The Convictions of John Delahunt (39 page)

Turner came in as usual with my bowl of oatmeal a little after nine o’clock, and placed it on my desk. I didn’t glance up from my work. ‘I told you I don’t want any.’

‘I still have to give it to you.’

He picked up the untouched supper from the previous evening, and the nubs of two used candles. On his way out, he stopped in the door and said, ‘I should tell you, they’ve just arrived. The governor is speaking to them now.’

I shifted in my seat. ‘How long?’

‘They’ll be here in fifteen minutes.’

After he left, I gathered the pages of my statement and hid them beneath my bedding. I washed my face in the water bowl and frowned at my reflection in the shifting surface: the shaved head and gaunt face. I scrubbed my fingers, but could only remove some of the ink stains in the cold water. Then I tidied my bunk, flattening the blanket and tucking it beneath the mattress.

I was sitting at my desk when they entered. Turner came in first, followed by a man in a suit carrying a leather satchel. Finally, Helen stepped in behind them. She wore a burgundy travelling cloak with the hood down. Her head was otherwise uncovered, and her thick hair was loosely pinned. As she entered, she kept her eyes on the floor, as if mindful of where she trod. Her gaze swept over me briefly, and I saw she made an effort to keep her face expressionless.

I stood up and said to her, ‘Would you like to sit, Helen?’

But the other man stepped forward. ‘Mr Delahunt, I’m Montfort Sweetman, solicitor for the Stokes family. We’ve been in correspondence.’

Helen’s hands disappeared into the deep, wide pockets of her cape. A healthy colour had returned to her cheeks, and her lower lip had regained its former fullness.

Sweetman continued, ‘As you know, a petition was lodged with the Court of Conscience for a decree of nullity to be made against your marriage. On behalf of the Stokes family, may I say you were most gracious not to contest the issue.’

He paused, as if he expected me to acknowledge his kind words. Helen glanced up at the moment’s silence.

‘As I indicated in my last letter, the court granted an annulment last Friday. All that remains is that you and Mrs Delahunt sign the document together, witnessed by a third party, in which capacity Mr Turner has agreed to act.’

The warder nodded soberly.

Sweetman placed his satchel on the desk, and took out a folded parchment. He said, ‘Would you like to read the decree?’

Helen shivered all of a sudden, and pulled her cloak tighter.

I said to her, ‘It does get cold in here. I’ve grown used to it by now.’

She didn’t lift her head.

‘Mr Delahunt, would you like to read what you’re about to sign?’

‘No, thank you. Though … I’m curious as to the grounds for annulment.’

‘Well, Helen was not of the legal age required in this part of the kingdom to grant consent when you were wed.’ He withdrew a pen from his breast pocket. ‘And you were cognizant of that fact.’

Helen’s voice was quiet but clear. ‘We both were.’

Sweetman cleared his throat, unfolded the document and took an inkpot from his case, even though mine was open on the table. He handed the pen to Helen, pointed to a space on the sheet and said, ‘If you just sign here.’

She stood near me, close enough to touch her arm if I reached across. Her head bent over the document, and a lock of hair fell loose. She swept it behind her ear with her middle finger. When it fell again she left it be. Helen seemed to hesitate, and I wondered if she was having second thoughts.

Then she turned to her solicitor. ‘Which name should I use?’

‘Your married name.’

She nodded, and immediately began to write. The rest of us stood in silence as the nib scraped over the parchment.

When she finished, I held out my hand for the pen, but she handed it to me through her solicitor. I signed my name directly beneath Helen’s, starting a little to the right so the Delahunts would align.

Sweetman then called Turner over. The warder examined the document. ‘Where do you want me to sign?’

‘Just there, sir.’

I noticed that Helen was studying me. Her eyes drifted across my face and over my prison garb, and I became self-conscious enough to rub a hand over my clipped head.

‘Where exactly do you mean?’ said Turner.

‘Beside the space that says, “Witnessed by”.’

Turner began to write his name slowly, forming each letter with care.

‘Would I be permitted to speak with my wife … I mean with Helen in private?’

Sweetman said, ‘I don’t think that’s appropriate.’

‘I’d prefer to hear her reply.’

