Shadow of the Dolocher Page 15

"I'm painting the portrait of a woman who has a badly scarred face." James thought this quiet an odd thing to be painting, but he didn't want to betray his artistic ignorance, and he nodded interestedly.

  "Not just any woman," Edwards said in a sing song voice, and this time there was no hiding the annoyance in Spencer's face as he flushed red. James looked at him inquisitively, was it one of the victims? "Mary Sommers!" Edwards went on with a knowing look to James.

  "Is this what you bought me here for?" Spencer said angrily to Edwards who looked back as though he were shocked at the thought.

  "I didn't know the Alderman was going to be here," he said laughing. Spencer looked at James.

  "He's been trying to insinuate that I've had something to do with the recent murders," Spencer explained.in a vexed tone.

  "Have you anything to do with them?" James asked humourlessly; he wasn't in the mood for these two drunks right now.

  "Of course not," Spencer said offended. He looked around as though impatient to get going.

  "Do you draw as well as paint?" James asked, realising that he had been rude and hoping showing some interest would erase it all.

  "I sketch before I paint."

  "I think I'd like to see some of these sketches," James said.

  "I was only joking Alderman," Edwards butted in again laughing, "I've seen his sketches, and they are not what we are looking for."

  "All the same I'd like to see some for myself," James said, "Nothing to do with the case."

  "You don't actually suspect me, do you?" Spencer asked incredulously.

  "No, but I like to rule people out instead of ruling them in. The killer is an artist, as are you. The killer is fixated with the Dolocher murders; you are painting one of the surviving Dolocher victims."

  "This is all coincidence," Spencer said, “Come right now, this instant and see my sketches," he said earnestly, and he looked at Edwards again with a dark look to which Edwards just laughed. He was extremely drunk, James had not seen him in a state like this for a long time.

  "He's also in the Hellfire Club," Edwards said in a loud whisper.

  "Come now, I'll show you the sketches," Spencer repeated addressing James alone.

  James wondered if he should go. If Spencer was the killer, he could be walking into a trap and Edwards would be of no use in this state. But then Edwards was always doing this sort of thing, embarrassing people and putting them on the spot. If he thought for a moment, Spencer was the killer he wouldn't be putting on this show. It would be a waste of time to go and look at these sketches, James decided.

  "Don't worry," James said dropping his formal tone and adopting a large smile. "I know you didn't have anything to do with it. There has been a new development. I wont say more. Come on inside and have some drinks and mingle." Edwards looked at James though dimming eyes at the mention of a new development. James mouthed 'Later' to him, and they all went inside to see the grand opulence of this new building at the gateway to Dublin.

  When they were inside, they were immediately flooded with greetings from all sides. Edwards ignored these and went straight to a waiter with a tray of drinks. Spencer was engaged with another officer who was there, and James stood back against the wall and looked at him, watched him interact and laugh with his colleague.

  Though he didn't think Spencer was guilty, he was a sound suspect, more so perhaps than any other, who had come to the fore so far. He was part of that same club as Edwards, however, and this one had the resources of the army behind him as well. It could be quite difficult to stop a man from that type of background, with a myriad number of people who might give him an alibi for any given night. It was even worse than when he suspected Edwards might have been the killer. An artist and painting a picture of one of the Dolocher's victims. These things added up to suspicion in his book.

  Chapter 37

  The low scratchings of the mouse came through the cold stone walls of Newgate Prison. Mullins listened to this noise and his heart warmed by the slightest degree; this was, after all, the only visitor he received. Cabinteely would pop by and talk to him from time to time, but the joviality of the man was unnerving and irritating, especially give Mullins' own dire predicament. Where did the mouse go each day at this time, what food source led it by the nose, or female by the loins? What Mullins wouldn't give for that same freedom. He leaned his head against the damp wall and sighed.

