I recall one of the rejection letters was particularly unforgiving. Helen opened it on a cold morning in mid-January while she sat at her desk. I busied myself setting the fire. She spent longer poring over the contents than usual. When the fire finally took, I looked back to see her head bowed. I went to stand beside her and put my hand on her shoulder, which felt gaunt beneath the woollen shawl. She didn’t move. I picked up the missive from where it lay beside her elbow.
In quite kindly terms the publisher methodically set out why Helen’s writing was not close to the required standard: muddled verb tenses, unclear pronoun references, mixed metaphors and clichés, sweeping generalizations, banal characters, wooden dialogue. He completely dissected her entire writing style. It took me a few minutes to read through the whole thing. It was a particularly well-written critique.
As I read the rejection letter, Helen rummaged beneath the desk. When I finished, I looked up to see her kneeling beside the fire. She held all the pages of the manuscript that she’d been writing for more than six months, a great wad of ruffled yellow pages with spidery lettering, inkblots and strikethroughs. Without ceremony, she dumped the entire sheaf on to the flames, which threatened to smother, rather than feed the fire. The sheets at the bottom caught light and the whole manuscript started to smoulder. Helen picked up a poker and began to stoke the pages as if she was about to prepare dinner.
‘What are you doing?’
I hurried to her side and pulled the poker from her hand. The sheaf had blackened at the edges but was mostly intact. I put my hand into the billowing grey smoke and dragged it out on to the hearthstone. About a dozen pages were already ablaze and I had to leave those on the coals. Some of the rescued pages continued to smoke and burn. I picked them up and blew at them. Their charred edges flared briefly in the gust, but soon extinguished. Dark fragments detached from the sheaf in flurries.
Helen stared at me. She seemed so small, kneeling and hunched over with her hands held in her lap. She had seen her husband refuse to allow her dream to go up in smoke, and a hint of a smile appeared on her face.
I just didn’t want her to burn it all at once. There was enough tinder in the pages to last until spring. But I noted her reaction. ‘You’ve worked too hard at this.’
She took the sheaf from my hands, her fingers caressing mine, and straightened the pages against the floor. She brought them back to the desk and placed them in the bottom drawer. Then she swept the charred scraps of paper from the fireplace. Finally, she knelt back down at my side and kissed me.
Throughout Cooney’s trial I stayed in a room on the top floor of the Ship Street army barracks just inside the Castle grounds. It was slightly smaller than our room in Grenville Street but with a much higher ceiling. Whitewashed stone surrounded a large, ancient-looking fireplace that sat beneath an oak mantel. A four-poster bed without a canopy took up one corner. A table and chairs stood between two sash windows that looked out into a narrow courtyard. Directly opposite was a nondescript building, identified to me as the army ordnance office. Just visible beyond that and to the left was one side of the viceregal state apartments. I had ample time to consider the view during the four days in which I was confined.
Crown witnesses were detained by the authorities mostly for their own protection. Prosecutions were too often imperilled by threats made against the life of a vital witness, particularly in cases against members of radical societies. Even in murder cases, like this one, where there was no such danger, the Castle preferred to know exactly where their witnesses were at all times throughout the proceedings.
I found the system to be quite agreeable at first. On the morning I presented myself at the barracks, I was shown to the room by an amiable corporal from the country. He explained to me the times I would receive meals and when I would be allowed outside to take some air. Cooney’s trial began on a Friday morning, so he warned it was likely I would have to stay over the weekend. I looked at the cosy fire, the basket of fruit on the table and the clean soft linen on the bed, and welcomed the prospect. I asked if I could have a bottle of wine. It was an hour before midday and he looked at me sideways. He said I couldn’t in case I was called to testify early. But I could have a glass of claret with my evening meal. I said that was more than satisfactory. I dropped a bag containing my clothes and a number of books next to the bed.