She stood still for a moment, and then lifted the hood of her riding cloak to cover her head. ‘No.’

‘But there’s something I need to tell you.’

‘I don’t want to speak to you.’

‘It’s important.’

Turner finished his signature. Sweetman sprinkled the wet ink with pounce, and immediately folded the document into his satchel. He said, ‘Miss Stokes,’ and she looked at him. ‘You are under no obligation to remain here.’

‘Then I wish to go.’

I said, ‘Helen, wait.’

Sweetman pushed the cell door open, and Helen began to walk towards it.

I wanted the last thing I told her to be truthful, so what could I say? That I was innocent; that I didn’t deserve my fate? But I wasn’t innocent, and I did deserve it.

‘I’m … not as bad as people think.’

She had already left the room without glancing back. Sweetman followed after, and I heard another guard outside escort them away.

I went over to the bunk and slouched down. Turner stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. I was about to ask him to go as well, but then he said, ‘Your message was received.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That he’ll think about it. There’s still time. If he does come here I’ll show him in.’

I retrieved my statement from beneath the mattress and brought it back to the table. Turner looked at me as I leafed through to the final page and took up my pen.

‘The yard will be empty if you want to get some air.’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘You won’t get another chance.’

‘I’m not finished yet.’

It was dark when I finally put down my pen and flipped through the pages, dissatisfied with the scrawled writing, the strikes and interpolations. I decided not to read through it, lest I be tempted to purge certain passages or embellish others. I numbered the sheets, tidied the bundle and left it on my desk.

At around midnight, the cell door opened and Turner came in. He nodded to me once, and then beckoned towards someone in the hall. Farrell came in wearing a dark coat. His shirt collars stood up against his jaw, and he wore his small round spectacles.

Turner said, ‘He can only stay for a few minutes. No longer.’ He left his oil-lamp on the floor and withdrew.

Farrell looked around the gloomy cell, and squinted at me through his glasses. He said, ‘Short hair doesn’t suit you.’

‘You got Turner’s message?’

He nodded.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said that you have some information for me.’

I invited Farrell to sit on the bunk, but he preferred to stand.

I picked up the ruffled pages of my statement and handed it to him. ‘It’s already written out.’

‘Usually we like agents to be a bit more succinct.’

‘I want you to keep this, Farrell. But you can’t let Sibthorpe see it. Or Lyster.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’ll know when you read it.’

He scanned the first few lines. ‘If this undermines Sibthorpe in some way, then I’ll have to show it to him.’

‘But why?’

He looked at me over the rim of his glasses.

‘Please, just read it first. All I want is for it to be kept somewhere. Maybe no one else will ever read it. Maybe it’ll be read and not believed. I just want it to be preserved.’

Farrell decided to take a seat after all, and he perched at the end of the bunk. ‘Where do you expect me to put it?’

‘In the archive.’

‘You want me to keep a statement that lays bare the workings of the Department within the Department itself?’

‘Yes.’

He considered this for a moment as he flicked through a few of the pages. Turner pulled open the door. He looked in and said, ‘It’s time to go.’

Farrell got up and came to stand over me, the statement held by his side in his right hand. I thought he was about to hand it back, but then he pursed his lips, undid the top button of his coat, and stuffed the manuscript inside. With that he turned on his heel and left the cell.

Turner said that they would come to fetch me at dawn, and began to close over the door.

‘Thanks for your help, Turner.’

He cocked his head. It was the least he could do.

I remained sitting on the bunk, cross-legged with my back against the wall, and stared at the candle flame as it trembled and swayed in the cold draughts. It appeared as a brilliant white against the surrounding gloom. I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and let the hours drift by.

I wasn’t fearful. I only experienced a numb unease, much as I felt before my first day at college, or when homesick while staying in Antrim. Thoughts of what might happen in the hereafter didn’t bother me. If I believed anything, it was that God would grant oblivion to those who wished it. But my mind couldn’t help turning to the mechanics of my execution, and I found the prospect troubling. I pinched the front of my throat and become alarmed at how little force was required to cause pain. Maybe there was a way to hold one’s neck that increased the likelihood of a break? Something to ask the hangman. But then I feared that in the commotion of the morning’s preparations, I might forget to seek his advice, so I rose from my bunk, took up my pen for the final time, and wrote ‘ATH’ in capital letters on the back of my hand. As the ink dried, I smiled at the thought of people trying to decipher this final message.

