The Eloquence of the Dead

by Conor Brady

When she looked back at him, he saw that her eyes had hardened. Swallow decided that this was a woman who could mobilise strength under a show of grief.

  ‘No … I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘We’re going to have to go to the infirmary to interview your husband now. You’ll be needed here with your children. Sergeant Devenney will leave some of his men here so you’ll be safe. You don’t need me to tell you that someone badly wants to know where the coins came from. And they’re prepared to use any means to get that information.’

  ‘Are there … legal consequences for my daughter from what she has told you?’ Elizabeth Armstrong asked.

  Swallow answered carefully.

  ‘On the basis of what she’s told us, I doubt it. She took property that belonged, as she thought, to her husband. Unless he wants her charged, I can’t see that she has committed any crime.’

  But he knew he was still only hearing parts of the story. What Grace Clinton had told him was not nearly the full version.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  An hour later, Swallow and Devenney joined Johnny Vizzard at the Navan Infirmary.

  The open police car had bucked and swayed along the rutted road from Clonlar, its lamps flaring against the trees. The October night was dark and a strong wind had picked up, whipping their words away across the bogland.

  ‘I presume you know what’s going on here?’ Devenney called against the gale. ‘Because I’m damned if I do. What’s this land business and the thing about stolen coins?’

  ‘I’m not a lot wiser than you,’ Swallow shouted back, cupping his hands to his mouth to amplify his voice. ‘I think it’s basically about stripping the big houses that are being closed down in the land transfers.’

  He was not going to have a local sergeant of the RIC, living among a rural community, aware of a possible corruption of the land transfer process.

  ‘So you think Clinton was fingering this stuff? Making a bit of extra money on the side, lifting property out of the estate?’

  Swallow shrugged. ‘Maybe. Hopefully he’ll tell us. The wife had been selling the coins for a fraction of their value. Our job was to find out where she got them from.’

  His voice trailed off as the wind picked up. Now there was rain too, driving across the scrub, spinning leaves and bits of branches before it. By the time they reached Navan, they were soaked. They were thankful to dismount and find the shelter of the Infirmary’s gloomy hallway.

  But Arthur Clinton was not in a position to tell them any more than they knew. The expression on the doctor’s face was grim. Clinton’s legs were encased in plaster and he had been heavily dosed with laudanum to counter the pain of his two shattered ankles. Even so, shortly after arriving he had begun to vomit blood.

  ‘We did our best,’ the doctor told Swallow, ‘but I had to pronounce him half an hour ago.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We’ll do a post-mortem shortly. At a guess, given what I’m told, I’d say there’s a punctured lung or maybe the pericardial sac. There’s four or five broken ribs. Any one of them could have thrown out a splinter. He drowned in his own blood, I’m afraid.’

  Devenney groaned in frustration. He finally abandoned the disciplined restraint he had maintained since returning to duty.

  ‘Ah, Fuck it. Fuck it, anyway, after all that. If he’d hanged himself properly at least we’d be warm and dry.’

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Just after 4 o’clock in the afternoon, while Swallow and Vizzard were on their way to Clonlar, policemen with warrants signed by Dr Henry Lafeyre, the City Medical Examiner and ex officio Justice of the Peace, visited a number of premises around Dublin. They included a number of dwelling houses, as well as Greenberg’s jewellers shop on Capel Street.

  Three bangs on the door of the Clinton house on the North Circular Road failed to elicit any response, so a constable put a jemmy bar to the lock and levered it against the frame. There was a sharp snap as the bolt was sprung from the receiver. The door swung open. Lafeyre led the way in.

  ‘Nobody here to be interested in this,’ he muttered, waving the search warrant in the air before putting it back in his pocket.

  ‘Where do you want to start, Doctor?’ Stephen Doolan asked.

  ‘The bedrooms first, then work down.’

  A brass-framed double bed, two wardrobes and two matching dressing-tables identified the principal bedroom on the first floor. It was a bright, airy room, recently decorated. Lafeyre opened one of the wardrobes to reveal dresses on hangers.

