In the Dark River

by Conor Brady

Katherine left her seat, walked back around the table and when Swallow had done, put her head down to the loupe again.

  After a moment, she nodded in agreement.

  ‘I’m sure my father is correct. I saw something, but I thought it was dust. One can actually see the jagged edge on the fragment.’

  She looked at her father.

  ‘I’m sorry. I know I missed that. As I said, I’m still learning.’

  Ephram waved a hand dismissively.

  ‘Are you going to tell us how these came to be in police possession, Joseph?’ he asked. ‘Or is that confidential?’

  ‘No. I’ll tell you that in absolute confidence in a moment. But first, I want you to look at something else.’

  He carefully replaced the diamonds, one by one, in the first evidence box. Then he took the second box from his pocket, opened it on the table and placed the gold sovereigns on the green baize.

  Ephram took each coin in turn, noting the detail and then tapping it lightly with a jeweller’s hammer, so small, Swallow thought, that it might have been a child’s toy.

  ‘These are genuine,’ he said finally. ‘Worth a nice sum. The dates are good, in the sense that relatively few sovereigns were minted in these years. None of them is worth a fortune. But if they came in to my shop, I would buy them for a good price.’

  ‘How much would the whole lot be worth?’ Swallow asked. ‘The diamonds and the coins?’

  The old man turned to his daughter.

  ‘What do you think, my dear?’

  ‘The gems vary in their quality and I would need to examine each one very carefully. But I would think the total value might be around £500. And maybe £50 for the sovereigns. So the total would be perhaps £550, maybe more.’

  ‘I think my daughter’s estimate is very accurate,’ Ephram said.

  Katherine poured more Burgundy.

  ‘You have excited our curiosity now, Joseph,’ she said, smiling a little for the first time since he had entered the shop.

  ‘I’m not sure that there’s a whole lot that I actually know,’ he said. ‘You may be aware that human remains were found in the river running under Dublin Castle yesterday.’

  Ephram nodded.

  ‘Yes, I read about it in the newspaper this morning. It says in the newspaper that this is a case of murder. Truly terrible. Are these connected with whoever was found in the river?’

  ‘They could be. We found these stitched into a leather belt close by the location in which the body was recovered. In fact, there were only bones, a skeleton. But the city medical examiner, Dr Lafeyre, is able to tell us that they’re the remains of a woman, probably in her thirties. There was a bunch of keys attached to the belt as well.’

  Ephram nodded again.

  ‘Aha, so you think if you can identify the provenance of the diamonds and the coins it may help to identify this poor woman.’

  ‘We have other lines of inquiry, of course. But I know that you deal with many persons who have precious things to sell. What sort of woman do you think would have this amount of wealth secreted away in a leather belt that she wore around her body?’

  The old man sipped his wine and thought silently for a moment.

  ‘That is not an easy question to answer, Joseph,’ he said finally. ‘She would not be a dealer because she would require easier access to her valuables than if they were stitched away in a belt. And she obviously did not have a safe hiding place or a secure location, like a bank, or even a safe. These diamonds have come from a variety of sources. They could be stolen from different places or people over time. Or she might have invested in them, using money she received. But I do not think that any of these gems is sufficiently rare or outstanding to be particularly remembered by a jeweller or dealer if he handled them or worked on them. I’m sorry, that isn’t very helpful to you, I’m sure.’

  It wasn’t, Swallow reflected silently. But courtesy required that he deny it.

  ‘No, on the contrary. Thank you, Ephram. That’s very useful information. It will help to narrow the field of our inquiries. The first thing in almost any murder investigation is to identify the victim. After that, you can start looking for the perpetrator.’

  They finished the wine and Swallow stood to go. Katherine led him back through the shop and opened the door to the street, quiet now, with the day’s business over and the sunshades rolled in for the night.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ he said, stepping out into the fading light. ‘It’s good to see your father well. He’s lost none of his sharpness.’

  She smiled for the second time in the evening.

  ‘He is happy to see you. There will always be a welcome here for you, Joseph. Remember that.’

