A Hunt in Winter

by Conor Brady

  ‘Mr Swallow,’ Werner’s smile was condescending, ‘thank you for reminding me. My lapse of memory was very temporary, I assure you. As to that kind of language, it will be heard every day in a busy kitchen. Nobody takes it literally. Certainly nobody would regard it as a crime.’

  Mossop was scribbling in his notebook.

  ‘Did Carmody have any dealings with Alice Flannery?’

  ‘I might have seen them speaking on one or two occasions.’

  ‘Any idea what they might have been speaking about?’ Mossop asked.

  Werner shook his head.

  ‘Not in the slightest. How could I?’

  ‘But their work wouldn’t have required conversation between them?’

  ‘That is probably so,’ Werner agreed.

  For a moment Swallow thought the restaurateur seemed somewhat distracted.

  ‘Yes, that is so,’ he repeated as if something had just occurred to him.

  Swallow struck a deliberately grave tone.

  ‘Mr Werner, when I asked you for details of your employees here you did not mention the name of Michael James Carmody. You furnished my colleagues with a list of employees that did not include his name. Yet now you tell me he threatened violence against another member of your staff. That is, in spite of what you say, a crime. And I have to tell you that he has been convicted in the courts for a serious assault. This could have a bearing on a murder inquiry. Your omission may have serious consequences.’

  Werner’s face darkened.

  ‘I hope you’re not threatening me, Detective Inspector. I am, as I say, being co-operative with you, at the expense of my responsibilities here on what you can see is a very busy day. This Carmody had left our employment when you visited me. If I were to give you the names of every kitchen porter and still-room worker who worked here in the past it would be a very long list, I assure you. I gave you a full and complete list of those employed here when Miss Flannery was killed.’

  Swallow acknowledged silently that he might have a point. But he was not prepared to concede it.

  ‘With respect, Mr Werner, that doesn’t fully address my point. We are investigating the murder of one of your employees. I’m sure you can understand the potential significance in the fact that she worked with a man who has a record of violence.’

  ‘What can I do?’ Werner raised his eyebrows in a gesture of helplessness. ‘It never occurred to me. I’m sorry.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘There is one other matter concerning Carmody,’ he said.

  ‘Go on please.’

  ‘He stole some cash, maybe as much as fifty pounds from my office. I found him in here one afternoon. He said he wanted to talk to me about a rise in his wages. Later that evening I realised the money was missing from a drawer in my desk.’

  ‘Did you challenge him, accuse him?’ Swallow asked.

  ‘Of course. But he denied it. What was I to do? If I reported it to the police I’d have the likes of you tramping around in here night and day. That would be bad for business. One simply carries the loss as a hazard of business life. And one takes better precautions.’

  ‘Have you any details on Carmody?’ Mossop asked. ‘Address? Family? Acquaintances?’

  ‘As I explained before, we do not keep records for our casual workers. They come to work, and if they do it satisfactorily I pay them. They don’t come to work or they do not work properly, I do not pay them. It is as simple as that.’

  The door to the dining room opened and a bald, middle-aged waiter poked his head anxiously into the lobby.

  ‘Yes, Hans,’ Werner called to him, ‘I’ll be with you immediately. These gentlemen will be leaving shortly.’

  He made a slight bow to Swallow.

  ‘As you will gather, I am required in the restaurant, Detective Inspector. I’m afraid I cannot help you any further. Please excuse me.’

  He turned on his heel and vanished through the frosted-glass door into the noisy mayhem of the restaurant.

  Monday December 31st, 1888

  Chapter 30

  ‘You want to go where?’

  John Mallon rose from his chair as if propelled by an unseen, counter-gravitational force.

  ‘Berlin, chief. This fellow Carmody could be our man for the Alice Flannery murder. The only way to be certain is to question him ourselves.’

  Mallon came from behind his desk and stood, gazing into the Lower Castle Yard, white in the grip of a heavy frost that would not yield to the weak December sunlight and which was likely to endure until New Year’s Day.

