by Conor Brady
Privately, Swallow did not disagree. But there was nothing to be gained from saying so.
‘The important thing is that Bright’s going to recover,’ he said. ‘He’s lucky the gun wasn’t turned on him.’
The CID men who had been masquerading as chestnut vendors had commandeered a cab and taken Jack Bright to Charing Cross Hospital. Other CID men had arrived swiftly at The Mitre along with a photographer.
A sceptical detective sergeant took Swallow’s witness statement. He had difficulty understanding what an armed G-man from Dublin was doing on his patch. Montgomery had to invoke the authority of the Special Irish Branch and Sir Edward Jenkinson to persuade him that his presence had been sanctioned at the highest levels.
Later, Montgomery took him to Euston Station for the Holyhead train.
‘I know my guv’nor was going to talk to you about maybe coming to work at the Yard,’ he said as the cab drew up at Euston. ‘I’d like that if you did. Will you think about it?’
‘I will,’ Swallow told him.
He meant it. He turned Jenkinson’s offer over in his head as the train sped through the night, across the midlands, over the Welsh Marches and on to Holyhead. The idea of a completely fresh start excited him. At forty-three, not many got that sort of chance. A whole new life.
Then he thought of Harriet. God knows what scrapes his young sister was going to get into with her politics and her romantic notions. He felt he needed to be around to steer her through the next few years until she got sense. But he couldn’t be on hand for ever. Sooner or later, she would have to learn to fend for herself.
There was the home place in Kildare too. His mother was getting on. While she accepted that he had no interest in the business, she still looked forward to his visits when he took leave. Maybe the business would have to be sold, passing from their family hands.
A new life in London would be attractive, but it would come at a price, and that was before his relationship with Maria came into the calculation. He realised with a start that she had been crowded from his mind since he left Dublin.
Johnny Vizzard was waiting for him at Kingstown.
Summer’s brief resurgence was already on the wane, and the sky across the city was filling with dark clouds from the west. They took the train into Westland Row. Vizzard recounted the intelligence they had received from County Meath as they travelled.
‘I knew they were gone somewhere on the Great Western, but I’d thought they’d be farther away. The damnable thing is it took so long for the constabulary to find them.’
‘Mr Mallon wanted us to wait until you got back,’ he explained. ‘We’re ready to move as soon as you are. He’s telegraphed the County Inspector at Navan. There’s an arrest and search party of RIC being assembled at Trim police barracks at 6 o’clock.’
Swallow made a quick diversion to Heytesbury Street for a wash, a shave and a change of clothes. He thought again about Jenkinson’s offer as he shaved, examining himself in the mirror. He looked well, he knew. He was fit and healthy. Not a bad catch for Scotland Yard. Not a bad catch for a younger woman either. He felt energised as he made his way back to the Castle.
An hour later, along with Johnny Vizzard, he was on a train out of the Broadstone station.
FIFTY-FOUR
It was a quarter of an hour by trap from Trim Barracks to the townland of Clonlar.
There was no reason to anticipate any trouble, but the County Inspector was taking no chances on a matter that had been referred directly to him by the head of G-Division. The police party, in two traps, consisted of six armed constables, Devenney and a Head Constable from Navan who knew the area well. Swallow and Vizzard travelled with Devenney in the lead trap.
Sergeant Devenney had garnered some additional intelligence. Mrs Armstrong had sent a servant girl into the town twice during the week to buy groceries and supplies. From discreet inquiries among the shopkeepers he learned that the purchases were out of pattern, including extra bacon, flour, sugar and cured fish.
Later, the sergeant had sent a constable in plain clothes to walk the road past the Armstrong house. From a distance along the avenue he could hear the sounds of children laughing at play somewhere around the house.
Elizabeth Armstrong opened the door, allowing candlelight to faintly illuminate the steps of the house. From her strained features, Swallow surmised that the arrival of the police was not entirely unexpected.
‘Sergeant Devenney, good evening to you.’ Her voice was even but controlled.
