The City of Shadows

by Michael Russell

  ‘Did his students ever come here, Monsignor?’

  ‘A lot of people come here. You’ve seen that yourself.’

  ‘I suppose I mean friends, rather than just students.’ He was treading on dangerous ground, but the resentment Fitzpatrick clearly felt towards Francis Byrne made it worth pushing. The monsignor had a high opinion of himself and his importance; it was something else Stefan could use.

  ‘I find myself in a very difficult position, Monsignor Fitzpatrick. I have an investigation to pursue, a very serious one, and a very sensitive one. A woman is missing. She was a student at UCD and Father Byrne was one of her lecturers. He had a friendship with this woman, a close friendship. I have good reason to believe he was one of the last people to see her before she disappeared. I’m sure you would want him to help us if he could.’

  ‘I don’t like the words close friendship in this context, Sergeant.’

  ‘They’re words that need go no further, Monsignor.’ Stefan left the sentence hanging in the air. He didn’t need to say anything about the possibility of scandal for Fitzpatrick to see that he had to give something.

  ‘Father Byrne was sometimes less careful in his relationships than he should have been.’ The priest spoke slowly and carefully. ‘I don’t suggest that there was ever anything unpriestly about his behaviour, but he did perhaps regard himself too much as part of the university rather than as a man apart, which is the path of the priest. There were things Francis and I shared that we share no longer. I understand your problem, Sergeant Gillespie, but it has nothing to do with me. I’m sure if there is anything Father Byrne can do to assist you in your search for this woman he will. If you write to him, he will, of course, reply. My sister will have his address.’

  He picked up his briefcase. It was clear he would say no more. He stood for a moment by the table, suddenly looking slightly lost. Then he turned and walked out without another word. Stefan thought that behind the irritation and indignation tears were beginning to well in the priest’s eyes.

  As Stefan came out of the meeting room, the woman was still there, standing in the doorway of the shop. The footsteps of the monsignor could be heard, climbing the stairs. The woman was looking up after him. She turned to Stefan, an expression of concern changing quickly to a smile.

  ‘My brother says you need Father Byrne’s address, in Danzig.’

  ‘He’s not in Germany then?’

  ‘Isn’t it Germany anyway? Or don’t they want it to be? I can’t remember. It’s something like that. But it’s very simple, you can address letters to him at the cathedral in Oliva. He’s working for the bishop there.’

  The monsignor could have told him that easily enough. There was more going on between Robert Fitzpatrick and Francis Byrne than not seeing eye-to-eye. There was real hostility, at least on the monsignor’s part. Stefan thanked the woman and turned to go. She pushed a leaflet into his hand.

  ‘Your wife should read it too.’

  He came out into Earlsfort Terrace. It was cold and almost dark, but he was pleased to breathe fresh air. As he walked back towards Stephen’s Green he screwed the leaflet into a tight ball and dropped it into the gutter.

  9. The Gate

  At Pearse Street Garda station there was a note on Stefan’s desk. Wayland-Smith wanted to talk to him at the morgue. As he turned back to the door Inspector Donaldson was there, eyeing him, with the strained expression that meant he knew he wouldn’t relish the answers to the questions he had to ask.

  ‘What’s happening with this body at Kilmashogue?’

  ‘I’m just going to find out if Doctor Wayland-Smith’s got anything.’

  ‘Was he killed?’

  ‘I don’t suppose he buried himself.’

  Donaldson pursed his lips impatiently.

  ‘Is it going to be an active investigation or not?’

  ‘If there’s anything to act on.’

  A shrug was not what the inspector wanted either.

  ‘You know what I mean, Sergeant. How long was the body up there?’

  ‘He’s not sure. It could be two or three years, or it could go back to the twenties. We’ll find out. It doesn’t smell like some old IRA job to me.’

  James Donaldson would go a long way to avoid a conversation about the Civil War or the IRA, but a death you couldn’t investigate because of ‘all that’ was in many ways preferable to a murder you had no choice but to investigate. Whenever he couldn’t get a straight answer out of Stefan Gillespie it usually meant trouble. He could smell it now. The kind of trouble his detective sergeant brought into the station like old dog shit on his shoes.

