A Hunt in Winter

by Conor Brady

  ‘You’re not together with me in anything, Mr Evans,’ Swallow replied coldly. ‘You’re English. I’m Irish. And the only reason I’m in your company is because you have a warrant.’

  ‘Come on, Swallow,’ Evans said impatiently. ‘Kelly’s our guv’nor while we’re here. He told us, “Swallow knows where they are, these bloody logs.” So let’s stop wasting time. We’re not going to start rummaging in these cupboards because we know the damned things aren’t here. But we’ll get them in the end. So save yourself and us a lot of trouble.’

  ‘So Major Kelly is a clairvoyant as well as all his other talents,’ Swallow sneered. ‘You’re fortunate to work for such a remarkable individual.’

  Evans shrugged.

  ‘Have it your own way, Swallow. But you might be interested to know that Major Kelly has put up a reward of a hundred quid for whoever turns in these bloody books. Imagine, a hundred quid. Half a year’s pay. Up front. Denis and me, we’d be happy to split that three ways with somebody who’d be helpful, if you get my drift.’

  Swallow felt his anger rising.

  ‘Offering an inducement to a police officer is a serious offence, Mr Evans. Maybe they don’t think so at New Scotland Yard?’

  He saw anger rise in Evans’s eyes.

  ‘You wouldn’t know how we think at New Scotland Yard, Swallow. We’ve got a proper police force there. Not like this backwater. But let me tell you, we’ve got men there who’d be ashamed to admit they shared your nationality. True Irishmen, loyal to their Queen and their empire.’

  Swallow shook his head.

  ‘You don’t understand a bit of it, do you?’

  He nodded towards Evans’s silent companion.

  ‘Neither do you, I suspect. You’ve no idea why you’re here. You’ve no clue about what’s at stake. And you really don’t want to, do you?’

  Evans’s eyes flashed with anger. He crossed the office and flung open the doors of a double-fronted tallboy cabinet.

  ‘Right. We’ve tried to do this the friendly way. We’ve put out the hand of co-operation, but you’re not interested. So be it. But we’ve got a job to do. Come on, Denis. Pitch in here.’

  They started to pull manila files from the shelves, scattering papers and records. When the floor was littered, Evans went to the duty officer’s desk, drew out the drawers and emptied their contents onto the floor. Coombes riffled through the sheets and forms, tossing them to left and right after cursorily glancing through them. When every drawer had been emptied, Evans joined in.

  After a few minutes, they gave up.

  ‘Now,’ Evans wiped his hands together, ‘let’s see how we get on in the rest of this dump.’

  Swallow stayed with them as they went at random from one department to the next. Over his head he could hear the crash of iron bedsteads on the floor above as another team searched the dormitory where the single G-men slept. It was clear from the cursory examination of each cupboard and drawer that they did not expect to locate the logs in any of the obvious places. This was simple provocation; a display of power for its own sake designed to humiliate and to show who was top dog.

  At one point, as they crossed the landing to the stationery stores, they encountered Kelly and Mallon standing side by side. There was no conversation. The expressions on both men’s faces made it plain that neither was pleased to be in the other’s company.

  The operation at Exchange Court took less than two hours to complete. By then, each office, storage space and utility room had been searched. Every cupboard and drawer had been opened. Every series of records had been examined. Each G-man’s personal locker had been opened and checked.

  Kelly dismissed his team and waited with Mallon and Swallow in the public office as his men filed out. He glared at Mallon.

  ‘What angers me more than anything else, Detective Chief Superintendent, is the absolute transparency of what has happened here. You have complete records and logs up to three years ago. After that, they simply disappear. You haven’t even made an effort to pretend that this is a lack of organisation. You’ve simply taken away the ones that you’ve been ordered by your authorities to provide.’

  ‘I can only tell you I don’t know where they are,’ Mallon replied sharply.

  Kelly nodded.

  ‘Words very carefully chosen, Mr Mallon. And indeed, you may not know where they are.’

  He turned to stare at Swallow.

  ‘But somebody here does. And I suspect I wouldn’t have to search very far to find out who that is. I’m not going to let it end at this. There are other places we have yet to look. And getting warrants won’t be a problem, I can assure you.’