‘Good evening to you, Mrs Armstrong. This is Detective Sergeant Swallow and Detective Vizzard of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. We’d be glad of a word.’
‘Please, come in.’
She led them into a well-furnished parlour, already lit with oil-burning brass lamps as if they had been expected. It was the house of a comfortable farming family, Swallow reckoned, owning their own land over generations, and very probably unconcerned and untouched by the struggle between landlord and tenant that raged across much of the country.
She did not invite them to sit. Somewhere in the back of the house, they heard a child’s voice calling.
‘The Dublin Metropolitan Police?’ she unsuccessfully attempted a smile. ‘This is a surprise out here in County Meath.’
‘Sergeant Swallow and Detective Vizzard would like to speak to your daughter, Mrs Armstrong,’ Devenney said. ‘That would be your daughter Grace, Mrs Clinton, I believe.’
‘In what connection would that be?’ Now there was a tremor in the voice.
‘I’m afraid I can’t disclose that to you Ma’am,’ Swallow said. ‘It’s in connection with a police inquiry. We’d need to speak to Mrs Clinton herself.’
‘Have you authority to do that? Outside of Dublin?’
‘Strictly speaking, no, Mrs Armstrong,’ Devenney said, clearing his throat. ‘This matter is now under the jurisdiction of the Royal Irish Constabulary. But these men will be operating under my authority. I promise you it’ll all be in order.’
The door opened, and a dark haired woman walked in. Swallow reckoned she might be thirty, perhaps thirty-five. There was no doubting that she was Elizabeth Armstrong’s daughter. The same strong build, sallow skin, rounded features.
‘I’m Grace Clinton. I know why you’re here. There isn’t any need to speak to my mother about your business. She’s got nothing to do with it.’
For a moment Swallow thought the older woman was about to step between her daughter and the policemen.
‘Thank you Ma’am, ah … Mrs Clinton. My name is Swallow. I’m a detective sergeant of the DMP. We’ve been trying to find you for some time. We need to talk privately. May I ask, is your husband here?’
‘Yes, he’s resting upstairs. He’s been under a lot of strain.’
‘Then I think you should tell him that you need to discuss something with us pertaining to a police matter. And I may need to see him later.’
‘I believe you will, Mr Swallow,’ she said flatly.
She turned to her mother.
‘Will you tell Arthur the police are here, Mother? And tell him I’ve agreed to speak to them. It’s for the best now.’
FIFTY-FIVE
‘Will you sit down, Sergeant … Mr Swallow, Mr Vizzard?’
They settled themselves, drawing notebooks and pencils.
‘I think it’d be best if you tell us what you think we should know, Mrs Clinton,’ Devenney said. ‘But you understand this is a serious matter. You’re under suspicion for a crime. And I must tell you that anything you say after this may be written down and used in evidence at a trial.’
She drew a small, embroidered handkerchief from her dress. Swallow suspected that she was close to tears, but whether they might indicate relief, distress or self-pity he could not guess.
‘I’ve been foolish,’ she said after a moment. ‘Very foolish.’
‘Our concern here is with the coins that you brought into Greenberg’s jewellers shop on Capel Street, Mrs Clinton,�
�� Vizzard said softly. ‘We need to know how you came into possession of them.’
Swallow was surprised by Vizzard’s manner. He had a gentleness in his approach that belied his zeal.
‘I … I found them.’
‘Where?’
‘In the street. Yes, I found them in the street, near St Peter’s Church. They were in a purse.’
‘When was this, Mrs Clinton?’ Devenney asked.
‘A few weeks back, I can’t remember exactly when.’
Devenney’s response was diplomatic, but there was a harder edge to his voice.
‘If someone found something valuable like that, they’d have a duty to bring it to the police, Ma’am.’
‘I … I suppose I should have.’
‘Indeed, Mrs Clinton,’ Swallow said. ‘There’s an offence known as stealing by finding. I’m sure your husband, being a legal man, would have known that. It can carry a heavy sentence, depending on the value of the goods involved.’
