by Conor Brady
Conor Brady is the former Editor of The Irish Times, and former Garda Ombudsman commissioner. He has held various professorships and teaching fellowships at the City University of New York and University College Dublin. In the Dark River is the fourth novel in the Joe Swallow series. He lives and works in Dublin.
Praise for A June of Ordinary Murders
‘A vivid and crafty whodunit … Fans of mysteries that capture the flavour of the past will hope that Swallow has a long literary life.’ – Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
‘Brady’s powerful first mystery novel is evocative of the period. The many aspects of life in 19th-century Dublin are cleverly woven through a baffling mystery.’ – Kirkus Reviews
‘Swallow is an increasingly interesting protagonist who is left to face the realities of his professional future and his closest personal relationship; readers will want to see more of him.’ – Booklist
‘Making his mystery debut, former Irish Times editor Brady presents a fascinating and in-depth historical peek at crime solving in a bygone era when it took more than a few keystrokes and a phone call to catch a perp. Swallow is a complicated, earnest hero with just enough flaws to make him endearingly sympathetic.’ – Library Journal
‘Conor Brady’s debut novel is a slice of history about Dublin, Ireland, and the Dublin Metropolitan police, intertwined with a first-rate murder mystery, and peopled by characters both complex and realistic.’ – NY Journal of Books
‘Like all great historical fiction, A June of Ordinary Murders stuns us into fresh recognition of a period we thought we knew – and as if that weren’t enough, hides all of its meticulous research inside a superbly engaging mystery. Get in on the ground floor. Conor Brady is the real deal.’ – Charles Finch, bestselling author of The Laws of Murder
‘Brady weaves a police procedural that does full justice to the complex nature of the social, political and criminal labyrinth that was Dublin in the summer of 1887. He paints a vivid picture of the city … Swallow himself is very much in the mould of the classic fictional policeman, a man ostensibly dedicated to upholding law and order and seeking out justice …’ – The Irish Times
‘As in the best crime fiction, the city itself is here a kind of character – and it’s a Dublin we haven’t seen a great deal of in recent fiction … An absorbing read, cleanly written, beautifully structured and thrillingly vivid … Brady has done an excellent job of conjuring the febrile atmosphere of the city as it lurches and stumbles its way towards the War of Independence.’ – Sunday Business Post
‘Delivers a thrilling sense of the familiar, lit with the profane … the pace raises the novel above the period pastiche.’ – Sunday Independent
‘Brady handles the political atmosphere of the time with aplomb. A June Of Ordinary Murders pulsates with a vivid sense of a country on edge as the land wars rage and preparations get under way for a royal visit.’ – Irish Independent
Praise for The Eloquence of the Dead
‘In Brady’s stellar second whodunit set in Victorian Dublin … the astute Swallow is a particularly well-rounded lead, and he’s matched with a complex, but logical, page-turner of a plot.’ – Publishers Weekly
‘The second case for the talented, complicated Swallow again spins a fine mystery out of political corruption in 1880s Dublin.’ – Kirkus Reviews
‘If intricate plotting and journalistic descriptions of time and place pique your fancy, Brady is your man.’ – Historical Novel Society
‘He has given us a compelling and memorable central character in the shape of Detective Swallow … If the RTÉ drama department are looking for something to fill a Love/Hate-sized hole in next year’s schedule, they could do worse than look at the continuing development, and adventures, of Detective Joe Swallow.’ – Irish Independent
‘Swallow, a keen amateur painter, brings a sharp eye to bear on his surroundings, which in turn allows Brady to give us a vivid account of late Victorian Dublin in all its squalid glory. The result is a very satisfying police procedural/mystery and an equally fine historical novel.’ – The Irish Times
Praise for A Hunt in Winter
‘Interesting and daring.’ – Irish Examiner
‘A cracker of a book and very enjoyable.’ – Hotpress
‘A rattling tale which draws in real-life historical events, a multi-strand thriller plot, the complex web of personal relationships … an entertaining read … many mystery fans love to follow the hero on his journey through life, book after book. In Joe Swallow, they have an interesting and agreeable travel companion.’ – Irish Independent
‘The window Brady provides into the everyday lives of ordinary Irishmen caught in a dramatic moment gives his third entry a combination of the best elements of police procedurals and historical mysteries.’ – Kirkus Reviews
‘The story is engaging, and Brady does an excellent job in characterization of Swallow and the lesser players. Readers will bond with the Irishman from the beginning and care about his personal triumphs and losses. The author’s mastery of setting makes late 19th-century Dublin come alive … an enjoyable read.’ – Historical Novel Society
‘Brady’s strong third whodunit set in Victorian Ireland … seamlessly integrates the political tensions of the day into the plot … the series’ historical backdrop should continue to prove a rich source for future entries.’ – Publishers Weekly
In the Dark River
In the Dark River
Conor Brady
IN THE DARK RIVER
First published in 2018 by
New Island Books
16 Priory Hall Office Park
Stillorgan
County Dublin
Republic of Ireland
www.newisland.ie
Copyright © Conor Brady, 2018
The moral right of Conor Brady to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright and Related Rights Act, 2000.
