About the Book
Dublin, 1841. On a cold December morning, a small boy is enticed away from his mother and his throat savagely cut. This could be just one more small, sad death in a city riven by poverty, inequality and political unrest, but this killing causes a public outcry. For it appears the culprit – a feckless student named John Delahunt – is also an informant and in the pay of the authorities at Dublin Castle. And strangely, this young man seems neither to regret what he did nor fear his punishment. Indeed, as he awaits the hangman in his cell in Kilmainham Gaol, John Delahunt decides to tell his story in this, his final, deeply unsettling statement . . .
Set amidst Dublin’s taverns, tenements, courtrooms and alleyways and with a rich, Dickensian cast of characters – carousing students, unscrupulous lowlifes, dissectionists, phrenologists, blackmailers and the sinister agents of Dublin Castle – The Convictions of John Delahunt is based on true events that convulsed Victorian Ireland.
Beautifully observed, seductive and laced with dark humour, this gripping historical thriller about a man who betrays his family, his friends and, ultimately, himself marks the debut of an exciting and assured new literary voice.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Andrew Hughes
Copyright
The Convictions of John Delahunt
Andrew Hughes
For my parents
1
I won’t be welcome in the Delahunt plot. I doubt they’ll make the slightest effort to reclaim me. Perhaps I’m promised to the dissectionists on York Street, though these days they’ve the pick of the workhouses. Most likely I’ll end up in some forsaken corner of Kilmainham’s grounds. Pitched in with my peers. Lying at odd angles and uneven depths, depending on the diligence of the digger. Quicklime poured in to hasten the process. And unmarked, save a scrawled entry in a spineless ledger, to be shelved and forgotten, filthy with dust. The fate of my remains had not given me a moment’s pause until today’s visitor. Now I can think of little else. It’s tiresome, that such morbid fancies should master me in my remaining hours.
Helen might make some petition for a decent burial. My wife has been disowned, disinherited; she is soon to be widowed. Her plaintive letters will be mired in bureaucracy. Still, it will do her good to keep busy.
At about noon I started at the rustle of keys and scraping of bolts as Dr Armstrong was shown into my cell. He was a spare man, a little below the average height, but with a dignity of carriage that made him appear taller. Clean-shaven, and obviously particular in his habits and dress. He was accompanied by an assistant, whom I took to be one of his medical students. As they entered, the doctor held a handkerchief to his nose – it’s amazing how soon one stops noticing it – but immediately folded it into a pocket and regarded me with professional interest.
‘Has Mr Turner told you the reason for my visit?’
I set aside my pen. ‘Not in much detail.’
‘Mr Delahunt, I’ll begin by saying I care not about the nature of your crimes.’
I reminded him I had only been convicted of one.
He took the interruption in his stride. ‘Quite.’ It was his belief that the manifest failings in my character, which had led me to commit my admitted crime, resulted from grave deficiencies in certain faculties of my brain and the profusion of others. ‘Your cranial bone will have conformed around these undulations, leaving a discernible map for the trained hand.’ He flexed his fingers as if in demonstration. He said my cooperation would aid his research and further scientific understanding. ‘Of course, you are free to refuse my interview, and if you wish me to leave I shall do so immediately.’
He fixed on a point above my shoulder as if my response either way was of no concern. My first impulse was to tell them both to get out. But how could I refuse the final courtesy extended to me in my short life?
I offered to vacate the only chair but he waved me to remain. His assistant inspected my stained mattress with some distaste; then he sat at the edge of the bunk without my leave. He placed a file on the frayed blanket beside him, opened a leather-bound notebook and took a pencil from his jacket pocket.
I must admit to an uneasy sensation when Armstrong walked behind me to take hold of my matted head. That feeling soon gave way. After several minutes I had to stifle a smirk at both his earnest kneading and tender caress. I couldn’t see his face, but I’d hear the occasional guttural response to an interesting knoll. I pictured Dr Armstrong in his private moments, head in his hands, deeply contemplative, on a journey of self-discovery. Then again, if he was convinced of his calling perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to touch his own head. Maybe he was loath to scratch an itch, or fix his hat, lest he happen upon an unsettling trait.
He spoke his observations aloud in a distracted voice. ‘The head is well sized. The base regions very fully developed, and the coronal portions … by no means deficient.’
I was flattered. The pupil, a young man with round spectacles and a thin beard, carefully jotted down each comment. I knew his type well: the class pet plucked from the group to assist with the professor’s own research and experiments. He no doubt considered it a great honour rather than an unpaid chore. Some characters can be discerned without the use of phrenology.
At one point he was called over for a practical lesson and he joined the doctor behind my chair. Armstrong took a step back. ‘Our conjecture was correct. Feel Caution’s Causeway.’
The young man’s fingers were cold and his nails unclipped. He probed behind my left ear, fixed upon a certain spot and rotated the skin with a firm rub. It seemed to me he wasn’t sure what he sought. His only expression was a vague murmur.
‘Now mark the Carnal Cleft.’
