The Convictions of John Delahunt

by Andrew Hughes

  Domenico’s head rested in a pool of blood, the nose bent and slightly submerged. His tongue extruded between parted lips into the blood puddle, as if he was about to lap. His arms extended out before him, the injured hand nearest the wall. I glanced at the soiled bandage.

  I brought my palm up to my mouth and shook my head. There was a faint metallic smell on my fingers. ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  The frail, wrinkled woman in the carriage wore a heavy lappet over her grey hair, and fox fur over her shoulders. She gave the impression of being slightly drunk. She said, ‘It’s just ghastly. Charles, I’m beginning to get cold.’

  It was easy to see why the reports subsequently referred to Domenico as the Italian boy. He was as tall as me, and only a few years my junior. But lying there, he seemed so slight.

  The coachman bent back up. ‘I’ll have to bring Lady Findlater home. I’ll wake the stable-boy and send him to Store Street.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ll go and fetch the police. Which house number are you?’

  He pointed out into the stable-lane and said number nine, the one with the red gate. He would come back out once the lady was safely inside.

  I nodded, and immediately set off on my supposed errand. The coachman climbed back into his seat, but then paused and called back to me. ‘What’s your name?’

  I said, ‘Devereaux,’ and continued on.

  He flicked the reins and they moved away with a rattle. When the carriage had gone about twenty yards, I doubled back, bent over Domenico and took hold of his cold hand. I pulled the tied handkerchief away like I was peeling off a glove. The blood and grime had frozen into the cloth and it was stiff, as if it had been over-starched. I stuffed it into my pocket. When I was back on the street, I considered tossing it into the gutter, or over the railing into Mountjoy Park. But having risked so much to retrieve it, I wanted to leave no trace.

  Once more I had to creep through my own chamber. The fire had ebbed further. Only a few red lines glowed through the dark ashes. I threw the cloth in and used a poker to stir the embers. It seemed as if it wasn’t going to take. I was about to fetch the matches, but then a bloody edge blackened and smoked. A small flame appeared in one corner, licked along a crease, and the fabric curled up as it was engulfed. I felt an odd sense of relief and held my hands against the brief flare.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I looked over my shoulder towards Helen. Her head was raised from the pillow and she squinted at me through sleepfilled eyes. The flame cast odd shadows into the room.

  ‘It’s just a used rag.’ I shifted over to block her view of the hearth. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  7

  The inside of the police carriage was cramped and poorly lit. A gaslight burned at the head of the cabin, casting a blue glow over the occupants, and the pre-dawn sky showed as dark violet against the barred windows. Iron bands girded the timber slats, with two metal benches attached on either side. Five of us sat in silence as we trundled through the early morning streets.

  An Irish Constabulary sergeant with streaks of grey in his tawny moustache sat on my right. Three of his colleagues faced us on the bench opposite. They were younger and clean-shaven and our shoulders moved in unison to the gentle rocking. There was hardly any space between our legs. At one point the carriage made a sharp turn left, and I slipped forward in my seat, causing my knee to brush against one of the constables. The young man instinctively pulled his leg away, as if the contact was unseemly.

  Like the others, he was dressed in a black uniform, his jacket closed over by a brown leather belt about the waist, and a row of shiny buttons, about the size of sovereigns, fastened up to and beneath his chin. His spiked helmet had a short peak over the brow. The constabulary insignia showed on the front: a harp on a red background beneath a crown.

  The policemen sat upright, with their fists resting on their knees and a truncheon held in one hand. None of them spoke. I had attempted a few pleasantries with the sergeant, but he only gave gruff, one-word answers. The man closest to the rear of the carriage faced forward like the others, but he would occasionally turn his head quickly to look at me, as if he thought I was whispering his name.

  It was cold again, and the chill made me fidget and squirm, continually gather my coat under my chin, or fold my hands beneath my arms. I was suffering a bout of flu, though Helen said it was just a cold. My raking coughs elicited disapproving looks from the others. The constable in the middle kept his face turned away from me, as if that could prevent contagion in the tight enclosure.