It was disconcerting when he left and locked the metal-bound door after him. The sound of the key turning in the lock echoed in the empty room, and for a fleeting moment I thought this was what it was like to be a prisoner. But few prisoners had such comfort. I took to the bed immediately for a mid-morning nap, to be woken by the arrival of lunch. It was rather plain fare, but hot and wholesome. I spent the afternoon in an armchair at the window, dividing my time between reading and gazing out at the rain-swept courtyards.
Late in the afternoon, as the day grew dark, I watched from above as clerks left their office jobs. They held newspapers over their heads as they scurried through the puddles. The corporal re-entered the room in order to light some lanterns, and told me that I had some visitors. Without enquiring who they were, I asked him to send them in. Any kind of diversion would be welcome.
It was Sibthorpe and Lyster. They poked their heads around the door as if they were calling on a relative in a nursing home. Sibthorpe said they knew I had been confined for Cooney’s trial, so they’d come to help pass the time. Lyster walked straight to the table, took an apple from the fruit bowl and crunched into it as if he was breaking his fast.
I became strangely house-proud, and began to clear my dinner plates; then I invited them to sit. Sibthorpe made himself comfortable, but Lyster remained standing as the corporal brought us in mugs of tea. I enquired about the trial and Sibthorpe said it was proceeding as expected.
He asked had I ever taken the stand before and I told him that I had, during the case of James O’Neill.
‘That’s right.’ He leaned his elbows on the table. ‘Remember not to come across as too confident. Juries don’t like it. They’ll think your testimony is made up, or too rehearsed.’
Lyster threw his apple core across the room into the fire, where it sizzled and spat. He reached into the bowl for another.
Sibthorpe continued, ‘Just keep your answers short, don’t embellish what you said in your statement.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘It should be fine. The case is pretty solid. Everyone in the Department thinks Cooney will be convicted.’
Lyster rotated the fruit in his hand until he twisted the stalk away. He said, ‘Even though we all know he didn’t do it.’
He dropped the stalk, which glanced off the edge of the table and fell twirling on to the floor.
Sibthorpe kept his eyes on me as he nodded thoughtfully. ‘Absolutely. Nothing could be clearer.’
I said I didn’t understand. They had just admitted the case against Cooney was a strong one.
Lyster frowned at a bruise on the underside of the apple. ‘You can make a strong case for anything. I asked Cooney myself and he said he didn’t do it.’ He put the damaged fruit down and picked out another. ‘He says he robbed the boy all right, but he didn’t cut his throat.’
That was preposterous. How could they possibly believe him?
‘Because I didn’t ask him nicely.’
Sibthorpe folded his arms and stretched his legs out in front of the chair, crossed above the ankle. ‘There’s more than that. Cooney had a pocket-knife that he used for the robbery, but supposedly used a broken bottle to slice the neck.’ He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘That’s difficult to believe.’
Maybe he dropped the knife and couldn’t find it.
Lyster grimaced. ‘The boy’s hand was cut with the knife. No, someone else came across him and finished the job. Someone else who was walking the streets at the same time.’ Apple juice ran down his chin.
I reached across to the table for my mug of tea. I blew at the steam, then took a sip.
Sibthorpe said, ‘Then there�
��s that mysterious chap seen by Lady Findlater’s coachman.’
Lyster chuckled. ‘Oh yes. Him.’
‘The concerned citizen who promised to fetch the police and was never heard of again. Do you know what the coachman said his name was?’
Lyster said, ‘What?’ He threw another core towards the fire, but it bounced off the fireplace on to the wooden floor.
‘Devereaux.’ Sibthorpe looked at me. ‘That’s a bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’
Lyster pulled out a chair. ‘The dead arose and appeared to Lady Findlater.’
They were now both sitting across the table looking at me. The heat from the mug had begun to sting my fingers. A crooked smile crept on to Sibthorpe’s face.
‘For God’s sake, Delahunt. When you’re asked to give your name in a tight spot just say Smith.’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘Of course.’ He began to twist a wedding band on his finger, which I hadn’t noticed before. ‘How will your young wife be coping in your absence? You know she’s allowed to visit you here.’
