The Convictions of John Delahunt Read Free

about. We were standing across from the Winter Palace pub. ‘Why don’t we step in for a drink?’
    ‘I can’t. I have to attend a lecture in ten minutes.’
    ‘But I insist.’ His eye didn’t waver.
    ‘Very well.’
    We went to a snug attached to the bar, where he sat with his back to the door. I faced him across a table upon which two glasses of port appeared. He took off his hat and smoothed back thick brown hair. His face was framed by neat muttonchop whiskers and a prominent brow. He gently caressed the inside of his hat, feeling along the silk lining to pop out a small dent in the crown. ‘My name is Thomas Sibthorpe.’ He nodded at the table. ‘Drink up.’
    I was greatly relieved when he said I wasn’t suspected of the offence, that he was merely speaking to me as a witness. They had a very good picture of what transpired that night, though they had to ensure all information was collected before warrants were issued. They knew that James O’Neill struck the blow.
    A bead ran down the side of my glass. I used my thumb to smear it before it touched the table. ‘Others saw O’Neill strike the blow?’
    There was no need to concern myself with what others saw. All that mattered was what I saw, and was willing to swear to. This was such a serious incident: one of Her Majesty’s officers maimed for life in the course of his duties. Stokes and I would be in cells at the moment, but for the fact that they knew it was O’Neill. All I had to do was swear to what I saw.
    ‘Have you interviewed Arthur Stokes?’
    He took a sip for the first time. This wasn’t an interview. Witnesses to a crime make statements as they are obliged by civic duty. Stokes had already offered an account which was deplorably vague. For Arthur, yes there would have to be further questioning. He leaned in. ‘It’s always unpleasant when young men of learning are brought for interrogation into the bowels of the Castle, and such an embarrassment when police boots invade the family home.’ And all so unnecessary, for they knew it was O’Neill.
    And what of O’Neill himself?
    ‘Delahunt, I will visit you at your home in two hours’ time. You will be required to make a statement to me regarding the events of Tuesday night, and the extent to which you assist our efforts is entirely up to you. I would consider that point carefully.’ There was no need to give him my address. He threw back his drink, fixed his hat and left me to pay.
    I pondered my position in the Winter Palace for an hour. I knew O’Neill hadn’t struck the telling blow, and I suspected Sibthorpe knew that as well. Still, it appeared that was the narrative the authorities had decided upon. They seemed loath to allow contradiction.
    Stokes, I guessed, had adopted the tack of claiming not to have seen the pertinent punch, which had not gone down too well. What would be my reward if I did the same? A night in a dank cell; interrogated and physically cajoled into saying what I was at liberty to say already.
    I drained the last drop from my glass. O’Neill and I had attended the same college and caroused in the same circle for nearly a year, during which time he never missed an opportunity to humble me in some fashion. My family’s straitened finances, my poor grades, my weak physique; he deftly cut to my every insecurity like a surgeon. Nonetheless, if put in my situation I knew he would not swear against one of his fellows. I brought the empty glasses back to the bar. Maybe that’s why the authorities had picked up on him.
    I made my way home to Fitzwilliam Street and awaited Sibthorpe. At that point the house was almost empty. My father lay bedridden upstairs, subsisting in darkened, gouty squalor in a room from which he had not emerged for over a year. My mother was dead, my brother served abroad, my sister married off. A middle-aged servant lived adjacent to my father’s chamber; his care was her sole responsibility and she and I had no other interaction.
    I took