A Hunt in Winter

by Conor Brady

  Bridget Flannery placed a hand on Swallow’s arm. ‘There’s nothing I can say, sir. And it’s hard to talk here, what with poor Alice and all the neighbours. Monsignor Feehan is a good man. And all I know is that my lovely daughter is dead. If you’d like to talk to the monsignor about this . . . terrible thing . . . he’s willing to help you in any way he can. He knew poor Alice very well. All the priests across in the parish church did.’

  Swallow was a little surprised by Bridget Flannery’s coherence and delivery. Once she found her voice, she spoke with the confidence and tone of a woman somewhat above her station in life.

  The priest’s tone was marginally more conciliatory. ‘If you’d care to come across to the parochial house, Detective Inspector Swallow, I’ll try to tell you whatever you may need to know. If I can help the police in any way, of course I will.’

  Swallow caught the slightest wink from Pat Mossop’s eye. The little Belfast man notoriously hated pomposity and condescension. Swallow’s invocation of his own rank had clearly improved the monsignor’s manners.

  They followed the priest, moving out through the mourners to cross Rathmines Road. It was dark now and cold, with evening setting in.

  The parochial house was generously illuminated with gas lights in the hallway and in the front rooms. The interior smelled of food and beeswax polish. Feehan showed them to a large, comfortably furnished parlour on the ground floor. He sat first and then gestured them to straight chairs around a solid oak table. A coal fire burned in the grate, making the room pleasantly warm.

  ‘You may remove your overcoats if you wish,’ Feehan said. It was something between an invitation and an instruction.

  ‘Thank you, no,’ Swallow answered. ‘We won’t detain you any longer than we have to.’

  If Feehan picked up Swallow’s implicit assertion of his authority, he let it pass.

  ‘This is a shocking thing,’ he said slowly, his expression solemn. ‘Within yards of this church, the house of God. A very pious young woman from a good-living family. What do you think can have happened?’

  Pat Mossop opened his notebook on table and sat, his pencil poised. The monsignor’s eyes registered displeasure. ‘Is your sergeant taking notes of what I am saying, Mr Swallow?’ The tone was hostile again now. ‘I am under no obligation to speak to you. The law of the Church is above the law of man. And you should understand that I am personally known to the new superintendent at Rathmines, Mr Boyle. A fine, upstanding Catholic gentleman, if I may say so.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Swallow said. ‘Superintendent Boyle is all of those things. But this is standard procedure, Monsignor.’

  Mossop grimaced. ‘That’s correct, sir. Any detail may be important in a serious case like this, and has to be committed to paper. That’s my job. I’m sure that if Superintendent Boyle were here he’d confirm that to you.’

  Before Feehan could respond, the door opened without a knock. A tall young priest with neatly parted blond hair, perhaps in his late twenties, looked into the room. ‘Pardon me, Monsignor,’ he said, glancing at Swallow and Mossop. ‘I heard you had visitors. Is there anything the housekeeper can get you before she finishes up? Some tea perhaps?’

  Feehan waved a hand. ‘Thank you, no, Father Cavendish. That won’t be necessary.’ He made no pretence of introducing the two G-men or offering them refreshment.

  ‘How well did you know the dead girl, Monsignor?’ Swallow asked when the young priest had left.

  ‘It would be more correct to say that I know the family rather than . . . the deceased. They are poor people, as you can see, but decent, hard-working and loyal to their faith. The sort of family our church is built on, gentlemen.’

  ‘Well, actually my own church has the same sort of foundations,’ Mossop remarked conversationally.

  ‘Oh,’ Feehan was clearly embarrassed. ‘I assumed . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Swallow said, quietly relishing the advantage, ‘Detective Sergeant Mossop is a member of the Church of Ireland. Now, if we could get back to my questions. I understand that Alice worked here in the church as a cleaner?’

  Feehan seemed relieved to pick up Swallow’s questioning as a means of getting away from his faux pas. ‘Oh, yes. Occasionally, yes. It was more as an assistant to her mother, who has been one of our regular cleaners for quite a few years. She was a good worker and never had to be told anything more than once.’

  ‘So you would have known her quite well?’

