A June of Ordinary Murders, page 6
The sleep was not long enough to refresh him fully, and his dream of burial pits and a dead boy left him disquieted. But he examined himself in the mirror and reckoned that he was fit to be seen.
He sensed a different atmosphere from usual as he entered the bar, now smoky and muggy, towards the end of business in the hot summer’s night. The clientele knew to a man that he was a ‘Peeler,’ a ‘Bobby,’ a ‘polisman.’ And they knew that he had been at work for the day on what was undoubtedly one of the most shocking crimes of recent years in Dublin city.
He had many times experienced this sensation of being apart. When he came from a bloody crime scene or from immersing himself in a situation where violence or evil were involved, it was as if he carried some of it with him. It seemed to cut him off. People could sense it on him. He could sense it himself. It set up an invisible, intangible barrier between him and other people, even in a crowded room.
Perhaps the pitch of the talk was quieter than usual, the eyes more watchful. Somewhere across the house he heard his name whispered. Maria stood near the bar, surveying the room and supervising the two young barmen working the taps to draw the last few pints of the night.
Pride of place on the wall behind the bar had been accorded to one of Swallow’s watercolours. It was a view of the river at Islandbridge, one of his earliest efforts. Every time he looked at it now he saw a naive reduction of blue water and green foliage. But Maria said she liked it, and she had it professionally framed.
Now she glanced warily at Swallow. She sensed the changed atmosphere of the evening too. He nodded a muted, almost invisible response. They had developed this silent sign language for the hours when the bar was open and filled with customers.
An old Dublin Militia sergeant, toothless and crooked, tried his luck for a free drink before the bar closed, tugging at Swallow’s sleeve as he passed by.
‘Th’ oul wan, Downes, is gone. Ah, but she led yiz a merry dance before goin’ to the Devil this night. Isn’t that right, Sor?’
‘Aye, I heard all right that she’s gone.’
There was no good reason for Swallow’s lie, beyond a policeman’s instinctive inclination to maintain an advantage. The old soldier hobbled after him as he went towards the bar. He lifted the hinged top and stepped into the serving area.
Swallow felt a twinge of guilt at stealing the pensioner’s bit of news.
‘You’ll have one on the house for her.’ He poured a half whiskey into a tumbler and pushed it across the counter to the militia man.
Thus the news of the passing of Pisspot Ces Downes, on the 17th day in the month of June 1887, spread out over the city in a susurration, from public house to public house, from police station to police station, from street to street.
Many tales of Pisspot Ces, her cruelty and her cleverness, some true, more probably untrue, were told and retold as the night settled on the city, spread out around the great, dark platter of Dublin Bay.
Saturday June 18th, 1887
SIX
Dublin’s northerly latitude and prevailing westerly airflow ensure that it rarely enjoys any sustained elevation of barometric pressure or more than a few successive days of sunshine. When that pattern is broken the citizens are likely to take it as an aberration, an unnatural occurrence. Deprived of the rain and damp as their daily topics of grievance they turn irritable and fractious.
They had growing reason for doing so in the third week of June 1887 as humans and animals alike grew increasingly uncomfortable in the unaccustomed and unremitting heat.
A postman in Fitzwilliam Street collapsed and died on the third day. In Sackville Street and College Green the horse troughs, although now connected to the Vartry water supply from the mountains, started to run dry. Drivers and cabmen took buckets to the river with long ropes and drew green Liffey water that they sluiced over their suffering beasts to cool them.
On St Stephen’s Green, where the new steam trams ran to Blackrock and Ball’s Bridge, the metal tracks expanded in the heat to such an extent that locomotion was impossible for a time in the afternoon. Half a dozen of the double-decked vehicles stood immobilised outside the Shelbourne Hotel and the University Club until after 6 o’clock, when the steel would retract to its normal dimensions in the cooler temperatures of the evening.