Print ISBN: 978-1-84840-702-2
Epub ISBN: 978-1-84840-703-9
Mobi ISBN: 978-1-84840-704-6
All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
New Island received financial assistance from The Arts Council (An Chomhairle Ealaíon), 70 Merrion Square, Dublin 2, Ireland.
New Island Books is a member of Publishing Ireland.
That was the end of the woman in the wood
Weela, weela waile
That was the end of the woman in the wood
Down by the river Saile*
*Saile – ‘Saileach’ (Irish, Adj.: Dirty, foul, filthy)
Prologue
Hotel Los Embajadores, Madrid, March 1st, 1889
The grey streets that he had walked since morning had been scoured by a dry, cutting wind.
‘Altitud,’ the waiter had told him curtly an hour ago when he shivered, complaining, in the café. It blew all afternoon, rising up from the Castilian plain beyond the city. He had sought unsuccessfully to attain oblivion with as much cheap Spanish brandy as his dwindling pesetas would allow. But when the last of the oily spirit was gone, he would have to make his way back to his hotel room. There might be money from Paris or London in the morning, he told himself. Even if there was, he knew it would not be a lot. But with any luck it might be enough to enable him to stay ahead of his pursuers for another while.
‘Altitud.’ He remembered reading somewhere about the Moors, building thei
r stronghold, Majrit, high on the central plateau of the Iberian Peninsula so that it baked in summer and froze in winter. That was the problem with being a journalist. One collected enormous amounts of useless information in one’s head. Then some Christian king corrupted the Arab name and called it Madrid. Bloody awful place to put a city, he reflected. Dublin or London might be damp and chilly in March. But they would not have this scourging sirocco wind from Africa. The pier at Kingstown had been positively balmy when he walked it with his two boys a month ago.
Was it only a month? The brandy had him addled. It was probably less, he reckoned, since everything had started to fall asunder that morning of the commission at Westminster. One minute he was being lionised and courted by the men from The Times. They assured him he would be their star witness before the Royal Commission of Inquiry. They had billed his appearance at the top of their news column.
DUBLIN EDITOR TO PRODUCE LETTERS
Mr Richard Pigott to take the Stand
COMMISSION TO HEAR FROM DISTINGUISHED JOURNALIST
He had the evidence they needed in the letters he held, linking Charles Stewart Parnell, the leader of Irish nationalism, the ‘uncrowned king’ of Ireland, to Fenian violence and even to murder. The next minute, he was being torn to shreds in the witness box in St Stephen’s Hall by that clever little Catholic lawyer from Newry, Charles Russell.
He had underestimated the lawyer and had made stupid mistakes himself. Everything had happened quickly once Russell identified the spelling mistakes in the letters, challenging him to spell the key words. When he made the same misspellings the lawyer had successfully branded him a rogue and a liar. The hall had filled with guffaws and catcalls. Even the three judges in their scarlet robes struggled to contain their amusement.
Russell had started his cross-examination with deceptive courtesy. But within half an hour he was tearing at him like a terrier savaging a rat. He tried unsuccessfully to stutter out the evidence that he had so carefully rehearsed beforehand, coached by the men from The Times. He realised he was babbling incoherently, the perspiration breaking out all over his body, matting his hair and beard and staining his waistcoat and suit. The presiding judge sympathetically announced an adjournment. The rest of Richard Pigott’s evidence would be taken tomorrow.
Suddenly the men from The Times and the security detectives who drank with them in the pubs in the evenings were no longer his friends. There was anger in their eyes and in their voices. They had turned on him as a pack. There was no more back-slapping or jolly quips. There was no talk of the evening’s promised dinner at Simpsons-in-the-Strand with its exquisite food and wines. A security agent he knew simply as ‘The Captain’ had pulled him aside and tapped him angrily on the chest as witnesses, lawyers, officials and the public gallery had spilled out into the Palace Yard, making for the nearby public houses and coffee shops to dissect the morning’s dramatic collapse.
‘Take a bit of advice now, Paddy,’ he hissed, ‘make yourself scarce. Their Lordships have a distinct aversion to perjury. Make no error, there’ll be a warrant for your arrest within a day or two. Maybe even this afternoon. And none of us wants to hear you in the witness box explaining how you came into possession of evidence that turns out to be a forgery. It wouldn’t be good for any of us, would it? So, come back here in the morning and we’ll have a little present to help you take a nice holiday in Paris.’
He drank heavily that evening, on his own in a noisy saloon bar by the river. He took the furthest corner of the bar, sinking back into the shadows in case he might be recognised. He thought he heard his name being mentioned more than once in the raucous conversations going on around him. The thought of going back to the commission in the morning for more punishment filled him with dread. But he would have to turn up to get the money promised by the security agent. He slept in his clothes at the Aldwych hotel room provided by The Times, mercifully anaesthetised by the alcohol and coming to an unwelcome wakefulness around dawn. Before leaving for Westminster he packed the smaller of his two suitcases, carefully placing the Webley revolver provided by his security mentors – for ‘his own protection,’ as they had said – among the jumbled garments and other paraphernalia. After the chamber-maid had brought the morning jug of warm water, he made a desultory attempt to smarten his appearance for the witness stand. But when he saw his haggard face, crumpled suit and bloodshot eyes in the mirror, he realised it was futile.
