The Convictions of John Delahunt (17 page)

I couldn’t blame her. Another month had gone by without word from a family member or former friend. All we had was each other, and our only income came from my interaction with the Castle. Also, the small bit of money that had remained when we sold the house in Fitzwilliam Street, and paid off the bank, was almost gone. We were facing an uncertain winter.

So we made our lists. I pointed to a name of one of O’Neill’s classmates, and told Helen how we had spoken once in the pub. He had drunkenly confided that he wrote articles for an underground newspaper, which operated from a basement in Temple Lane. Its title escaped me, some word in the Gaelic tongue. But he told me his pen-name was ‘Penchant’. Helen giggled at its silliness. He was now studying in King’s Inns, and was due to be called to the bar in a couple of years.

I asked Helen about the man she had noted earlier. She said he was a friend of her father, an accountant called Graves. He was Protestant, but he was married to a Catholic heiress, the only daughter of Paschal O’Brien, merchant of College Green. Mr O’Brien had insisted that any issue from the marriage would be raised in the Catholic faith, and inserted a stipulation to that effect in their marriage settlement.

They had a child named Christine, who was Helen’s age, and a good friend when they were both young. Christine revealed to Helen that she was secretly being raised and tutored by Protestant governesses, all with the consent of her mother. If that was known, the marriage settlement would be void, and Graves would lose any claim he had to the O’Brien estate.

Helen took another sip of whiskey. ‘Christine swore me to secrecy.’ She began to write a note beside the man’s name. ‘But she hasn’t answered a single letter I’ve written in the past three months.’

In the end we only came up with five or six stories that would be worth telling the Castle. The sun had dipped below the terrace opposite on Grenville Street. Helen stood up and stretched, then went to sit on the end of the bed. ‘When you tell Farrell these things, does he just take your word for it?’

He did, as far as I knew.

‘Then you could always make some things up.’

I looked to see if she was joking. She didn’t seem to be. ‘I’d get in trouble.’

She thought for a moment. ‘But most of the information you bring isn’t acted upon anyway. It sits in an archive gathering dust.’

‘I’m sure agents who provide false information aren’t employed for very long.’

‘But they wouldn’t know it’s false.’

That was true. At least not until it was too late. The cheap whiskey was making my head ache, so I said I’d think about it.

On the last Friday of each month I went to Farrell’s building to collect my earnings. I was given a specific time – three hours after midday – presumably so agents were spared awkward encounters at the pay desk. In my year and a half of bringing information to Fownes Street, I never bumped into a fellow agent in the hall, or passed one in the doorway.

Chance meetings between agents must happen from time to time. I wonder if they tip hats, exchange a brief conspiratorial grin or friendly word. Maybe they avoid eye-contact and shuffle past each other, as if they’d met in a shop that sells erotic prints – like the one on Earl Street that Helen and I once visited.

When I collected the money that November, the guard at the desk said Farrell wanted to see me.

I said, ‘What about?’

He didn’t reply, just reached across and pulled the cord.

I climbed the stairs to the archivist’s office. Farrell looked up as I entered and gestured to an empty chair. When I pulled it from the desk, a hidden stack of files almost toppled off the seat.

He lifted his spectacles for a moment and squinted at them. ‘Just throw those on the floor,’ he said. ‘Sibthorpe has a little job for you. Actually it’s more of a demonstration.’

I grew uneasy, for I had seen one of Sibthorpe’s demonstrations before.

Farrell began to search through folders strewn on his desk. ‘He’s interviewing someone in the Castle as we speak, and wants his file brought over.’ He found the item he was looking for, a thin brown folder with ‘Matthew Gibson’ printed on the front. I recognized the name.

‘The barrister?’

‘The very same.’

Gibson QC had been making headlines for some time. He was a young Catholic lawyer who had gained a reputation by successfully defending several radicals in recent trials. He was about to take on the brief in another high-profile case, that of the head of the Rockites, who had been captured in Dublin over the summer. I knew about it because members of the oath-bound society had carried out reprisal attacks. They had smashed windows in government buildings, and a young police officer had been killed when the Brunswick Street station was set ablaze.

Farrell said, ‘Don’t dawdle.’