  Swallow returned his stare and held it. Mallon gestured to the door, smiling coldly.

  ‘And I wish you a very merry Christmas too, Major Kelly.’

  Wednesday December 26th, 1888

  Chapter 25

  It was ‘Duck’ Boyle, a week later, at Christmas, who got the first significant lead in the murder of the prostitute Helena Moyles, alias Ellen Byrne, alias Nellie Sweet, at Chapel Court. It was ironic, Swallow reflected when the information came through, that the corpulent Boyle, wholly unaccustomed to any exertion in the discharge of his duties, should from time to time come up with information that could make the difference between solving a crime and failure. But in reality, he had to acknowledge to himself that Boyle had a talent for being in the right place with the wrong type of people. That was what a policeman had to do sometimes. Usually it was no hardship for ‘Duck’ Boyle because it involved drink or food for which somebody else was paying. And occasionally it yielded dividends.

  Christmas had brought a welcome respite from the bitterness of the winter. Christmas Eve saw temperatures rise to a balmy thirty degrees Fahrenheit, with thin sunshine filling the streets and courts across the city centre. It dropped, naturally, in the afternoon, once the sun went down and darkness had fallen. But Christmas morning was again pleasantly mild. Thousands of people took to the city parks to stroll in the unseasonal sunshine. Crocuses and snowdrops had started appear in St Stephen’s Green in the heart of the city. A report from the Zoological Gardens in the Phoenix Park had it that hibernating animals had started to stir, sensing the spring-like warmth.

  Swallow worked hard through the week. In spite of the heavy patrolling on the streets, there had been a spike in the petty crime figures as the poorer classes sought to provide some Christmas comfort for their families in the only way that many of them could. G-Division’s detectives had to operate flat out to deal with house-breakings, purse-snatching and thefts from shops and businesses, but thankfully there were no instances of violence. By six o’clock on Christmas Eve the typewriters in Exchange Court had fallen silent, the crime files had been put away, the paperwork had been shelved and most of the denizens of the detective office had adjourned to their favoured public houses in the environs of the Castle.

  Swallow broke with seasonal tradition, confining himself to one quick drink at the Brazen Head with Mossop, Feore and a few of the others. There had been a great many Christmas Eves when he had no idea how he got home or at what hour, but now he was a married man and an expectant father. His wife was engaged in operating a business while carrying his child to term. His place on one of the busiest nights of the year was in Grant’s, by Maria’s side.

  The public house was filled all evening. Tom and the junior barmen toiled ceaselessly, drawing porter from the taps and filling and refilling measures of whiskey, gin and brandy for the merry-makers. There were seasonal drinks on the house, of course: two for full-time regulars, one for occasional patrons. The barmen knew which was which. But in the event of doubt, Maria’s instruction to the barmen was to err on the side of generosity. Closing time came as a relief. By half past eleven the house was empty, the last stragglers having downed their drinks before heading to the Midnight Masses at the churches of St Nicholas of Myra on Francis Street, St Catherine’s on Meath Street, or the Franciscan monastery on Merchants’ Quay.


  On Christmas morning he and Maria went to the ten o’clock Mass at Merchants’ Quay. Later, Lafeyre and Lily came to Thomas Street for a quiet Christmas dinner, prepared and served by Carrie before she went off to join her son and his family in the Coombe to enjoy the rest of the day.

  Maria had employed Tom to decorate the hall and parlour in the private quarters. He had hung tinsel stars and gaily coloured paper chains along the walls. Maria had never bothered to put up a Christmas tree, even though the practice, introduced in England by the Queen’s late husband, Albert, had become common in most comfortable households. But now she instructed Tom to procure a six-foot fir from the traders who brought them in from the mountains to sell by St Audoen’s. He brought three big bunches of holly too, and when he had finished the hall and stairs, the parlour and the dining room, were shining with rich green sprigs.

  ‘We’re going to have to take Christmas a lot more seriously when this baby arrives,’ she told Swallow happily. ‘There has to be a place for us to put out the presents, and we’ll have to light up the tree with candles on Christmas Eve for him—or her.’

  Swallow’s mind went back to childhood and Christmas traditions in rural Kildare.

