The Convictions of John Delahunt Read Free Page B

still see the change that came over Arthur’s face, usually so genial. He approached the constable from behind, closed his fist by clumsily gripping his own thumb, and struck it against the man’s ear. The two lads unfamiliar to me couldn’t have seen; they were barely getting to their feet. O’Neill was so drunk and oblivious he continued to flail for a second after he was released from the policeman’s grip. When he saw the officer slump to the ground he let out a triumphant yelp. Stokes bent over the injured man, then raised his head and saw me watching from the corner. The rolling truncheon clicked against the kerb. A whistle sounded some streets away, and each protagonist stumbled into the dark.
    It was Arthur who had to worry. He could get O’Neill off the hook if he had a crumb of honour; my involvement was by the by. If Arthur confessed, he would contradict my statement, but then I could claim I took it upon myself to save the Stokes family’s reputation for his and Helen’s sake. I was surely in the clear, so took the proffered pen and wrote out my name with a flourish. Sibthorpe folded the statement carefully into his satchel and sized me up. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d do it.’
    ‘It wasn’t as difficult as I thought.’
    Without saying anything more, he unlocked the parlour door and let himself out.
    A few hours later, I grew uneasy as I considered the consequences of the affidavit. I took a handful of candles and an armful of books and ensconced myself in my chamber for three days. It was still cold during the night so I slept in my overcoat. I would hear my father’s helper, old Miss Joyce, pass through the house, going from the bedrooms above to the kitchen in the basement, occasionally leaving the house on errands. Late one evening her footfall was accompanied by the light from a candle, which glowed against my doorjamb from without. She paused, and we both listened to each other stay perfectly still, until she continued on, and the door’s outline dimmed once more.
    On the second night I left my den to forage. Miss Joyce had brought in provisions, and I returned to my room well stocked with food, firewood and a bottle of wine. I set the fire, hunkered beside its glow with a book, and finished the bottle as rain drummed against the leaden return roof below my window. Such comfort. When I woke beside the cold ashes, shivering with cramp and a splitting head, my stomach knotted as I remembered my dilemma. I was tempted to go abroad in the city to discover what was happening. Had magistrates executed warrants against O’Neill and dispatched enforcers? Perhaps I was already identified as an informer, and my name was spat in the public houses around Trinity. Even if that was not yet the case, it would certainly be my fate when the testimony was read at trial, and I would be called upon to denounce my supposed friend, this time in public.
    My agitation forced me from my room on the morning of the third day. I waited in the hall below for Miss Joyce to pass on her way to the kitchen. I must have looked frightful: unshaven, having slept two nights in my clothes. She stopped on the first-floor return when she saw me. Her thin hands were clasped together. From her vantage she couldn’t help but appear superior. I was unsure how to broach the subject, but there was no need.
    ‘Your friend has been arrested.’
    ‘Which friend?’
    She regarded me for a moment, as if surprised I had more than one. ‘The O’Neill boy. The police came for him early yesterday morning.’
    I asked if she had heard anything of Arthur Stokes. She said there was a rumour he was also arrested, but he had returned to his home last evening. She began to descend the stairs again. ‘You picked a curious time to retreat into your studies. Who came to the door last Friday?’
    I told her not to mind. ‘Just see to my father.’ As I pushed past her mid-flight she leaned to one side so our clothes wouldn’t brush.
    He had let