  I felt an unmistakable tickling build up behind my nose. ‘Could any of you gentlemen lend me—’

  My request was cut short by a series of sneezes, which I directed against the front wall of the carriage on my left. As soon as one finished I felt the approach of the next. Afterwards my nose and mouth were covered in mucus, which I did my best to snuffle and siphon away. I was loath to use the cuff of my coat, so I sat there making unpleasant snorts and throaty gurgles.

  The sergeant’s fist closed tight over his truncheon until his knuckles turned white. After another minute of my spluttering he reached into a side pocket.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to use my handkerchief.’

  I took the proffered cloth. ‘Thank you.’ I unfolded it. ‘I appear to have mislaid my own.’

  The handkerchief was quite clean, with the initials ‘F.X.’ embroidered in one corner.

  ‘What does the X stand for?’

  He remained silent.

  I draped it over my nose and blew, folded the cloth once and blew again. I dabbed at my nostrils, then handed it back to the sergeant.

  ‘Keep it.’

  Houses had become sparse, replaced by trees and tall hedgerows. After several minutes, the driver rapped on the roof of the carriage while we were still in motion.

  The sergeant straightened. ‘Right, lads. We’re close.’

  Subtle changes came over the faces of the three constables. Jawlines became more prominent; lips pursed; eyes focused. The man on the far side looked at me again.

  We came to a halt. Another knock on the roof and the sergeant removed the latch on the door in the rear of the car. He gave it a nudge and it swung outwards silently. The three constables rose from the bench, their heads bent beneath the carriage ceiling, and filed out of the back. He then turned to me. ‘Remain close and keep quiet.’

  I followed him out. In the gloaming, I could see the extent of the convoy. Three other police carriages had pulled up beside a ditch, and a dozen men had assembled on the road. Their commander, the head constable, had a full grey beard and a helmet with a flat top. He walked along the line, a lantern in one hand and a bundle of unlit torches in the crook of his elbow. Every second man took a torch. When he got to the end of the line he lit a firebrand, and a young constable rotated the head of his torch in the small flame until the pitch-soaked rag caught and blazed with a steady light. He held the flame out to the next man in line, and each torch was lit in a relay, until the company stood in brightness. A word from the head constable and they formed a column, two abreast. Those in front carried a thick iron battering ram. The sergeant that had accompanied me took me to stand at the rear.

  Hushed orders were spoken and the company set off at a fast march. They took care to tread softly, and their boots sounded a muffled rhythm on the uneven surface. We walked for a few hundred yards along the rural road, the fields on both sides bounded by ditches. After a bend we came to a gap in the hedgerow spanned by a crudely built gate about eight feet tall, made from an assortment of planks and beams constructed against poles wedged into the earth on either side. The makeshift barrier was rickety and leaned out over the road. A padlocked chain looped through the slats to hold it shut. Beyond that lay the tinkers’ camp.

  The head constable held up his hand and we stopped. He motioned to the men carrying the battering ram to come forward. When they reached the gate they paused and awaited his order. Their commander looked back ove
r the troop. He held his truncheon up and said, ‘Ready.’

  The constable just in front of me rotated his neck. The spike on his helmet described a circle.

  The commander nodded once and said, ‘Now.’

  The two men took the battering ram back and swung it forward, as though they were throwing a drunk on to the street. It connected with the padlock, and burst through with little resistance. The chain broke with a snap, and pieces of wood split and fell away. That was the signal for the men to rush ahead; the sides of the gates were trampled underfoot rather than thrust apart. One of the men roared an indistinct cry, and the others – as if waiting for his prompt – let forth bellows of their own.

  It struck me that it must take a certain confidence to be the first to let out such a bawl. I’d be reluctant to cry out first, lest I was the only one to do so. They continued their shouting as they swarmed into the clearing.

