The Convictions of John Delahunt

by Andrew Hughes

  Then the tone of the coverage shifted. Editorials began to criticize the authorities for their incompetence in finding the culprit. Sub-headlines would declare that the police were ‘Baffled’, ‘Stumped’ or ‘Confounded’. A cartoon appeared in one edition that showed a policeman wearing a blindfold and groping in a dark alley. A body was hunched over in the gutter behind him in a pool of blood. A figure in silhouette stood in the entrance of the lane. He wore a stovepipe hat cocked to one side. His cloak was drawn across his face and he gripped a blade in the same hand, pointing downwards. The caption beneath said, ‘Blind man’s buff’. I studied the figure for several seconds. It didn’t look anything like me.

  Printed bills began to appear on lamp-posts and street corners offering a reward of forty pounds for information that led to the capture of the killer of Domenico Garlibardo. It was the first time I saw his surname. Denizens of Grenville Street stopped and examined every particular of the notice. Word had spread that the boy was still in the pub at closing time on the night he was killed. People began to wonder who else had been present. Kavanagh knew, of course, but like all good barmen he remained silent. What use was forty pounds to him, the takings of a month or two, if he lost the trust of his customers?

  All the while, I dithered about coming forward. My illness was an excuse to remain in bed for the first week. Part of me hoped that Cooney would be arrested anyway. I was even willing to miss out on the reward money, if the incident could just be forgotten. But as soon as I thought such things I berated myself. Why else had I done it except for the money?

  No, I’d have to make a report eventually. I could keep it vague, just that I saw the boy being followed by Cooney after they left the pub, and let the authorities figure it out from there. But still I was cautious. To march into the Castle and report a crime I had committed myself: that could surely have unintended and unfortunate consequences.

  Ten days after the killing, I felt well enough to venture outside, and began to go on errands for Helen. Life in our part of the city had returned to normal. Perhaps I only imagined the lingering glances that passers-by seemed to throw in my direction. The grubby flag in Angelo’s window had disappeared.

  One afternoon, someone left a sealed note for me beneath the door. My initials were printed on the front, and by the stationery I knew it came from the Castle. Sibthorpe wrote that the Department was coming under pressure because of the Italian’s murder. It had happened in my area so I should listen out for any rumours, and report anything I heard. I balled up the letter and threw it on the fire.

  Helen looked up from her desk. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Nothing. Just Sibthorpe asking me to keep an ear out.’

  I sat by the window and observed the garret across the street. The landlord had rented it out to new tenants, a middle-aged couple, who moved about, arranging their belongings. Below, a man with a bag slung over his shoulder approached a lamppost and pasted on a notice, covering an old bill with one freshly printed.

  I donned my coat and went down to have a look. The new poster declared that the reward for information regarding the murder of the Italian Boy – even the official notice began to use the name – had been increased from forty to sixty pounds. I studied each word. My fingers worried the corner of the still wet poster until it came away, and I peeled the entire sheet from the street lamp. I waved it in the air for a moment, to allow the excess paste to dry, then folded it once, placed it in my coat pocket, and set off towards Fownes Street.

  Farrell’s office was lit by an oil-lamp which sat upon a filing cabinet; his desk its usual clutter of folders and loose sheets. I had to wait while the archivist was busy in the stacks. He soon entered, with his shirtsleeves rolled up despite the cold weather, and his glasses perched on his head.

  He said, ‘Delahunt,’ in greeting as he walked towards his chair. Once seated he regarded me. ‘You look terrible. What have you got for us?’

  I reached into my pocket and withdrew the poster. Its folded sides had stuck together, but the notice was still clear. I laid it on Farrell’s desk.

  He only had to glance at it. ‘You’ve heard something?’

  I had seen something. On the night of the murder itself.

  Farrell frowned. ‘You mean you’re a witness?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Why the hell haven’t you come forward?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for the reward money to increase.’ I smiled at him as if to say I knew he’d understand.

