by Conor Brady
Mallon had produced the customary bottle of Bushmills in his front parlour. The Monday evening outside was bitterly cold. Flurries of snow whipped around the Lower Yard leaving small accumulations on the windows’ sills and in the doorways. Darkness had descended before the offices had closed for the day, leaving it to the gas-lights to mark the outline of the buildings.
It had been a tumultuous five weeks since the conclusion of the divorce hearing in the London Law Courts. The publicising of the affair had brought angry denunciations from the Roman Catholic bishops, including the powerful Archbishop William Walsh of Dublin. More seriously, Protestant church leaders in England also denounced the adulterer whose parliamentary party was in alliance with Gladstone’s Liberal government at Westminster. Gladstone had reportedly informed Parnell that he expected him to fall on his own sword and resign the leadership. Otherwise, he warned, the government would collapse, he would not be re-elected as Prime Minister, Salisbury’s Conservatives would be back in power and any prospect of achieving Home Rule for Ireland would be lost.
At first, it had seemed that it would be possible for Parnell to defy them and hold on. On November twenty-fifth the party’s members at Westminster re-elected him as party leader. But when Gladstone’s threats became public, a second ballot was called for. After a week of intrigues and machinations, a majority of the Irish Party members walked out, led by North Longford MP, Justin McCarthy, renouncing Parnell and founding a new party, to be known as the Irish National Federation.
‘At times like this, I thank God for Bushmills, even if it is a Protestant whiskey,’ Mallon said grimly. He poured two generous measures.
‘That’s it now,’ he said, affecting a false nonchalance. ‘We can all relax. No more talk of Home Rule. The politicians have sunk their own boat. The agitators and the gunmen and arsonists now have a clear field. Mark my words, Swallow. Give it just a few years, maybe a decade or so and the hard men will be in the driving seat. It won’t be Home Rule. It’ll be open revolution. Thank God, I won’t be the one to have to deal with it. I’ll have taken my pension and gone back to Armagh.’
Swallow did not much care for the Bushmills and Mallon knew it. But he drank it out of politeness and respect for his boss. He tried to be positive.
‘We got a year, Chief, maybe two, paying off O’Shea and blocking the attempts by the crowd in the Upper Yard to leak the story to the newspapers,’ he said, taking a mouthful of the dark spirit. ‘And things are quietening around the country. The crime figures are way down. Farmers are getting good money now for crops and animals. It mightn’t be as bad as you think.’
‘I saw a letter in one of the newspapers during the week, saying the Land War is over,’ Mallon mused. ‘It’s abated a lot, I know. But not absolutely. The bitterness and the anger are still there in the countryside. Hard to blame people, I suppose. And there’s all sorts of new influences and threats astir. This Gaelic games thing is going to be powerful. There’s a new Gaelic League that’s supposed to be for cultural activities, but I tell you it’s going to subvert the schools and the colleges. The government is going to give a lot more authority to local councils and, I promise you, they’re going to be taken over by people with no loyalty to the Crown. England is slowly losing Ireland. It’s only a question of when the process will be complete.’
He topped up his own whiskey, looking disapprovingly at Swallow’s still almost-full glass.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, how are you now after the Spencer verdict?’
The other topic of public conversation in recent weeks had been the unexpected acquittal of Timothy Spencer for the murder of District Inspector Edward Fleury in Tipperary, more than a year ago.
The case for the Crown had first begun to look doubtful when Spencer’s counsel told the jury that there was no way of knowing who had fired the fatal shot that took the young policeman’s life. No fewer than three of the RIC constables at the scene had agreed that they had fired their revolvers as they closed with the fugitive in the monastery field. Since no bullet had lodged in the dead man’s body and no bullets had been recovered at the scene, it was impossible to say whose shot had killed him.
But when Detective Inspector Swallow took the stand and testified that he had not heard Fleury or any of the others call out to identify themselves as police, the possibility was planted firmly in the minds of the jury that Spencer may have thought he was acting in self-defence against criminals from his past life.
