The Convictions of John Delahunt

by Andrew Hughes

  Sibthorpe spoke while still reading from the file. ‘The name of the girl you hurt is Sarah Colgan from Kilkenny.’

  Devereaux shrugged. ‘She told me it was Honor Bright.’

  Sibthorpe turned a leaf and shook his head. ‘Such a list of injuries. Broken pelvis, wrist, shattered ear, gouged eye, contusions, cuts, trauma … elsewhere.’ He closed the file, placed it on the table and looked up at Devereaux. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I don’t remember doing any of that. The only thing I recall is them pulling me off her.’ When Sibthorpe said nothing he continued, ‘She was new, fresh from the country. Maybe she wouldn’t do as told; maybe I was just breaking her in.’

  He tried to look defiant, but eventually his eyes lowered as we regarded him in silence. He spoke in a small voice. ‘Come on, Sibthorpe. Who’ll kick up a fuss over some whore?’ He closed his eyes, squeezing them slightly in an attempt to appear solemn. ‘I promise it won’t happen again.’

  Sibthorpe placed his hand on the table, and drummed his fingers against the file in a rhythmic patter. He said they’d have to bring him back to the Castle and charge him with something. Devereaux’s eyes opened. Even a public-order offence. ‘Maybe we can arrange with the magistrate to let you off with a fine.’ Sibthorpe leaned forward in his chair. ‘But you’ll pay every penny.’

  I could see relief course through Devereaux. He gave an expansive nod. ‘Absolutely. That’s only fair.’

  ‘You’d do well to bear in mind the nature of our work in future.’ He rose and rapped on the door, then waited for the sergeant to re-enter. ‘I’ll be taking this prisoner back to the Castle and will process him there. Arrange for transport.’

  The policeman flashed a glance at Devereaux, then nodded and withdrew.

  Outside the rear entrance, a prison cart stood waiting. Two metal benches were embedded in the sides of the cart. There were hinged catches in the seats to which manacles could be tethered, but we didn’t employ them. Sibthorpe handed me the key and told me to remove Devereaux’s restraints. The metal was cold to the touch. As I released each clasp the chains slinked to the floor, and Devereaux rubbed his wrists theatrically.

  Sibthorpe looked at him. ‘You’ll need to put them back on when we get to the Castle.’

  We entered the Castle at Ship Street, continued to Lower Castle Yard and turned into the arched entrance of the police barracks. Sibthorpe ordered me to refasten the chains and Devereaux held out his wrists, as if in surrender.

  The officer on duty in the cells didn’t seem surprised by the approach of our party. Devereaux greeted him by name, but the young corporal would not meet his eye. He retrieved a key from beneath his desk. ‘Number eight is free.’ He took a lamp and led the way to the designated cell, which was beyond a corner in the old stone corridor.

  Inside, Devereaux was told to sit. Next to the table, there was another of those hooked latches embedded in the wall in which manacles were secured. The young officer told Devereaux to slip his chain within. Devereaux drew back his wrists and frowned. ‘Surely that’s not necessary.’

  Sibthorpe’s voice was low. ‘Devereaux, we have to do this by the book.’

  The prisoner relented. The chain between his wrists was fastened to the hook in the wall, which was secured with a padlock. Sibthorpe took the key. Devereaux pulled at the chains to see how far he could move his arms.

  Sibthorpe surveyed the cell. ‘Right then. Someone will come in to take your statement, Devereaux, and make the charge. Hopefully we’ll sort this out tonight.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom.’

  The rest of us withdrew from the cell. In the corridor, Sibthorpe turned to the corporal. ‘You’re dismissed. Return to your desk and remain there.’ The young officer gave a curt nod and turned on his heel.

  Sibthorpe looked at me, cocked his head at the cell door opposite, and beckoned for me to follow.

  Two men sat at a table with a single candle between them. They wore the homespun clothes of country folk. One was older than the other, but they had the same build and hair colour, which marked them as kin. They each held a black wooden baton.

