A June of Ordinary Murders, page 28
The carriage tilted slightly as it rounded the junction of Merrion Square and Clare Street. The curtain shifted for a moment and Swallow could see that the second vehicle had fallen into line behind the brougham. Kelly waved a hand.
‘As you’ll have guessed, those are my escort, Mr Swallow. I would ask you to ignore them. They’re an unfortunate necessity in my line of work.’ He leaned forward in his seat and stared hard into Swallow’s eyes.
‘Mr Swallow, I want to give you some information and I want to explain certain facts to you. This will be a relatively short journey so it will be very much in your better interests if you listen carefully to me and do as I say.’
Swallow stared back. He had developed his own technique over many years of detective work. Now his eyes bored back into Kelly’s.
‘Major Kelly, I’m a sworn police officer and a detective sergeant of the G Division. I take orders in regard to what I do from nobody except for my proper superiors.’
Kelly grimaced in what passed for a smile.
‘Very right too, Mr Swallow. I like that kind of loyalty. And I like a clear understanding of command and obedience. Nonetheless, you will hear what I have to say.’
‘As long as you understand my position in what I have told you,’ Swallow said firmly.
‘Mr Swallow, initially you were the officer investigating the death of a young woman by the name of Sarah Hannin whose body was taken from the Grand Canal some days ago.’
‘You have time to read the newspapers then, Major Kelly? You must have a soft job.’
Kelly ignored the provocation.
‘Yesterday you were advised by your superiors that the death of Miss Hannin is to be investigated not by the G Division but by special CID operating directly under the control of the Assistant Under-Secretary for Security, were you not?’
Swallow shrugged. ‘I won’t discuss my superiors’ instructions with you. Detective duties are confidential.’
‘Yet you have persisted in these inquiries. Certain evidence, a lady’s bag I believe, was recovered by the police at College Street and delivered to you in error at Exchange Court. You did not forward it, as you should have, to the Security Secretary’s office. You have challenged your inspector’s authority. And I gather that you went so far as to threaten Alderman Fitzpatrick that if you were not given access to his house, you would have a warrant for his arrest too.’
‘You must consider yourself very well informed, Sir,’ Swallow rejoined coolly.
Kelly laid the ebony cane across his knees. ‘I do, Mr Swallow. I do indeed.’
He raised his voice. ‘I’m damned well informed. I know that you’re trying to maintain what was once perhaps a reasonable reputation as a detective officer. But you won’t do it against the orders of your superiors or where you’re compromising the safety of the realm. Do you understand me?’
He dropped his voice again.
‘The death of this girl is regrettable. It was a brutal and criminal act. Nobody can be other than saddened by it. My colleagues of the special CID at the Assistant Under-Secretary’s office have several lines of inquiry. The culprit or culprits will be identified and will be brought to justice. But you, Mr Swallow, will do what you have been ordered. You will have nothing to do with the case. Do I make myself clear?’
Swallow affected a yawn.
‘Major Kelly, I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what authority you claim to have. I’m sure that you think you have very good reasons to interfere in the course of justice. But I am an officer of the Metropolitan Police, bound by oath to preserve the Queen’s peace and to prevent and detect crime. I know that Sarah Hannin was murdered, possibly in the Fitzpatrick house, and I know that there’s no investigation worth talking about into that murder. I also know that Alderman Fitzpatrick is being shielded by powerful people – probably including yourself – because you need him to perform in some sort of a political pantomime next week.’
He parted the curtain to ascertain where they were. He could see the curtilage wall of Christ Church Cathedral.
‘Now, Major Kelly or whatever you are, I can see that I’m almost at my destination. I’ll thank you to stop your carriage so I can walk the rest of the way.’
Kelly was silent for a moment.
‘Sergeant Swallow, I’d very much prefer you to take my advice,’ he said icily. ‘Let me put what may be a persuasive line of argument to you. Two vacancies arise within the next 12 months, as I understand it, for promotion within the G Division to the rank of detective inspector. I believe I can tell you that obedience and political discretion will be paramount in the allocation of those promotions. If you can display those qualities, I can tell you now that the rank is yours. Fail to do so and you will be lucky, I promise you, to hold any rank at all in the Metropolitan Police.’