Spencer testified in his own defence, stating that he had retreated to the monastery for safety and rest. When a party of armed men in plainclothes arrived, he feared for his life and fled across the fields. He had no idea they were policemen. When he found his way blocked off by the river he turned to face his pursuers and, he admitted, he drew his gun and fired once over their heads to deter them.
‘Three or four of these men were carryin’ guns and there was shots bein’ fired at me all the time,’ he said plaintively. ‘But I never fired at annywan.’
Mossop gave evidence that when Inspector Swallow handed him the firearm that he had taken from Spencer he opened the breach and found that just one round had been fired. In considerable degree, defending counsel told the jury, this corroborated the accused man’s evidence.
‘I’ve always been a proud Irishman,’ Spencer said when his counsel asked him to outline his political convictions. ‘I’m bound by oath not to reveal anny more. But I can tell ye I’m not a criminal. Annythin’ I done, I done for Ireland’s cause.’
It was not open to the jury to bring in any verdict other than ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’ of murder, the judge explained. Whether through error or because conviction for murder had seemed certain to the law officers, no fall-back charge had been notified by the Solicitor General or counsel for the Crown. There were gasps of dismay from family and colleagues of the deceased inspector in court when, having retired after two days at hearing, the foreman of the jury said it was their unanimous verdict that Spencer was not guilty. When Spencer walked free and the courtroom started to empty, there were hisses and catcalls from the public gallery to Swallow.
‘Shame.’
‘A disgrace.’
‘Call yourself a policeman?’
‘Traitor.’
Later that evening, he had gone to The Brazen Head with Pat Mossop and Mick Feore. They had finished a few quiet pints and were about to leave when an inebriated Timmy Spencer appeared at the door of the public house. He focused bloodshot eyes on Swallow.
‘Ah, there’s the man,’ he slurred. ‘A rare man, Mr Swallow. A peeler that keeps his word. Ye said you’d give your evidence, straight up. And so you did. Fair dues to ye. Ye done me a great favour.’
‘I told the truth, that’s all,’ Swallow said sharply. ‘You got no favours from me, Spencer.’
Spencer stumbled a little. Pat Mossop stepped forward and steadied him so that he leaned against the wall.
‘Ah, but didn’t I do you a li’l favour?’ Spencer wagged a wavering finger. ‘Didn’t I tell ye how to find them robbers that yer G-men were lookin’ for? Ye hadn’t a clue, had ye? But it was Timmy Spencer that put ye right. An’ all four o’ them now doin’ long stretches in Maryborough prison.’
Swallow reached out suddenly and took him by the shirt.
‘I’d advise you to say no more, Spencer,’ he hissed, forcing him hard against the wall. ‘What’s done is done. People have ears and they listen very carefully, even to a drunk. So shut your mouth unless you want some of them here to give you a watery end in the Liffey.’
He relaxed his grip. Spencer laboured for a few moments to regain his breath.
By now, the customers in the bar realised something was going on between the G-men and the drunken man who had appeared in the doorway. Most of the clientele were content to watch curiously from their stools by the bar but half a dozen or more had moved forward to form a threatening phalanx.
Swallow heard someone mutter.
‘Bastards. B
loody G-men. Lave the poor man alone.’
Mick Feore stepped forward, arms outstretched.
‘Easy now, Men. There’s nobody in trouble yet. So let’s keep it that way. We’re just having a few words here with this gentleman and then we’ll be on our way.’
Feore grasped Spencer by the collar and propelled him through the door, into the street. Swallow and Mossop stepped out after him into the night air.
‘Have you some place to go, Spencer?’ Swallow asked. ‘Have you a bed for the night?’
Spencer grinned stupidly.
‘Ah, don’t worry about me, Mr Swallow. I’m used to roughin’ it.’
‘Have you any money?’
‘Not a bob. I sort of … celebrated earlier.’
Swallow dug in his pocket and found a half crown.
