The Convictions of John Delahunt

by Andrew Hughes

  I crawled to the chair and poured some wine. But I couldn’t recall if that was the glass which he had used, so I drank from the bottle instead. I slouched with my head in the seat, the bottle in my lap, and I considered the body on my carpet.

  The mechanics of corpse disposal was not something I had ever pondered. Of course, it couldn’t remain hidden in the house. May had been particularly warm, so if I stashed it in some forgotten room it would soon make its presence known.

  I held the bottle against the candlelight to see how much wine was left.

  The closest exit was the front door. Even in the dead of night one couldn’t lug a corpse into the street and hope to remain unseen. The rear entrance was via the basement, and it would have to be dragged there. But then what?

  The only way I could personally carry the body from the property was in pieces: packages underarm to be dropped in the canal, and reassembled by the coroner in a grisly jigsaw. But the thought of dismembering it: cleaving and sawing, wide-eyed and grunting; the old iron tub in the scullery slick with viscera – I took another drink.

  There was an old cart in the stables, and it could stay covered and hidden in there for at least a day or two before it became offensive. I’d find a horse from somewhere and haul it to the city limits, wrapped in a few coal sacks – apt shroud for the coal-porter. The stables also seemed like an attainable goal. In the small hours, I could take the body through the long back yard unnoticed.

  The plan was set. I brought the candle into the hall to light the way. When I went back into the darkened parlour, it looked like some drunken friend had fallen asleep after a party. I gathered up his legs, one knee under each arm, and dragged him through the ground floor. I would feel backwards with my heel before taking a step, ensuring no collisions with furniture or skirting boards.

  Once the body was far enough down the basement steps, I clambered up to shut the stairwell door. Then I had to pause and massage my sore shoulder. It was tempting simply to tip the corpse down the steps; only the fear of the noise it would make stopped me. In almost total darkness, I took up his legs once more and carefully drew him down. As the head cleared each lip, it fell with a dull knock to the step below, and I did my best to keep a steady rhythm.

  When only halfway down, there came a noise from above: a soft, creaking footfall in the passages upstairs, which could only mean that Miss Joyce had heard some of the commotion and come to investigate. From my perspective, the faintest light appeared in the crack beneath the door above me. She was in the hallway. The glow from her candle crept up the doorjamb on each side to mark her approach.

  What a scene awaited her if that door opened. I considered scrambling over the body to go up and cut her off, but it was too late for that. The light was now right against the door, and there was no other sound of movement. I expected her at any moment to appear: nightgown, candelabrum and horrified scream. Instead, the light wavered and began to dim. Miss Joyce retreated upstairs and I was left again in blackness.

  I was worn out by the time I reached the basement. It had become clear that I couldn’t drag the body to the coach house without some assistance. I heaved it into the kitchen, then went to get a cup of water from the basin. The only source of aid I could think of was Devereaux. He had told me more than once that he drank most evenings in the Black Bull on Ship Street. But could I trust him enough to confess a killing? Might he refuse to help, or even use this information against me?

  A set of house keys hung from a hook on the dresser. I was about to step over the body to retrieve them, then changed my mind and walked around it.

  I could rehearse what to say on the way there: that it was self-defence; that the whole prosecution might have unravelled if I’d failed to act. And my work for the Castle had to count for something. This had all come about because of the report I provided on Craddock’s killers, and surely the Department would wish to protect its informant. The clock over the mantel said it was a little past ten. I left the man with the yellow cravat in the basement and locked the door to the stairs as quietly as possible. Out on the street, I savoured the cool air, looked up at the darkened windows of the house, and then went in search of help.

  The hanging sign of the Black Bull creaked in Great Ship Street. Inside, thick yellow candles sat at the end of spokes in a wagon-wheel chandelier, and also in nooks along the wall. The pub was within sight of the side entrance to the Castle, so it was a haunt of treasurers and civil servants, off-duty officers from the barracks and the police constabulary. I scanned the room for Devereaux, looking out for his dark curls and chinstrap beard, but he wasn’t on the ground floor. There was another lounge upstairs with about a dozen tables. In the far corner, Devereaux sat in conversation with another man over pitchers of ale and a plate of chops.

