In the Dark River

by Conor Brady

  The Salthill Hotel was supplied with electricity but just one lamp burned on a small table beside Parnell. Swallow had seen him many times but never at close quarters. He thought he looked tired and drawn in the lamplight.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Swallow, Mr Parnell,’ Mallon nodded towards him. ‘He is my trusted colleague at G-division. He has received intelligence that I believe necessary to convey to you. As you know, I cannot involve myself in political matters, but when I become aware of something that threatens such stability as we have in the country, I am obliged to act on it.’

  Parnell smiled thinly.

  ‘You were ever a police officer of absolute probity, Mr Mallon. And I know that you have your country’s best interests at heart. So you have no need to convince me of your bona fides. Now, tell me the nature of this threat.’

  ‘It’s a very delicate matter, Sir,’ Mallon began. ‘It concerns your … ah … personal circumstances and I hesitate to broach it. However, the intelligence that Inspector Swallow has received indicates that Captain William O’Shea, lately member of parliament for Clare and then the Borough of Galway, is about to petition the courts for a divorce.’

  He hesitated briefly. There was no flicker of reaction on Parnell’s face.

  ‘The grounds for divorce, to be pleaded to the court, are that his wife, Katharine, has been engaged in an adulterous relationship with you. I have every reason to believe the accuracy of Inspector Swallow’s intelligence, Sir. And there is more. Details of Captain O’Shea’s instructions to his lawyers are being passed to the newspapers, specifically to The Irish Times, possibly this evening.’

  Mallon fell silent. Parnell’s features remained passive, but Swallow heard him sigh gently.

  ‘This is a serious development, Mr Mallon,’ Parnell said after an interval. ‘I had thought that Captain O’Shea was, shall we say, at ease with the fact that his wife, whom he never loved and who was never in love with him, had found that happy and contented state with me.’

  ‘My information is that his motivation would be financial, Sir,’ Swallow said cautiously.

  ‘Financial?’ Parnell suddenly flared. ‘Financial? He’s had his parliamentary seat and its salary all along on my say-so. Is it to do with Katharine’s inheritance?’

  Swallow knew enough about politics to know that what Parnell said about O’Shea holding his seat on his say-so was not quite true. O’Shea had supported Parnell and the Irish Party at Westminster but was not a member of it. He had taken two seats more or less on his own account although the voters would certainly have known where his sympathies lay.

  ‘I believe so, Sir.’ Mallon said.

  ‘I knew he’d be angry about the decision by Katharine’s aunt to put her estate in trust for the children, but how can petitioning for divorce benefit him financially?’

  ‘It’s not impossible that somebody could have offered him an inducement, knowing that a petition for divorce, naming you as the respondent, would do you enormous damage politically,’ Mallon answered. ‘There are men in the employment of the government who would consider it a service to the Crown and a good use of the Exchequer’s funds.’

  Parnell rose from his chair, paced to the window and stared thoughtfully out at the now darkened sea.

  ‘It might not be such a bad thing,’ he said, still facing the window. ‘Mrs O’Shea and I have never hidden our relationship but it’s never been public either. There would be considerable freedom in it. And there are those in the parliamentary party who would stand by me.’

  ‘I’d suggest, Sir,’ Mallon said, ‘that there are also those who would be delighted to have an opportunity to drag you down.’

  ‘The people would not allow that. They know that I’m the reason they’re getting ownership of their farms. And they know that without me the cause of Home Rule will be put back for at least a generation.’

  ‘Mr Parnell,’ Mallon’s tone was patient and respectful. ‘The people have short and selective memories. They’re also susceptible to propaganda from the Fenians and other extremists who characterise you as a member of the landlord class, not of their religion and with different loyalties. I’d say that it could be a serious mistake to over-estimate your support, especially once the Catholic bishops weigh in against you, as they undoubtedly would.’

  Parnell resumed his armchair.