  ‘No. I could only say I knew her slightly. As the parish priest . . . as a monsignor . . . one would have little to do with that aspect of parish business. We would have the occasional short conversation if we met in the church. She was very respectful. She would have dealt with the sacristan for practical matters, pay, cleaning materials and so on.’

  ‘How would you describe her, sir?’ Mossop asked.

  Swallow saw a flicker of irritation in the priest’s eyes. He knew why. ‘I’ve already explained that Detective Sergeant Mossop is not of the Catholic faith, Monsignor,’ he interjected. ‘He’s not accustomed to our usages of ecclesiastical titles.’

  Mossop nodded apologetically. ‘It’s true, sir. I’m sorry.’

  ‘As far as I know she was a very ordinary girl,’ Feehan said. ‘Respectful, as I say. Intelligent, I’m told. Hard-working. After the father died she took on all the work she could to help feed the family. I believe she also worked in a restaurant somewhere in town. I believe she wanted to advance in that area of work.’

  ‘She was anxious to improve her lot?’ Swallow put the question.

  ‘Yes, I would say so. From our occasional conversations I gathered that she was ambitious. She liked to read, she told me once. She’d sometimes take the newspapers home when the priests had read them and finished with them.’

  ‘Were there . . . any young men in her life?’ Mossop asked.

  ‘If you’re asking me was she keeping company, I cannot answer that, Mr Mossop. Our Church, whatever about yours, takes a very strict view on such matters. If she was, it could in certain circumstances have been an occasion of sin and she would have been obliged to reveal it in confession. Since I was her confessor, I cannot break the seal of confession, as you’ll understand, I’m sure.’

  ‘You were her confessor?’ Swallow said. ‘Surely then you must know a lot about her circumstances that could help us, without breaking any seal. It can hardly apply once a person is deceased, I assume.’

  The priest shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. The fact that an individual may be deceased does not alter a priest’s obligation to honour the seal of the confessional. But I don’t know anything that might be of help. And if I did, I couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘I don’t know if you understand what we are dealing with here, Monsignor.’ Swallow’s tone hardened just a little. ‘We have a young girl murdered in the most savage way. We have no witnesses, no significant clues, no motive. Whoever did this could strike again on another innocent victim. It’s essential that we find out anything in Alice’s background or life that could shed light on why this happened.’

  Feehan snapped back. ‘If the police were more energetic in protecting the citizens of Dublin instead of helping to evict people from their farms perhaps this monster would have been apprehended on the spot. Were there no policemen on duty last night?’

  Swallow’s irritation was rising. He steadied himself to reply. He would be courteous to a fault when the police were being denigrated or provoked. ‘The Dublin Metropolitan Police are not engaged in any evictions, Monsignor. Our task is to prevent crime in this city, and if we cannot always succeed in that then it is to make criminals amenable to the law. But without assistance I am left hunting for a needle in a haystack.’

  ‘Then hunt you must, Mr Swallow. And I sincerely hope that you’re good at it.’

  Mossop looked up from his notes. ‘If I could make an observation, sir, perhaps you’d comment on it. It seemed to me that Mrs Flannery is very well-spoken, very articulate for a woman in her fin
ancial circumstances.’

  Feehan permitted himself a thin smile. ‘Your observation is astute, Sergeant. One might say that Bridget Flannery married somewhat beneath her. Her people owned a small shop, groceries, that kind of thing, in the village of Ranelagh. She had a good education if not an extended one with the Loreto sisters on St Stephen’s Green. Her late husband, John or Jack, was a labouring man without education or a trade. You probably know that he died tragically some years ago. An accident at the docks.’

  ‘Might she not then have secured better employment than cleaning in the church?’ Mossop followed up.

  The priest shrugged. ‘That is not for me to say. Tending to the house of God is not menial. She has proven very suitable to the parish. As did her daughter. And as you know, Alice continued to develop her work in the restaurant trade, as I understand it.’

  ‘What can you tell us about the rest of the family?’ Mossop asked. ‘There are brothers and sisters. It was her younger brother, Daniel, who reported her missing last night.’