Sibthorpe interviewed Gibson on the third floor of the barracks in Lower Castle Yard. The office was about as big as our room in Grenville Street, with a few filing cabinets in one corner, a bookshelf opposite the cold fireplace, and his desk beneath a large window. Gibson sat with his back to the door. He didn’t turn at the sound of my approach, or when I held out the folder to Sibthorpe and said, ‘I was told to bring you this.’

Tom took it and thanked me. ‘Take a seat over there, John.’

Two chairs stood against the wall, from where I could see both men in profile. Gibson was a striking figure, tall and broad-shouldered. He was clean-shaven, with a straight nose and thick brown curls. He caught me looking at him, regarded me coolly for a second, then returned his attention to Sibthorpe.

I had interrupted a conversation. Gibson said he had come here because of an expectation that a proposal would be put to him regarding his client. So far nothing concrete had been discussed, and he had begun to suspect his time was wasted. ‘I’ve a mind to quit this meeting and take my chances in the courtroom.’

Sibthorpe leafed through some documents in the folder. He said, ‘But we’re only getting started.’

The door opened without a knock and another man entered. He was of medium height, with a wiry frame and sunken cheeks. His most remarkable feature was his hair, for when shaving, he had brought the razor above his sideburns and ears, completely baring the sides of his head up to the level of his bald pate, so only a clump of dirty blond hair hung from the back of his head.

The man began to walk towards me, and I straightened in my seat, expecting an exchange. But he took hold of the other chair to drag to the desk. He positioned it at the narrow side of the table, facing towards Gibson. Before sitting, he extended his hand to the young lawyer and introduced himself.

‘I’m Lyster.’

Gibson hesitated before gripping the hand.

Sibthorpe waited for Lyster to be seated. ‘You said you expected to hear a proposal, Mr Gibson. Well, here’s one. I want you to resign your position as advocate in the trial due to start next week, and further swear never to defend another radical in the course of your career.’

Everyone in the room was still. After a few seconds, a smile crept on to Gibson’s face. He shook his head, took a pair of gloves from his coat pocket, and began to put them on. ‘I don’t have time for this. Gentlemen, meeting you has been quite instructive.’ He shifted forward, causing his chair to scrape on the floor.

Sibthorpe looked down. ‘I have before me two unsigned letters to a man called Simon Purcell of Holles Street, dated in the spring of this year.’

Gibson made a point of continuing to don his gloves, his fingers undulating as he pulled one tight. But a colour had come into his cheeks.

Sibthorpe held up one of the letters, its envelope attached to the top left corner by a metal pin. He read some of it aloud, his voice so drained of sentiment that it made the contents sound particularly ridiculous.

‘ “My dearest S. My beloved and beautiful friend. What words can I use to answer your charming lines received this morning? In the month we have been separated all has seemed lost.” ’ Sibthorpe cleared his throat. ‘ “I can’t help but wonder: do you still sleep in your shirt-tails; do you still wake before dawn and stare at the ceiling; could you have found yourself another bedfellow?” ’

He stopped reading and looked up. ‘It’s signed “MG”. Did you write this, Matthew?’

Gibson remained silent.

Lyster said, ‘I might be able to help.’ He opened a folder on the desk. ‘A few weeks ago, I wrote to Mr Gibson looking for a legal opinion.’ He withdrew a document consisting of several pages. ‘I must say his reply was very prompt.’

Sibthorpe said, ‘Excellent. Let me quickly read from the second letter.’ He scanned through the missive. ‘Let’s see, Matthew asks why Simon hasn’t written back: “Could it be the letter was lost?” – not a bad guess. He wonders if Simon would be willing to move to London, as they had discussed several times, to embark upon a life together. “If you still wish it, meet me at our table in the Hibernian Hotel on the thirteenth at nine.” And he finishes, “My one friend, I love you more than any living thing, and time nor chance nor age can ever lessen this love.”’

Lyster said, ‘Hold on.’ His index finger traced over a page. ‘Look what’s written in this. “To do so would lessen your exposure to a fall in the stock price.” Let’s compare the word.’

They placed the love letter and legal opinion side by side and bent their heads to examine. Gibson took no notice of their charade. He turned his head to gaze out of the window.

Lyster said, ‘Mr Gibson has very distinctive esses.’

