In the Dark River

by Conor Brady

  She showed him into the room.

  McCartan, wearing a barrister’s formal morning dress but with his forehead still plastered, rose from a winged armchair, a sheaf of documents in one hand.

  ‘Ah, Mr Swallow. I believed I would probably see you soon again. Please, take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you. I hope you’re feeling better after what happened. And Lady McCartan too.’

  McCartan resumed his seat and placed his papers on a low table beside him.

  ‘Your concern is appreciated, Mr Swallow. We’re both recovered quite well, apart from my feeling a bit bruised and sore still. These stitches will have to stay in for perhaps a week, I’m told.’

  He gestured to the plaster on his forehead.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here. I fear I was very intemperate the other night. I can only plead that I was still in shock to a degree. The whole experience was terrible. Terrifying. But it was wrong of me to vent it on you. Unfortunately, I can be rather short with people at the best of times. I understand that you have a job to do. It would please me if we could just put aside what I said, forget about it and go forward.’

  Swallow always told himself he could sense insincerity or dissembling in others, but he picked up none of these in McCartan’s words or tone.

  ‘I’m sure that’s right, Sir John,’ he said cautiously. ‘I can imagine the upset when something like this happens in your own home. I’ve actually experienced something not entirely dissimilar myself. What do they say, every man’s house is his castle?’

  ‘I’m sorry to know that, Mr Swallow. I hope there were no lasting ill-effects for you and your family. You are a married man, I think.’

  Swallow sensed that this could turn into a long conversation if he were to recount what had happened to Maria and caused the loss of their child.

  ‘We managed to deal with it, Sir. Thank you.’

  McCartan smiled.

  ‘I’m glad. Now, how can I help? Have there been any developments in your inquiries?’

  ‘There have indeed, I’m glad to say. Although the investigation is far from being complete and we’ve not made any arrests as of yet. One of the things we’ve learned is that your coachman, Timothy Spencer, whom you believed gone to Cork to bury his mother, has a lengthy criminal record. He also likes to claim that he’s involved with the Fenian Brotherhood. Oh, and his mother, according to the police in Cork, is hale and hearty.’

  McCartan’s look of astonishment was genuine, Swallow reckoned.

  ‘Spencer? But he had impeccable references. I certainly wouldn’t have employed him otherwise.’

  ‘Forgeries, at a guess. There’s a big trade in it. You’d be surprised at the people who decide to make a few pounds from being able to write flowery language with a good hand. Would it be possible to see them?’

  ‘Certainly, they’re in my study. If you’ll excuse me for a couple of minutes, I’ll locate them.’

  When McCartan left, Swallow surveyed the high-ceilinged drawing room with its Italian mantle in white marble, fine furniture and generous windows opening on to the square, decorated with rich, damask drapes. An elaborate ormolu clock with matching vases sat atop the mantle. An elegant pianoforte filled the window bay. The room and its contents spoke of comfort and wealth.

  McCartan came back and handed him three letters.

  They read well enough. Conveniently, the referees were not located in Dublin. Two were in Cork city, one supposedly a priest, the other a medical doctor. The third referee was purportedly a landed gentleman in rural Galway. But even to Swallow’s inexpert eye, there was a sameness about the writing in all three, albeit with unconvincing attempts to vary the ascenders and descenders.

  ‘If I could borrow these,’ he told McCartan, ‘we have a hand-writing expert available to us who might be able to tell us quite a bit about the author or authors of these. He might even be able to tell us his identity. Most of the forgers doing jobs of this kind will have come to our notice before.’

  ‘Yes, please take them.’

  Swallow placed the letters in his pocket.

  ‘Did you know he had served in the cavalry?’

  ‘I knew he’d had army service. But I didn’t know any details.’

  ‘Did you ask to see his service discharge?’

  ‘He showed it to me, yes. He told me he’d been in a few scrapes but nothing too serious. I took him at his word. If they’d been of much significance he’d have had a dishonourable discharge.’