‘Here,’ he handed Spencer the silver coin. ‘Get up to the night shelter and get off the street. That’ll see you right for a bunk and a hot meal.’
Spencer looked at the half crown and then pocketed it. He leaned forward to Swallow, raising his hand to cover his mouth.’
‘C’mere for a minnit. There’s somethin’ I want to tell ye that’ll be between us.’
Swallow inclined his ear.
‘Go on.’
Spencer steadied himself.
‘I’ve been a bit less than honest wid ye,’ he whispered. ‘I’m tellin’ ye now, I shot the peeler. I might as well tell ye the truth now. I went for the heart, fair and square. But it was the head that got it. Lucky for Tim Spencer, I s’pose.’
He laughed and stepped back.
‘I’ll pay ye back yer half crown whin we meet agin, Misther Swalla’. I’m a man o’ me word, as ye know.’
He had never told anyone what the drunken Spencer had whispered in his ear that night outside The Brazen Head. There would be no benefit in anyone knowing that his evidence had resulted in the acquittal of a man who should rightly have been convicted and hanged.
Was that truly the case though, he often asked himself since. He had given evidence based on what he believed he had witnessed. It was entirely possible that Timmy Spencer did not really know himself, either, what had happened. It would not be out of character if he were to claim to Swallow, once he had been safely acquitted, that he had aimed to kill Fleury. He could do it simply to be mischievous, to see if he could disquiet and torture the man who had, after all, apprehended him that day in the monastery field in Tipperary.
He had considered confiding in John Mallon. It would have been something of a relief, he knew, to share the burden of doubt with someone whose judgment he trusted. But he could identify no compelling reason to do so. He could live with his own doubts. It would be impossible either to prove or disprove the truth of what Spencer had said. It was best to leave it and move on.
‘I’m fine with it,’ he told Mallon. ‘Every fibre in my body resents the idea of a gangster like Spencer going free. Once he started playing the Fenian card to the jury I reckoned that he was going to get off anyway. But I’m at ease in my conscience. That’s more important.’
‘Of course,’ Mallon nodded. ‘Conscience does make cowards of us all. That’s Shakespeare, you know. Hamlet.’
He bristled slightly. Where did cowardice come into the equation?
‘I know, Chief. I went to school too.’
Mallon was momentarily embarrassed, realising his faux pas.
‘I’m sorry. There wasn’t any implication in that. The phrase just came into my head.’
‘Ah, I understand. I’m a bit sensitive probably. I’ve been locked up in the bloody office for over a year, filling out forms and shovelling paper. I miss the job. The real job.’
Mallon did not answer immediately.
‘I know it goes against the grain. But it had to be done. It wasn’t easy to persuade McCartan to let everything drop, even if he wanted to be a judge and even if he needed me to speak for him. I had to make it clear and assure him that you were being punished.’
Swallow grunted.
‘Well, I’m being punished alright. And he’s got his job in the High Court. Is there any chance I can get out of the bloody office and back to some real work?’
He had long given up hope of ever escaping the drudgery of the Chief Commissioner’s office.
‘I’d say we should leave it until the New Year,’ Mallon answered. ‘Then maybe around St Patrick’s Day you should come back into G-division. As senior crime inspector.’
‘Are you sure, Chief?’ he asked cautiously.
‘There’s a bit of context. We’ve a good bit of change coming up in the force shortly. The chief superintendent’s job in the uniformed divisions is going to be filled. It’s been left vacant now for more than three years. There’ll be a lot of competition for that and I’d put my money on Duck Boyle. He’s got all the right connections in the Masons and his brother an archdeacon. It’s not just a coincidence that he got appointed to the B-division right here in the centre of the city after just a year in charge out there in the E.’
Swallow understood. The B-division covered the Castle itself, the City Hall, the banking and insurance district and the exclusive, residential areas of the Georgian quarter. The superintendent of B-division was always first among equals in the rank.