She twisted the handkerchief between her fingers.
‘I don’t know what to say … what will happen?’
Swallow could not sustain Devenney’s qualities of patience.
‘What happens will largely depend on yourself. Are you sure about finding the coins on the street? Because we’ve reason to believe they were taken elsewhere in a criminal action. We’re also investigating a murder case and the disappearance of a woman who may be in danger or even dead. These coins may be important as evidence. If you tell the truth, and if it helps us, it’ll work to your benefit. Now,’ his tone was sharp, ‘wouldn’t you like to reconsider your version of this? We know there’s a reason why you and your family left your home and why your husband left his place of employment.’
There was a silence. Then Grace Clinton began to sob into her handkerchief.
‘I … I discovered the coins in my husband’s wardrobe at our house. I know I shouldn’t have taken them. But … I found it very difficult … impossible to keep the house on the allowance that he provided. One of the children has been ill and … there were doctors’ bills. Arthur has debts … big debts to pay.’
Sergeant Devenney scribbled hurriedly in his notebook. He exchanged a look with Swallow.
‘You’re telling us you stole … took … the coins from your husband,’ Vizzard said. ‘Why would you need to steal with a good salary coming into the house?’
She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.
‘It’s … not as simple as that. Arthur has been a gambler all his life. It isn’t easy for me to speak of this but I must, I know. He wagered money that he didn’t have. He’ll wager money at cards or on horse races. He owes money that I don’t think he’ll ever be able to pay. I had to look after our children, don’t you see?’
Devenney put down his pencil.
‘I can understand that. A man given to gambling … that’s a cross to bear for any family. Do you know where your husband might have got these coins from?’
She shivered, although the room was not cold.
‘I do now … unfortunately. And that’s why we had to get away from Dublin to where we thought we would be safe … with my mother. Arthur’s life was in danger and so was mine … and maybe the children’s.’
‘Would you explain that to us, Ma’am?’ Vizzard said.
Before she could answer, there was a scream in the hallway. The door of the room was flung open. Elizabeth Armstrong rushed in, followed by one of Devenney’s constables.
The older woman seized her daughter by the arms.
‘Oh Grace … Dear God … Dear God.’
The constable’s face was white. He looked helplessly at Devenney and the two G-men.
‘It’s the husband, Clinton. He’s out in the barn. He’s after hangin’ himself.’
FIFTY-SIX
Arthur Clinton probably reckoned he had done a good job of it. He had climbed to the top of the winter hay, stored high in the barn behind the house. Then he worked his way out along a roof beam. From there, he looped the rope around one of the rafters and launched himself, as he hoped, into eternity.
Now he was dangling eight feet above the ground, where the yellow light from the police lanterns caught the kicking and thrashing of his legs. A constable had tried to manipulate a ladder to reach him but it had fallen short, bringing the man and the ladder crashing on to the floor.
Vizzard was first through the barn door.
‘Here, give me that.’
He seized the nearest constable’s sabre from its scabbard before the man could react, then he was scaling the piled hay and scrambling his way out along the beam.
If Clinton’s intention had been to make a quick end of himself by breaking his neck with a hangman’s knot, he had miscalculated. Instead, he was being slowly strangled. Even as Swallow and Devenney gazed up in horror the thrashing of his legs started to slow.
Vizzard swung himself forward on the rafter, one hand grasping the rough timber, the other reaching out with the sabre to where Clinton had looped the rope. The steel cut through the fibres with the force of Vizzard’s downward slash, sending Arthur Clinton plunging to the floor below.
Swallow and Devenney heard the crack of bone. His face had turned purple around bulging eyes, the rope scarcely visible in the deep groove it had cut into the neck. Devenney dashed forward and started to dig his fingers between ligature and flesh. At first, he could get no purchase, but then he got one finger under the cord and pulled hard, drawing it away half an inch. He cut the noose with a swift upward stroke of his penknife. For several moments, Clinton was immobile, apparently unable to breathe, then he started drawing air.
