The Convictions of John Delahunt

by Andrew Hughes

  Sibthorpe agreed. ‘It’s undoubtedly the same hand.’

  ‘Very effeminate.’

  Sibthorpe sat back in his chair. He regarded the young barrister. ‘I hope you didn’t wait too long in the hotel.’

  I was impressed by Gibson’s poise. He didn’t seem humiliated, or angry at the intrusion. Perhaps he took solace in the knowledge that his friend had not rebuffed him as he must have believed. The letters had been intercepted, not ignored. I pictured Gibson at his table in the Hibernian, nursing a single drink, looking up expectantly whenever the door opened, his heart breaking a little each time.

  Sibthorpe began to tidy the papers on his desk. ‘I think you’ll agree our original proposal was quite fair.’ Gibson continued to look away, but he nodded once. It was unclear what Sibthorpe thought of the young man’s vice. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘You’ll find plenty of work to match your talent in Common Pleas, and Exchequer. Just stay clear of Queen’s Bench.’ He made a note on a sheet of paper, as if recording the minutes of a meeting. Then he said, ‘You can go.’

  When Gibson was halfway to the door, Sibthorpe hesitated, picked an envelope from the file and called the lawyer back. ‘I’m afraid we also had to stop this letter from Simon addressed to you.’ He motioned for him to take it. ‘It’s unopened.’

  Gibson took the missive. His eyes lingered on the familiar handwriting, and the date of the postmark stamped in the top right corner. He turned the envelope over, gently brushing a gloved finger along the seal. Then he placed it in an inside pocket and left the room.

  Lyster leaned back until the legs of his chair tilted, and said, ‘That went well.’ Then he turned in my direction and regarded me for some time, as if committing my features to memory. ‘Who’s this?’

  Tom made the introduction. Since it was late in the afternoon, he suggested we go for a drink, but said, ‘First I just have to check a few things.’

  He led the way through a series of corridors, past the stairwell from which I’d entered, and into a large workroom. More than a dozen clerks were seated in two rows of desks with an aisle between them. A series of tall bay windows admitted wintry sunshine on the right, opposite a wall containing square filing cabinets and neat bookshelves. The desks were like those I remembered from my schooldays: sparse wooden seats attached to their tables by wrought-iron slats. The clerks bent over their work, and didn’t lift their heads as we passed. I noticed the more senior among them had seats close to the windows. The only noise was our shuffled footsteps, and the scratching of nibs over paper and parchment, lending the room the air of a scriptorium.

  I had assumed that Farrell’s archive was the extent of the Department’s administration. But of course it required more: an inner circle of civil servants managing correspondence, writing memoranda, receiving petitions, preparing accounts. I looked at them trace their words, and wondered if they made a distinction between a request for funds from the Chief Secretary’s office, or the warrant for someone’s arrest and interrogation.

  Sibthorpe’s desk stood apart, beneath a slope in the ceiling caused by an external staircase, which meant he had to duck his head as he sat down. Five opened folders were set out. Sibthorpe took up a pen and scanned through the topmost document in each. When finished, he would sign his name at the bottom and close the folder over. However, for the last one he perused the letter for longer, wrote out a note instead of his signature, and left the file open.

  An old clerk rose noiselessly, gathered the four closed files and placed them in a tray beside the cabinets. Then he picked up the opened one, glanced at its contents, and brought it to a worker in the far corner. The young man looked up anxiously, with eyebrows raised and lips parted. He appeared perplexed that his work had been found lacking, and made a show of reading Sibthorpe’s note before it had been fully set in front of him. The older clerk turned on his heel and went back to his desk without remark. Lyster caught my eye and winced at the young man’s discomfort.

  Sibthorpe was writing in a diary, and as I watched him he appeared every bit the conscientious head of a department. I tried to match this version with the man who coerced witness statements from students, or the one who had Devereaux so ruthlessly killed.

  Sibthorpe lifted his head to face me, as if he knew what I was thinking, but he was just glancing at a clock on the wall over my shoulder. He resumed writing.