  ‘Yes, Katherine, I will. Is there any possibility we might see you again at the painting class?’

  ‘Who knows?’ she said, still smiling. ‘I’m a woman who rarely rules out any possibility.’

  Chapter 13

  Swallow had four choices.

  The light of the midsummer evening was still sufficiently strong when he stepped out into Capel Street to enable him to read the time on his half-hunter. He stood on the pavement outside Greenbergs to consider his options.

  He could, and possibly should, go back to the Castle to brief John Mallon on Lafeyre’s discovery of the gems and half sovereigns, stitched into the belt they had retrieved from the Poddle. It was an intriguing development, but it did not necessarily advance the investigation. It was sometimes a finely balanced thing, whether to intrude upon the little domestic privacy the Mallon family were allowed to enjoy in the Lower Yard or to ensure that the chief of G-division was kept fully up to date on developments. Mallon always insisted that if the G-men were to err in that judgment it should be on the latter side. But, Swallow told himself, there was nothing to be done immediately about Lafeyre’s find. He had followed it up with his visit and inquiry with Ephram Goldberg. It would be sufficient, he decided, to provide his boss with details in the morning.

  He could go home to Thomas Street to Maria. Perhaps she would be downstairs in the bar. She always made an evening appearance there, however brief it might be. She did not serve the customers herself, that was the responsibility of Dan Daly and the other barmen. Rather, she presided. Sometimes standing at the end of the bar, acknowledging the greetings of the clientele, sometimes moving easily among the tables, bestowing a welcoming word here or a smile there.

  But equally, she might be sitting in the parlour upstairs, possibly reading but more likely, as of late, simply staring at the window in silence. He could see the picture in his mind’s eye and sense the atmosphere in the room and he could not look forward to returning to them.

  Or he could go somewhere for a few quiet drinks. Ephram’s Burgundy had given him a lift. A drop of Tullamore on top of it would complete the job. Perhaps he might drop into The Brazen Head, or the Dolphin Hotel? Or maybe the Burlington? A couple of whiskies in the cool of the Burlington’s airy bar would be just right.

  Or he could take a tram to the McCartan house at Templeogue Hill to visit the crime scene and to impress upon Sir John and Lady McCartan the vigour and diligence with which the burglary and assault upon them and their servant were being pursued by the police, as he had promised Mallon he would do. But there was another possibility. Why not combine his options, he asked himself? The pocket watch told him it was not yet half-past seven. He could have a drink at the Burlington and then stroll around the corner to South Great George’s Street to catch a tram for Rathgar. From there it would be no more than a ten minute walk through the countryside to Templeogue Hill.

  Billy Gough, the manager of the Burlington, greeted him in the lobby. Gough’s late father had been a G-man who used his modest influence to get his son taken on as a trainee waiter at the Shelbourne twenty years previously. Young Billy, however, was not content to be a waiter. He had ambition and ability to match. He took every training opportunity he could get and worked hard to become first a dining room supervisor and the
n, a front-of-the-house trainee manager. Once into management he had transferred to Brown’s Hotel in London, rising to the post of assistant general manager. From there he had returned to Dublin to run the prestigious Burlington.

  ‘Very good to see you, as always, Mr Swallow.’

  Billy always maintained an appropriate degree of formality when working at the front of the house. But in the privacy of his well-appointed office on the second floor, over some excellent whiskey or cognac, he was a reliable confidant who could always be counted upon to keep his G-division contacts in the picture if anyone or anything suspicious came into his purview at the hotel.

  A year previously, a quiet word in Swallow’s ear had led to the arrest of an American arms dealer with a score of Navy Colts and five thousand rounds of ammunition in two trunks under his bed. They would have been for sale to the highest bidder, whether to ordinary criminals or to political extremists. In turn for Billy’s goodwill and co-operation, G-men maintained a low-key, occasional presence at the Burlington, and in the event of any trouble or threat around the place, there would always be a swift police response.

  ‘Are you dining or just joining us for a drink?’ Billy beamed, extending a manicured hand in greeting.

  ‘Just a quiet drink in a busy day,’ Swallow grinned, returning the manager’s handshake.