  When he saw me standing in the doorway, Devereaux leaned back in his chair and raised a hand in greeting. The other man, who was big and thickset, remained hunched, not curious enough to look backwards. I made my way to their table, and told Devereaux I needed to speak with him in private, but he insisted I join them.

  When I was seated he indicated his companion. ‘This is Ned Holt.’

  The man put down a chop, wiped lamb grease on his shirt and extended his hand. I gripped it, then resisted an urge to deploy a handkerchief. Holt was a haggard man in his forties. He had a scar near the edge of his mouth which caused muscles on that side of his lips to sag. His tongue would often extrude to lick at that flaccid corner.

  Devereaux said, ‘Ned provides us with information in the Castle from time to time. Just like you.’ He leaned over the table towards Holt. ‘John here has been of great help to Sibthorpe over the past two months. One conviction under his belt already. Should be another three when the Craddock trial is finished.’

  The man looked at me closely for the first time, then resumed chewing a stringy piece of meat held between both hands.

  ‘That’s why I needed to speak with you, Devereaux,’ I said. ‘Alone, if possible.’

  Devereaux said that I could trust Ned. We were all working for the same department, after all.

  ‘Very well.’ I lowered my voice and told him it was about those men who killed Craddock. ‘One of their friends tracked me down and tried to blackmail me for the reward money.’

  Devereaux said, ‘How did he find you?’

  I couldn’t think of a plausible lie. ‘I went to look at the trial and he recognized me in the courtroom.’

  Devereaux frowned. ‘I made arrangements just so you wouldn’t have to go to court, to protect your anonymity for this very reason. If you were going anyway, we might as well have put you on the stand.’

  Holt spoke for the first time. ‘I’ve done that a couple of times.’ He was looking down at the metal platter, and the clear red juice that ran around its rim. ‘When you know your evidence is going to convict someone, it’s hard to stay away.’

  ‘That may be. But what do you want us to do about it now, John? Warn the man to keep away; rough him up? The Castle can’t be seen to get involved.’

  I shook my head and said that wasn’t necessary. ‘I just need some help getting rid of the body.’

  Holt’s noisy chewing slowed and came to a halt. Devereaux glanced at the tables close by to see if anyone could overhear.

  ‘When?’

  There was a clock on the wall behind him but it was stopped. ‘About an hour ago.’

  And where was he?

  ‘In my kitchen.’

  Holt made a noise as if he was tutting, and I looked to see if he disapproved. But he drew back his lips and picked out a piece of gristle that was stuck between his teeth. He examined the morsel for a moment, then scraped it against the edge of his plate.

  I leaned my elbows on the table, but the surface was sticky, so I put them on my knees instead. ‘I realize it’s a great imposition, Devereaux—’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘But I’m not sure where else I can turn.’

  He sat up in his chair,
folded his arms and hunched his shoulders, as if he’d been caught in a draught. He gazed out of the window for a few moments at the lights in the Ship Street barracks. ‘What do you think, Ned?’

  ‘I think I’m in the middle of supper.’

  ‘Sibthorpe would probably want us to help the new recruit.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s hard to predict what Tom wants.’

  ‘Even so.’

  Devereaux had already finished his drink – white froth clung to the sides of his glass. But when a passing lounge-boy asked if he wanted another, he sent him away, which I took to be a good sign. Devereaux glanced again at Holt, who gave him a slight nod, and then leaned back towards me.

  ‘We’ll help of course, John,’ he said. But first they needed to know more about the dead man – such as where he was from, and who else knew he had come to my house. Holt asked me what I had used to kill him.

  ‘A cushion.’ Their faces regarded me in the candlelight. ‘Well, I hit him on the head with a poker first, but then I had to smother him.’

  ‘So he’s not cut at all.’ He looked at Devereaux with a raised brow. ‘York Street?’

  Devereaux mulled this over. He asked Holt if he could find a horse and cart at this time of night.

  I said there was a cart in my stable if needed. My notion was to bring the body into the countryside and tip it into a ditch.

