by Conor Brady
Mountjoy was Dublin’s local prison, where unruly young men served generally short sentences, sometimes no more than a few months. Convicts, those serving three years or more, went to Kilmainham or Maryborough. But for many of the young offenders, Mountjoy was a revolving door. Petty thieves, alcoholics, vagrants and ne’er-do-wells rotated in and out through its steel-studded door. The pent-up resentment and frustration of several hundred young men, doomed to a repeating cycle of arrest, imprisonment and release, injected something that was almost poisonous into the air of the place.
It also operated as a remand prison where men accused of offences were confined awaiting trial. Technically, prisoners on remand were innocent and benefited from a somewhat more benign regime. They got marginally better food, more of it, and larger cells where possible. They could wear their own clothes rather than prison greys and they were excused work.
But when Swallow and Mossop arrived at Mountjoy in the afternoon, the cell they were shown into by a senior warder to interview Tim Spencer was a cramped, cold space at the end of the prison’s A-wing.
‘We’ve no remand cells free at the moment,’ the prison officer told them as they crossed the circle to the A-wing. ‘They’re full of politicals. We have to treat them with kid-gloves, you know. So your man has to put with what we can do for him. I’m sure you’re not too sympathetic anyway.’
Tim Spencer was sprawled, motionless, on his bunk, his head still heavily bandaged. He turned slowly to sit up when he heard the door being unlocked to allow Swallow and Mossop to enter.
When Swallow introduced himself and Mossop, he spat contemptuously on the stone floor at their feet.
‘I know who ye are. Ye tried to kill me back there in Tipperary, didn’t ye? I know yeer type, useless, lazy cafflers. What d’ye want with me, now? I’ve said me piece already to the bloody peelers.’
Swallow turned to the warder.
‘We’d like a bit of private time with the prisoner, if that’s alright.’
‘It’s fine. But be warned, he’s dangerous, this one. Had to be restrained when the RIC fellows were questioning him earlier. We don’t like to use the handcuffs when a man’s in a cell. But sometimes you have to. So be careful. I’ll be outside. Just bang on the door when you’re done.’
Immediately the iron door clanged shut, Swallow stepped across the cell, lifted Spencer from the bunk, took him around the throat with both hands and pushed him hard against the wall.
Mossop stepped forward, alarm on his face. He spread his arms wide.
‘Easy now, Boss. This isn’t right. That man’s hurt already.’
Swallow relaxed his grip and moved back a step.
‘Alright, Pat. Alright. But he needs to change his attitude. The reason he’s hurt is because he pulled a gun to shoot a policeman.’
He jabbed a finger towards Spencer.
‘We’ll start with you showing a bit of respect, you little tramp. Don’t make the mistake of thinking we’re like the harmless country peelers who were in with you earlier. We’re G-division. We can bloody well do what we like to you. You’re not our prisoner so we won’t be held answerable for whatever state you’re in. Do you understand?’
Spencer drew himself painfully from the floor, leaning with outstretched arms to reach the edge of the bunk. A trickle of blood came out of his mouth and down his chin.
He made an attempt at speech through bloodied bubbles.
‘Y … you … c … can’t … do … this. It’s not right.’
Swallow took the Bulldog from its holster. He drew back the hammer and pushed the barrel against Spencer’s forehead.
‘I can fucking shoot you now, Spencer, and save the Crown the expense of a trial. Nobody would even ask me to explain myself. Although I wouldn’t have any difficulty persuading a coroner that I shot you when you tried to get hold of my revolver. Now, will we try to start our conversation again?’
Mossop tensed himself, ready to grab at Swallow’s gun-hand, if necessary.
Spencer nodded wordlessly and slowly pulled himself to a half-sitting position.
‘Them peelers said they’d see me hang and to admit what I done. But I tol’ them I wasn’t admittin’ to anthin’ at all. So wha’ … what do ye want wi’ me?’
