So great was the crowd in the bar of the Belleville that you could barely find a table upon which to rest your glass, let alone a chair upon which to rest your bottom.
Smoke from pipes, cigars and cigarettes filled the air like ectoplasm and, hyperbole being the order of the day, the clamour of the men of the fourth estate rose like the wail of the damned teetering on the verge of the pit. If you wished to order a drink, express an opinion or simply greet a friend, the only way to do it was to roar at the pitch of your voice and with reporters in from Cork, Belfast and as far afield as Liverpool all doing likewise, the racket was, as Mr Flanagan put it, positively Pentecostal.
Even sharp-eyed locals were too busy ferrying booze from the bar to their corner refuge to notice that a breathless Blazes Boylan had found his way to the waterhole and, having grabbed the barmaid’s attention, was hoarsely demanding service in the form of three large gins.
‘Here, isn’t that Gandy?’ Robbie Randall said. Gesturing with a half full glass, he shouted, ‘Gandy. Over there. What’s he doing here? I thought he was on duty.’
‘When did that ever stop Gandy,’ said Charlie Palfry who, following the line of spillage from Randall’s glass, had spotted the sergeant’s cap bobbing above the heads of the multitude.
‘Perhaps he has a titbit or two to sell,’ Robbie Randall suggested. ‘Who’s going to stand him a jar?’
Jack Delaney had secured a bread roll filled with sausage meat. He crammed the roll into his mouth and sluiced it down with porter. ‘He’s here with Boylan.’
‘Blazes? Where?’ said Mr Flanagan.
Juggling three glasses of London Dry, Blazes elbowed through the crowd. ‘Here he is, the man o’ the hour,’ Mr Palfry declared.
‘One for me?’ said Flanagan, reaching out. ‘How kind.’
‘Get off,’ said Blazes savagely. He looked around for a ledge upon which to place the glasses but, finding none, reluctantly passed one glass to Delaney with the warning, ‘Touch a drop and you’re a dead man.’
He drained the glass in his right hand, as if gin had no more bite than tap water, retrieved the second glass from Delaney, drained it too and, stooping, put the empties on the floor behind a potted plant. ‘God Jesus, but I needed that.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Jack Delaney. ‘If I were you, though, I’d go easy on the grog, Hughie. You’re in the box this afternoon and you’ll need all your wits about you.’
‘Particularly if Slater has a female witness who saw the whole thing,’ said Charlie Palfry. ‘Does anyone know who she is?’
‘One of Bloom’s tarts,’ said Blazes.
Breathing had returned to normal but he was still sweating. He blinked, flicked away a greasy droplet from his brow and tipped back half the contents of the third glass.
‘How many tarts does Bloom have?’ said Randall.
‘Two at least,’ said Boylan.
‘Who’s the other one?’ Mr Palfry asked.
‘Martha Clifford. Christ knows who she is,’ Blazes answered. ‘I have letters from her to Bloom, so I know she exists. She’s a dirty devil, too, I tell you, a spanker. Just Bloom’s type. I didn’t know anything about the cripple, though. He kept her dark all right.’
Sergeant Gandy loomed behind Boylan. His eyes roved hopefully from gin to stout. He licked his moustache with a thick red tongue and cleared his throat.
Blazes swung round. ‘Why are you trailing me, Gandy?’
‘Told you already,’ the sergeant said, ‘it’s me job.’
‘Who sent you?’ said Blazes. ‘Kinsella, was it?’
‘Machin,’ Gandy said. ‘Is that Guinness you have there?’
‘For God’s sake, Blazes, buy him a pint,’ Mr Palfry said. ‘He’s your man after all.’
‘He is not my man,’ said Blazes. ‘He’s Machin’s man.’
‘Tell you what, Sergeant, I’ll spring for a pint,’ said Robbie Randall, ‘if you tip us a wink what Slater’s got up his sleeve?’
‘Kinsella thinks he’s turned up a witness puts Mr Boylan with Bloom outside Nancy O’Rouke’s on the night in question,’ Gandy said. ‘Now, what about that pint, eh?’
Flanagan said, ‘What’s your part in it, Jack, since you’re sitting with the witnesses?’
‘Buy me a drink, for God’s sake,’ said Gandy.
‘Yes, Jack,’ said Palfry, ‘what is your contribution?’
‘Wait and see,’ Jack Delaney said.
‘One drink,’ said Gandy.
‘Jesus!’ Digging into his pocket Blazes brought out a ten shilling note and held it up between finger and thumb. ‘Get yourself a pint, Gandy, fetch me another double London while you’re at it, and don’t pocket the change.’
He polished off the gin in the remaining glass and, stooping again, deposited the empty by the potted plant. Then he rose and confronted the Star’s reporter. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You squealed. You toadied to Kinsella.’
‘Did you, Jack?’ said Mr Palfry.
‘Ask him what he’s doing on the witness benches if it isn’t to see me fixed,’ Blazes shouted. ‘Where’s Gandy? Where’s my bloody gin?’ He swivelled on his heel, lost balance, righted himself and cried, ‘You’re all the same, every bloody one of you. Licking the coppers’ arses. Bugger you, Delaney! Bugger you for a squealer!’