  Perhaps he’d ended up here more by accident, assigned by some harried under-secretary, who was unaware of Tom’s peculiar aptitude. If he had been Head of Public Works, or Poor Relief, or Hospitals and Asylums, maybe he’d have shown the same zeal, the same single-mindedness.

  Sibthorpe finished his entry and locked the diary in a drawer. He said, ‘All right, gentlemen. Let’s go.’

  To leave the building, we had to descend a staircase and cut through the DMP station on the ground floor. Uniformed policemen walked through the corridors, or sat in offices or stood by counters. But none acknowledged our presence; none challenged or questioned our presence either. They lowered their eyes or stepped aside, and only a few returned a nod when Lyster greeted them by name. On the paths outside, I noticed a similar reaction. Court officials who walked together speaking loudly would become quiet as Sibthorpe neared, and then resume their conversation once we’d passed. A clerk carrying a large sheaf of documents stumbled over a step to the viceregal apartments, and his papers fell to the ground. Sibthorpe and Lyster bent down to help. The hassled worker continuously thanked them as he scrabbled about, but when he recognized the source of his aid, he became tight-lipped, and took the pages back with unseemly haste. He clamped them beneath his elbow and walked on.

  Lyster said, ‘There’s gratitude.’

  The three of us went to the upstairs lounge in the Black Bull on Ship Street – the room in which I’d met with Devereaux and Holt on the night we visited the dissectionists. Once seated, Sibthorpe told Lyster about the quality of information I was providing to the Department. Lyster listened with his head inclined, but he kept his eyes on me.

  I said, ‘Are you an agent yourself, Mr Lyster?’

  He considered for a moment. ‘I used to be.’

  Sibthorpe said, ‘Lyster’s now our chief interrogator.’

  Half an hour later we were joined by Farrell, who had come to retrieve Gibson’s file. The Department was well represented by those at the table: the informer, archive-keeper, interrogator and overseer. It was an effective system; one I had now seen work first-hand.

  As the afternoon wore on, Farrell began to speak privately with Sibthorpe, something about a shortage of space in Fownes Street. I had little option but to converse with Lyster. He drank from a glass of stout and tumbler of whiskey, taking sips from each in turn, judging the volume so both were finished at the same time. He told me the work I did was vital. It always made his job easier when Farrell had a file on a suspect he had to question. ‘Did you provide that information on Gibson?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I just … delivered the file.’

  ‘Well, even so, bill the Department for your time. Make sure that every piece of work you do or titbit you provide is paid for. I’m always suspicious when reports in a file have been given voluntarily. No man should ever provide information except for money.’

  I was more interested in what happened when there was no file.

  He shrugged. ‘Then we explore other options.’

  Presumably it required more finesse than a few hard clouts to the head.

  He regarded me for a moment, as if flattered by my curiosity. ‘Of course. They’re no good to you unconscious. Also, it’s not ideal to leave marks on the face, at least ones that can’t heal after a few days.’ He opened his hands before him. ‘I like to focus on fingers. Especially for men whose work requires dexterity.’ He brought both hands down on the table. ‘A musician will tell you anything if you show him a set of pliers.’

  Lyster caught the eye of a waiter and pointed to his empty glass, then leaned back towards me. �
�But then again, every interrogator has his own favourite part of the body.’

  He broke off to order another round for the table. He had noted the preferences as if for a style of literature. I remember Helen once asked me what was my favourite part of her body. She said, ‘And you can’t say my face.’ I’m not sure why she assumed that would be my answer.

  Lyster continued, ‘We haven’t had a good murderer in a while. They’re usually the ones where you can be creative. No one admits to a murder if they’re not guilty. When they finally crack you know you’ve done a good job.’ He half closed his eyes and nodded. ‘It’s nice to get a feeling of satisfaction from your work.’

  Farrell and Sibthorpe had finished their discussion, so talk at the table turned to more general matters. When Farrell said he had to go, I made my excuses and departed with him.

  As for Helen, it was her neck.

