The Convictions of John Delahunt (12 page)

This encouraging missive was more than I expected, and I set about making the house more presentable for the prospective in-laws. Room by room I removed dust sheets, arranged furniture, scrubbed floors and straightened pictures. It began to look like the house I remembered as a child. Every shutter and window was opened to admit an airy light. I stood on chairs with a broom to remove cobwebs from the plasterwork in the ceilings. I dragged rugs into the yard and draped them over a beam in an outhouse. The trusty poker was used to beat out a decade’s worth of grime, and I marvelled at the swirling clouds of dust that emanated.

I told Miss Joyce of the impending visit, and she helped in the spring-clean, perhaps in the mistaken belief that it would prolong her employment. She scoured the range in the kitchen, removing the build-up of brown grease to expose the original iron surrounding the stoves. I put sheets on all the beds, cleaned out the hearths and hid bric-a-brac away in chests and trunks. In the drawing room, I removed the empty wine bottles corked with knotted wax candles, and placed my college texts in the bookcase. Miss Joyce informed my father that the Stokes family were coming to visit, and for what purpose. A few hours before their arrival, I saw her ascend the stairs towards his chamber with his razor, brush and basin.

Helen’s father was a lean man with a wide gait and slender fingers. His clean-shaven face was lengthened by receding hair at the temples, otherwise brushed forward in a youthful style, and only just beginning to grey. His wife had not aged so gracefully, and she appeared to be several years his senior. Mrs Stokes hailed from Edinburgh, and, despite her best efforts, could not conceal her accent.

When I opened the door, Mr Stokes immediately smiled and extended his hand, which put me at ease. Helen and her mother stood behind on the top step, and I was momentarily disconcerted by their resemblance. It was odd to grip Helen’s fingertips to welcome her formally, and she seemed timid in the presence of her parents. Miss Joyce hovered to collect coats. I asked her to bring up some tea, then invited the guests up to the drawing room.

As we climbed the stairs, Mr Stokes asked after my father, and I said he was as well as could be expected.

‘I’m glad. I’ll call up to his room later, if he’s able for visitors.’

We turned on the first-floor return and continued upwards.

He leaned towards me. ‘You know, when you were young, Catherine and I visited here once or twice for dinner parties.’ He looked around as if certain features would trigger memories. ‘Before your mother died.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

Before we entered the drawing room, he stopped and pointed further up into the stairwell. ‘Unless I’m mistaken,’ he said, ‘there used to be a net spanning those banisters.’

The fire was already lit, adding to the soft light of oil-lamps and candles reflecting in the chandelier. Helen and her mother sat on a sofa facing the mantel. Mr Stokes and I took the armchairs on either side. Miss Joyce entered and placed a tray on a sideboard, and we all sat silently as she served the tea. She had only been able to muster three cups of the same design; I received the odd one out.

It struck me that I should be leading the conversation, so I asked after Arthur, directing the question towards Mrs Stokes. She offered some platitudes about his health and studies. Mr Stokes said that Arthur had taken it into his head to become a field-surgeon. He was planning to complete a course in York Street in the next term, and then attach himself to a regiment.

This allowed me to bring up Alexander’s deployment, and they both showed concern for his well-being. Mrs Stokes seemed to recall my brother fondly. ‘Now, he was a fine boy,’ she said.

The conversation continued in a relaxed fashion. Even Helen began to join in – her observations would usually elicit a smile from her father. But the purpose of the meeting could not be put off, or at least Mr Stokes could no longer ignore the pointed looks from his wife. He placed his cup on the armrest and leaned forward.

‘Perhaps we could speak in private, John.’

I glanced at Helen, whose eyes were downcast.

‘Of course,’ I said, and led him across the hall to the study.

We sat either side of the desk with the lamp between us. His face stood out against the looming shadows of the room behind, and for a moment he looked at me without speaking. He retrieved a pipe and small tin of tobacco from inside his jacket, then crumbled some leaves into the chamber.

‘My wife expects me to refuse your proposal.’ He packed in the tobacco with his thumb. ‘And in reality, I probably should.’

He said mine was only one of three requests for Helen’s hand, and the others promised far more financial security: the Reverend Blacker of Malahide, and Lieutenant May of Merrion Street.

