In the Dark River

by Conor Brady

Lily had asked Maria to be her matron-of-honour. At first Maria was reluctant and spoke only of her doubts and apprehension about her role and about the day itself. But as the date drew nearer, Swallow noticed that her fears started to give way to anticipation and then to excitement. She delighted in going through the details of all the preparations with her sister and in the visits to the dressmaker and to the shops where all the perfect accessories for the big day had to be selected and ordered. She looked very beautiful in the elegant gown of cream satin that she and Maria had designed together, commissioning one of Dublin’s most celebrated dressmakers to bring it to reality. At the reception in the club’s magnificent function room, gaily decorated with flowers, Maria seemed to laugh and enjoy herself again as in the early days of their relationship.

  It had been a gradual process, he knew. He also knew that much of her restoration was attributable to the changes in himself and in his working regime. Within a few weeks of being assigned to the Chief Commissioner’s office and being relieved of investigative duties, some of the former warmth in their relationship had started to come back. He began to understand that what he had taken as a reverse was in fact a blessing. John Mallon had done him a very great favour, without realising it.

  He drank alcohol less frequently and when he did he drank less of it. His work routine meant that he could go home to Maria most days to join her for the midday meal. And it meant that almost every evening he could come home to Thomas Street. They would take their evening meal together and then take turns at being a presence downstairs, mingling with the clientele, supporting Dan and the other barmen and keeping a watchful eye on the evening’s trade.

  When he first came back to Thomas Street in June, after being moved from investigation duties, he realised that his clothes and personal effects had been transferred from the main bedroom he shared with Maria to the smaller room that he had originally occupied as a lodger and which was still referred to by the servants as Mr Swallow’s room. He was briefly angry. But he accepted that it was not unreasonable. His comings and goings had been utterly unpredictable. It was upsetting and disruptive to Maria, already stressed after the loss of the baby. Eventually, as the pressure of his caseload mounted, he was spending more nights in the dormitory at Exchange Court or in Mallon’s house than in his own home. He knew that it was a disastrous regime in which any relationship was bound to wither.

  They continued to occupy separate rooms for almost two months after his return. Then one evening, when he came home from work, he found that everything had been moved back again to the main bedroom.

  ‘No point in having the maid make up two rooms every morning, is there?’ Maria said drily.

  They were sitting to their evening meal in the dining room on the first floor.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ he answered, unsure of how to respond.

  Suddenly, Maria giggled.

  ‘Ah, you know that’s not why I did it.’

  She giggled again.

  ‘Sure, it’ll give the servants something to talk about anyway, the mess you always leave our bed in.’

  Now, coming up to Christmas, it sometimes seemed to him as if the past year and a half was a blank. It might not have happened at all. The loss of the baby was always there but it lessened in intensity. Maria’s melancholia gradually became a distant, if unpleasant, memory that could still cause him pain. She had rediscovered her life and they had recovered their lives together. He felt as if he had somehow diverted off the highway of his own life for a time but then re-joined it.

  He had expected to see Maria when he entered the select bar, stepping in from the snow. On a night as busy as this, with Grant’s abuzz with pre-Christmas cheer, she would usually be on hand, conversing and chatting and making sure the regulars got their favourite tipple ‘on the house’ to mark the season.

  He brushed melting snowflakes off his coat and pushed his way through the drinkers to the public bar. She was not in there either. Familiar faces nodded and smiled, wishing him good cheer and the blessings of Christmas.

  ‘A merry Christmas, Mister Swalla’.’

  ‘Season’s cheer, Joe.’

  ‘Beannachtaína Nollag.’

  ‘Happy Christmas and many of them.’

  He nodded back and mouthed greetings and salutations in return.

  ‘You’ll be lookin’ for herself, Mr Swalla’?’

  Dan Daly, as if sensing his concern, had followed him through from the select bar.

  ‘I am, Dan. Is she alright? Is she above?’

  The head barman smiled.

  ‘Ah, don’t fret now, Sir. She’s gone upstairs. She said to tell you to go straight up when you came in.’

  He took the stairs two at a time. There had to be a reason why Maria was not downstairs two nights before Christmas.

  She was sitting by the coal fire in the parlour with the heavy, brocade drapes drawn across the windows, blocking out the winter cold from the street. Four lamps were burning, dispensing an even pattern of yellow light across the Persian rug and throwing shadows against the wall on either side of the mantle.

  ‘Joe,’ she called as he entered the room. ‘You’re home. I was worried about you when I saw the snow starting to come down.’

  He kissed her cheek and took the chair opposite.

  ‘Don’t be foolish, my love. It’s only a few flurries. It’ll be gone by morning.’

  He struggled out of his overcoat and sat again.

  ‘It’s busy below. I thought you’d be down there but Dan told me that you’d come upstairs. Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘No. But I wanted to be here where we could be on our own as soon as you arrived. I’ve something to tell you privately.’

  He held his breath, fearing for the worst.

  ‘I was at the doctor earlier,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ he asked urgently. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Is everything alright?’

