It started to rain heavily later in the morning, taking the edge off the November chill but darkening the day. By then, Stephen Doolan’s constables had searched the ditches and hedges that bounded Blackberry Lane. In a patch of clay behind the farm gate, Doolan had spotted the imprint of a shoe or boot. He had succeeded in capturing its details in a plaster cast just before it was washed away by the downpour.
‘We’ll need every man you can give us for door-to-door inquiries,’ Swallow told ‘Duck’ Boyle. ‘I want to know the names and movements of everybody living up the lane. All the details to go to Mick Feore for the murder book. Then I need door-to-door, all the way back to the New Vienna restaurant. Everyone who lives or works along the route that she came home has to be interviewed and listed. I want to know about anyone who might have seen her or met her after she left the New Vienna last night. I’m going down to the hospital with Shanahan.’
‘Oh Jaysus,’ Boyle groaned. ‘Wasn’t I well off when I had your soft job in the Castle instead of bein’ out here in the drownin’ rain, leadin’ a crowd of bobbies like a football team. But it’ll be done. If I have to, I’ll draw strength in from t’other divisions.’
‘I appreciate the assistance, super,’ Swallow muttered through gritted teeth. He did not particularly care if Boyle picked up the undertone of sarcasm. This was his division, and as its superintendent the murder of Alice Flannery was first and foremost his responsibility. Technically, Swallow and the G-men were there to assist.
Dr Harry Lafeyre was already at the Royal Hospital on Upper Baggot Street as Swallow and Shanahan arrived. Swallow recognised the city medical examiner’s brougham carriage outside the main entrance. Earlier, a constable had been sent to Lafeyre’s house on Harcourt Street asking him to attend.
The post of Dublin city medical examiner was part-time and proportionately paid, obliging Lafeyre to juggle the workload with his private practice. He had served six years in Africa with the Natal Mounted Police, and he retained the investigator’s instincts developed there. That, together with his qualifications in medical jurisprudence from Edinburgh, made him an invaluable resource in any criminal inquiry.
The city had, nonetheless, invested money in building and fitting out a state-of-the-art morgue on Marlborough Street, just off Sackville Street, and Lafeyre had been invited to choose his preferred equipment and fixtures for its operation. He had sought specifications from modern morgues in England and Scotland, and these had been faithfully honoured. In addition, he was provided with a small office and storeroom in the Lower Yard of the Castle, close to the Army Pay Office.
He had finished his examination and was washing up when Swallow and Shanahan reached the hospital’s small morgue. His driver and general assistant, Scollan, was gathering his surgical instruments. A uniformed constable stood by the door.
‘I haven’t a lot for you,’ Lafeyre shrugged apologetically. He led the way to the examination table and drew back the covering sheet to show Swallow and Shanahan the small body. He nodded towards the uniformed officer. ‘The child’s mother was here to identify the remains. The constable took her statement.’ The constable stepped forward to hand a foolscap document to Shanahan. The G-man initialled it and placed it in his file.
‘She just didn’t have the strength to survive the assault,’ Lafeyre said, glancing through his notes. ‘Well enough nourished, but a slight girl. No signs of sexual activity or venereal disease. She took a terrible beating around the head and face. An extensive fracture on the left side of the skull. Cause of death was massive clotting on the left cerebral hemisphere. The corpus callosum was almost severed at one point. I’d guess there were at least three heavy blows from a club or something such.’
Lafeyre did not need to translate the Latin term for the fibrous material that links the two sides of the brain. If the corpus callosum was destroyed, the amount of force must have been considerable. Although Swallow had drunk his way through two years of medical school, he sometimes surprised Lafeyre with the amount of knowledge he had picked up. ‘You must have been sober in at least one or two anatomy lectures,’ he had once ribbed Swallow. ‘Yeah, one or two,’ Swallow answered, not untruthfully.
‘Could that club be a wooden fence post?’ he asked.
‘Very possibly. Certainly a blunt weapon, swung hard, applied with very great force, repeatedly. This was no quick blow struck in anger; the intent was deadly.’
‘Any other marks or wounds?’
‘Nothing too significant that’s recent. Bad bruising and skin cuts across the fingers of the right hand. Probably defensive injuries after the first blow was struck.’ He gestured to the corpse, ‘But there’s an old injury there on the left leg, running all the way from the hip to the knee and around to the buttock and thigh.’
Swallow could see an area of discolouration where the skin looked scaly and hard. ‘What do you think happened to her?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lafeyre shrugged. ‘It could be a burn or a scald mark. It’s not new, but it’s not from early childhood either. Anything from a year to three years old I’d guess. It would have been very painful and uncomfortable I’d have thought. It probably hasn’t been treated as it ought.’
Shanahan scribbled details in his notebook as Lafeyre continued.
‘She’s still in rigor mortis.’ He glanced at the death certificate. ‘The hospital staff are giving me time of death here as 9.15 this morning.’
‘What time does that condition set in, doctor?’ Shanahan asked.
‘Usually three to four hours after death. But it can vary according to conditions. It can be affected by temperature, for example.’
A sudden gust of November wind drove the rain hard against the mortuary windows.
‘That’s about all I can tell you at this stage,’ Lafeyre said. ‘Have you much to go on?’
‘Very little just now, doctor,’ Shanahan told him. ‘Her name is Alice Flannery. She’s eighteen years old, the eldest of a family of six. Worked part-time as a waitress at the New Vienna on South Great George’s Street. The father’s deceased.’
‘I know the New Vienna,’ Lafeyre nodded. ‘It’s owned by a fellow called Karl Werner. An Austrian, as you’d expect. I think he claims some aristocratic connection back in Vienna. The place is very popular with the bankers and businessmen around the area. Then they get a late evening trade when the theatres close. They’d be fairly particular about their staff.’
Swallow nodded.
‘She probably did well to get a placement there.’
‘I’d say so,’ Lafeyre answered. ‘At least you won’t have to deal with newspaper reporters linking it to these Ripper murders in London. He’s after ladies of the street, not people like this. And I don’t believe anyone would think of Blackberry Lane as a haunt of prostitutes.’
‘A little detail like that won’t stop some of the hacks from speculating.’ Swallow’s tone was cynical. ‘If they can find words to frighten people, they’ll do it. It all sells newspapers.’
Lafeyre gestured to his assistant, Scollan, and started to move to the door.
‘If it’s all right with you I’ll release the remains to the family. They want to notify the undertakers. I’ve got a busy afternoon at my rooms. I’ll ask Scollan to take care of the details. Would you like to travel with me to the Castle?’
There was nothing more Swallow could learn at the hospital. Later in the day, he reckoned, he would visit the dead girl’s home and extend official condolences. By then the door-to-door and other standard inquiries would have been completed. He had arranged a crime conference at Exchange Court for five o’clock. Before that he had to brief his boss, John Mallon, chief superintendent of G-Division.
It was early days in the investigation, he told himself. He knew very little about the victim’s circumstances. Usually, in his experience, when one got to know even a little about a victim’s life, a motive and a suspect would appear fairly quickly. But he had a feeling that this was not going to be an easy process in this case. Murder was often a relatively easy crime to solve, but so far nothing was clear about the ending of Alice Flannery’s life.