Sibthorpe agreed. ‘It’s undoubtedly the same hand.’

‘Very effeminate.’

Sibthorpe sat back in his chair. He regarded the young barrister. ‘I hope you didn’t wait too long in the hotel.’

I was impressed by Gibson’s poise. He didn’t seem humiliated, or angry at the intrusion. Perhaps he took solace in the knowledge that his friend had not rebuffed him as he must have believed. The letters had been intercepted, not ignored. I pictured Gibson at his table in the Hibernian, nursing a single drink, looking up expectantly whenever the door opened, his heart breaking a little each time.

Sibthorpe began to tidy the papers on his desk. ‘I think you’ll agree our original proposal was quite fair.’ Gibson continued to look away, but he nodded once. It was unclear what Sibthorpe thought of the young man’s vice. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘You’ll find plenty of work to match your talent in Common Pleas, and Exchequer. Just stay clear of Queen’s Bench.’ He made a note on a sheet of paper, as if recording the minutes of a meeting. Then he said, ‘You can go.’

When Gibson was halfway to the door, Sibthorpe hesitated, picked an envelope from the file and called the lawyer back. ‘I’m afraid we also had to stop this letter from Simon addressed to you.’ He motioned for him to take it. ‘It’s unopened.’

Gibson took the missive. His eyes lingered on the familiar handwriting, and the date of the postmark stamped in the top right corner. He turned the envelope over, gently brushing a gloved finger along the seal. Then he placed it in an inside pocket and left the room.

Lyster leaned back until the legs of his chair tilted, and said, ‘That went well.’ Then he turned in my direction and regarded me for some time, as if committing my features to memory. ‘Who’s this?’

Tom made the introduction. Since it was late in the afternoon, he suggested we go for a drink, but said, ‘First I just have to check a few things.’

He led the way through a series of corridors, past the stairwell from which I’d entered, and into a large workroom. More than a dozen clerks were seated in two rows of desks with an aisle between them. A series of tall bay windows admitted wintry sunshine on the right, opposite a wall containing square filing cabinets and neat bookshelves. The desks were like those I remembered from my schooldays: sparse wooden seats attached to their tables by wrought-iron slats. The clerks bent over their work, and didn’t lift their heads as we passed. I noticed the more senior among them had seats close to the windows. The only noise was our shuffled footsteps, and the scratching of nibs over paper and parchment, lending the room the air of a scriptorium.

I had assumed that Farrell’s archive was the extent of the Department’s administration. But of course it required more: an inner circle of civil servants managing correspondence, writing memoranda, receiving petitions, preparing accounts. I looked at them trace their words, and wondered if they made a distinction between a request for funds from the Chief Secretary’s office, or the warrant for someone’s arrest and interrogation.

Sibthorpe’s desk stood apart, beneath a slope in the ceiling caused by an external staircase, which meant he had to duck his head as he sat down. Five opened folders were set out. Sibthorpe took up a pen and scanned through the topmost document in each. When finished, he would sign his name at the bottom and close the folder over. However, for the last one he perused the letter for longer, wrote out a note instead of his signature, and left the file open.

An old clerk rose noiselessly, gathered the four closed files and placed them in a tray beside the cabinets. Then he picked up the opened one, glanced at its contents, and brought it to a worker in the far corner. The young man looked up anxiously, with eyebrows raised and lips parted. He appeared perplexed that his work had been found lacking, and made a show of reading Sibthorpe’s note before it had been fully set in front of him. The older clerk turned on his heel and went back to his desk without remark. Lyster caught my eye and winced at the young man’s discomfort.

Sibthorpe was writing in a diary, and as I watched him he appeared every bit the conscientious head of a department. I tried to match this version with the man who coerced witness statements from students, or the one who had Devereaux so ruthlessly killed.

Sibthorpe lifted his head to face me, as if he knew what I was thinking, but he was just glancing at a clock on the wall over my shoulder. He resumed writing.

Perhaps he’d ended up here more by accident, assigned by some harried under-secretary, who was unaware of Tom’s peculiar aptitude. If he had been Head of Public Works, or Poor Relief, or Hospitals and Asylums, maybe he’d have shown the same zeal, the same single-mindedness.