‘The blacksmith bends over his assailant. It’s a man, with the blackened, hollowed-out head of a pig over his skull and face. He’s knocked him out. A constable comes along and he’s taken to Kevin Street. The attacker turns out to be the sentry on duty in the prison the night Olocher committed suicide and who claimed he’d been attacked by a black pig. They tried him, found him insane and that was the end of it.’

Swallow was thoughtful for a moment. Stephen Doolan was the most practical man he knew. He was not advancing a folk legend of half a century ago as a casual commentary.

‘You have a theory, Stephen?’

‘More speculation than anything else. There’s this Ripper loose in London. Maybe some lunatic here in Dublin has decided to emulate him, drawing on this Dolocher stuff. These two assaults sound almost like a repeat from the thirties.’

Mossop shook his head. ‘I doubt it, Stephen. Nobody remembers this “Olocher”, or whatever you call him. I’ve never heard of him. You’re stretching the idea.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ Doolan said. ‘You’re a Belfast man, not a Dubliner. There’s still some old fellas around the city who remember their mothers warning them as kids that if they were bad the Dolocher would come and get them.’

The G-men could almost hear each other thinking. No successful policeman could ever afford to have a closed mind. Stranger things might happen. Imitative criminal behaviour was well-recognised and documented elsewhere, in Britain, France, Germany, and in the United States. There was even speculation that there was more than one hand behind the current Ripper murders in London’s East End. Why not in Dublin too?

Swallow shrugged and made for the door.

‘Who knows? It makes as much sense as anything else. You fellows can figure it out among yourselves for a bit. But once this conference is out of the way, I’ve got to be elsewhere. I’m getting married in two hours.’

Chapter 20

The community chapel at the Merchants’ Quay friary was smaller and more intimate than the public church that fronted onto the river. Over a century of Franciscan occupation, the monastery on the sloping ground below Christ Church had become imbued with an aura of peace and seclusion. It was a sacred place, a refuge, for many Dubliners from all strata of society.

Friar Lawrence had arranged with the Friar Superior that once the community had completed the afternoon office of None, the chapel would be swiftly prepared for the wedding. A young novice rolled out a red carpet along the short aisle. Two branched candelabras were brought to either side of the altar. They would blaze with dozens of white candles for the ceremony. Green holly boughs and winter palms were brought from the friary garden to decorate the Communion rails.