  He wasn’t amused. ‘Delahunt, the Department has been frantic about this one. The press has been awful. I’ll have to tell Sibthorpe straight away.’ He picked up a pen. ‘Just tell me what you saw.’

  I narrated the statement I’d practised in my head on the way over. Farrell quickly took down the details. He placed the document into a folder, then said, ‘Come with me.’

  On the ground floor, the sentry lifted his head at the sound of our footsteps. Farrell told him that I was to remain in the building until word came from the Castle. The guard nodded and pointed to a chair beneath the stairs, while Farrell left by the front door.

  The statement had caused more of a stir than I’d expected. I sat in the chair and looked at the sentry. He read from a newspaper laid flat on the desktop, and I wondered what he would do if I attempted to make off. Surely he was forbidden to abandon the premises and leave the archive unguarded? The desk was about twenty feet away; the front door another fifteen feet beyond that. I counted how many strides it would require. But there was no way I could get past the desk before he’d have time to react. And even if I did get away, what then? The Castle knew where I lived.

  As the time dragged, my uneasiness turned into irritation. Once again, I was waiting on another’s pleasure, sitting beneath the steps like a scolded child. I began to tap my heel against the wooden floor; the guard glanced up at the noise. I remember Helen once asked me to fetch a fresh nib from a shop while she worked at her desk. When I returned, shaking snow from my coat, she smiled at me and said I was very biddable, then bent her head again to her work. She meant it kindly, but I was stung.

  After half an hour the door opened and the head of a boy poked through. He wore a plaid coat and a red flat cap. He looked down the hall and said, ‘Delahunt is to come with me.’

  The guard must have known the lad, for he gestured for me to go without glancing from his newspaper. The boy led me into Dame Street and towards the Castle, but instead of turning left into the grounds we continued on. I followed him into a narrow alley called Crane Lane, where litter was scattered about on the cobbles. The boy had a key, which he used to unlock a side door. We climbed an unlit staircase which emerged on to a small landing with a single door. He knocked on it, and a voice inside called out to enter. The boy turned without a word and disappeared back down the stairs.

  I pushed the door open to reveal a small office. A fire burned in a hearth on the left. The wood-panelled walls had no decoration except for a small crucifix. The desk stood between two tall sash windows which looked out over Dame Street, and more particularly across at the grubby façade of City Hall with its green copper dome. A ladder went over the curved roof in short, segmented pieces, and a worker perched on one of the rungs. He was scouring a section of the corroded metal surface with a yard-brush.

  Sibthorpe was alone in the room, sitting at his desk and reading the statement that I had just furnished to Farrell. He pointed to a seat.

  I shifted in the chair until I was comfortable. I had become weary of people regarding me sternly during pregnant pauses. While Sibthorpe did so, I looked over his shoulder and out of the window.

  ‘It’s not up to agents to decide how much a piece of information is worth.’

  The fire had made the small room disagreeably warm. I unbuttoned my coat and looked at the cross affixed to the wall above his head. Perhaps Sibthorpe was Catholic.

  He didn’t seem bothered that my eye wandered. ‘When you know something that might be of use to the Departm
ent you report it straight away.’

  His chair didn’t sit directly beneath the cross. From my point of view he was half a foot to the right of centre. I looked up at it, and then down at him again. His disregard for the alignment made him seem less daunting.

  I said the last time I did just that, and lost out.

  ‘The situation with Craddock was different.’ He set aside my statement. ‘For the most part, we don’t stint or quibble. You should know, Delahunt, that we look after our agents well.’

  I said I didn’t know that.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I don’t know that. The only other agents I’ve met were Holt and Devereaux.’

  He held up a hand. Did I mean the ones who carted a dead body from my house?

  I ignored him. ‘One of whom is missing; and the other, I’m quite sure, is dead.’ I met his eye directly. ‘I didn’t report that murder either.’

  Across the street, the worker on the roof finished his task. He held out the brush by its handle and let it drop. It skittered down the face of the dome and landed in a rain-gutter. Sibthorpe had taken up a pen and began writing a note at the end of my statement.