I said I knew. She might come on Monday.
He nodded. ‘It’s nice to have a break now and then. And writers, I’m told, like the peace and quiet.’
Lyster had begun to use my fork to clean the grime from beneath his fingernails.
I stood up and went over to the hearth. One side of the apple core had become warm where it faced the grate. Lyster’s bites had gone right to the centre, and pips were visible through small dark holes. I picked it up and tossed it in the flames. ‘Thank you both for coming to see me. But now I’m rather tired.’
Sibthorpe touched Lyster’s arm and motioned with his head towards the door. As they filed past he stopped and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Best of luck on the stand, Delahunt.’
The corporal was waiting with the key. Without asking if I wanted anything else, he closed the door and turned the lock. From inside the room I could hear his key-chain rattle.
Not long after that I went to bed. I lay awake, listening to the ticking of the clock and watching the embers in the fireplace dwindle and die. I decided the two of them were just trying to catch me out. They might have been suspicious but they couldn’t know anything for certain. Devereaux wasn’t all that unusual a name. The more I considered it, the more I thought I’d handled the situation rather well.
When I woke the next morning it was close to nine o’clock. The corporal had said I would get breakfast at eight. Maybe he had been and gone. I lifted my head and looked across at the table. The empty dinner plate and stained, half-filled mugs remained from the previous night. The hearth was full of cold cinders.
When there was no sign of anyone by eleven o’clock, I got up and went towards the door. I tried the handle, knowing full well it wouldn’t budge. I rapped on the door and called out. There was no answer. I knocked a few more times and then gave up. The cold floorboards were making me shiver so I went to get dressed.
I was going to clear out the hearth and start a fire, but realized there was nothing to light it with. I sat in the armchair with a blanket pulled from the bed wrapped around my shoulders. Perhaps they operated to a different schedule on Saturdays.
Lunchtime came and went and still no sign of life. I shuffled towards the door with the blanket held around me and thumped on the thick oak slats. I called out, ‘Hello,’ put my ear against the door and listened without breathing. There was silence, but then I thought there were footsteps just at the edge of hearing. I banged on the door and shouted again. The noise had gone.
They could hardly have forgotten about me. I went to the window and looked down on the grey, empty courtyard. Some lights flickered in the windows of the building opposite. A young man with a black winter coat pulled beneath his chin dashed across the wet cobbles. I was five or six storeys up, but still knocked on the latticed glass with my knuckles. Even if I’d been on the ground floor, I doubt he would have heard.
I turned to survey the room. The only food was a pair of apples still in the fruit bowl. Plenty of fuel was stacked by the fireplace, but I had no matches. The chamber pot was already half-full. The clock showed it was three in the afternoon.
Outside, the clouds cleared as dusk fell and the temperature dropped. The lanterns and candles remained unlit. I stood with my head pressed against the window as the darkness gathered, and watched the lights in the building across the courtyard go out one by one. A few more people traversed the yard beneath me. One of them heard my frantic tapping. He stopped and looked up; his eyes swept the front of the building. I waved my arms but by then it was almost completely dark. I yelled out and hit the window again. Whatever he heard, the poor man must have been quite unnerved. After a moment he turned and continued on his way, his step slightly quicker.
I felt for an apple and took a bite, more to quench my thirst. It was the one with the bruise that Lyster had disdained to eat. I sucked the juice from the core. By six o’clock it was completely dark and bitterly cold. I went to the door once more and made a racket but I knew there was nobody there to hear. There was nothing else for it but to climb back into the bed, try to stay warm and wait for dawn to break.
This was Sibthorpe’s work. I shivered and pulled the blankets tighter. What if they just left me here to die of thirst? The summons from Monahan could have been a ruse. Maybe they had no intention of using my testimony, and I had willingly packed a suitcase and presented myself for my own execution.
The clock ticked out its incessant rhythm.
