A Hunt in Winter

by Conor Brady

Meanwhile, Debbie Dunne, though small and slight, was proving herself strong and resilient. She made a slow but steady recovery from her injuries in the Dublin Infirmary at Jervis Street. Within a week she was well enough to be released. But she was required to attend every second day to have the dressings on her wounds changed. It was going to be a while before she would be well enough to get back to work selling fish.

  Swallow and Pat Mossop questioned her after her discharge from hospital.

  ‘Any detail at all that you can remember, anything that’s come back to your mind since, might be a help,’ Mossop told her in the bare room where she lived with her younger sister at Ringsend.

  ‘Jesus . . . didn’t I tell the other bobbies . . . everythin’ I remember,’ she groaned through split lips. ‘I was fightin’ for me life and the few shillin’s I’d earned in the day.’

  Her face was still a mass of bruising, yellow and blue. Her left arm was encased in plaster, the ulna having been badly fractured. It would be months before she would have the strength again to push a barrow. Swallow felt something between anger at what had happened to the girl and admiration for her grit.

  ‘You said he had a smell. You told the other detectives it was a “musty” smell,’ Swallow said gently. ‘Would you say it was smell like a horse, or a dog, or what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said wearily. ‘Who knows what any horse smells like? Ask me about fish. I can tell yez about smells offa different fish.’

  ‘But he didn’t smell of fish,’ Swallow pressed her. ‘You said “musty” to the other policemen.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know. Like I said, I was fightin’ for me life, wasn’t I?’

  ‘I think you were, Debbie. And fair enough, you saw him off.’

  ‘There’s nothin’ fair about it,’ she muttered. ‘Be the time I’m back on me feet, me stand will be gone. There’s a dozen other wans who’ll be sellin’ fish down Cardiff Lane and Misery Hill.’

  ‘We could help you on that,’ Mossop suggested. ‘Have you anyone else who could operate your barrow for a while?’

  ‘There’s me little sister, Lizzie. But them wans would run her off the street.’

  ‘Not if we told them they’d be fined for trading without a street licence,’ Mossop said. ‘They’d be very nice to her, I’d say, in those circumstances.’

  ‘Street licence?’ Debbie Dunne managed a croaky laugh. ‘Sure, none of us ever had them.’

  ‘Well, that isn’t a great surprise, Debbie. There wouldn’t be much chit-chat among the girls about the Dublin Street Trading Act. But maybe it’s time to enforce the law,’ Mossop ventured.

  She hesitated for a moment.

  ‘Could yez do that . . . what you’re sayin’ like? It’d be great if I knew I could go back to me stand when I’m better.’

  ‘We could,’ Swallow said simply, ‘and we will, if you like.’

  When they returned to the Castle late in the afternoon, Swallow went to report to Mallon at his office in the Lower Yard.

  Crossing the yard, he saw Harry Lafeyre’s brougham standing outside the medical examiner’s storeroom. As Swallow passed the building, Lafeyre’s driver, Scollan, emerged through the door, struggling with a large cardboard box that he deposited onto the carriage floor. Scollan glowered at him.

  ‘Bringin’ these files up to Harcourt Street for the doctor. You’d not think paper could be so bloody heavy.’

  Swallow hoped that Lafeyre’s instructions to his assistant were simply to fetch and deliver. Any further exploration within the medical examiner’s room carried the risk that the protection logs could be uncovered from behind the storage cupboard.

  ‘Ah go on, you big horse of a Limerick man,’ he cajoled Scollan. ‘If it was a crate of stout you were carrying away for yourself, you’d say it was as light as a feather.’

  Scollan muttered something unintelligible as he locked the storeroom door. Then he hoisted himself to the brougham’s driving seat, flicked the reins over the horse’s back and started to trundle across the yard towards the Palace Street gate. Swallow breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

  John Mallon was in foul humour. As the day ended, the air in his office had become thick with fumes from the coal fire, overlaid with tobacco smoke. As Swallow went to sit, a blast of northerly wind coming across the rooftops sent a ball of sulphur-laden smoke back down the chimney. Mallon waved a newspaper to disperse the fumes.

