The Eloquence of the Dead Read Free

just comin’ in the door. You were expectin’ them?’
    â€˜That was just some groceries I needed.’ She gestured airily at the shelves and display cabinets around her. ‘Everything here is grand, as you can see for yourself.’
    The policeman returned to his beat. Why should he worry if people decided to spend their money in shops that charged double the prices they might pay in their own neighbourhood?
    Later, at the station canteen, he joked about the incident. But he did not report it in the occurrence book. It was a negligence that was to cost him a reprimand and a deduction from pay.
    On the following Wednesday, just before midnight, another more experienced beat officer had an unusual encounter a short distance from the pawn shop.
    Some policemen disliked the beat section past the gates of old St Audeon’s. It was said that the place was haunted by a long-dead vicar whose malevolent ghost disliked human company. It was also a favourite dumping spot for nightsoil from the nearby tenements, where a dry privy might be shared by up to 100 people. The shit stank in the summer, and oozed across the pavement in the wet of winter.
    So the constable had crossed High Street to take up an observation point in a shop door.
    A slight, respectably dressed woman was crossing the street, picking her way over the cobbles. Even allowing for the uneven surface, her step seemed unsteady.
    When she reached the pavement, he recognised Phoebe Pollock. She seemed to sway slightly on her feet as he approached.
    â€˜Good night, Miss Pollock.’
    In the street light, he could see that she was focusing with difficulty. She made a little shuffling step and put one hand out to the lamppost for support. The constable realised that Phoebe Pollock was drunk.
    â€˜The footpath there is terrible broken and uneven,’ he said tactfully. ‘You’ll be makin’ for home, Miss. Sure, I’ll walk down that way with you.’
    She reeked of alcohol, but she produced a key from her bag and after some fumbling managed to find the keyhole. She muttered a thank you and made her way inside. The policeman retreated to the corner of Lamb Alley, and watched the house until he saw a faint glow illuminate one of the upper rooms.
    Later, he entered the incident in the occurrence book, noting Phoebe Pollock’s name and address and the time of their encounter.
    Sergeant Stephen Doolan saw the entry the following morning when he went through the night patrol reports in the sergeants’ office. He crossed the corridor to the day room, where the morning shift of constables was preparing to parade.
    â€˜Who’s on the first beat through High Street and Cornmarket?’
    â€˜That’s me, Skipper,’ a constable put his hand up. ‘What’s on your mind?’
    â€˜Get along up to Pollock’s. As soon as they open the door, go in and have a word to make sure everything is all right. One of the lads on the night shift found Phoebe Pollock the worse for wear out on the street at midnight.’
    Every policeman knew the Pollock’s reputation as eccentrics who kept to themselves, but some older people in the district recalled when Phoebe was a pretty young woman, full of life, with many friends in the neighbouring houses and streets of Dublin’s Liberties.
    There were chuckles and hoots across the parade room.
    â€˜Jesus, she must have robbed the shop to be out spendin’ money on drink.’
    â€˜Ould Ambrose wouldn’t approve. That fella has his first communion money – if he ever made a first communion.’
    â€˜Sure them two is as tight as a frog’s hole. And that’s watertight.’
    Later, the constable positioned himself at the junction of Lamb Alley and Cornmarket. Ordinarily, he knew, the shop would open between 9 o’clock and 9.30. But the hour came and went. At 10 o’clock, when the officer tried the door, he found it still locked. He walked