The punch had no weight behind it.
Delaney intercepted the fist before it travelled far from Boylan’s shoulder and deftly turned the blow aside.
Blazes lost balance and would have toppled to the floor if Gandy’s reflexes had not been so sharp. He fended Blazes against his chest, spilling not one drop of London Dry in the process. The same could not be said for the pint of stout, the contents of which slopped over Blazes like a baptism.
‘Mother o’ God,’ said Gandy. ‘Look what you’ve done to yourself now, Mr Boylan,’ and swiftly downing the rest of the stout and all of the gin, dragged the dandy outside to swab him down before court time.
‘I don’t know who’s going to pay for all this,’ Milly said. ‘I can’t possibly repay you for all you’ve done for me.’
‘I’ll take it out of your salary if it’ll make you feel better,’ Harry Coghlan said cheerfully. ‘Penny a week for twenty years.’
Michael Paterson had steered her safely through the crowd of reporters and spectators who had gathered outside the courthouse to catch a glimpse of the villain’s daughter. Michael had sent Harry Coghlan out to find a cab and bring it to the steps of the courthouse for the express purpose of whisking Milly away from the vicinity of Store Street. He said, ‘In the light of what you heard this morning, Milly, may I assume you no longer wish to lodge with the Boylans?’
‘No, I do not. I can’t bear to look at the man.’
‘Then the quicker we get you out of there the better,’ Michael said and instructed the cabby to drive to the Rechabites’ Hall.
In spite of her shock at the latest revelations, Milly remained convinced of her father’s innocence. What riled her wasn’t that her father had found himself a sweetheart or that her mother had given herself to Blazes Boylan but that she, Milly, had been stupid enough to fall for Hugh Boylan’s wiles. Her anger did not lessen during the short journey across the Liffey and, if it hadn’t been for Michael Paterson’s restraining hand, she would have thrown herself on Daphne Boylan as soon as Blazes’s sister opened the door.
‘Milly? What? Is it over?’ Daphne said.
‘No, it isn’t over. I’ve come for my clothes,’ Milly snapped. ‘Out of my way you … you cow.’
Daphne wore a canvas apron over a black day dress and had swept her hair up in a bun and pinned it with a comb. She made no move to close the door but allowed Milly to stalk past her and flounce down the hall while Dr Paterson, politely removing his hat, introduced himself.
‘What is it?’ said Daphne. ‘What’s wrong with the child?’
Somewhere in the depths of the building Milly tossed furniture about. Harry remained with the cab.
‘Milly just found out about your brother, Miss Boylan,’ Michael Paterson said, ‘and what he did to her mother.’
‘Oh, God in heaven! Maude should never have lied.’ Cocking her head like an inquisitive parrot, Daphne said, ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To arrest me?’
‘I’m a doctor, not a policeman,’ Michael said. ‘However, Miss Boylan, in the light of what you’ve just told me it might be no bad idea to put on your coat and hat and accompany us to the courthouse.’
‘Maude told me to do it,’ said Daphne plaintively. ‘Maude told me to say Hughie was here that night.’
‘And he wasn’t,’ Michael said, ‘here that night?’
‘He didn’t come in until nearly six.’
‘Do you believe in God, Miss Boylan?’ Michael said.
‘What? Yes, of course I do.’
‘And anything you say under oath would be sacred?’
‘I can’t let Hughie down,’ Daphne said. ‘No matter what he’s done, he’s still my brother. Please, don’t force me to lie for him.’
Milly marched up from the depths of the building, lugging her suitcase. Her hat was askew, her mourning dress dishevelled, her temper undiminished. She swung the case and thumped Daphne Boylan’s shins. ‘Out of my way, you … you deceiver.’
Milly swung the case again but Michael deflected it.
‘Go to the cab and wait there, Milly,’ he said. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’
He watched Milly stalk down the steps to the pavement, the suitcase bouncing behind her, saw Harry open the cab door, put the case inside and help Milly up into the cab. He felt sorry for Daphne Boylan. He couldn’t force her to accompany him to court, let alone betray her brother, but he couldn’t ignore the probability that her sister intended to perjure herself.
He said, ‘Is that a comb in your hair, Miss Boylan?’
Her hand shot to the bun. ‘What … what does …?’
‘Give it to me.’
‘I’ll do nothing of the kind.’
‘Give me your comb and you may stay here,’ Michael Paterson said. ‘Otherwise, I’ll leave my friend to look out for you while I fetch a policeman. It’s your choice, Miss Boylan: the comb or the courthouse.’
She might be weak but she wasn’t stupid. She reached up and separated the comb from the bun, fastidiously picked a few fine grey hairs from the teeth and held it out to him. ‘What will happen to Hughie if Maude turns against him?’
‘I really have no idea.’ Michael Paterson slipped the comb into his overcoat pocket. ‘Whatever it is, I’m sure he’ll get his just desserts.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Daphne Boylan said.