  ‘Have it your own way, Delahunt.’ He said because of my actions, my anonymity could not be protected in this case. I would have to accompany the police and identify Cooney myself. If the tinker lived beyond the city limits, as I claimed, then the Irish Constabulary force would make the arrest. He glanced at me. ‘And they don’t suffer fools gladly.’ When it went to trial, I would be confined in the Castle for the duration of the proceedings as the Crown’s chief witness. I would testify and be cross-examined. He finished writing and fixed the lid on his fountain pen. It was going to lessen my effectiveness as an agent. ‘Newspapers will give your name and address and describe your appearance.’

  I nearly said that it was about time I received some recognition, but stopped myself.

  He said the constabulary would be in touch. With that he rose from his seat, walked to the door and held it open. ‘You may go.’

  His eyes fixed on me as I passed him by.

  The head constable stood in the centre of the itinerants’ clearing and waved for me to approach.

  He shouldn’t have called out my name.

  I stood beside the sergeant near the encampment gate and said to him, ‘I could just identify Cooney from here.’

  He put his hand on my elbow and led me forward. I walked towards the tinkers, who stood in a line, except for the beaten man who sat in the middle. Cooney, second from last, was the only one not to eye my approach. I walked beyond the cordon of policemen and their circle of torches to stand beside the head constable.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Which one is it?’

  I hesitated. Cooney stood with his head bowed and his hands in his pockets. What if I pointed him out and he wasn’t convicted?

  My gaze swept over the others. As it passed over each man they looked away, and I realized they were more afraid of me than I was of them. I went to the first man and stopped within arm’s length. There was no peril. It was like stepping to a point just beyond the reach of a tethered dog. I then walked along the line and studied each man in turn. The first two had pinched faces and days-old growth of beards. They wore long underclothes and looked at me with bloodshot eyes. I stared at them both for several seconds, and was gratified to see anxiety creep into their faces.

  None of these men was honest. They were each guilty of something, and they had no idea which one of them was to be picked out, or for what reason. The third man was the one who’d been beaten. He sat on the cold ground with his head slumped forward. He didn’t even resemble Cooney in stature. Still, I told the head constable I needed to see his features. One of the policemen stepped forward, grabbed the tinker by the hair and yanked his head back so his face was pointed at mine. The man’s eyes rolled backwards and his jaw hung slack. I looked at him for a moment, then shook my head. As the policeman released his grip he pushed his hand forward, causing the tinker’s chin to hit his own chest.

  I stepped in front of Cooney. He was half a head taller than me. His red sideburns had grown out and his nose bent to the left from an old injury. He knew why I was here; perhaps he recognized me from the pub. I made a motion as if I was going to continue on and look at the last man in line, but then I stopped. I lifted my hand, with index finger extended and thumb held up, like a child mimicking a duelling pistol, and pointed it into Cooney’s face.

  ‘That’s the man.’

  The head constable said, ‘Search his house,’ and three officers broke off to go towards Cooney’s hovel. The commander followed them, and motioned for me to come along.

  The shack was a simple lean-to. A tree trunk spanned two supports to form the apex of a roof. A wattle of timber and sheet metal was stacked against the frame to create a rough triangular structure, and the gaps were plugged by muddy thatch. A door that had come from some other building was pushed open and the policemen entered.

  The interior was dark, smoky and smelled like an animal pen. Two of the policemen had torches, which provided ample light. Fern fronds and hay covered the ground, kicked aside in places to reveal the dark earth below. Flimsy pieces of furniture were dotted about. Cooney’s wife stood at the far end of the enclosure, now with an infant in her arms. She was expecting another. A filthy mattress on the floor lay beneath a tangle of blankets. The child’s cot sat next to their bedding, an elegant piece of furniture made of delicately turned wood. Each of the white spindles had moulded features of tiny seahorses painted in gold.