  ‘And it’s the youngest one in the house that lights the Christmas candle in the window. He’ll have to do that too,’ he said, ‘or she—of course.’

  Maria smiled.

  ‘Things will be so different, Joe. We’ll have our own lives and our little one to raise.’

  The day after Christmas—Boxing Day to the English but St Stephen’s Day to the Irish—was always busy in Grant’s. Many employers now gave their workers the day off in addition to Christmas Day, so both bars did a brisk trade from late morning. Swallow put in a short day at Exchange Court. The crime reports from around the city were mercifully few, and he was back at Thomas Street by late afternoon to provide a supportive presence to Maria and the staff.

  Shortly before closing time he was surprised to see the portly figure of ‘Duck’ Boyle enter the select bar in plain clothes, his overcoat and bowler spotted from the light rain that had brought the spell of dry, balmy weather to a close. He pushed his way through the crowded, noisy room to where Swallow stood beside the door that connected to the even noisier public bar. It was his customary sentry point, allowing him to monitor activities in both areas simultaneously.

  Boyle had never been in Grant’s before, at least not to Swallow’s knowledge. Even at a distance he could see the signs of drink. The superintendent’s jowly features glowed a mottled red, and he seemed to be having some difficulty maintaining focus.

  ‘Season’s greetings, superintendent. It’s a pleasant surprise to see you here at Grant’s.’

  He thought it best to be formal, but not unwelcoming.

  ‘You’ll have something . . . for the night that’s in it?’

  Boyle nodded appreciatively.

  ‘I could manage a Power’s . . . for the night that’s in it.’

  Swallow nodded to Tom behind the bar.

  ‘Large Power’s,’ he mouthed.

  ‘Can we talk somewhere quietly for a minute?’ Boyle inquired, a pudgy hand reaching for the golden glass proffered from behind the counter by Tom.

  Swallow led the way up the stairs to the parlour. Away from the hubbub and smoke of the bar, Boyle seemed to deflate. He lowered himself into an armchair and gulped at his whiskey.

  ‘Somethin’ I came across, Swalla’. Information that could be good on yer case. The murder of Nellie Byrne, or Moyles, or whatever she called herself.’

  Swallow nodded.

  ‘It’ll be very welcome, superintendent, if you have something. What can you tell me?’

  Boyle gulped again at his whiskey.

  ‘This is solid, Swalla’. I’m tellin’ you. I was down in Mulligan’s of Poolbeg Street earlier, at the invitation of certain friends, as you’ll understand. It bein’ Stephen’s Night, there was a fair bit o’ drink goin’ down. Tongues loosened a bit. An’ as you know, I’m skilled at gettin’ important information outta otherwise unwillin’ subjects. Wan o’ the company, I won’t say who, told me that Nellie Byrne or Moyles had a bank book, or a post office book, I don’t know which, givin’ her access to a bit o’ money that Ces Downes left behind to her, be way of thanks for lookin’ after her in her closin’ days. That’s why she was killed. Nothin’ to do with clients in her trade. Somewan wanted the book. Somewan who knew the story and wanted to get their paws on the cash, believin’ they had a claim to it.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Swallow exclaimed. ‘It’d make sense all right. None of her regular clients was anywhere near the murder scene. And her room was tossed in a complete mess.’

  ‘That’s what I’m tellin’ ye, Swallow.’ Boyle drained the last of his Power’s. ‘It musta been someone in Ces’s organisation. I don’t know who. I can only tell ye what I was told tonight.’

  He eyed his empty glass ruefully. Swallow went to the sideboard and produced a bottle of Tullamore.

  ‘Try this, superintendent.’ He poured a generous measure for Boyle and another for himself.

  ‘Good luck.’ He raised his glass. ‘Fair dues to you. Leave it to me. And here’s to the night that’s in it.’

  Thursday December 27th, 1888

  Chapter 26

  ‘I need to have another talk with Charlie Vanucchi, throw everything we have at him, and tell him that unless he can give us the killer of Nellie Byrne, he’s in the shit—if you’ll pardon my expression, chief.’

  Mallon nodded at Swallow’s suggestion. Swallow had told him about his conversation with Vanucchi after the girl’s funeral in Glasnevin and the intelligence picked up by ‘Duck’ Boyle about the money she had supposedly inherited from Ces Downes.

