In the Dark River

by Conor Brady

  ‘I know he wasn’t a Catholic like the rest of us,’ the constable said apologetically, rising to his feet, pale and trembling, ‘but sure, it can’t do any harm, can it?’

  ‘No,’ Swallow told him. ‘No, no harm at all.’

  Chapter 24

  Saturday, June 8th, 1889

  John Mallon held his head in his hands.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Swallow. This isn’t good. Not good at all.’

  ‘It isn’t, Chief. I don’t know what to say. We played it absolutely by the book. Fleury had a good plan. He seemed to have covered every eventuality. I can only guess that someone spotted us either in the town or as we travelled out into the country and passed the word along that there was a posse of peelers on the move. It’s strong Land League country around there, the police aren’t loved.’

  ‘What happened then? Not the official version. The real story.’

  ‘The truth is that the bloody peelers lost their heads. Fleury would have had Timmy Spencer if he’d had a few more seconds. Then they came up behind him, blazing away with their revolvers. I saw one fellow stop to reload. The marvel is that we weren’t all killed. If they’d kept to their orders Spencer might never have produced the damned gun at all.’

  ‘And the official story?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. Warning shots were fired in the air.’

  Mallon nodded slowly.

  ‘That’s a fact. The RIC Inspector General has been on to the Chief Commissioner, as you’d expect. That’s his account too and they’ll stick to it. The IG’s fairly upset about Fleury. He thought highly of him, saw him destined for higher things. He had managed to get on speaking terms with the local Irish language enthusiasts and the Gaelic games fellows. He was even taking lessons in the language. Then he loses his life to a little gouger like Spencer. There’s a young widow there with two small children as well.’

  ‘I know, Chief. He told me about them. I think his own family are more than comfortable, though. So they should be well provided for, at least.’

  ‘That’s some small comfort, I suppose. Presumably in all the circumstances you didn’t get a chance to question Spencer about the McCartan case? Robbery’s a small issue compared to murder.’

  ‘No, Chief. But they’re bringing him to Mountjoy later on today. We’ll interview him as soon as he’s lodged in there.’

  ‘You look absolutely exhausted,’ Mallon said. ‘I’d strongly advise you to get some sleep before you do anything.’

  He knew he needed a change of clothes, a shave, a good wash and a rest. The events of the previous evening and night were blurred with lack of sleep. He and Mossop had accompanied Head Constable Sullivan and the RIC men who had taken their slain inspector to the local infirmary where a young intern doctor on duty pronounced him deceased and at Sullivan’s request reluctantly conducted a swift post mortem examination.

  ‘Isn’t it fairly clear what happened?’ the doctor asked testily. ‘The man’s been shot.’

  ‘It mightn’t be so clear in a courtroom in three months’ time,’ Sullivan answered firmly. ‘Your conclusions will probably be needed in evidence.’

  The doctor shrugged and gestured to Fleury’s body.

  ‘Very well, if you insist. The man suffered a considerable trauma. It’s consistent with a bullet wound. There’s a wound to the right hemisphere of the head,’ he told Sullivan. ‘It wasn’t very close, because there’s no powder scorch on the skin. The bullet passed right through. It took a portion of skull away and a large amount of brain matter. Death would have been instantaneous. I’ll do measurements , write it up and you’ll have it in the morning.’

  Swallow was not unimpressed. The young doctor seemed to know something of the relevant medical jurisprudence, notwithstanding his tender years. Perhaps he had more experience of dealing with gunshot wounds in this unsettled rural area than if he had been doing his internship in the city.

  As they left the hospital, they saw Timmy Spencer, surrounded by armed constables, being treated by a nurse for the injuries to his head and face from Swallow’s Bulldog Webley.

  Later, as darkness fell, an undertaker arrived to prepare Fleury’s body and to transfer it to the house in the centre of the town where he had lived with his family. The undertaker recommended that the coffin be closed because of the gross disfigurement of the head and face. Nobody disagreed with him.

  Head Constable Sullivan had left it to a senior sergeant to have the local courthouse opened and to bring Spencer before a magistrate, to be charged with the murder of District Inspector Edward Fleury.