  The black mottled bones had been laid out like an archaeological exhibit in a museum, on the white marble slab at the centre of the big room in the mortuary. The scent of carbolic didn’t altogether hide the reek of putrefaction that was not just in the air but in walls and floor and ceiling. It got you as you walked through the doors, a strange sweetness that caught at the back of your throat. The State Pathologist stood over the skeleton they had brought back from the mountainside, with an expression of almost tender concern. He spoke, as always, in the businesslike, dismissive tone that seemed to imply this was a job and nothing more, but his eyes showed something else. Two things in fact; that the dead mattered and that he would enjoy telling Detective Sergeant Gillespie everything he had found out.

  ‘A young man, in his twenties or thirties; nothing to contradict my judgement there.’ Wayland-Smith walked slowly round the slab. ‘A number of broken bones. Now he’s been scrubbed up rather more broken bones than I counted up at Kilmashogue. You’ll see the left arm, multiple fracture of the humerus; broken ribs here and here, along with the sternum; in both legs, femur left, tibia right. He has suffered severe trauma. The fractures indicate it happened quickly, and with some force. A fall from a considerable height or, more likely, something hit him. The injuries would be consistent with a traffic accident for instance.’

  ‘And that’s what killed him?’

  ‘It was certainly enough to result in death. But I can’t say it did.’

  ‘And what about this hole in the skull?’

  Wayland-Smith smiled. It was the question he was waiting for.

  ‘Certainly not a bullet. I didn’t think so.’ The words ‘of course’ hovered in the air. ‘It could have happened during the accident, collision, whatever we choose to call it. Maybe something sharp, a protruding metal spike, narrow in diameter, hammered into his head by the force of impact.’

  ‘Which might have killed him?’

  ‘Again I can only say something of that sort would have had the potential to. With no soft tissue and no exit on the other side of the skull I can’t know how far the projectile went into his brain. I don’t much like the idea anyway.’ He peered down at the hole. ‘And it still seems remarkably neat, don’t you think, if we’re talking about smashing and hammering? There’s nothing about it that strikes you as in any way familiar, Sergeant?’

  ‘You mean you know what it is and I should know too?’

  ‘Doesn’t your family have a farm?’

  Stefan nodded and waited. Wayland-Smith enjoyed these moments.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve seen the butcher arrive to stick the pig.’

  He turned and walked to a table close by. He picked up a heavy pistol, wood and grey metal, square and clumsy. Stefan was puzzled by the weapon; it looked like something that had been cobbled together from other guns, but as the State Pathologist held it up he recognised what it was.

  ‘A Messrs Accles and Shelvoke captive bolt pistol,’ proclaimed Wayland-Smith. ‘Not a pretty thing. I borrowed it from the slaughterhouse which is, in the absence of cadavers, the source of carcasses, usually pigs, for my anatomy students. The skulls always come with a neat, round hole, where the animal has been, as we like to say – to show what nice fellers we all are – humanely stunned before slaughter. Now, if we take a pig’s head –’

  In a gesture that was unashamedly theatrical, he pic
ked up a piece of oilcloth to reveal a pink pig’s head, sitting on a large white plate; it only needed an apple in its mouth to go into an oven. He cocked the pistol and held it to the pink, bristly skin, just above the eyes, and fired. The blank cartridge discharged violently in the echoing mortuary; there was the smell of cordite. They were both deafened for several seconds. ‘There are pistols that operate by means of compressed air,’ shouted Wayland-Smith. ‘It’s all I could find, I’m afraid.’ He put down the pistol and pointed at a small hole. ‘Remove the flesh and we’d have a match for the hole in our friend’s skull.’

  ‘Which may or may not be the cause of death,’ said Stefan.

  ‘Yes. The function of the gun is to render an animal unconscious so that its throat can be cut for bleeding. I don’t know if that killed him. But between whatever smashed into him and the bolt from the stunner piercing his brain, we can at least say death couldn’t have come as a great surprise.’

