In the Dark River

by Conor Brady

  In the event, these young Tars in their baggy trousers and white caps seemed to be well-enough behaved, beyond a lot of raucous singing and bawdy laughter. He surmised they had not been on the town for very long and had not yet consumed the quantities of alcohol to which they aspired. In all probability they would shortly migrate across the river to sample the wares on offer in the red-light district around Montgomery Street.

  He took a vacant snug at the end of the house and ordered a large Tullamore from the barman. The singing and shouting outside in the bar faded and died, confirming that the roistering sailors had gone on their way. Then he settled down to await Andrew Dunlop’s arrival and to tell him what he needed him to do.

  Chapter 21

  Friday, June 7th, 1889

  It was nothing short of extraordinary, Swallow had to acknowledge, that Duck Boyle could come up with information about persons of interest to the police, from the lowest to the highest in the land. Since Boyle was a total stranger to hard work, it defied the odds and seemed contrary to all natural justice, he told himself.

  More than once in the past, Boyle’s extraordinary range of contacts, from the lowest scavengers in the slums, to those in the most privileged and elite circles of society, had enabled him to turn up a missing piece of information that could bring an investigation to a successful conclusion.

  The corpulent former G-man, notwithstanding his aggrandisement in rank, was perfectly comfortable drinking in low dives with the kind of people who were shunned even by the city’s criminal confraternity. Equally, he mixed with businessmen, high officials of Dublin Corporation and wealthy professionals. He particularly made a point of cultivating the acquaintance of as many publicans, hoteliers and restaurateurs as possible and made it his business to call upon them frequently. Good food and plentiful drink, free of charge, of course, helped greatly to cement these relationships.

  In no small part, Swallow knew, Boyle’s profitable connectedness with these elite circles was facilitated by his membership of the Brotherhood of Freemasons, otherwise known as the Ancient, Free and Accepted Masons of Ireland. He frequented the Grand Lodge at Molesworth Street, close to Leinster House, the home of the powerful Fitzgerald family, the highest-ranking in Ireland’s peerage. Policemen were prohibited from joining any secret or oath-bound society, but the Masons were an exception, representing as they did a network of Protestant influence that ran through the business, professions, clergy, civil service and even the police forces. Roman Catholics were forbidden by their church from being Masons so the majority of the rank-and-file in both the Dublin Metropolitan Police and the Royal Irish Constabulary could not join the brotherhood.

  However, a high proportion of Protestant officers were members of various Lodges. It was commonly understood that being a Mason could help greatly in a policeman’s quest for promotion or some other preferment. Duck Boyle’s brother, an archdeacon somewhere in Ulster, was reputed to be highly placed in the brotherhood. He was certain to be a bishop, it was said, in knowledgeable circles. So it was not surprising that some of the benefits of his connection and influence might fall to other members of his family.

  The morning conference at Exchange Court had not been encouraging. There was no progress on either the Poddle murder inquiry or the investigation into the Rathgar robbery.

  ‘Ye may stand down yer search teams, so, Sergeant,’ Duck Boyle had told Stephen Doolan when he reported that the last stretches of the Poddle tributaries had yielded no clues.

  Pat Mossop had unearthed potentially useful information on Timmy Spencer’s associates. Cross-checks in the Dublin Crime Registry had yielded half a dozen names of other criminals with whom he was suspected of orchestrating robberies in Cork, Limerick and Galway. The photographic section was at work turning out copies of their likenesses for circulation to both DMP and RIC.

  ‘Every man without an assigned duty can just keep workin’ around the city, showin’ the likeness of this Spencer character,’ Boyle announced. ‘As soon as we have pictures of his associates we’ll have them out t‘every station too. We’ll find him sooner or later.’

  Eddie Shanahan’s team had been hampered in their task of interviewing railway personnel by the effects of a minor epidemic of summer influenza among workers on both the Great Southern and Western line and the Midland Great Western line; of the thirty or so men they wanted to interview, up to a dozen were officially on sick-leave.

