The Convictions of John Delahunt

by Andrew Hughes

  Neither of us proposed to the other. Instead, our conversations turned to the kind of life we could lead if we remained together, and soon the idea that we would be married became a given. My twenty-first birthday was at hand, but Helen’s was still two years distant – she celebrated it during my trial. If she married before then, we would require the consent of her parents.

  After one such discussion, Helen said, ‘You know, if we took the boat to Scotland, we could marry without their say-so.’

  She spoke of it in a matter-of-fact fashion, not as some romantic notion to elope. Still, I was quick to discourage the idea. We would be much better off seeking the permission of her father, for then her dowry, annuities and legacies would be still forthcoming.

  Helen thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘You may be right.’

  She reached across and pulled my watch from its fob pocket, checked the time and said she had to return home. ‘Will you be able to come tomorrow?’

  ‘I can’t. There’s somewhere I have to be.’

  ‘What is it?’

  I took the watch from her hands. ‘Just something for college. I can be here the day after.’

  I could see she wanted to enquire further, but instead she leaned over and kissed me. ‘The day after tomorrow then.’

  Barristers, litigants and idlers milled in the unwholesome air of the rotunda. The main hall of the Four Courts was a gathering place for every class and rank. Lawyers and their clients huddled in conference, and stole glances across the chamber towards their opponents. Senior fellows meandered from one cause to the next, beset by an array of applicants clamouring for particular notice. One QC exited Common Pleas, flushed from battle, and marched directly into Exchequer, a new client and set of assistants in his wake.

  Pallid members of the junior bar stood in small circles, or trudged the hall in pairs, hoping for some manner of professional engagement. I could see in their countenance the melancholy of their unemployment. They were caped and bewigged, their faces sickly and jaded, their hands bereft of briefs, and I wondered at the superior air of legal students I had met in college.

  Plaintiffs and defendants from every walk of life commingled. The most alien were the rural petitioners, in their coarse woollen coats and spurred boots. One scraped before his young counsel, and gently unfolded a tattered deed as if he opened a sacred text. The lawyer disdained to read it. He had probably copied out a thousand such leases while a novice, and could recite the clause that meant his client faced eviction.

  And all the while there was the din of hurried steps on the marble floor, fervent conversation, tipstaffs bawling out notices from the doorway of each court, all echoing within the dome. The oppressive smell of the throng was made worse by the stink of the Liffey outside. The situation of the courts is so low and marshy, the river saps at its foundations. The great legal edifice is constantly undermined.

  I stood apart in an alcove. The trial of Craddock’s killers was imminent, but I wouldn’t be called as a witness. Devereaux had sent word to say that my affidavit was to be considered during the trial; however, I would remain anonymous. His estimation of the defendants was correct. Under questioning, one admitted to the guilt of the whole party, including the third man who was subsequently identified. The Castle was loath to expose an informant if it could be avoided, and the courts tended to acquiesce. So I had come to Inns Quay just out of curiosity, to sit in the gallery and view the final turn of a wheel I had set in motion.

  The case was announced and the jury called to the box. Twelve men detached from the crowd and assembled at the entrance to the court. A clerk led them inside. After a few minutes, the doors were opened to the public.

  There was an aisle between rows of seats, like pews in a church, leading towards the elevated bench. The high-backed judges’ chairs were still empty. Behind them, a royal insignia was fixed to the wall, beneath a draped half-circular canopy. Barristers and clerks surrounded tables near the front. Some bent and scribbled notes, others leafed through briefs, a few slouched, seemingly indifferent. Many of the benches in the public gallery were sparsely populated, though the first few were filled with the defendants’ loved ones, just like at a wedding, or funeral.

  I took a seat near the door and waited for the opening exchanges. Another man joined me. He appeared to be a reporter, judging from his lank hair and somnambulant expression. As he sat down he was breathing heavily, and he looked at me. ‘I thought I was going to miss the start.’