  She smiled.

  ‘Everything is fine. But we’re going to have to prepare the nursery for a new arrival in our lives.’

  Postscript II

  December 26th, 1890

  Officially, the public houses were closed on Saint Stephen’s Day, the first day after Christmas. Bar staff who had worked tirelessly through the festive season were given two full days to rest, to be with their families and to enjoy their own celebrations.

  Unofficially however, many houses were serving regular customers and friends. The front doors might be shut but those in the know went behind the premises to find their entrance. A back door would open briefly after a signal, perhaps a sharp knock on a side window or a rap on the door itself. And because all the barmen were gone for their well-deserved holiday, the publicans and members of their family would usually be found serving behind the bar.

  So it was at Grant’s on Saint Stephen’s morning. The first customers, a pair of pensioners from the Royal Hospital at Kilmainham, had tapped on the back door with their walking sticks shortly after eleven o’clock. Maria had decided to open only the select bar, leaving the public bar unattended and she ushered the two elderly men inside to be served by Swallow. There was a steady stream of customers during the morning and they took turns behind the bar.

  Shortly after noon, Swallow opened the door in response to a quick series of taps on the window. He was a little surprised to see Duck Boyle on the step, arms wrapped around himself in his heavy overcoat to counter the cold.

  ‘Let me in there, Swalla’, like a good man.’

  The corpulent superintendent was across the threshold and into the back hallway before Swallow could say a word.

  ‘God, there’s a wind out there that’d take the skin off yer face,’ Boyle wheezed. ‘Compliments o’ the season to yerself an’ all in the house.’

  He stamped his feet to shake off the overnight snow.

  ‘You’re very welcome, Super,’ Swallow said. ‘And the compliments of the season to yourself. Come on into the bar and I’ll get you something to take the chill off you.�
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  Boyle crossed into the select bar and pushed open the door of the first snug beside the counter.

  ‘Ah, that’s grand. All to meself,’ he said, finding it empty. ‘Mebbe you’ll join me yourself for a while if you’re not too busy. Would yer missus be alright to look after things on her own fer a bit?’

  Swallow looked to Maria who had immediately apprehended the situation in her head. Duck Boyle was not a regular visitor to Grant’s. He was here for a purpose beyond merely having a drink on the house, although that might be a minor consideration also. She nodded in affirmation as Swallow silently pointed first to himself and then to the door of the snug.

  ‘There you go, Super,’ he planted a large Powers whiskey, Doyle’s favourite tipple, on the snug table. Against his better instincts, given the relatively early hour and the prospect of a long day ahead, he had poured himself a Tullamore.

  Boyle raised his glass.

  ‘Here’s to yer health, Swalla’ and to all of us for the New Year. 1890, what? Hard to believe. A new decade. The very last wan before we’re into a new century.’

  The superintendent appeared to be in an uncharacteristic philosophical mood. Swallow had never known Duck Boyle to ponder very much upon the future or, indeed, to reflect very much on the past.

  ‘I have a bit o’news, Swalla’, somethin’ you prob’ly wouldn’t have heard over the past couple o’days, what with it bein’ Christmas an’ you sort of isolated annyway, over there in the Chief Commissioner’s office.’

  It was true, Swallow had to admit to himself, that with the passage of time and as he became more acclimatised to conditions of greater domesticity and regularity, he had become considerably disengaged from the daily round of crime news.

  ‘So what’s that, Super?’

  ‘I’m on the brink o’ solvin’ the murder case in the river.’

  ‘The woman we found in the Poddle?’

  ‘That’s it exactly.’

  ‘So what’s happened?’

  ‘Well, you’ll recall that Dr Lafeyre had spotted the couple a’ gold fillin’s in the dead woman’s mouth. Now, Tim Hogan, the photographic technician above in the RIC Depot took pictures, as ye know, of every part o’ the skeleton, includin’ the teeth with their fillin’s in gold.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Now, them pictures was circulated to all the police forces in the Kingdom. An’ it seems that there’s a fellow in the Manchester CID who was apprenticed to a dentist before he joined the force. He takes an interest in these matters an’ when he saw the pictures sent over by Horgan from Dublin, he recognised somethin’ unusual and familiar about them.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Ye prob’ly don’t know this, but Manchester seems to be very advanced in matters of dental medicine. They set up their own dental college there a few years back and it seems to be more than well regarded.’

  He drank from his Powers.

  ‘So, the gold was put into the cavity in layers, it seems. He could spot that in a way now that an ordinary person wouldn’t. He calls it foil. Them fillin’s usin’ foil are sort of brighter than other gold fillin’s. But it’s a fairly new way of doing the job. It used to be done with a very fine wire. So he talked to a few o’ the dentists teachin’ at the college and a few practicin’ dentists around Manchester to see who was usin’ this new technique and one o’ them looked at the pictures and said he thought them fillin’s might actually be his own work.’

  Swallow’s mind went back to Ephram Greenberg’s information from his fellow dealer in Manchester. The location tallied. He started to sense that what was unfolding in Boyle’s narrative might actually amount to something concrete.

