by Conor Brady
Swallow shook his head. ‘No. We’re working on that. We think we know her full name now, but so far we haven’t been able to find out where she is.’
‘Ah, I thought you might have been coming to tell us you had located her.’
‘No, I was coming to ask you about something completely unrelated to the tetradrachms.’
‘What was that?’
‘It’s in connection with the murder of Ambrose Pollock. We found a lot of silver in the basement of the pawn shop, and I’m trying to trace who it might have belonged to.’
He took the small silver dish from inside his pocket, unwrapped it and passed it to Ephram.
‘I need to know what you can tell me about that. Who might have made it, and who might have owned it?’
Ephram turned the dish in his hand.
‘It’s a nice little piece, no doubt. It’s got the Britannia mark, which means it’s not absolutely the purest silver. But it’s still very good of course.’
He reached to a side-table, and took a small glass that he screwed into his eye.
‘There’s a crowned harp. So it’s Irish – Dublin – no doubt about it. The capitals are a bit worn, so it’s difficult to be precise about the date, but I’d say it was made around thirty to forty years ago. And the maker’s initials are there too: J.M. That was a silversmith called Joseph Mahony. Quite well known. He had his shop at Crampton Court, just off Dame Street. But he’s dead now, and the shop is gone.’
‘What do you know of the coat of arms?’
Ephram shook his head. ‘I’ve no knowledge of heraldry, Joseph. I imagine it’s some titled family. But the silver is Irish – Dublin – so it must be likely that it was commissioned by an Irish family.’
Swallow rewrapped the silver dish.
‘I have to bring it to the Ulster King at Arms at the Castle. I want to get an identification on it as quickly as possible.’
He stood.
‘As soon as I can, I’ll be back. I want to question the fellow in the infirmary. There’ll be an armed policeman on duty outside here.’
‘We still have the coins,’ Katherine said. ‘What are we to do about them?’
‘Put them in a safe, or in the most secure part of the shop. They’ll be evidence in court when we catch these fellows.’
He moved to the door.
‘Some of my colleagues will need to interview you about what happened. They’ll want details of what the men said, what they were wearing, their accents, anything that will help to trace them. They’ll want to take statements and they’ll ask you to sign them.’
‘Of course,’ Ephram said. ‘We will do what we can to assist the police.’
Swallow hesitated. ‘There’s one other thing they’ll ask. They’ll want to know what happened when I shot the man with the knife. It’s important they understand that your lives were under threat.’
He paused again.
‘They need to know I shouted a warning before I shot him … that he could have put down the knife as I ordered him to.’
Ephram blinked slowly. ‘I’m not sure that I heard.…’
Katherine raised a hand, stopping her father in mid-sentence.
‘We heard you warn him. He had the knife to my throat and I was in fear of my life. There will be no misunderstanding about that. No misunderstanding.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
After a month at the Langham, Margaret Gessel knew it had been a mistake. She could afford the hotel’s charges. That was not the problem. But she resented paying so much to live in a place where her days were long and uneventful.
London might be the capital of the Empire, but there was little that a respectable lady could do on her own. There was a limit to the hours that could be spent reading in her suite or in the residents’ private drawing-room.
She knew that some other landed families from Galway had decided to live out of town. Of those she knew, one had gone to Hastings, the other to farm somewhere in Sussex. She found their addresses and wrote to them.
The replies were cautious. In one case, a widowed lady of similar circumstances whom she had known through the East Galway Hunt indicated that she was thinking about returning to Dublin. Another suggested that she might consider moving to the fashionable little town of Dymchurch on the East Sussex coast. It was little more than an hour by train from Victoria.
A week later, on a bright spring day, Margaret travelled down to see it.
The town was pretty, with some surprisingly good shops and fine houses. The houses were far better maintained than in Ireland. Its prosperity contrasted sharply with what she had known in the grey market towns of Galway. At the end of the month, she decided to vacate the Langham and moved to the George Hotel on Dymchurch’s High Street.
She wrote to Richard at his Ebury Street address, telling him of her plans. Her letter was calculatedly polite, but couched in terms that could leave him in no doubt about her sentiments. She was hurt and angry. There had not been a single gesture of civility from the Gessel household.
‘I regret to say that I have found London quite uncongenial,’ she wrote. ‘So I believe I will be happier where I can breathe country air and re-engage with persons of my own class.’
She was not entirely surprised when, on the following morning, a maid came to her suite with Sir Richard Gessel’s visiting card.
‘This gentleman is in the morning-room, Milady. He would be pleased if you would agree to see him.’
She kept him waiting for fifteen minutes to make the point. When the maid led him to her private sitting-room, she made no attempt to offer him any refreshment.
‘I’m sorry that you’re leaving town, Cousin Margaret,’ he said. ‘It’s unfortunate that we haven’t seen more of you.’
‘Yes, I can imagine your disappointment.’
She allowed a hint of irony in her tone.
‘A pity when families can’t keep better contact with each other.’
‘Perhaps when you came back to London on occasion you might call on us.’
‘I’ll not be back with any frequency. And when I do, it will be to visit my bankers. There’s rather a lot of money to be managed, as you know.’
