In the Dark River

by Conor Brady

  ‘Who are you?,’ she called sharply. ‘And what right have you to barge in here? This is outrageous …’

  McCartan raised a hand to check her.

  ‘Leave this to me please, Dorothy. These are policemen. There isn’t any danger.’

  He turned to face the G-men.

  ‘How dare you? Hasn’t my wife been through enough? Haven’t we been through enough recently? What is this preposterous charge about Mrs Bradley being murdered. It’s utterly ridiculous. She’s actually in Belfast.’

  Swallow prided himself on his capacity sometimes to pick up a tone of untruth in a spontaneous response from an interviewee. There was none of that in what McCartan had just said. It was his first intimation that all was not going to go well.

  But he knew he could not allow himself to be deflected from following procedure.

  ‘I need to warn you, Sir,’ he told McCartan. ‘You’re not required to say anything if you do not wish to do so. But anything you say after this point may be taken down and given in evidence. Do you understand this caution?’

  McCartan snorted.

  ‘Good God, man. What d’you take me for? I’m a Queen’s Counsel. I have no idea what this is about or why you’re doing it. But I’m telling you now that at the end of this, you and whoever put you up to it will pay a heavy price.’

  Swallow faced Dorothy McCartan.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, M’am. I’m Detective Inspector Swallow and this is Detective Sergeant Mossop. There are a number of other police officers with us. We have authority to search the house as we have reason to believe that a serious crime may have been committed and that we may find evidence here. I’ve just showed your husband the magistrate’s warrant.’

  As he spoke, he could hear the other G-men in the hallway. Earlier he had sketched the layout of the house as best he could from memory and from the information given by Timmy Spencer. Now each man was going about his pre-allotted search tasks. His would be to locate and search the room that had been Sarah Bradley’s.

  McCartan had more or less recovered his composure. He handed the warrant back to Swallow and walked over to where his wife now stood.

  ‘I told you previously that my wife is not in good health. I’d like to take her to her bedroom. I assume you don’t intend to search there.’

  ‘By all means let the lady go to her room, Sir,’ Swallow answered. ‘But I suggest she might be prepared to vacate it for a while later. It’s not impossible that my officers will have to search there too.’

  McCartan took his wife’s hand and led her from the room. Swallow could hear their slow footsteps, ascending on the stairs as the sounds of the G-men searching came from the rooms close by.

  ‘You can start with these,’ he told Mossop, gesturing to the finely crafted, French cabinets, nestling in the alcoves between the fire-mantle. ‘Any papers, documents or objects of interest. Put them out for examination. I’ll get busy upstairs in Sarah Bradley’s room.’

  He climbed the stairs to the landing. The housekeeper’s room should be at the end of the corridor at the rear of the house. The door, as Spencer had told him, was firmly locked.

  He returned to the landing and called downstairs for Shanahan.

  Shanahan had been apprenticed to a locksmith in Francis Street before joining the police and he still had some skills of the trade. Before they set out from the Lower Yard, Swallow had given him the set of keys recovered from the Poddle along with a copy of Hogan’s photograph of them laid out individually against a foot rule.

  ‘Your job is to try every key in every lock in the house,’ he told him. ‘That includes interior and exterior doors, cupboards, desks, wardrobes, safes. Anything with a lock on it. Then mark and number every match on the photograph.’

  It was both a pragmatic utilisation of Shanahan’s skills and a gesture of absolution from Swallow for the G-man’s earlier failure to ascertain how the gang had gained access to the house.

  ‘I need you up here to open a door for me,’ he called to the G-man when he appeared at the foot of the stairs. ‘Bring up the keys.’

  Shanahan climbed to the landing to meet him, the key ring in his hand. Swallow knew from his expression that something was wrong.

  ‘There’s none of these fitting any of the locks, Inspector,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’ve tried every one of them in the back door, the front door, the kitchen doors and the out offices. There’s a few locked cupboards in the pantry or larder or whatever it is. I’ve tried the small keys on them. There’s not a match to be had anywhere.’