He rapped with the ebony cane on the roof of the carriage, bringing it to an abrupt halt. The door on Swallow’s side swung open. Kelly gave a wintry smile.
‘I’m sorry that our meeting should have taken place under somewhat tense circumstances, Mr Swallow. As I said earlier, I know of your reputation, notwithstanding that much of it is grounded in successes of quite some time ago. Will you consider what I have said about your promotional prospects?’
Swallow glared at him. ‘To hell with you and your promotional prospects. I couldn’t give a damn about promotion.’
Kelly nodded with affected sadness.
‘I’ve heard that said too, Mr Swallow. I regret it, although I’m not sure it’s as true as you would have people believe. But let me tell you two things further. One, if your plan is to retire and go into the licensed trade here with your close friend, Mrs Walsh,’ he pointed in the direction of Thomas Street, ‘don’t count on it.’
He stroked his trim beard, affecting an air of thoughtfulness.
‘You know, Mrs Walsh’s licence could be revoked if any irregularities were found in the running of the business. Suppose, for example, it was found that she was employing a member of the police to help her operate the establishment. She could even be prosecuted and end up in jail. Not a pleasant place for a lady, you know, up there in Kilmainham or in Mountjoy.
‘Two, your dear sister will shortly qualify as a teacher. Any teaching post has to be approved by the education authorities and, as you doubtless know, the Chief Secretary has control over them. It wouldn’t be difficult to find reasons to block any appointment that might go to someone whose connections were considered to be, shall we say, inimical to the Crown.’
Swallow’s anger rose. He leaned forward from the leather seat until his face was just inches from Kelly’s.
‘Now you hear me, so-called Major so-called Kelly. You and I have jobs to do. I have mine and I do it well. You have yours, whatever it may be and however despicable it may be. Sometimes we may have to come into contact and we may have to deal with each other, though I hope it’s as infrequently as possible. But if you try to drag my sister Harriet or Maria Walsh into this, or threaten harm to either of them in any way, I swear to God I won’t be responsible for what I do to you and your associates. Do I make myself clear?’
Kelly’s bland face registered no reaction.
‘I don’t think you’re in a position to make any threats to me, Mr Swallow. Now, good night to you, I hope very sincerely that it won’t be necessary for us to meet again.’
He waited until Swallow had stepped down from the carriage. One of the escort party was waiting on the street to close the door after he had dismounted. Swallow stood on the pavement and watched the vehicles as they turned across the street to start back towards the city centre.
The lights were burning in Grant’s, and through the half-frosted glass he could see Maria moving purposefully among the customers by the long, mahogany counter. He needed a drink and he needed company. He walked into the bar out of the threatening night.
Thursday June 23rd, 1887
TWENTY-NINE
When Swallow arrived at Exchange Court shortly after 8 o’clock the next morning, the roster sheet showed him detailed as duty sergeant. It was a calculated affront by Duck Boyle; an unspoken charge that since he was not making progress on the murders he could do something useful by manning the desk.
Apart from a couple of men detailed to watch the remnants of the Downes gang in their extended grieving, virtually the full available strength of G Division was once again allocated to security duties.
Swallow found Boyle in the parade room.
‘I’ve got a crime conference on the Chapelizod Gate murders at 9 o’clock.’
‘I’m sure ye have,’ Boyle retorted. ‘An’ I’m sure it’ll be just as productive as t’others you’ve been holdin’ all week. Take yer conference and get it done with as quickly as ye can. Then yer on desk work here until the afternoon shift comes on.’
‘And I’m supposed to be the attending officer at the burial of Sarah Hannin this afternoon. As you know, they have to have a police officer present, and you can be sure that none of the fellows from Smith Berry’s squad will demean themselves to it.’
