The Eloquence of the Dead

by Conor Brady

  If the trail had led to the widow in rural Sussex, then so be it.

  He reached for The Police Directory for England and Wales.

  It listed the town of Dymchurch within the jurisdiction of the East Sussex Constabulary. Not surprisingly, it did not have a detective office or any equivalent of the G-Division. His inquiry would have to be routed through the Special Irish Branch at Scotland Yard.

  He would brief Mallon in the morning. But he needed to eat and to get across to the infirmary at Jervis Street. When the doctors would have finished their work on the captive knifeman he had questions for him.

  Evening was closing in as he left Exchange Court. It would be quicker and more convenient to go to the police canteen in the Lower Yard, but he did not relish the barrage of comments and questions he would face from colleagues, however well-meaning they might be. He decided to treat himself instead at the Dolphin Hotel on Temple Bar.

  He took a mixed grill along with a pint of Guinness’s stout. He savoured the Dolphin’s sausage, bacon, a lamb chop and pudding. After a large Tullamore to clear his palate, he set out across the river for Jervis Street.

  THIRTY

  The doctors at the Dublin Charitable Infirmary on Jervis Street had done well for the knifeman.

  He had been brought from the operating theatre to a room on the first floor of the hospital with two G-men posted outside. Swallow’s .44-calibre slug had lodged in the muscle of the right shoulder, and the doctors removed it without difficulty. There had been considerable blood loss, but the man was strong and healthy.

  When Swallow arrived, the man was conscious although his eyes were glazed. Swallow guessed that he had been given a heavy dose of laudanum to dull the pain. He seemed childlike and thin in the grey, hospital-issue nightshirt. His left wrist was handcuffed to the iron mattress-frame. Swallow estimated he might be twenty or younger.

  He gestured to the G-men to move to the corridor and drew a chair to the bedside. The young man had the pinched, hollow face that spoke to Swallow of childhood malnutrition and hardship.

  He leaned forward.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Swallow. I want to talk to you.’

  The prisoner turned his head away.

  ‘Fuck off.’ The voice was a whisper, dulled with the laudanum.

  Swallow tapped him smartly on the cheek.

  ‘Mind your language, young fella, and pay attention. I want your name for a start.’

  ‘I told … you … to fuck off.’

  ‘And I told you, I want your name. I want the name of your pal with the revolver. And I want to know what you were after in that shop.’

  The man burrowed his face into the pillow.

  ‘I said I wanted your name,’ Swallow said sharply.

  The response was something between a snort and a laugh.

  ‘Take a … guess. Maybe I’m … the Duke of fuckin’ York.’

  Without rising from the chair, Swallow kicked hard at the metal bolt that secured the mattress-frame to the iron bed end.

  Frame, bed ends, mattress and prisoner collapsed in a sequence of bangs and crashes. The young man screamed as the heavy frame fell across him. Swallow planted his foot on it and pressed hard. The scream rose louder as the steel springs bit through the flimsy nightshirt into the flesh.

  ‘Jesus … Jesus Christ … you’re fuckin’ killin’ me! Mad Irish bastard!’

  Swallow added more weight and, for good measure, kicked again with his heel at the mattress-frame.

  ‘By the time I’m finished you’ll see how mad I am … and how much of a bastard I am. Now, what’s your name?’

  The door opened and one of the G-men peered in, looking alarmed. Swallow waved him away.

  ‘Bit of a mishap here. Keep everyone out for a bit.’

  The prisoner raised his free hand. He tried to bring his eyes into focus, fighting the effects of the tranquiliser.

  ‘I’m Darby … Jack Darby.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Forbes Street. You wouldn’t know it.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘And your friend? The hero with the gun?’

  ‘Calls ’imself Teddy. I … don’t know ’is full name.’

  Swallow did not believe the last bit, but he eased the pressure on the mattress-frame.

  ‘That’s a bit more like it.’

  He pulled him to his feet, and sat him lopsidedly on the chair, his wrist still manacled to the mattress-frame.