  ‘It is me understandin’ from me inquiries with eminent medical men of me acquaintance that illnesses of the respiratory system, that is to say, the lungs an’ chest, are more common among men whose workin’ lives are spint in engines and carriages affected be steam an’ fumes,’ Boyle solemnly told the conference.

  Shanahan nodded in polite assent.

  ‘It’s true. There’s a whole lot of drivers, stokers, conductors and guards gone off sick on the Southern and Western and on the Midland Great Western. Some of them would have been working on trains between Dublin and Cork over the past week, so we haven’t been able to talk to them yet. We’re getting home addresses from the railway companies and we’ll go to them wherever they are. Mostly they’re at their dwelling places but one or two might be in hospital.’

  ‘You’ll probably find a few of them out playing football,’ Stephen Doolan said cynically. ‘The railways are notorious for absenteeism. I’ve a neighbour on the Great Southern and Western. When you ask him how many men are working there, he says “about half.” And he’s not embarrassed by it.’

  There was brief laughter at Doolan’s anecdote before the conference broke up and the various teams went about their tasks for the day. As the last of the G-men filed out of the room, Boyle put a pudgy finger to his mouth to indicate silence and nodded to Swallow.

  ‘Could we have a private word, Swalla’? Somethin’ kem me way that might be of interest to ye.’

  They climbed the stairs to the detective inspector’s private office. Boyle dropped himself into a padded chair by the desk and Swallow took his customary seat opposite. Boyle looked up and down the room and then at the ceiling.

  ‘Ah, begod, this takes me back to whin I was in your job, Swalla’. Them were grand, aisy days.’

  They were, Swallow thought silently to himself. Because when Boyle was the senior detective inspector at Exchange Court, most of the hard work was done for him by his then detective sergeant, one Joseph Swallow.

  ‘Now,’ Boyle leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘There’s a thing I want to tell ye about. It mighn’t have a bearin’ on the robbery, as such. But I picked up a little bit of a whisper. I’m not sayin’ it’s goin’ to solve the case for you. But I heard that McCartan was threatenin’ to report ye to the Chief Commissioner for havin’ drink taken when ye went to see him. There’s a bit of information you might find useful if he started makin’ trouble for ye.’

  Swallow found himself marvelling at Boyle’s ability to source information. There was no official complaint, certainly not yet. So the word could not have spread through the police grapevine. He himself had told nobody of his exchanges with McCartan at his home. Was it possible that McCartan had told somebody else, perhaps even Boyle himself?

  ‘It’s true he threatened to complain about me,’ he said. ‘But I’m not concerned. I was perfectly sober and he was distressed and angry. You couldn’t blame him really after what he and his wife had been through. It won’t come to anything.’

  Boyle shrugged.

  ‘Yer probably right. But he might try to make trouble for ye. And us polismen has to stick together when we can. You an’ I don’t always agree on everythin’, Swalla’. But we’re in this job together and we have to look out fer each other.’

  He chuckled.

  ‘If polismen were to go worryin’ every time some fella in a stiff collar says he saw them takin’ some light refreshments, there’d be none of us left in the job. No, what I want to tell you has to do with McCartan himself. Personal details, if you know what I mean. He’s not known as the mo
st reasonable of men.’

  ‘That wouldn’t surprise me. So what should I know?’

  Boyle dropped his voice to a whisper.

  ‘I have certain contacts … acquaintances … if you know what I mean, who have a lot of dealin’s with him. Business people who’d move in the same circles with him.’

  Swallow arched an eyebrow.

  ‘You mean your brothers in the lodge, or the coven or whatever it’s called, where you all dress up in your fancy costumes and give each other funny handshakes?’

  ‘Please, Swalla’, let’s have some respect for a very upright and very necessary institution. An’ I have to tell ye that I can’t impart annything of what I learn in lodge to someone who isn’t a brother. So don’t jump t’any conclusions about where I get me information from.’