  ‘How much?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  ‘Boat and train fares about £30,’ Swallow told him. ‘Kingstown to Holyhead and London. Overnight in London. Dover to Calais and on to Paris. Then Paris to Cologne, overnight on the train. Cologne to Berlin. Another £30 for subsistence for ten nights. £10 for contingencies. I’d say £70 would cover it, chief.’

  Mallon turned to face him and grimaced.

  ‘If it was to track some drunken Fenians there’d be no problem. We both know that. You could go to Timbuktu if it was political. But since it’s only a waitress from Blackberry Lane, there’ll be objections. A G-man skiting off to London and Paris? Oh, they’ll make a big thing of that. You’ll have to leave it with me, Swallow.’

  ‘Of course, chief. But you might remind the powers that be that this is one of a series of crimes that includes two murders and one attempted murder. There’s talk in London that the government might even fall over the Ripper murders.’

  ‘You’re reading the wrong newspapers, Swallow,’ Mallon answered curtly. ‘There’s no likelihood of that, although it’s more than a little embarrassing for the Home Secretary. Tell me, how’ll you manage for language there? You don’t speak German, I suppose?’

  ‘No, chief. But this Kapitän Pfaus seems to have enough English to write a fairly long telegram. We’ll manage.’

  Mallon sighed.

  ‘You can take it that I’ll manage the money. Do a minute for Jack Burton outside in my office to let him know the details of when you’re travelling. He’ll make the bookings and he’ll have the cash. You’ll need travel documents, a Home Office letter . . . a passport, as they call it. He’ll take care of that too. I suppose you’ll have Mossop act up for you on the murders while you’re away?’

  ‘He knows most about the files, chief.’

  Mallon nodded.

  ‘I agree.’

  The unspoken understanding was that in having Pat Mossop undertake an inspector’s duties for a few days he would garner an extra pound or two to meet the costs of maintaining his large family.

  ‘And what about Charlie Vanucchi?’ Mallon asked. ‘You’re due to hear back from him on the Ellen Byrne murder. What arrangements will you make to keep the pressure on Charlie?’

  ‘I’ll brief Mossop on that too, chief. It’s always been understood that when Vanucchi can’t reach me for whatever reason, he talks to Pat.’

  Mallon nodded unenthusiastically.

  ‘Fair enough. Just make sure that Mossop keeps me informed of any developments.’

  ‘Right, chief. All that will be done. Now, I’ll go and do some homework on the train timetables. And I’ll have to fix things with the Berlin people so they’re prepared to assist.’

  Harry Lafeyre had invited Swallow and Maria to ring in the New Year with himself and Lily over dinner at the United Services Club on St Stephen’s Green. It was always a good night, and Swallow and Maria had enjoyed Lafeyre’s hospitality there on many occasions before. But by the time he had researched the boat and train timetables and prepared instructions for Mallon’s clerk, he was running late. Maria would be anxious, he knew. He had assured her he would be at Thomas Street in plenty of time to change and make sure he was looking he was looking smart.

  He was barely in time for the cab that Maria had summoned for half past seven from the stand outside St Catherine’s Church. He had hurriedly flung on his suit and run a comb through his hair while Mari
a sat impatiently in the hallway, her heavy woollen coat wrapped tightly around her in anticipation of the chilly journey to St Stephen’s Green.

  The warmth of the club was welcoming. Lafeyre was, as usual, a perfectly attentive host, paying particular attention to Maria, ensuring that she was seated comfortably where she could receive the heat from the turf fire in the dining room. The elegant room was filled to capacity with a lively hum of conversation and laughter from the diners while a string quartet played in the background.

  ‘Ever been to Berlin, Harry?’ Swallow asked, as the waiter served a steaming turtle soup at the table. Lafeyre sipped approvingly at the accompanying Amontillado.

  ‘Berlin? No. What’s your interest in Berlin?’

  ‘I might have to travel there. The Berlin police are holding a likely suspect in the Alice Flannery murder.’

  Maria’s face clouded with anxiety.

  ‘You never told me anything about this,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all.’

  Swallow grimaced an apology.

  ‘Sorry, I should have. It’s not certain, just a possibility. It’s up to Mallon. I’m not even sure he can come up with the money.’

  ‘How long would you be gone?’