  I ignored him. The prisoners sat cuffed together in a box to the right. The two I had identified looked at their families, the one unknown to me regarded his twelve supposed peers who sat in the jury box, which was raised to the same level of the upper-tiered gallery on the left. By their dress it was clear the jurors would never have known the society of the accused, and it’s likely none even professed to the same faith. One of the twelve leaned forward on the edge of the box to survey the court, size up the defendants and their manner, and the demeanour of the respective lawyers. I think I should have liked to have been on a jury once.

  An official called for everyone to stand, then barked at those in the galleries to take off their hats. Three judges in wigs and ermine-lined robes emerged from behind a worn green curtain to take their seats on the bench.

  The trial wasn’t quite the spectacle I had hoped for. Much of the day was taken up with obsequious exchanges between the barristers and judges, mostly out of earshot. My interest was piqued when the defence counsel brought up the issue of my affidavit, and the legitimacy of an anonymous statement in these proceedings; indeed, the legitimacy of the system by which information was collected in Dublin Castle. A prosecutor pointed out that the statement had been used primarily to secure warrants for arrest, but since it agreed in so many particulars with the confession of one of the defendants, it was in fact a vindication of the methods employed by the authorities. The defence barristers didn’t pursue the matter.

  They produced one witness, a pockmarked young woman who lodged with one of the defendants, and stated that he had been home with her throughout the night of the attack on Captain Craddock. However, she was caught in several lies under the examination of the crown prosecutor. He bullied her with questions about her own life, and continually insinuated that she was a prostitute by referring to her as a ‘gay woman’. She left the witness box completely discredited, fixing her questioner with a hate-filled stare.

  The journalist leaned towards me. ‘If that is her profession, I’d say her clients get more than they bargain for.’

  I didn’t know what he meant.

  ‘She’s a wasp.’

  When I frowned at him he said, ‘You know, she’s infected. She has a sting in her tail.’ He looked up to note another exchange between the barristers.

  During the session after lunch, a flash of colour made me notice a man who sat towards the front of the gallery. I could only see the back of his head, and partially the side of his face. But when he turned to whisper something to his neighbour, his yellow cravat peeked out above his collar.

  I looked down at my knees. My presence in the courtroom now seemed perilous, and I berated myself for sitting amidst the loved ones of those I’d condemned. The journalist gave me a dark look as I tried to squeeze by. He moved his satchel from the floor and swung his legs up to make room for me to pass, causing the bench to creak. I pulled at the double doors of the courtroom, first one and then the other, but neither budged. A tipstaff standing nearby said, ‘You have to push it.’ The main hallway was less crowded, but I didn’t stop. I made straight for the exit and stepped out on to the quays. A stiff breeze blew up from the bay, making the surface of the water shiver.

  That evening, rain fell on Fitzwilliam Street in heavy showers. I sat with the parlour shutters drawn, sipping a bottle of wine from Meyler’s, and reading over Hamilton’s Systems of Rays. I thought back over the previous weeks. A few close shaves, but altogether I looked upon the experience with satisfaction. I had known few t
hrills in my life before then, and the reward money was enough to see me comfortably through the end of term. The most important thing now was to focus on college and attain my degree.

  There was a soft rap on the front door. Miss Joyce had gone to bed. I put aside the volume and went into the hallway, repeating a law from Hamilton’s book, which I can still remember: ‘Rays which diverge from a luminous point compose one optical system, and after they reflect in a mirror, they compose another.’ The last grey light of evening showed through the semi-circular fanlight.

  I opened the front door wide. The man with the yellow cravat stood on my steps. Small beads of water had gathered on his shoulders. Tufts of tawny hair circled his pate, and he had no beard except for a few days’ growth.

  We regarded each other for a moment. I considered bluffing that I had three brothers upstairs, but he had probably observed the darkened house for hours.

