In the Dark River

by Conor Brady

  ‘She could have been a prostitute. Maybe she took her fees in diamonds or gold.’

  Lafeyre laughed.

  ‘Not to denigrate the ladies of the night here in our fair city, but not too many Dublin prostitutes can command a diamond or a half sovereign for their services. I believe the standard rate charged in the brothels in Monto now is a shilling. And I don’t find any evidence of syphilis in the bones, it’s usually apparent.’

  Swallow gestured to the stones and the half sovereigns.

  ‘Will you put those in a secure container for me and I’ll sign a receipt for you. Like you say, I’ll need expert advice about them and I think I know where to go for it.’

  A strong cautionary instinct told Swallow that it would be counter-productive for too many people to know about the diamonds and half sovereigns. Apart from any other consideration, if news got out it would result in a flood of applications from imposters and chancers claiming ownership.

  ‘Can we keep this between ourselves for the moment, Harry?’ he asked Lafeyre. ‘I’ll brief Mallon and Pat Mossop but nobody else.’

  Lafeyre nodded.

  ‘Of course, I can understand you’d not want to set off a stampede of treasure-hunters.’

  He took a small wooden evidence box with a hinged lid from a drawer under the workbench.

  ‘You might learn something with an expert about where they came from by the cutting on the stones, and depending on the rarity of the coins you might be able to establish something about their history. Where will you take them?’

  ‘The best authority on jewellery and precious objects that I know is old Ephram Greenberg over on Capel Street,’ Swallow told him. ‘I’ll see what he makes of them.’

  ‘He must be a great age now.’ Lafeyre carefully counted the stones into the box. He took a second box from the drawer and laid the coins in it. ‘I thought his daughter, Katherine, had more or less taken over the running of the business. Lily tells me she doesn’t come to her class anymore because she’s too busy with work.’

  In addition to her teaching post at Alexandra College, Lafeyre’s fiancée, Lily, taught a painting class at the Municipal School of Art on Thomas Street. Swallow himself had been enrolled in it for two years now, even though it was invariably a struggle to set aside two hours from his work every Thursday afternoon.

  ‘Yes, I haven’t seen her there for a while.’

  ‘A pity,’ Lafeyre said. ‘Lily says she’s an extremely talented painter. She was honoured last year by the Royal Dublin Society.’

  Swallow was silent for a moment. Both Lafeyre and he well understood that the day Katherine Greenberg left the class was the day that Lily announced to her pupils that Mr Swallow was going to marry her sister, Maria.

  ‘Yes,’ he said eventually, ‘she’s the best of Lily’s pupils, very definitely. She’s missed from the class, I think.’

  Chapter 12

  In the way that news of any occurrence out of the ordinary will circulate in a small city, the citizenry of Dublin had become aware that something was astir. Sergeants and constables were knocking on doors at addresses from which women had been reported as having gone missing over the previous year. Mostly, they were informed, by families or landlords or neighbours, that they had either returned or been located. Some were reported to have left Dublin, mainly for England. Others were deceased. One was said to have been relocated to the Richmond Asylum for the Insane at Grangegorman.

  Other policemen were visiting locksmiths and hardware shops, showing photographs of a bunch of keys. Did any tradesman or assistant think they might be familiar? Failing that, did they have any suggestions as to what purposes the different keys might have served? Mostly, it was agreed, they were fairly standard, run-of-the-mill specimens, likely to be used for interior doors in dwelling houses or offices. One long key looked as if it might be used to operate a heavier lock such as might secure a large external door or perhaps a safe or strongbox.

  ‘You can tell by the bitings, the teeth as some call ‘em, that you’d be using that in a lock with prob’ly six levers,’ the locksmith John Donaldson of Townsend Street, told Pat Mossop, who showed him the black and white image. ‘That shank is, what, three inches? So, it’s for a good lock on a heavy, thick door or maybe a safe. And it’s got a big bow there to give you leverage when you want to turn it. I can’t tell about the metal from just looking at your picture but it’s probably an alloy. They’re tougher when they’re made out of an alloy rather than just brass or iron.’