  ‘The Roman Catholic bishops are very supportive of me, Mr Mallon. I am not of their church certainly but they know I stand for order and that I am implacably opposed to violence. They certainly don’t want the country taken over by extremists who reject their authority and who do not baulk at murder.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to disagree, Sir,’ Mallon was firm. ‘Of course, the bishops recognise your moderating influence, but they couldn’t possibly stay silent, much less offer support, to someone who is – forgive me for being so blunt – a public sinner. They would be obliged to condemn you as being morally unfit to be the political leader of their flock.’

  ‘But if the worst comes to the worst and O’Shea gets his divorce, then that would enable Katharine and me to marry. All would be regularised,’ Parnell answered.

  Mallon shook his head.

  ‘No, Sir. That is not how their lordships would view it. They would see remarriage after a divorce as simple adultery. Worse, it would be adultery under a veneer or a pretence. I’m afraid that’s the reality.’

  Parnell was silent for a long moment.

  ‘I can try to avert this, perhaps. How long before the newspapers will publish?’ he asked Swallow.

  ‘A couple of days, at best, Sir. I don’t believe The Irish Times will run with the story. But for the moment, the security agents who are peddling it believe that it will. When they realise that isn’t happening, they’ll go to some other newspaper or periodical that perhaps won’t be so careful.’

  Parnell grimaced.

  ‘The Irish Times is far from being a friend to my cause. It has condemned me in the most unforgiving terms more than once. It’s rather ironic that I’m counting on its forbearance to gain a little time.’

  He stood again.

  ‘I’m travelling to London in the morning. I happen to know that Captain O’Shea is staying at his club there. I’ll arrange to see him and hopefully I might be able to change his mind about this. But if, as you say, Inspector Swallow, it’s about money, I’m not really in a position to satisfy his needs on that front. I have an estate and a house in Wicklow, but I don’t have much in ready funds.’

  He laughed but it was not a laugh that bespoke amusement. Swallow could not be sure if he picked up just a hint of self-pity.

  ‘I’m a fairly typical Irish landlord. A lot of acres, but not a lot of pounds.’

  ‘I daresay that if this matter can be settled with money, I might know people who would willingly come to your assistance, Sir,’ Mallon said. ‘It would take some little time, of course. But there are wealthy people in this city who understand very well that if you were to be unmade, what would follow would be disastrous.’

  ‘You never cease to amaze me, Mr Mallon,’ Parnell said. ‘But I would hope it will not come to that. I’ll arrange a telegram to you with a simple message advising if I’ve been successful in trying to persuade Captain O’Shea to abandon his plan. I’ll use a code name. Shall we say “Salthill”?’

  He extended a hand to Mallon and then to Swallow.

  ‘Good night, Gentlemen. Thank you both for your concern.’

  As they left Parnell’s suite to take the elevator back to the lobby, Swallow told himself that he too never ceased to be amazed by John Mallon.

  Chapter 9

  Dublin, Wednesday, June 5th, 1889

  The dayroom at Exchange Court was abuzz with conversation when Swallow arrived for the crime conference in the morning. A dozen G-men were dispersed around the chairs and benches, chatting and smoking. Some were reading various morning newspapers. A larger contingent of uniformed constables and a couple of sergeants were formed into smal
ler groups, some sitting, others lounging against the dayroom’s oily green walls. Although it was not yet nine o’clock, the early sun had already warmed the space uncomfortably and the air was heavy with tobacco and the smell of cooked breakfasts from the adjoining canteen.

  Duck Boyle was seated in full uniform behind a trestle table at the top of the room with Pat Mossop sitting to his left. Swallow took the seat at Boyle’s right. Mossop had a stack of papers on the table as well as the heavy, bound murder book. Boyle had The Weekly Racing Gazette spread in front of him.

  After a few moments he banged the table with his cane, calling the room to order. The policemen’s conversations dwindled and died.

  He slowly turned his corpulent bulk to look at the wall clock behind his head. It showed two minutes past nine o’clock.

  ‘Good mornin’ Gintlemin. We’re a bit late startin’ but now that Inspector Swalla’ is here we can proceed.’