  ‘Oh, just a matter of days. If it happens.’

  Maria’s smile was rueful.

  ‘I know you, Joe Swallow. You wouldn’t mention it if it wasn’t going to happen. You’re telling me this gently, aren’t you?’

  ‘What’s the journey? How long does it take?’ Lafeyre intervened, sensing the tension between them.

  ‘London and on to Paris,’ Swallow said. ‘Then a further train journey through Cologne. That takes about a day. Travel shouldn’t be more than two days each way. Then say two days to interview the suspect. I’d be back within the week, give or take a day or two.’

  Lily smiled protectively at Maria.

  ‘I’ll mind my sister if you’re away, Joe. She’ll be well looked after. But don’t you dally over there. You’re needed here.’ She laughed. ‘And we’ve all heard stories of the night entertainments in Paris.’

  ‘Oh, you needn’t fear,’ Swallow grinned. ‘I doubt I’d even be allowed to stay a night there. Jack Burton, Mallon’s clerk, is a notorious skinflint. He’ll pare down costs to the bone.’

  At midnight, the quartet played ‘Auld Lang Syne’. There was a champagne toast to the New Year. Lafeyre and Lily kissed, as did Swallow and Maria.

  When they sat into the cab to travel home, he put his arm around her and drew her closely in so that she could take warmth from him.

  ‘Summer,’ she said, as the cab rounded the corner into Grafton Street.

  ‘Summer?’

  ‘Summer. This baby will arrive in July or August, you know. A summer baby. Won’t that be wonderful?’

  Thursday January 3rd, 1889

  Chapter 31

  Swallow had never experienced anything like the cold as he disembarked at the Hook of Holland. It penetrated his greatcoat and the heavy tweed suit underneath, chilling his limbs and torso. It seeped through his fleece-lined gloves to numb his fingers. The freezing dry air from the North Sea cut into his face and neck and ears.

  There had been no Paris. And he had not stopped in London, hurrying instead by cab from the Holyhead train terminus at Euston to Paddington, from where the night express to Harwich departed. He had been travelling for eighteen hours when he boarded the packet for the Hook. But at least there was a decent dining mess, and he was glad of a hot stew and two pints of ale.

  Mallon’s clerk, Jack Burton, had been brutally direct when he went to collect his tickets, his travel letters and his cash advance.

  ‘I’m saving the ratepayers nearly two quid on your estimate,’ he told Swallow with unconcealed satisfaction. ‘I made some inquiries and this way is a lot cheaper. And it’s faster, so I’m doing better on accommodation as well. You can forget about Paris and Cologne I’m afraid. It’s straight across to the Low Countries, and then a train to Hamburg and another to Berlin. Less than seventy-two hours in all from Dublin. Bloody amazing, when you think about it.’

  Swallow was prepared to acknowledge that Burton’s research was impressive. He did not particularly care about missing London. He had seen most of the sights a year ago when he had escorted the East End criminal Teddy Shaftoe there on his way to the Tower. But he was disappointed about not going to Paris. The new wonder of modern engineering, Gustave Eiffel’s tower, was to open in the springtime, so it was still off limits to visitors. But to view it soaring skywards over the city would have been something.

  The train from the Hook to Hamburg was warm at least. Steam pipes carrying heat from the engine were set down low along the carriage walls, favouring passengers seated next to the windows. To his considerable satisfaction, Swallow had persuaded Mallon’s parsimonious clerk to place him in first class for this section of the journey, so the seating was comfortable.

  There was just one other passenger in the carriage: a man, perhaps in his thirties, with a black moustache, swaddled in a heavy frieze coat with a dark wide-brimmed hat. Swallow reckoned him for a business type, perhaps a commercial traveller, but since he never spoke, declining to respond to Swallow’s ‘good morning,’ he could hazard no guess as to his nationality. As the train rattled and swayed across the darkened flat countryside, he nodded off into a fitful sleep.

  At the frontier he was shaken to wakefulness by a diminutive Prussian customs inspector, accompanied by a uniformed and helmeted policeman. Swallow reckoned they both smelled of drink.

  ‘Papers bitte.’

