A June of Ordinary Murders (28 page)

‘I think you could do a lot better than Mr O'Donnell,' he said.

‘It isn't any of your business,' she snapped. ‘This is a personal matter and it's my choice. I don't need your approval and I don't need to have you telling me who I should see or what I should do with my life. I'm an independent woman and I'll make my own decisions. I wouldn't dream of making that sort of comment to you. You have some rather odd arrangements in your own personal life.'

He resisted the urge to take up the implicit challenge over his relationship with Maria.

‘He's a troublemaker, and he's dangerous. He's dangerous, among other reasons, because he doesn't seem to understand that he's playing with fire. He wasn't sober last evening at the Academy. You must have seen that yourself, Harriet.'

‘You're not exactly a model yourself in that respect,' she shot back. ‘I was only a young girl but I saw the sorrow you caused your father and mother when they were trying to set you up in the world. Who are you to accuse someone of having a drink too many?'

‘Well let me tell you that if I was going out on a mission to save Ireland, or whatever he thought he was doing, and if I had a loaded gun in my pocket, I'd make damned sure I was fully sober.'

‘The gun wasn't in James's pocket. I told you we didn't know that Horan had it with him.'

‘And I've told you that won't make a ha'penny worth of difference in court.'

He lowered his voice for emphasis.

‘Look, I'm not concerned with your private business. I've told you what I think of Mr O'Donnell and there's no point in my repeating myself on that. But let me explain what's going to happen now so that you understand fully.

‘Your friends are in the cells at Exchange Court. They're facing charges of assault with a deadly weapon and possession of a firearm with intent to endanger life. If convicted, and they will be, they'll face anything up to 20 years apiece in prison.

‘They're going to be questioned, many times over, by some of the political fellows from the G Division. It won't be very gentle and inevitably one or more of them is going to start giving information in the hope of getting a reduced sentence or having some of the charges dropped. Believe me, I've seen this happen a hundred times. The G-men will want names. They'll want to know their associates and supporters, their contacts and their sympathisers.'

He paused as the waitress placed a fresh pot of Chinese tea on the table.

‘Your name will come out. And then you'll be brought in. Maybe you'll be charged and go to prison too, maybe you won't. But what I can tell you is that one way or another you'll be marked for the future. You'll be blacklisted. You won't get a teaching post anywhere. Your training and your qualification will be wasted. You might as well pack up and go to America and get a job as a governess. That's if you're lucky.'

She stared into her coffee. Her lower lip quivered. She spoke after a few moments.

‘Look, let's leave our differences aside for the present. I know that you're trying to help me. What can you do then? Can you help James? Can you help us?'

He stared out the window. Queues of Dubliners were waiting for their trams. The sun had begun to drop away behind the high buildings on the western side of the street. A steam tram swung over to its stopping point, the driver yanking the bell as it approached the crowded pavement.

It all seemed so pleasant, he thought, these people going about their ordinary lives in the late evening sunshine. But there was nothing pleasant or ordinary about the situation he found himself in with his younger sister. Just 24 hours ago he would have said that she had the world at her feet. Now, from what he could see, her life was heading towards disaster.

‘I don't know,' he said eventually. ‘I'll have to make some inquiries as discreetly as I can. I do know the high-up powers are taking what happened very seriously.'

He gestured to the waitress for the bill.

‘What I'd suggest is that you go back to the training college. Talk to nobody about what happened last evening at the Academy. If you're asked by anyone about it, just say you went there to meet me.'

He put a handful of coins on the table where the waitress had written out the bill.

‘If you have any papers, documents or anything that could connect you to these Hibernian Brothers, get rid of them. Burn them. And I needn't add, if there is anything like another gun or ammunition around, get rid of them too. Don't just hide them somewhere and think they'll be safe. They will be found, I can promise you.

‘It's absolutely essential that you avoid all contact with anybody in this organisation. Just keep to yourself. If you're visited by any police or detectives, tell them that your brother works in the G Division and get a message to me as quickly as possible. Whatever you do, don't answer any questions beyond giving your name, your age and your address.'

