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1Today at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy Coroner (in the absence of Mr Leverett) held an inquest on the body of
2Mrs Emily Sinico, aged forty-three years, who was killed at Sydney Parade Station yesterday evening. The evidence showed
3that the deceased lady, while attempting to cross the line, was knocked down by the engine of the ten o'clock slow train
4from Kingstown, thereby sustaining injuries of the head and right side which led to her death. James Lennon, driver of
5the engine, stated that he had been in the employment of the railway company for fifteen years. On hearing the guard's
6whistle he set the train in motion and a second or two afterwards brought it to rest in response to loud cries. The
7train was going slowly. P. Dunne, railway porter, stated that as the train was about to start he observed a woman
8attempting to cross the lines. He ran towards her and shouted, but, before he could reach her, she was caught by the
9buffer of the engine and fell to the ground. A juror. "You saw the lady fall?" Witness. "Yes." Police Sergeant Croly
10deposed that when he arrived he found the deceased lying on the platform apparently dead. He had the body taken to the
11waiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance. Constable 57E corroborated. Dr Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the
12City of Dublin Hospital, stated that the deceased had two lower ribs fractured and had sustained severe contusions of
13the right shoulder. The right side of the head had been injured in the fall. The injuries were not sufficient to have
14caused death in a normal person. Death, in his opinion, had been probably due to shock and sudden failure of the heart's
15action. Mr H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the railway company, expressed his deep regret at the accident. The
16company had always taken every precaution to prevent people crossing the lines except by the bridges, both by placing
17notices in every station and by the use of patent spring gates at level crossings. The deceased had been in the habit of
18crossing the lines late at night from platform to platform and, in view of certain other circumstances of the case, he
19did not think the railway officials were to blame. Captain Sinico, of Leoville, Sydney Parade, husband of the deceased,
20also gave evidence. He stated that the deceased was his wife. He was not in Dublin at the time of the accident as he had
21arrived only that morning from Rotterdam. They had been married for twenty-two years and had lived happily until about
22two years ago when his wife began to be rather intemperate in her habits. Miss Mary Sinico said that of late her mother
23had been in the habit of going out at night to buy spirits. She, witness, had often tried to reason with her mother and
24had induced her to join a league. She was not at home until an hour after the accident. The jury returned a verdict in
25accordance with the medical evidence and exonerated Lennon from all blame. The Deputy Coroner said it was a most painful
26case, and expressed great sympathy with Captain Sinico and his daughter. He urged on the railway company to take strong
27measures to prevent the possibility of similar accidents in the future. No blame attached to anyone. Mr Duffy raised his
28eyes from the paper and gazed out of his window on the cheerless evening landscape. The river lay quiet beside the empty
29distillery and from time to time a light appeared in some house on the Lucan road. What an end! The whole narrative of
30her death revolted him and it revolted him to think that he had ever spoken to her of what he held sacred. The
31threadbare phrases, the inane expressions of sympathy, the cautious words of a reporter won over to conceal the details
32of a commonplace vulgar death attacked his stomach. Not merely had she degraded herself; she had degraded him. He saw
33the squalid tract of her vice, miserable and malodorous. His soul's companion! He thought of the hobbling wretches whom
34he had seen carrying cans and bottles to be filled by the barman. Just God, what an end! Evidently she had been unfit to
35live, without any strength of purpose, an easy prey to habits, one of the wrecks on which civilisation has been reared.
36But that she could have sunk so low! Was it possible he had deceived himself so utterly about her? He remembered her
37outburst of that night and interpreted it in a harsher sense than he had ever done. He had no difficulty now in
38approving of the course he had taken. As the light failed and his memory began to wander he thought her hand touched
39his. The shock which had first attacked his stomach was now attacking his nerves. He put on his overcoat and hat quickly
40and went out. The cold air met him on the threshold; it crept into the sleeves of his coat. When he came to the
41public-house at Chapelizod Bridge he went in and ordered a hot punch. The proprietor served him obsequiously but did not
42venture to talk. There were five or six workingmen in the shop discussing the value of a gentleman's estate in County
43Kildare. They drank at intervals from their huge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting often on the floor and sometimes
44dragging the sawdust over their spits with their heavy boots. Mr Duffy sat on his stool and gazed at them, without
45seeing or hearing them. After a while they went out and he called for another punch. He sat a long time over it. The
46shop was very quiet. The proprietor sprawled on the counter reading the Herald and yawning. Now and again a tram was
47heard swishing along the lonely road outside. As he sat there, living over his life with her and evoking alternately the
48two images in which he now conceived her, he realised that she was dead, that she had ceased to exist, that she had
49become a memory. He began to feel ill at ease. He asked himself what else could he have done. He could not have carried
50on a comedy of deception with her; he could not have lived with her openly. He had done what seemed to him best. How was
51he to blame? Now that she was gone he understood how lonely her life must have been, sitting night after night alone in
52that room. His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, became a memory--if anyone remembered him.
53It was after nine o'clock when he left the shop. The night was cold and gloomy. He entered the Park by the first gate
54and walked along under the gaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys where they had walked four years before. She
55seemed to be near him in the darkness. At moments he seemed to feel her voice touch his ear, her hand touch his. He
56stood still to listen. Why had he withheld life from her? Why had he sentenced her to death? He felt his moral nature
57falling to pieces. When he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill he halted and looked along the river towards Dublin,
58the lights of which burned redly and hospitably in the cold night. He looked down the slope and, at the base, in the
59shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw some human figures lying. Those venal and furtive loves filled him with despair.
60He gnawed the rectitude of his life; he felt that he had been outcast from life's feast. One human being had seemed to
61love him and he had denied her life and happiness: he had sentenced her to ignominy, a death of shame. He knew that the
62prostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him and wished him gone. No one wanted him; he was outcast from
63life's feast. He turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river, winding along towards Dublin. Beyond the river he saw a
64goods train winding out of Kingsbridge Station, like a worm with a fiery head winding through the darkness, obstinately
65and laboriously. It passed slowly out of sight; but still he heard in his ears the laborious drone of the engine
66reiterating the syllables of her name. He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine pounding in his
67ears. He began to doubt the reality of what memory told him. He halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die away.
68He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He
69could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone. Old
70Jack raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and spread them judiciously over the whitening dome of coals.
71When the dome was thinly covered his face lapsed into darkness but, as he set himself to fan the fire again, his
72crouching shadow ascended the opposite wall and his face slowly re-emerged into light. It was an old man's face, very
73bony and hairy. The moist blue eyes blinked at the fire and the moist mouth fell open at times, munching once or twice
74mechanically when it closed. When the cinders had caught he laid the piece of cardboard against the wall, sighed and
75said: "That's better now, Mr O'Connor." Mr O'Connor, a grey-haired young man, whose face was disfigured by many blotches
76and pimples, had just brought the tobacco for a cigarette into a shapely cylinder but when spoken to he undid his
77handiwork meditatively. Then he began to roll the tobacco again meditatively and after a moment's thought decided to
78lick the paper. "Did Mr Tierney say when he'd be back?" he asked in a husky falsetto. "He didn't say." Mr O'Connor put
79his cigarette into his mouth and began to search his pockets. He took out a pack of thin pasteboard cards. "I'll get you
80a match," said the old man. "Never mind, this'll do," said Mr O'Connor. He selected one of the cards and read what was
81printed on it:
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