  ‘So when did it happen?’

  ‘1932. Some time in June or July.’

  ‘Now you’re showing off.’ Stefan hadn’t expected that much.

  Wayland-Smith gestured at several dark shapes sitting on a sheet of white paper. Beside them were the remains of the dead man’s leather wallet.

  ‘I’ve cut open the wallet. There are several pieces of what was originally paper. Naturally most of it has perished, but the conditions have preserved some things rather well. I’ve done as much as I can to clean up the scraps and dry them out; much more and we’d simply destroy the things. There’s a little corner of a ten shilling note. It might get you some sort of date if you can find a serial number, but not terribly useful unless it was a new note. Some of the paper has simply congealed into papier mâché. You won’t do much with that. And then there’s this, which I think has two clearly discernible words, if you look here, and part of a date as well, just here.’

  He handed across a magnifying glass and Stefan bent over the scrap of blackened paper. After a moment he could make out some letters and what looked like a number, all slightly darker than the surrounding brown.

  ‘It’s a three, or an eight?’

  ‘One or the other I think.’

  ‘And that has to be July, doesn’t it? But no year.’

  Wayland-Smith shrugged cheerfully and pointed. He had more.

  ‘Do you think that says “the word” or “the world”? I’d go for “world”.’

  ‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ said Stefan, smiling slowly as he looked up at the State Pathologist. It was his turn now. ‘The Way of the World.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sergeant?’

  ‘William Congreve. I saw it at the Gate, a couple of years ago. I suppose it would have been summer. It’s July thirty-two. A theatre ticket.’

  *

  Dessie MacMahon heaped a third spoonful of sugar into a steaming cup.

  ‘Jesus, you’d want to keep your back to the wall in that place!’

  ‘But your virtue’s intact.’

  ‘Sure that’d be telling!’ Dessie grinned and gulped the tea. It had been his first visit to the Gate Theatre. Even if he’d got no further than the box office and front of house manager, its exotic reputation could not go unremarked. Closer examination of the ticket in the dead man’s wallet had confirmed the date and the name of the play. It had also revealed a seat number.

  ‘They thought I was joking them when I wanted to know who’d bought a ticket for a play two years ago. This front of house feller, Sinclair, was rolling his eyes at the woman in the box office like I was an eejit straight from the eejits’ home.’ Dessie grinned and drank some of the tea.

  ‘But?’ asked Stefan.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘There’s a but.’

  ‘The date on the ticket wasn’t any old date, Sarge. It was the first night.’ He was pleased with himself. ‘When they put the thing on after –’

  ‘I know what it is, Dessie.’

  ‘That’ll be why you’re a sergeant so.’ He drained the cup. ‘Anyway, most people there wouldn’t have bought tickets. They’d have been invited.’

  ‘So there would have been a list?’

  ‘There would.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re going to see if they can dig it out. I wouldn’t say it’s the best organised place. You wouldn’t expect it to be, would you? The arty type.’

  Stefan surveyed the debris piled on Dessie’s desk. Garda MacMahon laughed. Suddenly they both sensed someone watching them. They looked round to see Inspector Donaldson in his usual position, in the doorway, debating whether he really wanted to walk in and have a conversation with Detective Sergeant Gillespie or whether it could be left for another day.

  ‘This body’s a nasty business. I’ve just seen the autopsy report.’

  ‘Very nasty, sir.’

  ‘Are you any nearer identifying him?’

  ‘We’ve got something.’

  ‘What about this woman you’re looking for?’

  ‘Susan Field.’

  The inspector hesitated. This was what was really on his mind.

  ‘I understand there’s a connection with the man Keller, Sergeant.’

  Donaldson sniffed uncomfortably, but it had to be said.

  ‘There is. We know she was going to him for an abortion.’

  The word still offended Inspector Donaldson and he thought he’d seen the back of it. ‘Didn’t they look into her at Rathmines? They didn’t find anything.’