‘We’re not concerned with you shooting that RIC inspector,’ Swallow said. ‘That’s not our particular problem. We want to talk to you about the robbery at the McCartan house where you worked, at Templeogue Hill. There’s a fortune of money and jewellery gone from that safe and it’s my job to get it back to its owners. And that’s before we start talking about the violence done to Sir John McCartan and his wife.’
Spencer visibly flinched.
‘I’m not talkin’ about McCartan or what happened out there. I was gone … I was gone to Cork when that happened.’
‘Yeah,’ Swallow said mockingly. ‘We heard you were gone to Cork to bury your mother. God help the poor woman, rearing a son like you. But I understand she’s in fine health.’
He let the Bulldog’s hammer down gently and lowered himself on to the wooden chair beside the bunk.
‘Look, Spencer, you know you’re going to go to the gallows for shooting Inspector Fleury and there’s nothing I can do about that. But I can try to get you more comfortable quarters and better food if you co-operate. Like I said, we’re not here to talk to you about the shooting of the RIC man.’
‘An’ like I said, like I’m after tellin’ ye, I didn’t shoot him. I fired a shot but ‘twas just to stop him comin’ at me.’
‘Well, it did that surely,’ Mossop said sarcastically. ‘His poor wife and the little children he left behind know all about it.’
‘Look, I was in th’ army,’ Spencer wiped away more bloody bubbles from his mouth. ‘I fired wide. I know how to shoot. I didn’t know who them fellas were or why they were comin’ after me. ‘Twas self-defence.’
Swallow holstered his gun slowly.
Something about the way that Spencer spoke had struck a questioning note in his head. He knew that certain shift in tone or delivery from innumerable interrogations he had conducted with hundreds of suspects in the past. Often, there is a change in the way a subject delivers himself when he has nothing more to say. It may mark the point at which he has gone beyond caring whether his questioner believes him or not. Spencer’s defiance and contempt were suddenly all gone. Now Swallow knew he was looking at something between despair and indifference.
It was just possible that the man was telling the truth. He had certainly seen him produce a gun and fire one shot as Fleury closed with him in the meadow by the river. But there had been a fusillade from the RIC men’s revolvers as they closed in to where he had been cornered by Fleury. Where the shots went nobody would ever be able to say.
And the round that had killed the young DI had passed through his skull and was lost somewhere in the ground. There was no forensic evidence available to prove anything one way or another.
‘I didn’t know them fellas after me was peelers,’ Spencer said quietly. ‘How could I have? Sure weren’t they all just dressed ordinary?’
‘So who did you think they were?’ Mossop asked. ‘The Salvation Army?’
Spencer pushed himself up to a fully sitting position on the bunk.
‘Look … you know enough about me … a man like me makes enemies. Lots o’ them. That’s why I was hidin’ in the monastery.’
‘A man like you doesn’t usually spend a lot of time in monasteries,’ Mossop answered. ‘How did you even know about the place?’
‘A few hard-drinkin’ men from back home went up there for the cure,’ Spencer said. ‘They said it was an aisey place to spend a bit o’ time. The monks kinda take pity on the likes o’ me. Nobody else does.’
There was something about the way Spencer expressed himself that almost elicited a sense of sympathy in Swallow.
He caught Pat Mossop’s expression and knew that something similar was going through his mind.
‘I can�
�t promise you anything, Spencer,’ he said after a few moments. ‘It’s going to be up to a judge and jury to decide if they believe your story. But I’ll be the main witness. And I suppose it’s just possible that I might be able to save you from the rope if I give my evidence the right way for you.’
Timmy Spencer reacted sharply. He seemed suddenly alert.
‘How d’ye mean? What are ye sayin’ to me?’
‘I can tell the court I saw you raise your gun to shoot Inspector Fleury. Or I can say that I saw you threaten him … that I saw you pull the trigger, but I can’t be sure if you actually hit him. There was a lot of lead flying from his own men. The bullet that struck him wasn’t recovered because it passed right through his head. How can anyone say who fired the shot that killed the poor man?’
‘Would … would that get me off?’ Spencer asked.
Swallow shrugged.