  Kate came to mind, as she did so frequently, and he ached in sorrow. He wanted nothing more than to see her, to feel the gentle touch of her small white hand on his own, it pained him deeply to feel the absence of her. Though he tried not to think it, the idea that he may have already seen her for the last time haunted his mind night and day. He owed her so much, owed her indeed all the happiness that he'd had in his life.

  Before he met her Mullins had gone through his life without love, and though he'd been fine at that time with not knowing what he was missing, Kate had changed everything. To have her there when he came home in the evening, to feel her warmth against him at night as they slept. In his mind's eye he saw her smile and this, in turn, brought a smile to his own face. Images of her laughing at his gruff ways and simple outlook on life shored up in him.

  "How beautiful she is," he whispered to the darkness. Of all the things of the earth, what he wanted most was one single moment of silence alone with his wife. With aqueous eyes he pounded the wall with his fist, feeling the moist mossiness come away with his skin.

  Who had done this to him? Who had machinated to put him back in this dank hellhole, and more puzzling still, why had they done this to him? What could he have ever done in his life that he would deserve this? Mullins couldn't even imagine that someone he might have doled out a beating to in the past would be so vindictive that they would go to the trouble of having him hanged for murders he had no part in.

  There was no power in Mullins to stop his mind from going now to the gallows, to imagining himself atop the frame like he was on a stage; all the people of the city out to shout curses on his soul and condemn him for the evil they believed him to have committed.

  Would anyone believe that he was innocent, even hear it in the sincerity of his voice as he decried all that had happened to him? 'You will be recalled in the same way that Cleaves is remembered now!' he thought. If only Mullins had seen through his friend, from the start, none of these things would ever have happened. But this thought displeased him too- if Cleaves had never donned the guise of the Dolocher, Mullins and Kate would never have become man and wife. How odd an idea this was, that it took murder and mayhem to bring the love of his life into being and this same murder and mayhem were the things that would take it all away.

  A cheerful whistle down the corridor announced Cabinteely's presence. Mullins listened and hoped the gaoler would not come in his direction. Gentle footsteps on the smooth stones told Mullins his wish had not been granted. He sighed and stood off to the back of the cell where the lamplight would not hurt his eyes when the hatch in the door was opened.

  Three loud raps came on the wood,

  "Mr. Mullins, how are you today?" the happy voice called out and then his gormless face peered in through the flap.

  "Same as before," Mullins sighed. Cabinteely made a face of understanding sympathy,

  "I am afraid I have no news to tell you," he shrugged. Mullins nodded at this; he hadn't been expecting any good news so was not disappointed.

  "Is there no way I can see my wife?" he asked the gaoler.

  "Were it up to me Mr. Mullins, you would see her every day, but I am afraid that this decision has regrettably been taken out of my hands." To his credit, Cabinteely looked genuine, and Mullins believed him.

  "Can I not be moved to a different cell hen, one that overlooks the outside?" Cabinteely shook his head slowly,

  "That is also something I have been forbidden to do," he said.

  "Please sir, I'm begging you. I feel that I shall die soon and the only regret I would die with was not seeing my wife for on
e last time," Mullins said in desperation. He really did feel the icy hand of the end approaching rapidly. Cabinteely squirmed uncomfortably, and Mullins knew that he was moved and wanted to acquiesce to his request.

  "There is just no way," Cabinteely said finally in vexation, "There are men working here who report on everything, there is no way anything associated with you could go unnoticed, and then God only knows what the Alderman or the army would do with me!".

  Mullins nodded in understanding, "I'm sorry' the gaoler whispered," and after a slight pause, "If there is some other way I can make things easier for you, please let me know." With that, the flap closed down and locked, and Mullins was let alone once more.

  Though he knew in his heart and soul that it was no doing of the gaoler's, if Mullins had been able to get his hands on him at that moment, he felt he would have killed him, dashed his head against the stones of the floor until he was no more than a rag doll in his hands.