  ‘It’s best to be truthful with me, Jack, because I’m going to check everything you tell me through criminal records. The quicker I can do that, the sooner you’ll get back into your comfortable bed here.’

  He lifted the mattress-frame and propped it against the wall so that the pressure was taken off the prisoner’s manacled wrist. Then he caught him by the hair and turned his face upward.

  ‘If you feed me any false information you’ll be taken out of here to Dublin Castle where I’ll beat the living shit out of you for as long as it takes. Do you understand that?’

  The young man nodded. The eyes were a little clearer, but the expression was still dull and slack-jawed. Swallow wondered if what he had taken for the effects of laudanum might not, in part at least, be symptomatic of some mental deficiency. He reopened with a soft question.

  ‘How long are you in Dublin, Jack?’

  Darby’s face was vacant. ‘A few days, I think.’

  ‘No idea beyond that? Can you read the calendar?’

  ‘Nah, never ’ad any need to.’

  ‘All right, how did you get here?’

  ‘I come up from London, didn’ I? I met Teddy in a pub. I knew ’im from doin’ a stretch … Wandsworth. There wos this geezer with ’im. A toff. And ’e says there’s a job for us to do in Dublin. Says ’e’s got a few quid for us. Showed us the money too. Said there’d be more when we’d come back wiv the job done. So we gets on a ship and ’ere we are.’

  He looked quizzically at Swallow.

  ‘This is it, then, ain’t it? This is Dublin…?’

  Swallow was sure now that Jack Darby was not the full deck of cards.

  ‘Who was this toff type you met? Have you a name?’

  ‘Nah, it wos Teddy wot knew ’im. But I’d figger ’im again if I seen ’im.’

  ‘What was the job? What were you told to do?’

  Darby attempted a grin.

  ‘Just go to this bloody shop, get some fucking old coins that the Jew girl ’ad bought. Find out who ’ad sold ’em to ’er, come back to London. That was it.’

  ‘That was it? So why the gun and the knife? You could have just gone in and done your business like you were told.’

  ‘It wos Teddy’s idea. ’E said we could ’it two birds wiv one stone, like. We’d get the information and then ’elp ourselves to whatever was lyin’ around in the shop. You know, rings, watches, wha’ever. But it was all Teddy’s idea, you understand. I let ’im do the plannin’ and thinkin’.’

  Swallow saw his opening.

  ‘If that’s true, if it was his idea and you just followed along, I might be able to do something for you, Jack. But I need to find Teddy.’

  He saw a flicker of caution in the dull eyes. Darby might be borderline intelligent, but he knew he might have something to trade. He glanced around him as if he feared someone was listening.

  ‘I’ll give evidence, Guv. I’ll swear against ’im … if you and I can come to some sort of deal.’

  Swallow reckoned that lies and evasions were Jack Darby’s natural defences against the cruelties of the world. Indeed, they might be the young man’s only defences. But he was probably telling the truth, at least insofar as he was willing to rat on Teddy if he could save his own skin.

  ‘Where’s Teddy then, Jack? How do I find him?’

  Darby shrugged. ‘We moved around a bit. But last night we wuz stoppin’ in a place called the Windsor Hotel.’ He grinned. ‘But ’e’s not goin’ to be back there, is he?’

 
Swallow didn’t think so. The Windsor was a dive on Mecklenburg Street, a haunt of prostitutes and vagrants. It was well accustomed to the attentions of the police. But it would have to be checked and searched, just in case.

  He moved to the door.

  ‘You made a bad mistake coming to Dublin, Jack. We’ve enough of our own troubles here. So we’re not going to have much of a welcome for fuckers like you and Teddy. And you made a worse mistake in taking a knife to that lady. She’s a friend of mine. If it had even grazed her, my third shot would’ve been through your bloody head.’

  Jack Darby’s pinched features wrinkled in puzzlement.

  ‘I didn’t know abaht that, did I? Abaht you and ’er … like. ’Ow could I? She was just a woman in the bleedin’ shop.’