The newly developing suburbs in the townships of Ball’s Bridge and Rathmines and beyond had their own running water from the Vartry reservoir. Their sewage and waste were carried to the sea in a complex labyrinth of subterranean channels and pipes.
But in the poorer quarters of the city, marked out by the health authorities as Dispensary Districts B, C and D, the air grew thick as the human waste that accumulated in thousands of dry lavatories baked and stank in the heat. In the courts and alleys of the Liberties many of the communal water taps ran to a trickle or dried completely. It was not to be wondered at that the atmosphere had grown heavy and wearying in the days before Pisspot Ces Downes died.
Swallow rose before 7 o’clock. He washed and shaved in what was still notionally his rented room over Grant’s. Appearances and convention required that he would complete his morning ablutions here. Each evening Tess, the housemaid, dutifully put out a towel, a basin and a ewer of fresh water on the dressing table where he had his razor, brush and soap.
He was careful, slow and thorough with the blade. Even though beards or moustaches were fashionable, and were permitted even to uniformed policemen, he preferred to go clean-shaven. He believed it helped to make him seem younger than his years.
He had slept fitfully even after three Tullamores in the parlour over Grant’s with Maria when the bar had closed. He had described the scene where the man and boy had been found by the Chapelizod Gate. She had grown accustomed to Swallow’s recitations of the grim business he frequently encountered in his work, but on this night she could sense his particular distress and apprehension.
It would be a long Saturday. He would have to report to Detective Chief Superintendent Mallon in the Castle. Then he would be briefed by Harry Lafeyre on his post-mortem examinations. At 11 o’clock the other officers engaged in the case would assemble at Exchange Court for the conference arranged by Pat Mossop, the Book Man.
Swallow took a breakfast of oatmeal porridge in the kitchen, washed down with a mug of milk. Then he stepped out into Thomas Street to walk the half mile to the Castle.
Few Dublin tradesmen or deliverymen would stir onto the streets before nine o’clock. Businessmen and professionals considered it improper to be at their offices or consulting rooms before 10 o’clock, even on Saturdays, when they would generally end the day’s work at lunchtime. The streets were quiet, apart from a couple of early horse-drawn trams serving the routes in and out from the villages of Inchicore and Kilmainham.
Notwithstanding the paucity of custom, a news vendor was at work on the corner of Francis Street, surrounded by stacks of the morning newspapers.
His billboards screamed the gory details of the murders in the Park.
‘MAN AND CHILD IN GHASTLY PARK ATROCITY,’ said the Freeman’s Journal poster.
‘DREADFUL MURDERS DISCOVERED,’ proclaimed the Daily Sketch.
‘TWO BODIES IN PHOENIX PARK,’ The Irish Times reported more soberly.
Entering the Castle’s Lower Yard from Palace Street, he passed the military picket at the gate. He pitied the soldiers facing the heat of the day ahead in their heavy uniforms and boots. He went past the gothic apse of the Chapel Royal to the brick-fronted building that housed, among other departments, the office of the chief of detectives of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, John Mallon.
The Lower Yard was decidedly the less favoured and less desirable area of the vast, administrative sprawl that was Dublin Castle. Its buildings were dowdy and poorly maintained by comparison with the fine State Apartments of the Upper Yard. That was where the high functionaries and officials of the administration, led by the Chief Secretary, were accommodated and where the Viceroy, the Queen’s deputy, took up residence with his family during the ‘season’ when Dublin society showed itself off.
The formal rooms, which were opened for the ‘season’ from February to March, were palatial. From the classically proportioned St Patrick’s Hall to the lofty Throne Room, they were a regal presentation of gold and gilt, luxurious carpets and drapes, fine furniture and works of art.
It was understood that the current Viceroy, Lord Londonderry, never spoke to his wife, Lady Theresa, because of some alleged infidelity with a Westminster politician.
Swallow believed that the reports of their estrangement were not without foundation. He had been posted on protection duty at the State Apartments during the ‘season’ gone by. From the required discreet distance under the palm fronds, his Webley Bulldog sitting in its shoulder-holster, he had watched the viceregal couple preside over a score of balls, levees and receptions without a single word passing between them.
