by Conor Brady
‘You bastard, Lafeyre. You’ve cut across my investigation. You could have told me.’
‘Leave the recriminations for now, Swallow,’ he tapped the third print on the right.
‘This fingerprint matches the mark that was left in fresh blood on the weight when Ambrose Pollock was killed. Now,’ he smiled enigmatically, ‘let me tell you whose fingerprint this is.’
SIXTY-TWO
Mallon secured his court order from a judge in chambers at the Four Courts just after noon.
Shortly before 2 o’clock, as Dublin’s clerks, book-keepers and officials made their way back to their offices from their dinner-time break, the G-men moved in on the targeted locations across the city.
Swallow and Pat Mossop, with the enthusiastic Johnny Vizzard, led the party that went to the offices of Keogh, Sheridan and James at Inns Quay.
‘I’m expecting a prisoner to come in from the constabulary in County Meath,’ Swallow told the G-man on duty in the public office. ‘It’s a woman, name of Grace Clinton. I want her to be made as comfortable as possible, and have me notified as soon as she’s here.’
‘Duck’ Boyle and two G-men went to the Land Office, downriver at the Customs House.
Mick Feore and another detective presented themselves with their warrant to the manager of the National Bank on Dame Street.
Mallon’s instructions were succinct. All papers, records, deeds, notes and any other things relevant to the sale of the Mount Gessel estate were to be seized.
The partner who greeted the G-men at Keogh, Sheridan and James was bemused but courteous. He scrutinised the warrant that Swallow proffered before handing it back.
‘Naturally, this firm will co-operate. We are, after all, officers of the court.’ He attempted a thin smile. ‘Might I inquire, Detective Sergeant, why you are interested in this particular land transaction? We’ve handled a great many such here since the passing of the Land Acts.’
‘We believe that some valuable property from the Gessel estate has gone missing, probably stolen,’ Swallow told him, not inaccurately. ‘It would be very helpful to us to have a word with whoever handled the papers for this transaction on behalf of the firm,’ he added in what he hoped was an inquiring tone.
‘That would be one of our senior law clerks, Mr Clinton, Mr Arthur Clinton,’ the partner said stiffly. ‘Unfortunately, he isn’t here at present. He sent word some days ago that he is obliged to attend to family business somewhere down the country. I don’t know when he will return.’
It was just as well he did not know, Swallow thought to himself. The longer that Clinton’s death could be kept out of public knowledge, the better.
The G-men were shown into a small room at the back of the building. After a short interval, a clerk arrived carrying two black deed boxes, which he placed on a tabletop.
‘Sale of Mount Gessel Estate,’ he said sullenly. ‘There’s more to come.’
When there were six boxes piled on the table, he wiped his hands.
‘That’s it. Everything we have.’
Swallow took one box to himself. Pat Mossop, with Vizzard sitting beside him, took another.
The first mortgages were dated from the 1840s. From that point on, it became clear that Mount Gessel was borrowing to keep itself going. Tranches of land were sold off. An agent working on a nearby estate purchased 500 acres from the second Lord Gessel. Five years later, he purchased another 1,000 acres. There were three transfers of Gessel land to adjoining estates. According to the deeds, when the reduced Mount Gessel estate was finally bought with government money and divided among its tenants, the acreage was just over 1,200 acres.
Shortly before 6 o’clock, the clerk came back.
‘We’re closing now. You’ll have to leave and come back in the morning if you need to.’
Swallow shook his head.
‘You can go home if you want to. We’re staying here. And we’ll need access in and out of the building. We have to eat at some stage. If that’s a problem, I can have a constable put at the door for safety.’
The clerk might have considered protesting for a moment. If he did, he thought better of it.
‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll stay on until you’re done.’
Mossop and Vizzard had gone through one box of new title deeds, recording the transfer of more than forty holdings to their new owners. On each deed, the certifying clerk was Arthur Clinton.
‘It all seems fairly regular, Boss,’ Mossop said, raising his head from behind a mound of files.