Stokes struck a match, and after a few intakes his head was wreathed in smoke. I took a heavy glass ashtray from a drawer and slid it across the desktop, just as he shook the match out. He threw it in, then swept loose tobacco leaves from the table into a cupped hand, and disposed of them as well.

‘But there are other things I have to consider.’ It was obvious to anyone who knew her that Helen had been happier in the previous few months than she’d been for years. It was as if a weight had lifted from her, and he could see flashes of a spirit he had last seen when she was just a girl. ‘It’s not hard to deduce that you are the cause.’

He looked around the room. ‘Helen told me you stand to inherit this house. It needs some work, but there’s no reason it can’t be made into a happy family home, as it was once before.’ He returned his attention to me. ‘If you attain your degree, you’ll find employment to suit your talents. Your income will be modest enough, but Helen will never want for money.’

Then he laid aside his pipe. ‘There is one consideration that sways my decision most of all.’ Arthur had told him every particular of his brush with the law during the spring. Mr Stokes knew it had been in my power to identify his son as the assailant of the police officer during the scuffle with O’Neill. He said I had shown uncommon character, not to mention loyalty towards his son, by maintaining silence throughout the police investigation, and again in the witness box. ‘You saved my family a great deal of humiliation and I have not forgotten. What’s more, you have never since mentioned the affair.’ The corners of his lips were downturned in solemn approval. ‘Even now, when you have sought my favour.’

He nodded. His daughter would be well served by such integrity. But he warned his wife could not know of this. As far as she knew, Arthur was innocent, and he wished for that impression to remain. He gave a rueful smile. ‘She will oppose this match, but I’m sure you’ll win her over.’ Details would have to be ironed out with some trips to the solicitors, but that would be a formality. He replaced the stem of the pipe in his mouth. ‘Mr Delahunt, you may ask me for my consent.’

When we re-entered the drawing room, Helen looked up expectantly, and it occurred to me too late that I should have had a smile on my face. Her flicker of worry was banished by her father, who was on my heels. He beamed as he entered, and said we would soon have to prepare for a wedding. She clasped her hands, brushed past me in order to embrace him. I was about to go and shake hands with Mrs Stokes, but her false smile had set her face in a rictus that was not inviting. Helen turned from her father and hugged my neck. Conscious of her parents, I was unsure where to place my hands, so I patted her back as if consoling a distraught stranger.

Helen’s father said a toast was in order. There was no champagne, but I had a bottle of claret that I was keeping by. I said I’d fetch it from upstairs, and take the opportunity to inform my father of the good news. I asked Miss Joyce to bring some wine glasses and the decanter from the scullery.

In my room, I retrieved the bottle from a press and swept dust from its label, then looked down at the forlorn iron bed in the corner. My father could sleep here from now on. Helen and I would move into the master bedroom. When I went to his chamber, he was sitting up, reading a document close to his face. He looked at me over the rim of half-moon spectacles and said, ‘Well?’

‘Mr Stokes and I have had a very cordial meeting. He gave his blessing for the marriage almost immediately.’

My father allowed his arms to drop down on to his lap, and he raised his brow. ‘In truth?’

I’ve noticed that people only seem to believe me when I’m being dishonest. I held up the wine bottle. ‘We’re about to toast the engagement.’

He shook his head as if still sceptical, but then some of the lines around his eyes softened. ‘I’m happy for you, John. It’s a most advantageous match.’

I thanked him. ‘I was also thinking that when Helen comes to reside here, we’ll need some new living arrangements.’

He lifted an arthritic hand. ‘I’d like to speak to Stokes in private though. Will you show him up before he leaves?’

He noted my misgiving and added, ‘For a medical opinion.’

I said, ‘Of course.’

He picked up a small paper-bound ledger, and began to leaf through the pages, as if he had no more to say.

‘I’d better return to our guests.’

In the drawing room, Helen and her father were speaking to each other in bright voices. I showed them the bottle and said, ‘Here we are.’ The fire-side table was still bare. ‘Has Miss Joyce not brought the glasses?’

Helen’s mother said there had been no sign of her, with a note of disapproval.

‘I’m sure she won’t be long.’

I went over to the bureau, rummaged beneath my college notes and found an old corkscrew with a well-worn handle and tarnished worm. I held the bottle by the neck and twisted it in.

