The Eloquence of the Dead

by Conor Brady

  ‘I’m not one for music, really. I think you should see me back to The Grosvenor.’

  FORTY-NINE

  No shot had not been fired in anger in Dymchurch for as long as anyone could remember. Some older residents claimed to have heard of an incident many years ago, when a gang of smugglers had been intercepted by Revenue men one winter’s night on the Folkestone Road.

  There was virtually no crime there, apart from poaching and, occasionally, some petty thieving from outhouses, usually the work of vagabonds or gypsies.

  It had taken Margaret some time to adapt, to move away from the routine of constant vigilance that she had been required to follow at Mount Gessel. At the height of the Land War she had slept with a loaded shotgun by her bedside. She never went out in the open car or on horseback without her small .32 Smith and Wesson revolver.

  Each night every door and window at the house had to be locked and barred. Her bedroom door had been reinforced with steel stanchions from the smithy at Loughrea. When the attacks on landlords’ homes were at their height, she slept lightly, subconsciously registering the tread of the sentries on their rounds under her window.

  The dimensions of her new house were exhilarating after the confines of living at the hotel in London. She delighted in the spacious proportions of the hall and the gallery, and she determined that she would make full use of the drawing-room and the dining-room when she had established herself socially in the town.

  The well-tended orchards from which the house had been named were a delight. When she moved in, the apple blossom was full, scenting the air around the house. Now the fruit had been taken by the pickers with their ladders and wicker baskets, but the trees still held their leaves. She wondered how they would look after the first winds would have stripped them for winter.

  For the first few weeks, she had been thorough about the house’s security. She instructed the servants to ensure that the doors to front and rear were locked and bolted every night and that the shutters on the ground floor windows were folded out and barred.

  That particular precaution fell away after some weeks when the maid asked for permission to go home at night because her mother was ill.

  Margaret agreed to the request. The girl started to come to work late in the mornings. When Margaret came downstairs, the rooms were in darkness because the maid did not have the time to open the shutters before serving breakfast.

  She reprimanded the girl, whose punctuality improved. Through some misunderstanding or neglect, though, the nightly routine of shuttering the windows ended. Margaret was conscious of the change, but she did not make an issue of it. She liked the way the morning sun came through the windows, pouring the day’s light into the house. This was Dymchurch, East Sussex and not Mount Gessel, Galway.

  The man who crouched, hidden in the darkness of the orchard in the October night, quickly identified the vulnerability of the un-shuttered windows. One of his skills was to locate the weak spots in a house or building. It might be a flimsy door, an easy drainpipe or a rusted grille. Domestic windows were easy. He would simply wait until the last of the lights went out.

  When he made his move from the shadows, the glow of the lamp from the upstairs room had been extinguished for more than hour. He had surmised that was where the woman slept.

  The man used a diamond cutter to make an almost perfect circle in the drawing-room window, just under the sash. Then he smeared the circle with gum and overlaid it with a small square of coarse flannel. In a minute or two the night air would harden the gum, melding the cloth with the glass. Then a sharp blow to the weakened area of glass would allow him to take it out silently, glued to the flannel.

  He undid the clasp on the sash. The window went up noiselessly. Once inside, he lit a small candle in a reflecting holder. It gave him all the light he needed.

  He moved quickly across the room to the hall and up the stairs. He halted outside the bedroom door and took the knife from its sheath. He turned the door handle.

  Margaret heard it turn, just as she had heard the faint creak of the stairs a few moments earlier.

  Even before that, when he had raised the window in the drawing-room, she had sensed the slight stirring, a change of pressure, in the air. Her translation from Mount Gessel to Dymchurch had not changed her pattern of shallow, fitful sleep, or diminished her alertness to the sounds of the night.

  When the door opened she saw the man’s form outlined behind the candle in its holder. She levelled the Smith and Wesson .32 revolver that she had taken from its place under her pillow and fired twice.

  SUNDAY OCTOBER 9TH, 1887

  FIFTY

  Swallow was to rendezvous with Montgomery and Bright at Great Scotland Yard at 10 o’clock. They would travel to the Tower, collect Teddy Shaftoe from his cell and take up positions near The Mitre Tavern at Ely Court.