‘And there’s talk, only talk mind you, at this stage, of raising my post to Assistant Commissioner, to reflect the expanded workload of the division,’ Mallon continued.
That would be significant, Swallow knew. No man who had risen from the ranks, much less a Catholic farmer’s son from Armagh, had ever made it to the dizzy heights of commissioner in the DMP.
‘It would be an appropriate way of acknowledging your work, Chief,’ he said simply.
‘That means they’ll need to appoint a new detective superintendent here,’ Mallon said. ‘It’d be good to have you back in position since you’re the obvious man for the job.’
In spite of lack of enthusiasm for Mallon’s Bushmills, he allowed himself a deep draught. And then another.
‘I’m going to have to take that on board and think about it, Chief. Stepping into John Mallon’s shoes isn’t an ordinary challenge.’
Mallon smiled for the first time that evening.
‘I’ll take that in the spirit it’s offered. But you’re not an ordinary man, Swallow. Think it over. It’s an opportunity that mightn’t come your way a second time.’
He finished his drink and bade Mallon good night. The snow outside was heavier now, forming white patterns on the kerbstones and lodging in the ironwork of the Palace Street gates, now shut for the night. A few light flakes lodged on the helmet and the moustache of the uniformed constable who stepped away from the glowing brazier in the sentry box to open the wicket gate so he could exit the Castle.
‘Good night, Sir. Bad night if you’re going any distance.’
‘Thanks,’ he smiled, as cold flakes landed on his own nose and cheeks. ‘I’m only going up the street. Stay warm yourself now in that box.’
The bells of Christ Church rang nine o’clock as he passed the City Hall into Lord Edward Street. The cathedral’s granite bulk offered some shelter from the wind driving the snow up from the river. Once he passed into Cornmarket it whipped against his ears and face, even stinging his ankles through his woollen trousers.
Ordinarily the shops along Thomas Street would be shut at this hour, but with three days to Christmas, the hours of commerce had been extended and the street was marked out along both sides with light that caught the snowflakes as in a child’s kaleidoscope. The bright windows of the butchers and the grocers and the fishmongers and the bakers were filled with tempting seasonal delights. The pitch of animated voices, punctuated here and there with loud laughter and even the occasional snatch of a song, flowed out from the busy public houses.
When he reached the end of Thomas Street, Grant’s was busy too, as he would have expected. He could see through the plate-glass windows, even before he went through the door, that both bars were humming. Dan
Daly, the head man, was in the select bar pumping the tall, brass handles on the syphons that drew pints of strong, black porter out of the kegs in the cellar below. The two curates in the public bar were engaged in the same industry although neither of them could touch Dan’s ability to have as many as a dozen perfect pints on the go simultaneously under the taps.
Swallow could not say with certainty when exactly things had started to come right again at Grant’s. At some point Dan Daly had shed his air of despondency and grievance and become his old self again, going about his work contentedly and without complaint.
Maria’s sense of melancholy dissipated gradually and she recovered her joie de vivre and her sense of fulfilment in running the business. She started to socialise again, meeting with Lily and Harriet for lunch from time to time in Wicklow Street or Grafton Street. In the summertime, she would sometimes plan a picnic on his leave days, packing a basket to be taken on the train to Kingstown or even sometimes as far as Bray. His work in the Chief Commissioner’s office was repetitive and unexciting. But it had the advantage of regularity, with fixed hours, and they could plan outings together. In the autumn, they started going to the theatre two or three times a month. Maria’s favourite venue was the Queen’s Royal on Great Brunswick Street and they had seen every production there up to and including the Christmas pantomime.
Lily’s marriage to Harry Lafeyre on Midsummer’s Day in June had been some sort of a turning point, he knew. The ceremony was held in the beautiful Byzantine church, built on St Stephen’s Green, to serve the adjacent Catholic University. Friar Laurence from the Franciscan house on Merchant’s Quay performed the ceremony and the newly-wedded couple led their guests across the sun-drenched square from the church to the United Service Club for the reception.
