The Convictions of John Delahunt (29 page)

From the steps of number six, I surveyed Grenville Street, hoping she had just stepped out to take some air. The mid-afternoon sunshine had disappeared, and a breeze caused pieces of litter to scurry over the roadway. I cast my eye over the women and taller girls on the street. Helen usually wore a knee-length, navy-blue coat with a plaid pelerine about the shoulders. My eye was drawn to garments of a similar colour, but I was disappointed every time.

I checked the enclosed garden of Mountjoy Square, the inside of Kavanagh’s pub, and our local food market in Gloucester Diamond. Some of the stallholders would have recognized me, and known Helen by name, so I considered asking if she had passed this way. But I didn’t want anyone to know our business.

The light had faded by the time I turned left into Montgomery Street. Small grimy houses closed in on either side in the soft drizzle. Pairs of young women walked with arms linked. Others stood together in doorways, or leaned against dark lamp-posts. In the dwindling light all their coats took on a navy hue, and with their bird’s-nest hair and blank expressions, any one could have passed for my wife. I walked between them, looking from face to face. Not one of them lowered her eyes.

One woman stood alone near the end of the street, beneath the head of a lamp that curled above her like a bishop’s crosier. Her coat was like Helen’s, as was the colour of her hair. She leaned against the post with her left leg crossed before her right shin, the toe of her shoe resting in a puddle. Her face was hidden, and she stood with her shoulders hunched and arms folded.

I thought she would lift her head at the sound of my approach, but she remained still until I stood beside her. This close I could see the design of her coat was slightly different, and her shoes had a prominent heel, the type that Helen never wore. The girl looked up. She had dark eyes, set a little far apart. Circular smudges of rouge on her cheeks only drew attention to her pallid skin. She smiled at me. One of her incisors was missing. The other was made of a yellow metal.

She said, ‘I was miles away.’

I remained silent as her eyes searched my face. She tilted her head to the house behind. ‘I’ve a room upstairs.’

I told her I was sorry. I thought she was someone else.

The toe of her shoe scraped a few inches in the puddle. ‘You’re looking for someone in particular?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know her name?’

‘Yes.’

At the other end of the street, a lamplighter was going from post to post with a small flame at the end of a long pole carried over his shoulder. The women teased him as he went about his nightly chore.

‘Well, maybe I know her.’

Before the lamplighter could get any closer, I left the prostitute and turned the corner into Amiens Street, doubling back towards the pepper-canister dome of the Customs House.

I was never going to find Helen like this. She could have been anywhere – across the river, in the next street, or even back in the house. I made my way home, still looking into the faces of women as I passed, still glancing down stable-lanes and alleyways. In the dim hallway outside our room, I listened at the door for movement, then turned the key and went in.

The room was cold and empty. I lit two candles and placed them on both windowsills. I also lit the fire, hung my wet coat over the back of Helen’s chair and left it before the hearth, then began to prepare dinner as I had originally planned.

I set out the ingredients on the dining table, took the sharpest knife from the drawer and began boning the joint and peeling vegetables. Butter sizzled in the bottom of the pot. I browned the meat, then poured in water and wine, added the sprig of herbs and watched it come to a simmer. I didn’t want it to over-boil, so I used the poker to shift some of the embers to one side, and placed the lid on top.

There were noises in the stairwell. I crossed the room and pulled open the door, but I only startled two of the Lynch boys who were looking at a picture book. By their efforts to conceal it I’m sure it wasn’t suitable for their tender years.

I shut the door and poured another glass of wine. It was now almost completely dark outside. Any figure walking in the shadows might have been her. I took Helen’s clean clothes from the washing line and folded them on the bed. I lifted the lid of her trunk with the toe of my boot, and carefully laid the bundle inside.

A clink of glass made me pause. Something was concealed beneath her old muslin gowns. I lifted the dresses away to reveal several small, empty phials. Some stood upright, others had tipped over on their sides. One tucked in the corner was still half-full. I picked up the laudanum, swirled it about, and then looked up at the fireplace. Helen’s decoy bottle still remained on the mantelpiece, a sham symbol of temperance.