  ‘Alright, go on,’ Swallow said amiably. ‘You know I’m only trying to take a rise out of you.’

  ‘Now, here’s the situation,’ Boyle whispered. ‘There’s been bad blood between that man McCartan and his wife for a long time. For most of that she’s more or less locked herself away upstairs in the house.’

  ‘When I visited the house, I gathered that his wife was invalided. She didn’t appear at all.’ Swallow said. ‘There’s no great news in that.’

  ‘Ah, but there’s more. A good bit more, in fact. They have a housekeeper. She’s from Belfast too. Brought down specially by Lady McCartan to be her companion and to run the house for her. Well, now, accordin’ to my information, this housekeeper lady has, so to speak, got above her station. She’s makin’ life miserable for t’other servants and takin’ her meals with the master o’ the house, if ye don’t mind.’

  He paused.

  ‘There’s strong suggestions that she’s sharin’ more than her meals wid ‘im, if you get my meanin’, Swalla’. He’s not a young man. But there could be life in him yet.’

  Swallow tried not to appear surprised. McCartan had made a brief, irritated reference to his housekeeper having gone away without notice. And Cathleen Cummins, the maid, had described her unhappiness at how she had been treated by her. It took him a moment to recall the name. Mrs Bradley. He wondered how much more Boyle might know.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time that kind of thing might happen, even in respectable Rathgar or Templeogue,’ he grinned. ‘Tell me about this housekeeper. Does she have a name?’

  It was usually safer, he had learned, to give Duck Boyle only the information that was absolutely necessary. He traded in knowledge. And Swallow knew from experience that what Boyle learned from police colleagues was sometimes put into the wrong ears. If he told Boyle that the housekeeper had left the McCartan home, that would probably go straight back to his informant.

  ‘Nah. I wasn’t given a name or any details, just that she’s from Belfast. Th’ individual who gev me th’ information believes that Lady McCartan wanted a housekeeper of her own particular faith, whatever that is, and she had t’advertise in the Belfast News Letter to find one.’

  He pulled himself up from the armchair and made for the door.

  ‘Like I said, Swalla’, it won’t solve the case for ye. But ye have somethin’ there now to use agin’ that fella McCartan if he tries to make trouble for ye.’

  Swallow knew he was expected to respond gratefully. He forced a smile that he hoped looked sufficiently amiable.

  ‘You’re a good friend, Super. A brick.’

  Bricks being heavy and dense, he told himself, he had no need to reproach himself for insincerity.

  Chapter 22

  Swallow had learned at an early stage in his police career that it was important to be on good terms with the clerks. It was arguably more important than being on good terms with the high potentates whom they served, the superintendents in charge of the divisions, perhaps even more important than knowing the two or three men of commissioner rank who were set above the superintendents. The truth was that very few rank and file knew these elite holders of high office, beyond perhaps exchanging a word at a formal inspection or ceremonial parade.

  The clerk’s job was to know everything on behalf of his master. He had to know every regulation and procedure so that he could deal with all administrative matters as well as handling incoming correspondence and preparing suitable replies to be sent out over his boss’s signature.

  Swallow crossed the Lower Yard and climbed the stairs to the offices occupied by the Chief Commissioner, Sir David Harrel, and his staff. Harrel’s chief clerk, Sergeant Tony Bruton, had served with Swallow when they were both young constables at the Bridewell, in D-division. Every communication of any importance to the Chief Commissioner would pass through Bruton’s hands. That would certainly include any complaint made against a policeman from a leading businessman and a QC.

  ‘You could smell the tea from the Yard, if I know you, Joe,’ Bruton laughed as Swallow stepped into the office. ‘Take a seat and have a cuppa. It’s just delivered fresh from the kitchen.’

  The Chief Commissioner’s offices had their own dining facilities with a cook, a waiter and a porter tending to his needs. As such, his immediate staff had no need either to visit the canteen or brew their own light refreshments.

  It was good quality tea too, Swallow thought, as he sipped the hot, fragrant beverage.