In the event, the cross-examination by counsel representing The Times was brief and painless. Russell had destroyed him the previous day and the newspaper’s case was hopeless. In its detestation of Parnell and its visceral opposition to his campaign to secure Home Rule for Ireland, it had backed a dud, a forger and a perjurer. The Times’ counsel had nothing to argue with. Russell needed no more from this discredited witness, although the public gallery was eagerly anticipating more sport. As he made his way clumsily towards the stand that morning, Pigott saw a man in the public seating – he had no idea who he was – pound a fist into the palm of his other hand, mouthing the word ‘smashed’ at him. It was exactly how he felt.
When the commission adjourned early for lunch, The Captain was waiting for him in the Palace Yard.
‘Here’s fifty pounds,’ he said, pressing an envelope into his hand. ‘There’ll be more when you get to the other side. There’s tickets in there as well for Dover and on to Paris, and a set of travel documents authorised by the Foreign Office in the name of Roland Ponsonby. Just get on the next train for Dover and talk to nobody. Understand?’
‘But I thought I’d go back directly to Dublin. I’ve got two young sons there to look after.’
‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ the Captain said testily. ‘You’re going to be a wanted fugitive anywhere in the United Kingdom. And if you go back to Dublin they’ll probably shoot you anyway. The newspapers are baying for your blood. At least the Fenian rags are.’
He knew he had no choice but to do what he was told. It was a hurried cab ride to the hotel to collect the case he had packed the night before and then another to Victoria to catch the Dover train. The weather for the crossing to Calais was calm and uneventful. But he was sick with anxiety. His travel documents got no more than a cursory glance from a French official on the quayside. He breathed a little easier when he boarded the night train to Paris. It was warm and comfortable. He ordered a bottle of claret in the buffet car and calmed a little as its warmth spread through his vitals. At the Gare du Nord in the morning a man wearing a Derby hat and a Harris tweed coat stopped him just beyond the barrier and handed him a ticket.
‘You’re a marked man.’ The accent was broad, strong, Scottish. ‘The powers-that-be want to make an example of you. They want to jail you for perjury. You’ve made them look bad. So we don’t know how long we can protect you for. Our advice to you is to keep moving. Take the train for Barcelona at the Gare d’Austerlitz. I have tickets here for you. It’s departing in an hour. You’ll cross the Spanish border at Port Bou and then continue on to Girona. Change trains at Girona and take the first service you can get aboard to Madrid. We’ll be in contact there. Don’t worry, we look after our own.’
The Scotsman led him to a cab outside the station. He muttered instructions in French to the driver and walked away without a word to Pigott.
The train to Barcelona was overcrowded, noisy and dirty. The ticket was ostensibly for a first class carriage but when he tried to secure a seat he discovered that every one had been reserved. Eventually, having walked the length of the train three times, he squeezed into a banquette seat in a second class carriage between an overweight Catalan salesman who, he discovered, dealt in olive oil and a middle-aged French woman dressed in widow’s black.
After some desultory conversation in English, the Catalan salesman fell asleep. The French widow stared silently through the window at the darkened countryside. There were frequent stops at cities and towns, one more uninviting than the other in the gloom of the night. He would have liked t
o go to the dining car for some refreshments but dared not leave his place which would certainly be taken by someone condemned to stand in the crowded corridors. At some point he fell asleep. When he woke it was morning, with a bright sun rising over the countryside. Green fields and meadows had given way to brown earth, with terraces of what he guessed were vines. The houses were roofed with red terracotta. Here and there in the landscape he could make out sizeable buildings, but whether these were fine dwelling houses or more utilitarian constructions, he could not tell.
All passengers had to alight after Port Bou to be cleared by Spanish border officials. A small, swarthy officer, in a green uniform and a tri-cornered hat examined his travel document, scowled and stamped it aggressively, muttering just one word.
‘Ingles.’
A great many passengers had already disembarked at Perpignan and Port Vendres. So by the time the train had crossed into Spain it was pleasantly uncrowded. He was able to claim a comfortable seat for himself in first class and he breakfasted on coffee, some cheese and cured ham and a small loaf of fresh bread in the dining car. The Mediterranean sparkled to the south and the Albères, the foothills of the Pyrenees, were green and verdant to the north. He began to feel better about things, relaxed even. It would all blow over in time, he told himself.
He disembarked at Girona and took the next train to Madrid. It was comfortable, clean and well provided with a decent dining car and a choice of good wines at very reasonable prices. The journey passed quickly and pleasantly as he dined on fresh sea-bass and sampled the excellent Riojas offered by the railway company.
At Madrid’s Estación de Mediodía, another man, younger than the fellow in Paris and grinning cheerily, dressed in what might have been the pavilion outfit of a cricket club, greeted him on the platform. Notwithstanding the good wine and food on the journey from Girona, he was tired and dishevelled after more than two days travelling without proper sleep or ablutions and without a change of clothing.