  He drew a grey metal box from his bag, along with a small, fine brush.

  ‘You won’t mind if I watch?’ Doolan asked. ‘I’ve heard of this but never seen it done.’

  ‘Of course. This is fine graphite,’ Lafeyre told him, dipping the brush into the open box.

  He dusted the polished surface of the wardrobe with the black powder. Then he opened the wardrobe door so that it caught the light from the window.

  ‘Have a look at this.’

  Doolan angled himself to peer along the mahogany.

  ‘Christ, I wouldn’t have believed it. You can see the finger-marks like they were put on with pen and ink.’

  ‘Over here please,’ Lafeyre signalled to the photographer. ‘Get your lens to take the same angle as the Sergeant and you’ll see the marks.’

  The photographer trundled his tripod and camera across the room. He adjusted it for height and range. Then, firing off phosphorescent flashes, he started taking pictures.

  As the room filled with acrid smoke from the flashes, Lafeyre and Doolan went downstairs, making for the front garden and the fresh air.

  ‘So how does it work from here?’ Doolan asked.

  Lafeyre grinned.

  ‘I’ll tell you that in a few days when I know the answer myself.’

  When the photographer had finished, the police party mounted the open car and made for Capel Street and Greenberg’s.

  The G-man on protection duty recognised Lafeyre and Doolan. He accompanied them into the shop.

  Doolan introduced himself to Ephram and Katherine.

  ‘Beg your pardon, Sir … Ma’am … for the inconvenience. I have instructions to take photographs for evidence. It’ll only take half an hour at most. Can I take it you have no objections?’

  Ephram spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  ‘As you can see, there are no customers here. You are welcome to do what you must, but please be as quick as you can, and if any customers come in please understand that I will have to deal with them as a matter of priority.’

  Lafeyre beckoned to the street. The photographer and his assistant climbed down from the car and came in, burdened with their equipment.

  ‘Is all this necessary?’ Ephram Greenberg asked Lafeyre. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m Dr Henry Lafeyre, Justice of the Peace and also the City Medical Examiner. These men are photographers who work for the police. As the sergeant told you, we’ll only be a short time here.’

  ‘Are you investigating the attempted robbery here?’ Katherine asked, puzzled.

  ‘Yes, Miss. That, and a number of other crimes.’

  ‘Is the case not being investigated by Detective Sergeant Swallow?’

  ‘Yes, we work together. He’s engaged in other duties today.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said sharply. ‘We made full statements to the police. What are you looking for? Nobody told us to expect a visit from … photographers.’

  ‘Put the camera there,’ Lafeyre instructed the photographer, pointing to the glass counter top in front of where Katherine stood.

  ‘That may be so,’ he told her firmly, ‘but there are matters on which I have to gather evidence. I would hope for your co-operation. If I need to, I am possessed of a warrant that I can invoke.’

  ‘I’d like to see it, please.’

  He drew the warrant from his pocket and handed it to her. She scrutinised it carefully before handing it back without a word.
r />   While the photographer assembled his equipment, Lafeyre dusted the glass with graphite. Then he angled himself so that he was looking across the smooth surface of the glass towards the window giving on to Capel Street.

  ‘This will do fine,’ he told the photographer. ‘You’ll hardly need any flash at all, I’d guess.’

  When he had finished, Lafeyre thanked the Greenbergs and made for the street with the photographer.

  ‘What’s the quickest you can get me prints?’

  ‘It’ll take maybe twenty-four hours, Doctor, because I’ll have to use different lights to bring them up. That’s slow with all the chemical changes as well.’

  ‘You’ll do your best for me, I know. There may be answers to a few nasty questions in what you bring up.’

  TUESDAY OCTOBER 11TH, 1887

  FIFTY-NINE

  It was past midnight by the time Swallow and Vizzard reached the city on a slow goods train they had boarded at Trim. Notwithstanding the hour, Swallow knew that the chief would expect his briefing from London as well as an up-to-the-minute report on what had happened at Clonlar.