He steadied my head before pressing his ring finger between the bridge of my nose and lower eye socket. This time his reaction was clearer. He was amused, enough to exhale sharply through his nostrils. I wasn’t let in on the joke.
When the cranial reading was complete, Armstrong went to stand in the middle of the cell, using his handkerchief to wipe my residue from his fingers. The exact nature of his questions seems vague to me now. I recall he commended my learning and enquired into my habits of reading. He asked was I musical. My childhood stints singing in the choir were among my only happy memories, but I told him I couldn’t hold a note, had no ear for harmony – there was little point being an open book.
More trying were questions that seemed pertinent to my conviction. He asked had I ever sworn falsely against another.
I scrutinized his face for a hint of mockery. ‘It’s a matter of public record that I have.’
‘Have you ever been compelled to act because of religious fervour?’
I said I wasn’t a believer.
The doctor smiled. ‘Mr Delahunt, I fear you are betrayed by your make-up. The Organ of Marvellousness is particularly full. I have no doubt you are in awe of your creator.’
‘Then why ask?’
The transcriber spoke for the first time. ‘What about the note found on your victim?’
The doctor and I regarded him. I hoped the upstart would be berated but instead Armstrong retrieved the file
and leafed through it. ‘That’s right. A passage from the Bible was clutched in his hand.’ He found the relevant page. ‘Identified as Philippians 1:21, “For me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.”’ He looked at me with the folder held open before him; the other sat with his pen poised.
I no longer found their presence diverting. ‘It didn’t matter what was written,’ I said. ‘I knew the child wouldn’t be able to read.’
It had been my hope that after a brief examination the doctor would be able to reveal some underlying cause, fix me with a solemn gaze and say: ‘Worry not, this was always on the cards.’ Instead I grew weary of his petty enquiries and was relieved when he indicated he was about to go. Despite myself, I fished for a diagnosis as he gathered his coat.
‘Have you come to any conclusions?’
He drew himself up, as if glad to be asked. ‘All I would say is this. There is no doubt the capacity to commit your crime is strongly written in your development.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘But so also was the power to resist it.’
Such insight. He lifted the lapel of his coat to cover his neck. ‘But those are only preliminary observations. I shall require several more hours of study.’
‘You mean you intend to return.’
‘Why, no,’ he said and looked away. ‘I have made arrangements with the prison authorities.’
‘Arrangements for what?’
‘Well.’ He patted his pockets as if he had mislaid something. ‘It won’t concern you.’
The student had been observing me all the while with the corners of his mouth upturned. ‘We shall be using a plaster cast of your head,’ he said. ‘Taken after your punishment.’
Armstrong reproved his charge with a touch on the arm and a stern look. I merely nodded. No doubt it’s odd that this was the first realization of what awaited me. After all, there had been ample time to consider the mechanics of my demise. But this thought chilled me – of my rough handling, of some anatomical stuccodore gouging my eyes, pressing his wet plaster into my nose and mouth and leaving my enclosed head to set. Throughout the afternoon I lay awake, opening and closing my fist, holding my breath, listening to my pulse in a cupped ear, trying to sense the source of their animation.
After some consideration I’ve come to look upon the notion of Armstrong’s mould with less dread, though the thought of my face encased still causes a shiver. The cast of one’s head is an interesting relic. The idea of being preserved for future study also appeals: to be labelled and catalogued, stored and retrieved, admired and pored over by scientists not yet born.
I recall when I was six or seven years old stealing into my father’s study in Fitzwilliam Street, darkened in his absence to protect his books from the sun. I drew one shutter ajar, enough to allow a rectangle of light to fall upon the writing desk, and took down a volume of faunal studies. There I stood, fascinated by the exquisitely etched plates of various animal specimens in jars of embalming fluid: lizards, birds and even a tiger cub. Soon after, I came upon a fallen fledgling in our stable-lane: a specimen of my own. Believing the agent of preservation was simply a well-stoppered jar of water, I pilfered one from the kitchen. I gathered the tiny form and placed it into the receptacle, dunking it when it began to bob. I even labelled it: ‘Baby sparrow, Lad Lane, March 1825’. Naturally, when I checked on it a week later I was distressed at the putrid soup that had resulted. The sense memory of that odour still causes a turn.
My cast should prove a neater artefact. Certainly better than an entry in a burial ledger; better even than a tombstone. I can’t help but ponder its fate. Shall I sit as a curio on a high shelf in a dark oak study, a source of nightmare for Armstrong’s grandchildren? Perhaps the doctor possesses a whole collection of criminal crania that line the walls of a special room, and I’ll remain in stony-faced congress with my fellows for decades – until a clumsy maid nudges the shelf and tips my replica into oblivion. The promise of this unusual preservation buoys me slightly. Still, I admit to hoping that Helen does make some effort at claiming me. She will need the support of the few remaining Delahunts to wrest my remnants from the government’s possession, and that will be impossible. Her lonely petition will be in vain.
My warder is a man named Turner, an old Kilmainham guard with a grey moustache stained yellow and one eye turned inward. He treats me well enough because of my refined manners and clean habits. The details of my conviction don’t seem to bother him. He told me once, ‘You can never judge a man’s character by the crimes he commits.’