  That was true enough, Swallow thought to himself.

  ‘We have notified all police stations across the country that we want to locate Spencer. There may be a relatively innocent explanation for his disappearance and for inventing a story for you about his mother having died. But it’s suspicious, to say the least. And his criminal record includes housebreaking, robbery and assault.’

  McCartan nodded slowly.

  ‘I’m very shocked, Mr Swallow. He has been an efficient and obliging employee. A good driver and a good man with the horses. Do you believe he might have somehow set up the robbery? I’ve done a little bit of criminal practice, as you know. I believe the term is “an inside job” when someone within a house or a business is complicit in a crime.’

  ‘I think there’s a real possibility of something like that,’ Swallow said. ‘The damage to your back door is superficial and wouldn’t have been sufficient to force it open. You have two bolts on the door but it seems that neither of them was in the locked position. They may have had a key or a copy of a key. Would Spencer have access to a key to that door?’

  ‘Certainly not. His quarters are in the coach house. He would have his meals in the kitchen with the maid and the cook. They would have to admit him. So there’s a bell hanging inside the door and he’d ring on that to get in.’

  ‘So who would have a key, then?’

  ‘The cook, to get in when she arrives in the morning. The housekeeper, Mrs Bradley, would have had one but she left without giving proper notice. Lady McCartan and I are less than pleased about that, I can tell you. I have a full set of house keys, naturally.’

  Swallow flicked the pages of his notebook.

  ‘The cook is Nora Cahill, if I’m correct?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. But Mrs Cahill has been working here for maybe fifteen years. She’s a respectable woman from the village – from Terenure that is – it’s inconceivable that she could be complicit in anything like this.’

  ‘And the housekeeper? A Mrs Bradley, I believe.’

  ‘I’m certain if she were here the house would have been secure. She was nothing if not efficient about things like that. But there’s no use regretting that now.’

  Swallow tried to sound nonchalant.

  ‘Regretting what, Sir?’

  ‘Oh, that she left so suddenly. I … we thought she was quite happy here. But then she just cleared off. She told Lady McCartan she had personal reasons for wanting to go. I assume she went back to Belfast.’

  ‘She didn’t leave a forwarding address?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A bit unusual, I’d say.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. But my wife gave her the pay she was due.’

  ‘How long ago was this, Sir?’

  ‘Almost two months ago, Inspector. It was about a week before Easter. April twelfth, I believe.’

  Swallow poised his pencil over the notebook.

  ‘I don’t believe we got full details about Mrs Bradley, Sir. Could we start with her full name, age, place of origin? Just basic details.’

  McCartan seemed to pause for thought for a moment. But there was no hesitation in his voice once he started to describe the former housekeeper.

  ‘Sarah Bradley. She’s a native of Belfast. A member of the Presbyterian faith. She would be aged around thirty-five or thirty-six, I imagine. I believe her to be widowed with two young children who are being brought up by her sister, somewhere in Ulster. Her husband’s death left the family unprovided for so she has been obliged to go into se
rvice.’

  Swallow scribbled across the page, jotting the information as McCartan talked.

  ‘May I inquire if she was satisfactory in her work, Sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I believe so. Although I had little direct contact with her. My wife has always been active as mistress of her house and has directed the staff. She placed an advertisement in the News Letter for a Protestant housekeeper and she chose Sarah … Mrs Bradley, that is, having satisfied herself as to her suitability.’

  ‘So how long was Mrs Bradley employed by you here, Sir?’

  McCartan suddenly seemed to become irritated.

  ‘About two years, Inspector. But look here, none of this has any relevance to what happened here on Monday night. Mrs Bradley has been long gone. I think the man you want is Spencer. And he’s obviously got a gang of associates as well.’

  Swallow guessed it was time to show some appropriate humility.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Sir. It’s just a matter of getting as much detail as possible. As a legal man, you’ll know that some police work can, unfortunately, be less than thorough on occasion. I don’t want that to happen in this important case.’