  Mallon listened intently to his narrative, taking occasional notes. Swallow wondered if he knew that Jenkinson had offered him a job in London. If he did, he gave nothing away.

  ‘There’s very big stakes being played for,’ Mallon said finally. ‘Someone took a hell of a chance in killing Shaftoe under the eyes of the Scotland Yard men. And Margaret Gessel’s lucky to be alive.’

  He had opened a bottle of Bushmills, and poured one for each of them.

  ‘Arthur Clinton must have been pushed beyond the brink of sanity to do what he did. A man with a young family, like that…’

  ‘It’s a pity we didn’t get to him sooner,’ Swallow said. ‘The RIC slipped up badly.’

  ‘You think Clinton’s wife – widow – has more to tell?’ Mallon asked.

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘You’d be as well to bed down in the dormitory. I’d like you to be available in the morning. I’m going to brief the Commissioner and the Security Secretary and I’ll want you there.’

  Swallow was glad to make it to the Spartan comfort of the Exchange Court dormitory. In spite of the hard bed, and the comings and goings of G-men on early shifts, he slept like a baby.

  ‘Dr Lafeyre was in. Said he was hoping he’d see you, Skipper,’ the duty G-man at the public office told him when he emerged on the following morning.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago. I didn’t know you were billeted above. I told him I’d give you the message when you got in. He said if you had a minute would you drop down to his office.’

  Harry Lafeyre usually worked from the morgue on Abbey Street or from his house, but he was also provided with a small office in the Lower Yard, near the Army Pay Office. It gave him convenient access when working with the police, and it provided a secure place to store exhibits that might be used for evidence.

  Swallow had not yet had any breakfast, but the thought that Lafeyre probably had some news for him spurred him on.

  ‘Sure. I’ll go down. If anyone wants me, tell them where I am.’

  ‘You’ve been travelling, I hear,’ Lafeyre quipped as Swallow came in. ‘Off to London to see the lady?’

  Swallow was shocked. How could Lafeyre have heard about his encounter with Katherine in London?

  ‘What do you mean? How did you know?’

  ‘I assumed you’d have an audience with Her Majesty. Didn’t you do a lot to make her dim-witted grandson’s visit a success here in the summer?’ Lafeyre grinned.

  ‘Sorry, I thought you meant something else,’ Swallow mumbled. ‘I was trying to identify who’s running this fellow Shaftoe. But then somebody plugged him under my nose in a public house.’

  Lafeyere grimaced. ‘Dear God. That’s dramatic.’

  ‘That’s not the half of it.’

  He recounted what had happened at Clonlar during the night. Lafeyre shook his head as if disbelieving.

  ‘You’ve had a run of bad luck it seems. And enough drama too. Dead men everywhere. But I may have a bit of news that might help a little.’

  He drew a file from his bag.

  ‘It’s to do with Ambrose Pollock. You felt that two people were involved in his killing, or at least in tying the knots that fastened him to the chair. I think I can tell you something about them.’

  He opened the file.

  ‘I’ve been keeping up with new developments in the identification of fingerprints. Do you know anything about it?’

  Swallow shrugged. ‘Not a lot. I know there’s been some research. In India, I think. Nobody seems to be sure how to make any use of it.’

  ‘It’s vague still, but the basic premise is valid: that every human’s finger ridges are unique. That’s accepted universally. The difficulty is how to match the finger-marks made at crime scenes to particular individuals.’

  Swallow smiled. ‘I suppose you’ll tell me you’ve found a way to do it.’

  ‘Afraid not,’ Lafeyre shook his head. ‘There’s some work being done by a Scottish doctor called Faulds and also an Englishman called Galton. He’s a relation of Charles Darwin, actually. But what I’ve been working on is a technique for bringing up finger-marks that aren’t always visible to the naked eye.’

  ‘So you found something at Lamb Alley?’

