Read The Convictions of John Delahunt Online
Authors: Andrew Hughes
The Convictions of John Delahunt
Dublin, 1841. On a cold December morning, a small boy is enticed away from his mother and his throat savagely cut. This could be just one more small, sad death in a city riven by poverty, inequality and political unrest, but this killing causes a public outcry. For it appears the culprit – a feckless student named John Delahunt – is also an informant and in the pay of the authorities at Dublin Castle. And strangely, this young man seems neither to regret what he did nor fear his punishment. Indeed, as he awaits the hangman in his cell in Kilmainham Gaol, John Delahunt decides to tell his story in this, his final, deeply unsettling statement . . .
Set amidst Dublin’s taverns, tenements, courtrooms and alleyways and with a rich, Dickensian cast of characters – carousing students, unscrupulous lowlifes, dissectionists, phrenologists, blackmailers and the sinister agents of Dublin Castle –
The Convictions of John Delahunt
is based on true events that convulsed Victorian Ireland.
Beautifully observed, seductive and laced with dark humour, this gripping historical thriller about a man who betrays his family, his friends and, ultimately, himself marks the debut of an exciting and assured new literary voice.
Contents
Andrew Hughes
For my parents
I won’t be welcome in the Delahunt plot. I doubt they’ll make the slightest effort to reclaim me. Perhaps I’m promised to the dissectionists on York Street, though these days they’ve the pick of the workhouses. Most likely I’ll end up in some forsaken corner of Kilmainham’s grounds. Pitched in with my peers. Lying at odd angles and uneven depths, depending on the diligence of the digger. Quicklime poured in to hasten the process. And unmarked, save a scrawled entry in a spineless ledger, to be shelved and forgotten, filthy with dust. The fate of my remains had not given me a moment’s pause until today’s visitor. Now I can think of little else. It’s tiresome, that such morbid fancies should master me in my remaining hours.
Helen might make some petition for a decent burial. My wife has been disowned, disinherited; she is soon to be widowed. Her plaintive letters will be mired in bureaucracy. Still, it will do her good to keep busy.
At about noon I started at the rustle of keys and scraping of bolts as Dr Armstrong was shown into my cell. He was a spare man, a little below the average height, but with a dignity of carriage that made him appear taller. Clean-shaven, and obviously particular in his habits and dress. He was accompanied by an assistant, whom I took to be one of his medical students. As they entered, the doctor held a handkerchief to his nose – it’s amazing how soon one stops noticing it – but immediately folded it into a pocket and regarded me with professional interest.
‘Has Mr Turner told you the reason for my visit?’
I set aside my pen. ‘Not in much detail.’
‘Mr Delahunt, I’ll begin by saying I care not about the nature of your crimes.’
I reminded him I had only been convicted of one.
He took the interruption in his stride. ‘Quite.’ It was his belief that the manifest failings in my character, which had led me to commit my admitted crime, resulted from grave deficiencies in certain faculties of my brain and the profusion of others. ‘Your cranial bone will have conformed around these undulations, leaving a discernible map for the trained hand.’ He flexed his fingers as if in demonstration. He said my cooperation would aid his research and further scientific understanding. ‘Of course, you are free to refuse my interview, and if you wish me to leave I shall do so immediately.’
He fixed on a point above my shoulder as if my response either way was of no concern. My first impulse was to tell them both to get out. But how could I refuse the final courtesy extended to me in my short life?
I offered to vacate the only chair but he waved me to remain. His assistant inspected my stained mattress with some distaste; then he sat at the edge of the bunk without my leave. He placed a file on the frayed blanket beside him, opened a leather-bound notebook and took a pencil from his jacket pocket.
I must admit to an uneasy sensation when Armstrong walked behind me to take hold of my matted head. That feeling soon gave way. After several minutes I had to stifle a smirk at both his earnest kneading and tender caress. I couldn’t see his face, but I’d hear the occasional guttural response to an interesting knoll. I pictured Dr Armstrong in his private moments, head in his hands, deeply contemplative, on a journey of self-discovery. Then again, if he was convinced of his calling perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to touch his own head. Maybe he was loath to scratch an itch, or fix his hat, lest he happen upon an unsettling trait.
He spoke his observations aloud in a distracted voice. ‘The head is well sized. The base regions very fully developed, and the coronal portions … by no means deficient.’
I was flattered. The pupil, a young man with round spectacles and a thin beard, carefully jotted down each comment. I knew his type well: the class pet plucked from the group to assist with the professor’s own research and experiments. He no doubt considered it a great honour rather than an unpaid chore. Some characters can be discerned without the use of phrenology.
At one point he was called over for a practical lesson and he joined the doctor behind my chair. Armstrong took a step back. ‘Our conjecture was correct. Feel Caution’s Causeway.’
The young man’s fingers were cold and his nails unclipped. He probed behind my left ear, fixed upon a certain spot and rotated the skin with a firm rub. It seemed to me he wasn’t sure what he sought. His only expression was a vague murmur.
‘Now mark the Carnal Cleft.’