When Swallow arrived at Mallon’s office his clerks were already at work and there was tea brewing in a tin pot in the outer office. He took a vacant chair to go through his typed report of the previous evening.
He had been through the routine many times. The Detective Chief Superintendent would come through a private door, bypassing the outer office, sometimes as early at 7 o’clock. The night’s reports from each of the Metropolitan Police’s seven divisions would be on his desk, starting with the G-Division report on crime and security.
Some time before 9 o’clock, Swallow, or whoever might be in attendance with a crime report, would be shown in to the inner office. Mallon might have read the investigating officer’s report the previous night or perhaps earlier that morning, but it was certain that he would have read it. Pencil marks along the margins would indicate where he had picked up an inconsistency or an incongruous detail.
Although separated by rank, there were empathies in their relationship. Swallow’s background was in County Kildare, where his family had run their public house for three generations. Mallon was a farmer’s son from Armagh. Both were countrymen, rooted in the values and conventions of rural Ireland, and both were Catholics in an organisation where preferment almost invariably went to Protestants and, in particular, to those who were members of the Worshipful Society of Free Masons.
Mallon had almost 30 years’ service. His ascent to the rank of Chief Superintendent and head of G Division ran against all the odds. Swallow’s advancement to Detective Sergeant was a good deal less noteworthy, but even in the lower supervisory ranks he was in a minority as far as religious affinity was concerned.
Mallon was seated as usual behind his oak desk. The chief of G Division was an impeccable dresser. While most G-men favoured serviceable tweed or serge, Mallon liked fine woollen suits, well cut by a Duke Street tailor, set off with high, formal collars. His beard, now showing grey, was neatly trimmed. The sandy hair also starting to silver was expertly barbered and neatly combed.
Swallow did not smoke. He felt himself invariably assailed by the tobacco fumes that permeated the air of the police offices and public places. But Mallon did, incessantly. The dark timbers and furniture of his office retained the impregnated odour of tobacco exhaled by the chief of detectives and his predecessors down the decades. No amount of painting or redecorating seemed to diminish or dilute it.
To Swallow’s dismay, Mallon was reading the Daily Sketch rather than the copy of the crime report that he had been sent the previous evening. When he raised his eyes from the newspaper to glare across the desk, Swallow feared the worst.
Mallon threw the folded newspaper on the desk in front of Swallow.
‘Not a great advertisement for the second city of the Empire or its police force as we mark Her Majesty’s Jubilee, is it?’
Swallow remained standing. He saw that Irving’s report on the discovery of the bodies inside the Chapelizod Gate occupied the lead column of the main news page.
‘Read it,’ Mallon commanded in his sharp Ulster accent.
Swallow took up the newspaper. Irving’s report ran the length of the broadsheet page in a single column.
TERRIBLE MURDERS IN THE PARK
Police have no clues
BODIES WITH MUTILATED FACES
The terribly mutilated bodies of a man and a young boy were found yesterday in the Phoenix Park by the Chapelizod Gate. Witnesses who have seen the man’s body say that much of the head had been cut away or mutilated beyond recognition.
The gruesome find was made by a park-keeper shortly before 6 a.m.
Detective Sergeant Swallow of G Division was at the scene later. He told the Daily Sketch that he did not know who the man or child were or what had happened.
He said that the police would investigate this case slowly. But he was confident that in time he would have important clues.
The Sketch finds it curious that the attitude of the police should be so indifferent in a shocking case of this nature.
Dublin’s good name has scarcely been regained after the appalling murders of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr Burke. The police have been increased in numbers and strengthened with new powers, yet have failed to prevent another brutal crime from being perpetrated …
The rest of the report detailed the searches that had been conducted by Doolan’s uniformed officers, and the fact that the bodies had been removed to the morgue after examination by Dr Henry Lafeyre.
Swallow put the newspaper on the desk.
