A Hunt in Winter

by Conor Brady

  Her expression clouded a little.

  ‘Remember, I’ve walked up the aisle once already. I’ve been through this before. And it’s the responsibility of the bride’s family to take care of the hospitality. I’m my own family, so I’m looking after the wedding breakfast.’

  He kissed her lightly on the forehead.

  ‘I’m not going to argue with the future Mrs Joseph Swallow.’

  Chapter 11

  John Mallon always turned himself out impeccably for Sunday Mass. He wore a top hat and a perfectly tailored coat in fine charcoal grey. His invariable accoutrements were a silver-topped ebony cane, silk gloves and a leather-bound missal. Elizabeth Mallon, also clasping a fat missal, invariably wore a fashionably demure ensemble. Their procession to their seats in the forward pew in the Church of St Nicholas of Myra on Francis Street had become a sort of weekly pageant for the parishioners. That the chief of Dublin’s detectives, the head of G-Division, the powerful master of Exchange Court would come to worship among them was at once a source of wonder and some pride.

  Swallow crossed the Lower Yard to Mallon’s house at twelve noon. By now he knew his boss and his wife would have returned from divine worship. The aroma of roasting beef told him that the Mallon family’s Sunday routine was in hand. Mallon answered the door and led him into the parlour.

  ‘What news, Swallow? Some progress I hope.’

  ‘We’re bringing in the dead girl’s brother, sir. There’s a hole in his alibi. The lads are gone out to get him now.’

  ‘Her brother? Is there a big hole in the story?’

  ‘Big enough to enable him to be at Blackberry Lane when the girl was attacked.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘Dan Flannery. He’s twenty. Two years older than her. Works as a cellar man and trainee barman in Coyle’s of Rathmines. Very religious and pious. It seems to run in the family.’

  Mallon grimaced.

  ‘A religious exterior can hide a lot about a man. Anything else?’

  ‘Not much. We interviewed the monsignor at the church in Rathmines where she worked part-time as a cleaner. And we interviewed her boss at the New Vienna restaurant on South Great George’s Street. The place is run by a German fellow, name of Werner. I interviewed him with Mossop. A very smooth character. All charm, but giving very little actual co-operation. There’s no immediate suspect. No motivation. She seems to have been a hard-working girl. No romantic associations. No enemies. No motive so far.’

  Mallon nodded.

  ‘I know the New Vienna. An expensive place to dine. Much favoured by some of our frock-coated colleagues from the Upper Yard and their friends from the banks along College Green and Dame Street. There’s got to be a motive. It’s unlikely that it was just a random attack.’

  ‘I agree,’ Swallow nodded. ‘We might get somewhere with the brother. He said he worked in Coyle’s until midnight, but the word there is that he was away by half past eleven. He could have been down at Blackberry Lane as she came home.’

  Mallon raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Some domestic issue between brother and sister? Some falling out?’

  ‘The monsignor speaks highly of him. He says he might have gone for the religious life if the family didn’t need his wages. Beyond that I don’t know, chief. We’ll have him in shortly and I’ll be better able to get the measure of him.’

  Mallon stood from his chair.

  ‘Like I said, in my experience piety and intelligence aren’t incompatible with the criminal mind. Indeed, they can sometimes be complementary to it.’

  He glanced at his pocket watch.

  ‘My domestic obligations press on me. Time for Sunday dinner with Mrs Mallon. But just so you should know, I’ve been summoned to the office of the assistant under-secretary for security in the morning. They want to know why I haven’t provided the protection logs on Mr Parnell.’

  Swallow nodded.

  ‘That’s not giving you much time, chief.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of mock-sincerity. ‘But it’s a bit unfortunate, I’d say. You’ve asked me to locate them, and of course we’ve searched; they’re just not to hand. I suppose they’ll be found in due course. But right now they’re not easily located. I’m sure Mr Smith Berry will understand.’

  ‘I want you with me at that meeting, Swallow. I think it could be a difficult encounter. And I’ll need corroboration that we’re doing all we can to find these damned logs. Be at my office at half past nine.’