  It had been midnight by the time Swallow and Mallon left the Salthill Hotel to make their way back to the Castle and an hour later when Swallow got home to Thomas Street. The public house was silent and shuttered and there was no light in the upper floors. He surmised that Maria had retired for the night. That assumption was confirmed with a pencilled note on the table, beside the cold supper of ham and hard-boiled eggs, along with a glass of milk, put out for his return. He was gone beyond hunger but he finished the food and the milk and made his way quietly upstairs to the single bedroom which he had originally occupied as Maria’s lodger. He had slept badly and struggled to respond to the Thomas mechanical alarm clock when it woke him at eight o’clock, falling back into a doze and wakening again at half past the hour. With a quick splash of cold water from the ewer on the washstand, he knew he had to hurry to get to Exchange Court for the conference. But he paused momentarily to listen outside the door of the bedroom where Maria was still sleeping. The house was silent but he could hear her breathing through the door she had left slightly ajar.

  As the senior officer, it was Boyle’s place to run the first conference of the inquiry.

  ‘We have a case o’ murder on our hands,’ he intoned solemnly, as he folded the Racing Gazette away. ‘Naturally, I have familiarised meself with all of th’ available evidence and as an experienced detective, I have me own theories and insights into the case. But we’ll start with Detective Sergeant Mossop’s review of the known facts as they are.’

  Mossop cleared his throat and started to read from the murder book.

  ‘The discovery of human remains in the River Poddle, flowing under Essex Street, was in the early afternoon of yesterday, at approximately one o’clock. The informants were Patrick Byrne, a works foreman employed by Dublin Corporation and two labouring men. None of these have been known to the police in any adverse way.

  ‘There was a rope ligature tied around the neck which is the basis for designating this as a murder inquiry. There is nothing to indicate the identity of the deceased. Scarcely any soft tissue remained. There were some small fragments of fabric attaching to the ribs. These may have been from the deceased’s clothing or they may have adhered to the skeleton in the flow of the water.’

  He looked up from his notes.

  ‘The remains were conveyed to the morgue where Dr Lafeyre conducted a preliminary examination. Detective Inspector Swallow and I attended yesterday afternoon as he did so. So I’ll ask the Inspector to outline what the examiner could tell us.’

  Swallow placed his own notebook on the table.

  ‘Dr Lafeyre believes the remains to be female. A mature woman, probably somewhere in her mid-thirties. She seemed healthy enough. Just five feet tall. He couldn’t be certain, but she may have borne a child or children. He couldn’t offer anything firm on date of death, but he thinks the body was in the Poddle, and I’m quoting him directly now, ‘longer than days, probably weeks, possibly months but not for many months.’

  He looked around at the conference.

  ‘Rodents, fishes and the flow of river water had done their work. Probably the only reason we found a reasonably intact skeleton was because it had been snagged on an outcropping rock down there. The teeth were all pretty well intact in the mouth and there was some dental work done on two molars using gold filling.’

  A murmur of surprise went across the conference.

  ‘That tells us, perhaps, that this was a woman of at least some modest financial means. Dr Lafeyre says the dental work was of a high standard.

  ‘Dr Lafeyre can’t offer anything on the cause of death unfortunately. But he’s assuming strangulation with the rope that Sergeant Mossop has described. He’s going to put it under the microscope today to see if he can tell us anything useful about its composition and possible use or origin.

  ‘Now,’ he glanced towards Mossop, ‘an interesting item was located in the river close to the remains.’

  Mossop displayed an enlarged photograph of the leather belt and the bunch of keys that had been retrieved from the river.

  ‘This was located in the Poddle, a few feet from where the remains were found,’ Swallow explained.

  Heads were craned forward as the men sought to get a closer view.

  ‘There’ll be copies available,’ Swallow said. ‘So everyone can see it close up. It’s a belt, as you’ll have gathered. It appears to be made of leather and there are twenty-five keys of various sizes in the bunch.’

  Mick Feore, who had been on protection detail with Parnell the previous night, raised a hand. Swallow surmised that he must have had, at best, three or four hours sleep in the detectives’ dormitory overhead.

