By the time Swallow reached Grant’s it was closing time. The walk from Exchange Court through the wintry air was invigorating, but it also made him realise he was hungry. He had eaten nothing since he had taken the steak and kidney pie in the early afternoon.
The additional beat men on street patrol that Boyle had promised were visible. Two stood under the shadowy bulk of Christ Church. Another was at old St Audoen’s on High Street, his blackened night helmet barely discernible in the darkness. A sergeant and a constable stood half-hidden in a shop doorway at the junction of Francis Street and Thomas Street. In theory at least, Swallow reckoned, the streets should be safer.
Tom, the head barman at Grant’s, was dousing the last of the oil lamps around the bar as the laggard clients of the night shuffled out for home. His expression was sympathetic when Swallow walked in. He knew that Maria had expected him to be there from the end of his shift at six o’clock.
‘Bloody cold out there, sir.’
‘It is that, Tom. Busy night?’
‘Much the usual, sir. Brisk, but nothin’ unmanageable. I think people are savin’ up whatever few bob they have for Christmas. Mrs Walsh is gone up. She’s fairly tired what with bein’ off listenin’ to that fella Davitt and his friends all afternoon down at the Mansion House. You’ve had a busy day yourself I’d say with that business out at Rathmines.’
Swallow consciously evidenced no surprise at how Maria had spent her afternoon.
‘I have, Tom. A busy day. And not much to show for it.’
Maria’s parlour, above the bar, was their private retreat after closing time. When he climbed the stairs, she was in her usual easy chair by the turf fire. A small supper table, set for one, stood to the side of the fireplace. ‘I heard you coming up,’ she smiled. Swallow could see that she was indeed tired. She gestured to the table.
‘You’re not too late for supper. When I read in the Evening Mail about the murder I guessed you wouldn’t be home until late, so I had Carrie put some Irish stew in a hot box.’
The stew was good. Chunks of tender mutton with carrots and parsley for flavour. Maria’s cook and housekeeper, Carrie, knew Swallow’s preferences. There was a bowl of boiled floury potatoes too. He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a bottle of Guinness’s stout.
‘Would you like something? A glass of port wine?’
She shook her head. ‘No thanks. I’m very tired. I doubt I’d rise tomorrow morning if I took anything at this hour.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘You probably heard about the murder out at Rathmines. This is a bad one. A young girl’s head battered in. No clues or witnesses.’
‘Dreadful. The newspaper said it might be connected with these murders in London.’
‘No. Not at all, for God’s sake. That’s just the journalists trying to sensationalise things.’
He sounded irritated, and regretted it instantly.
‘What I mean is that it’s an easy line for a lazy reporter to peddle. Linking it in with these London murders is absolute nonsense. This is a respectable girl. Good family in poor circumstances.’
‘That’s some comfort, I suppose,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you know what happened to her?’
‘What, yes, but not why,’ he answered. ‘She was attacked just a few yards from her home. It might have been for any reason. We’ll find out in time.’
‘How terrible,’ Maria said. ‘May the Lord have mercy on her.’
He forked a mouthful of mutton and washed it down with the porter.
‘Tom tells me you were off at the Mansion House rally to hear Davitt. I didn’t know you were planning to do that.’
‘I wasn’t. Harriet insisted I should go. And I thought you might want me to keep an eye on her anyway. She gets carried away on these issues.’
That was certainly true of his young sister, he knew.
‘Did Davitt say anything significant?’ he asked unnecessarily. In the morning, at Exchange Court, he would read the G-men’s report of the meeting.
‘Mostly the usual things one reads about in the newspapers. You know I don’t have a lot of interest. But he’s a very powerful speaker. He seemed to be very upset about the authorities’ attempts to undermine Mr Parnell.’
Swallow’s mind flashed back to the set of protection logs that he had earlier secreted away in Harry Lafeyre’s room in the Lower Castle Yard.
‘He’s not wrong,’ he said. ‘They’re out to do him down. A terrible mistake, I think. If Parnell falls, what comes behind him will be more violent and ugly than anything we’ve seen so far. In one way that would suit Davitt. But I think he understands that Parnell could secure the bigger prize—Home Rule for Ireland.’
She was silent for a long moment.
‘Is it not time to get out of it, Joe? All this intrigue and politics and danger. I have a good business here, but it needs a man’s hand in it too. You and I could build it into a really prosperous enterprise.’
She sounded weary.
‘You know I don’t reject the idea, Maria. We’ve talked about this.’
‘I do. We’ve talked before, of course. But things have changed.’
She looked him fully and deliberately in the eyes.
‘I’m pregnant. I’m expecting our child.’