  He was disappointed by the ordinariness of the famous police headquarters. It might have been any office building in the usage of some commercial company or some department of the civil service. The only indication of its status was the presence of a solitary constable in uniform at the gate facing towards Whitehall.

  Jack Bright was waiting.

  ‘Morning, Sir. My guv’nor, Sir Edward, wants a word.’

  He led Swallow through the main building and up a broad staircase to the first floor. He knocked on a door and opened it on a call of ‘enter.’

  Swallow was struck by how much Edward Jenkinson reminded him of John Mallon. They were approximately the same age. They had the same lithe build and the same sharp, agile features.

  ‘Swallow,’ he extended a hand. ‘I’ve heard about you.’ He waved him to a seat. ‘You’ll be interested in this.’

  He handed him a single carbon sheet.

  ‘This came in just half an hour ago. I have the top copy.’

  Swallow read the telegram.

  East Sussex Constabulary Headquarters; West Street, Lewes.

  From: Captain George Bentinck Luxford, Chief Constable.

  To: Sir Edward Jenkinson, Special Irish Branch, Great Scotland Yard.

  ADVISING RE INCIDENT AT DYMCHURCH HOME OF LADY GESSEL STOP YOU INQUIRED ON BEHALF SWALLOW DMP STOP INTRUDER WITH KNIFE SHOT BY HER EARLY HOURS THIS MORNING STOP SHE UNHARMED STOP BODY PRESUMED INTRUDER FOUND LATER WITH GSW STOP USUAL PROCEDURES BEING FOLLOWED AWAIT ANY INSTRUCTIONS STOP

  The implication was as clear as it was disquieting. Unless Lady Margaret Gessel had been the victim of a random criminal attack, which was unlikely, she must have been targeted because someone wanted her silenced or out of the way. Only a handful of people, though, could have known that he was going to interview her. Fewer again would have known where she lived in rural East Sussex.

  Someone, whoever it was, had to have a line into government and security intelligence.

  ‘I need to copy this to my boss in Dublin,’ he told Jenkinson.

  ‘It’s done already. Mallon and I always share information of this kind.’

  Swallow was impressed if not particularly surprised.

  ‘I spoke with him earlier this morning by telephone,’ Jenkinson said. ‘He’s asked that we provide armed protection for Lady Gessel, which we’ve arranged.’ Jenkinson added quickly, ‘We’d have done it anyway, given her connections … Mr Mallon and I agree that the attack on the lady must indicate a security breach at senior level. In the circumstances, he wants you to return to Dublin for a review as soon as you’ve completed your task with Shaftoe. We can arrange for somebody to take a statement from Lady Gessel, maybe Montgomery or Bright.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I can see the implications.’

  Jenkinson walked to the window.

  ‘Is your visit going to pay dividends, Sergeant? Will you identify whoever is behind this business?’

  ‘I hope so, Sir.’

  ‘My fellows giving you all the co-operation you need?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’

  He went to the door, b
ut paused as he reached for the handle.

  ‘You’ve a strong reputation, Swallow. It travels before you, in case you don’t know. If you ever felt like a transfer to Scotland Yard, I’d be interested in seeing if we could arrange something. I could set it up with Assistant Commissioner Monro here make it worth your while in pay and rank.’

  For a moment, Swallow thought he had misheard.

  ‘Are you … offering me a transfer? Here?’

  ‘Mallon wouldn’t thank me if you left Dublin, I know. But you could carry your pension with you. There’s a standard CID allowance and a special allowance when you’re attached to the Irish office as well.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. I’ll certainly give that some thought.’

  ‘You should. Irish fellows do very well in this job. You can write to me in confidence here.’

  He felt elated. The compliment was a big one, and the offer was more exciting because it was unexpected. Christ, it would be one in the eye for Mallon and Harrel and Boyle back in Dublin to see him lined up for a fine job at Scotland Yard.

  Suddenly, the day seemed a lot more attractive.

  Bright was waiting in the corridor.

