The Eloquence of the Dead

Conor Brady

• Éditeur: New Island
• Année: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781848403000
• Sujet: Littérature
• Sous-sujet: Littérature policière et sur le mystère

When a Dublin Pawnbroker is found murdered and the lead suspect goes missing, Sergeant Joe Swallow is handed the poisoned chalice of the investigation. With authorities pressing for a quick resolution, the public living in fear of attack and the newspapers happy to point to the police's every mistake, Swallow must use every trick in his arsenal to crack the case. On the way he uncovers deep-rooted corruption, discovers the power of new, scientific detection techniques and encounters a ruthless adversary. Following leads from Trim to the Tower of London, The Eloquence of the Dead is the second of the Joe Swallow books and is a fast-paced and gripping crime thriller from the pen of a truly talented writer.

THURSDAY SEPTEMBER 29TH, 1887

ONE

News of the murder of Ambrose Pollock at his pawn shop on Lamb Alley travelled swiftly through the Liberties.

His killing especially alarmed the shopkeepers and dealers. But there was nobody in Dublin of whom it could be said that they mourned him. And if ever he had a friend or anyone to speak warmly of him, nobody could remember who that might have been.

It was the brutal and mysterious circumstances in which he died that impacted mostly on the public consciousness, causing fear and anxiety to spread abroad in the city over the dry, shortening days of late September.

The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sir David Harrel, did not attempt to deny that the murder of the pawnbroker and furniture dealer should have come to light sooner.

When the Assistant Under-Secretary for Security at the Castle, Howard Smith Berry, sought an explanation for the delay, the head of the detective office at Exchange Court, John Mallon, insisted that there had been nothing in the intelligence reports to suggest the imminence of any unusual criminal activity.

But Smith Berry’s personal security advisor, Major Nigel Kelly, was not persuaded. The word around the Castle was that the irascible ex-soldier from Belfast had given warnings about the laxity of the police in general, and the detective branch in particular.

Earlier, when the city Medical Examiner, Dr Harry Lafeyre, was called up to examine the body, its state of decomposition told him that the man had been dead for many days.

That the crime of murder could remain so long undetected on the flank of the Liberties, a stone’s throw from gates of Dublin Castle itself, was a serious failure of policing at a time when the administration desperately needed to show that it had the upper hand against crime and disorder.

The significance of various recent occurrences at Pollock’s only became apparent after Sergeant Stephen Doolan from Kevin Street police station had forced the back door of the shop earlier that morning.

The pawn shop and furniture dealer’s frontage faced across Cornmarket to the two churches, located side by side, both named in honour of St Audoen.

Dubliners were untroubled by this oddity of double nomenclature. One was Roman Catholic. The other, the older, was Church of Ireland. It was only fair, citizens argued reasonably, for both religious traditions to keep a partial claim on the peripatetic little Norman saint who had protected the city’s walls since the reign of King John.

Neighbours and customers reckoned that Ambrose Pollock was probably 60. His sister Phoebe with whom he operated the business was younger, perhaps 40. One side of the premises was occupied by a warehouse in which were stored the furniture that Ambrose bought and sold. In the trade, it was said that anything good that came into Pollock’s was sold on to the more lucrative London markets.

Brother and sister lived on two floors above the pawn shop. The greater volume of Pollock’s pawn business was drawn from the maze of poor streets, courts and alleys that stretched away towards The Coombe and the great, sprawling workhouse known as the South Dublin Union. But with the reputation of never refusing to make an offer on goods, however little that offer might be, it drew trade from across most of the poor, miserable areas of the city.

Phoebe dealt with customers in the pawn shop from behind a brass grille, while Ambrose monitored transactions though a half-frosted window from the back office. If he thought that she required direction on the price of any item brought in for pawn, he would rap sharply on the glass, then she would leave the counter and retreat to the back office to have his decision. It was Ambrose who determined charges, values and prices.

A grimy window with three pawnbroker’s spheres suspended overhead advertised Pollock’s to those with business on the main thoroughfare. But the entrance to the shop was around the corner on Lamb Alley.

Thus, while the pawn shop had a high visibility on the bustling commercial street, the entrance on the laneway enabled customers to come and go discreetly.

This was supposed to place a particular obligation upon patrolling constables of the A-Division. Officers walking the beats that touched on Cornmarket or High Street were to proceed through Lamb Alley to satisfy themselves that the premises of the pawnbrokers was secure. They were to note any unusual persons that might be encountered in the vicinity and to record anything that was irregular.

It was to emerge in the aftermath of Ambrose Pollock’s murder that these requirements had been allowed to fall into desuetude. Careless beat men no longer diverted into the alley, preferring to shorten their tour by continuing directly through Cornmarket. In reality, the premises were rarely checked. No intelligence was gathered on persons coming to it or going from it. Had it been otherwise, it is likely that the pawnbroker’s brutal murder would have been discovered more quickly.

A few days earlier, a young constable had just ascended the Forty Steps from the Liffey embankment to the curtilage wall of the older St Audoen’s. As he reached the street, he saw a closed car turning into Lamb Alley. It bore the trade livery of Findlater’s, Dublin’s most select grocers and wine merchants.

The policeman’s curiosity was aroused. None of the residents of Lamb Alley or its environs would be in the way of ordering their provisions from Findlater’s.

He crossed High Street, and turned into the alley. The deliveryman had drawn his vehicle to a halt outside the pawn shop entrance. The constable saw the driver’s helper open the doors of the car and drag an open basket to the tailboard. He balanced it briefly to adjust his grip and then hauled it through Pollock’s door.

The constable stepped across the alley and grinned up at the driver.

‘Things must be bad when the gentry are poppin’ their groceries into the pawn shop.’

The man laughed.

‘Ah, you’ve the wrong end of it. It’s an order from the woman of the house. Mind you, she must be plannin’ a good dinner and a fair sup of refreshment too.’

He winked, and raised his hand to his mouth, mimicking a drinking gesture.

The helper exited the shop and resumed his seat on the car. The deliveryman flicked the reins and moved off.

The policeman knew that Phoebe Pollock was not a woman who would send for expensive food and drink to be delivered to her door. Perhaps it was stolen property. Perhaps he had let the Findlater’s car depart too quickly. He pushed Pollock’s door and stepped into the shop.

Phoebe sat behind the counter as usual.

‘Is everythin’ all right, Ma’am?’

Phoebe Pollock smiled. The constable thought that when she smiled he could see the remnants of a once attractive woman. Behind her, in the back office, he could see her brother’s head and shoulders outlined through the frosted glass.

‘Why wouldn’t it be, Constable?’

‘I saw some unusual deliveries just comin’ in the door. You were expectin’ them?’

‘That was just some groceries I needed.’ She gestured airily at the shelves and display cabinets around her. ‘Everything here is grand, as you can see for yourself.’

The policeman returned to his beat. Why should he worry if people decided to spend their money in shops that charged double the prices they might pay in their own neighbourhood?

Later, at the station canteen, he joked about the incident. But he did not report it in the occurrence book. It was a negligence that was to cost him a reprimand and a deduction from pay.

On the following Wednesday, just before midnight, another more experienced beat officer had an unusual encounter a short distance from the pawn shop.

Some policemen disliked the beat section past the gates of old St Audeon’s. It was said that the place was haunted by a long-dead vicar whose malevolent ghost disliked human company. It was also a favourite dumping spot for nightsoil from the nearby tenements, where a dry privy might be shared by up to 100 people. The shit stank i...