buying he went for the stronger brew on this occasion. Vizzard did not drink alcohol and settled for a lemonade. They stood back from the bar and surveyed the countryside, now flying past as the train gathered speed. Soon they were passing through Swallow’s native county of Kildare. He attempted to orient himself towards his home village of Newcroft. Somewhere over there to the south were the fields he roamed as a boy and the comfortable public house from which his mother and father made a modest living, sufficient to put his sister Harriet through teacher training college and him through medicine, had he not drunk his way to failure.

  He had little sense now of ever having been that young boy. That whole world was gone, disappeared. As was the world he had moved through, when he was supposed to be studying to become a doctor. The memory of those two years at the Catholic Medical School on Cecilia Street, more than a quarter of a century ago now, was a blur of roistering, drunkenness and hopeless incapacitation. With Maria and the baby there had been a chance, perhaps, to create, finally, a place or state of contentment and happiness. But the baby was dead. And the distance between himself and Maria seemed to grow now with each passing day. Their world together had been a happy one for a time that seemed cruelly short. Would a day come, he wondered, when it too would seem as distant and unreal as that Kildare childhood, or the two years in medical school?

  He brought himself back to the present and tried to identify landmarks between the stops. After Newbridge, he could see the distant outlines of the Curragh Camp, said to be the biggest military installation in the Empire. The low prominence of the Hill of Allen sat to the north. Next he identified the round tower of St Brigid’s abbey and the squat outline of the cathedral at Kildare town. Then the train was skirting the flanks of the wide, boggy lands that stretched away, ablaze with yellow furze, into King’s County. He could identify the rocky promontory of Dunamase topped by its ancient fortress, once the stronghold of the powerful O’Moore clan, close to the town of Maryborough. To the south, the low Slieve Bloom range ran, hazy blue, to the horizon.

  They resumed their seats after one drink. The job they had ahead of them would require full alertness and clear heads. Even with the one whiskey, Swallow felt himself becoming drowsy in the warmth of the evening sun, coming through the carriage windows. He might even have been dozing lightly when the train slowed on the approach to Roscrea but he had come to full wakefulness before it came to a shuddering halt and the door was opened.

  ‘Inspector Swallow?’

  The dark-haired young man in a well-cut tweed suit who stepped forward to greet them as they alighted on the platform could not have been more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He held out his hand in greeting.

  ‘Edward Fleury, DI. You’re very welcome.’

  Swallow decided the accent was Ulster. Rural Ulster.

  ‘I’ve a car to take us down to the barracks.’

  Dublin’s police operated out of stations. The RIC had barracks. And Roscrea’s barracks, a three-storey granite construction in the town’s main street, with loopholes and steel shutters on the windows, lived up to the name. Swallow was struck by the long terraces of small, neat houses, built in uniform style as they crossed the small market town.

  ‘Army housing,’ Fleury announced, answering Swallow’s unasked question. ‘This is one of the best recruitment areas for Her Majesty’s forces. Munster Fusiliers mainly. A few Leinsters too. The wives and families are well housed and well looked-after while the men are away.’

  Once they reached the barracks, the young district inspector led the four G-men to his private office on the first floor.

  ‘We’re away from prying eyes here,’ he told Swallow. ‘The walls have ears and eyes around here. The news about four bobbies of some sort arriving on the Dublin train will be all over the town by now. So the quicker we move to get a hold of your Mr Spencer the better.’

  He crossed the room, opened the door to the adjoining office and called a name that Swallow could not catch.

  The tall man in civilian attire who came in was heavily set and probably aged around fifty.

  ‘My Head Constable, Jerh Sullivan,’ Fleury said. ‘He’s in the picture about why you’re here.’

  Sullivan nodded in greeting.

  ‘Thanks, Sir. You’re very welcome here. I’ll show the gentlemen the lie of the land, so.’

  He took a ruler from Fleury’s desk and pointed to an ordinance survey map on the wall.

  ‘The monastery is two miles to the west. Technically it’s in King’s County and you’re in Tipperary here, but it’s in our district. It’s about half an hour to get there by car. Your man is staying in the Guest House. I know the layout quite well so I can bring you to the door. But the monks retire early. They’ll be in their dormitories by now. So the place will be quiet and the horses and cars would be heard approaching. We’ll have to leave the transport about a quarter of a mile away, outside the gates and go in on foot. I’ve got four men out there in concealed positions already and I’ve another six available for the arrest party.’

  He turned to Fleury.

  ‘That’s all in accordance with your instructions, Sir, I believe.’

  Head Constable Sullivan was a man one would be glad to have along for this kind of a job, Swallow reckoned. He liked his confidence, his easy presentation of detail and his respect towards a superior officer who was probably young enough to be his son.

  ‘I’m sure that’ll be more than adequate,’ Swallow said. ‘Do you know if he’s armed?’

  Fleury shook his head.