  ‘John Delahunt.’ The soft tone of his voice surprised me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  The latch was cold against my fingers. I stepped backwards into the hall with my arm extended towards the parlour door. He walked into the room and shook rainwater from his coat. My book lay open beside a glass of wine, which glowed red in the candlelight. He took up the bottle to read the label, which was in French. ‘Not drinking in Nowlan’s this evening?’

  ‘Clearly not.’ I took the bottle from his hand, and brought it to the dresser. ‘Would you like a glass?’

  His face darkened. ‘Do you think I came here for a drink?’

  ‘No, but there’s plenty of time to discuss what has to be done.’

  I poured some wine and handed it to him, then pointed at the armchair in which I’d been studying, and invited him to sit. I brought my own glass to stand beside the hearth, and propped one elbow against the mantelpiece.

  The man looked up at me from my chair. ‘If you sit down we can discuss your problem.’

  ‘I’d prefer to stand.’

  He shifted to get comfortable. ‘It makes no difference.’ The frayed ends of his trousers hitched up over his shins, revealing worn boots, one with the sole drooping down at the toe. He wasn’t sure what to do with the wine. He placed his elbows on his knees, then changed his mind and sat upright.

  I said, ‘I’m sorry about your friends.’

  ‘I never particularly liked them.’ The scrolled handle of a candlestick teetered over the lip of the table beside him. He pushed it in safely with his thumb, causing the flame to drag sideways. ‘They shouldn’t have lost their heads with that old man.’

  I agreed, and said it was a terrible business.

  He set aside his wine, then withdrew a copy of the proclamation announcing the twenty-pound reward and showed it to me; just as I had done with Devereaux in the Castle.

  He said, ‘You’ll have to give me the blood money.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The reward you got for shopping Seanie and Fergie. Give it to me.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because a word about this to my friends, and your life will become very uncomfortable.’

  ‘I’m under the protection of the Castle.’

  He raised an eyebrow and looked around the quiet, dimly lit room. ‘You’re not at the moment.’

  I put my glass down on the mantel, and gripped it lightly by the rim. ‘Why don’t we split it,’ I said. ‘Ten pounds each.’

  ‘No. You’re in no position to bargain.’

  I was going to argue more, but he was right. It was my own fault for being spotted; a lesson to be learned.

  ‘I’ve spent some of it. I can only give you fifteen.’

  He frowned for a moment, but then nodded. ‘Fair enough. I’ll take it now.’

  I went to a low bookcase in the corner and took an academic volume from the bottom shelf. I leafed through it, retrieving two hidden banknotes of five and ten pounds. When I turned, the man was already on his feet. He plucked the money from my outstretched hand and put it in his breast pocket.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Then he seized my left wrist, turned me around and pushed me against the wall by the fireplace. He deliberately twisted my arm, before dragging it across my back towards my shoulder. His fingers laced through my hair, and pulled my head back so his mouth was just over my eye.

  ‘A month from today, I’ll return, and you’ll give me the same amount again.’ He pushed my head sharply against the wall for emphasis. ‘A month after that the same thing. I’ll be paying visits here so regular, we’ll soon be fast friends. If you breathe a word about this to anyone, I’ll tell all the dockers on Arran Quay what you’ve done, and then pieces of you would show up in every canal in the city.’

  He asked if I understood. I couldn’t move my head but whispered a yes. The pressure on my arm increased. He seemed to feel his way towards its breaking point, and I was aware of the ease with which he held me pinioned, the potential force he hardly used. Then he kicked my ankles, and threw me down beside the hearth. He picked up the book from the floor, flicked through the pages to ensure no other money was hidden, and then tossed it down beside me. ‘A month from today.’

  The corner of the hearthstone dug into my hip. Before me, three fire-irons lay aslant in their bow-legged stand. The handle of the poker was made of thick brass, moulded into the shape of a lion’s head. I reached across and gripped its blackened point.