  ‘Jesus, if we’ve asked the maintenance men once, we must have asked them ten times to put a new cowl on that chimney pot up on the blasted roof. You’ve a choice in here between freezing to death and suffocating.’

  He took his seat behind the desk.

  ‘Any developments?’

  Swallow shook his head.

  ‘None worth talking about, chief. Debbie Dunne can’t tell us any more than she has. She’s worried about losing her trade, so we told her we’d come down on anyone who tries to take her pitch. None of them have trader’s licences.’

  ‘That’s a Christian thought.’

  ‘It was Pat Mossop’s more than mine. She’s a plucky little one. You’d want to help if you could.’

  Mallon smiled.

  ‘Would I be right in thinking there might be more than that? Does Mossop see a return on his effort?’

  Swallow shrugged.

  ‘Just a sense that maybe she might be helpful. No harm for a G-man to be owed a small favour. But otherwise no, sir, there’s no news.’

  Mallon seemed resigned.

  ‘Well, all we can do is our best. All fairness to Commissioner Harrel, he understands and he’s staying off my back. In other circumstances he’d be gone demented with the press roaring on about murder in the streets. But he’s got other things on his mind.’

  Mallon tapped his copy of the day’s Irish Times.

  ‘Have you been following the proceedings of the Parnell Commission in London?’

  ‘Not with particular attention, chief. What’s happening there?’

  ‘Our old friend Pigott is being called in as a witness. Nobody’s quite sure why. But it seems that the leader of Parnell’s legal team, Sir Charles Russell, has something on him. There are very long faces on the gentlemen representing the government, and indeed The Times.

  Of all the legions of scribblers that populated the Dublin newspapers and printing-houses, Swallow rated Richard Pigott as the most duplicitous. He held himself out as a Home Rule sympathiser, but when Upper Yard officials wanted an inflammatory tract planted in some publication, or sought intelligence on the intentions of Land Leaguers or Home Rulers, Pigott could be relied upon, for the right fee, to come up with the goods.

  Pigott lived well, renting an elegant house at De Vesci Terrace in the salubrious suburb of Monkstown, where he lived with his two young sons, his wife having died some years previously. He moved in influential circles. Swallow had encountered him dining one evening with Smith Berry in the expensive Burlington Restaurant on Trinity Street, and on another while visiting the United Services Club on St Stephen’s Green with Harry Lafeyre.

  ‘Pigott? Nobody’d believe the Lord’s Prayer out of him.’

  ‘I agree,’ Mallon said. ‘They’re pretty desperate if Pigott’s their strongest card. I would anticipate that Russell is going to pick him asunder on the witness stand. So when the commission collapses or finds that Parnell has no case to answer, that’s when they’ll want G-Division’s protection logs.’

  Swallow’s tone was mock-earnest.

  ‘We’ve searched everywhere, sir. You know that.’

  Mallon grinned.

  ‘Of course. But I should tell you I’ve had to agree to let them do a search. They’ll start in the public office. You’ll have to arrange to have every room open. The same goes for cupboards, lockers, and of course the safes.’

  ‘The men won’t like it, chief. Tempers are still high over what happened before.’

  ‘I know. And I’m going to have to rely on you to keep them cool. We
don’t need any hot-head stuff. I’ll make it my business to be present myself throughout. So will Kelly. We’ve agreed it will be a joint operation. We’ll have someone with each of their search teams. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours if we’re co-operative. If we’re not, it means it’ll take that much longer.’

  ‘What do you think they really believe, chief?’ Swallow asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. Kelly’s no fool, and he’s out to cover his own backside. He has to show that he’s taken every possible step to locate the logs. Whether he thinks the stupid Irish can’t find the blasted things, or whether he thinks we’re not co-operating, I don’t really know. And I’m not sure it matters that much. He’ll do what a soldier does anyway—secure the objective he’s been ordered to. Whether it’s worth it, that isn’t his problem.’

  Mallon nodded to the wall clock.

  ‘Time to wind down the day, such as it is.’

  He reached into one of the cavernous drawers of the oak desk and produced a half-full bottle of Bushmills along with two tumblers. He poured heavy measures and pushed one across the desk to Swallow.