He steadied my head before pressing his ring finger between the bridge of my nose and lower eye socket. This time his reaction was clearer. He was amused, enough to exhale sharply through his nostrils. I wasn’t let in on the joke.
When the cranial reading was complete, Armstrong went to stand in the middle of the cell, using his handkerchief to wipe my residue from his fingers. The exact nature of his questions seems vague to me now. I recall he commended my learning and enquired into my habits of reading. He asked was I musical. My childhood stints singing in the choir were among my only happy memories, but I told him I couldn’t hold a note, had no ear for harmony – there was little point being an open book.
More trying were questions that seemed pertinent to my conviction. He asked had I ever sworn falsely against another.
I scrutinized his face for a hint of mockery. ‘It’s a matter of public record that I have.’
‘Have you ever been compelled to act because of religious fervour?’
I said I wasn’t a believer.
The doctor smiled. ‘Mr Delahunt, I fear you are betrayed by your make-up. The Organ of Marvellousness is particularly full. I have no doubt you are in awe of your creator.’
‘Then why ask?’
The transcriber spoke for the first time. ‘What about the note found on your victim?’
The doctor and I regarded him. I hoped the upstart would be berated but instead Armstrong retrieved the file and leafed through it. ‘That’s right. A passage from the Bible was clutched in his hand.’ He found the relevant page. ‘Identified as Philippians 1:21, “For me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.”’ He looked at me with the folder held open before him; the other sat with his pen poised.
I no longer found their presence diverting. ‘It didn’t matter what was written,’ I said. ‘I knew the child wouldn’t be able to read.’
It had been my hope that after a brief examination the doctor would be able to reveal some underlying cause, fix me with a solemn gaze and say: ‘Worry not, this was always on the cards.’ Instead I grew weary of his petty enquiries and was relieved when he indicated he was about to go. Despite myself, I fished for a diagnosis as he gathered his coat.
‘Have you come to any conclusions?’
He drew himself up, as if glad to be asked. ‘All I would say is this. There is no doubt the capacity to commit your crime is strongly written in your development.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘But so also was the power to resist it.’
Such insight. He lifted the lapel of his coat to cover his neck. ‘But those are only preliminary observations. I shall require several more hours of study.’
‘You mean you intend to return.’
‘Why, no,’ he said and looked away. ‘I have made arrangements with the prison authorities.’
‘Arrangements for what?’
‘Well.’ He patted his pockets as if he had mislaid something. ‘It won’t concern you.’
The student had been observing me all the while with the corners of his mouth upturned. ‘We shall be using a plaster cast of your head,’ he said. ‘Taken after your punishment.’
Armstrong reproved his charge with a touch on the arm and a stern look. I merely nodded. No doubt it’s odd that this was the first realization of what awaited me. After all, there had been ample time to consider the mechanics of my demise. But this thought chilled me – of my rough handling, of some anatomical stuccodore gouging my eyes, pressing his wet plaster into my nose and mouth and leaving my enclosed head to set. Throughout the afternoon I lay awake, opening and closing my fist, holding my breath, listening to my pulse in a cupped ear, trying to sense the source of their animation.
After some consideration I’ve come to look upon the notion of Armstrong’s mould with less dread, though the thought of my face encased still causes a shiver. The cast of one’s head is an interesting relic. The idea of being preserved for future study also appeals: to be labelled and catalogued, stored and retrieved, admired and pored over by scientists not yet born.
I recall when I was six or seven years old stealing into my father’s study in Fitzwilliam Street, darkened in his absence to protect his books from the sun. I drew one shutter ajar, enough to allow a rectangle of light to fall upon the writing desk, and took down a volume of faunal studies. There I stood, fascinated by the exquisitely etched plates of various animal specimens in jars of embalming fluid: lizards, birds and even a tiger cub. Soon after, I came upon a fallen fledgling in our stable-lane: a specimen of my own. Believing the agent of preservation was simply a well-stoppered jar of water, I pilfered one from the kitchen. I gathered the tiny form and placed it into the receptacle, dunking it when it began to bob. I even labelled it: ‘Baby sparrow, Lad Lane, March 1825’. Naturally, when I checked on it a week later I was distressed at the putrid soup that had resulted. The sense memory of that odour still causes a turn.
My cast should prove a neater artefact. Certainly better than an entry in a burial ledger; better even than a tombstone. I can’t help but ponder its fate. Shall I sit as a curio on a high shelf in a dark oak study, a source of nightmare for Armstrong’s grandchildren? Perhaps the doctor possesses a whole collection of criminal crania that line the walls of a special room, and I’ll remain in stony-faced congress with my fellows for decades – until a clumsy maid nudges the shelf and tips my replica into oblivion. The promise of this unusual preservation buoys me slightly. Still, I admit to hoping that Helen does make some effort at claiming me. She will need the support of the few remaining Delahunts to wrest my remnants from the government’s possession, and that will be impossible. Her lonely petition will be in vain.
My warder is a man named Turner, an old Kilmainham guard with a grey moustache stained yellow and one eye turned inward. He treats me well enough because of my refined manners and clean habits. The details of my conviction don’t seem to bother him. He told me once, ‘You can never judge a man’s character by the crimes he commits.’