The phials in the trunk rested upon a stack of opened letters written on creased yellow paper. They all began the same: ‘My dearest Helen’. And they were each signed off by her brother, Arthur.

I went through them in chronological order. Arthur had begun writing that February. He had seen my name appear in the
Evening Post
, identified as the chief prosecution witness in the Cooney trial. Though their father, Mr Stokes, had forbidden all communication with Helen after our elopement, Arthur felt compelled to write and enquire after her health and happiness. Her reply must have been positive, for in the second letter Arthur declared himself glad that I had found lucrative work and that we lived comfortably, albeit in Grenville Street. He wondered why Helen had to be circumspect about the nature of my employment. As for her request to arrange a meeting with their father, he said he would try his best.

I heard footsteps on the landing below. But they were heavy and sounded like those of Mr Lynch. The door to the room downstairs creaked open and clicked shut.

Next, Arthur wrote to say he was sorry, but it was clear that their father had no intention of forgiving Helen for the dishonour brought upon their family name. However, he would allow the correspondence between brother and sister to continue. One of the subsequent letters was dated early June, which was during Helen’s brief pregnancy. She must have told Arthur that she was ill, as he expressed concern for her wellbeing. With terse language, he noted her news that I had applied to retake my final year in Trinity. He did not wish to belittle me, he wrote, but it was his belief that I did not possess the aptitude or dedication required to complete my final exams, and he feared the money spent on college fees had been wasted.

I glanced over the letter’s edge to the steam escaping the black lid of the bastible pot. It was difficult to feel slighted by so shrewd an assessment. I got up, added the chopped vegetables to the stew and checked the clock. They’d require twenty minutes to cook.

There were only two letters left. The first made mention of a loan of one pound sent by Arthur to Helen, which piqued my interest. This was during the difficult weeks following her operation. I picked up some of the empty phials. She probably spent a day going from one apothecary shop to the next.

The most recent letter was only a fortnight old. Arthur was dismayed at Helen’s latest missive, the crooked handwriting and peculiar passages. He seemed to be under the impression that I had taken the pound previously advanced and spent it on drink. He said that he enclosed another, and pleaded with Helen to keep the money concealed from me.

I shook my head. It seemed I had given her too little credit.

Arthur said if he did not soon hear that our situation had improved, he might have to take matters into his own hands. I rummaged in the trunk to see if there were any letters received since that date, but it was otherwise empty. I put everything back as I found it, laid Helen’s clean clothes on top, and closed the lid.

I went to check on dinner, and then set the table with two white bowls, each flanked by a tarnished fork and spoon. I laid out the bottle of wine and a pair of mismatched glasses, a tallow candle in its squat holder and the heel of a stale loaf.

When Helen came back in I was sitting beside the fire. She immediately lifted her head at the smell of the cooking and the sight of the table settings. I remained with my legs folded, an opened book resting on my lap.

She took off her hat and shook water from the brim, then put her coat on the hook so it covered mine. She came towards the candlelight.

I said to her, ‘I was worried.’

‘What’s all this?’

I marked my page. ‘I even went out looking for you.’

She went to the desk and dragged her chair over to the fireplace. She seemed stronger and more alert than before. Perhaps the fresh air had done her good. She sat down opposite me and pulled off her shoes, then extended her feet towards the flames. Her dark grey stockings had become black where they were sodden at the toes.

‘I’m sorry if you were worried,’ she said, as if the fault was mine, ‘but I lost track of time. You kept telling me I should rouse myself, so I went for a walk.’

‘In the rain?’

‘It was fine when I left.’

That much was true. I leaned across, took the lid off the pot with my sleeve and stirred the stew. ‘This will be ready now.’

‘Where did you get the money?’

I said the Castle had been in touch. Some obscure bit of information handed in months ago had resulted in a conviction, so I’d collected two pounds. I berated myself as soon as I said it. I should have told her the reward was only a guinea. Holding a towel, I lifted the pot from its hook and brought it to the table. ‘We’ve been scraping by for the past few weeks, so I thought you should be indulged.’

‘What have you done with my dresses?’

They were back in her trunk. She went over and lifted the lid, then changed out of her wet clothes. I ladled some stew into my bowl and said, ‘You must be hungry.’