‘My father is delighted with the news, of course.’

I wrapped my fingers around the handle and began to pull. ‘Unfortunately, he told me to say he’s not feeling well enough for visitors.’

Mr Stokes said that was a pity.

Bits of cork were coming loose, but the stopper wasn’t easing from the neck. ‘It is, but there’ll be many opportunities to meet over the coming weeks.’

I clamped the bottle between my thighs and tugged. The Stokes family watched my efforts keenly. The cork finally came loose with a loud pop. ‘Now,’ I said. The wine was rather musty so I put it on the desk. ‘We’ll leave it there to breathe.’

Helen was listing some of the people they would have to contact about the engagement: old friends of the family, and relatives in Scotland. Her gaze drifted over the mantelpiece while she thought of them, as if she imagined they were standing before the hearth.

She looked at me and smiled. ‘Wait till Arthur hears.’

Indeed.

‘And you’ll have to visit Cecilia, and try to send word to Alex.’

Alex wouldn’t be able to come, of course. I mulled over whom else I could invite. Some cousins on my mother’s side of the family still resided in Antrim, but we had lost touch since her death. My mother would have been pleased.

Behind me, the door to the drawing room opened. Mr Stokes looked over my shoulder and frowned. Helen and her mother craned their heads to the left with puzzled expressions.

I shifted in my seat and glanced back. Ned Holt stood in the doorway, blinking in the lamplight. One hand was on the doorknob; the other held behind his back. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his coat had dark stains beneath the elbow.

He seemed relieved when he saw me. ‘Delahunt,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d come to the wrong house.’

I couldn’t pretend not to recognize him. ‘Edward. I didn’t hear you come in.’ No one moved for a moment, and the silence grew uncomfortable. The loose cork rolled from the tabletop on to the floorboards with a soft patter. I said, ‘Let’s speak in the hall.’

Holt looked at the others and nodded, then stepped back out of the room.

Mrs Stokes said, ‘You know him?’

‘That’s Ned, a local handyman.’

‘He appears to be in some distress.’

‘He always looks like that. A poor heart. I’ll go and see what he wants.’

Mr Stokes stood up. I waved to him and said it was probably nothing, but Helen’s father remained standing. I took the lamp and went into the hall, closing the door behind me.

Holt had gone further into the passage. When I got closer, I could see his other hand was covered in grimy streaks of blood.

I regarded him sternly. ‘What did you do to Miss Joyce?’

He frowned at me for a second, then said, ‘The woman downstairs? No, she’s helping.’ He took a breath. ‘It’s Sibthorpe, John. He’s in your basement now, unconscious. He’s been badly hurt.’

‘Sibthorpe?’

‘I was reporting to him in Hogan’s pub and someone must have spotted us. We were set upon in Baggot Street. Tom’s been stabbed.’

It was odd to think that Sibthorpe could be just as vulnerable as anyone else. ‘But why did you come here? Just send word to the Castle.’

‘This was the nearest safe-house.’

I watched his tongue lick at the flaccid corner of his mouth. ‘This isn’t a safe-house. It’s my house.’

He took my arm. ‘You have to go to the home of Mr Gorman, the surgeon in Mount Street. Tell him it’s Castle business. Say it’s an emergency, and bring him here.’

I declined to say one of Dublin’s pre-eminent surgeons was in the next room. ‘You’re not thinking this through, Ned. Get a message to the Castle and they’ll send all the help that’s required.’

‘Listen, Delahunt—’

‘I can’t, Holt. Not tonight. If you want, you can get Miss Joyce to fetch someone. But I’m going back to the others.’

The door opened and Mr Stokes came out. Helen and her mother had also risen, and they peered past him.

Holt let go of my arm and placed his hand on my shoulder, staining my good jacket.

‘Sir, I must apologize for the alarm I’ve caused. A friend of mine’ – he nodded to me – ‘a friend of ours has been attacked. He’s downstairs now in dire need of medical treatment. John has kindly agreed to fetch a surgeon.’

Stokes hesitated. He looked at us both in turn. ‘But I am a surgeon.’

The hand on my shoulder tightened. ‘How fortunate.’ Ned wasted no more time. ‘Please come with me.’