It had been a short honeymoon, Swallow told himself ruefully as he boarded the nine o’clock morning train that would carry him and Maria back to the city.
It was freezing after the warmth of the hotel, with an icy coating on the carriage windows. As they boarded at Kingstown Station he could see a hoar frost on the granite piers of the great asylum harbour. Behind him, a white dusting of snow topped the peaks that ringed the city to the south, Sugar Loaf, Three Rock, Two Rock, Djouce.
Swallow’s immediate instinct, when he saw the G-man bring Mallon the dispatch, had been to leave Maria’s side and cross the room to get details of what it might contain. But Mallon glared at him and made a sign to stay where he was. His responsibilities as groom superseded his duties as a policeman this evening.
The party had wound down with a sense of anticlimax. The G-man’s message, Swallow gathered as the news filtered out through the room, brought details of yet another attack on a woman in the city. He heard Mossop mention Gloucester Street. That was in the red-light district, just north of the river. This time, it seemed, the victim had not been as lucky as Debbie Dunne. Dr Lafeyre would be needed to examine the body of the city’s second murder victim in a week.
Mallon, Mossop and Feore had abandoned the celebrations and travelled to the scene as swiftly as their cab could make it along the unlit and partly paved road that led along the coast, through Blackrock, Booterstown and Merrion, back into the city.
Lafeyre and Lily followed shortly. Lafeyre’s intention was to leave Lily to her rooms at Alexandra College and then to visit the murder scene himself. ‘Duck’ Boyle took the view, not wholly unreasonably, that since the case did not concern his E-Division, he would stay on at the Royal Marine for a few more drinks, the cost of which could be added to the wedding party account.
Rooms had been reserved for the bride and groom and some of the elderly guests, including the friars, Maria’s uncle, Swallow’s mother and her brothers.
‘You and Maria should take the night here in the hotel,’ Mallon had told Swallow. ‘Whatever needs to be done, we can do it. We’ll see you at Exchange Court in the morning.’
‘What details do we have, chief?’ Swallow asked. He had temporarily detached himself from his bride to accompany Mallon and the others down the staircase to the waiting cab at the hotel door.
Mallon glanced at the flimsy sheet, torn from the ABC telegraph machine at Kingstown DMP Station a few minutes earlier.
‘This isn’t your business tonight, Joe,’ Mallon said firmly. ‘But if you must know, the victim is one Ellen Byrne, twenty-two years old, plying her trade as a lady of the night under the name Nellie Sweet, battered in a kip in Monto. Gloucester Street, to be precise. There’s an inspector from Store Street at the scene, and Shanahan and Collins are gone over from the Castle.’
Swallow knew the dead woman’s name from the files. Like many of the girls working in the brothels around Montgomery Street she would have adopted a working name that disguised her true identity. Many of them were occasional informants for G-Division, passing on snippets of information picked up from clients. Someone had a gun. Somebody else seemed to have unexplained money. A known criminal had changed his habits. It all fed into the G-Division intelligence machine.
Ellen or Nellie Byrne was a country girl, Swallow recalled. From County Wicklow, as well as his memory served him. And unusually among working girls in Monto, she was connected with various subversive groups operating in the city. As well as he could recollect she had never been connected to any incident or outrage, but she had come to his notice on a number of occasions as keeping company with men known to be involved in political violence.
‘Any witnesses?’ Swallow asked as Mallon stepped into the cab.
‘There might be. A beat man says he was nearly knocked down by a fellow flying out of the house. We’ll know a bit more as soon as we get into Exchange Court.’
Whatever G-Division knew as he and Maria stepped into the train, the morning newspapers appeared to have a good amount of detail. Swallow took a Sunday Sketch and an Express from the newsboy at the station entrance.
The Sketch had the story across four columns of its main news page.
‘Another Dublin Murder’
‘Victim a Woman of the Unfortunate Class’
‘Constable’s Valiant Efforts in Vain’
There is consternation in the city with the death of yet another young woman in violent circumstances last night. The victim is Ellen Byrne, aged about 22 years and understood to be a native of County Wicklow.
The unfortunate woman had lodgings at Chapel Court, Gloucester Street. Her head had received severe lacerations. It was discovered by a neighbour shortly after eleven o’clock last night.