‘There are forty families or so with their own farms now. The valuations look pretty much as you’d expect. I can’t see anything here to suggest any skulduggery. Clinton certified them all, as you’d expect.’
Swallow pointed to the still-unopened deed boxes on the table.
‘It’s early days yet, Pat. I wouldn’t expect to find anything much on the recent land transfers. It’ll be a tale of lucky tenants getting to be landowners at the stroke of a pen. It’s when we get into the disposal of the house and the contents that I’d expect to find dirty work.’
He took a meal break after 6 o’clock. He found himself a quiet stool at the bar in Traynor’s public house on Chancery Street and ordered a cold pork pie with a pint of Guinness’s stout. The food and the beer lay heavily in his gut, so he had a Tullamore to settle it before he went back to allow the others to get their break.
The papers relating to the sale of the house and its contents were in the third deed box he opened. By now, Mossop and Vizzard had returned from their own refreshments at Traynor’s.
Swallow passed a file across the table to Mossop.
‘Have a look at that. It’s the sale catalogue for the contents of the house.’
Mossop laughed. ‘I’d say we’re getting warm now.’
Swallow took out another file, which was divided in two sections. The first was an inventory of contents put together by Lady Gessel’s steward before the sale of the house. There were lists of farm equipment and tools that were to be sold off. It included everything from ploughshares to pig troughs, from harnesses to hammers, all listed alphabetically and numbered.
The second was the steward’s inventory for the contents of the house itself. In the kitchens it listed pots, pans, skillets, kettles and so on. The laundry and wash-house listed tubs, buckets, wringers, mangles and ironing-boards. The linen lists showed that Mount Gessel had more than 200 sets of sheets, pillows, bolsters and blankets.
The great rooms where the Gessels spent family time, dined and entertained their visitors, listed furniture, carpets, chandeliers, paintings and books.
There were details of the Gessel coin collection and the family silver. More than 1,500 coins were listed. Swallow saw tetradrachms and denarii among them. The silver collection numbered more than 200 pieces, from plates to sauce-boats to candlesticks.
He called to Mossop.
‘Let’s check this list against the sales catalogue you have there.’
‘Righto, Boss.’
Mossop started through the catalogue, calling out the furniture, paintings and valuable items one by one. Swallow followed, ticking them off in the steward’s list. When Mossop went through the contents of the drawing-room and the dining-room, though, there was no mention of the silver or the coin collection.
‘The silver and the coins were included when the steward compiled his list,’ Swallow said, ‘but they were gone when the sales catalogue was put together. Here,’ he instructed Mossop, ‘give me that catalogue.’
He flattened the book on the tabletop. When he pressed it out he saw a wafer-thin gap in the gutter between the open pages. He pressed down harder and gently drew the pages apart.
There were loose threads of gum in the narrow gap. A page, or maybe more than one, had been neatly removed from the catalogue.
‘I think we have it,’ he said. ‘Clinton took the coins and the silver out of the sale and then removed any trace of them from the catalogue. He simply took the pages
out.’
He handed the catalogue back to Mossop.
‘Go ahead, look. You can see there’s a page gone, maybe more than one.’
Mossop drew his magnifying glass, peered through the lens and whistled.
‘You’re right, Boss. There’s a few pages gone. The coin collection and the silver never went on sale. My guess is that they went straight to Ambrose Pollock’s.’
Swallow shut the catalogue and replaced the other documents in the deed box.
‘It’s ten o’clock. I think we’re entitled to a celebratory drink back at Traynor’s.’
A constable was coming up the steps as they exited the building.
‘You lads look as if you were goin’ somewhere pleasant.’
‘I imagine you’re here to tell us differently,’ Swallow said.
‘You’re wanted back at Exchange Court. I’m to tell you that your prisoner has arrived.’
SIXTY-THREE
The October night was drawing a mist off the river when the two RIC men, along with Sergeant Devenney’s wife, who had been assigned to accompany the female prisoner, reached Exchange Court with Grace Clinton.