‘Well … I’m glad that you decided to take my advice about selling Mount Gessel. I was … able to help there.’
For a moment, she wondered if he was about to ask for a commission for his services. If he was, he thought better of it. She stood to indicate that the interview was over.
‘Goodbye, Cousin Margaret.’
She was relieved when he had left the room.
While it was comfortable and inexpensive by London standards, the George at Dymchurch was in reality little more than an improved coaching inn, patronised by local big-wigs, commercial groups and political parties. But she liked its bustling air. The staff were not nearly as polished as at the Langham, but they were obliging and cheerful, not unlike some of the servants in better times at Mount Gessel.
In the absence of a social life, she determined to fill the days in learning about the area, visiting its places of interest and exploring its antiquities. She hired a pony and trap from the hotel’s livery. Initially, there were some misgivings about allowing a lady out alone on the roads and byways of East Sussex, but she quickly showed her skills in managing the pony and so, on fine days, she could set off along the coastline or through the farmland and the villages.
First, she explored the coastal road to Lydd. On the first fine afternoon, she strained and peered out across the channel thinking that she might see France. It was impossible, of course, they told her later at the hotel, although some people claimed to be able to see the lighthouse beacon at Calais in the night time.
She drove east as far as Dover, then west along the coast towards Hastings, pausing to explore the Martello towers put up to defend England against Napoleon. She travelled inland to the edge of the Weald. She had not realised how beautiful the English countryside would be.
The country people that she met wer
e courteous and friendly. There was none of the caution and suspicion that she almost invariably sensed among the peasantry around Mount Gessel. But equally, she felt, there was not always the same quick-wittedness or nimble-mindedness. On occasion, she would be invited into a wayside cottage and offered tea or milk or cider. The people’s houses were very different from those in Ireland. They were more spacious, brighter and very much better furnished. This was countryside, she realised, where prosperity and peace had been the norm for generations.
In time, she made connections. She discovered that the vicar at St Peter and St Paul’s Church in the town was from County Armagh, and a graduate of Trinity College Dublin. His wife called on her at the George and invited her to visit. She met a retired Major General who had served in Dublin and his wife. They both knew the Galway countryside for shooting and fishing. Gradually, a small circle of pleasant acquaintances formed in her life.
After six months at the George, she determined her establish her own independent household. She took a lease on a new house that had been built on the Folkestone Road by a banking agent who had moved to Eastbourne. He had named it ‘The Orchard’ because the land behind it was planted with fruit trees. It was perhaps a little isolated, but it would be easily maintained. It was suitable for modest entertaining. It had accommodation for staff, and it was comfortably within her financial capacities.
She advertised in the local newspapers for a maid, a cook and a coachman. Within a week, she had hired all three. They came with excellent references. She vacated her rooms at the George, and moved to her new home, The Orchard. She told herself that although she had failed to secure some of the things that might be considered necessary to make a happy life, she could be at ease with the world for whatever years might be left to her.
TWENTY-NINE
Once Swallow had confirmed to Harrington that the silver from Pollock’s was of Irish provenance, it took his staff at the Ulster office less than an hour to identify the shield and motto.
Harrington was pleased with himself.
‘Your silver’s engraved with the coat of arms of the Gessel family. They’ve been around East Galway since about the end of the eighteenth century.’
He rummaged through a buff-coloured file. ‘This particular arms was issued for the First Baronet Gessel in 1801. They were throwing titles around like currant buns at the time of the Act of Union. According to our records he died in 1818, so your silver is probably about sixty years old.’
Swallow jotted the details in his notebook.
‘So where do I find these … Gessels? Presumably somebody inherited the title, land, a house and all that?’
Harrington shook his head. ‘The title’s extinct. The Second Baronet, John Gessel, died in 1848. His only son, also John Gessel, never married, and died in 1867 in India, with the army, I gather.’
He looked at his notes.
‘Do you know anything about Sir Richard Gessel?’
‘No. Who’s he?’
‘He’s the only other Gessel I can find in Mr Burke’s Landed Gentry. He’s an Under-Secretary at the Cabinet Office in London. Bigwig, obviously, even though he’s a young man, born in 1857, I see. He seems to be a distant relative.’
‘There must be somebody around,’ Swallow felt himself becoming exasperated. ‘Wouldn’t it be likely that someone would have taken over the property?’
Harrington shrugged. ‘Perhaps. One can’t be certain. A lot of these estates have been so burdened with debt, and so badly managed, that the families have just wanted to get out. You could try locally around the family seat. It’s a place called Mount Gessel, predictably enough. But your colleagues in the RIC would be the ones best able to answer your questions, I’d guess. The nearest town is Loughrea.’
Swallow thanked him. He made his way to the Lower Yard and the Police Telegraph Office, and instructed the constable-operator to despatch information requests to the office of the District Inspector of the RIC at Loughrea. He planned to retreat to the Crime Sergeants’ Office to start work on a statement about the shooting at Greenberg’s.
Johnny Vizzard was waiting for him in the corridor. He leaped to his feet when Swallow came up the stairs.
‘I heard what happened over at Greenberg’s, Sergeant. Is it connected with these coins?’
