But what had happened? Why in the name of Jesus could Lafeyre not have told him straight out what had gone wrong? As far as he knew he had left a perfectly healthy wife less than a week earlier when he departed for Berlin. What was being kept from him?

He parsed and analysed the telegram over and again as the night train chugged slowly on the two-hour journey from Harwich to its London terminus at Liverpool Street. The two Essex constables, he learned, were regulars on escort duty, bringing prisoners from the North Sea port to the capital. They dozed with Carmody seated between them, one or the other opening a lazy eye to mutter the name of a station to his companion as the train slowed, marking their slow progress across the darkened countryside.

At Liverpool Street the uniformed Essex men handed their prisoner over to the three Scotland Yard CID officers waiting on the platform. Swallow recognised one of them from a visit to London a year ago when he investigated the murder of pawnbroker Ambrose Pollock at Lamb Alley in the Dublin Liberties. It took him only a moment to recall his name. It was Montgomery. Special Irish Branch. Family background in Donegal.

The CID man stepped forward, unsmiling.

‘Sorry to meet you again in these circumstances, Swallow.’

He held out a hand.

‘I gather the doctors in Dublin have done their best.’

Swallow wanted to shout at the man, but he forced himself to be very calm.

‘Thank you. Your men are in order there with my prisoner?’

The other two CID men had already handcuffed Carmody between them.

‘Of course. We’ve a car outside to take us to Euston. The boat train leaves there at midnight. The escort will travel with you to Holyhead and cross with you to Kingstown.’

He nodded to the platform clock.

‘You’ll be in good time.’

‘Look,’ Swallow took him by the arm, stepping aside from the others, ‘I need someone to tell me what’s happened to my wife. All I’ve got since I left Berlin thirty-six hours ago is evasion and silence. Can you tell me what’s going on?’

Montgomery grimaced sympathetically.

‘I’m sorry. I just know there was some sort of incident. An accident . . . I don’t know much more than that. Your wife was injured. But as far as I know she’s not in any mortal danger. . . .’ He stammered. ‘I . . . I . . . just don’t know any more. . . .’

‘An incident? Or an accident?’ Swallow heard himself raising his voice. ‘So which was it? Where was it?’

Montgomery spread his hands, palms downward, in a calming gesture.

‘Please, Swallow. If I knew more, I’d tell you more. Your own people will know more, I’m sure.’

He gestured towards the barrier at the end of the platform.

‘Come on. Let me get you to the car. You’ve a long journey ahead.’

Monday January 7th, 1889

Chapter 36