  ‘You’d better go along there and give your evidence,’ he told Swallow. ‘You’re the arresting officer.’

  The courthouse was surprisingly spacious, with a mock Grecian façade and a well-appointed interior. When Swallow got there it was already half full with uniformed RIC men, some press reporters and a large number of townspeople who had gathered there as the news had spread of Fleury’s death and the arraignment of the accused man.

  Swallow gave evidence of arrest at farmland in a location the name of which he could not pronounce but which seemed to satisfy the magistrate who, according to Sullivan, was unhappy at being called from his manor house, some three miles away, at dinner time. The accused man stood steadily enough in the small courtroom, handcuffed to two RIC men, his face swollen and heavily bandaged.

  ‘You’re a DMP man?’ the magistrate nodded towards Swallow.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What are you doing here in Tipperary North Riding?’

  ‘I was pursuing inquiries in connection with serious crimes in the Dublin Metropolitan police district, Sir.’

  ‘Hmm. And I suppose you wanted to question this man?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Are you willing to tell us what these serious crimes amounted to?’

  ‘I’d prefer not, Sir.’

  The magistrate seemed relieved that he was not going to be unnecessarily detained by a narrative in which he had no real interest.

  ‘What do you say to the charge?’ he asked Spencer.

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone, yer honour.’

  The magistrate looked exasperated.

  ‘Enter that as a not guilty plea,’ he instructed the court clerk.

  He remanded Timmy Spencer to the custody of the Governor of Mountjoy Prison. The sergeant rose to say that as the last train of the day had already departed for Dublin, it would be necessary to hold the prisoner overnight in the police station. The magistrate nodded curtly and rose from the bench, signifying that the brief hearing was concluded.

  The Roscrea police station on the main street was fervid with activity. RIC men from outlying stations had travelled into the town on bicycle or on horseback as the news of Fleury’s death spread around the district. They milled around the front door and in the day room, smoking and conversing in hushed tones. Curious townspeople mixed with them, expressing shock and sympathy. A couple of newspaper reporters from The Tipperary Vindicator and The Nenagh News moved through the crowd, taking notes.

  It would be Sullivan’s unwelcome task to break the sorrowful news to Fleury’s widow, still happily unaware of what had happened to her husband.

  ‘The County Inspector’s on his way from Thurles,’ he had told Swallow before the court hearing. ‘He should be here in about an hour. We’ll go down to Mrs Fleury together. I’ll get the minister from Saint Cronan’s to come with us. That’s where the family worship. I can’t think of a harder job than what I have to do now. She’s a gentle lady. A great wife and mother. And they were very close.’

  Swallow’s mind ran briefly to the night at the Rotunda Hospital when he had to tell Maria, who was heavily sedated but still in pain, that their baby was dead.

  ‘There’s nothing harder than bringing bad news,’ he said simply. ‘I don’t envy you that task, Head.’

  ‘Maybe when you’re done at the courthouse you might want to come to the house to express your condolences,’ Sullivan suggested. ‘And yo
u’ll need billets for the night for yourself and your men, so I’ve sent a message down to the hotel to open up a few rooms. It’s comfortable and they’ll do you a good breakfast in the morning for your journey.’

  Sullivan had allocated his own office at the RIC station to Mossop and Swift to enable them to compile a report for early transmission to Mallon in Dublin, providing them with paper, pens and ink.

  ‘I know you fellows in the Metropolitan have these typewriter machines,’ he apologised. ‘They have them in Thurles but I’m afraid they haven’t got out as far as Roscrea yet. I’ve arranged with the postmaster to have the telegraph office open for you with an operator. He’d normally close down at six o’clock.’

  ‘Here’s the story for the Chief, Boss.’ Mossop handed him a single sheet of foolscap. ‘I think it’s all there, short of what’s happened down at the court hearing.’

  Swallow scanned the document slowly and carefully. As he expected, Mossop had compiled a succinct and accurate narrative of the day’s events. He handed it back to him.

