A Hunt in Winter

by Conor Brady

  ‘Carmody is now lodged in Mountjoy Prison on a charge of larceny from the premises of his former employer. Earlier today Detective Inspector Swallow and Detective Vizzard visited the New Vienna to detain Mr Werner under a magistrate’s warrant. He fled the restaurant and attempted to escape. He was apprehended and arrested by Detective Inspector Swallow on a tram leaving South Great George’s Street, and he is at present in custody here at Exchange Court.’

  Mallon turned to Swallow.

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘There’s not a lot to add, chief,’ Swallow said. ‘Werner has been questioned, and I’ll resume that questioning shortly. In summary, he admits nothing. He hasn’t got an alibi for where he was at the time of the murder, but he says that Alice Flannery was a troublesome employee. He also denies that he has any criminal convictions on the continent, but I have copies of the records from the Berlin CID, Kriminalpolizei, and they’re very specific.’

  ‘So what do you intend?’ Mallon asked.

  ‘I intend to charge him with murder,’ Swallow said.

  Chapter 42

  Supper at Mallon’s house might have been, in other circumstances, what Swallow needed. Elizabeth Mallon was a wise and motherly woman who had already raised a large family. He would have liked to have her counsel on Maria’s condition and how he might best care for her once she had been discharged from hospital. Instead, the evening was disrupted and overlaid with apprehension.

  The meal was late, for a start. Mallon had been at the Bridewell to check on the questioning of Major Kelly. Swallow had spent two hours interrogating Stefan Werner in his cell at Exchange Court on the murder of Alice Flannery. Ordinarily, John Mallon and his family would aim to dine not later than seven o’clock, but it was almost nine when Mallon, his wife and Swallow sat to table.

  Swallow had finished his interview with Werner and had been making his way to his office on the first floor, passing the duty man’s desk in the public office.

  ‘There’s a few pressmen outside waiting for you, Inspector,’ the G-man on duty told him, nodding to the swing doors that led to the lobby and the street. ‘They want to know about that German fella in the cells.’

  Swallow cursed silently. He was not surprised that word of Werner’s arrest on the tram in South Great George’s Street had reached the newspaper offices, or that the reporters had been able to identify the man dramatically taken away at gunpoint from the scene. Other business people on the busy street would have identified their restaurateur neighbour being taken in handcuffs down the street to the Castle by Swallow and Vizzard. But he had always made a point of co-operating with the gentlemen of the press. It was a policy that generally worked well for him. One never knew when one might need their support or co-operation.

  There were three of them: Dunlop from The Irish Times, Sheehan from The Freeman’s Journal and Hamilton, a freelance who serviced the needs of a number of London publications. They stood as one from the wooden bench on which they had been waiting when Swallow came out.

  ‘Has Werner been charged, Joe?’

  ‘Did he confess?’

  ‘Can you tell us why he did it?’

  ‘Don’t get too far ahead of yourselves,’ he told them. ‘You know there’s a man in custody. And yes, it’s to do with the murder of Alice Flannery. But he hasn’t been charged.’

  ‘But he’s the right man, Inspector, isn’t he?’ It was Dunlop from The Irish Times. ‘It’s the German. Isn’t that why you went to Berlin?’

  Some friendly G-man had marked Dunlop’s cards about his travels. Swallow nodded. He had long since learned that it was foolish to lie to the press, but it was not always necessary to tell them all of the truth.

  ‘Draw your own conclusions. You seem to know a fair bit.’

  The pressmen scribbled hurriedly in their notebooks.

  ‘You’re sure you’ve got the right man, Joe?’ Sheehan asked. ‘Can we say that?’

  ‘Say what you think,’ Swallow answered. ‘Just don’t put words in my mouth.’

  Questioning Stefan Werner had been more difficult than he had anticipated. He steadfastly denied that he had any criminal record in Germany or anywhere else. He agreed, though, that he had clashed with Alice Flannery when she worked at the New Vienna restaurant, and described her as troublesome and disruptive. And he confirmed that she had injured herself lifting a heavy pot of boiling soup in the kitchen. He believed it was her own fault. She wanted to work with the chef in order to learn from him. The chef had tolerated her intrusion into his work area, but she should not have attempted to lift the heavy vessel.