  ‘I need you to mark my cards on something, Tony,’ he told Bruton.

  ‘If I can, I will, Joe. You know that.’

  Swallow recounted his visit to the McCartan house two evenings previously. Not surprisingly, Bruton knew most of the details of the robbery and the steps being taken in its investigation. Any crime or outrage affecting a pillar of society and a QC would have the direct attention of the Chief Commissioner’s office and the investigation would be monitored carefully.

  ‘McCartan accused me of being under the influence. I had a couple of drinks but I was perfectly sober. He said he was going to report me to the Commissioner. It might have been empty talk but I need to know because I want to go out to interview him again.’

  Bruton nodded.

  ‘Sure, if there’s a complaint in, you’d probably be in more trouble by going to talk to him again. But there isn’t. Nothing has come to this office, so you’re in the clear.’

  Bruton poured more tea.

  ‘But since you’re dealing with the McCartans, I can tell you a bit more about them. They’re bloody difficult people. After my time in the Bridewell my promotion was to E-division, Rathmines. I was beat-sergeant there and the McCartans were a constant source of trouble. They weren’t in the big house on Templeogue Hill then. They were in Garville Avenue.’

  He laughed.

  ‘They seemed to have a mission to persecute the polis. If a tramp called to the door there’d be a hullabaloo. There’d be a complaint at the station that the beat-man wasn’t doing his job. One day a carter’s horse answered a call of nature and dropped his manure on the street outside the house. They wanted the poor devil of a cartman prosecuted. It never stopped. That was typical. So the old super out in the E, Tom McKenna, the lord be good to him, was in and out of the house all the time, trying to placate them. He told me he figured that she was the real trouble because she was the one with the money there. Her family are big mill-owners in Belfast and that’s how he got himself set up in business. His law practice is a bit of a sham really, so Tom believed. He’s not making much of a living out of the Four Courts.’

  He finished his tea and left Bruton to his files and correspondence. He had learned little that he had not already known about McCartan’s irascible temperament. But it was helpful to understand a bit more about the family’s inherited wealth. People born to money, in Swallow’s experience, could be particularly intolerant towards those they perceived as the serving classes. That included policemen.

  Half an hour later, sitting on the upper deck of the tram, making his way to Rathgar, he realised he was unsure precisely why he wanted to interview McCartan again. In part, it was in the hope that the passage of time would have cooled his
temper and perhaps enabled him to recall some more detail about the robbery itself. And he wanted to know more about McCartan’s coachman, Timmy Spencer, now gone missing. How did a young man with a serious criminal record land a nice job working for a wealthy public representative and a QC?

  There was something more than that too, however. Boyle’s gossip about McCartan’s personal life, and the role of Mrs Bradley in it, might be of no significance. Neither might Tony Bruton’s intelligence about the source of the family’s wealth. Yet he sensed that there was something missing from the picture, something that he was not seeing and that these might be part of it. The more he turned the details over in his head, the more his instinct told him that what had happened at the McCartan home was no ordinary robbery.

  He alighted, as before, after the Church of the Three Patrons and crossed to Garville Avenue. The facades of the solid, redbrick villas, fronted by well-tended lawns, were pristine in the June sunshine. A nurse was playing with two small girls in one front garden, their dolls’ tea-set sitting daintily on a tartan rug, spread across the grass. At Brighton Square, the scent of summer flowers wafted out to the pavement as he made his way. Roses, hyacinth and, perhaps lily of the valley?

  His reception at the McCartan house took him by surprise. Cathleen Cummins opened the door in answer to his ring. The bruises on her neck were now scarcely visible but she managed a hesitant smile in recognition.

  ‘Good mornin’, Sir.’

  ‘Hello, Cathleen. I’d like to see Sir John if he’s at home, please.’

  ‘Oh, indeed ‘n’ he is, Sir. An’ he told me if you came back I was to take you straight to him. He’s in the drawin’ room.’

  That was quite a change, he thought, from his previous relegation to the kitchen.