  ‘We don’t know. One of Head Sullivan’s constables happens to have a brother who’s a monk in the abbey. He went to visit him early this morning and he recognised Spencer having breakfast in the guest house refectory. He knew him from an investigation in Galway a couple of years ago. Arson and cattle rustling. He wasn’t convicted because his barrister persuaded the jury he was political. You have a warrant, by the way, haven’t you?’

  Swallow pushed the warrant, issued just hours earlier, across the desk.

  ‘There it is. All in order. But is there an issue about church sanctuary? If we go in to make an arrest are we likely to have a hundred angry monks at our throats?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Fleury smiled. ‘That’s a bit of a myth. In fact, the abbot has called us out there once or twice to remove some troublesome characters who’d moved into the guest house. But I think it’s best if we leave off the uniforms and do this job in mufti. The abbey is a curiously peaceful place, I find, even though I’m not of the same church. So the less show the better.’

  ‘All that makes sense,’ Swa
llow agreed. ‘It’s possible, maybe probable, that he has a gun. There was a gun in the robbery that we’re investigating. It wasn’t fired but we’d be best to assume it’s the real thing and be prepared.’

  Fleury had three cars available to transport them to the abbey, an official horse and trap and two short charabancs that carried his own men as well as the G-division detectives.

  Sullivan’s constables were all in plain clothes as well.

  ‘No benefit in making a show of force or anything like that. The main things is every man is briefed on the job and has his revolver,’ he told Swallow. ‘We’ll have a few Lee-Metfords as well but they’ll stay in the well of the car unless they’re needed.’

  The Lee-Metford, newly issued to the RIC to replace the Martini-Henry rifle, Swallow knew, was a formidable weapon, capable of firing a full magazine of heavy .303 rounds quickly and with great accuracy. Hopefully there would be no need to deploy them on this occasion.

  ‘You and I can travel in the trap,’ Fleury said to Swallow. ‘I’ll tell you a bit more about the district as we go.’

  The countryside between the town and the abbey was mixed farming land, some under tillage and some supporting small flocks of contented-looking sheep. Most of the dwellings they passed were single-storey, thatched cottages but here and there a few more spacious, two-storey houses stood facing the winding, hedge-lined roadway.

  ‘It’s quiet enough here now,’ Fleury said, pointing across the farmland. ‘Most of the bigger estates have been broken up. A lot of the tenants have bought out their holdings, thanks to the Land Acts and that’s taken the heat out of things. You can see that some of them are doing better now. They’re getting good prices for mutton, milk and even eggs. So they’re starting to build good new houses, as you can see. But just a few years ago, before my time, all of Tipperary North Riding was troubled territory. There’s a long tradition here of shooting policemen, not to mention land agents, bailiffs and estate managers.’

  ‘So, how long have you been in the police?’ Swallow asked.

  ‘I’m six months out of the Depot Cadet School.’

  Swallow laughed.

  ‘You’re not serious? You give the impression of being accustomed to command for a lot longer.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Inspector,’ Fleury grinned. ‘I did a few years in the army with the Enniskillings before I went to the Depot. My family has a good business in Omagh so my father bought me a commission. I could have stayed on. I was gazetted for promotion to major. And I enjoyed seeing a bit of the world, Singapore and South Africa. But I met a lovely young woman, got married and we’ve got two young children now, a boy and a girl. Families don’t like the separation that comes with military life. So the RIC seemed a good option.’

  The driver hauled the trap to the side of the road under a copse of beech. The charabancs, travelling a few yards back, came in behind. Swallow could see the grey outline of the abbey’s buildings, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, through the trees.

  The men dismounted from the charabancs and gathered in a circle around Sullivan. He pointed to a raised hedgerow running from behind the trees.

  ‘The ditch there goes all the way to the monastic enclosure. We’ll have cover almost as far as the guest house itself. There’s men in position at the gates but there’s three doors to the building so we’ll need to split up. The main front door and the back door will be locked but the third door is always left open. That’s to conform with the monastery’s tradition of hospitality.’

  ‘To be clear, now,’ Fleury told the group, ‘this is a DMP arrest, so Inspector Swallow and his men are in the lead here. We’re in support. Is that clear to everyone?’

  A murmur of understanding went around.

  ‘You’ve all seen the photograph of the man we want,’ Fleury said. ‘So we don’t want any mistakes. And we don’t want any shooting unless it’s absolutely necessary in self-defence. He may be armed. But even if he is, he’s got to be given every opportunity to come in peacefully. I don’t want anybody getting trigger-happy.’

  There was another brief murmur.

  ‘So, I’ll lead the party through the door that’s kept open,’ Swallow said. ‘Detective Sergeant Mossop and Detective Vizzard will cover the front door and Detective Swift will go around the back.’

  ‘I’ll be with Inspector Swallow,’ Fleury said. ‘Head Sullivan, where do you think you’d best be placed?’