‘I don’t think you’ll walk free. But it would probably make the difference between a long sentence and being hanged. Being locked up is better than being hanged, I’m sure you’ll agree. There’s always parole. You could be out in a few years. You can plead that you didn’t know Fleury was a policeman. In honesty, I’d have to testify that I didn’t hear him identify himself as such when he had you cornered at the river. With some juries and maybe if you have a very good barrister it might work.’
Spencer nodded enthusiastically.
‘But that’s it. I know I didn’t hit him. An’ I didn’t know he was a peeler. That’s the God’s honest truth of it. I thought them fellas were gangsters after whatever they thought I had.’
‘You mean what you got out of the robbery at Templeogue Hill,’ Swallow said.
‘I might,’ Spencer said cautiously. ‘And I mightn’t. There’s nothin’ to connect me to that.’
‘Come on, Timmy,’ Swallow said mockingly. ‘Come on now, you know what I need from you, now, if I’m going to do what I can to save your neck.’
Spencer sighed. It was almost a groan.
‘Alright. But there’s more that you don’t know about,’ he said slowly. ‘There’s somethin’ you haven’t even guessed at. It’s a lot more important than who robbed oul’ McCartan and his missus. I can give you the case o’ yer life. Ye’ll be promoted and well rewarded. You’ll be grateful for the day you met Tim Spencer. But I’ll need a few more guarantees from you.’
Chapter 26
‘Jesus, Mary and holy Saint Joseph.’
Swallow had rarely seen John Mallon show anything that might be remotely described as shock. There had been some occasions. The most memorable was on the May morning, seven years previously, when news had come through to the Castle that the Chief Secretary, Lord Frederick Cavendish, and the Permanent Under-Secretary, Thomas Henry Burke, had been assassinated in the Phoenix Park.
Mallon prided himself as always having the latest and the best intelligence on every political faction, every pressure group, every fanatic, moving or active in or around the city. And indeed his network of informants had given him regular reports on the people leading the Invincibles, who had carried out the assassinations. But they had not warned him about the gang of misfits and half-wits they had recruited to carry out the most spectacular political crime that Ireland would see throughout the Land War.
When he and Mossop had heard the astonishing tale that Timmy Spencer had to tell, Swallow realised that he had a timing problem. The information they had elicited from Spencer was crucial and ought to be reported without delay to their superior. Once Mallon was apprised of what McCartan’s coachman had revealed, it would be essential to take immediate follow-up action. But at the hour that Swallow was making his way with Mossop back to the Castle from Mountjoy, he knew that Andrew Dunlop at The Irish Times was preparing to tell Reggie Polson that the newspaper was not going to publish any report about Captain O’Shea’s intended divorce petition.
Swallow’s plan, however, in order to have Polson abandon the idea of going to any other newspaper with his tawdry story, required that he should be present when the newspaper man and the security agent would meet.
‘Take me through this slowly, Swallow, so I can be sure I’ve got it all right,’ Mallon said. They were in the front parlour of the chief’s house. Mallon’s office staff rarely worked on a Saturday afternoon and he was usually to be found at home at that time.
‘Timmy Spencer’s story is that McCartan murdered Sarah Bradley, the housekeeper,’ Swallow told him.
‘Spencer says that Lady McCartan had hired Sarah Bradley herself. She’s a member of the Presbyterian faith and she wanted a housekeeper of the same faith. Mrs Bradley told her she was also Presbyterian but Spencer says he thinks this was a convenient fiction.’
‘That happens,’ Mallon interjected. ‘Religion is an easy badge to change.’
‘But once she got settled into the house she somehow started to take over her mistress’s place,’ Swallow continued. Lady McCartan’s health was deteriorating and Sarah Bradley started to take control of money in the house. After a while she didn’t live or sleep in the servants’ rooms any more. She took her meals with McCartan and according to Spencer she started wearing the wife’s clothing and jewellery. Spencer says he could see the changes in John McCartan. He seemed to be increasingly influenced by Bradley. He handed over all sorts of responsibilities to her. She even had the keys to his private desk and to the house safe so she could pay the household bills and the other servants’ wages.’
