The Ring | Part IV | Chapter 27-28
Ryan Flannery
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We’re now on chapter 27 of 38. This is the latest novel of the Muldoon series (book 2). Chapter 26 ended with Gill’s discovery of the serpent on his kitchen wall. This week, Muldoon receives a letter that shines some more light on Ryan Flannery, the first victim.
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August 1st, 1893
Dear Inspector Muldoon,
Thank you for your message. I regret that I was not at the church when you arrived to speak with me before your train journey this morning. I was required across town in the night regarding an urgent matter. I tried to call in this morning, but I was informed that you are out of the city for a couple of days. You will have to make do with this letter. My hand is not as steady as it was in my youth, but I hope that you can bear with me as I recall the details you wanted of me.
I am dreadfully, dreadfully sorry to learn of the passing of Ryan and his mother. My heart is broken, even though I—forgive me, it is difficult to come to terms with. It was a shock. They have gone with God, but the loss is greatly felt.
I have asked for their bodies to be released as soon as possible. With his brother at sea and his mother also gone, I feel it is my duty as his employer and his friend, to give him and his mother the service that they deserve. God rest their souls. I have sent my condolences to his young wife, his relatives and his friends.
Ryan was a good boy. I have known him since he was five years old. Poverty and an absent father can have an impact on such a young boy but he i— was proof that Christ touches all of us. No man, no matter how far he turns from God, walks alone. He first came to me in September of last year seeking alternative employment. Ryan regularly took confession and through this, I learned of his misfortune and his tendency to turn to crime. As his parish priest and friend I was eager to help him improve his circumstances. He would complete odd jobs around the church and the vestry. Ryan was with me most days, from autumn last year until his death. Of an evening, we would study passages from the Bible and read some literature together as he wanted to improve his reading and writing, in the hope that perhaps… in the hope that he could take up employment as a clerk. Regular, steady employment was important to him since he married, and there are only so many window frames you can pull ivy out of.
I can confirm that on the night of the burglary on the 20th of July, Ryan was with me. We were discussing his dangerous work in the sewers and I was assessing his writing, as he was hoping to enquire at the customs house for clerical work the following day. Collaborative efforts from his mother and myself meant that we were able to provide him with a suit for the interview, as a gift for excelling in his studies with me. This recollection is bittersweet for me, as if he had not been so horribly, callously murdered, I do not doubt that he would have secured that employment, and been able to find a suitable home for himself and his wife.
I can also confirm that Ryan was no friend to Sean O’Donnell. I understand that the marriage between Ryan Flannery and Molly O’Donnell would not have been approved by her brother, so the service was kept from the family. Both were adults, and there was no reason in law that they could not be wed. The private wedding took place at St Anthony’s without mass on the seventeenth of December, 1892, and of course, I have a record of the marriage as well as the signatures of the witnesses, should you require them to further your investigation.
I will pray for them. All of them. I will share with you a favourite passage of his:
The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead, he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance. Peter 3:9
Do not hesitate to come and find me at the vestry. My secretary, Mrs Berry, lives next door and will be able to pin me down. I will be happy to assist in any way I can at this distressing time, and I pray to God that justice is swift.
Yours sincerely,
Father Jory Pascoe.
28
Gill threw Fontini into the corner of the cell with all of his strength and rage combined. “Who’d be thick enough to do that, Mr Fontini? You’re either mad, or stupid, or both.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Gill held up the whip. Embossed on the handle, the iconic serpentine ring that had been haunting him for days. “On my kitchen wall? What did you use for that, Fontini?” He wanted to whip him until Fontini’s skin tore and bled, but it wouldn’t be enough. He wanted to kill him. “You make me sick. Who’s in your little Devil worshipping club? I’ll have them all brought here and hanged.”
Fontini, through swollen eyes and a blackening, lumpy face, smiled. Gold teeth, outlined in scarlet, gleamed in the lamplight. The blood, fresh and red when Gill found it, had been used as paint to draw a serpent eating its own tail. His wife saw it first, and fainted. He was glad they didn’t keep any pets.
“Where’s James Lacey?”
Nothing.
“Where is James Lacey?” He lunged for Fontini’s collar and shook him. “Whose blood was that?” He threw him back down on the floor. “Where’s my officer?”
Fontini looked up at the ceiling, whispering. “They speak to the ringmaster in this way. Who do they think they are? I am the ringmaster. The ring is mine.” Fontini lay down on the floor of the cell, looking up at the ceiling as though Gill had left him hours before.
“Where’s James Lacey?” Gill asked a final time.
“Mother Seacole, are you there? Mother. Mother. Mother Seacole. My eye is bleeding.”
Gill stepped back from him, and spat on the cell floor.
“Gov.” It was Muldoon’s voice, echoing down the new corridor of the Special Cases unit. “Gov, close the door. It’s important.”
Gill closed and locked the cell door and looked down at the floor. The cells were there for him to use at his disposal, but he hadn’t acquired wardens yet, and carried the keys like a man bearing too heavy a burden. He was sweating, his face still pink from the ordeal as he twisted the whip in his hands. “I could kill him. Christ lasted forty days. I was going to kill him within forty minutes.”
“Leave it for now, Gov.”
Gill turned to look at him. Muldoon at this moment, had never imagined Gill to be a man who came close to tears, and judging from the exasperated look on his face, Gill was never going to be, either. “They were in my house,” he said quietly, his temper bubbling under the surface.
“I heard. How’s everyone else? How’s Mrs Gill?”