  He was almost at the door when I got to my feet. The noise made him turn, but I was upon him in a few steps. I swung the moulded end of the poker in a high downward arc, and it struck the top of his head, glancing down to crack into his right shoulder. His features briefly froze in an odd expression, like the aftermath of a sneeze, then his knees hit the floor, and he slumped forward without a sound.

  I checked the handle of the poker to see if it was damaged; there wasn’t a scuff. Then I pulled the parlour door ajar. Nothing stirred on the landing above; there wasn’t a sound or glimmer of candlelight. I waited several seconds before closing the door again with a click.

  The man lay face down. His stubbled cheek was squashed flat, and I could hear him breathe raggedly through clenched teeth. I could have roused the household and sent for help, but the police wouldn’t have kept him for long. As soon as he was released, he would track me down again. Also, he could identify me as an informer to his coal-heaving friends at any time.

  I took up the fire-iron again and considered its weight. Just how much force would be necessary? I rehearsed a couple of swings to judge their likely impact; the shaft flashed and hummed through the air. Best to err on the side of caution, I decided, reasoning no killing blow was ever faulted for being too hard.

  I allowed the thick handle to caress the back of his head, and picked a spot just above and behind his ear, where a small amount of blood from the first strike had already matted his hair. I stood with my legs apart and knees bent, as if I was about to take a shot in croquet, raised the poker, and mustered every ounce of strength.

  A thought occurred. Too hard a hit would spatter gore all over the furniture and rug. I lowered my arms. It wouldn’t do for the man to bleed all over the place; removing the body was going to be tricky enough.

  I grabbed his damp shoulder and rolled him on to his back, then fished in his breast pocket to reclaim my money. The cleanest kill would be to block his airways. My coat hung over the back of the armchair. Bundled up, it could do the job, but I didn’t want to get it dirty. Looking about the room, my eyes fell upon the only cushion resting on the sofa. It had a simple pattern of flowers in a wicker basket, which Cecilia had sewn when she was little. I can remember my mother and sister sitting by the chimney breast at their needlework. Mother sat beneath a plaid blanket beside the fire, even in summer. She would smile and praise Cecilia upon the completion of each flower, every one in a different colour thread.

  I picked up the cushion and examined it. The threads had begun to unravel, and the colours were faded.
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  I knelt beside the man, placed the pillow firmly over his mouth and nose, and pressed down. He was motionless so I couldn’t tell if it had any effect. After a tense minute, I eased back and looked beneath. He was no longer breathing. His chest had stilled and his lips hung slack. I curled my index finger and placed it beneath his nose for several seconds. There wasn’t the slightest draught.

  When he snorted inwards, I pulled my hand back as if I’d triggered a mousetrap. His breathing resumed with a gentle snore.

  I inspected the cushion with a frown. Was it working at all? I held the clean side against my own face and attempted to breathe in. Air did come through at first; it was scant and thick with dust. When I pressed harder, it was indeed possible to prevent breathing. The method was sound. I just needed to be patient.

  To apply more force I shifted my knee to straddle the man’s chest, then bore down on the cushion with all my weight. I could feel his nose and chin through the down. One of his arms was by his side and pinioned beneath my heel. The other still lay outstretched, pointing at the hearth.

  Outside, the wind blew harder and rain rattled against the window frame. Gusts made the panelled doors creak. I continued to listen for any movement in the rooms above.

  Suddenly, the man’s head pulled to the right, and his free hand swiped at my face. He tried to wrench his other arm from beneath my leg, so I clamped against it with my thigh. I squeezed down harder. I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t dying. The pillow slipped down from his brow, and his wide, frantic eyes looked into mine. One was bloodshot, to the extent that the whole white had turned a deep crimson. His other arm was coming loose; my leg seized with cramp as I tried to keep it restrained. At one point he managed to thrust his knee into my side, and I became furious. I dropped my weight on to his chest, and I could feel his strength begin to ebb. He gave up trying to pull his arm free, and after another moment his entire body shuddered.

  I counted to ten, then slid on to the floor and lay panting. The cushion remained balanced on his face.