  ‘I wouldn’t change a word there, Pat. Just add in that the accused is remanded to Mountjoy and that we’ll be on the first train back to the city in the morning. Then get it off on the telegraph.’

  It was almost dark by the time he left the station to walk the short distance to Rosemary Square, in the centre of the small market town, where the Fleury family lived. Knots of people were gathered on the pathway leading up to the house and in the neatly-tended front garden, filled with summer flowers. Mostly they seemed to be men of consequence in the town. There were bowler hats and umbrellas, stiff collars and gold watch-chains. Through the open front door he could see that the hallway and front rooms were filled with people.

  He pushed his way into the crowded sitting room on the right where Sullivan and two or three others seemed to have formed a protective ring around the young woman in a navy blue dress who sat weeping in an armchair that was much too big for her slight frame.

  Sullivan stepped forward and placed a hand on Swallow’s arm.

  ‘This is Inspector Swallow, from Dublin, Ma’am,’ he said quietly to the woman. ‘He was with your poor husband when he died.’

  Swallow reached out to sympathise. Her hand was cold as ice in spite of the warmth of the summer night. She looked up at him without focusing and opened her mouth as if to say something. But no sound uttered. He recognised the symptoms of shock.

  ‘I’m very sorry indeed for your loss, Mrs Fleury,’ he said quietly. ‘Your husband acted with great bravery.’

  She drew her hand away and stared away towards the window.

  ‘Yes … I’m sure he … he did,’ she said, after a long silence. ‘Where … did you say you met my husband?’

  ‘Ah, on police duty, Mrs Fleury,’ he said tactfully. ‘I had the privilege of knowing him as a fine officer.’

  ‘What about the children’s supper?’ she looked at him quizzically. ‘They should be in bed, you know.’

  ‘The children are being looked after, Mrs Fleury,’ Sullivan told her. ‘They’re gone above to my house and my missus will take care of them, never fear.’

  There was no reply. She put her hand to her mouth and held it there with the tears flowing down over her fingers.

  Sullivan caught his eye and nodded towards the door. They stepped out of the room into the hallway.

  ‘The poor creature is overwhelmed,’ Sullivan said. ‘Her brother’s a doctor over in Mountrath. He’s just arrived now with his wife. So I’ll ask him to give her something to help her rest. We’ll start moving this crowd out of here to give them some peace. You can’t do any more than pay your respects as you’ve done. Will you go down to the hotel and I’ll be along in half an hour? We could probably both do with a couple of drinks.’

  It was a long and a late night after Sullivan joined the G-men at the hotel bar. The big head constable had held his emotions together until he got a few pints of Rathdowney ale and three or four Cork whiskeys inside him. Two of his sergeants joined them at the bar. The RIC men were in disbelief at the events of the day. They were emotional about their DI. Edward Fleury had clearly been a popular and respected young officer.

  The drink flowed and stories about policing were told until the small hours, some of them probably true, most of them well embellished in the telling, and a few, Swallow recognised, absolute invention. Finally, the exhausted barman retreated to his bed, leaving it on trust that the night’s quota of alcohol would be paid for in the morning.

  The first train to Dublin would depart from Roscrea station at seven o’clock. Mossop, Swift and Vizzard went to their rooms to snatch a couple of hours of sleep but Swallow stayed at the bar with Head Constable Sullivan until the thin light of dawn appeared outside the hotel windows. The hotel delivered on the good breakfast that Sullivan had promised and the G-men dined on generous helpings of porridge, followed by bacon, sausage, pudding and eggs, all washed down with strong tea.

  There was an open car to bring them to the railway station. The RIC driver shepherded them through to the platform even as the train came into sight down the track. As the G-men boarded, an escort party of uniformed RIC men with carbines at the slope took the handcuffed and bandaged Tim Spencer down the platform to the last carriage, en route to Mountjoy Prison.

  Strangely alert, in spite of the excess of alcohol and lack of sleep, Swallow itched to go down the train to question him. But it would be an unacceptable crossing of professional boundaries, he knew. Spencer was the RIC’s prisoner now. He was going to be made amenable for the murder of one of their own. The investigation of a suburban Dublin robbery, regardless of the prominence of the victim, was a trivial thing by comparison. He settled back into his seat and started to doze as the train picked up its rhythm.