  In the narrow streets of the south inner city and in the open countryside to the west, parties of constables were to be seen around the locations where there was access to the underground Poddle. Metal grids and covers on culverts and drains were being examined to see if there were signs of having recently been opened or removed. Further out in Dublin county, towards where the river rose, close to the village of Tallaght, officers with their tunics off, to alleviate the heat from the summer sun, searched along its narrow banks, up to the point where it turned downward into the earth and out of sight.

  In the hotels and the cheaper boarding houses around the city centre, G-division detectives were checking registers and questioning owners and staff. Who was newly-arrived in Dublin? Were there any doubtful characters showing a bit of money? Had anybody, a snooping maid or a curious porter, perhaps seen someone with a gun or a knife or a club? Were there crowbars or jemmies under a bed anywhere or concealed in a cupboard?

  For those who failed to observe the police activity at first hand, the newspapers had gleaned more than enough intelligence to compensate. Swallow left Lafeyre at the Marlborough Street morgue and bought an Evening Mail from a paperboy at the corner of North Earl Street. He moved to the inside of the pavement to scan the headlines in the main news page inside.

  REMAINS DISCOVERED IN RIVER

  Police busy at Essex Street

  SUPERINTENDENT BOYLE IN CHARGE

  MANY POLICE SEARCHES

  He grinned mirthlessly. Somehow, Duck Boyle was always able to get his name linked to important cases. If the investigation led nowhere, of course, any mention of his name would fade from the narrative. It was well known that he was always ready to pass police information to selected reporters in return for favourable publicity. Conversely, when something went wrong, his name was nowhere to be seen.

  The attack on Sir John and Lady McCartan was reported in the adjoining news column.

  OUTRAGE NEAR TEMPLEOGUE

  Prominent Queen’s Counsel and his wife attacked

  Maid in house beaten and threatened

  A GUN AND KNIVES USED BY ROBBERS

  The report below detailed Sir John’s legal career, his diverse business interests, as well as his distinguished place in politics and in municipal affairs, before going on to express the sense of outrage ‘welling in the hearts of all of Dublin’s right-thinking citizens’ at the audacious crime. The narrative reminded readers that this was the second such dastardly and violent assault in the respectable suburbs of the city in less than two weeks and the sixth or seventh in a period of just three or four months. At the conclusion of the report, the fervent hope was expressed that the police would meet with early success in identifying and arresting the perpetrators of these vicious crimes. Remarkably, although Superintendent Maurice Boyle had been in charge of the E-division at the time of the still unsolved attack on the elderly businessman, John Healy, at Anglesea Road, having been transferred to B-division only days ago, his name did not appear anywhere in the column. In police work, as in other walks of life, Swallow reflected, success had many fathers but failure usually remained an orphan.

  He crossed Sackville Street at Nelson’s Pillar. The sun had started its slow descent as the afternoon gave way to evening but the streets were still fetid. Two lines of steam trams had formed, one outside the GPO on the western side, the other outside the Imperial Hotel on the eastern side. Soon they would be filling with passengers at the end of their working day, heading homeward to
the suburbs. In the middle of the broad thoroughfare, behind the Pillar, cabmen and their horses, drawn up in file, were equally dozy in the heat. He was glad of the shade as he passed into Henry Street.

  Goldberg’s jewellers and fine art dealers on Capel Street had been established by old Ephram Goldberg when he came to Dublin from Manchester more than fifty years previously. It was a regular port of call for Swallow in his days as a beat constable in the Bridewell. There was always fragrant, black coffee and yeasty bread with speck or sweet cake, in the family parlour over the shop. Later, when he had moved to G-division, and he would visit old Ephram Goldberg, perhaps for advice on items of value that might have come into police possession, the coffee gave way to wine, red and strong. What Ephram Goldberg did not know about gold, silver, precious stones and objets d’art was not worth knowing. Possibly more important, he always knew what was being offered or traded around the city, and by whom, whether in the jewellers, the fine furniture dealers or the lowly pawn shops.