  Dublin went through a cold snap that December. Compact ice lay in the gaps between cobbles, local children ran around with rags tied about their feet, and wind whistled through the cracks of our north-facing windows.

  But it had been a lucrative November. We both agreed that our chief comfort should be warmth, so we never skimped on fuel. A stack of firewood, a small bag of coal and a box of lucifer matches made one corner of the room untidy. Nor did we allow ourselves to run short of wine, supplemented with the occasional bottle of whiskey – north of the river they could be bought quite cheaply.

  Helen would purchase provisions from the local markets; she said they always sold me produce on the brink of perishing. Since she had an uncanny ability to overcook meat, I assumed the cooking duties. For a student of the natural sciences, frying a chop was hardly a challenge. The warmth and smells seeped into the hallway, and the Lynch children would come up to play on our landing. Once in a while I liked to fling open the door and watch them scatter.

  We had no incentive to rise early, and would often stay in bed till noon. That was when the room was at its coldest. We’d hunker beneath the weight of blankets, as well as overcoats and dresses used for extra bedclothes. As we lay awake, Helen liked to make plans and discuss them. We decided I should continue to earn money through the Castle for the time being, enough to retake my final year in Trinity the following September, and attain my degree. Then I could look for a more respectable job. She would complete her novel and post extracts to literary periodicals and publishing houses here and in London. Within a year or two, she said, we could have enough money to keep a house and re-enter proper society.

  The cold weather meant there was much less activity on the streets. One morning, we heard a commotion coming from the corner of Mountjoy Square. A hansom cabbie had been killed when his horse skittered on the ice and he was thrown against the park railings. From our window we could just about see the edge of a crowd gather to watch the removal of the body. The horse stood to one side, its head bowed low.

  Helen couldn’t get used to the ice, and would cling to my hand whenever we ventured out. I kept telling her she had to lean forward while walking, but she didn’t trust herself. I’d often have to hold her up after a slip. On one occasion, when she almost dragged us both down, I said, ‘People will think you’ve been drinking.’

  ‘Let them.’

  The footpath opposite our window in Grenville Street dipped down at the entrance of a stable-lane. Children from the tenements would pour water on the small slope in the granite to create a hazard. Everyone on the street was aware of this and stepped over it. But strangers cutting through were often caught out.

  One afternoon, I was bringing a mug of tea to Helen when I looked out to see an old woman approach the icy patch. I paused at the window. The woman was hunched as she walked, swaddled in a bundle of black shawls and scarves. I noticed some children in an upper-storey window across the street had gathered, and were looking down at the woman in eager anticipation.

  The amusing thing was how she went down in stages. As her right foot began to slip, she planted her left foot to try and regain balance. For a fleeting moment it seemed she would remain upright, but then the left foot gave way completely, her legs kicked up, and she fell backwards with her arms outstretched. I looked up to see the children explode in silent mirth: heads were thrown back, hands clapped over eyes; a few disappeared beneath the sill as if their legs had failed them. It was quite infectious and I chuckled in response. Helen looked up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘An old woman fell on the ice.’

  She tutted and returned to her work.

  I put the mug on her desk and went back to the window. The woman had rolled on to her side in an attempt to sit up. A moment later, the front door of a house opened and two figures descended the steps. I had seen them once or twice before. They were Italian migrants, both in their late teens. The taller one had a scraggy beard; the other was clean-shaven with straight black hair swept over his ears. They hurried to the prostrate woman and helped her back to her feet. One of them took her elbow to offer some support, but she shook it off and continued on doggedly.

  The two boys watched after her for a moment. The shorter one began to feel the cold, for he pulled his coat tight and folded his hands beneath his arms. After another exchange they retreated back into the house. In the top-floor garret, a grubby flag of the Kingdom of Naples was displayed in the window. When I looked down again, the old woman had disappeared from view.