  Swallow was unsure if he should feel more pity than anger towards young Jack Darby. He pushed his way out through the door of the hospital room.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Teddy Shaftoe did not scare easily. The fact that he had survived to see this thirtieth year on the streets of London’s East End testified to his nerve, his cunning and a willingness to use force that he could deliver swiftly and brutally with gun, knife or cosh.

  But he was scared now. What had seemed like a simple job in Dublin had turned into a nightmare thanks to his own greed. He had been promised good money to get some simple information and to retrieve some old coins. But to Teddy, the jeweller’s shop with its elderly Jewish owner seemed too easy a target to pass up.

  He knew that the woman in the shop had bought the coins. That was what he had been told when he was given the job. The man he had met at The Mitre public house in London had been clear in his directions about what he and Darby were to do. Their task was to find out who had brought the coins into the shop. The sight of Darby’s knife should be enough to do it. If not, a quick slash along the arm or the side of the face would get results. The old man would not be a problem either. The gun would make him cower and plead with Teddy to take what he wanted. Not for a moment had he imagined that he would come at him from behind the counter with his bare fists.

  He had no idea how the coppers had got there so quickly either. The plainclothes one had a bloody big gun. The coppers at home had no guns. How was he to know that the Dublin coppers had them? It made no sense. Dublin should be the same as England, shouldn’t it? But the plainclothes fellow had shot Darby. Teddy had no idea if he was alive or dead.

  Now all he wanted to do was to get home. To lay low in London. Darby would tell the coppers everything to try to save his own skin. They wouldn’t have to try very hard to get him talking. They would know his accomplice’s name by now.

  Teddy was always fast on his feet. He had learned as a boy how to duck and weave through the streets of the East End. He could scale walls like a cat. He knew the trick of rolling under a moving carriage, gaining vital seconds from pursuers in a chase.

  He had outpaced the Dublin policeman, fleeing across the river and then making his way through streets he did not know, trying not to draw attention to himself by moving too quickly. He clutched the Colt in the right pocket of his coat, partly to conceal its shape but also to be able to draw it quickly if challenged by anyone.

  He found a church in a side street and slipped inside. Its interior was dark, comforting and silent. He chose a back pew in a side chapel. There were candles burning in a brass tray. He liked the warm smell of the wax.

  Churches were good hides, he had always found. A few worshippers came and went, but they paid no attention to him. When he thought it might be safe to leave, he noticed that someone had left a man’s cap on a window-ledge in the nave. He had lost his Derby hat in his flight, so he put the cap on. A change of headgear was always a good disguise. When he emerged from the church, the light was fading.

  He had only the vaguest idea where he was. He wandered for perhaps another hour through dirty streets, populated by ragged children and weary-looking women. London’s East End was no paradise. But these streets were even more miserable, the children more wretched-looking and the houses more dilapidated than at home.

  At a street corner a news vendor was putting up a new billboard.

  ‘SEARCH FOR GUNMAN’

  ‘SHOTS IN CITY RAID’

  It was bloody unreasonable, he told himself. He had fired no shots. It was the copper with the big gun who fired. He had an overwhelming sense of the unfairness of it all.

  He came to what seemed a busy commercial area. A cast-iron street sign overhead told him it was called The Coombe. Odd bloody name to call a street, he thought. On the pavement ahead he saw two constables, booted feet moving in unison as they came towards where he stood. He realised he was directly outside a public house. He turned, pushed the swing door and stepped inside.

  Teddy had no clear idea of how much time had passed since then. Now, as far as he could judge, he was in the cellar of that public house. He knew he had been carried and dragged and then bundled down a flight of stairs. They had flung him on the freezing floor, his hands bound behind his back, a foul-tasting cloth gagging his mouth.

  He had lost track of time. Was it dark because it was night or because no light penetrated down here?

  He remembered that when he went inside the pub had been noisy, and that the air was heavy with dirt and sweat. There were perhaps a dozen clients at the bar with a card school going in one corner. Heads turned in curiosity. The faces were hard, unsmiling.

  He had gone to the bar and ordered a pint of bitter. That was another mistake, it seemed. The barman had laughed. But it was not a friendly laugh.