  In the afternoon, still trying to absorb the impact of what Maria had told him, Swallow walked down from the Castle to the Franciscan monastery by the river on Merchants’ Quay. The water was high, pushed up against the quay walls by a rising tide from the bay. A flotilla of swans made its stately way along the icy surface downriver towards Queen Street Bridge.

  Father Lawrence ushered his visitor to the small private parlour overlooking the quay. In contrast with the public areas of the church and monastery it was comfortably warm and furnished, with a fire glowing in the grate. Upon hearing Swallow’s news, the old friar’s eyes lit up with delight.

  ‘Oh, this is splendid. Splendid indeed.’

  He crossed the parlour and reached into the oak sideboard to produce a bottle of Tullamore.

  ‘This is a little indulgence you introduced me to, Joe. But I keep it for special occasions.’ He winked at Swallow as he poured two sizeable tots. ‘And if ever there was one, this is it.’

  He raised his glass.

  ‘Here’s to Mr and Mrs Swallow and the health of their child—their children, we hope.’

  Swallow had not until that moment thought beyond the possibility of one child. The old friar was right, of course. Marriage could mean the coming into the world not just of this child but possibly others as well. It was an arresting thought. He was glad of the whiskey.

  Lawrence would marry them immediately. It had to be done swiftly, he agreed, in order to preserve both Maria’s good name and Swallow’s too.

  ‘There’s a few fellows in the Castle who’d no doubt use the situation to blacken your name,’ Lawrence said. ‘Bringing the force into discredit or something such.’

  It would be manna from heaven for Kelly and his masters in the Upper Yard, Swallow reflected silently. Even John Mallon’s influence would not outweigh the disciplinary charges they could lay against him: lodging on licenced premises, involvement in the business of a public house, cohabiting with a woman other than his wife, bringing the force into disrepute. . . .

  They fixed on the following Saturday for the ceremony.

  ‘I won’t deny I’m nervous,’ Swallow said. ‘It’s all been a bit sudden.’

  ‘But sure, Joe, the whole world can see that you’re cut out for each other,’ Lawrence laughed. ‘You should have made a decent woman of her long before now. You’re doing the right thing, and if both of you make a good confession before the marriage you’ll have God’s blessing. You just get your two witnesses for the ceremony. Who have you in mind for that?’

  ‘I’ll ask Harry Lafeyre to be my best man,’ Swallow said. ‘Maria will want her sister, Lily, I assume, as her bridesmaid. Is that the correct term?’

  Lawrence knew both Lafeyre and Lily Grant from many social visits to Thomas Street. He chuckled.

  ‘A strange pass, isn’t it? Harry and Lily are due to be married when? Sometime in the spring? And here you are with Maria, sprinting up the aisle ahead of them. Well, even if the notice is short we’ll do this the right way too. Full nuptial Mass, and then solemnisation of the marriage vows.’

  He downed the last of his Tullamore.

  ‘I suppose there’ll be a bit of a celebration—a hooley—after the event?’

  Swallow grinned. Lawrence liked nothing better than good company over a meal, or a few drinks, or both.

  ‘That’s Maria’s department. But she’s at work on it already. You can be sure that end of things will be taken care of.’

  Lawrence clapped his hands.

  ‘Ah,
sure it’ll be a great day. A great day.’

  The friar’s brow suddenly furrowed.

  ‘Will you be all right to get the time off? You’ve got that murder out in Rathmines to deal with, haven’t you?’

  Swallow nodded.

  ‘I have. And the truth is that it’s not looking very promising in terms of any early arrest.’

  ‘A terrible, terrible business. It’ll be a fearful winter for many a young woman who has to go about the streets if you don’t get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘I’d be less than honest if I told you we’re going to be able to do that, Father,’ Swallow said. ‘Usually there’s a fairly clear motive, and that can point us towards the perpetrator, but as of now we don’t have any idea why it happened. She was just a young waitress on her way home from work.’

  ‘According to the newspaper she worked in the church on Rathmines Road,’ Lawrence said. ‘It must be a terrible shock to the community out there.’

  ‘She worked part-time as a cleaner out at the Church of Mary Immaculate. I went out to talk to the parish priest there, Monsignor Feehan. Do you know him?’

  The old friar frowned.