Boyle was momentarily checked. Procedure required that a police officer be made available to ensure compliance with burial requirements. The ordinance went back many years to a scandal involving the burial of paupers’ bodies in waste ground so that unscrupulous contractors could pocket the small cemetery fee payable by the Coroner’s Office.
‘All right,’ he acknowledged, ‘you can get Mossop to stand in for you when you’re doin’ that. But remember you’re not the investigatin’ officer on that case any more. Ye’re just there to put a signature on the burial form.’
If the Assistant Under-Secretary’s team of detectives was doing any work on the Sarah Hannin inquiry, Swallow picked up no news of it from any of the G-men. Since he was off the case he was unable to inquire officially what the status of the investigation was, or even who was involved.
An hour later, he chaired the fourth crime case conference on the Chapelizod Gate murders.
Pat Mossop and Stephen Doolan arrived at the crime sergeants’ office simultaneously. Only four uniformed constables were present. Stephen Doolan’s face was healing nicely after his hurling incident. He gestured apologetically to Swallow.
‘The superintendent at Kevin Street wasn’t willing to let me keep all the boys on this case without any progress. I did well to get these few.’
‘So, have we any good news?’ Swallow inquired.
There were glum expressions around the room. It seemed as if nobody had the heart to venture anything.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Doolan said. ‘There’s nothing come out of questioning the mail-packet crews. We haven’t found anything in Hutton’s records that might help to identify the carriage. There’s nothing coming off the streets about this woman that Vinny Cussen is supposed to have had his boys out looking for. We’re not really any further on than we were nearly a week ago.’
Swallow had weighed the advantages and disadvantages of briefing the team on the information he had gleaned from James O’Donnell about the woman and child who had visited the Fitzpatrick house.
On balance he decided against it, at least for the present. He would share the details with Pat Mossop because it would be worth having his experienced opinion on it. But if it became generally known among the G Division that there was a possible link between the Chapelizod Gate murders and Thomas Fitzpatrick’s house at Merrion Square it would only be a matter of hours before he would be taken off that case too.
There was a knock on the door of the crime sergeants’ room. Pat Mossop opened the door. Swallow saw a constable hand him a large, brown envelope.
‘It’s from the photographic technician for Detective Sergeant Swallow.’
Mossop handed the envelope to Swallow. He slit the gummed paper seal and took the topmost picture from the bundle of prints. The photographer had softened the exposure so that the artificiality of plaster and paint on the face was minimised. The waxy sheen that glazed the improvised skin had disappeared. The features of an identifiable woman with somewhat prominent eyes were now clear.
He turned the photograph towards Doolan and the others.
‘Now, gentlemen, here’s something you might have read about in some of the morning newspapers. But you haven’t seen it before.’
Suddenly alert, the policemen stared at the picture, a mixture of curiosity and amazement on their faces.
‘Jesus, Joe. What is it? How did you do that?’ Stephen Doolan exclaimed.
‘It’s thanks to Dr Lafeyre,’ Swallow explained. ‘It’s a new technique devised in Germany. He’s used a system that reconstructs the features on the basis of muscle and bone.’
‘How accurate do you think it is, Boss?’ Pat Mossop asked.
‘Dr Lafeyre thinks it’s probably a good likeness. I’m getting a poster with the image printed on it across in Ship Street. It gives us something to start asking questions about, doesn’t it?’
Doolan nodded.
‘It surely does that. Give us a few copies and we’ll start showing them around the city. We’ll do the cabmen’s shelters, the public houses and so on.’
Mossop distributed the photographs, retaining the master copy. Once he had finished, the conference broke up. The constables moved with a noticeable spring in their step.
The office was quiet. ‘Do you want tea, Boss?’ Mossop asked. ‘I’d say you could do with a cup o’ tea.’
When Pat Mossop made a ceremony of brewing tea, Swallow knew he had something he wanted to say. He sat down, accepted the offer and waited while the Book Man poured him a mug of black liquid that looked as if it had been stewing for a week.
‘I had an idea about something,’ Mossop said, drawing his own chair closer. He added milk to the tea from a pewter jug and dolloped more into Swallow’s mug.