  Holt said he already had a cart. ‘What about the form?’

  Devereaux said, ‘I might have a few spare copies in my desk.’

  Holt’s smile was crooked; I imagine it would have been even without his defect. ‘All right. I’ll have a cart in Lad Lane in two hours. Will you be ready then?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Devereaux said. ‘Are you right, John?’

  We left the pub and Holt strode off towards Great Longford Street. Devereaux instructed me to wait in Ship Street while he entered the Castle to retrieve some items. He walked past two guards, who stood aside at his approach.

  I lingered in the shadows beyond a street lamp. A spider web spanned its crook, with drops that hung suspended like glass beads. Devereaux soon emerged with a full shoulder bag, like those carried by sailors, and we took a cab back to Fitzwilliam Street.

  It was past midnight. There were no lights in any window of the house, and only a few in the street as a whole. I asked Devereaux to go quietly lest we wake the housekeeper, turned the key with care and brought him into the pitch-dark hall. He fumbled in a pocket, withdrew a lucifer match and struck it against the doorframe. A bright spot hissed and engulfed the match-head, and I pointed towards a candlestick on the sideboard.

  As I led the way down to the kitchen, I had a dreadful fear that the body would be missing; that the man had stirred and risen, and was hidden around each corner, seething and implacable. But he was as I left him: on his back in the centre of the flagstones, arms outstretched from how he was dragged.

  Devereaux regarded him from over my shoulder. ‘How long did you say he’s been dead?’

  It was about two hours.

  ‘Then close over those arms before he starts to stiffen.’

  I stood over the body and kicked the arms back in to their sides. Devereaux bent low and brought the candle over the man’s face. He noted the lump on the top of his head, and the fluid smeared around his nose and mouth, sweeping the candle over the length of the body, like it was part of some ritual.

  ‘Still,’ he said, as if we had been in dialogue, ‘we’ll have to make some account for his injuries.’

  He brought his bag to the kitchen table. First he pulled out a folded sack and length of rope, which he tossed beside the corpse. Then a pen, inkpot and a printed form.

  ‘First things first. What would you like to call him?’

  ‘Surely his real name will be easy enough to verify.’

  Devereaux considered the man’s face. ‘He looks like a Kenny to me.’ He wrote on the sheet. ‘And we’ll say John in honour of he who wielded the pillow.’

  I stepped behind him to observe the form on which he wrote. It was a death certificate from the South Dublin Union Workhouse.

  Devereaux was busy inventing an age and place of origin for the man. He paused over the section marked, ‘Cause of death’. In most cases there would be one word: ‘Typhoid’ or ‘Scarlatina’.

  He tapped the pen against his chin. ‘We could say his head was bumped by a passing cart and he drowned in a deep puddle.’ He spotted the large wooden basin of dishwater beside the hearth. ‘We’ll dunk his head in there for half an hour, make it a bit more realistic.’

  I pictured the corpse on its knees, bent over the basin with its head submerged, as if afflicted by a terrible thirst.

  But Devereaux was reconsidering. ‘Though there’d have to be water in the lungs …’

  ‘Maybe he was just smothered in the mud instead.’

  Devereaux nodded, ‘That’ll do,’ and began to write.

  The man was relatively clean. I went into the yard and took a handful of sludge from beneath a drainpipe, brought it back and pressed it into his face. The cold wet muck went between his teeth and tongue and up his nostrils. I rubbed it through the coarse bristles on his chin. The flesh around his cheekbones had already become rigid.

  Devereaux commended my good thinking. I asked should I smear some on the man’s clothes, but he said that wasn’t necessary as we were going to strip him.

  Devereaux completed the form and added a signature at the bottom, completely illegible, but not lacking in flourish. He put it aside for the ink to dry.

  ‘Let’s get him in the sack.’

  In the candlelight we began to remove the unwashed clothes, solemnly, as if we prepared the body of a fallen brother. As each item was taken off, Devereaux put it in his shoulder bag. Finally, I tried to untie the yellow cravat, but the knot was too tight. I took a knife from the counter, slipped the cold blade against his throat and sawed through the cloth.