  Had she threatened to take legal action to secure damages, Swallow asked. Werner shook his head. He had no knowledge of any such thing. It had never been mentioned. And he had never heard of such a thing in Irish law.

  ‘You left the restaurant around the same time that she did on the night she was attacked,’ Swallow insisted. ‘And you asked her for her home address. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes, I probably did leave around the same time,’ Werner answered. ‘I leave at that time each night. I work a long and arduous day and I have a good head waiter and a trusted cashier to see the last of the customers finish their meals and pay their accounts.’

  ‘So why did you want Alice Flannery’s home address? Why did you want to know where she lived?’

  ‘I had decided finally to terminate her services. I paid her wages for the week, and I was going to write her a formal notice, ending her employment.’

  ‘So where did you go that evening, Stefan?’ Swallow asked. ‘Can you account for your movements?’

  ‘I will not answer that, Mr Swallow. The fact is that I had an assignation with a lady who is someone else’s wife, and I will not embarrass her by giving you any details about her. That is my private business and I intend to keep it that way.’

  It was one of the oldest dodges in the book, Swallow reflected. He had encountered it on more than a few occasions in the course of his inquiries. Any married woman would be ruined in her reputation, and very likely banished to poverty if it were to be revealed that she had an involvement or attachment in contravention of her matrimonial vows. And no man with a vestige of decency about him would be forgiven for compromising a lady, even if the consequences were to be serious.

  ‘You know and I know, Stefan, that if you stick to that position it will turn against you. If you have an alibi for the night when Alice Flannery was attacked, and if it stands up, you’ll walk out of here a free man. But if you haven’t an alibi, if you can’t give me evidence that you were elsewhere, it will add very greatly to the case against you. I can assure you that if you give me the lady’s name I will make my inquiries very discreetly. Nobody but she, you and me will know.’

  Werner shook his head.

  ‘No. I do not trust you. I would not trust the word of any policeman. I don’t doubt that by now you have gathered a lot of information about me and about my life. Some of it will show that I am not a man without blemish, and that I have, how do you say, created a false face to the world. That would be true also of very many of the respectable businessmen in this city. But I insist that I am totally innocent of this crime.’

  ‘I’m certain that he’s prevaricating,’ Swallow told Mallon as they eventually sat to supper. ‘He’s got smooth answers for all the questions, but I’m sure he’s hiding something. And he can’t come up with an alibi as to where he went when he left the restaurant on the night of the murder.’

  ‘Isn’t it possible that what he says is true? Maybe he’s involved with some married lady, as he says,’ Mallon said.

  ‘He wouldn’t accept my offer of a discreet inquiry, chief. If he won’t even give us this supposed lady’s name we can’t check his story. Personally, I think it’s a fiction.’

  Elizabeth Mallon smiled.

  ‘But if it were true, that would be honourable, in a way, wouldn’t it? I’m not condoning that kind of behaviour, of course.’

  Swallow shrugged.
/>   ‘You could say that, Mrs Mallon.’

  ‘But you’ve not charged him. Why?’ Mallon asked.

  ‘He just might decide to make a statement, tell us a bit more after a long night in the cells. I’ll charge him in the morning one way or another.’

  Mallon had opened a bottle of some sort of white Bordeaux. It was not sufficiently chilled, but Swallow sipped it out of politeness.

  ‘What’s happening with Kelly over at the Bridewell?’ he asked.

  Mallon shrugged.

  ‘He’s sticking to his guns. He denies everything, refuses to answer any questions. He says he answers to the assistant under-secretary for security, Mr Smith Berry, and he’ll talk to nobody else.’

  Swallow felt his anger beginning to rise again.

  ‘By God, if I was over there I’d find a way to make him talk. That’s where I should be now.’

  ‘Don’t let your anger get the better of you, Joe,’ Elizabeth Mallon said quietly. ‘You’ll be no good to Maria when she comes home from hospital if you’re like that.’

  Mallon grunted.