  Warm pubs were popular during the cold nights. The closest establishment was Kavanagh’s, which was just around the corner on Gardiner Street. It was relatively clean and well run, with a large hearth in the back wall. Three regulars always stood at the bar, though they never spoke to each other: a Catholic priest; a retired bookkeeper who was forever totting up rows of figures in the margins of his newspaper; and the tinker Cooney, who lived in an encampment beyond Dorset Street. He wore the same thing every night: a frayed tweed coat with the knot of a leather apron tied around his neck.

  One evening the bar was full, so Helen and I took our drinks and leaned against a narrow ledge that ran along the wall. The two Italian boys were sitting at a small table nearby that had some extra seats. The taller one reached over and tentatively touched my elbow. When I turned, he gestured to the chairs and invited us to sit.

  The table was cramped so we had to make conversation. The taller boy with the thin beard was named Angelo. His friend was Domenico. Both of them could speak English tolerably well. Though Domenico was mostly quiet, it seemed to me he had a better understanding of the language. Angelo told us they were old friends from the city of Bari. They had intended to travel to London, to try and make their fortunes, but they had only managed to find passage on a cargo ship to Dublin. They had been here for over a month, looking for work to pay for the remainder of their journey.

  He patted his friend’s shoulder. So far only Domenico had been able to make a few pennies, as an organ grinder on Carlisle Bridge. Helen smiled at the younger man and asked if he played any other instruments. He looked down shyly and shook his head. Angelo nudged his elbow and said something in Italian. He told Helen, ‘He plays guitar. But he had to sell his back in Bari.’

  Helen told them she had always dreamed of travelling the length of Italy as part of a grand tour. I glanced across; it was the first I’d heard of it. As she spoke of the cities she would visit and the sites she would see, the young men gazed at her. From their perspective she was a young, well-bred lady, bright and educated and only a few years their senior. She was relaxed and leaning forward, with ink-stained fingertips resting on her glass. The skin behind her collarbone dipped down into a shadowy hollow. She smelled of soap and unwashed clothes. They may even have found her dun hair and sea-green eyes exotic, lit from below by candlelight refracted through my glass of beer.

  Angelo could not stay quiet for long. ‘You’ – then he glanced at me – ‘both of you should avoid Florence and visit Bologna instead.’ But Helen said she wished to see the streets where Dante met Beatrice.

  Domenico asked he
r if she had read Dante.

  She said only an English translation. ‘If I ever get to Italy I will try to read it in the original.’

  Domenico smiled and said he understood. After all, he had read Shakespeare in Italian.

  Angelo couldn’t hold his drink, and he became louder as the evening progressed. His stories were rambling and tedious, and he paid no heed to the quiet pleas from his friend to remain silent. When another table became available in the corner, we took our leave. Helen smiled at Domenico and said they would speak again. He extended a hand towards her, but Helen had looked around to gather her shawl from the seat, so he withdrew it.

  Helen didn’t stay much longer. She said speaking with the two Italians had given her an idea for a character, which she wanted to sketch out at home. I looked at the clock behind the bar. ‘But it’s early yet.’

  She said I could stay for another if I wished. ‘I’ll be all right walking back on my own.’

  ‘I’d better accompany you.’

  ‘There’s no need.’ She smiled at me. ‘I know my way around by now.’

  ‘Have you got keys?’

  She patted her hip and nodded, then leaned over to kiss my cheek.

  After Helen left, I kept to myself. No more fuel was added to the fire and it dwindled to a red glow. The crowd began to disperse and, by midnight, fewer than a dozen patrons lingered in Kavanagh’s. Angelo and Domenico still sat at their table. Once or twice I looked over to see them talking with their heads close together. The level of conversation had dropped to a murmur, and I could hear Kavanagh exchange the odd word with Cooney at the bar.

  The Italian boys began to argue. Their discussion became louder and heads began to turn. Angelo, who was now very drunk, had half risen from his chair, and gestured towards his friend while he spoke in Italian. Domenico remained seated. His hand was on the table holding the bottom of his beer, and his head was bent forward. He only said one or two words in response to his friend’s tirade. Angelo turned and walked unsteadily to the door; he passed my table without seeming to notice me. A swirl of cold air entered as he stumbled on to the street.