He came in yesterday with a few sheets of cotton paper, an inkpot and some worn nibs. He said the condemned were permitted to write a final statement. ‘It’ll probably find its way into the press so make it good.’
I leafed through the thin blank sheaf. ‘I’ll need more paper.’
Where to begin? I wrote that, then crossed it out. For me, there’s no need to dwell on the nature of providence, or trace back through decisions that led me here like a genealogist compiling a pedigree. It’s clear when all this started. It was two years ago; during my second last term at Trinity. Walking through Front Square on an evening in early spring, I crossed paths with two others known to me. One was Helen’s older brother, Arthur Stokes, a tall and amiable fellow with trimmed fair hair and a weak chin. We had been friends since childhood, though we’d drifted apart during the three years at college. He was a medical student and active member of college societies. I read natural philosophy and found those fraternal gatherings juvenile.
His companion was James O’Neill, a law student with a green ribbon attached to his lapel. It was O’Neill who said they were going for a drink in the Eagle and suggested I tag along. In College Green cab drivers clattered through the empty thoroughfares. We turned right into Eustace Street and soon heard the sounds of the tavern spill on to the road. Once inside it was much like any other night. Raucous laughter and howled conversations; smells of stale drink and sweet tobacco; blazing fires and body heat – I was forced to remove my coat immediately. We climbed the crooked stairs to a snug in a back garret favoured by students, where more than a dozen young men occupied tables surrounding the hearth. Illumination was provided by the embers as well as gnarled candles dotted on tabletops.
At around midnight we were joined by two others unknown to me, students of law from O’Neill’s class. I tried to keep up with the conversation. I’ve always found it a struggle to discern individual voices in a loud pub, and besides, I was unmoved by the topic. O’Neill was defending a newly formed association committed to repealing the Act of Union. The others decried it. They argued its leader, O’Connell, could no longer survive without the roar of popular assemblies and he would drag the country into civil strife rather than retire gracefully. Arthur tried to arbitrate by saying there was no cause for alarm, as only a handful had attended the first repeal meeting.
O’Neill spoke into his glass. ‘When the people see he is in earnest they will flock to his banner once more.’ He looked at me with heavy eyelids and asked me what I thought.
I said I didn’t care. Arthur began to speak again, but O’Neill cut him off. ‘What did he say?’ His brow had furrowed as if he’d been presented with a conundrum. ‘You mean you don’t care about Ireland?’
Nor about England, France or Japan, but before I could say so O’Neill dismissed me with a waved hand. ‘A man so unconcerned with his own prospects could hardly care much for his country.’
We were pitched out at closing time. Rain had blackened the uneven cobbles on Essex Street. O’Neill’s debate with his two classmates descended into argument and he grappled with one. A policeman happened by. There was a scuffle during which the officer fell injured with a blow to the side of his head. He lay unconscious, but his fingers unfurled and a truncheon rolled on to the road. The bristles of his moustache dipped into an inky puddle. We scattered to the five wards.
A few days later I was skirting the rail of St Stephen’s Green when another man matched my step, and struck up a conversation
as if we were old acquaintances. I slowed in order to distinguish his features, but he touched my elbow in a way that impelled me forward.
‘Have you ever seen a more odious day, John?’ It was blustery and a little overcast. Not unusual for the time of year. I agreed it was very bad. The man leaned closer so our shoulders almost touched, and he asked after the health of my father, his voice tinged with concern.
I said his condition was much the same. They must have been old friends. His name would come to me in a minute.
‘And Cecilia. Is she finding married life agreeable?’ He referred to my younger sister, who lived miserably with her new husband in Coppinger Row.
‘She’s quite happy.’
‘And how is your friend Arthur Stokes?’ On the path before us a barefoot boy scampered on to the muddy roadway, causing a passing horse to shy. ‘And James O’Neill. The three of you still frequent the Eagle, I believe.’
I stopped walking, as if I hoped the man would continue on and leave me be. He wheeled about to face me, unhurried, his hands deep in his coat pockets. He didn’t look like a policeman, more like a banker or civil servant, but I was sure at any moment he would order me to Little Ship Street. In the same conversational tone he said the officer involved in the brawl the other night had suffered deafness in the stricken ear, so the Castle was taking a special interest. He looked about. We were standing across from the Winter Palace pub. ‘Why don’t we step in for a drink?’
‘I can’t. I have to attend a lecture in ten minutes.’
‘But I insist.’ His eye didn’t waver.
‘Very well.’
We went to a snug attached to the bar, where he sat with his back to the door. I faced him across a table upon which two glasses of port appeared. He took off his hat and smoothed back thick brown hair. His face was framed by neat muttonchop whiskers and a prominent brow. He gently caressed the inside of his hat, feeling along the silk lining to pop out a small dent in the crown. ‘My name is Thomas Sibthorpe.’ He nodded at the table. ‘Drink up.’
The Convictions of John Delahunt Page 1