Police Constable C35 who was on duty in Gloucester Street saw a tall man who is suspected as the assailant leave Chapel Court. The constable sought to restrain him but was incapacitated by a blow to the body and the attacker made good his escape. There was fog in the streets at the hour.
Police from Store Street attended at the scene, as did officers from Exchange Court at Dublin Castle. The city Medical Examiner, Dr Henry Lafeyre, visited the scene, as did a police photographic expert.
The Express had less detail about the murder, but, probably to compensate for dearth of knowledge, Swallow reckoned, reminded its readers in the first paragraph that this was the third assault on women in the city in little more than a week.
It will be recalled that on Friday night November 2nd last, Miss Alice Flannery, a waitress, was attacked near her home at Blackberry Lane, Rathmines, and sustained injuries which claimed her life some hours later.
On Friday night, Miss Deborah Dunne, a fishmonger, was attacked near Cardiff Lane on Misery Hill. Although she was badly injured and remains gravely ill in hospital it does not appear that her life is in danger.
These outrages confirm that the streets of Dublin are no safer than those of London where the so-called ‘Jack the Ripper’ cases, the latest also on Friday, have spread widespread terror among the populace.
It does not appear that the Dublin Metropolitan Police is any more effective in keeping the streets of the Hibernian capital safe than are their counterparts in London. Nor is the G-Division at Exchange Court, Dublin Castle, any more successful in detecting the perpetrator or perpetrators of these outrages than their vaunted detective colleagues at New Scotland Yard.
There would be a lot more of the same in the newspapers over coming days, Swallow knew. One murder in Dublin was a news story. Two and an attempted third within a week were sensational, particularly with the East End of London in terror over the Whitechapel murders.
When the train arrived at the Westland Row terminus they had taken a cab that dropped Swallow at the Castle before bringing Maria home to Thomas Street. The city was quiet with few pedestrians other than those going to or coming from Sunday morning religious services. The bells of Christ Church started to toll the hour of ten o’clock as the cab halted outside Exchange Court.
‘You’re rightly in time for the conference,’ the duty man at the public office told him. ‘Commissioner Harrel and Chief Mallon are just gone in.’
Swallow tried to remember when last he had seen the commissioner attend a crime conference at Exchange Court.
The parade room was full. Every seat was occupied. G-men sat on desks and in window alcoves while uniformed constables lined the walls. The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and tobacco and tired men. Mallon took the rostrum at the end of the room, flanked by Commissioner Harrel in full uniform. The chief’s face showed strain and tension. And Harrel seemed impatient, tapping his right hand repeatedly on his knee. The divisional superintendents, A to F, sat in the front row before the rostrum. ‘Duck’ Boyle, red-eyed and bleary from the night before, looked as if he might slip from his chair.
Mallon saw Swallow enter the parade room and gestured to him to come forward to the front. Harrel moved to the rostrum. The room fell silent. Swallow let his gaze rove across the rows of faces. There were veteran sergeants and young beat men, hardened crime detectives and buckshee volunteers—uniformed men willing to work in plain clothes on lower pay in the hope of promotion to permanent detective duties.
‘Good morning, men,’ Harrel began. ‘I’m not here to direct this investigation. I’m not a detective. You have officers much more skilled than I in this kind of thing. Like Chief Superintendent Mallon here.’
The commissioner was an accomplished speaker, pitching his words so they could be heard even at the back of the room.
‘I do not need to tell you that we are now faced with a situation of the utmost gravity, and that the Dublin Metropolitan Police now faces a considerable challenge. Two women are dead, brutally murdered. A third has escaped with her life but has suffered severe injuries. My message to you comes from the chief secretary himself. No effort is to be spared to keep the streets of the city safe. And the pursuit of the person or persons responsible for these outrages will not abate until they are made amenable.’
A murmur of agreement rippled across the room.
