Free The Eloquence of the Dead by Conor Brady Page B

safely in bed, lamps doused, sightless windows facing the street, doors barred.
    In the kitchen, he lit the gas mantle for a few moments to locate the cold supper of ham sandwiches that Harriet had left on the work table before she retired. He took the plate with him, biting into the first of the sandwiches even as he climbed the dark stairs to his room.

 
    ELEVEN
    The resources of the G-Division were stretched from early morning.
    At Lamb Alley, Stephen Doolan with three constables from Kevin Street had started to inventory the contents of Pollock’s pawn shop and furniture store.
    Knots of sightseers and idlers, drawn by morbid curiosity, continued to gather, peering through the grimy windows on Cornmarket. Mallon partially subscribed to the adage that the criminal sometimes returned to the scene of the crime. So he ordered that the G-men should watch the crowd and note their names.
    The Exchange Court conference was brisk and brief. ‘Duck’ Boyle was hung over and liverish.
    Swallow had half expected that Phoebe Pollock might have been located during the night. Every patrolling constable and G-man had been searching for her. But there was nothing.
    â€˜Orders of the day, Inspector?’ he asked hopefully.
    Boyle managed to wave a hand.
    â€˜Whatever ye think best, Swalla’. You’re close to it all. Use yer rank and decide yerself.’
    â€˜The best chance of turning something up on Phoebe Pollock is probably at the Northern Hotel. I’ll go down there again with Mossop.’
    They checked every inch of the hotel room again. The water had dried around the shattered pitcher and bowl on the floor, but there were no clues to tell them why the missing woman had come here, much less where she might be now.
    G-men and constables from Store Street questioned staff members and any guests who had been present the previous day. Did they see Phoebe Pollock? Did she meet anyone or speak to anyone? Did anyone perhaps follow her to her room?
    Other G-men went through the names and addresses of guests who had been present but who had since checked out. Details of delivery men and tradesmen who had called during the previous twenty-four hours were noted.
    Beat men across the city divisions were detailed to check the poisons registers that every chemist and apothecary’s shop was obliged to maintain.
    Liverpool CID had met the steam packet from Dublin at the Pier Head Dock, and surveyed the passengers as they disembarked. They had no sighting of Phoebe Pollock and nothing unusual to report.
    At mid-morning, Swallow knew the investigation was stalled. The questioning of the staff and the guests yielded nothing solid. A score of people had gone up and down the stairs in the half hour before the police had arrived at the hotel. Any one of them, for whatever reason, might have entered Phoebe Pollock’s room.
    â€˜It’s not looking great, Boss, is it?’ Mossop asked, spooning sugar into his cup.
    The G-men had wheedled a pot of tea out of the grim-faced housekeeper and were seated in a corner of the lobby.
    Swallow took Mossop’s question as rhetorical.
    Mossop grimaced. ‘What was she doing with the prussic acid in the first place?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Maybe she intended to take her own life. Or maybe she was planning to poison someone else.’
    Mossop ladled more sugar into his tea. Swallow often wondered why he didn’t simply pour the tea into the sugar bowl and drink it straight.
    â€˜I wonder if she’d planned to meet anybody.’ Mossop gulped at the hot, saturated mixture.
    â€˜Mind you,’ he slurped again from his teacup, ‘she must have been a fairly cool character. She probably did for the brother above in Lamb Alley and then stayed on for a week with his corpse in the office. That takes some nerve.’
    â€˜You’re using the past tense about her, Pat. Do you think she’s dead?’
    Mossop looked sheepish.
    â€˜Slip of