  ‘Ah, yes. I saw about that gruesome find in the river. Pure chance that those workmen came across it, I gather. Have you hopes of clearing it up fairly quickly?’

  Swallow shook his head.

  ‘We haven’t even identified the poor woman yet. But it’s early days.’

  The manager nodded sympathetically.

  ‘I’d say you need something to refresh you. Go on inside, make yourself comfortable and they’ll look after you in the bar as usual.’

  It was a standing courtesy to favoured customers at the Burlington that their first drink would be on the house. It was a small strategic investment that paid handsome dividends from the bankers and brokers and wealthy business professionals who were the habitués of the elegant hotel.

  It being midweek, the bar was not over-busy. The bankers and brokers would dine well during the week but they would tend to leave their serious drinking until Saturday when the commerce of the week would have finished, with profits and dividends accumulated and calculated. Three or four tables were occupied and one group of five middle-aged men were standing at the bar, laughing, smoking and drinking champagne. Swallow surmised that some deal had been closed so successfully that celebration could not be postponed to the end of the business week.

  A solitary drinker sat slumped at the end of the bar, his whiskey glass and a soda syphon on the counter in front of him. He was surveying the room through the engraved mirror that ran the length of the wall behind the bar with the unfocused gaze of a man who had drunk too much. Swallow wondered if he knew that the mirror was also a one-way window through which staff, or on occasion a G-man on surveillance, could observe customers, with the co-operation of Billy Gough and his staff.

  His eyes and Swallow’s locked in a moment of mutual recognition and then fixed. Neither man would break the stare. Now there was only one way to handle the situation. Swallow walked across the bar and took the adjoining stool.

  He signalled to the barman and called, ‘Tullamore.’

  Then he nodded to his neighbour.

  ‘Mr Polson, I believe.’

  There was a thin, hesitant smile.

  ‘I’ve … I’ve been waiting to meet you, Inspector Swallow,’ he slurred. ‘My colleagues have told me a great deal about you. I believe I’ve seen you here … before.’

  He waved a limp hand towards the room.

  ‘And my colleagues have told me a great deal about you, Mr Polson. And I’ve seen you too, of course. You’re not inconspicuous.’

  ‘Aha. So, the sleepy G-division isn’t entirely … devoid of powers of observation.’

  ‘It’s hard to miss so many drunken Englishmen wandering around the city.’

  Polson raised his glass.

  ‘Touché.’

  The barman placed Swallow’s Tullamore on the counter.

  ‘Compliments of Mr Gough, Sir.’

  Swallow raised the glass, nodding to Polson.

  ‘I’ll have a splash of that soda, if I may.’

  Polson tried to reach for the soda syphon but clutched thin air instead. Swallow leaned across him, thumbed the pressure lever and directed a short jet of sparkling bubbles into the whiskey.

  ‘So how do you find Dublin, Mr Polson?’

  ‘To be absolutely honest … now … to be very honest, Inspector, it’s rather dull.’

  More often, Swallow believed, a detective would acquire knowledge by pretending to know little. But sometimes, he might learn more by letting a subject understand that he already had a lot of knowledge. This was probably one of those latter situations, he told himself.

  ‘After Madrid, I suppose it’s a bit quiet, alright.’

  If Polson was surprised by the reference, his face did not show it.

  ‘I had work to do in Madrid. Work, ye know. Real work,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘It seems to have cost a man his life.’

  ‘Wha’ … what are you referring to?’

  Swallow realised that the security agent was more than just a little drunk.

  ‘Richard Pigott.’

  Polson raised his glass to drink but it missed his mouth on the first try.

  ‘Pigott? That … fat bas … bastard? Don’t tell me you’d weep for him. He squealed like … like … a pig … for mercy in the hotel room.’

  Swallow froze. The implications of what the drunken security agent was saying were explosive. The official version of events at the Hotel Los Embajadores in March was that Pigott had been told by Spanish police that he was to be deported to England, that he had gone to his room under the pretence of getting his things and shot himself there. Now he was being told that he had been shot, begging for mercy, probably by the man sitting opposite him.