  He opened the Home Office travel letter with which Mallon’s clerk had provided him. He had requested that it should not detail his occupation or the reason for his travel. He held it up to the inspector.

  ‘Ah, Englander. Auf geschäft? On business?’

  Swallow nodded.

  ‘Yes. On business.’

  ‘Your destination?’

  ‘Berlin.’

  The official cocked his head to one side.

  ‘The nature of your business? Your exact destination?’

  The tone was hostile. Swallow could smell the alcohol distinctly now.

  ‘I’d rather not say. Private business.’

  He could see the inspector’s face redden angrily in the dawn light.

  ‘You will answer,’ the man barked, jabbing a finger towards his uniformed companion, ‘or it becomes a matter for the police.’

  ‘I have shown you my travel letter,’ Swallow answered quietly. ‘It is quite in order.’

  ‘I will not ask again,’ the inspector hissed. The policeman’s right hand moved towards his holstered pistol.

  Suddenly, the man who had been sitting silently opposite since the train had departed the Hook rose from his seat to place himself between Swallow and the pair.

  He thrust a black, leather-covered wallet in front of the inspector’s face.

  ‘Ja, das ist eine Sache für die Polizei. Ich bin ein Offizier der Kriminalpolizei.’

  Swallow had not understood the language, but it was clear enough what was going on. The inspector took a step back and bowed slightly.

  ‘Apologies, mein herr. Ich wusste nicht. I did not realise. . . .’

  Swallow’s rescuer winked at him under his brimmed hat as the two moved awkwardly to the door, bowing again in unison. He held his hand out, smiling.

  ‘Pfaus. Berlin Kriminalpolizei. I’m sorry you were bothered by those two stupid drunks.’

  He resumed his seat across the carriage. Swallow could not conceal his surprise.

  ‘You’re Pfaus? Then you know who I am.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Joseph Swallow. You may call me Johann. I believe that is not inappropriate given the equivalence in our ranks. Or we can address each other by rank.’

  His English was perfect. The accent, Swallow thought, had an American trace.

  ‘Well, Johann, or Kapitän Pfaus, this is a bit of a surprise.’

  Pfaus grinned again. He removed his h
at and stretched his legs as if he had decided to relax, his identity having been revealed.

  ‘My superiors decided we couldn’t have a senior British police officer coming to make a visit without taking care of him on his journey.’

  Swallow smiled back.

  ‘So are you travelling with me to protect me or to keep me under observation?’

  Pfaus grinned again. He drew a flat pewter flask from the pocket of his greatcoat, unscrewed the top and held it out.

  ‘Here, have some good Prussian schnapps as a welcome. Protection or observation? Both, of course. We can’t allow an English detective to wander across the country as he pleases, can we?’

  Swallow drank from the flask. The fiery schnapps caught at the back of his throat.

  ‘I’m not English; I’m Irish.’

  Pfaus downed a long swallow from the schnapps and handed the flask to Swallow again.

  ‘English, Irish . . . no difference.’ He chuckled. ‘My colonel distrusts all foreigners. When he knew that I had invited you to come to Berlin he told me you would be my responsibility. Anyway, you work for the Queen of England, yes?’

  ‘Actually she’s the Queen of a united kingdom. Ireland is one of four countries in that kingdom,’ Swallow explained patiently. ‘She’s also Empress of India, although I suppose that isn’t very relevant to my business here.’

  Pfaus chuckled again as Swallow knocked back another draught of schnapps.

  ‘You could be a spy, my colonel thinks, so I was not to reveal myself any sooner than was necessary. Are you a spy, Mr Swallow?’

  Now Swallow grinned.

  ‘I’d be called worse by some of my own countrymen. No, Johann, Kapitän Pfaus, I’m just a policeman trying to solve a brutal crime that took place in my city. And I’m hoping that your . . . guest, as you call him, Mr Michael James Carmody, the man you told me about in your telegram, might be able to help me.’

  ‘Tell me about the crime.’

  ‘Murder. A young girl of eighteen years named Alice Flannery, beaten to death as she walked home at night from her place of employment two months ago. She was a waitress in a restaurant called the New Vienna. Owned and operated by a countryman of yours, as it happens.’