  The police began their search. They pulled open drawers and turned over chairs. Pieces of crockery lined a shelf on one of the walls. A policeman picked up each cup to peer within. Once he saw a cup was empty he simply let it drop from his hand, and several broke on the ground. In one of the drawers there were old pieces of cutlery. All the knives were examined against the light of a torch. A knife handle with a concealed blade was discovered and set aside to be taken as evidence. They also found his work-apron among a bundle of clothes. Dark stains were visible on its surface so they kept that as well.

  Cooney’s wife watched without apparent emotion as their meagre possessions were ransacked. The blankets on the bed were pulled up and shaken out. The mattress was turned over and the ground beneath examined. I pointed out that no one had yet searched inside the cot. I looked at the woman’s face to see if my observation would elicit a reaction, but she remained impassive.

  The head constable went to the baby’s crib and took out the covers. He let each one unfurl, then folded them neatly on the side-rail. A cushion was wedged between the bars at the bottom. He lifted that up and felt underneath.

  ‘Bring the torch closer.’

  He took the cushion out and set it aside. A leather pouch was sitting in the cradle. I could already see it was not the one worn by Domenico, but the policemen could not know that. The head constable lifted it, hefted it for a moment, then called for a man to cup his hands.

  He loosened the string at the top of the pouch and carefully tipped out the contents. The torch was lowered. The commander sifted through the coins with a long index finger. They were mostly coppers, a few shillings and one guinea. I had hoped that some of the documents that Domenico said he’d kept in his purse would appear. But why would Cooney keep hold of such items in the midst of a murder hunt?

  The head constable said, ‘Wait.’ With his thumb and forefinger he rummaged in the loose change and extracted a small coin. He held it up to the light and we all gathered around to look. The unfamiliar images struck in the brown metal were not of this kingdom. In tiny letters around the edge it said, ‘1 soldo’. Cooney must not have noticed it, or else could not bring himself to throw money away, even if it was Italian.

  The head constable examined the coin close to one eye as if he was an avid collector. He then looked at me. ‘It seems, Mr Delahunt, that you were right after all.’

  I tried to look solemn. ‘I’m just glad the culpr
it has been caught.’

  Notice arrived for Cooney’s trial in late January. The crown prosecutor, Mr Monahan QC, sent me a summons in Grenville Street saying I would have to attend Dublin Castle the day before the trial commenced, and be confined there for the duration of the proceedings – the letter made clear that every comfort would be provided for. I looked upon it as a pleasant retreat from the tenements.

  Things had returned to normal in the weeks following Domenico’s death. Some diplomacy was required with Helen to atone for my dishonesty in the days following the murder. She asked why I didn’t trust her enough to tell her what I knew about Cooney. I said that sometimes it was best not to know things, especially when dealing with Sibthorpe’s department.

  As anticipated, she was mollified by the knowledge that sixty pounds would be earned if Cooney were prosecuted. We returned to our routine within the household, and otherwise it was an entirely uneventful start to the year – except that Helen gave up on her notion to become a writer.

  During Christmas week she began to hear back from publishing houses to which she’d sent samples of her work. Each response was negative. At first, Helen accepted the rejection letters philosophically. After all, she had sent away to more than a dozen publishers and periodicals, and these were just the first to respond. She carefully read the comments made by the editors for hints on how she might improve. For the most part the advice was generic: to keep trying, to concentrate on character, to use more concise language.

  During the first weeks of the year she began to feel more slighted by the rebuffs. She would agonize about opening letters, but would still refuse to allow me to do so. I would watch as she eventually plucked up the courage to break the seal and unfold the envelope. When there was no reaction after she read the first few lines, I knew the news was bad once again. One time she tossed a letter aside. ‘They didn’t even read it.’

  She spent less time at her writing desk, rose later in the day and invariably opened a bottle of wine before the sun went down. Money became scarce again, and I began to take more care with how much fuel I put on the fire. If Cooney escaped conviction, we would have a problem.