  ‘But we’ve no way of knowing if it’s connected to the remains, Inspector. That river is full of stuff, carried from God knows where. I’ve been down there myself on a couple of cases.’

  ‘Correct,’ Swallow nodded. ‘But it might be, and since we haven’t any identification for the victim so far, it could be the best clue we’ll have to finding out who she is.’

  ‘Ye see, if we kin find the locks them keys fit into,’ Duck Boyle interjected, ‘we kin prob’ly establish who they belonged to. An’ that might be the deceased.’

  There was a momentary, embarrassed silence as the conference absorbed this deductive insight by the most senior officer present.

  ‘Dr Lafeyre is examining them with the microscope this morning,’ Mossop added quickly. ‘Once he’s finished, I’ll bring them to Donaldson’s, the locksmiths, to get their opinion on what their uses would have been.’

  ‘There’s a number of things we need to get started on right away,’ Swallow said.

  He beckoned to Feore.

  ‘Mick, I want you to take a couple of men and get back through the records to give us a list of all the women gone missing in Dublin over the past twelve months. Start with any from their mid-twenties through around forty and give us a list of the ones still missing.’

  Feore nodded.

  ‘I’m on that, Sir.’

  Swallow turned to Stephen Doolan.

  ‘Stephen, you’ve done more ground searches than anyone else in the room. I want you to get a map of the Poddle’s course from the City Engineering Office and trace it out to its source in the country. I believe it rises out near the village of Tallaght. I need a list of all the points where it’s above ground and then also a list of the traps or openings where there’s access from the surface to the watercourse.’

  ‘That’s understood,’ Doolan said. ‘But it’ll take time and a lot of manpower, Joe. I happen to know that the Poddle’s got smaller tributaries as well. There’s one that comes in from under the Liberties, joining the river just under the Lower Yard. It’s called The Coombe Tributary. So we’ll need to follow its course as well.’

  ‘I think that’s about everything we can do at this stage,’ Swallow said.

  Respect for rank required that it be left to Duck Boyle to have the final word and to bring the conference to a close.

  ‘Superintendent?’

  Boyle inclined his head in ack
nowledgment.

  ‘Thank you Inspector Swalla’. I do believe, as th’Inspector has said, that we’ve covered all th’ important aspects o’ the matter for the present. You’ll report any developments to me, immediately, I know.’

  Swallow had long developed a technique of pragmatic obsequiousness in dealing with Duck Boyle. Now he was just thankful that he was not to be detained from his breakfast by a lengthy exposition of criminological theory from his one-time direct superior in G-division.

  ‘Indeed. That will be done for your information, Superintendent, and in order to have the benefit of your guidance for the investigation.’

  One of Boyle’s more consistent qualities, he reminded himself, was that he wouldn’t recognise irony if it came up and bit him on the leg.

  Chapter 10

  He had decided to stop in at the public bar at Grant’s before going upstairs to their private quarters. Ordinarily, he would walk through the bar and be a presence for a little while each evening or perhaps in the afternoon. He was ‘showing the flag,’ he told Maria. It was a way of reminding both customers and the staff that he was there in support of his wife and that he was never too far away.

  The bar was quiet, with just two customers, contemplating their pints of porter on a side table. Dan Daly, Maria’s head barman, whom she had inherited along with the public house, was behind the counter, hands in pockets, staring through the frosted window giving out on to Thomas Street. He seemed not to notice Swallow coming in. That in itself was unusual.

  ‘Afternoon, Dan. How are things with you?’

  ‘Ah, Mr Swallow, I didn’t see you there at all. I’m sorry.’

  The grey-haired barman shook himself out of his trance, drew his hands from his pockets and started to shine a glass tankard that was already gleaming.

  Swallow laughed.

  ‘You were away with the fairies there for a bit, I think, Dan.’

  ‘Ah, I was I suppose, Mr Swallow. Don’t mind me.’

  Something told Swallow that the barman had not been idly day-dreaming. There was a look of worry, preoccupation perhaps, on his normally untroubled face.