‘I am afraid that this will require very considerable sacrifices from members of the force at all levels,’ Harrel continued. ‘With immediate effect, all leave is cancelled other than compassionate leave for the death or grave illness of an immediate family member. Patrols are to be increased in the hours of darkness. I am instructing all superintendents to release members from clerical and other duties in order to get the greatest numbers out on the streets. Officers on duty will exercise stop and search powers under the Dublin Police Act to the maximum. I will personally make random checks on selected patrol books to ensure that this instruction is being complied with. If there are those who believe they can prowl the streets with impunity, wreaking violence on the population, we will make them think otherwise.’ He paused. ‘I shall now ask Detective Chief Superintendent Mallon to bring you up to date on the latest developments and to outline further steps to be taken in these investigations.’
Mallon’s voice was heavy with exhaustion. Swallow guessed that he had no sleep after leaving the wedding celebration.
‘Men, a lot of you are tired, like myself, after a long night. You’ve heard what the commissioner has said. I’d like to stress that this job is going to be based on the fullest co-operation between uniformed and detective branches. We need every man in uniform we can get on the streets at night until we crack this case. And we need every detective working flat out, following every clue we have. As to those clues, we have a few. Constable C35 Pat Cummins encountered a tall, well-built man hurriedly leaving Chapel Court at around the time we believe that Ellen Byrne was beaten to death. He endeavoured to restrain him but was unable to keep up with him in the fog. We don’t know if we’re dealing here with one assailant or with a number, or if there’s any connection between the three attacks on women in the past week. But for what it’s worth, Debbie Dunne also describes her attacker as a big man. Now I know that’s not very precise, but it does narrow the field somewhat.
‘So,’ he gestured to a file on the rostrum, ‘we’ve got a list of every known violent offender against women in the city, compiled during the week by G-Division. We’re going to take each and every one of these characters and we’re going to bring them in for questioning as to their whereabouts on the three dates and times of the attacks. We’ll allocate the jobs as soon as this conference is ended. Now, are there any questions?’
A young, red-haired constable, his back to the parade room wall, raised a hand.
‘Sir, if you please. 22C, Constable Edwards, Store Street. The word is that Cummins says there was somethin’ very unusual about the man he encountered. Is that for public knowledge?’
Mallon shook his head.
‘No. I know what you’re talking about, but for the moment we’re keeping that confidential. I don’t want it going to the press.’
He glared across the room.
‘And that goes for everyone here. Whatever you may have heard about whatever Constable Cummins saw, or thought he saw, it’s not to pass your lips. If it appears in any newspaper, believe me, I know every editor and reporter in this city and I’ll find out who’s been talking. He’ll be out on his ear before nightfall, I promise you.’
One of Mallon’s clerks started to allocate the jobs from the file of frequent offenders. Mallon nodded to Swallow.
‘We’ll use your room. Bring Mossop, Feore and Doolan.’
‘What’s all that about, chief?’ Swallow asked when they had climbed the stairway to the first-floor quiet of the crime inspector’s office.
Mallon threw himself wearily into a chair.
‘Lafeyre will be here in a while to fill us in. He’s had Nellie Byrne down to the morgue for a post-mortem. The room was like a wreck. Apart from the blood on the floor, on the walls, on the inside of the door, everywhere, it was clear the place had been tossed. Whoever killed Ellen Byrne seems to have been searching for something in particular. I’d have said she put up a mighty struggle around the room.’
‘What was the young bobby from Store Street saying back there?’ Swallow asked.
Mallon gestured to Stephen Doolan.
‘You tell Inspector Swallow about it. You seem to know the story.’
Doolan sighed.
Swallow nodded a silent good morning to Harry Lafeyre as he entered the room.
‘35C Pat Cummins isn’t the fittest man in the force,’ Doolan went on. ‘He’s within an ace of retirement, overweight, drinks and eats too much, and he’s as slow as Findlater’s clock.’
‘I talked to him at the scene,’ Lafeyre said. ‘I think he’s probably suffering from diabetes. He shouldn’t be on outdoor duties at all in my view.’
‘Whatever the case,’ Doolan went on, ‘he says he tried to catch up with this individual but he lost him in the fog. Didn’t get much sight of him for most of the way, but he got one good look at him under the street lamp at the Gloucester Diamond.’
Mallon shrugged.
‘Tell Inspector Swallow what Cummins 35C says about this fellow.’
Doolan looked momentarily embarrassed.
‘He said he thought he’d seen him before. He couldn’t say where or when. But he’s got a notion that he might be a policeman.’