Abandoning the promised pleasures of Traynor’s, Swallow, Mossop and Vizzard crossed the river at Richmond Bridge and climbed Winetavern Street towards the Castle.
Swallow signed the exchange certificate proffered by the senior RIC man. Grace Clinton was now in the custody of G-Division.
‘I’m sorry that we have to meet again under such circumstances, Mrs Clinton. You’ve had a lot to deal with.’ Swallow said. ‘This is Detective Mossop and you know Detective Vizzard.’
Johnny Vizzard, not yet appointed to detective grade, swelled a little.
Swallow thought Grace Clinton looked terrible. Her hair was dishevelled, her eyes sunken in two dark pools. Her hands were balled into tight fists. Even though the room was warm, and although she had a good woollen coat, she shivered, sitting on the public office bench. She said nothing, staring straight ahead, trance-like.
‘Mrs Clinton, I’m investigating the murder of a man called Ambrose Pollock. I think you may know about this.’
There was no response. Swallow waited a moment.
‘It’s important that you understand me, Mrs Clinton. Do you know where you are?’
‘I do.’ It was a whisper.
‘Good. Mrs Clinton, I believe that you murdered Ambrose Pollock at Lamb Alley at a date unknown last month.’
‘I understand.’ The voice was stronger now, but the shivering had not abated.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Ma’am?’ Vizzard asked. ‘Or maybe something stronger? Would you like something to eat?’
‘Some tea, if you don’t mind,’ she said after a moment.
‘I’m going to take you to my office now,’ Swallow said. ‘Detective Vizzard will bring you the tea there. I have some important questions to ask you.’
The crime sergeants’ office was deserted and quiet. Swallow drew three chairs around a desk, where light pooled from the gas mantle. Vizzard arrived a few minutes later from the canteen carrying a tray with four mugs of tea.
Swallow sat directly opposite Grace Clinton.
‘Mrs Clinton, I have to warn you that you are now under caution. You’re not obliged to say anything, but if you do, it will be written down by Detective Mossop and it may be used in evidence. Do you understand this?’
‘I do.’
‘What do you know about the death of Ambrose Pollock?’
She sipped cautiously at her tea.
‘What will happen to me?’
‘That’s not for me to say, Mrs Clinton. I’m a policeman. I collect evidence and then it’s up to the court, a judge and jury, to decide on the basis of the evidence, whether you’re answerable for a crime.’
‘I’m not concerned for myself,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the children, the girls. My mother will be there, but she’s no longer young.’
She raised her eyes, looking to each of them.
‘Do any of you have children of your own?’
‘No, Ma’am,’ Swallow said. ‘Detective Vizzard and I are both single men.’
‘I do,’ Pat Mossop said. ‘There’s four at home.’
She dropped her eyes, seeming to absorb this information for a moment.
‘I told you before, my husband wasn’t a bad man.’ Her voice was stronger now. ‘He was influenced by others.’
‘With respect, Mrs Clinton, we’re not asking questions about your husband. He’s deceased, God rest him,’ Vizzard said. ‘The death of Ambrose Pollock has to be cleared up and it’s in your own interests now to co-operate with us.’
‘I know enough of the law to know that I can send for a solicitor,’ she said.
‘That’s true,’ Swallow’s tone sharpened. ‘But under the Coercion Act I’m not under any obligation to allow him to see you. And even if I did, you can’t meet with him in private.’
She managed a thin smile.
‘I won’t press for it, Mr Swallow, in that case. I’ve probably seen enough of solicitors anyway. Don’t forget that I was married to a man who worked for them. And I’m here because of the way he misused his position of trust.’
‘That may be so,’ Swallow said, ‘but my concern now is with the death of Ambrose Pollock. So I’m asking you again, what do you know about that matter?’
She cupped her hands around the canteen mug, then she closed her eyes as if concentrating. For a moment, Swallow wondered if she had actually fallen asleep in the chair. She opened her eyes.