  The itinerants had set up camp in a field about a hundred yards wide. It was bounded by the roadside ditch, a smaller scrub-lined gully that ran along a stream and, at the far end, a brick wall. There were five dwellings in the camp. Two of them were unhitched gypsy wagons, with their distinctive vaulted roofs. The other three were tumbledown hovels constructed from loose timbers and thatch, arranged in a rough circle. The space in between was littered with debris, rusting pike heads and plough blades. Cold campfires were dotted about: some had raked ashes and half-burnt timber; others were just rings of stones around scorched patches of earth. Four lean horses, tethered at the rear of the site, shied at the noise and blazing torches of the raiders.

  Pairs of policemen split off and went towards each dwelling. I stayed back with the sergeant beside the demolished gate. The head constable stood alone in the clearing and surveyed the operation. By the time the first of the constabulary began to kick in doors, yells were coming from inside the houses.

  The back window of a wagon opened and a couple of children, only about eight or nine years of age, tumbled out. One of the constables kicked in the door at the front, and both he and his comrade pressed into the cabin with loud shouts. The light from their torch emerged from the opened window as a flicker of darting shadows. A woman’s scream was cut short. A man attempted to follow his children out of the window. He emerged up to his waist, before arms with black sleeves closed over his neck and shoulders and dragged him back in. His sons were looking up as he disappeared. The older one took his brother by the sleeve and they ran barefoot to the side of the camp, where they disappeared through a gap in the frost-covered hedge.

  The occupants in some of the other homes were more subdued. Two constables were already hauling a man from the door of one of the hovels. He stumbled as they pulled him along, and couldn’t regain his footing, so his knees dragged along the ground, ripping holes in his nightclothes. His wife stood in the doorway, holding a small child who buried its head in her neck. Another peeked out from behind her legs. She screeched at the policemen as they took her husband towards the centre of the clearing.

  Cooney emerged from the door of one of the other makeshift houses. He walked without a struggle between two constables, one of whom still held a blazing torch. Cooney either slept in his normal clothes or he had taken the time to don his coat and shoes. His wife also appeared in the door, but she wasn’t distraught to see him taken away.

  They brought him to stand in the centre of the clearing with the others: five grizzled men in various states of undress, corralled together with their heads bowed.

  Some of the policemen turned to force the wailing women and children back into their dwellings. The constables roared into their faces, using most foul language, with their truncheons raised. One of the women refused to move and a policeman shoved her so she fell backwards on to the dirt. Her husband moved from the clearing to go to her aid, but he was set upon by the constabulary. They dragged him aside and beat him with their sticks about the head and legs. After a few moments the head constable ordered them to stop, and the subdued man was brought back to the others. He could no longer stand, so he sat on the ground amidst his fellows. Cooney bent down to help him, but the commander barked at him to stay where he was.

  A quiet settled over the camp. The field was on high ground and faced east. In the distance, the sun crested the hill of Howth, and the first rays filtered through wispy clouds to show trees in silhouette on the horizon. Long shadows cast by undulating hills and crooked hedgerows stretched over the landscape. The hoar frost in the camp was shown as a dusty white, except for a multitude of dark spots and a criss-cross of tracks from footsteps and dragged bodies.

  The tinkers shivered in the middle, surrounded by the constabulary in their black uniforms standing in a broad circle. The head constable looked back at the sergeant who stood beside me by the gate. He swung his arm and called out, ‘Bring forward Delahunt.’

  Two weeks before the raid, on the morning following Domenico’s death, I had awoken in Grenville Street feeling ill. I raised my head to check the room. There was no sign of Helen. The clock on our mantel hadn’t worked for several weeks, but judging by the light streaming past the shutters, it was mid-morning. If she had gone to the markets, then she probably already knew the boy was dead. She hadn’t set the fire before leaving, but no trace of the handkerchief remained.

  My whole head felt congested. There was a burning in my throat and I shivered despite the weight of the covers. I was still in my clothes, and lifted my arms to check if there were stains on my cuffs. My shoes lay some distance apart at the side of the bed. I couldn’t help the situation by getting up, so I remained covered up and tried to stay warm.