He softened his tone. ‘Is all that clear? If so, I'll see what I can do.'

She nodded, but when she looked at him across the table he could still see the defiance and obstinacy in her eyes.

Outside, the dipping sun had started to cast shadows across Westmoreland Street. He walked Harriet to her stop and waited with her until the next tram came up.

She kissed him quickly on the cheek as she boarded. He stood watching until the vehicle clanked its way past Trinity College and out of sight.

It was pointless, he told himself, trying to argue a woman like Harriet Swallow out of love or out of her patriotic ideals. He reckoned he should be able to fix the immediate issues arising out of Sunday evening at the Academy, but once he had done that, he told himself, he would deal ruthlessly with the sodding little shit called James O'Donnell.

Tuesday June 21st, 1887

TWENTY-TWO

The public holiday marking the Golden Jubilee of Queen Victoria's ascent to the throne started across Dublin with a morning that was perfect for a celebration.

The sun shone in a crystal-blue sky. It would be oppressively hot later in the day, but in the hours before that, the air would be sufficiently fresh for citizens to get full enjoyment from the various entertainments and spectacles that had been arranged.

Dublin's celebrations would not be on the impressive scale planned for London. The imperial capital was thronged with visitors from all over the globe. At Westminster Abbey, forty crowned heads and leaders from Europe and the Empire would join in a thanksgiving service to mark the half-century of Victoria's rule. On the previous evening they had dined at a celebration banquet at Buckingham Palace. All over Great Britain, celebrations, services and street parties were being planned to take place in the midsummer sunshine.

In the main cities, and particularly in the London area, detectives from Scotland Yard's Special Irish Branch shadowed the movements of Irish nationalist activists. One informant report after another had brought intelligence of a ‘Jubilee plot' to bomb or shoot the Queen or other members of the royal family.

It was known that explosives had been shipped into England through the port of Liverpool. Key Irish suspects were on the move. The telegraph wires and the telephone lines between the various police offices across the United Kingdom and between Scotland Yard and the Home Office in London were busy.

At the Dublin locations where Victoria's loyal Irish subjects would gather to mark the anniversary, the celebrations would be suitably fervent. Virtually all business and public offices had declared the day a holiday. At the Ball's Bridge grounds in Dublin's southern suburbs, a great athletic tournament with generous cash prizes had been arranged. In the wealthier districts, householders had organised children's parties. The principal streets in the city centre were decorated with floral wreaths, Union flags and bunting.

There were religious services at the city's two cathedrals, Christ Church and St Patrick's. A special hymn,
The Queen Shall Rejoice in Thy Strength,
had been composed by the Professor of Music at Trinity College, Sir Robert Stewart. Bands played in the city parks, and there were military parades. Later, each barracks would put on a celebratory banquet for the soldiers, their families and guests. At the Officers' Mess of the Royal Irish Constabulary at the Phoenix Park Depot, the evening would be marked by a full-dress ball and fireworks.

The detectives of the G Division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police were afforded little opportunity for celebration, however. From earliest light, every available man was assigned to special duties, shadowing people who might be likely to cause an incident or watching at locations where any unbecoming display of disloyalty might be likely to occur.

Detectives patrolled behind the choir-stalls in the cathedrals and along the principal streets where the bunting and decorations were at their most profuse. They mixed with the sightseers who gathered to hear the bands in St Stephen's Green, at the Forty Acres in the Phoenix Park and on the East Pier at Kingstown.

Swallow was assigned to supervise a team of ten G-men tasked with patrolling a stretch of central Dublin from the general post office in Sackville Street to St Stephen's Green.