  Perhaps violence was the only way Mullins was ever going to get out of here. He thought on this a moment, and then the reality of it dawned too. If he were somehow able to battle his way through the guards and get out the gate that would only be the beginning of it. He would then have to go on the run and live the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. That was no life for Kate to have to live, assuming he could get them both out of the city before he was caught. He leaned against the door and slumped down in sadness. Everything seemed more hopeless than ever at that moment, and nothing came to mind save the darkness that lay ahead.

  Chapter 38

  Spencer came into his dining room, a smile beaming from his face until he saw it was Edwards who awaited him.

  "Sorry to use a false name to get you down here Colonel," Edwards said cheerily.

  "Had you said it was you I still would have come down," Spencer said taking Edwards' outstretched hand and shaking it.

  "Oh, I don't know about that. I've had a distinct feeling that you've been avoiding me lately."

  "Not at all, I've just been at home a lot finishing off some paintings." Edwards looked at him, saw his nervous face. Spencer's hands were shaking.

  "I've seen one of your latest works," Edwards said, and he looked Spencer dead in the eye with a very serious look on his face.

  "Which do you mean?"

  "The one of the boy whittling at a stick." Spencer looked confused, but Edwards thought he was putting it on. "Don't touch that boy, I know who he is," Edwards went on in a menacing voice.

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Spencer looked rattled, he had lost weight lately, and in his artist's thin shirt, he looked particularly emaciated.

  "Look at what this is doing to you," Edwards barked waving a hand at him, "You need to put an end to it."

  To Edward's surprise, Spencer burst into tears and leaned against the wall. This was not at all a reaction that he had counted on, and it left him both perplexed and lost for words. He looked pityingly at the army man but stayed silent. He thought it best that Spencer get this outburst out of his system.

  "I'm not who you think I am," Spencer said through a hiccough as he regained his composure.

  "I'm not here for confessions, Spencer."

  "No, I'm not what you think, I'm not a killer."

  "Please!" Edwards said incredulously. How could he be like this in the face of what Edwards knew? "Those sketches are your work, I know it and so do you."

  "I swear to you that they are not by me, I can see the resemblance in style though,” Spencer’s voice was shaky, and his hands trembled as he spoke and Edwards found to his surprise that he believed him.

  "Then why are you painting Mary Sommers?"

  "Her face," he said sobbing. Edwards was confused. He thought he had known what was going on, thought that Spencer had been the killer and that he was so inept at hiding it that he would be caught soon enough. It was only when he saw that picture of Thomas Olocher's son, and he thought that Spencer's plans would impinge on his own that he came to confront him about it. He felt out of control, and his mind raced for an alternate face to pin the killings on. None was showing.

  "What is the matter with you then?" he asked grabbing Spencer by the front of his shirt and standing him up properly.

  "The painting in the lodge," Spencer replied weeping again.

  "What about it?" Spencer was talking about the portrait of the Devil that he had painted for the lodge on Montpelier Hill.

  "It did something to me, I see it everywhere, I see him everywhere."

  "Who? What are you talking about? Make some sense will you man!" Edwards looked into his eyes, and he could see fear there, and terrible tiredness; he looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. Edwards let go of his shirt, trying to calm things down. "It's alright," he said, "Calm down now, have a seat, and we'll get you a drink."

  Spencer let himself be led to the table and sat down like a child and Edwards went to the drinks cabinet and poured him a large brandy. He sat down across the table with a drink for himself and waited while Spencer calmed down and took a big gulp of the drink. His breathing returned to normal, and he smiled sheepishly at Edwards when he was more relaxed; his face alight with embarrassment now.

  "What's going on?" Edwards asked with concern. Spencer looked at him as if he was weighing up his soul, testing to see if he could be trusted with what he had to say.

  "You'll think I'm mad," Spencer laughed nervously.

  "I already think that," Edwards said smiling back at him. "Come on, you can tell me."

  "Ever since I painted that picture I keep seeing it everywhere."

  "What do you mean?"

  "When I am in a room, and there is a painting on the wall, I see in the corner of my eye that it is my painting, but then when I look at it, another painting is there in the frame."