  ‘There’s more evidence now, and more reason to be concerned.’

  ‘They concluded she’d gone to England,’ persisted the inspector.

  ‘I’m not convinced of that sir. There’s no evidence at all. It’s an assumption, just that. The abortion is still the last thing we know about Susan Field. Of course, if Keller was still here we’d have someone to talk to about it.’

  Stefan and Dessie gazed blandly at Donaldson, waiting for him to say something. He was the one who had allowed the Special Branch detectives to pull Hugo Keller out of the Pearse Street cells. But as far as the inspector was concerned it wasn’t his business any more, and that was the end of it.

  ‘You’d better take that up with Special Branch.’

  ‘It didn’t go down well last time.’ Stefan pointed at his bruised face.

  ‘Is that some kind of accusation, Gillespie?’

  ‘It should be. What do you think, sir? Shall we have a go?’

  Stefan glanced at Dessie and Dessie tried hard to keep a straight face. Inspector Donaldson bristled. If there was any truth to the suggestion that Detective Sergeant Lynch had something to do with Gillespie’s injuries it was between the two of them. Lynch was a thug; Gillespie ought to have known better than to cross him. No one would thank James Donaldson for poking his nose into Special Branch’s sewer and he had no intention of doing so.

  ‘I suggest you get on with your job and put personal matters aside.’

  He was pleased with that; it came very close to sounding like leadership. But there seemed no need to cross the threshold into the CID office now. He turned and walked away. The soles of his always highly polished shoes echoed loudly and decisively along the corridor. Dessie looked at Stefan.

  ‘You haven’t told him there’s a priest in it somewhere?’

  ‘Hasn’t the man got enough to worry about?’ laughed Stefan.

  The telephone rang. He reached across the desk and picked it up. The voice at the other end was an odd combination of the punctilious and lazy.

  ‘Is this the CID office? I’m afraid my front of house manager took the number, but not the name. His best suggestion was that I ask for the fat detective who smokes Sweet Afton. I don’t know how many fat detectives you have, and perhaps they all smoke Sweet Afton; however it may give you a clue and, given your line of work, that should be more than enough.’

  ‘Is that the Gate?’

  ‘Faultless! You see, I didn’t underestimate you.’

  ‘I’m the thin one who doesn�
��t smoke Sweet Afton.’

  ‘It’s about the first-night ticket. We have a name for you.’

  Crossing over the Liffey and on to O’Connell Street Stefan Gillespie looked at the Christmas window full of toys at Clery’s. Tom’s tricycle was there. He had paid the deposit at the beginning of November and a little more at the start of December. When his wages came next week he would be able to find the rest. It was a long walk to the far end of the wide street, past the statue of O’Connell the Liberator, past the GPO, past Parnell and the incongruous Nelson’s Column. The other Christmas windows went unnoticed. His mind was full of things that didn’t connect with each other. He hoped the Gate Theatre would at least show him a way forward for the body on the hillside at Kilmashogue.

  The theatre made up one side of the Rotunda Hospital, where its grey eighteenth-century facade turned sharply into Parnell Square. A small door, almost unnoticeable until you reached it and fell up the steps, led into a dark and narrow corridor, more like the entrance to a Georgian town house that had seen better days, as most of the houses in this part of Dublin had, than to a theatre whose reputation was not measured by its size but by the grace and the compassion it brought to its cramped and untidy quarters. When you walked into that corridor and up the steep steps, to an auditorium that seated barely three hundred people, you had done more than enter a theatre. If there was anywhere in Dublin where the writ of the city’s squinting windows didn’t run, it was here. The Gate was an island. Its founder, Micheál Mac Liammóir, an actor who gave his life’s greatest performance as an Englishman triumphantly playing an Irishman, had made the play the theatre’s only purpose and in doing had created something more than a theatre. The Gate had ignored Dublin and had made Dublin, a city that was nothing if not contrary, love it for that. Along the way, almost unnoticed, it had given lungs to a city that, despite all its passions and its furious energies, was wheezing and consumptive and in constant need of God’s clean air.