  ‘The CID man asked this dentist if he could identify the individual from his patients’ list. It took a bit o’ work but eventually he narrowed it down to two or three women of the right age from around Manchester. He had them checked out one by one and all were accounted for except one.’

  He reached into his pocket to find his notebook.

  ‘Margaret Ryan, aged thirty-four, believed to be a native of Dublin. A cook and housekeeper, a widow, it’s believed, with a couple of young children taken away an’ put in an orphanage. She was in the employment of one Daniel Harden, a dealer in jewellery and fine furniture with a domiciliary address at New Gardens Street. Now, here’s the thing, Swalla’. Mr Harden seems to be, in the phrase, well-known to the bobbies in Manchester. He’s got convictions for receivin’ stolen property, for sellin’ on stolen property and for serious assault. He’s understood to be a native of someplace in Ireland too but nobody seems to have any idea what place.’

  ‘So what connects her to the bones found in the Poddle?’ Swallow asked cautiously, sipping his Tullamore.

  ‘Manchester CID picked up a whisper that for some reason she left Manchester in a hurry and went back t’ Ireland. An’ Harden sent a couple o’ fellas over here after her. Hard men. Manchester CID have their names. The intelligence is that she’d taken somethin’ from Harden. Somethin’ valuable, obviously. An’ he wanted it back. The two toughs kem back to Manchester an’ the word is that they found Margaret Ryan but they didn’t get their hands on whatever it was they were after.’

  Some mental image of an unknown Margaret Ryan swam into Swallow’s mind. It became easier to imagine the bones in the Poddle as the remains of a once-living person when one had a name. Margaret Ryan. He could not allow himself to imagine her brutal end when the thugs sent to follow her from Manchester failed to find the treasure she had secreted in the belt she wore about her. At some point her ordeal had come to an end. But whether she was alive or dead when she was put into the dark waters of the Poddle was anybody’s guess.

  He had to remind himself that Boyle had never learned about the diamonds and half sovereigns that Lafeyre had found in the belt. That information had remained confidential to himself, Lafeyre, Mallon, Chief Commissioner Harrel and, of course to Ephram and Katherine Greenberg. To this date, as he understood it, they remained in the big evidence safe in Harrel’s office in the Castle.

  ‘Do we know where she went when she came to Ireland?’ Swallow asked.

  ‘Not a clue. We’re workin’ on it. But it’s more than a year ago. So the chances are slim that we can locate her track now at this stage.’

  ‘How are you going to proceed from here?’ Swallow asked.

  ‘We’re goin’ to send a couple o’ G-men over to Manchester with the skull of our woman so it can be formally identified by the dentist fellow. They’ll take that bunch o’ keys ye found in the river too. My hunch is they might fit into doors and locks in this fella Harden’s house. Then we’re goin’ to have Manchester CID take in the two heavies that he sent over here. They prob’ly did for her and dropped the corpse into the Poddle somewhere. Most likely we can get wan o’ them to turn Queen’s evidence agin’ t’other and hopefully agin’ Harden himself.’

  He threw back the last of his Power’s.

  ‘Now, Swalla’, whaddy think o’that?’

  Swallow knew what Boyle wanted to hear. And he saw no reason to deny him.

  ‘That’s great work, Super. Sure, I managed to make no progress at all when I was working on the case. You’ll get great praise from the Commissioner when he hears what you’ve managed to do. And you’ll get great notice in the newspapers too. Sure, they were all full of the story, “woman’s bones in underground river” and all that at the time.’

  ‘That’s very true, Swalla’. But of course I’m indifferent to all that publicity stuff. It’s not what a good policeman should be thinkin’ about. Of course, if this comes to a successful conclusion, there’ll be praise for every wan involved. Mebbe even promotion, if ye understand what I’m sayin’ now.’

  Swallow understood perfectly. It was important to Boyle that he should get as much credit as possible. There was a post at the rank of chief superintendent coming up. He had the right connections to work on his behalf. A notable success in crime detection would weigh even more hea
vily in his favour. But it was also important that he could put himself forward as the genius of the successful investigation. Swallow knew he was being invited to write himself out of the script.

  Why not, he asked himself? He had thought about Mallon’s offer to restore him to the G-division crime office with a view to facilitating his own promotion. But it no longer had the appeal it once had. He would be happy to step back and let Boyle take centre-stage. And it would be more than churlish, he told himself, to make anything of the role of the unknown Manchester CID man who had assiduously trawled through local dental records and finally matched the skull in the Poddle to the missing Margaret Ryan. No doubt, if the investigation came to a successful conclusion, his work would be acknowledged by his own authorities there.

  Across the counter, he saw Maria, smiling and laughing with the regulars, as she dispensed their drinks and listened to their banter. She looked happy and well, at ease with the world. In a couple of hours, they would see the last of the customers off the premises, close the select bar and climb the stairs to the peaceful home that they had learned to share together.

  ‘You’re right, Super,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of other things to think about.’