‘I defended myself … he was a vile man.’
‘Are you saying you acted in self-defence?’ Vizzard shot in.
Swallow raised a hand to silence him.
‘You’re acknowledging that you were involved in his death? That you were at the pawn shop when he was killed?’
‘Do you need me to admit that?’
Swallow wondered if Grace Clinton sensed some uncertainty behind their questioning.
‘No, I don’t in fact. I have evidence that you were there and that you used a measuring weight to strike Ambrose Pollock. It’s scientific evidence.’
She looked puzzled.
‘Scientific, you say? What do you mean by that?’
‘It’s a science called fingerprinting. By using certain chemicals and with the aid of photography it’s possible to know when someone has touched a particular object.’
‘What object?’
‘In this case, we have evidence of your finger-marks on the weight that was used in the killing of Ambrose Pollock.’
‘I just … seized it … picked it up. I hit him with it,’ she said after a moment.
‘What happened?’
‘Mr Vizzard said it was self-defence. So it was. Won’t a court believe that, Mr Swallow? Won’t they allow me to go home to look after my children?’
‘I can’t speak for a court, Mrs Clinton. And you understand that I can’t offer you any inducement. But if that is to be your evidence, and if the court accepts it, I think it possible that you might be spared the worst extremities of the law’s punishment.’
‘You have a very formal way with words, Mr Swallow. “The worst extremities of the law’s punishment.” You mean that they mightn’t hang me.’
‘Yes,’ he said flatly.
‘I told you at my mother’s house about my husband’s gambling. I was sometimes reduced to taking things, things that he had brought into the house, to sell them in order simply to pay for household necessities.’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Vizzard nodded. ‘You told us that.’
‘One day, while he was at work, I found a small cardboard box at the bottom of my husband’s wardrobe. When I opened it, I found these coins. They seemed to be silver and gold. They had heads and writing on them that I couldn’t understand. I presumed they had to be valuable.’
Mossop wrote steadily.
‘I had no money to pay the house maid. I had barely enough to put supper on the table for the childre
n. So I took them. Then I realised that there was a note, a scrap of paper really, underneath the box. There was writing on it, not in my husband’s hand. It said, “Pollock, pawnbroker, jeweller,” or something such and it gave an address at Lamb Alley, off Cornmarket.’
She drank the last of her tea.
‘I told myself that this had to be where Arthur was going to bring the coins. They were obviously people who dealt in such things. So I decided that instead of Arthur selling the coins and putting the money into his gambling, I would sell them to meet the household costs.’
She seemed to hesitate.
‘Go on,’ Swallow said.
‘I found the pawnbrokers shop – Pollock’s – and went in there one afternoon just as they were closing. There was a woman at the counter who looked at the coins. She said she would give me £10 for each of them. I had twenty of them, I think. I was absolutely delighted. But then, this … man appeared from behind the counter. He was very angry. He told the woman to get back to her work and he called me into this back office.’
She halted. ‘This is very difficult.’
‘I’m sure it is, Mrs Clinton, but you have to tell us what happened.’
‘I showed him the coins. He seemed very interested and he offered me £2 each for them. I said “But the woman outside offered me £10 each.” He got more angry and told me I wasn’t to pay any attention to her. Then his mood changed. He began to smile and came forward. He started to stroke my hand and tell me how attractive he found me. If I would be “nice” to him, he said, he’d consider raising the price a little.’
She hesitated.
‘Then he said he knew who I was, that he did business with Arthur. And he said he was sure that Arthur wouldn’t want to know that I had come to sell these coins to him. But he would tell him if I didn’t do as he wanted.’
She shuddered. ‘He … put his hands … on me. I pushed him away and then … he sprang on me, pushing me back on the table. I felt this iron weight in my hand – I didn’t even know what it was – and I brought it down on him as hard as I could. I think I heard his head crack.’
She put her hands to her face and covered her eyes as if she were afraid to see.