“Gone to her brother’s. The girls are fine. No one was home when… when it happened. Lucille was the first to see it but… but they were long gone.”
They walked down the silent, dimly lit corridor together. It was lined with doors to cells and larger doors leading to the city tunnels, far from curious onlookers. “Do you know where the blood came from?” Muldoon asked.
“Just a pig or something, hopefully.” Not James Lacey. How could I explain this to his mother? I pray to God it’s not James Lacey’s blood on my kitchen wall.
Muldoon went ahead of him and turned the lights on in Gill’s new office. He crossed the room and poured them two glasses of brandy from the drinks stand in the corner. Gill sat down in the seat nearest the wall, staring into oblivion. Muldoon put the glass down on the desk in front of him. “Do you have enough tobacco there or…?”
“I’ll be fine,” Gill said, waving a hand. “I’ll be fine.” He let out a deep sigh and took a sip of the drink. “Have you just got back?” he asked.
“Yes. Came straight here.”
“Tell me some good news.”
“Mrs French is in Liverpool. She’s in a hotel on London Road.”
“And?”
“She’s going to fill us in on Ezra Fontini.”
“And that weird French bastard who married a child?”
“Hugo, too, yes.”
“Can’t wait to see the back of them all.”
“I just saw Roberts on the way in. He’s sending for the doctor.”
“Oh, for him?”
“Yes. Mrs French says he’s a raving lunatic. I thought it best to get an opinion. He’s probably mad as well as dangerous.”
“I’m not inclined to disagree. He was singing for Mrs Seacole just before you came.”
Muldoon, not too sure who Mrs Seacole was, nodded lightly, and drained some of his drink. Sitting down opposite Gill, he pulled out his notebook.
“I meant to write you before I left, but I found a few interesting things at Ashfield Cottages, and wanted to make sure my theory was correct.”
“Go on.”
“Have you ever heard of toshers, Gov?”
“Yeah. What they do is illegal.”
“Ryan Flannery was a tosher. Down in the sewers, looking for treasure.”
Gill’s nostrils widened in disgust. “What did he find, like?”
“All kinds. He brought it home to clean it. Under the floorboards in his room, I found coins with King George—I don’t know which one, but it was last century—and some silver coins with U.S on. I found an earring, and a silver spoon… he was selling the goods he found down there. This last batch must have been kept safe while… while he was killed, I suppose.”
Gill, almost impressed, asked, “He found all that in the sewers?”
“Yes. The pawn shop on the corner regularly deals with him, but they gave him the name of a jeweller on Lord Street who was particularly interested in some Georgian gold he found. At first I suspected the murder was something to do with the goods under his floorboards, but they didn’t take it. Then when the other body was found, that threw that theory in the air. Another nail in that coffin was word from Father Pascoe that Flannery was doing odd jobs for him around St Anthony’s and the vestry. Pascoe knew about his work as a tosher, and although he was glad to see him out of O’Donnell’s grip, was trying to help him get more reliable, steady employment. As for Molly O’Donnell… Now that was interesting. Do you remember her?”
“The girl in all the shawls?”
Muldoon swished the amber liquid around the glass. “I’ll get to that in a moment, but did you see her face when we said Flannery was dead?” Muldoon’s eyes lit up as he saw the cogs turning in Gill’s mind. “O’Donnell didn’t take kindly to the news that an old accomplice of his was—”
“Playing ‘how’s your father’ with his sister?”
“Exactly that.”
“I’d want him to hang and all.” Gill folded his arms. “Thanks, Mulders. Anything else?”
Muldoon tipped his head back and drained the rest of his glass, his Adam's apple bobbing as it slid down his throat. Gill waited for him to finish. Muldoon looked at him, and raised his eyebrows. “She’s carrying Flannery’s child,” he said.
Gill’s mouth fell open. “Does her mother know?”
“No.” He poured them both another drink. “I left poor Molly at Providence House with Father Nugent. He’ll take care of her for now.”
“I need a confession from Sean O’Donnell.”
“Won’t be hard to get, Gov. The loot was under Molly’s bed. He threatened to tell their mother about Flannery if she ratted on him, but… she’s more than willing to testify in court now.”
“Christ. And Ryan Flannery’s fingers never touched any of it?”
“Never. Molly and Father Pascoe can vouch for him. And you heard Mrs O’Donnell herself say she hasn’t seen him for a long time. He couldn’t have been knocking around with O’Donnell. She can name all the others, but she stands by her statement.”
Gill grinned. “Excellent work, Mulders.” The normal colour returned to his face. He glanced at the clock. It was late, and he wasn’t sure when the last time he really noticed daylight—like many things, he had taken it for granted—and now missed it terribly. “But I’ve still got to find a loose… thing.” The creature, who looks like every creature under the sun according to half-drunken witnesses up and down Scotland Road.
“Any word on the trappers?”
“None as yet. Where’s a posh toff with a tan when you need one?”
“Try the regiment in Everton.”
“I tried. Her Majesty’s money is not for catching bogey men or escaped animals, apparently” Gill said with a sneer. “They wouldn’t help us anyway. They call us flunkies for God’s sake.”
“Big nets will have to do then,” Muldoon suggested. “Or privateers?”
Muldoon put his jacket back on, and turned to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“I need to have a look at that trunk we couldn’t open. Fontini’s.”
“It’s upstairs in the evidence room. I’ll come with you.”
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"Where’s a posh toff with a tan when you need one?” I was thinking the same just the other day . . .