  Nowadays, unsteady on his feet and able to move about only with difficulty, Ephram kept himself mainly to the back office while Katherine dealt with customers at the counter in the front. Ever since the attempted robbery a year previously, in which Swallow had fortuitously intervened, the door to the street was latched and locked and visitors now had to pull on a bell-cord to gain admission.

  Katherine opened the door a moment after he had rung and gestured him inside. She was, as always, business-like in a severe, black dress without adornment. There were no customers in the shop but he could see Ephram’s grey head through the glass partition that separated the public area of the shop from the office at the back.

  ‘Mr Swallow. It’s not often that we see you nowadays.’

  She smiled but there was chiding in her tone.

  ‘Hello, Katherine. How are you?’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you. You’re looking for my father, I assume.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘He’ll always be glad to see you, as you know’ she said, a little more softly, leading the way across the shop-floor.

  ‘It’s a pity you stopped coming to Lily’s art class,’ he said. ‘Are you very busy here in the shop?’

  She stopped in her stride.

  ‘My father isn’t able to run the business any more,’ she said. ‘I’m needed here and I don’t have time for hobbies.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I understand. But you’re without doubt the best talent in the class. You’re missed, you know.’

  Her expression hardened again.

  ‘Well, you’ll all have to get on without me, I’m afraid. I should have asked, by the way, how is your wife? I hope she is well. I heard about her unfortunate mishap.’

  ‘It wasn’t a mishap, Katherine,’ he said, just a little more sharply than he had intended. ‘She was assaulted in her own home.’

  She hesitated for a moment. Just as she was about to reply, the office door opened and Ephram Greenberg peered out into the shop.

  ‘Joseph.’ His face, bearded and lined with age, broke into a smile. ‘I knew I heard voices out here. Come, come in and sit down with me.’

  Swallow and Katherine followed him as he shuffled back into the office and lowered himself into a padded chair beside a long, mahogany table, laden with pictures in gilt frames, marble statuettes, mantle-clocks and other items of his trade.

  ‘Sit down, Joseph. It’s been a long time since we talked. I want to hear all the news from the famous Detective Inspector Swallow.’

  He gestured towards his daughter as she started to leave.

  ‘No, my dear. The wine, bring the wine. We must attend to our guest.’

  Katherine nodded in silent assent to the old man’s request. She crossed the room to a tall, double-fronted cabinet.

  Ephram Greenberg reached across the table and touched Swallow’s hand.

  ‘How are you, Joseph? I know that you have had to contend with a great sorrow. You and your wife have been in my thoughts. I have prayed for you both in the synagogue.’

  Swallow nodded.

  ‘I’m managing to get along, Ephram. As you say, it’s been a great sorrow. A very great sorrow indeed. My wife, Maria, remains deeply troubled. The loss of the baby has hit her very hard.’

  Katherine put two crystal goblets on the table and started to open the bottle of Burgundy she had selected from the wine rack below the cabinet.

  Ephram squinted at the label on the bottle and grimaced.

  ‘Unfortunately our usual delight from Bekaa is out of stock. We shall have to make do with this poor French substitute.’

  ‘Bring another glass, my dear, and sit with us,’ Ephram told her. ‘The business day is almost over and we can just leave the door locked.’

  She seemed to hesitate. For a moment Swallow thought that she was about to demur, but when she had poured for both of them, she crossed the room again to take another glass from the cabinet.

  Ephram raised his glass.

  ‘I understand, Joseph. I have known great loss and sorrow in my life too. It does not simply disappear but with the help of the Almighty one can learn to deal better with it as time goes by, I think. Fate can be hard. We are often denied what we want the most. Life is like a river. When the sun shines, the water looks bright. When the sun goes out of our lives, the water becomes dark. I learned that when I lost my beloved wife.’