  ‘Elizabeth’s right, Swallow. Everyone understands your anger and how you want to see Kelly pay for what’s done. And you’ve just demonstrated the reason you’re not over in the Bridewell. This is too personal for you. You’re too close to it. Leave it to Pat Mossop and the others.’

  He poured more wine.

  ‘Cummins should be at the Bridewell around now. If he identifies Kelly as the man he saw at Chapel Court when Nellie Byrne was murdered that’ll be more than enough to have him charged.’

  ‘Cummins is a fairly good witness,’ Swallow said. ‘He keeps on saying that he knew the man and thought he was a policeman. He said he’d know him again if he saw him.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Mallon agreed. ‘But even if Cummins doesn’t identify Kelly, the fact that he had the dead woman’s post office book in his pocket is damning.’

  ‘Sure,’ Swallow nodded. ‘What do we know from the details in the book? Was Nellie deeply involved in the Fenian business?’

  ‘Oh indeed she was,’ Mallon said. ‘The book was in the name of Helena Moyles, and that name meant nothing to the post office people in their routine spot checks. Upwards of £2,000 has been moved in and out of the account over the past two years. That kind of money can buy a lot of revolvers from soldiers or sailors looking to make a few quid. Or from quarry workers who can put a few sticks of dynamite away every month.’

  ‘Maybe you should stop talking about work, John,’ Elizabeth Mallon said.

  There was a hint of sharpness in her voice.

  ‘The hour is late. You should take your own advice perhaps and leave this Major Kelly to the men in the Bridewell. I’d like to hear from Joe about how Maria is doing and when she will be coming home from hospital.’

  Swallow saw a fleeting look of resentment or annoyance in John Mallon’s face. But the chief of detectives was outranked in this domestic setting.

  ‘Very well, Elizabeth. We’ll speak no more of police business until we’ve finished our supper.’

  Swallow felt a tinge of resentment too. He wanted to hear more of what had transpired in Kelly’s arrest and questioning. But he had to take his lead from Mallon.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Mallon,’ Swallow told her. ‘Maria is weak and tired, but out of any danger, thank God. I saw her first thing this morning and she’s deeply upset, naturally. But she’s strong and she’s determined to be back to her usual routine as soon as possible. Dr Morrow says that it’s for the best, both in her physical well-being and for her emotional state.’

  ‘It’s far from an easy thing for a woman,’ Elizabeth Mallon said gently. ‘And I know it’s not easy for the husband, the father, either. But thank God she’s not in any danger, and who knows, there may be other blessings, other children, in your life ahead.’

  Swallow nodded.

  ‘You’re right, Mrs Mallon. We try to count our blessings.’

  ‘And forgive our enemies,’ she said.

  Swallow saw the flash of annoyance again in Mallon’s eyes. And he saw Mallon watching him, reading his own mood. He recalled what his boss had once told him after a clash with a particularly obnoxious civil servant: ‘Forgive thine enemies . . . but bloody well remember their names and addresses.’

  The maid had started to clear away the dinner plates when a bell jangled on the wall beside the mantle. Mallon came to alert.

  ‘Front door,’ he said unnecessarily, rising from his chair. ‘I’ll see who it is.’

  Swallow could hear the short, muffled exchange from the hallway before Mallon came back into the room. He did not resume his seat at the dining table.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse us, dear,’ he told his wife. ‘The assistant under-secretary for security wants to see me with Detective Inspector Swallow in his office immediately.’

  Chapter 43

  The man sitting beside Howard Smith Berry reminded Swallow of nothing as much as a lean hunting dog. Deep, cold eyes were set in a long, cavernous face. He was perhaps forty years of age. A heavy moustache framed thin, unsmiling lips. His sandy hair, turning to grey, was neatly parted in the middle. He wore the standard well-cut dark suit of the senior bureaucrat, with starched white collar and cuffs and a neat bow-tie in dark silk.

  Swallow had never met him. But he knew the chief secretary for Ireland, Arthur Balfour, by sight. He had worked on his protection detail on a number of occasions since his appointment as the head of the British administration in Ireland almost two years previously.