  Swallow felt his heart sink. If none of the keys matched, the whole basis of the investigation and the search of the house was breaking down. If Shanahan was right, whoever the keys belonged to, they did not apparently belong to anyone resident in the McCartan house. The hypothesis that the remains recovered from the Poddle were those of Sarah Bradley would be in ruins.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked Shanahan unnecessarily. ‘You’ve tried them all?’

  ‘Absolutely, Boss. But I’ll try the upstairs rooms anyway. You’d never know.’

  None of the locks on the first floor responded as Shanahan tried one key after another. At the locked door of the housekeeper’s bedroom, there was a faint click and a partial engagement between key and lock but no more.

  ‘No good there,’ Shanahan muttered. ‘But the tumblers are loose. It’s an old lock and I can manage it, I’d say.’

  There was a sliver of space between the bolt and the receiver. Shanahan slid a penknife blade into the space and pushed to the left with one hand while rotating the key with the other. There was another click, this time louder and more decisive. He grunted, then smiled with satisfaction as the bolt slid back and he turned the handle.

  Swallow was unsure what he expected to find in the room that had been occupied by Sarah Bradley. Evidence perhaps of violence? Signs of the struggle that Timmy Spencer claimed to have heard the night she disappeared? Traces of a clean-up after a crime? Or perhaps he had expected to find the room as Sarah Bradley might have left it before she met an unexpected end, with clothing and other personal effects indicating an unplanned failure to return.

  The room told him nothing, other than that it had not been occupied for a long time. The air was musty and fetid. There might have been the faintest, lingering scent of some stale perfume. A scattering of dead flies lay across the window sash. The single, iron-framed bed, with a damask cover, had been made up with sheets and pillow-cases. The wardrobe opposite the bed was quite empty as was the small chest of drawers under the window. The ewer and bowl on the washstand were both bone dry.

  As he stepped out into the corridor again, John McCartan appeared on the landing.

  ‘Inspector Swallow, I’d like to speak to you please,’ he said calmly. ‘Can we go downstairs?’

  Swallow followed him silently down the staircase into the drawing room.

  ‘May I take it that we won’t be disturbed here by your men?’ he asked. ‘I presume they’ve finished searching this room.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ Swallow nodded. ‘I hope your wife is not unduly upset.’

  ‘She’s as you might expect in the circumstances. But she’s resting now. How much longer will this search take?’

  ‘I can’t really say. We’ll finish as quickly as we can, but it’s a big house.’

  McCartan indicated to him to sit.

  ‘I’m outraged beyond words at what has happened here this evening, Mr Swallow. I have to tell you that I am rather struggling to contain my anger and not make things worse for my dear wife. And I will require some time to decide how I will deal with this appalling intrusion into our lives and this misuse of police powers. But I assure you, the consequences will not be pleasant for you, and possibly for some of your superiors.’

  ‘It’s understandable that you should feel angry, Sir,’ Swallow said. ‘But I have to do my duty.’

  ‘You’ve also to use your common sense and your intelligence, Man. What is this nonse
nse about Mrs Bradley being murdered?’

  Swallow knew he was on the backfoot.

  ‘The police have reason to believe that she was. And a witness saw you leave this house in darkness with what might have been a body, wrapped in a cover.’

  McCartan gave a low laugh.

  ‘My poor dogs. Poisoned by a farmer, I believe. I’ve just become sure of who did it.’

  ‘What did you do with the dogs?’

  ‘I drove out to the mountains beyond Rathfarnham and buried them close to one of the paths where I used to walk with them.’

  ‘Why not have your coachman or someone else do it? It must have been quite a laborious task.’

  ‘Those two dogs were very loyal to me, Mr Swallow. Burying them was a job to be done by the master that loved them, not by a servant.’

  ‘You were at The Morgue, the public house at the Templeogue bridge, that night.’

  ‘I was. As you said, it was a laborious task. I rarely visit licensed premises. But that evening, I felt I needed a brandy. In fact I had two.’