  ‘No. Only by repute. But I’m told he’s a very difficult man. A terrible snob too, by all accounts. There was talk that he would be assigned to the Pro-Cathedral, but I think the priests there objected to the appointment and persuaded Archbishop Walsh to send him elsewhere. I’d say he’d be straight enough though.’

  ‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ Swallow said. ‘He told me we’d get nowhere. He hoped I was a good hunter.’

  He finished his whiskey and stood.

  ‘Winter isn’t a great time for hunting, though. I think I need a miracle, Father,’ he laughed. ‘Can you do anything about that?’

  Lawrence was solemn.

  ‘Miracles are reserved to the Lord, Joe. And I don’t know if he’s that much in favour of hunting anyway.’

  Chapter 12

  Young Daniel Flannery gave no trouble to the G-men who picked him up at the cottage in Blackberry Lane. His employer, Tom Coyle, had given him time off work in the circumstances of his sister’s tragic death. On Sunday in particular, the trade at Coyle’s would be light, and he could manage without the services of his young cellar man.

  ‘You told us you worked until midnight on Friday,’ Swallow said after he had introduced himself. ‘But our information is that you were gone from Coyle’s by half past eleven.’

  Flannery sat opposite in a straight chair in the crime inspector’s office. He was well composed, Swallow reckoned, and not visibly distressed by being asked to come in to Exchange Court. He was neatly turned out, in a suit that was pressed and clean, albeit of cheap cloth and indifferent cut. Swallow could not decide at first whether it was confidence or defiance he saw in the young man’s face.

  ‘Can you explain that?’

  Flannery’s features seemed to harden.

  ‘First, Mr Swallow, you should understand that I am an Irish nationalist. I like to be known as Domhnal Ó Flanbharra. I’m a proud member of the Gaelic Union. I’m tellin’ you now that I have no enmity agin’ you, but I reject your authority as an agent of the English Crown.’

  He paused.

  ‘Secondly, I’m a truthful person, committed to me religion. The Commandments say “thou shalt not bear false witness”. You can believe what you’re hearin’ from me.’

  Swallow silently bit his lip. Few subjects were as difficult at interview as religious enthusiasts. Their indignation threshold was always low, and they were always quick to invoke the deity to confirm their innocence.

  Nor had any of the G-men made a link between the Flannery family and any of the nationalist organisations that proliferated around the city. The Gaelic Union, established by Canon Ulick Bourke of Tuam archdiocese, was one of the more inoffensive groups. Yet Swallow felt he knew the name ‘Domhnal Ó Flanbharra’ from somewhere.

  ‘That hardly matters here,’ he countered cautiously. ‘I’m interested to know why you told my men you were at your place of employment at the time your sister was attacked when you had, in fact, left much earlier.’

  ‘There might have been a misunderstandin’,’ Flannery said. ‘I told Mr Coyle I needed to leave a bit early. I had things to do and I needed a bit o’ time off on Saturday afternoon.’

  Pat Mossop’s pencil noisily scratched the responses into his notebook.

  ‘Why did you want Saturday afternoon off?’ Swallow asked.

  Flannery snorted derisively.

  ‘Not for any reason that you or your kind would understand.’

  ‘Try me,’ Swallow said patiently.

  ‘I’m an active supporter of the Irish Land League. No doubt you had your spies at the meetin’ at the Mansion House yesterday afternoon for Mr Davitt’s address. I was goin’ there to be a steward.’

  ‘I can understand that, Dan, or Domhnal if you prefer it. But would you not consider it somewhat disrespectful to your dead sister to be out at a political meeting while she was being waked at home in Blackberry Lane?’

  ‘Me sister’s death is for our family to deal with. I’m fortified in that loss by me Catholic faith. An’ me sister’s death doesn’t come between me and me duty as an Irishman who wants to free his country. I’d hardly expect you to understand.’

  Swallow groaned inwardly. Someone had rehearsed the young man very thoroughly in the rhetoric of the nationalist movement.

  ‘You might be surprised at what I understand. You’re entitled to hold your point of view, but I need to know why you lied to the officers who interviewed you. Let me put it bluntly. You could have been at Blackberry Lane when your sister was attacked.’