  When I entered, the younger one rose from his seat. He regarded me with such hatred that I instinctively braced myself, but Sibthorpe held up his hand and spoke to the young man. ‘This isn’t him. This is my associate, Delahunt.’ He turned to me. ‘That’s William and George Colgan, poor Sarah’s brother and uncle.’

  The older man got up from his chair. ‘Where is he?’

  Sibthorpe pointed across the hall. ‘In there. Be quick about it.’

  They pushed past and opened the door to the holding cell.

  Devereaux’s head came up. He was confused when he saw the two men enter, though only for a second. The younger man wanted to go for him at once, but his uncle said, ‘Let’s shift the table first.’

  Devereaux’s eyes fixed on the two men as they took hold of the underside of the table to drag it away. One of them had placed his baton on top. It slid off, clattered on the floor, and then rolled until it snagged in the join between two flagstones. Devereaux stood up, tipping his chair over, and pulled against his restraints until the chain was taut.

  Sibthorpe and I remained in the hallway. Tom pushed the cell door closed with just his index finger, then kept his palm pressed against it for a moment, as if it might open again if he let go.

  We could hear the beating commence: irregular thuds and Devereaux’s unsettling cries. Above the lintel, a dark metal grille spanned the width of the door. Lamplight from inside the cell danced and flickered through the slits. Occasionally, the sweep of a shadow would match the sound of a baton strike. The Colgans had settled into a rhythm, like a pair of ship-builders working in tandem to hammer in a rivet.

  Sibthorpe took his hand off the door. He stood with his arms folded and gazed around the passageway. ‘You know …’ He waited for me to look at him. ‘… When I started in the Castle this is where I worked.’ He nodded towards the bend in the corridor. ‘At the front desk where the corporal is.’ His eyes lost some focus. ‘We used to freeze during the winter. I’d sit hunched with my fingers cupped over the candle.’ He drew in his elbows and lifted his hands to mimic the action. Then he straightened, and thought for a moment. ‘They have it easy these days.’

  It had been several seconds since Devereaux last yelled out, but the beating continued.

  A cellar spider crept along the ground in the corridor. One of its delicate legs tapped against the wall, as if using it for support. It reached the cell door and slipped beneath the gap at the bottom. A moment later it came back out, traversed the sill and continued along the crook of the wall.

  Sibthorpe fumbled in his coat pocket. ‘Before I forget.’ He took out a wallet, withdrew a five-pound note and handed it to me extended in his fingertips.

  When the noises from inside had become sporadic, Sibthorpe slid back the peephole cover. He watched for a moment, then said, ‘That’s enough,’ and opened the door.

  The Colgans stood in the middle of the cell, breathing heavily with their shoulders stooped. Sibthorpe went up to the older man. ‘Remember, we’ve allowed you to bypass the courts. Sarah won’t have her name sullied in the papers.’ He looked at them both in turn. ‘So you owe us.’

  The men nodded. Sibthorpe told them to go and they staggered out, the cudgels still clutched in their hands.

  Devereaux slumped lifeless on the floor, his arms still held up by the manacles hooked in the wall, as if he was a joint on display in a butcher’s window. One of his boots had come off. A strap from his braces had released, and coiled over his shoulder. His trousers were ripped where the men had stamped on his groin.

  Sibthorpe only looked at the body for a moment. He called into the hallway for the corporal to come in, then he gave me the key for the padlock in the wall and told me to take the prisoner down. Close in, I could see the skin around his wrists had torn against the manacles. I fumbled with the padlock. When I turned the key, my knuckles brush
ed against his warm fingertips.

  Two other men entered the cell, and they hauled Devereaux’s corpse away. The corporal brought in two pails of water to douse against the wall and ground where Devereaux had been bleeding. The cell floor slanted towards a metal grille that covered a drain hole in the corner. The murky water sluiced away into Dublin’s black pool.

  I left the Castle by Dame Street and decided to walk home in order to clear my head, though the night was inclement. When the rain became particularly heavy, I stopped in a dingy pub for shelter, and stood propped against the bar with a glass of whiskey. Other men escaping the weather huddled beside the fireplace. Steam clung to a large gold-framed mirror behind the counter. After a few minutes, the barman offered to top up my glass, and I nodded.