  ‘You were in the room when he died.’

  It was a statement more than a question.

  Polson seemed to become suddenly alert.

  ‘Aha, you’ll not hear any more … from me, Mr … Swallow. You think you can trick me? Well … well, you can’t. Better men than you have tried.’

  He called to the barman.

  ‘Scotch. A double.’

  ‘Now, let us get back to … matters here in your unfortunate country,’ he wagged a finger. ‘I’d been given to understand … that you were up against it here. Fenians, bombers, dynamiters and so on. I was looking forward to some … action, since your fellows seem to have no appetite for the job. Getting to grips with the murdering bas …. bastards, you know.’

  ‘There’s a few of those, alright. But mostly they’re people who’re angry for one reason or another. Like somebody has stolen their land or humiliated their families over generations. Or robbed them with extortionate rents. And sometimes they get led astray by smarter people.’

  Polson shrugged.

  ‘It’s an unjus … unjust world, you know. Some people are meant to ru … rule. Others are meant to be ruled.’

  Swallow pointed to the scar on Polson’s face.

  ‘Who were you getting to grips with when that happened?’

  Polson took his double scotch in two gulps. Swallow noticed that he had not added any soda water this time. He grimaced as the raw spirit hit the back of his throat. But remarkably the alcohol somehow seemed to restore him to some coherence.

  ‘A Boer Kommando was foolish enough to take us on. We just took a few scratches. They left a dozen dead. And God-knows-how-many wounded.’

  ‘We? What regiment?’

  ‘You’re very curious. Did you see service yourself?’

  ‘No. But it’s usually informative to know what company a man chooses to keep when he decides to go into uniform.’

  Polson seemed momentarily uncomfortable. Swallo
w could see the alcohol starting to cloud his eyes again.

  ‘Eighteenth Huzz … Huzzars, if … if you must know. The Princess of Wales’s Own.’

  ‘Eighteenth Huzzars? Isn’t that Captain Willie O’Shea’s old regiment?’

  ‘You’re bloody well … well … inf … informed, Inspector.’

  Swallow nodded.

  ‘Probably a lot better than you might imagine, Mr Polson. Tell me, do you know the captain?’

  Polson signalled the barman again.

  ‘Anor’ Scotch. An’ a Tullamore, here.’

  His expression hardened. Any remaining trace of the earlier, forced smile faded.

  ‘Now, Inspector Swallow, the intell’gence service knows … knows all about you and all … all … ‘bout your politics. We’re not very surprised by any of it. You and your … your G-men are Irish. You can’t help that, and you can’t be expected to think or to act like Englishmen. Tha’s simply a fact … and tha’s why we’ve been … brought in.’

  The barman put their drinks on the counter.

  ‘So,’ Polson raised his glass, ‘I’m not going to give you any information about who I know and who I don’ know. Because we don’ trust you … people an’ we’ve got very … very good reason not to. My advice, Inspec’or, is to … stick to burglaries and bits o’ bodies in the river and leave s’curity work to those who’re good at it. You’re just bobbies in suits. We work directly for the gov’ment.’

  Swallow threw back his drink in one gulp.

  ‘And my advice to you, Mr Polson, is to try to remember that this isn’t Africa. You’re not at war here. Getting to grips with the bastards, as you put it so eloquently, is not what this is all about.’

  He stood to go.

  ‘Thanks for the drink. I’ll return it another time.’

  He pointed again to the scar on Polson’s cheek.

  ‘You can tell me the real story about that when we meet again. I have friends who served in South Africa and I happen to know that the Eighteenth Huzzars weren’t anywhere near it when the fighting was going on with the Boers.’

  Chapter 14

  The Rathgar tram was almost empty at this hour of the evening. His fellow-passengers were four or five tired-looking men, travelling homeward, as he surmised, from their extended working day in city-centre offices or shops. The last of them stepped off outside Findlater’s grocery in Rathmines and he was left quite alone in the saloon, apart from the elderly conductor, as the vehicle steamed slowly towards its terminus.