I waited for her to join me, pouring her a glass of wine. Helen sat down with her arms by her sides, looked at the dish and swallowed, as if a wave of nausea had come over her. But then she lifted her spoon, dipped it in the broth and took a sip. I expected some kind of reaction, or thanks, but she just took her fork and skewered a piece of beef.

‘Where did you walk?’

She said around Rutland Square and through Sackville Street, down the quays as far as the Four Courts and across the river to Christ Church, then around Stephen’s Green.

‘Did you meet anyone?’

‘No.’

Helen slurped whenever she ate soup or broth. But she seemed unaware of it, for she’d often berate me for the same failing. It was so long since I’d seen her eat like this, I noticed the sound again. She would raise the spoon to her lips, pause and blow at the slight wisps of steam; then came the quick intake of breath and the wet ripple.

A small amount of broth ran from the corner of her mouth down her chin. She used the sleeve of her dress to wipe it away – the one I had cleaned a few days before.

When finished she pushed the plate towards the middle of the table and leaned back in her chair. A slight colour had returned to her cheeks. She even offered to tidy up.

I used the last bit of bread to mop up the gravy in my bowl. Then I fished in my pocket and placed two of the empty laudanum phials on the tabletop between us. Helen looked at them for a moment before she realized what they were.

The colour in her face deepened. She took a slow breath and her shoulders rose. She hadn’t looked so striking in some time.

‘I saw your letters. Why would you lie about me to Arthur?’

‘How dare you go through my belongings?’

I put my cutlery on the plate, with the edge of the knife inserted between the tines of the fork. ‘You sound like one of your characters.’

She studied my face, and it was difficult to imagine how those eyes ever looked upon me with affection. She said, ‘You’ve learned your trade too well.’

With that, she rose and brought her glass to the mantelpiece. She took the stopper from the old bottle of laudanum, poured some into her wine, then began to drink the concoction with small gulps. I crossed the room in a few strides and knocked the glass from her lips. It hit the marble top and shattered, causing some of the wine to splash and hiss in the fire.

Helen covered her mouth with her palm, as if she had just let slip a secret. She pushed past me towards the door, but I held her by the crook of her elbow. She twisted around and struck my shoulder, so I grabbed that arm as well and shook her.

‘You’d fall asleep in the gutter after taking that much, and then what?’

She shrank back away from me, with her head bowed and eyes scrunched. Her teeth were bared as she sobbed, and I could see a cut inside her lower lip.

Her strength began to ebb, though I knew it was just the opium taking effect. She stopped crying. Her face relaxed, and she began to breathe heavily, as if she was already asleep while standing up. When I let go she tottered, so I scooped her up and dropped her on the bed. She lay face down in the covers for several seconds. Then her head jerked to the side. She took a gasping breath, and settled into an uneasy slumber.

I went to the door-hook and rifled through her coat. One pocket was weighed down by two new phials. I looked further, found her purse, and emptied the coins on the table. Then I gathered all the laudanum, including the bottle on the mantelpiece and the half-phial from her trunk. A gust made the papers on Helen’s desk stir when I raised the sash window. Raindrops fell on the sill. I took the stopper from each bottle and upended them outside. The liquid was whipped into droplets by the wind and mingled with the rain. As the bottles emptied I placed them in a row on Helen’s desk. I went back to the table and ladled out another bowl of stew.

The leafy enclosure of Botany Bay could be seen a hundred times in raindrops that clung to the window of the common room. Occasionally, a strong gust made the branch of a nearby birch tree lash against the panes. The bad weather meant that the room of the Repeal Society was busier than usual, so more than a dozen students lounged about. I sat in the corner reading a book, forever losing my place because of the loud conversation of three members who occupied a couch before the hearth. One was a law student called Crawley. I didn’t know the others. They spoke of a gathering they would attend that evening, and some of the eligible daughters who would be present. Crawley was the most offensive of the three, cajoling one of the others to ask a Miss Jameson to dance during the ball, wagering five pounds that she would say no. His friend demurred, saying he could not begin a courtship with a young lady if there was money involved.