  I kept picturing Devereaux’s face just before the beating, when Sibthorpe closed the door on him. Tom could have arranged for his wayward agent’s throat to be cut in some side street. Instead, he had orchestrated an execution inside the halls of his own department. As I thought back, I realized there had been no need for me to accompany Sibthorpe that evening. He had intended for me to see it all.

  Another man entered the pub, and I glanced past him to check on the weather. The rain still fell in slanting sheets.

  What if I was to fall out of favour with Tom? Wouldn’t the same thing happen to me? Perhaps I wouldn’t even see it coming. One evening, walking home, I’d be bundled into the back of a carriage, a gag stuffed in my mouth, a hood pulled over my head, and all I could hope for would be a quick end. And there’d be no repercussions; no inquest or trial; barely a complaint. As far as Helen and my family would be concerned, I would have just disappeared.

  A man at the end of the bar was muttering to himself. He grew agitated, and spoke into his chest with increasing venom until a word from the barman quelled him.

  Surely Sibthorpe knew that his display might deter me from working with the Castle altogether? Or was it too late for that? If I refused to cooperate, he could reveal my false statement about O’Neill, which would forever bar me from re-entering normal society, or expose my involvement with the coal-porters, which would get me killed.

  I called over the barman to pay for the drinks, rummaged in my coat pocket for some change, and felt the folded five-pound note. Tom had shown that he was willing to pay me. He must have thought I could be an effective agent or why would he have bothered? If I had little choice about working for the Department, there was some solace in the knowledge that he considered me adept at it.

  The barman frowned at me. ‘Have you nothing smaller?’ I checked another pocket and handed him half a crown. As he walked away I thought of Devereaux again, and the sounds of his cries coming through the metal-bound door. It must have been awful, to watch the Colgans enter, knowing you were restrained, and to be helpless as the blows rained down.

  Though it wasn’t as if Devereaux was an innocent party. What had he suffered except an eye for an eye? Sibthorpe had provided the Colgan family a type of reckoning that wouldn’t have been available through the courts. And he’d rid the Department of an errant agent, while teaching his replacement a ruthless lesson. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed rather efficient. Perhaps I’d have done the same.

  Before leaving the pub, I bought a bottle of wine to share with Helen, then stepped into the blustery night to return home.

  She was at her desk beside the window. A blank page and inkpot lay untouched beneath a candle. She sat with her legs gathered up gracefully, and her head turned towards the door. It struck me that it must have been a worrying wait in the dark chamber; sitting alone while gusts made the candle flame shiver. I crossed the room, trailing small pools of water on the floorboards, and took the money from my pocket. She held the proffered banknote unfurled between her fingertips, then reached over to feel my wet coat. ‘You’ll catch cold,’ she said. ‘I’ll relight the fire.’

  I changed into dry clothes while she busied herself beneath the mantel. We sat before the fireplace upon an old blanket that acted as hearth-rug, and I opened the wine. She shifted on to her knees to unpin her hair. ‘Where did he bring you?’

  I told her about Devereaux being held in Store Street. They had never met, but I had spoken about him several times.

  ‘Why had he been arrested?’

  I said he beat up a girl.

  ‘A girl?’

  ‘She worked in one of those houses in Montgomery Street.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I recounted some of her long list of injuries.

  Helen’s eyes searched my face. ‘Did you see her?’

  I shook my head. She was in hospital.

  I refilled the glasses and placed the bottle behind us, away from the heat. I told her how Devereaux was brought back to the Castle, how Sibthorpe tricked him, how two men from the girl’s family were waiting to kill him.

  Helen was staring into the firelight. I was going to explain that the Castle wanted rid of Devereaux because he knew too many agents, but there was no need. She looked back at me. ‘If he hurt the girl that much then he deserved it.’