  Flannery raised his head to look him in the eye. His expression seemed anxious now.

  ‘I couldn’t have been. I did go to the Portobello Bridge to wait for her, but either I missed her in the fog or she started for home a bit earlier.’

  ‘Why would you go to Portobello to wait for her? That’s a bit unusual.’

  ‘You won’t believe me, so what’s the point?’

  Swallow smiled. ‘I’m a man used to surprises.’

  Flannery started to knead his fingers. It was perhaps the first sign of stress, Swallow reckoned.

  ‘It was that priest,’ Flannery said. ‘She told me he was botherin’ her. Every night as she walked home he’d appear alongside her, and he’d want to walk her along the Rathmines Road. It wasn’t right. I wanted to see him off. He’s unfitted to wear the holy cloth.’

  ‘What priest?’

  ‘Cavendish. He was botherin’ her.’

  ‘Father Cavendish from the parish church? Was there some incident, an event?’

  ‘No, not as such. But there was a lot a’ small things that were wrong. He was too much interested in her. I wanted to let him know that I knew that. To warn him off. So I wanted to be there for her as she came home. To see her all right. She was a good girl. She shouldn’t have had to resist occasions of sin.’

  ‘Occasions of sin?’ Swallow asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Flannery became momentarily agitated. ‘That’s an occasion where sin might be committed. But even if it isn’t, placin’ oneself in that situation is itself a sin.’

  Swallow’s mind went back to some catechism diktat he remembered from school days.

  ‘So what happened on Friday night?’

  ‘I left work and went to Portobello Bridge, waitin’ for her. But I must have missed her in the fog. I never saw her. So I went for a good walk along the canal. I do that sometimes after work for relaxation. I met a friend at Huband Bridge, and we talked for a bit, then I went home. When Alice wasn’t home and me mother was getting’ upset, I went to the police station in Rathmines and said she was missin’. They said she was in Baggot Street Hospital. So I went down there and found her.’

  ‘Did you meet anyone else along Rathmines Road or Blackberry Lane? Anyone who might have been the attacker?’

  ‘No. The priest never appeared. I saw t
he last tram from the city go by, but nobody else.’

  Swallow and Mossop exchanged glances. If Dan Flannery was telling the truth about being on Huband Bridge, a good mile away from the crime scene, it was likely that the rest of his story was true. The alibi would have to be checked.

  ‘Who did you meet?’ Mossop asked. ‘And an address for that person please.’

  ‘It was Mr Bradley. Geoffrey Bradley. He’s a teacher at the Christian Brothers in Synge Street. He taught me while I was there. I don’t know his address, but you’ll get him at the school and he’ll confirm that he saw me.’

  ‘We’ll look into that,’ Swallow said cautiously. ‘Tell me about your sister. What sort of girl was she? Did you get on well with her?’

  Flannery’s eyes moistened slightly.

  ‘She was . . . a good sister. . . . After my father was killed she . . . she was a pillar to the whole family. To me mam especially. She worked every hour of the day and most of the night to help keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. And she feared the lord. She prayed every mornin’ and every night.’

  ‘She cleaned the church and worked at the restaurant. Is that what you mean when you say she worked all those hours?’ Swallow asked.

  Flannery nodded.

  ‘She wanted to make the most of herself. She was getting trainin’ and experience in the restaurant. She said she’d go on to be a cook, maybe in a big house or some place. She’d have been a good cook. She was always readin’ about cooking and new sorts of food in bits she’d get out of the Freeman’s Journal.’

  That explained the cookery books on the fireside shelf in the Flannery cottage, Swallow reckoned.

  ‘She was an intelligent girl. A good reader?’

  ‘The Loreto sisters said she was at top o’ the class and she should stay with the schoolin’. The brothers over at Synge Street said the same of me, you know. They said I could get into the university or even be a priest if I wanted.’

  He laughed bitterly.

  ‘To think o’ me as a priest. Imagine. Just pipe dreams for people like us, Mr Swallow. Pipe dreams. That’s why, after the triumph of the Lord’s kingdom on earth, I want a new Ireland, where people like Alice and me can get our chances.’