  ‘They are but children. The eldest boy is Daniel. Dan. He is apprenticed as a barman. About seventeen I’d say. A fine young man. Extremely devoted to his faith. Perhaps unusually so, compared to most young men of his age and circumstances. He attends Mass daily. His mother would have wished him to have gone on for further education. The Christian Brothers at Synge Street would have taken him without any requirement for fees. He would have made a fine brother himself, or even gone forwards to the priesthood perhaps. He served as an altar boy here at Mary Immaculate. Indeed, he served my Mass many times, and his devotion to his faith was manifest. But the household needed his income.’

  Swallow stood. ‘Thank you for your time, Monsignor Feehan. It’s very helpful to have an understanding of the poor girl’s circumstances. If you think of anything else you’d like to tell me, please send word to the G-Division office at Exchange Court.’

  He moved to the door. ‘There’s one other detail I should mention. The city medical examiner, Dr Lafeyre, found an extensive area of injury on the girl’s left leg. A burning or scalding perhaps. It would appear to have been relatively recent. Certainly not an injury from childhood. Would you have any knowledge, perhaps from conversation with her mother, what might have caused it?’

  Feehan’s face flushed. ‘Mr Swallow, it is presumptuous almost to the point of obscenity to suggest that I would have any such . . . anatomical knowledge of a young female parishioner. You may consider yourself fortunate if I do not report your effrontery to your authorities.’ He gestured to the door. ‘Please, let yourselves out.’

  They crossed the darkened roadway and hailed a cab at Portobello Bridge. It stopped short of the Castle at The Long Hall on South Great George’s Street, where Swallow ordered a large Tullamore, and a pint of Guinness’s stout for Mossop. Mossop kept a tactful silence while the head settled on the porter.

  ‘They’re not all quite as obnoxious as that monsignor, Pat,’ Swallow told him, downing half of his Tullamore.

  ‘Ah, sure, I know, boss. Your friend Father Lawrence down there with the Franciscans on Merchants’ Quay is a gentleman. This monsignor is a fella with a high opinion of himself.’

  Swallow allowed himself a grin. ‘Other than his manners, what did you think?’

  Mossop took a gulp from his pint. ‘Manipulative. Guarded. Nervous behind the bluster. Odd how the mother told us that he knew the girl well. I think she said “all the priests knew her”, but your monsignor acts as if he’d only ever seen her occasionally. You could say there’s a bit of an inconsistency there.’

  Swallow nodded.

  ‘It was almost as if she saw him as a spokesman for the family. But he doesn’t see it that way, does he?’

  ‘No. He’s definitely trying to put distance between himself and the Flannerys. Maybe it’s a matter of class or something like that.’

  ‘Maybe. And speaking of distance, it’s time to visit the New Vienna restaurant. It’s only across the street. We’ll need to have a word with Mr Stefan Werner.’

  Chapter 8

  The New Vienna was rich in mahogany and brass, with an exquisite mosaic floor in the lobby, laid out to depict a variety of exotic vines, game, fowl and fishes. The warm interior was heavy with the aromas of rich food, cognac and cigars.

  The G-men showed their warrant cards to a man in a swallow-tailed suit who had emerged through heavy glass doors from the dining room. A buzz of conversation and laughter escaped momentarily into the lobby as the doors swung shut. Through the half-frosted panels Swallow could see that the restaurant was filled to capacity. Harry Lafeyre was not mistaken in his description of its popularity.

  The man in the swallow-tailed suit scrutinised the warrant cards and then gave them back. His hand was scented with cologne. Swallow guessed he might be around forty. He smiled politely.

  ‘You have an unusual name. Like the little bird, yes?’

  The English was precise but heavily accented.

  ‘And you are?’ Mossop asked.

  ‘I am Stefan Werner. I imagine that you must be here in connection with this terrible tragedy concerning our little kitchen waitress.’

  ‘Yes,’ Swallow said. ‘We are investigating the murder of Alice Flannery last night. What is your position here, Mr Werner?’

  Stefan Werner clasped his hands behind his back as if to make a formal announcement.

  ‘I am the maître d’hôtel. My family are the owners of the New Vienna.’