  ‘Now,’ Swallow said lightly. ‘Let’s go and collect Mr Shaftoe so we can get to meet his mysterious employer.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  Swallow took up position in a cafe whose windows looked out across Hatton Garden towards Ely Court and The Mitre. The Sunday streets were quiet, and for a time he was the only customer. He ordered a pot of tea.

  The morning was clear and dry, giving him a clear view of the approach to the alleyway. Shortly before noon he saw Montgomery cross the street with Teddy Shaftoe to turn into Ely Court. He knew that Jack Bright was already in the public house. Between them, the two Scotland Yard men would ensure that Teddy could not make a bolt for freedom.

  Teddy was to detach himself from Montgomery and go to the bar once they entered The Mitre. Montgomery had given him a sixpence, enabling him to buy two pints of ale.

  ‘When your mark arrives, you’re to go to him and tap him on the arm,’ Montgomery had instructed. ‘When I see that, I’ll give Jack the nod. He’ll exit the pub and get to the corner of the alley. His signal to Mr Swallow will be to put his hat on.’

  As they crossed Holborn Circus, two men were setting up a chestnut stall on the pavement.

  ‘CID,’ Montgomery said under his breath. ‘I arranged to have them on hand. They’ll be useful if Shaftoe has friends here. Don’t worry about the security end of it. They know nothing they don’t need to know.’

  Swallow had to admit silently that he was impressed. Scotland Yard’s Special Irish Branch seemed to know their business. Jenkinson’s job offer got more attractive the more he thought about it.

  Once noon had passed the streets became busier. Londoners who had attended morning religious services were on the move, some returning home, others making their way to visit to family or friends. The Sunday morning markets had closed by now, and traders and customers were repairing to their favourite public houses.

  Swallow watched perhaps a dozen men and one or two women proceed along Hatton Garden and turn in for The Mitre. From their dress and demeanour he reckoned they were locals. He saw no one who matched Teddy Shaftoe’s description of the well-dressed gentleman from whom he claimed to take his orders.

  He heard 1 o’clock strike from the nearby tower of St Etheldreda’s Church. Then he heard the half hour. There was still no sign of Shaftoe’s contact or Jack Brights’ signal when the clock struck 2.

  Swallow saw one of the CID men sauntering up Hatton Garden from his chestnut stand. It was likely, Swallow reckoned, that he too sensed that something had gone wrong.

  He was on his third pot of tea, shortly after the clocks struck 3, when he saw a young boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen years scamper into Ely Court. A minute later he came out again and took off along the street, heading in the direction of Clerkenwell Road. He had scarcely passed from Swallow’s sight when Montgomery emerged from the alleyway.

  The Scotland Yard man made no attempt at secrecy. He waved to Swallow to step out into the street. He looked dejected and frustrated.

  ‘I think we must have been rumbled. There’s no sign of any contact in there.’

  ‘Where’s Shaftoe?’ Swallow asked.

  ‘I left Bright minding him inside.’

  He jerked his thumb towards the public house. As he pointed, there was a crack that Swallow knew was a gunshot. Then another. And another.

  Montgomery swung around. There was commotion at the doorway of The Mitre. Customers were spilling out, scrambling past each other. A man half-stepped, half-fell into the alley and shouted.

  ‘Murder … murder! Someone get the coppers!’

  They sprinted up the alley and into the bar. Swallow heard a woman scream as he went through the door. Two other women with frightened faces pushed past him, making their way out to the street.

  Inside, the air was acrid with gunsmoke. A ring of customers was pressing around two human outlines on the floor. A dark, spreading pool was forming under them. One of them stirred, then rolled over and attempted to rise, clutching at the wound in its side. It was Jack Bright.

  The other did not move. Swallow saw a neat, round hole in the middle of Teddy Shaftoe’s forehead. He was quite dead.

  MONDAY OCTOBER 10TH, 1887

  FIFTY-TWO

  Summer attempted a brief comeback in Dublin on Monday morning. For half a day, the October chill gave way to bright sunshine with sufficient warmth to induce a sense of well-being among a citizenry that had become reconciled to the inevitability of shortening days and dark skies. Gentlemen temporarily shed their overcoats and ladies substituted parasols for rain umbrellas.