  When he lay there cold and naked, the man seemed so diminished; only hours before he had towered above me in the parlour upstairs. The hempen sack was unfurled. It slipped easily over his bent toes and legs, but we had to be more forceful to drag it over his torso as he lay, a dead weight. Devereaux tied the sack off with the rope and sat back. He took out a pocket watch. ‘Holt will be another half-hour,’ he said, looking around the kitchen. ‘Open up a bottle of something.’

  I poured two glasses of whiskey and we sat at the kitchen table, with the sack at our feet, as if we attended a wake. We spoke of small things. I recall Devereaux described the plot of some play he had recently seen, one of Sheridan’s, though I’m not sure how the subject arose. We finished the drinks, and he checked his watch again. ‘Ned must be here by now.’

  We carried the body between us through the back garden. I removed the padlock on the gate and looked out into Lad Lane. A horse and cart was parked about ten houses up. Holt edged the cart forwards in a slow rattle, and the three of us lifted the body aboard.

  Devereaux said, ‘I’ll ride in front with Ned. You get in the back.’ He caught his breath. ‘Make sure it doesn’t fall out.’

  There was no danger of it falling, for we rolled on to Baggot Street and along the north side of Stephen’s Green sedately. Despite the hour, shadowy figures walked along the footpaths. We skirted the enclosed park, tall houses and grand public buildings, then turned right into York Street. Holt reined in the horse beside a high wooden gate.

  Devereaux jumped down and rapped on a wicket door, then listened for the approach of a porter. From the bed of the cart, I could see the small doorway open and a man peering out. He looked at Devereaux, then over his shoulder at the cart and its load. Not a word was spoken. The porter moved out of sight in order to unlock the main gate, and held it open as Holt drove in.

  We entered a small yard surrounded by outbuildings. A dim light glowed in the window of the porter’s shed. The man fetched his lamp, then came up to Devereaux. ‘Do you have the form at least?’

  Deverea
ux reached into his coat and pulled out the death certificate with a grin. ‘Of course. But be careful not to smudge the ink.’

  He then called for me to help the man take the body inside. Devereaux led us into the building with the lamp, past a sign that said ‘Service Entrance’. He seemed to know his way. We went down a staircase into a long corridor with a yellow-tiled floor. Moonlight slanted in from high barred windows set at ground level. There was a long trolley beside the stairwell, and we lugged the body aboard. One arm was cocked at an odd angle, which caused the sack to bulge. The porter beat the stiff limb down with a balled fist.

  ‘Now,’ he said, wheezing. ‘Number three, I think.’

  He pushed the trolley forward as if taking the corpse for a stroll. We entered a room already lit by an oil-lamp. Part of it was closed off by a full-length grey curtain. An odour of carbolic soap hung in the air. There was a large table of polished metal placed against one wall, and a naked body lay on its smooth, cold surface. I tried not to look as we lifted the sack on to the table to lie beside the dead woman. Her limbs were as thin as a child’s, and gaunt joints protruded. She had light brown hair gathered over one shoulder. There was a crust on her lips, raw and peeling, and one eyelid was ajar, enough to reflect a glint of lamplight.

  The porter said he had to change the ledger to account for the extra body, and he left Devereaux and me in the room. Devereaux picked up a small cardboard tag tied to the woman’s toe with looped twine, and bent down to read.

  After a second he said, ‘Why do doctors always write in such a scrawl?’

  He let the tag drop against her sole. It was cold in the room, colder than the night air above, and I asked could we leave. Devereaux had gone to the edge of the curtain and peeked inside. He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Come and have a look.’

  I said I didn’t want to. So he pushed the curtain back. The rings moving over the metal rail sounded like a sword unsheathing.

  There was another body left on the ground on a wide stretcher, a man who had died relatively young. His abdomen opened just above the pelvis, cleft all the way to the throat. Folds of skin and muscle were rolled back on either side to reveal a dark cavity. The man’s ribs extruded above his chest, splayed and clipped, and one of the lungs had been removed. My eyes lingered. I would not have imagined a person could be so undone. I looked around the room, half expecting to see the missing lung on a shelf, squashed into a glass jar.