He swallowed a mouthful. ‘This railway policeman says that the man – or the woman – that he spoke to at Chester gave an address in Dublin at Abbey Street. He said it was ‘St Brigid’s, Abbey Street.’ Now, we know there’s no such place, don’t we?’
Swallow tasted his own tea. It was bitter and heavy.
‘Sure. It doesn’t exist.’
‘But supposing the policeman got it slightly wrong? Supposing that’s just part of the address? Or supposing he mixed up the words…’
‘What have you in mind, Pat?’
‘Well, Boss, I’ve been thinking, it could be St Brigid’s Abbey. He could have misheard, or maybe he got distracted by the noise of a train or something going on at a busy station. Do you know there’s a place called St Brigid’s Abbey just beyond Chapelizod, maybe half a mile from where the bodies were found?’
Swallow felt a surge of interest. He had never heard of St Brigid’s Abbey.
‘Go on, Pat.’
‘Well, it’s a convent. It’s run by an order of nuns. I checked in the Catholic Directory. That’s a complete list of all the religious houses in every diocese. These sisters at Chapelizod are what they call “semi-enclosed.” They don’t have much contact with the outside world, and they don’t have many visitors. I’ve no record of it being checked out in the inquiries.’
‘You say this abbey is beyond the village. So it’s probably out of the DMP area.’
‘Yes, Boss, I checked it on the map. It’s in the RIC Dublin County Division. And maybe the RIC would have reckoned that a community of enclosed nuns wouldn’t have anything useful to tell them, so why go to the trouble of disturbing the holy sisters?’
Swallow considered Mossop’s theory. No trace of the victims had been found in any hotel or boarding house. Door-to-door inquiries had been equally fruitless. Yet they had stayed somewhere in Dublin, probably for two nights. Why not in a convent? A convent just a few minutes’ walk from where they had been found …
He forced himself to swallow another sip of Mossop’s bitter tea.
‘I’ve followed less promising leads in my time,’ he said. ‘It’s worth a drive out to Chapelizod. But first, I’ve a bit of information I want to talk through with you. I didn’t want to spread it around at the conference because there’d be repercussions. And for the moment I don’t want you to put it in the murder book either. It touches on the Sarah Hannin investigation, and that’s off limits to us, as you know.’
‘Righto, Boss.’ Mossop shut the book. ‘I understand. Tell me.’
‘The business at the Royal Hibernian Academy on Sunday night threw up an unexpected dividend. I questioned this fellow, James O’Donnell, who got caught up in the ruckus there. He’s in the Hibernian Brothers, but he’s a martyr to drink. So I frightened him, told him we’d pay for good information, and I let him out. But as he left here yesterday evening he saw the picture of the “Chapelizod Gate Woman” in the Telegraph. He told me he recognised her. He’d been watching Fitzpatrick’s house on the previous Wednesday and he saw her going in, along with the boy.’
Mossop was sceptical. Swallow expected that. It was what made Pat Mossop an excellent colleague on a complex case. He doubted. He challenged. He searched out flaws and infirmities like a ferret.
‘Maybe he only wanted to get a few quid, Boss,’ Mossop ventured. ‘From what you say he has a bad story with the drink. Fellows like that will tell you anything they think you’d like to hear if they can see the price of a few whiskies in it. And even if he wasn’t scrounging he might just be mistaken.’
‘That’s true,’ Swallow acknowledged. ‘But whether he’s right or wrong I think he believes what he told me. He says he saw the woman and child going into Fitzpatrick’s. The description of the boy’s clothing tallies. It also tallies that the woman had unusually protruding eyes. It’s a long way off being conclusive, but it’s a possible sighting.’
Swallow stood. ‘I’m going over the the Coroner’s Court for the Hannin inquest. Then I’m going along to the burial as the attending officer. Will you hold the fort as duty officer for me?’
Mossop grinned. ‘Ah sure, I’ll use the day to build up my reputation with Detective Inspector Boyle. Don’t worry. He’ll be very impressed to find me with my nose here in the books all day.’