  ‘I think I’d best go in with you, Sir. I know the layout and the routine of the place. There’ll be a monk on duty, if that’s the term, to receive visitors in case they arrive late at night. He’ll probably be in a bedroom, a cell they call it, at the top of the first flight of stairs. In all probability he’ll know me and I’ll ask him where we can find Spencer. There’s about twenty rooms there, mostly with two or three beds in each. But they won’t all be occupied.’

  They moved off in single file, sheltering behind the ditch until they came to the point where it ended, just short of the monastic enclosure. Fleury silently indicated left and right to tell the parties to cover the front and back doors.

  ‘That’s ours,’ he whispered, pointing to the side door. ‘It’s closed but it won’t be locked.’

  Swallow stepped from the cover of the ditch, walking briskly to cover the open ground. Fleury, Sullivan and the RIC men followed.

  Perhaps ten yards from the door, he heard one of the constables shout from behind him.

  ‘Look there. Look … the window.’

  Halfway along the side of the guest house, a ground floor window had been flung open. Swallow glanced around in time to see the back of a man as his feet hit the ground. Then he was running, first across the gravel pathway that circled the house, then across the green sward, leading to fields beyond.

  Fleury reacted immediately.

  ‘Secure the house,’ he shouted to Sullivan. ‘I’ll have him.’

  Then he was sprinting over the pathway and into the meadow-grass, shedding his jacket as he ran, without slackening his pace.

  Swallow threw his own jacket to Sullivan.

  ‘Hold that. I’ll follow the DI.’

  Then he was running too. The ground sloped away at first and then levelled out. By now, the fugitive had reached the boundary fence that separated the monastery grounds from the farmland. He was fast and fit, no doubt. Swallow saw him vault the five-bar gate into the field. But Fleury was lithe and athletic. He too vaulted the gate, just a few seconds behind. By the time Swallow reached it, his own breathing was laboured so that he had to climb the bars, losing more time.

  Now the land sloped downward again. A broad pasture, dotted with sheltering beech ran down to a river, where he could see cattle drinking. For a brief, unreal moment, he allowed himself to think how lovely it was, with the slanting sun silhouetting the contented animals at the riverbank. It could be the perfect scene for an artist.

  Then he heard a shout and turned to see three of Fleury’s constables coming up fast, revolvers in their hands. As he started to run, he heard shots from behind and felt the RIC men’s bullets whistle past his head.

  He turned again.

  ‘Stop firing,’ he shouted. ‘Stop the bloody firing. We don’t want him dead.’

  If they heard him they took no notice. One man stopped, took an aiming stance, gripping his gun with both hands and fired twice at the fugitive again. Swallow saw him start to reload. He had to have fired five shots already, emptying his gun.

  But Fleury was gaining ground. His quarry was almost at the river now. Swallow could see no way across other than a wooden bridge, perhaps a hundred yards downstream. The fugitive would either have to jump in the water or try to gain the bridge. He halted for a moment, unsure, and then decided to try for the bridge. But the moment’s hesitation was enough for Fleury to close the gap between them.

  Swallow saw the young DI barrel into the man, rugby-style, knocking him backward towards the river bank. They were both scrambling to their feet as he
came up the last few yards to them. He heard Fleury call something he could not catch and he saw him step forward, hand outstretched towards the young man, now panting with laboured breaths.

  He could hear the pounding feet of the RIC men coming up behind. There were more shots, two, maybe three from the constables. He saw the young man’s right hand come up, pointing the black revolver at Fleury.

  He shouted.

  ‘Get away. I don’t want to …’

  The rest of what he said was indistinguishable. Fleury stepped back, arms raised. Swallow scrabbled at his shoulder holster to reach for his own weapon. Grasping the butt of the Bulldog he was close enough to see the young man’s finger squeeze the trigger and to feel the shock wave as the heavy lead slug blasted from the barrel.

  He was on the gunman even as he saw Fleury, in his peripheral vision, falling backward. He smashed the heavy Bulldog down on the man’s face, his other hand fastening on the smoking gun. Now they were both on the ground, with Swallow on top. He brought the Bulldog down with full force a second time on his adversary’s head. A third blow across the bridge of the man’s nose brought the sound of cracking bone and a jet of bright blood. He heaved and squirmed, trying to get out from under the weight and to break Swallow’s grip on his gun hand. But Swallow was heavier and stronger and held firm. Then there were other hands grasping at the man’s wrists. A constable’s boot came down hard on his neck, pinning him to the ground. Another boot drove into his side several times. Swallow felt himself being lifted to his feet as the prisoner on the ground succumbed to the accumulation of punishment and stayed still.

  A hand touched his shoulder.

  ‘Easy, now, Sir. We have him. Are ye hurt?’

  Without answering, he turned to where Fleury lay on the meadow-grass, a constable kneeling beside him was whispering the Act of Contrition into his ear.

  The right side of the young inspector’s forehead was a bloodied mess of bone and brain, his eyes were wide open, staring at the evening sky. Swallow reckoned he had probably been dead before he hit the ground.