  Swallow was momentarily silent. Unusually, he realised he was unsure how to pursue his line of questioning.

  McCartan leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘Mr Swallow. I will eliminate any doubt or suspicions you may yet entertain. But I require your absolute assurance of total confidentiality.’

  ‘I can give you that, Sir,’ Swallow answered.

  ‘I have a letter from Mrs Bradley posted and dated from Belfast just three days ago. I can assure you she is alive and well.’

  ‘It’s not that I doubt you, Sir,’ Swallow lied. ‘But it would be helpful if I could see that letter.’

  ‘I think you probably know why I would hesitate to do that, Inspector. Mrs Bradley’s time here was not the most tranquil. She left quite suddenly and after a great deal of unpleasantness. The content of the letter would be, well, sensitive.’

  ‘Again, I can guarantee you that it would kept be in my absolute confidence.’

  McCartan was silent for a moment.

  ‘Very well.’

  He drew an envelope from his pocket. It bore a Belfast stamp, dated June sixth. It was addressed to Sir John McCartan QC, at the Dublin Law Library.

  ‘Read it, Mr Swallow.’

  Swallow spread the single sheet on his knee.

  St David’s,

  Cliftonvale Avenue,

  Belfast,

  Co Antrim.

  Dear Sir John,

  Thank you for arranging to forward my belongings.

  I am very sorry that my departure from my post at Templeogue Hill had to be so sudden. Clearly, my efforts to be a suitable housekeeper to your home were not in keeping with your wishes or expectations, or indeed, with those of Lady McCartan.

  When Lady McCartan offered me the position, I was aware that it would pose particular challenges, given the state of her health. I took up the post with the best of intentions. However, I realise now that in your view, I assumed responsibilities and duties that were not appropriate to my station. I very much regret that you saw these efforts on my part as unwelcome and, indeed, at odds with your own requirements for the smooth running of your household.

  I will not deny that in my time at Templeogue House my respect and affection for you personally grew considerably. You, in turn, expressed affection and sentiment for me which, while flattering, was far from appropriate and which could only give rise to the greatest scandal had it been allowed to develop in any way. For my own part, I wish we had met in different circumstances. I also wish I could have been of more assistance to you in the particular difficulties and responsibilities you face. But this was not to be.

  Thank you for forwarding the payment due to me for the last month of my service.

  As you will see from the address here, I have found suitable employment in Belfast, at the house of a gentleman who is prominent in the commercial life of this city.

  I remain, respectfully yours,

  Sarah Bradley (Mrs.)

  He handed the letter back to McCartan.

  ‘Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your confidence. The letter appears to be self-explanatory.’

  ‘It is, Mr Swallow. I allowed a certain foolishness to overtake my common sense in relation to Mrs Bradley. My actions and my disposition raised hopes in her that could never have been realised and in the end matters became quite acrimonious. It was quite impossible that she should stay on and so her employment here had to come to an end.

  ‘You’ll understand that I shall need to verify the authenticity of the letter by having the Belfast police speak directly with Mrs Bradley herself.’

  ‘I suppose you will,’ McCartan said wearily. ‘Do what you must. All I would ask is that for Mrs Bradley’s sake you do it with more tact and discretion than you have displayed in this house.’

  Swallow knew that his words were formulaic. An attempt to stage a dignified withdrawal in the face of a catastrophic mistake. He had no doubt whatsoever that when Belfast CID would visit the address given on Sarah Bradley’s letter, at G-division’s request, they would find her alive and well.

  Chapter 32

  Monday, June 10th, 1889

  Swallow and his raiding party of G-men had returned to the Castle shortly before midnight. The search at Templeogue Hill had yielded nothing of significance. Conversation among the dispirited G-men was muted as the side-cars made their way back through the quiet suburbs into the darkened city. They dropped Pat Mossop off by his house on Wexford Street. Mick Feore suggested that a few late-night pints in an obliging hostelry might be in order once the horses were stabled. The idea was taken up with weary assent rather than the enthusiasm of men who have just attained a coveted goal or prize. Swallow decided to adhere to his new-found temperance. He parted from the others in the stable yard and made his way quietly to his bedroom at Mallon’s house.