  ‘Oh, so you have you a hotel here too?’ Mossop said. ‘I don’t think we knew that.’

  Werner smiled tolerantly. ‘It has nothing to do with a hotel. It is a title used in the restaurant business.’

  ‘It’s a family business?’ Swallow asked.

  ‘Our family is well established in the restaurant business in Berlin,’ Werner said. ‘I came to operate this restaurant five years ago.’

  ‘Did you move directly here from Berlin?’ Swallow asked.

  ‘No. I have worked in London. For some years I was restaurant manager at the Savoy Hotel in the Strand. Perhaps you know it?’

  ‘Unhappily not,’ Swallow answered. ‘My billets in London on the only occasion of my visiting that city were a little less salubrious.’

  ‘You said Berlin?’ Mossop asked. ‘So you’re not from Vienna?’

  Werner smiled. ‘Which do you think has the greater appeal to customers, a restaurant called New Vienna or one called New Berlin? Berlin is a dull, ugly place, populated by dull, ugly people. So we dull Berliners present ourselves as . . . how do you say . . . slightly more romantic Viennese. We bring a sense of the city of Haydn, Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert to our business.’

  ‘Is that legal?’ Mossop asked in a puzzled tone. ‘I mean, you couldn’t pass Tullamore whiskey off under that name if it wasn’t from Tullamore.’

  Werner blinked uncomprehendingly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t see the comparison.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Swallow said wearily. ‘We need to ask a few questions about the victim, Miss Flannery.’

  ‘I am extremely busy at this time. The restaurant, as you can see, is full. I supervise everything, the kitchens, the wine, the table service. I would wish to be of assistance to the Polizei of course, but I can be of little help with your questions. In fact, I did not know the girl other than to see her. She was a casual employee, you understand. We can go to the office for privacy.’

  ‘Thank you. That would be helpful,’ Swallow told him.

  Werner led them down a corridor into a spacious oak-panelled office, illuminated by four gas mantles set in ornate wall brackets. He waved them to two leather armchairs and opened a glass-fronted cupboard built into one panelled wall.

  ‘May I offer you something to drink, gentlemen? A good cognac perhaps on a winter night like this?’

  Swallow was tempted. He saw Mossop lick his lips in anticipation too. But it was better to be prudent.

  ‘No thank you, Mr Werner. Not while we’re on duty.’

  We
rner shut the cabinet door and eased himself into a seat behind the desk.

  ‘As you wish, gentlemen. Now, how may I help you?’

  In the light, Swallow saw that Werner’s features seemed tanned, yet his hands were pale. Then he caught a gleam of oil on his cheeks. He realised the man was wearing some sort of make-up. Perhaps it was a continental thing. Swallow had never actually met a Prussian until now.

  ‘Did you know the girl well, Mr Werner?’ he asked.

  ‘Not so very well, as I have said. But she worked under my supervision, yes.’

  ‘Did you know her family? Anything about her background or circumstances?’

  ‘No, of course not. She was, as I say, casual labour. These people usually come in off the street looking for work. It’s rarely necessary for us to run a newspaper advertisement. We interview them, and if they are suitable we will give them work by the day, sometimes by the hour.’

  ‘You don’t look for references?’

  Werner laughed. ‘References mean very little in this business. People will forge them. It’s easily done. Sometimes employers will write a good reference just to get rid of a troublemaker. No, we do not seek references when someone wants to start work in the still-room, scraping pots and saucepans.’

  ‘What did she do precisely? What were her duties?’

  ‘Just that, at first. She started here in the still-room. That is, washing and cleaning the equipment and the tableware. She was quite . . . ehrgeizig . . . ambitious . . . is that the word? She wanted to be a waitress. But she needed much training. She was a long way off being able to serve the tables.’

  ‘But you said she was a waitress?’

  ‘A kitchen waitress. She would have a uniform, but her job was to bring the prepared dishes from the kitchen to the sideboard tables on the restaurant floor. Then the waiters, our fully trained staff, serve the guests. This is a very efficient system, in use in most of the great restaurants in Europe. This is associated with service à la russe, as we call it.’

  ‘Sorry . . . à la what?’ Mossop asked.