  ‘Only an Englishman would ask for his pint o’bitter. D’ye know the name of what ye want? There’s Perry’s or MacArdle’s and that’s about it.’

  ‘I’ll have the first one, the Perry’s.’

  The barman started to draw the brown-red ale into a glass. At the same moment, Teddy realised that two men had moved in on either side of him, pint glasses in their fists. He kept his hand on the butt of the Colt in his pocket.

  ‘Bit of a shortenin’ in th’evenin’s now, isn’t there?’ The man on his right was about his own age. Teddy might have taken him for a cab-driver or a porter. He had several days of stubble on his face.

  ‘Oh, it won’t be long now before the winter’s down on us,’ the other chimed in.

  He looked into Teddy’s eyes inquiringly. ‘I suppose you’d have better weather now in your own part of the world … wherever that might be.’

  Teddy tried to appear jovial. He laughed. ‘It’s the fog … the bleedin’ fog’s the big problem in London.’

  ‘Oh, London, begod. Ye’ve come all the way from London?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He knew his accent was a giveaway. It was best to give an appearance of frankness.

  The first man put out his right hand. ‘The name’s Murphy.’

  Teddy had to relinquish his grip on the Colt in his pocket. He shook the man’s hand.

  ‘A pleasure, I’m sure.’

  Then the other man extended his hand. Teddy turned to shake it.

  That was when the one who had called himself Murphy hit him with his closed fist on the side of the head. At the same moment, his companion drove his knee hard into Teddy’s groin.

  He saw red and yellow flashes as the pain shot through him, doubling him over. His hand scrabbled to his pocket for the Colt. One of them grabbed his wrist, pulling him off balance and bringing him to the floor. A boot came down, clamping his neck and cutting off his breathing.

  He felt a hand going to his coat as the Colt was pulled out. At the same moment, a cord or rope was being circled around one wrist and then another, forcing his arms behind his back. The boot came off his neck, and he gulped for air. Rough hands turned him over on his back so that he was looking at the ceiling.

  ‘That’s a neat little item,’ Murphy said, hefting the Colt in his hand. He snapped the magazine open. ‘Fully loaded too. Very useful. Go through his pockets there.’

  Searching hands reached
the wallet in his coat.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ, there’s more than fifty quid here.’

  ‘Get him in the back,’ he heard someone say. ‘You’d never know who’d come in that door.’

  A hinged flap was lifted in the bar. He saw the barman looking detached and unconcerned as he was bundled through, down a corridor and into a storeroom. It was dark. One of his captors struck a match to an oil lamp on the wall.

  They sat him on a porter keg.

  The man who called himself Murphy had a knife in his hand now. He ran the flat of the blade slowly along Teddy’s cheek from his eye to his jaw, turning the razor edge against the skin through the last inch or so. Teddy felt sick in his stomach and his legs started to tremble. He made a desperate effort of will to control them and not to piss himself with terror.

  Murphy laid the knife on a keg.

  ‘First, yer name.’

  ‘Jones … the name’s Jones,’ Teddy stammered. He could see no immediate advantage in the alias. But his instinct was to be untruthful.

  ‘So, you’d be best tellin’ me yer business in Dublin, Mr Jones, and why yer in a public house frequented by Mr Vanucchi while yer carryin’ this firin’ piece.’ He waved the Colt with his other hand.

  ‘I … have the gun for self-protection,’ Teddy stammered. ‘And I don’t know anythin’ about the gent you just mentioned. I never ’eard of him and that’s the truth.’

  ‘Yer not a bobby,’ the other man snarled. ‘We know all the G-men. So what are ye, and where’d you get all this fuckin’ cash?’

  For a mad moment, Teddy wondered if he should simply tell them the truth. That he was a robber come to Dublin whose luck had gone wrong. He was unsure if it would help his odds of survival or simply seal his fate. He decided not to take the chance.

  ‘I’m a … salesman … sent ’ere from London to do some business. Look, why don’t you just take the money and let me go? I’ll not say a word about what’s ’appened and I’ll be on the first boat back to England.’