  ‘The ladies of the night over in Monto aren’t usually good at holding on to money,’ Mallon mused. ‘God help them; it’s hard earned and easily spent.’

  ‘That’s true, chief,’ Swallow agreed. ‘But Nellie Byrne was a bit different. We know that she was associated with some of the Fenian lads. She’d turn up at Land League meetings. Mostly the ladies over there don’t give a toss for politics.’

  ‘Fair point,’ Mallon conceded.

  ‘She was close to Ces, so she’d have been known to all of Vanucchi’s gang going in and out of Ces’s house. So which of them might have known that Ces left her a bit of money? That’s the question,’ Swallow said.

  ‘Boyle’s got a dangerously high opinion of himself as a detective, but he isn’t often wrong in his information,’ Mallon said. ‘If he’s got a whisper that one of Vanucchi’s men killed her, it’s likely to be on the mark. So if we take Vanucchi in, what do we have on him to concentrate his mind, so to speak?’

  ‘I wouldn’t propose to take him in, at least not now.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I’d get more out of him in a quiet conversation with a bit of threat behind it. We tolerate a lot of his carry-on because we get a good flow of information from him. But I can tie him in to a score of burglaries in Rathmines and Rathgar where he fenced the proceeds. I can link him to the gang that robbed Morrison’s jeweller’s in Exchequer Street in September. I can line him up with a whole series of thefts down on the docks—furs, Scotch whisky, a consignment of Swiss watches bound for a jeweller’s in Grafton Street. So I think an informal discussion, if I can use the term, would be likely to concentrate his mind, to use your own phrase.’

  ‘But could you get convictions for him on any of those?’

  ‘With respect, chief, that’s beside the point. We might never get enough evidence before a court. But we could shift him out of his rather comfortable living arrangements and have him remanded to Mountjoy Prison for a year while his case is being prepared. He wouldn’t like that. Not one little bit.’

  ‘He’d try for bail,’ Mallon countered.

  ‘He could. But he wouldn’t get it with the character reference I’d put before the judge.’

  Mallon smiled.

  ‘I c
ould probably add a few lines to it myself. I agree. So go ahead and do it.’

  Swallow stood to go.

  ‘Any follow up from the powers that be after our visit from Major Kelly and his merry men, sir?’

  Mallon shook his head.

  ‘Not a word. But I wouldn’t expect it over Christmas. The chief secretary and the under-secretary are gone to England and won’t be back until next week. Kelly might be gone himself. I think London is home for him. But we haven’t heard the last of them, you can be sure.’

  ‘You kept a very cool head with Kelly, if you’ll allow me to pay you a compliment, chief,’ Swallow said.

  ‘I have to,’ Mallon said simply. ‘It’s open warfare now between us. The English are determined to find some way of taking Parnell down, even if it means bloodshed and mayhem here. They can’t understand why people like you and me are reluctant to go along with that.’ He sighed. ‘So there aren’t any marks for past efficiency, or loyalty, or even an acknowledgement that Irishmen might know more about how to manage Ireland’s affairs than wealthy blow-ins from Scotland.’

  It was a tacit reference to Chief Secretary Balfour, Swallow knew. Balfour’s family owned famously rich estates in Scotland. That John Mallon would utter such sentiments, even in private, was a measure of his frustration and anger.

  Later that evening a chambermaid from the Dolphin Hotel on Essex Street, a minute’s walk from Exchange Court, dropped a plain envelope into the letterbox of Charlie Vanucchi’s house in Pimlico. Because she too lived in Pimlico she was an ideal secret courier between Swallow and his informant. The envelope contained a single sheet of paper upon which Swallow had written the letter ‘H’ and the number ‘21’. When Charlie Vanucchi read the sheet, he knew that Swallow wanted him to come to Hanrahan’s of Stoneybatter at nine o’clock.

  When Swallow arrived he found Vanucchi waiting in the public bar at Hanrahan’s, impeccably groomed, as usual, and wearing his fine worsted overcoat. He joined him in a casual manner that to any observer would have suggested nothing more than a coincidental encounter.