Mallon nodded.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard of that kind of thing either. There’s been a few cases like it in England. Usually there’s an affair of the heart going on. And then the master of the house or his mistress murders the wife. Sometimes they conspire to do it together.’
‘Fair enough, Chief. But if Spencer’s story is true, McCartan seems to have had second thoughts. He seemed to realise that this woman was taking over their lives. He says there was an almighty blow-up in the house one night. He was out in the stables but he heard screaming and shouting across the yard. He says he heard McCartan saying, “you will get out.” Then he heard Sarah Bradley answering, “I will not.” He says then he heard one of the dogs barking and howling and then there was silence.’
‘I know it’s early in the day,’ Mallon interjected. ‘But I think we need a drink.’
When he had poured two Bushmills he took his seat again.
‘Go on.’
‘The following evening McCartan calls Timmy Spencer into the house and tells him he needs to go out in the trap. He says that someone has poisoned the dogs and he wants to get rid of their carcasses. So Spencer asks him why doesn’t he let him just bury them on the land? Oh, McCartan says, because they’re poisoned and he doesn’t want to have poison in the ground. There’s cattle grazing there on the land around the house.’
‘So then Spencer brings the trap around to the back of the house. Inside the back door there’s a roll of carpet roped up tight with something … or somebody … in it. McCartan tells him to give him help to get it into the trap. So he does and then McCartan drives away. Three, maybe four hours later, Spencer hears McCartan drive the trap into the yard. He has to get up, stable the horse and clean up the trap. The carpet is still there but there’s nothing in it.’
Mallon sipped at his Bushmills.
‘Maybe it really was the dogs. Did Spencer see a woman’s body?’
‘No. But it only makes sense for McCartan to drive off on his own with whatever he has in the carpet if he’s trying to conceal things from Spencer. If it was just to dispose of a couple of dead dogs, he’d have sent the coachman to do it.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘At all events, according to Spencer, Sarah Bradley wasn’t ever seen again. Spencer says the maid, Cathleen Cummins, told him that the room she’d slept in was kept locked.’
‘It’s circumstantial,’ Mallon said. ‘But it’s damned suspicious. Is Spencer willing to swear to all this?’
‘He’s a Cor
kman, Chief,’ Swallow laughed. ‘They do nothing for nothing. But I think I can do a deal with him. He could hang for Fleury’s murder but if I give the evidence that I truthfully can, I think he’ll get off that. He might get off with manslaughter and he’ll surely go down for possession of a firearm with intent. That will draw a stretch of a couple of years.’
‘That’s an interesting trade-off. His life for his evidence against McCartan,’ Mallon mused. ‘I’ve met McCartan many times. Like yourself, I’ve crossed swords with him in court. I never thought particularly highly of him so I never wanted the Crown brief him for us. But I wouldn’t have taken him for a wife-killer.’
‘Ah, there’s more, Chief. Spencer wants a written undertaking from you that he won’t be prosecuted for anything to do with the robbery at McCartan’s or for helping or concealing McCartan’s killing of Sarah Bradley. If he gets that he’ll make a sworn statement.’
‘Well, he doesn’t want much, does he?’ Mallon countered sarcastically.
‘He knows how to play his cards, alright. He may not have had much schooling but he’s a smart lad. He’s not impressed with the word of a mere detective inspector. But he thinks you’d be a reliable ally. I told him that if we can recover the money and jewellery taken at McCartan’s we might be able to do something about dropping any robbery charge. The truth is that we haven’t any direct evidence linking it to him anyway.’
‘That’s a fact,’ Mallon nodded. ‘But if McCartan murdered this Mrs Bradley, shouldn’t we have a body?’
Swallow downed the rest of his whiskey.
‘There’s the last bit of the jigsaw, Chief, I think.’
‘How so?’
‘According to Spencer, the cook at Templeogue Hill, Mrs Quinn, asked him the next morning about the master going off on his own in the trap the night before.’
‘She knew about it too?’
‘In a roundabout way. Her husband was walking home from The Morgue, that’s the public house on the Blessington Road, after a few pints.’