The Convictions of John Delahunt (31 page)

‘I’ve done everything possible to look after her.’

Something caught his attention. He went over to the mantelpiece and stood with his back towards me. ‘You forget that I’ve seen her, John.’ He picked up the music box that rested on the corner, and held it up over his shoulder. ‘This is hers.’ It went into the pocket of his greatcoat with small tinny chimes. ‘We met in Morrison’s yesterday. She looked halfstarved, wearing a ragged dress, like some …’ He shook his head, unwilling to say it. ‘But for the fact she had come to see me, the manager wouldn’t have let her in.’

I said that was just the effects of the laudanum.

He twisted around, his left sole scraping on the hearthstone. ‘That’s just the point. How could you let her become so addicted?’

‘She was almost weaned a month ago. Then you started sending her money. After that she could get as much as she wanted and use it in secret.’

‘I sent that money so she could buy food. Money that you stole.’

I allowed a pause. ‘Then how did Helen buy the drug?’

There was no answer. He returned to my seat and leaned forward on his knees. ‘You must have—’

‘Helen is in this condition because of her own nature, Arthur. She’s manipulated you. She’s become so adept at lying.’

‘Don’t speak of her like that.’

I asked why not? If anyone had the right to speak the truth about Helen, it was I. This situation was entirely of her own making. She was the one who had pursued me in Merrion Square and convinced me to elope. When our circumstances changed and we moved to Grenville Street, I had gone out to earn a living, while she remained here scratching out a novel that every publishing house told her was unprintable. There wasn’t a member of the Stokes family who hadn’t spurned us. It was only when I returned to college to improve our prospects that she was free to indulge her habits, all funded by her foolish brother.

I may have misjudged my tone. Arthur left his seat, crossed the room and lifted me up from the bed by my lapels. His knuckles dug into the bottom of my chin. I had to cock my head backwards and cling to his forearms for balance.

‘Don’t blame me for your own—’

‘Did she tell you she became ill because she insisted on having an abortion?’

His grip didn’t loosen, but he paused and searched my face. The pomade on his moustache smelled of lavender.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think so.’

Arthur looked down at his fists holding my jacket askew. He let go and walked towards the window.

‘The laudanum was prescribed by the midwife.’ I straightened a collar that had been left upturned. ‘I did my best to keep it from her. But it didn’t take her long to find other sources.’

‘Stop.’ Arthur looked down at the traffic on Grenville Street for several seconds. The sound of carriages trundling on the rutted roadway drifted up. He felt along the outside of his coat pocket, where the music box was hidden. I thought for a moment that he would take it out and replace it on the mantel.

Finally he said, ‘No,’ and moved his hand away. His voice had become monotone. ‘It doesn’t matter what Helen has said or done. I remember what she was like before you came into her life.’

One of the shutters was slightly folded out. He pushed it flush into the shutter box. ‘I’ll tell you what brought me here in the first place. I’m willing to pay the legal expenses required to petition the Court of Conscience to have your marriage annulled.’ He turned around to face me. ‘I’ll also give you two hundred pounds if you agree to cooperate.’

Watery sunlight slanted through the window, casting his frame in silhouette. Two hundred pounds was enough to live comfortably for a few years. I could move to a nicer room, closer to the college. There would still be time to focus on my studies and attain my degree. I couldn’t deny that Helen and I had struggled in the tenement over the last few months. If a stranger had knocked on the door and offered to dissolve the marriage, return Helen to her family and give me such a large sum, I’d have agreed without hesitation. It was like wiping the slate clean. We could both start again.

Well, I could at least.

‘You don’t have to answer now.’ He opened the door and paused at the threshold. ‘But the offer stands. If you see sense, send me word.’

When the door clicked shut I was left alone.

I’ve had a cellmate for the past two nights. He only comes in after dark, usually when I’m in my bunk and the candle is extinguished. I hear movement in the corners and scratching beneath my bed. Once I saw him dash across the floor, his slight black form flitting beneath the desk. Some prisoners trap and keep them as pets; I don’t have the time to form an attachment. I searched the cell for where he was gaining entrance in order to close it off, but I couldn’t find anything. The bottom of the door is snug against the ground; there are no gaps between the masonry or holes in the window. I was going to ask Turner if the gaol had a good mouser. But after consideration, sharing the cell with a cat would be even worse.