  My heart quickened when I heard Helen’s key scrape in the door. I turned away, dug my head into the pillows and pulled the blankets higher. She bustled inside and placed a basket on the table. Then she called out, ‘John.’

  She knew.

  I heard the soft sounds of her hat and scarf being hung on the hook. She called my name again.

  Rather than pretend to be asleep, I spoke into the pillow. ‘What is it?’

  Her knee came on to my side of the bed and she pulled at my shoulder with both hands.

  I squinted my eyes as if caught in a glare, then turned over to face her. ‘What?’ I lifted my head from the pillow. ‘Have you heard back from a publisher?’

  She shook her head, and blurted out that one of the Italian boys had been murdered in a laneway.

  I frowned and looked towards the window for a few seconds. ‘One of the lads across the street?’

  She nodded. Everyone in the area was speaking of it. They found him in a stable-lane early that morning. Her eyes had widened and her breathing became shallow. ‘Someone cut his throat with a razor blade.’

  I couldn’t help but glance at her. Then I shook my head and raised myself on to my elbows. ‘I can’t believe it.’ Platitudes can be useful in moments of drama. ‘Which one was it? Angelo?’

  She shook her head. It was the smaller one. ‘Angelo has been arrested.’

  I tried to keep my head still as I digested this news. Helen continued, ‘John, we were speaking to them both just last night.’

  I pulled back the covers, pushed past Helen to go and stand by the window, and looked across to the Italians’ garret. I’m not sure what I expected to see. It looked no different.

  Helen said, ‘There’s a rumour that they were arguing in the pub not long before it closed.’

  This wasn’t part of the plan. ‘I was still there when they were quarrelling.’ I was silent for a moment as if trying to recall. ‘But it didn’t seem to be about anything serious. Angelo left early and Domenico stayed in the pub on his own.’

  Helen asked what were they arguing about and I said it was all in Italian. She said, ‘Maybe Angelo waited for him to come out.’

  I couldn’t let Angelo take the blame. Cooney was the one who attacked the boy and left him for dead.

  Helen asked what time did I leave Kavanagh’s? I wanted to check her face to see if there
was a hint of suspicion, but I kept looking out of the window.

  ‘A while before closing time. Domenico was still there.’ I snuffled for effect. ‘I could feel myself getting a chill so came home.’ I turned towards her. ‘I woke you when I threw my handkerchief in the fire.’

  She nodded, her eyes focused in the middle distance. ‘Yes, I remember.’

  We stayed in the room and discussed our interaction with the two boys from the previous night. We agreed Domenico was a charming character and it was a great shame. We also agreed that we weren’t so impressed by Angelo, but he gave no hint that he could be a killer. I said perhaps if we had stayed talking to them for longer the whole thing might have been avoided.

  As it happened, the police released Angelo from custody the same day. His landlady provided him with an alibi. Soon enough he was seen walking again in Grenville Street, with shoulders hunched and his thin beard unkempt. His neighbours stopped and looked at him as he passed. Old women pointed. Children taunted him; in sing-song rhymes they told him his friend was dead.

  Reports in the newspapers began to appear. The Freeman’s Journal had only a paragraph in the middle pages, but the Evening Post splashed the word ‘Murder’ on its front page. We bought all the editions over the coming week. The journalists made Domenico out to be some kind of stray orphan, an Italian waif who wandered the streets of Dublin. The descriptions of his injuries at the inquest were recounted word for word, and the papers revelled in their gory, clinical detail. Helen read them out to me one morning over breakfast.

  They speculated about the boy’s origins and the whereabouts of the killer. Most reports mentioned that Domenico’s wallet had been stolen – I assumed Angelo had reported that fact to the police – but they indulged in more fanciful conjecture as to the real motive for the attack. One paper bragged of a covert ‘source’ who recounted a fantastic tale of a hired killer, sent from Italy to hunt down the young man because of an illicit love affair in his native Sicily.