An hour after dawn, the prison began to stir. I rose and changed into the clothes that Turner had left for me the night before: a dark grey jacket of coarse wool, corduroy trousers and a crimson waistcoat, all in a nearly worn-out state. They fitted quite well and I wondered where they came from. Then I lay on the bunk and looked down the length of my body, imagining what I’d look like confined in a pine box. The morning light continued to gather in the portion of sky visible through my arched window, inexorable and indifferent.

I heard footsteps. Three or four people approached, the clicks of their hard heels against the stone marking them as dignitaries. The steps grew louder, and torchlight began to flicker in the metal grille above my door. Someone spoke in a muffled voice, his tone quite conversational, and he was answered by another, in a pitch equally carefree. Then came the rattle of Turner’s chain. Metal knocked against the keyhole, then scraped and grated in the lock as he turned the key. The bolt released with an echoing thud. Turner pulled open the door, sending a draught through the room, which caused the candle to gutter and blow out.

When that young turf-cutter found the Iron Age man in a bog in County Meath, the most remarkable thing wasn’t the dignity of his preserved face; nor was it the leather-bound psalter they found buried next to him; nor the tattoo on his forearm of a rearing horse in vivid blue ink. What every witness first noticed was the rope tied around his neck, the loose end frayed where it had been roughly cut. It was as if those who buried him intended for us to know.

I remember when I first came across John Delahunt’s story: it was while researching my first book, a social history based on the inhabitants of Fitzwilliam Square, Dublin, called
Lives Less Ordinary
. One of the square’s residents was Edward Pennefather, Lord Chief Justice of the Queen’s Bench, who presided over the trial of Daniel O’Connell in 1844 for conspiracy to repeal the Act of Union. In that book I found it was possible to retell much of Irish history through the perspectives of Fitzwilliam Square residents, by following them to political gatherings, or on to the battlefield, or, in the case of Mr Pennefather, into the courtroom. So I set about searching for descriptions of the trial. The following, for instance, was written by Anthony Trollope: ‘Look at that big-headed, pig-faced fellow on the right – that’s Pennefather! He’s the blackest sheep of the lot – and the head of them! He’s a thoroughbred Tory, and as fit to be a judge as I am to be a general.’

The outcome of O’Connell’s trial was never in doubt, mainly because the jury was packed with twelve Protestants. Trollope again: ‘Fancy a jury chosen out of all Dublin, and not one Catholic!’

Charles Gavan Duffy described the Repeal leader’s reaction to the guilty verdict: ‘O’Connell himself at that time whispered to one of the traversers that the Attorney General was moderate in only charging them with conspiracy, as those twelve gentlemen would have made no difficulty in convicting them of the murder of the Italian boy.’

I paused when I came upon that passage, intrigued by the title given to the crime, the clues about the unnamed victim, and the fact that O’Connell could allude to its notoriety. Duffy added his own footnote: ‘The murder of the Italian boy was a mysterious crime which had recently caused a sensation in Dublin and baffled the skill of the police.’

When I sought out articles relating to the murder, I first came across the names Domenico Garlibardo, Richard Cooney, and the crown witness, John Delahunt.

Lives Less Ordinary
stemmed from my fascination with the people who lived in Dublin’s Georgian houses, and the fragments of history they left behind: a coat of arms hidden in a stained-glass fanlight; a letter from a young lady to her mother describing her first dinner party; a simple childhood drawing of infant brothers playing in a nursery, while knowing one of their lives would end on a battlefield. The research carried out for that book provided a setting for Delahunt’s story, as well as a cast of characters. Bit-part players such as Professor Lloyd, Dr Moore, Captain Dickenson, were all, in reality, Fitzwilliam Square inhabitants. Some of Delahunt’s memories of childhood – his fear of coalmen, and the cargo net that spanned the bannisters in the stairwell – were based on the autobiography of A. P. Graves, Robert Graves’s father, who grew up in the square in the 1840s.