  Katherine silently sipped her glass of Burgundy.

  ‘Those are very wise words, Ephram,’ Swallow said, raising his glass in response.

  He placed the two evidence boxes from Lafeyre’s morgue on Ephram’s mahogany table.

  ‘I’ve something here that I need your help on.’

  The old man nodded.

  ‘Of course, Joseph. If I can assist you, I will always do so.’

  Swallow carefully opened the box of precious stones on the green baize square between them on the table. Then he placed them, one by one, in a straight, glittering line. He heard Katherine’s slight intake of breath as she realised what she was looking at.

  ‘I’d like you to look at these, Ephram, and tell me what you can about them. Where they might have come from. What kind of person might have them. Perhaps what they might be worth.’

  Ephram sighed gently.

  ‘These are valuable. I can say that even without a closer examination. But you probably know this anyway.’

  He took one of the stones in his jeweller’s tweezers, placed it under the lens of his loupe and peered down through the eyepiece. Then he turned the stone over and back, viewing its cut from different sides. He repeated the process with each of the others before turning to his daughter.

  ‘Katherine, my dear. Would you please look at these and tell us what you think?’

  She moved to the other side of the table and did as he had done with each of the diamonds. She took a longer time than her father, moving the loupe from one eye to the other while deftly manoeuvring each of the carbons with the tweezers.

  When she had finished, she returned to where she had been sitting and stared hard at Swallow.

  ‘These are mostly fine stones,’ she said. ‘Some are better than others. None of them are absolutely perfect. But absolute perfection in diamonds is probably as rare as it is in humans.’

  Ephram looked quizzically at his daughter for a moment.

  ‘Joseph is not looking for philosophy, my dear. He wants to know what we can tell him about these. Where they might have come from? Who might have worked upon them?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘They are very varied in colour. Two are near colourless. There are three or four that are light yellow. The others have a faint tint. So, they must come from various sources. There are various shapes too and quite different cuts. Mostly they seem to be European cut.’

  ‘What do you mean by “various sources”, Katherine?’ Swallow asked.

  ‘That they’re not all cut from one bigger stone.’

  ‘And when you say they are “
European cut”, is it possible to say where they might have been finished? What country or city?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Possibly London or Amsterdam. It would be impossible to be more precise.’

  Swallow saw that Ephram was smiling.

  ‘My daughter has learned her trade very well,’ the old jeweller said with pride. ‘I can add very little to what she has told you. Apart, that is, from one very small detail.’

  It was difficult to tell whether the brief cloud that crossed Katherine’s face showed either annoyance or embarrassment.

  She recovered immediately and gracefully.

  ‘I doubt that I will ever know as much about the jewellery business as my dear father,’ she smiled. ‘But I am trying hard. And I’m sure I will always have more to learn.’

  ‘Come, Joseph,’ Ephram beckoned to Swallow to put his eye to the loupe.

  He selected one of the larger stones he had examined earlier and used the tweezers to place it under the lens.

  ‘This is what is called a Princess Cut. It’s a perfect square. Beautifully cut and quite brilliant. But if you look to the horizontal point on the left side as you look at it, you will see a very tiny adhesion. It looks like a pin-head.’

  Swallow pressed his right eye socket down on the loupe. Sure enough, he could see a small grey point on the surface of the diamond. Then he realised there was another. And on the opposite side of the gem there was a third, slightly bigger than the first two.

  ‘Those are small fragments of whatever metal the diamond would have been set in,’ Ephram said. ‘It was probably silver. They’re on three other stones as well. This tells us that they were formerly set in metal. Possibly in rings, or in a tiara such as might be worn by a wealthy lady. They would probably have been removed with some force, I think. An expert would have opened the clasps so that the diamonds could literally fall out. Whoever freed these stones from whatever they were set in was no professional.’