  When he woke in the morning, John Mallon had already left the house for his office. He drank two cups of tea in the kitchen, declining the cook’s offer of breakfast and set out to report to his boss. He was not looking forward to it. Had there been any positive result from the search he would have made out a late-night briefing note and left it on the desk for Mallon’s clerk to find first thing in the morning. When bringing disastrous results it was better to go face to face with the chief of detectives and recount the unhappy story in full.

  Mallon did not beat around the bush when Swallow finished his account of the night’s work at Templeogue Hill.

  ‘I’m going to have to shift you, Joe. There’s no way around it. There’ll be calls to have you sacked, reduced in rank, suspended, all of these. The lawyers will be outraged. The business community too. There’ll be protests and petitions to the Commissioner. It’s bad enough that people like the McCartans should be attacked in their home in a well-policed city. But then to have them treated like criminal themselves by the police, it’s more than the great and the good of Dublin can tolerate.’

  ‘I know that, Chief,’ Swallow said apologetically.

  ‘If I move you over to office duties for a bit and if I do it quickly, it might die down. If we manage to recover the cash and jewellery taken from them it’ll weigh to our benefit too. We can call in a few favours from our friends in the newspapers to put a positive gloss on things.

  ‘Do you think Spencer genuinely thought McCartan had murdered Sarah Bradley at the house?’ Mallon asked. ‘Or was it a way of walking us into trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know, Chief. On balance, I’d say he genuinely thought McCartan had done for her. He’s not too swift in the head. I doubt he’d have the imagination to come up with a plan like that.’

  Mallon stroked his beard reflectively.

  ‘Maybe. Sometimes the most dense ones are also the most cunning.’

  ‘What do you want me to do about taking in these cavalry lads over in Portobello Barracks? And what are we going to do about Stephen Doolan’s brother’s house being used as a depot for stolen property?’

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t think you’ve been listening to me, Joe.’

  There was more than a hint of exasperation in Mallon’s voice.

  ‘I want you to do nothing. When you walk out of here now, I want you to lose yourself for an hour or two. Go to the Dolphin or someplace and have a good breakfast. Come back when you’ve done that and go straight across to the Chief Commissioner’s office. I’ll have told them you need a desk and a chair and a bit of peace and quiet for a while. Harrel has a few jobs he wants done. Paperwork for a while.’

  ‘Understood, Chief. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You needn’t worry. I’m quite capable of taking charge of things,’ Mallon said affecting a patient tone. ‘Remember, I did your job for a lot of years. The first thing I’ll do is have the RIC detective office in Belfast establish that Sarah Bradley really is alive and well and where she claims to be. Although I doubt that McCartan was telling you anything other than the truth.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I doubt it too, Chief.’

  ‘Then I’ll have a message sent to the Military Police office at Portobello. With luck, the four characters identified by Spencer will be in the cells there in an hour. The army doesn’t hang around waiting for evidence or that kind of thing. I’ll go down to the crime conference now in a few minutes and I’ll get Mossop to organise a few of the lads later in the morning to get over there and start questioning them.’ Swallow told himself that Pat Mossop would do it right. But interviewing the suspects in Portobello should rightly be his job.

  ‘That’s good,’ he told Mallon, trying his best to sound disinterested. ‘Mossop is well ahead on this already.’

  A disquieting thought occurred to him.

  ‘Do you think the fellows in Portobello might have taken off by now? They’ll have heard that Spencer is in Mountjoy and they’ll know there’s a good chance he’ll put the finger on them.’

  ‘I’m ahead of you there,’ Mallon said with a satisfied grin. ‘As soon as I knew what Spencer told you, I got a message to the GOC, Ireland. There’s been a “confined to barracks” order in force all across Dublin for the past 24 hours. I asked the GOC to impose it in all barracks so as not to set off alarm bells with the fellows we want in Portobello. Nobody’s going in or out at any military installation in this city until it’s lifted.’