If they wanted me dead then there were easier ways than this. Cooney’s trial was real – I had seen the notices in the paper. They were willing to let the tinker take the blame to assuage public opinion, and if they wanted a conviction, they would need the testimony of their chief witness. This was all just to scare me, let me know that I might be able to get away with murder, but I couldn’t lie to the Department. The corporal would bustle in come the morning, or perhaps on Monday, and apologize profusely for the terrible mix-up. With that thought in mind I finally managed to fall asleep.
I remained locked up and undisturbed on Sunday, but by then it came as no surprise. I stayed in the bed as much as possible, just rising to relieve myself in the hearth and listen at the door. There was no point in knocking again. I ate the last apple and gazed out of the window for a time.
Throughout that day I didn’t see another soul. I was very thirsty. The half-drunk tea in the mugs remained on the table from Friday evening. I took a spoon and skimmed the thin layer of scum that had collected on the surface in each cup. Then I poured all the dregs into the mug I had used. I sniffed at the beverage. The milk in it had started to turn, though the room had been cold enough so it wasn’t completely sour. I held my breath and downed the brown liquid in a few gulps. The pleasure of the slaking was enough for me to ignore the taste. I would have happily drunk another.
Since I stayed mostly in bed, I dozed fitfully throughout the second night. In the dawn light I watched the small hand of the clock creep past seven. A few minutes before eight I heard footsteps and muffled voices in the hallway outside. I didn’t stir. Maybe they expected me to hammer on the door in distress. I watched the minute hand creep towards the hour. When it finally clicked vertical there came a scraping in the keyhole. The door pushed open and a moment later the corporal walked in bearing a tray, which held a porcelain basin, a bowl of porridge and a glass of water. He placed the items on the table, then cleared the soiled dishes on to the tray. I watched him from my pillow. He turned towards me. ‘You’ll be called to the courthouse some time before midday. Make yourself presentable.’
I sat up. ‘I want to see Sibthorpe.’
He said he didn’t know any Sibthorpe.
‘He was here two days ago. Thomas Sibthorpe, the head of the Department.’
‘What department?’ Before I could speak again he said, ‘Just be ready when I come to fetch you.’
With that he walked out and locked the door again.
; 8
That room in the Ship Street barracks was in effect my first cell, even though it was spacious and fairly comfortable. My final abode in Kilmainham, by comparison, is dingy, damp and narrow. I’m not sure the bunk would fit if I dragged it sideways. But I’ve grown fond of it. For the most part, I’m left alone and feel oddly secure. No one can get at me here. There’s a comfort in the routine that the officers stick to. And the room itself has a symmetry, in that the barred arched window aligns with the stone barrel ceiling and curve of the doorframe.
My warder, turnkey Turner, appeared late in the afternoon and said, ‘Come along, John. We have to make you presentable for the big day.’ He led me to a cell outside of which three other inmates were waiting. One by one we were called within, and judging by those ahead of me, who emerged clipped and shaven, this was the prison barber. I was surprised when I entered to find that the barber was himself a convict. His cell was just like mine, except a chair had been placed in the centre beside a small table and a basin that brimmed with murky water. The light from his window separated on its oily surface. The floor was covered with assorted hair, as if some mottled beast had crawled into its den to moult.
When I sat down, the barber spoke to me with the affected cheeriness common to his profession. ‘So,’ he said, ‘are you in here long?’
‘Less than a month.’
He took some hand-held clippers I’d have thought more suited for livestock, and began to roughly bare my head. ‘That’s no time at all.’ Tufts of dark hair tumbled over my shoulders and into my lap.
Then he dipped a shaving brush in the basin, swept it twice over a yellow soap and dabbed at my face.
‘What did you do for work on the outside?’
‘I was a student.’
The razor he used was dull and abrasive. Its wooden haft was worn smooth so the handle had more gleam than the blade. He pulled the skin taut over my jaw, and scraped the edge along the underside of my chin.
The Convictions of John Delahunt Page 18