Grace Clinton had followed Swallow and the other G-men from the house into the barn. When she saw her husband immobile on the floor, she screamed.
‘Oh Jesus, no … no.’
For a moment she failed to comprehend the scene of Johnny Vizzard climbing down from the hay, sabre in hand, to the congratulations of the constables.
Then she saw the severed rope and understood.
‘Get that off its hinges and take him into the house,’ Devenney ordered, indicating the side door of the barn. ‘Put him lying down and get blankets to keep him warm.’
They put the would-be suicide on it and carried him to the house, laying him on a sofa in the parlour. Both of his feet were at a crooked angle, and a splinter of white bone protruded from one leg above the ankle.
As he came to consciousness, the pain flared in his broken bones and the contusions around his neck.
‘The big danger is shock,’ Swallow said. ‘Is there anything to stimulate the blood? Whiskey? Brandy’
Elizabeth Armstrong found brandy in the sideboard cupboard. Devenney uncorked it and held it to Clinton’s lips. He took a little, swallowed and then drank some more.
There was a sudden commotion as two little girls burst into the parlour, eyes wide with fright and confusion. Elizabeth Armstrong intercepted them as they ran to their father on the sofa.
‘Hush now, girls … hush … out of here.’
She ushered them back to the door and into the arms of a woman that Swallow reckoned to be a maid or a cook. He heard their wailing as they were taken away to some more tranquil part of the house.
‘Your husband is badly injured,’ Devenney told Grace Clinton. ‘We’ll need to get him to hospital. It looks to me as if he’s got two broken ankles and maybe more fractures. The open car is the fastest and the safest way of getting him there. I’ll send two men with him.’
‘You’d better go too,’ Swallow told Johnny Vizzard. ‘And get a message to Mr Mallon. Tell him what’s happened.’
When they had gone, Devenney and Swallow went back to the parlour with Grace Clinton and her mother.
Elizabeth Armstrong had regained much of her composure. Her daughter, by contrast, had collapsed, sobbing into a chair, her face buried in her hands.
‘I’m sorry to have to press you,’ Swallow’s tone was firm, ‘but if there’s to be any salvat
ion out of this for yourself … for your children … you’d be best to tell us what’s been going on. What drove your husband to that desperate course?’
She emitted a long, deep sigh.
‘I know … I know. I’ve already told you about the gambling … and the lack of money. To be reduced to coming home here to my mother … in these circumstances.’
She started to sob bitterly again.
‘I took the coins from Arthur’s wardrobe, but when he found out, he flew into a terrible rage. When he heard that there had been an attack on the shop in Capel Street where I sold them, he got into a panic. Then we learned that the police had been at the house. He said we were all in mortal danger and that was why we came here … for safety.’
‘Safety?’ Swallow asked. ‘What was the danger?’
‘I don’t know … I don’t know … I tried to get him to explain, to tell me. He told me he shouldn’t have had the coins at all, but he would never tell me what he meant by that. He was like a man being hunted.’
‘I think, Mrs Clinton,’ Swallow said slowly, ‘that the coins, and maybe some other valuables, had to do with his work on some land transfers.’
‘I think that’s so. And I think he had got caught up in something that was wrong and that he couldn’t get out of. He’s not a bad man; he’s just not very strong in certain ways.’
‘Did it occur to you at the time that the coins might not be his? Or that he had come by them improperly?’ Vizzard asked.
‘Arthur is not a thief,’ she said indignantly.
Devenney shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Of course Ma’am. Nobody was suggesting that.’
Swallow wished Devenney had stayed quiet.
‘You say he told you he shouldn’t have had the coins. What do you make of that now?’
‘I don’t … I don’t know.’
She fell silent, staring at the floor.
‘Is that all, Mrs Clinton?’ Swallow asked after an interval. ‘There’s nothing more you want to tell us?’