So yesterday I fashioned a snare of my own design. I put the water basin on the floor, pulled a thin strip of veneer from the flimsy writing desk and leaned that against the rim like a ramp. I had a deck of playing cards, given to me by Turner when I first arrived. I wedged a card – the knave of spades – between the strip of wood and the lip, just enough that it caught and remained horizontal, extending out over the water. Then I laid some bait: a few crumbs of bread sprinkled along the sloping length of wood; and a morsel of hard yellow cheese on the edge of the playing card.

Late that evening, I was disturbed in my writing by soft sounds on the cell floor behind my chair. The mouse was near the bottom of the ramp, sitting on his hindquarters testing the air. After a moment, he began to ascend towards the rim, stopping a few times to eat the crumbs. He got to the top, placed one foot on the delicate platform, and then the other. It didn’t budge. He stepped out fully on to the card and went to the edge, picked up the cheese with his front paws, and remained hunched while he ate, looking out over the pool of water.

The card dropped, and he disappeared beneath the rim of the basin, causing the water on the far side to ripple. I placed my pen flat on the table and went to observe. The mouse scrabbled at the edge of the bowl, his front paws finding no grip on the slippery surface. When I stood above him he went still, as if playing dead, and drifted for a moment. But when he began to sink, his legs kicked again. The playing card still floated in the centre of the basin like a raft, and the mouse went towards it, though as he tried to clamber aboard, it was pushed below. He continued to swim in a circle; the water swelled gently in his wake; his long tail slid wetly along the ceramic like a dark strand of hair.

It would be more humane to push him under, so I picked up the strip of wood that still lay against the basin and placed one end above the mouse, following his slow progress, letting its edge caress the top of his head. I dunked him by an inch, but he floated back up and continued swimming.

His hopeless persistence touched something in me and I changed my mind, dipped the wood beneath the surface and scooped him out. A filament of water splashed upon the stones; the mouse landed, rolled and lay in a drenched heap, completely still. I went back to my desk to resume my work. When I looked over my shoulder a few minutes later, he was gone.

I spent the day following Arthur’s visit cleaning the room. I brushed dust from every surface on to the floor, swept up small peaks of lint and grime and long hair, then used the dustpan to shake it all out of the window. I bought a carbolic soap and scrubbed the tabletop, dresser and mantelpiece, throwing blackened cloths into a wet mound in the corner. There was no mop, so I dragged a soaked towel over the floorboards beneath my foot, scraping it behind me with each stride as if I’d been struck lame.

The remnants of the stew remained in the bastible pot. Helen had usually been the arbiter of a food’s freshness, but to my nose the meat hadn’t begun to turn. I kept it aside for later. I cleared the cold cinders and began to wash the hearthstone, bringing out the colours of the inlaid ceramic. There was a large black smudge near the front of the grate where I’d pulled Helen’s manuscript out of the fire. I removed the stain with a few swipes of the cloth. Kind deeds rarely leave a lasting mark.

I went out to buy a bottle of wine and reheated the stew. It tasted better for its few days in the pot; the meat was even more tender. I sat at the table facing towards the fire. After each mouthful I’d put the fork down, take a sip of wine and stare into the embers. The evening passed pleasantly.

In bed, I lay awake for an hour, looking up at the filigrees of plasterwork in the fire’s last glimmer. I pondered Arthur’s offer. It occurred to me that the figure of two hundred pounds was in effect an opening gambit. What was to stop me demanding four or five hundred? The more I thought of it, the more it seemed an ideal solution for everyone. I did want Helen to regain her health, and she’d have a much better chance of that in Merrion Square.

But what then were her prospects? No suitor would seek the hand of a divorced twenty-year-old. And how would she spend her time? Would she re-enter salons hosted by her neighbours, accompanied by her mother, to become the subject of whispered slights and knowing glances? I pictured her sitting demurely in a splendid drawing room, wearing a fine silk dress, a cup and saucer held in her lap, surrounded by strident dames and their fashionable daughters, but with her head bowed.