  ‘Hmmm … well, that’s very true,’ McCartan’s tone was more conciliatory.

  ‘One thing that the local police at Rathmines mentioned was that you had a couple of dogs here at the house. Wolfhounds, I think. They’d have been a good deterrent to robbers, I’d have thought. But I understand they died. I’d be interested to know what happened.’

  McCartan nodded.

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. They died within a couple of days of each other. I believe they were probably poisoned.’

  ‘Do you know who would do such a thing?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But I’d suspect now that it was connected to the robbery. Professional robbers would have known that the dogs would raise an alarm.’

  ‘Did you report it to the police?’

  ‘No, unfortunately. I wish I had. My wife had been particularly unwell over those days and I had an important case in court. I put it out of mind although I did wonder if some local farmer out here might have done it. My dogs were always well controlled, but there can be problems with sheep and livestock being attacked. We’re just on the edge of the city here, with farmland all around. ‘

  John McCartan was a complex man, Swallow told himself. If he was dissembling about the relationship with Sarah Bradley and her place in the household, he was doing so with great skill. And he seemed to be able to be move from being choleric and angry to being charming and almost warm, with great ease.

  ‘Now, is there anything further I can help you with, Mr Swallow? I’ve got some important briefs to work on here.’

  He pointed to the files on the table.

  ‘Of course. Thank you for your valuable time, Sir John,’ Swallow said. ‘You’ve filled in some important gaps in my knowledge. All that remains, for completeness at this stage, would be to speak briefly to Lady McCartan.’

  McCartan thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his morning suit, stared Swallow direct in the eyes and shook his head slowly and gravely from side to side.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question, Inspector. Completely so. My wife is a very delicate woman who has already been subjected to a terrible ordeal. She is under the care of two experienced medical men who have ordered complete rest. The notion that she should be questioned by a police officer is simply not in the realm of possibility.’

  It was clear that an unbreachable boundary line was being laid down. McCartan’s tone was icy again. Swallow had no doubt that his request to speak with Lady McCartan had been anticipated and that every word of her husband’s response had been carefully considered and rehearsed. It was time for a diplomatic retreat.

  ‘Of course. But you’ll understand that I’m required, nonetheless, to make the request, Sir. I hope that with rest and good medical care Lady McCartan’s condition will improve. I’m sure it’s a very anxious time for you both.’

  He stood and crossed to the door leading to the hallway.

  ‘Good day. Thank you for your co-operation and for your valuable time.’

  Chapter 23

  ‘We have him. We have him, Boss.’

  Pat Mossop’s face was lit with excitement as Swallow arrived back at Exchange Court. In one hand he held a telegraphed message that he stabbed at with the index finger of the other.

  ‘Who’ve we got?’

  ‘Spencer, Boss. We’ve located him.’

  ‘Timmy Spencer? McCartan’s coachman?’

  ‘One and the same. He’s in a monastery in Tipperary. This just came in to the ABC room from the RIC in Roscrea.’

  ‘Are they sure?’

  Mossop handed him the telegrammed sheet.

  ‘See for yourself, Boss.’

  The message, from the District Inspector at Roscrea to ‘The Superintendent’ at Exchange Court, was succinct but persuasive.

  Sir,

  Reference DMP circular and photograph seeking information on whereabouts of Timothy Spencer, native of Cork City, believed to be armed and suspected of involvement in crime. I beg to report that subject has been identified by a member of Dunkerrin station party to whom Spencer is known personally at location two miles distant from this office.

  Subject is staying at Mount Saint Joseph Abbey, a foundation of the Cistercian fathers, situated in the area of Mount Heaton. Subject is resident at the abbey guest house which is frequently used by persons in distress or who have an addiction to alcohol and where the monks render whatever assistance may be possible.

  I believe subject is unaware that he has been identified. Constables have taken concealed positions close by the monastery grounds in case subject attempts to leave location. I await your instructions in this matter.