  "That's just tiredness and drinking too much," Edwards said, scoffing at the idea that it could be anything else.

  "It's not just that. When I am in the street, walking somewhere or in my carriage, I might feel these eyes on me. I look up, and I know that I see that same face each time, but it disappears before I can settle on it in the crowd."

  "You think that you are seeing the Devil in the streets of Dublin?" Edwards asked to be clear that this was what the Colonel was saying. Spencer nodded, and then he laughed again, but his face broke just as quickly, and Edwards saw the fear in him once more. "There's no such thing as the Devil," he said dryly.

  "I thought so too," Spencer nodded looking around the room as if something might appear at these words.

  "And you were right," Edwards assured him, and then in a business-like manner, her said, "What do we need to do to cure you? You need sleep that is the foremost thing but what else, women? Do you need to go to war again?" Spencer smiled at this.

  "War would probably be the best as it is the most distracting."

  "So let's go start a war then!" Edwards cried. Spencer laughed, and he put a hand on Edwards' sleeve.

  "I'll be fine once I get some sleep," he nodded at this idea like it made perfect sense to him. They were silent for a short time.

  "I need you to think about something for me," Edwards broke the silence.

  "What is it?"

  "I need you to think who has had access to your sketches and would be able to copy your style." Spencer nodded,

  "I'd like to know that myself, I don't generally show the sketches to most people, just the finished painting."

  "That should narrow the search down then."

  "I'm sorry I've been so odd lately, I can't believe I led you to think I was a murderer."

  "Don't worry, I think that about most people." They both smiled, and Edwards wondered how true his flippant remark might be. He thought again of Scally, his real reason for coming here tonight. He would have to go to him and get him hidden, tell him that he was in danger. From who, though?

  They drank some more as the dusk set in, and they lit no candles in the room.

  Chapter 39

  The lustrous
green expanse of the Phoenix Park glittered in the sunshine. Alderman James was uneasy in his hunting clothes, and he feared to show himself up with a bow as it was not his preferred hunting tool. He had been cajoled into this social outing with Edwards, the doctor Adams, and Colonel Spencer. He was sure that all three men would best him in skill with the archaic bow and arrow. This was just the type of jaunt that Edwards probably got up to all the time, but James wasn't sure how often the other two men would partake of such a pastime.

  "Great day for it!" Edwards said jovially, looking out over the parklands.

  "What are we here for?" Adams asked, nodding to Edwards' comment.

  "Pheasant, or any bird saving that."

  "How are you with a bow Alderman?" Adams asked him with a big smile, he evidently liked this outdoor life away from corpses and dying soldiers.

  "I think I could hit the ground if I aimed carefully," James joked. The group as a whole laughed at this.

  They set off further into the wooded area of the park, away from the open plains where they had met.

  "These two men have been busy with this new killer," Edwards said to Spencer, loudly enough that the other two could hear.

  "Really?" Spencer said looking from Adams to James.

  "The Alderman more so than me," Adams said, "I just see the results of the killer's handiwork."

  "We'll apprehend him soon," James said disinterestedly; he did not want to talk about this topic right now.

  Edwards stopped walking and pointed ahead. They all looked, and no one spoke. There was a fine chested pheasant on a low branch preening itself not far from them. It hadn't seemed to notice them, or else it was so used to humans that it took no notice.

  "Would you like the first shot Alderman?" Edwards whispered, a childish excitement in his eyes. James shook his head,

  "I don't think we should start the day with a sure miss," he said and motioned for one of the others to go ahead of him. Edwards looked to Adams, and he stepped forward, unsheathed an arrow from the quiver and placed it delicately in his fingers against the bow. Edwards watched his fingers and technique with interest as he pulled back the drawstring, quietly and slowly, holding it there for a long time. Adams had one eye closed, and he pressed his back hand against his upper cheek bone. The whole park seemed in complete silence at that moment.