‘There’s more here.’ Mallon pointed to copies of the Freeman’s Journal and The Irish Times at the end of the desk. ‘It’s not as bad. But it’s not good either.’
He gestured to the chair beside Swallow.
‘This is a shocking case. It’s savage.’
He waved a sheet of paper with an embossed crown.
‘The Lord Lieutenant’s secretary sent down a note. Lady Londonderry and the ladies at the Viceregal Lodge are in fear for their lives. They won’t walk outside in the garden. Even the pick-up girls along Grafton Street stayed indoors last night. We’re going to be expected to clear it up damned fast. But my immediate problem is what’s in these rags. Tell me something positive I can bring to Commissioner Harrel.’
Swallow sat. ‘With your permission, Chief, what’s in the Sketch is a complete misrepresentation of what happened. I didn’t say those things.’
Mallon raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure you didn’t, Swallow. If I thought you did, I’d probably resign in despair myself. What I want to know is why you talked to the reporters at all if the case is as bleak as it looks.’
‘There wasn’t much choice. It was out in the open space of the Phoenix Park so I couldn’t very well chase them off or have them arrested. Seven or eight of them arrived on a couple of cars. We had difficulty enough keeping them away from the scene. That report in the Sketch is by Irving. He’s hostile to the police in general and to me in particular.’
The Chief Superintendent nodded. ‘I know Irving. He’s a poisonous creature.’
‘I didn’t say we had no clues,’ Swallow pointed to the headline. ‘And I didn’t indicate any lack of urgency or seriousness. What I said was that crime investigations often have to move slowly.’
‘The truth is,’ he added, ‘if we don’t get an early identification of the victims, this case has the potential to turn into a nasty problem. I asked the reporters to put an appeal out to their readers to see if they can tell us anything.’
Mallon sighed. ‘Well we won’t get much response from the general public in dear old Dublin. My problem is going to be with the Commissioner and the Security Secretary. What Irving has you saying is that there’s no real concern about this case and that you’ll take a leisurely run at it. They’ll make a big thing of all this, you know.’
‘There surely has to be some sense of proportion, Sir, even in the newspapers. This is an appalling case. But isn’t it true that crime rates here are lower than in other cities?’ Swallow asked hopefully.
‘Of course, that’s true for the city here. But once you go outside Dublin it’s pretty well open warfare between the police, the Land Leaguers, the remnants of the bloody Fenians and God knows who else. Nobody will give evidence in court. They’ve had to suspend trial by jury. No policeman is safe. They live like a garrison under siege. We have it easy here in the city by comparison.’
Swallow knew from the daily newspapers that the picture painted by Mallon was accurate. The unarmed Dublin police operated much like police forces in any British city, with only the men of G Division carrying guns. In contrast, the Royal Irish Constabulary, covering the rural areas, was heavily armed. Even his home county of Kildare had seen burnings, attacks on police stations and evictions.
Mallon rose and walked to the window. He looked out into the Lower Yard, already filling with sunshine.
‘There’s nothing political about this case from what you’ve told me. Is that right, Swallow?’
In Mallon’s view of the world, Swallow knew, anything that was ‘special,’ touching on politics, subversion or state business had absolute priority. In the lexicon of G Division, everything else was classified as ‘ordinary.’
Mallon saw the threat of subversion everywhere. There were rumours of another Fenian rising. Any threat of political destabilisation was taken seriously. Anything else, even a gruesome double murder, was a lesser priority.
Just a few months previously, The Times of London had published letters alleged to have been written by Parnell intimating that he was complicit in the murders of Cavendish and Burke. Parnell had sued the newspaper for defamation and demanded an independent commission of inquiry into the allegations.
The Tory government at Westminster and the Irish administration at Dublin Castle were obliged to appear as disinterested parties in the clash between the Irish leader and the newspaper, but in reality they were striving with all their resources to discredit Parnell and to find evidence to vindicate The Times in its supposed revelations.