  ‘Indeed I did. The researchers who’ve been at this up to now have used ink powder or even fine sand to bring up finger-marks. The fingers have sweat glands. They leave a patterned mark on a smooth surface. You may not see it, but it’s there. Dusting it with ink powder or sand will bring the patterns up, and in certain light you can see them. You can even photograph them if you have the right equipment.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I was watching Lily one evening sharpening some pencils and I noticed the very fine graphite that she pared off the lead, as it’s called. It’s lighter and finer and it’s more adhesive than ink powder. So I collected a quantity of it and I dusted the smooth surfaces around Ambrose Pollock’s chair and desk.’

  ‘Go on,’ Swallow said, ‘this better be leading somewhere. I’m supposed to be going to a meeting up the Yard with Chief Mallon any minute now.’

  ‘Just be patient,’ Lafeyre waved a hand. ‘Have a look at these.’

  He dropped half a dozen photographic prints on the table. Swallow could see that each showed the distinctive whorls and loops of a human fingerprint

  ‘I brought these images up from Pollock’s desk and chair,’ Lafeyre said. ‘Do you notice anything unusual about them?’

  Swallow shook his head. ‘Well, I can see that they’re not all identical. Should I see something else?’

  ‘You’re right. These marks are made by two different individuals. And they’re actually blood marks. Even better than sweat marks.’

  ‘So they were made by the killer or killers?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. One set was quite freshly made. The blood was not coagulated, so that tells us the marks were made in or around the time of death. And they were on the iron weight that we think was used as the murder weapon. The others were much stickier, if I can use the term. You can see that if you put them under the microscope.’

  ‘So they were made later?’

  ‘Anything from a few hours to the next day.’

  ‘Let me get this absolutely clear,’ Swallow said. ‘You have finger-marks from one person who was at the scene at the time of death. Then there are marks from someone else who was there later?’

  ‘Yes. We know the likelihood is that Phoebe was involved in this somewhere. I think she used the rope to tie him in his chair so anybody looking in would see him there as usual. That’s why the knots were different. The person who killed Ambrose tied one rope. Phoebe tied the second.’

  ‘I was right, then,’ Swallow said. ‘There were two different knots tied by two different people.’

  ‘That’s a sustainable thesis now that we know there were two peo
ple on the scene.’

  ‘It still doesn’t bring us any closer to knowing who the killer is.’

  Lafeyre wagged a finger.

  ‘Don’t be so negative. I think I can take this a bit further. You don’t have anything to scale them against, but in my view both marks were made by women. They’re smaller than the marks made by a man’s fingers. The French scientist, Bertillon, gives estimates for the dimensions of women’s finger-marks, and these fall within his measures. They could be children’s of course, but I guess we can rule that out as a serious possibility.’

  ‘Women? Are you saying that Ambrose Pollock was murdered by two women?’

  Lafeyre grimaced.

  ‘Look, you’ve got your meeting in the Upper Yard. Come and see me after that. I’ll give you lunch at the United Services Club. I think I might have something very important to tell you then.’

  SIXTY

  ‘The Chief’’s gone up to the Commissioner and the Security Secretary this past hour. He wants you up there on the double.’

  Mallon’s clerk had left the sanctuary of his office to deliver the summons to Swallow in the crime sergeants’ office.

  ‘Christ knows what’s up. He got a call from Mr Jenkinson in London there around 9 o’clock and took off like a scalded cat. He’s been up there since.’

  ‘All right, thanks. I was expecting he’d send for me,’ Swallow said, making for the door.

  He crossed the Upper Yard to the Georgian block that housed the Chief Secretary’s department. A clerk led him through an outer office populated by a cohort of other functionaries to the Under-Secretary’s room.

  In spite of the chilly October weather and the early hour, the room was warm. It was also more crowded than Swallow had ever seen it on any previous visit.

  The Under-Secretary, West Ridgeway, sat at his desk, flanked by the Assistant Under-Secretary for Security, Howard Smith Berry. Swallow thought that Smith Berry looked distraught.

  John Mallon sat on a straight-backed chair in front of the desk. The Commissioner of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, Sir David Harrel, sat beside Mallon.