  Yours faithfully,

  Edward Fleury (DI)

  ‘What do want me to do, Boss?’

  Mossop’s excitement when things started to come right in an investigation sometimes reminded Swallow of a small boy in a toyshop. He hopped from one foot to another, with eyes twinkling in anticipation.

  ‘What time is the next train to Roscrea?’

  Mossop grinned.

  ‘I knew you’d ask that, Boss. It’s the four o’clock from Kingsbridge. I’ve got Swift and Vizzard standing by and there’s an arrest warrant on the way from the Bridewell as we speak.’

  ‘And I knew you’d have the answer, Pat.’ Swallow laughed in response. ‘It’s best we go down ourselves and not leave the job to the RIC. It’s our case and they’re more used to prosecuting farmers for having unlicensed bulls than dealing with armed robbers.’

  ‘I’ve requested a car to be here for three o’clock,’ Mossop said. ‘It’s about two and a half hours from Kingsbridge to Roscrea. So I’ll message the DI in your name. They’ll probably be there to meet us at the Roscrea station.’

  He handed Swallow a letter as he turned to the door.

  ‘And there’s something in here from Horseman, Boss.’

  Swallow opened the envelope with his name on the front.

  The goods are to be returned tomorrow evening (Friday) with regrets that they are unsuitable for use by this firm. I will meet the vendor at the previous location at 8.00 pm.

  Horseman.

  The timing was good, he calculated. In fact, it could hardly be better. Even if he was obliged to overnight in Roscrea, he could be back in the city on a mid-morning train. That would leave time to put in place any last arrangements for his plan to derail Polson’s scheme.

  He scribbled a quick note for delivery to John Mallon.

  Chief,

  The word from Horseman is that nothing will

  happen until tomorrow (Saturday). I have plan

  for after that. Am now on the way to Co Tipperary

  with arrest party in relation to McCartan case. When

  arrest of suspect is effected I will ABC details.

  Yours faithfully,

  J. Swallow (Det
. Inspr.)

  Before the police sidecar ordered by Mossop drew up at Exchange Court, Swallow repeated the standard check, required by regulations in anticipation of an armed arrest, with the three G-men.

  ‘Firearms?’

  Each detective drew his Webley Bulldog revolver from its shoulder-holder, showing fully-loaded chambers to the man next to him. Swallow drew his own firearm and displayed it to Mossop.

  ‘Ammunition re-supply?’

  Each of them displayed a metallic clip containing six rounds of .44 ammunition.

  ‘Accoutrements?’

  Four pairs of rigid, steel handcuffs appeared.

  It was a time-honoured routine that some G-men complained of as archaic and unnecessary, but older denizens of Exchange Court remembered the unhappy fate of a colleague who found that he had forgotten to load his revolver on the night he stumbled upon a group of Fenians planting explosives on the Belfast railway line. When he called on them to put their hands up, one of them produced a pistol and fired. When the G-man tried to fire back, the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. The second shot from the would-be dynamiter took him in the chest and lodged in his spine. The man was paralysed from the neck down for the rest of his days and discharged on pension.

  Roscrea would be the sixth stop on the train’s journey from Kingsbridge terminus to Limerick. The magnificent terminus, designed by English architect, Sancton Wood, in the style of an Italian palazzo, was busy, with two trains recently arrived from Waterford and Cork, disgorging hundreds of passengers into the concourse. The carriages on the four o’clock, however, were pleasantly uncrowded and the four G-men had no difficulty in finding a spacious booth in a second-class carriage close to the buffet and bar.

  Swallow and Mossop were well accustomed to armed arrest operations. Tom Swift, with five years of service in G-division, had sufficient experience to know more or less what was involved. Johnny Vizzard was the novice and was beginning to show his nervousness.

  ‘Will this fellow try to use the gun … if he has it, that is?’ the young G-man asked nobody in particular, as the train chugged out of the city’s drab suburbs and into the rolling grasslands of west County Dublin.