Swallow decided this time to be gentler in his response to the young recruit’s zeal.
‘Hard to tell. We don’t know yet who these fellas are and who they’re working for. But they didn’t cross over from England and decide to rob Greenberg’s on a whim. They wanted to know who had sold the coins.’
He led Vizzard into the office.
‘Did you make any progress in finding this Mrs Clinton?’
‘I did. The family left the house yesterday morning with a fair amount of luggage. They hired a cab to the Broadstone. I established that they caught the 9.30 train to Athboy in County Meath. There’s stops at Ashbourne, Dunboyne and Trim.’
‘You’ve notified the constabulary?’
‘Telegrams gone this past hour.’
‘Good man. How are you rostered now? You should try to see what you can pick up from the train crew, conductors and ticket men.’
Vizzard was a ‘live-in’ man. Newly recruited members of G-Division were required to reside in Exchange Court for a year. This ensured a ready supply of manpower for unexpected circumstances. And it caused little resentment among young detectives who saved money in accommodation and messing.
‘I’m on protection duty at the Viceregal Lodge tonight, ten to six.Give me a couple of hours’ sleep after that and I can be back on the inquiry tomorrow morning.’
‘I’ll have you rostered so you can talk to the train crew.’
He returned to the office to get a start on the paperwork.
No sooner had he rolled the first sheets of foolscap and carbon paper into the Remington typewriter than Inspector ‘Duck’ Boyle put his head around the door.
‘I kem to tell ye, Swallow, I’m th’investigatin’ officer in this shootin’ yer after bein’ involved in. Ye’ll have to do me a statement.’
Swallow was not unduly concerned. Regulations required that when a policeman opened fire it had to be investigated by an officer of more senior rank. And ‘Duck’ Boyle, for all his faults, had a reputation for making things as easy as possible for any man involved in a spot of bother while on duty.
‘Don’t worry, Inspector, I have it in hand. Give me an hour.’
‘I will.’
Boyle hesitated awkwardly.
‘You done good work there, Swalla’ … from what they tell me.’
‘Thanks. I got a chance at a good shot. The bastard could have killed the woman.’
‘Aye, that’s what they’re sayin’. Anyway, there’s two of the lads sittin’ at the fucker’s bedside across in th’ infirmary, waitin’ until the doctors are done with him. I imagine you’ll be goin’ back to have a talk wid him.’
‘I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Right so. I’ll let ye get on with it here.’
‘No progress in finding the second fellow with the gun?’
‘Nah, he got away. But whin we – whin you – get this first fella’ talkin’ we won’t be long findin’ him.’
Swallow was anxious to get started on the Remington.
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘We put out a request to the English forces askin’ if any of their clients were known to be in Ireland,’ Boyle said. ‘But so far we’ve got nothin’ back on that.’
Before closing the door behind him, he added ‘And ye’ll remember to put in the bit about shoutin’ a warnin’ before ye fired?’
An hour later, as he finished his statement for ‘Duck’ Boyle, a constable from the Telegraph Office brought a telegrammed message from the District Inspector’s clerk at Loughrea.
From: District Inspector’s Office, Loughrea; Division of County Galway.
To: Det Sgt Jos Swallow, G-Division, DMP, Dublin Castle.
<
br /> Re Information Request in respect of Gessel family, Mount Gessel House.
Sir,
I beg to inform you as follows.
The above family are no longer resident in this District, having disposed of their estate, with houses and outbuildings, in accordance with the terms of the Land Acts recently applied.
Approximately 1,250 acres of land were purchased by the Land Board and have been distributed among 45 local farming families. Full details are available if required. A large house, numbering more than 30 rooms in all, has been vacated and remains unoccupied since May of 1886.
The vendor to the Land Board was Lady Margaret Gessel, widow of the Second Baronet Gessel, who deceased in 1855. Her last known address, as advised today by her solicitors here, is at The Orchard, Folkestone Road, Dymchurch, Sussex.
The family have been established in the area for many generations, and would have been held in high regard by persons of quality. However, a number of agrarian outrages have been committed in this District and some of these have been directed at the family and its property.
For further information, please be aware that Sir Richard Gessel, an Under-Secretary at the Prime Minister’s office in London, is a relative (second cousin) of the late Second Baronet Gessel.
I remain Sir, your obedient servant,
John Kelly (Clerk)
(On behalf of DI)
Swallow felt himself wearying.
Establishing the provenance of the silver was proving to be a long and tortuous challenge. Now it seemed that the person most likely to throw any light on how it had ended up in Ambrose Pollock’s cellar was a widow living somewhere in the depths of rural Sussex. Was the game worth the candle? Even if he succeeded in establishing the story behind the silver, would it bring him any closer to solving the murder or locating the whereabouts of Phoebe Pollock?
One side of his brain told him it was a side-issue. He would be better to focus on the technical clues that had been yielded from the murder scene, from Harry Lafeyre’s post-mortem and from what they could learn about Phoebe Pollock’s love life. But something more instinctive than deductive told him that the story of the Gessels’ family silver was also at least partly the story of Ambrose Pollock’s murder and the disappearance of his sister.