  Swallow crossed the room to fetch the water jug that Mallon’s clerk, Jack Burton, always left, freshly filled during the afternoon. Without asking, he added an equal volume of water to each of the tumblers. It was akin to a liturgical process, repeated and perfected between them over years of working together. Mallon raised his glass.

  ‘Good luck.’

  Swallow did likewise.

  ‘Good luck, chief.’

  Mallon threw back half of his drink in a great swallow. He put another shot in his tumbler and did the same with Swallow’s.

  ‘So,’ he grinned, ‘tell me how married life is treating you.’

  ‘Ah, much the same as unmarried life, I suppose,’ Swallow laughed. ‘You’ve possibly guessed, Maria and I are going to be . . . blessed . . . very quickly. You know what I mean, sir.’

  ‘Aha,’ Mallon said. He raised his tumbler of Bushmills again. ‘Now I know I’m not losing my touch as a detective. I should have guessed that. Congratulations. When’s the big event due?’

  ‘I’m no expert,’ Swallow chuckled, ‘but I did my stint in medical school, as you know. It’ll be August. Early August.’

  ‘Then you’ll call him Augustus or Augustine, if it’s a boy,’ Mallon grinned. ‘I don’t know the female equivalent.’

  ‘It would be Augustina, I suppose,’ Swallow reflected. ‘Bloody awful name though.’

  ‘I agree,’ Mallon said gravely. ‘Forget I mentioned it.’

  He threw back the rest of his Bushmills.

  ‘I think I’ll call it a day, chief. Thanks for the drink. I’ll be down in the morning for the reception committee. We’ll astonish Major Kelly and his amadáns with our courtesy and co-operation.’

  He left the Castle via the Palace Street gate and turned in to Dame Street. A perfect half-moon had risen behind the Chapel Royal, shimmering in the clear, cold sky.

  The walk to Thomas Street through the sharp air cleared his head and dispersed the effects of Mallon’s Bushmills. Two greatcoated constables watching from the shadowed corner of Meath Street nodded as they recognised him. In spite of the chill of the evening, Swallow envied them the uncomplicated simplicity of their task.

  As the night went by, he knew, they would be checking and questioning those moving about on the streets. They would be noting names, times and destinations, as would scores of their colleagues, singly or in pairs across the city. Pages in notebooks would be filled with seemingly pointless detail. And yet, in there amongst the scrawls and the scribbles, there might be a clue or a connection that could solve a murder.

  Although it was still a few weeks to Christmas, many of the shops along High Street and Thomas Street were already displaying their festive offerings. Dempsey’s, the butcher’s on High Street, had fine hams in their window adorned with sprigs of green holly. Naughton’s, the grocer’s, displayed bowls of raisins and sultanas along with a shining pyramid of fat, bright oranges. Donnelly’s, the fishmonger’s on Thomas Street, displayed a notice offering smoked cod and salted herrings up to Christmas Eve. For many, they would be an affordable alternative to goose or beef for Christmas dinner.

  The night was quiet at Grant’s. Tom, the head barman, had the evening off. Two young curates served a few customers in the public area and even fewer in the select bar. Maria, as ever, moved gracefully between the two sectors, greeting customers, watching the service, directing the curates with sharp eyes so that empty glasses were taken in, dirty tabletops were polished and ashtrays were promptly emptied, cleaned and replaced.

  The Monday night trade was slow. Swallow went upstairs first to the private quarters. He unstrapped the shoulder-holster with the heavy Webley Bulldog and placed the weapon in the bedside locker. He washed, changed to a fresh collar and shirt and went downstairs.

  Maria saw him take up his stance beside but not behind the bar. He would not serve or tend. If that were to be reported to the Castle authorities, there was no plausible explanation he could offer for engaging in a ‘prohibited occupation’.

  Rather, he would simply be a presence, as Maria’s other half, as the man of the house. She felt more secure with him there, visible, strong, commanding. The clientele knew him for a bobby. Not just a bobby but a G-man. Not just a G-man but a detective inspector. A man of rank, of substance. It was good, in a city where murder walked the streets, where the winter darkness closed in earlier each day, to know that a man like Joe Swallow was at hand. M & M Grant’s was an oasis of warmth and safety for its patrons in a perilous time.