  When he felt himself being shaken by Pat Mossop he realised he must have actually slept for most of the journey. They were steaming into Kingsbridge Terminus. The RIC had two open cars waiting to take Spencer and his escort to Mountjoy Prison. And there was a DMP open car to take Swallow and the G-men to the Castle. John Mallon would want a full and immediate briefing.

  His head pounded and his stomach was heaving from the previous night. But it was warm and comfortable in Mallon’s front parlour and he realised that he had dozed off again, having recounted the events of the previous evening.

  Now Mallon repeated his earlier exhortation.

  ‘Go home, Joe. Get some rest for a while.’

  ‘I’m … sorry, Chief.’

  Mallon recognised his embarrassment and his hesitation.

  ‘If you don’t want to go to home, why don’t you take a bed upstairs here for a couple of hours? You can wash up and shave later. I’ll get someone to run up to Pim’s to get a fresh shirt for you.’

  He glanced at his pocket watch.

  ‘Take a couple of hours. Sure, Mrs Mallon will put your name on the pot for dinner around one o’clock. We can leave other business until then.’

  He was more than glad of the offer. He climbed the stairs wearily and slept solidly in the back bedroom of Mallon’s house until a hard thumping on the door woke him almost three hours later.

  The housemaid called through the door.

  ‘There’s a shirt for ye out here, Sir. An’ there’s hot water an’ a razor an’ soap.’

  The hot water was reviving and he felt better for shaving away two days’ of unkempt stubble. The shirt, procured from Pim’s store, behind the Castle on South Great George’s Street, was fresh and cool against his skin.

  ‘You look a lot better,’ Mallon told him as they sat to the table.

  Dinner was a hearty Irish stew. As soon as he got some of the tender mutton, potato and carrot down, the nauseous effects of alcohol poisoning in his stomach started to abate.

  ‘Thanks, Chief. I feel it.’

  ‘I’ve a bit of good news,’ Mallon said.

  ‘That’ll be welcome.’

  ‘I’ve managed to get a bit of money together to see if we can
keep Captain O’Shea quiet. It’s less than I’d hoped for but it’ll probably be enough to make him happy for a while anyway. It’s about £3,000.’

  ‘That’s quite a feat,’ Swallow said. He meant it. The Under-Secretary for Ireland, the top public official in the land, was paid £1,500 a year and that was an impressive sum.

  Mallon sliced a floury potato on his plate.

  ‘As I’d hoped, there are business people around who daren’t support Parnell in public but who don’t want to see him brought down. So they’ve been willing to contribute. It’s all on a confidential basis, of course. Although at the rate O’Shea gets through cash, it won’t last too long. I messaged Mr Parnell and he’s very pleased. The money should be lodged to his account at College Green on Monday morning.’

  He forked a portion of potato into his mouth.

  ‘What news from our friend at The Irish Times?’

  ‘The last I heard from Dunlop was just before I went to Tipperary yesterday. He says they’ll be notifying Polson this afternoon that they won’t run with it. So he’ll be looking around to find a new outlet to publicize the scandal.’

  Mallon frowned.

  ‘The last time we spoke, you seemed to think you had a way of dealing with that, although you were being very mysterious about it.’

  Swallow chewed on his mutton for a moment.

  ‘I did, Chief. And I was. And by tonight I’ll know if it’s going to work.’

  Chapter 25

  Every prison had its own particular smell, Swallow had long concluded, having visited almost every penal institution in Ireland, as well as a few in Britain, in the course of his work. It was a product of what the authorities decided to put into the prisoners’ diet, the substances they employed in order to maintain some sort of hygiene, the type of work that was done inside the walls, the age of the buildings perhaps, and something else that was elusive and indefinable.

  The smell of Mountjoy Prison on the city’s North Circular Road had many ingredients, he knew. These included boiled vegetables, animal fat, dank water from the nearby canal, human waste, sawdust from the prison workshops and strong disinfectant. The intangible element, he had decided, was the anger of youth.