  I leaned across to pick a piece of wood from a bundle of sticks, used it to stir the fire, then threw it on top. The edges began to char and smoke. I thought she might have expressed more concern for my safety. ‘Working for the Castle will be dangerous, Helen. Though I’m not sure I have a choice.’

  I kept looking at the fire, and she sat still beside me for a moment. A gust blew down the chimney, sending a thick wisp of smoke into the room.

  She reached across to touch my cheek, then took my hand and held it in her lap. ‘But you’re good at it. And you’re clever enough to keep out of trouble.’

  I laced my fingers through hers.

  She moved closer and leaned her head beneath my chin. ‘If we can keep making this kind of money, John, we could be comfortable. Even happy.’

  We sat like that for several minutes. Raised voices drifted from below, signalling the start of another quarrel between Lynch and his wife.

  Sibthorpe had described to me the type of information gathered by the Department. It was all-encompassing. Nothing was too trivial; no person was too lowly to warrant the Castle’s attention. Also, reports didn’t have to be of something criminal. They collected tittle-tattle and rumours like reporters in the scandal sheets. A man’s predilections, proclivities and sympathies, anything that could be held against him, was collated, indexed and filed.

  But not on Castle grounds. Having to traipse in and out of Little Ship Street was considered a threat to an informant’s anonymity. I was told to go to an address in Fownes Street whenever I had anything to report. The building was entirely nondescript, unadorned by signs or nameplates, bordered on one side by a bookseller, and on the other by a commissioner for oaths. The door was always unlocked – no need for secret knocks or whispered entreaties to enter.

  Inside the dim hallway, a bored sentry sat at a desk beneath the stairwell. It was a different guard every time, never wearing any kind of official garb. He would turn away any who wandered in by mistake. Those on official business, such as myself, were allowed to approach.

  I was told by Sibthorpe to state my name and say I wished to speak with a man called Farrell. The sentry scanned a list of names on his desk, only ten or so. Mine must have been among them. He reached across and tugged on a bell cord that disappeared through a small hole in the ceiling. It rang in the floors above, just at the edge of hearing. After a few moments, another cord in the corner quivered, jerked up and sounded a small brass chime. The guard looked up from his seat.

  ‘You can go up to the second floor.’

  I ascended the crooked stairs and Farrell met me on the landing. He was a young man, wearing a waistcoat with white shirtsleeves rolled up. His fingers were ink-stained, and he had spectacles that sat perched atop short tawny hair. There were two entrances in the hallway. One was quite ordinary; the other, an imposing metal doorway with exposed bolts, like those in a bank vault.
r />   I told Farrell that I was John Delahunt.

  He nodded. ‘I thought as much, since I didn’t recognize you.’ He invited me into his office, a small room with a desk cluttered by files, and boxes stacked on the windowsill obstructing the light. Once seated he asked, ‘Any trouble finding us?’

  ‘Sibthorpe’s directions were quite clear.’

  He smiled at me. ‘Tom never leaves anything to chance.’ He cleared a space on his desk. ‘So, what have you got for us?’

  It seemed to me a rather feeble story. Helen convinced me it was worth reporting. ‘My neighbour beats his wife.’

  Farrell held my eye for a second, and I feared I had wasted his time.

  ‘Lovely.’ He opened a drawer and pulled out a blank form and an index card. ‘Let’s get the particulars.’

  I described Nicholas Lynch of No. 6 Grenville Street, his age and occupation, his wife and children. I told how he and his wife would argue almost nightly, their spats ended by the sound of blows and broken crockery. I said Mrs Lynch showed bruises on her face and neck. I’d never seen any, but Helen assured me they were there, artfully concealed.

  Farrell finished taking down the details. There were spaces on the printed form to note the date and time and my initials. I asked if Lynch would be arrested.

  He had set the sheet aside in order to fill in an index card.

  ‘That’s not quite how it works,’ he said. The police couldn’t follow up every tip-off. However, there was now a file on Nicholas Lynch in the Castle archive. If ever he came to the attention of the authorities again, say if he joined a criminal gang, or the radicals, the file could be retrieved, and the contents held against him.