  Swallow and Maria retired early to the parlour above the bar to sit by the turf fire, leaving the bar to the curates below. Swallow had two Tullamores and Maria drank some hot chocolate that Carrie had prepared and left in the kitchen. Later they heard the last of the departing customers and the downstairs noises of the curates washing up and locking the doors. When all was silent they went to the big bedroom on the top floor with its sash windows facing St Catherine’s Church across the street.

  They made love silently and slowly. When they had finished Maria fell into a deep and contented sleep. Swallow watched the waxing half-moon moving across the sky behind the squat spire of St Catherine’s. He had not felt so safe and contented since childhood days in Newcroft. The world they inhabited, with all its challenges and ugliness, was a good one. He and Maria were right for each other. And he knew that the arrival of new life, life of their making, would open horizons of understanding and happiness such as he had not known before.

  Tuesday December 18th, 1888

  Chapter 24

  Kelly and his men came back, as Mallon said they would, in a more civil mode, but no less determined, after an interval of almost five weeks. As the days passed, Swallow had started to wonder if perhaps Mallon was wrong. Maybe Kelly’s masters had overruled him. Or perhaps he had simply given up. But Mallon was not wrong. The search time, Mallon told him the previous evening, had been fixed for ten o’clock. When they arrived, precisely on the hour, there were no threats, no guns; just a look of cold insinuation on Kelly’s face as he led his posse into Exchange Court.

  There were six of them this time. Swallow recognised two from the RIC crime office in the Lower Yard. The others were strangers. Military, he guessed, or former military. They carried themselves with the air of rank. Stern, tough-looking characters. Officers, he knew. Men accustomed to taking orders and, in turn, being obeyed. But they did not have the ceaselessly searching eyes that characterise the experienced police detective.

  Mallon was good on his promise that he would be on hand to ensure that the search was conducted with propriety. This was going to be done by the book. Comparisons in rank between police and military were an imprecise science, but the chief superintendent of G-Division certainly outranked an army major. So protocol required that the process should start by Kelly presenting himself at Mallon’s office. Mallon reciprocated the gesture of respec
t by arranging for his visitor to be offered tea.

  Swallow sat on a window ledge in the corridor until they emerged perhaps ten minutes later.

  ‘The major and his men are ready to start now, Detective Inspector,’ Mallon said curtly. ‘Please start with the public office. I’ve assured Major Kelly that we will extend every co-operation. Our men will work side by side with his throughout the search.’

  ‘We will operate in teams of two,’ Kelly announced. ‘I want one team to start where the logs are normally filed and then to check other regular storage places. I want another team to start in the detective inspector’s and the crime sergeants’ offices. The third team will search the sleeping and recreation quarters.’

  Swallow gritted his teeth. Kelly had done his homework very thoroughly. He knew the layout of the Exchange Court building in detail and the functions of every room and office. In all probability someone within the G-Division had been rewarded for the information.

  ‘I’ll accompany the team searching the storage and public areas,’ he told Kelly. ‘Detective Sergeant Mossop will go with the team searching the offices. Detective Feore will go with those searching the dormitory and the recreation area.’

  Kelly nodded to the two that Swallow had identified as police.

  ‘You go with Mr Swallow.’

  He led them down the stairway to the public office. Earlier, he had ensured that every filing cabinet and drawer in the office was unlocked and ready for inspection. He jerked his head to the G-man on duty.

  ‘We need to close the front door for a while. You can divert any callers down the Lower Yard to the back entrance while this is going on.’

  He gestured around the room.

  ‘There you go. Everything is unlocked. Any questions, just ask me.’

  The older of the two men gestured apologetically.

  ‘Look, you should understand that we don’t like doing this one little bit.’

  The accent was English. London.

  ‘We’re coppers, like you. Special Irish Branch, New Scotland Yard. Seconded to work with Kelly. We’re in this together, you know. The name’s Tom Evans. This is Denis Coombes.’