  Nursemaids took children into the gardens on the great Georgian Squares in the morning. Labourers and porters threw off their jackets and worked in their shirtsleeves. There were reports that bathers had appeared at Sandymount and other beaches around the bay.

  The city’s shopping streets were busy. The pleasant weather always encouraged ladies to travel into town from the affluent suburbs of Rathmines and Pembroke. They crowded the fashionable shops on Grafton Street and South Great George’s Street, or met to gossip in the coffee shops.

  The surge in social and commercial activity also meant a surge in crime. Before Inspector ‘Duck’ Boyle briefed the morning shift at Exchange Court, constables had reported the movement of pickpockets around the shopping streets. Known thieves were reported to be in the vicinity both of Pim’s and Switzer’s department stores on Grafton Street.

  ‘Duck’ Boyle had gone through the morning post diligently, including the bundle of letters and circulars that had been delivered earlier from the Commissioner’s office. Correspondence addressed to the ‘Member-in-Charge’ or to ‘the Detective Office,’ he opened himself. Where items were addressed to particular officers, he conscientiously placed them in a rack of pigeon-holes, each one named for an individual G-man.

  Trainee Detective Johnny Vizzard came into the parade room a moment after the news came in of a felonious threat to Switzer’s. Boyle jerked a thumb towards the door.

  ‘Don’t even take yer hat off, Vizzard. Get up to Grafton Street. There’s robbers been spotted in Switzer’s and the doors barely opened fer business.’

  It was said among G-men that the General Manager at Switzer’s was a senior figure in the Freemasons, and that he mixed socially with senior officials from the Upper Yard. For whatever reason, the security of commerce at his store was an unchallenged priority.

  Vizzard knew the score.

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’ He turned on his heel and made for the door.

  It was three hours later, after a fruitless game of hide and seek around the counters and floors of the department store, when Vizzard got back to Exchange Court. He picked Sergeant Devenney’s telegram out of the pigeon-hole with his name over it.

  ‘Christ,’ he said out loud. ‘We have her.’

&nb
sp; ‘Duck’ Boyle was not challenged by a great imagination. Once the connections between things were set out to him, though, he could quickly sense the importance of a situation. He read and reread Devenney’s telegram, then he went down the Yard to John Mallon’s office and reported its content to the chief.

  ‘Swallow is supposed to be crossing from London today,’ Mallon said. ‘We’d be best to delay things for a few more hours until he gets here. After this length of time it’s not going to make a big difference. He’ll have to be briefed, and we’ll need to have the Constabulary move on this,’ he told Boyle. ‘The old RIC fellows have a nose for anything out of the ordinary. Have Swallow met off the mail boat at Kingstown.’

  FIFTY-THREE

  The Holyhead packet landed Swallow at Kingstown’s Carlisle Pier in the early afternoon.

  There had been little he could do at The Mitre once the initial investigation by the CID had got under way. Teddy Shaftoe was dead, it was reckoned, before he hit the floor, a revolver bullet through his brain and another in his heart. Detective Constable Jack Bright was going to survive the knife slash to his side that he sustained as he tried to grapple with the gunman who had emerged from somewhere at the rear of the public house.

  The eyewitness accounts were poor. The assailant was tall and short, dark and fair, bearded and clean shaven. The only point on which they concurred was that he was fit and fast, but nobody at The Mitre had seen him before.

  Shaftoe had been downing the last of his ale, one man said, when the first shot was fired. Bright had lunged at the gunman, possibly not seeing the heavy-bladed knife in his other hand. The gunman fired twice more, and lashed out at Bright with the knife. Then, his work done, he had run back through the rear of the house, scaling a low wall to make his escape along the alleyways and yards leading to Farringdon Street.

  Montgomery was distraught.

  ‘If I hadn’t left Jack with him on his own it wouldn’t have happened,’ he insisted to Swallow. ‘The bastard saw his chance when I stepped out to talk to you.’