The Convictions of John Delahunt Read Free Page A

a seat by the parlour window and saw Sibthorpe approach at the appointed hour. I opened the front door so he wouldn’t have to ring and showed him into the front room. He carried a dark leather satchel which he laid upon a writing desk.
    ‘Are you ready to make your statement?’
    I told him I was as he walked towards the closed double doors that separated the parlour from the back dining room. He nodded towards them. ‘Is there anyone in there?’
    ‘No. But you can check yourself if you wish.’
    ‘Oh I will,’ and he folded back the doors to reveal the gloomy, disused room. Those doors were only opened on evenings my parents hosted dinner parties. I can remember the long dining table laden with sparkling crystalware and mother-of-pearl cutlery, the hinged leaves at both ends hitched up like trapdoors in a platform. Alex, Cecilia and I would be shooed upstairs where we listened to the arrival of carriages, the greeting of guests, and then the happy murmur as the evening progressed. My sister and I would steal down below. We peeked in at the gatherings: the gentlemen in tailored black jackets, the women in their finery, the soldiers in dress uniform. Our parents would sit at each end, basking in the conviviality and gentle light. Whenever we were discovered – by a maid carrying decanters of claret or the butler with a broad silver platter – we fled, giggling, to the top of the house and our nursery. Cecilia would find some paper and begin to draw the ladies in their jewelled dresses. I liked to draw the soldiers. For some reason I always imagined them captured and enchained.
    The room Sibthorpe stepped into was shabby and decayed. The table had been pushed to one side and chairs were stacked beneath dust sheets. He locked the far dining-room door leading to the hallway, closed the double doors again and also locked the parlour door. He took a sheaf of paper from his satchel and found a nib and inkpot on the writing desk.
    ‘If you dictate your statement I will transcribe.’ He said I had to speak slowly anyway so I should consider my words. When I saw the top of his pen fall still I could continue. ‘Begin at the point you left the Eagle tavern.’
    For several pages my testimony came easily, for it was the truth. Stokes, O’Neill and I left the pub with two others that O’Neill had known. Stokes and I were not particularly inebriated, the other three very much so, and we meandered towards the river. There was a quarrel. O’Neill and one of the others began to exchange blows in Essex Street. I had seen nights end like this several times so simply continued on. After a minute the shout of an unfamiliar voice made me look back. A policeman had come upon the scene. Only Stokes seemed aware of his arrival. O’Neill landed a punch on his original opponent, who went down. The other friend took up the fight, and the policeman laid him low with a baton to the shoulder blade. He then grabbed O’Neill in a headlock to make the arrest. Stokes chose this moment to remonstrate with the officer to go easy. Fearing another attack, he caught Stokes with a backhand blow. All the while O’Neill flailed at the man who had him restrained.
    It was at this point my story diverged from fact, but I continued seamlessly. I said O’Neill managed to free himself of the grip for an instant, enough to swing a wild punch at the constable’s head. I warmed to the task and used words like ‘gasped’ and ‘recoiled’ and ‘shuddered’ to describe my reaction to the blow.
    Sibthorpe met my eye. ‘Let’s not over-egg it.’
    He was quite right. When the statement was complete I read it over. He had been editing what I said while transcribing, and it was an impressive piece of writing: so efficient, so plausible. Nonetheless, I was afraid to affix my signature.
    But I knew my dilemma was nothing compared to that faced by Stokes. Of course he had been the guilty one. The backhanded blow dealt by the officer had not felled him. I can