The judder of a chair-leg and muffled shouts between Mr and Mrs Lynch drifted from the floor below. I looked over at Helen’s empty pillow for several seconds, and recalled how we used to make fun of their arguments when we first moved in. Then I reached over to the pillow, plumped it up, and placed it beneath my own. There was no sense in it going idle.

I didn’t attend college at all that week – with Helen absent there was no need to escape Grenville Street for part of the day. I rose late and read by the window, or took long walks through the city and meticulously planned my meals. During the evenings, I would go to the pubs around Gardiner Street and drink alone. The hours were beginning to drag. Whenever I stumbled back into the cold empty room, I would picture Helen as she was before her operation: sitting at her writing desk with one knee drawn up, smiling at me over her shoulder. I’d stand on the threshold for a moment, think about lighting the fire, then climb beneath the covers without removing my clothes.

On the fourth day, I spent most of the afternoon looking down at the passers-by on Grenville Street. I began to check the face of every young woman, wondering if Helen might return of her own volition. I even rehearsed what I might say to her if she did appear. I’d hurry to my chair and pick up a book, only deigning to mark the page and set it aside a full minute after she’d entered the room. I’d listen to what she had to say, remain calm but stern throughout, and say that she was forgiven. We all make mistakes.

I only thought such things because I wanted her back. More accurately, I wanted her as she was before she visited Mrs Redmond in Dominick Street. A few scenarios played out in my head. I could delay agreeing to an annulment until Helen was fully recovered, and then insist she be returned to me. Or perhaps it would be possible to conspire with her to go through with the divorce, so I could collect the money from Arthur. Then we could abscond to London, or even America, and start again. I had to say I liked this idea, though I thought it unlikely Helen would agree to betray her family for a second time.

But even if Helen came back, I’d still need money in the meantime. The following morning, I shaved, changed into my cleanest shirt and brushed my jacket. Fownes Street lay just beyond College Green, so it was only a few minutes’ extra walk to get to Farrell’s office. The archivist was among the stacks, carrying out a survey of all the boxes, weeding out files of the dead. Farrell said he hated the stocktaking. It had to be done once a year and always took the best part of a week.

I told him I had some information that he might like.

‘Oh? What’s that?’ He rummaged in an open box, checked an old folder against an index card, then placed it on a pile marked for destruction.

‘There’s a Repeal Association Society in Trinity College. They recently accepted me as a member.’

Farrell didn’t seem to listen. He wrote a note on a sheet of paper with a neat hand.

I said, ‘I’ll be able to give you the name of its secretary.’

‘You mean Corcoran?’ He brought the box back to its space on the shelf and pulled out the next. ‘Give us some credit, Delahunt. The only reason Trinity allows that club to meet is so the Castle can get the names of its members. I’m afraid that’s not worth anything.’

‘What about its newest members?’

‘Like you?’

‘I can get you the society’s roll book. It has all the names.’

A crooked stack of files on the ground tipped over and spread across the floorboards. Farrell cursed and began to pick them up. ‘The last thing I need is more names.’

I went to help gather some of the files but he stopped me. ‘You’re not allowed to touch those.’ I dropped the few folders I had already lifted. ‘Delahunt, I’m too busy for this. Just make sure what you give us is worth our while.’ He started to assemble a new stack. ‘Like the stuff you used to bring.’

I stood by the railing in Fitzwilliam Street and looked up at my old home, number thirty-five. The current owners had painted the front door a deep blue. The letter box and knocker were polished and gleaming, and a cracked pane in the stained-glass fanlight had been replaced. The window to the parlour was directly in front of me. Its drapes were open, and I could just about see the top of a yellow sofa. A scruffy Yorkshire terrier with fox-like ears jumped up. When he saw me standing so close, his head tilted to the side and he began to bark. He was joined on the couch by a young girl, who clambered on to the cushions. She put her hand on the dog’s head to quieten him, and we regarded each other for a few seconds.

I took my hand from my pocket and waved at her. Her eyes followed the gesture, and she waved back without smiling. Then she turned into the room, causing her hair to swish about. She pointed at me through the glass while speaking to someone out of sight. I pulled down the brim of my hat and walked a little further up the street.