It was considered a sensitive area, in which incidents might be likely to occur. A special eye was to be kept on the Westmoreland Street offices of the Dublin Port and Dock Company. The directors had arranged to put up a particularly impressive, large-scale portrait of the Queen, surmounted by a crown and the initials ‘V.R.' The display would be illuminated at dusk with coloured gas jets. Intelligence reports indicated that it had been identified as a primary target for destruction by one of the militant nationalist splinter groups.

The morning was uneventful with good-humoured crowds moving through the city centre. Shortly after 1 o'clock, with everything apparently under control in the streets under his supervision, Swallow decided to check back at Exchange Court. He wanted to see if anything further had come in from the search parties that had scoured the canal banks where the body of Sarah Hannin had been found. Or perhaps there might be some results from the inquiries on the mail packets and the railways in connection with the Chapelizod Gate murders.

And he had to advance matters in regard to James O'Donnell and John Horan.

As the arresting officer, it would fall to him to charge both men with whatever offences might seem appropriate. There was scope for imagination there: conspiracy to cause an affray; assault on the Security Secretary and on Mr Thomas Fitzpatrick; unlawful possession of a firearm with intent to endanger life. It would not be long, he knew, before one or other of the prisoners would start talking to his G-Division colleagues. Harriet would be identified as a member of the group that had organised the protest and attack. Once that connection had been established it might be too late to save his younger sister from the rigours of the law.

An earlier slight drop in the morning temperatures had reversed. Any stirring of the breeze had abated. He turned into Fleet Street towards Temple Bar to make for the Castle. At the junction of Crow Street, he saw the figure of a young woman who instantly seemed familiar.

It took Swallow a moment to name her. It was the girl – the former kitchen-maid at the Fitzpatrick household – who had identified Sarah Hannin's body by the canal.

Hetty, Hetty Connors.

He stopped, watching as she crossed the cobbled Crow Street, head down, her shawl drawn tightly across her narrow shoulders. Swallow stepped behind her. The slight figure scurried along Crow Street and he saw her turn into the door of Naughton's public house. Swallow knew Naughton's well. It was a rough place, frequented by alcoholics, beggars, petty street-criminals and prostitutes. He followed the girl across the street and entered the public bar.

A wave of bad air, smoke and the reek of body odours hit his senses as he entered. The bar was not crowded, but the dozen or so patrons who stood against the counter knew what he was. Each contrived to look elsewhere, at the ceiling, at the filthy mirror behind the bar, through the no-less filthy window that gave out onto a laneway at the back. Swallow knew most of the faces, but there were no signs of recognition. Few of Naughton's clientele were interested in the Jubilee celebrations in the streets outside, it seemed. They turned to their drinks and resumed their muttered conversations. Hetty Connors was nowhere to be seen.

Two wooden-walled snugs were located at either end of the bar. Swallow knew that she must be in one or the other.

He found Hetty on the banquette seat in the first snug, about to raise a glass of clear spirits to her lips. Her other hand clutched a small, embroidered bag. She started when Swallow pushed the door. Her eyes were red rimmed. The round, pock-marked face reminded him of the dull features that the Dutch masters often gave to household servants in the paintings that he sometimes saw at the National Gallery.

‘I suppose you've been out celebrating the Jubilee, Hetty,' he said amiably. ‘But I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes.'

She looked at him angrily and grasped the embroidered bag tightly to herself.

‘I … I was just goin'… I have to … to … be back at the hospital,' she stammered.

Swallow drew a battered, wooden chair and sat opposite her, pushing the door of the snug shut behind him. ‘Just relax and enjoy your drink, Hetty. I won't be any harm to you. Do you remember me from yesterday morning?'

The girl continued to stare angrily at him in silence for a moment, then she gave a silent nod.

‘Good. Well, I need a little help, a little information about Sarah Hannin, and I thought you might be able to help me.'

She drained her glass.

‘I'm not sayin' nothin' to you … nothing. I don't want to talk to you. Let me go to me work now.'

She rose to leave. Swallow gestured to her to stay where she was. She took her seat again slowly. Her eyes filled with tears. Swallow estimated that she was both frightened and defiant.