  ‘Bloody Balfour,’ as he was commonly referred to by Irish nationalists, was no ordinary civil servant. His uncle, Lord Salisbury, was prime minister. He was reputed to be the wealthiest minister in the government. The Balfour family fortunes were grounded in the lucrative business of provisioning the forces holding the empire in India. He had earned his unflattering soubriquet through his zealous promulgation of stern measures to suppress agrarian unrest and by his implacable opposition to Home Rule for Ireland. His Coercion Act, passed into law a year previously, had given the Crown extraordinary powers to suppress opposition and dissent, including the suspension of trial by jury.

  It was evident from the moment that Swallow and Mallon crossed the Upper Yard to Smith Berry’s office that this was not to be a routine briefing or anything such. Two of Kelly’s secret service men, swaddled in heavy winter coats that bulged with concealed firearms, guarded the doorway. Two others were posted on the landing outside the under-secretary’s office.

  Smith Berry sat behind his desk with the chief secretary to his right. Waters, the former RIC man whom Swallow had previously encountered at Mallon’s house, sat to his left. Unusually, there were no clerks or secretaries present to take notes. The turf fires that normally blazed in the two grates were out. Swallow surmised that the trio had not been in the office very long, but that they had held earlier conversations elsewhere.

  ‘Sit down,’ Smith Berry commanded.

  Swallow and Mallon took the two chairs indicated in front of the desk.

  ‘Mr Mallon, you know the chief secretary, Sir Arthur Balfour, of course,’ Smith Berry said.

  ‘Of course. Good evening, sir.’

  Balfour nodded in recognition, almost imperceptibly. Swallow was not introduced. A mere detective inspector was the beneath the notice of Her Majesty’s Chief Secretary for Ireland, he knew.

  ‘Mr Mallon,’ Smith Berry said icily, ‘you have utterly overstepped your authority in detaining Major Nigel Kelly, a senior officer of my department, and a gentleman I should add, personally selected for his duties in Ireland by the chief secretary himself. Mr Balfour’s presence here is earnest, as I would hope you understand, of the gravity of the situation in which you have placed yourself.’

  Mallon looked oddly relaxed, Swallow thought. He had observed this technique before in challenging encounters. It involved absolute discipline and a refusal to respond emotionally to whatever might transpire. When the chief of detectives sp
oke, his voice was even and calm.

  ‘Mr Smith Berry, Major Kelly is in lawful custody and is to be charged with murder of Helena Moyles, alias Helen or Ellen Byrne, alias Nellie Sweet. I’m sure the chief secretary understands that it is my duty to investigate serious crimes, of which murder is, of course, the most serious, and to bring to justice those towards whom the evidence of responsibility is pointing.’

  Smith Berry snorted in annoyance.

  ‘Major Kelly is not guilty of any murder, Mr Mallon. And if you had any sense of your wider duty you would have reported to me before taking any action against a senior and valued officer of my department.’

  ‘You will be aware that I sought twice to meet with you over the past two days, sir,’ Mallon countered, ‘and on both occasions the message came back that you were otherwise engaged.’

  Swallow saw Smith Berry wince slightly. He believed he saw Balfour’s eyes flicker briefly as the riposte was delivered.

  ‘Do not be disingenuous with me, Mr Mallon,’ Smith Berry said. ‘I do not believe, even if I had been able to make time to see you, that you would have informed me of this . . . proposed outrage.’

  ‘It is true I wanted to discuss a number of things, sir, but I would never fail to inform you fully on matters within your purview.’

  It was a skilful answer.

  Balfour spoke for the first time.

  ‘I had not understood that you sought to speak with the assistant under-secretary, Mr Mallon. What was it that you wished to discuss with him, please?’

  Swallow felt a surge of elation. The conversation was playing right into Mallon’s hands.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Mallon nodded to the chief secretary. ‘I would have briefed Mr Smith Berry, as I always do, on the progress of criminal investigations and on matters pertaining to security. I would also have wished to register my dismay and concern at sending armed men under Major Kelly’s command to raid the dwelling accommodation occupied by Detective Inspector Swallow and his wife.’