On Copper Street

by Chris Nickson

  ‘What about the man who threw the acid? Lester.’

  ‘He bolted last night when we went to his house. I daresay he’ll show up today or tomorrow, sir.’

  ‘Carry on,’ he said finally. ‘Once this is done and dusted we can concentrate on the Henry White business.’

  TWENTY

  ‘Ash said you were with him when he arrested Crabtree.’

  They were in Reed’s office at Park Row fire station. The day was oddly warm, the window open wide, drawing in all the noise from the street, the rattle of hooves and iron wheels, the fragments of conversation that flickered past in a second.

  ‘His wife knew what he’d been doing, Tom.’ He sighed. ‘You could see it in her face. Ash said the woman had been dropping hints.’

  It had been as straightforward as Reed expected. Crabtree had talked to both of them before. He let them in to the house, led the way through to the scullery. As Ash spoke, Crabtree reached out and took his wife’s hand, squeezing it tight. With each sentence his face grew more pale.

  Reed stood close to the back door, in case this man tried to escape, too. But once the handcuffs were on, he went reluctantly, with no real resistance. As they left, the fire inspector glanced back to see Mrs Crabtree still sitting at the table, silent tears coursing down her cheeks.

  ‘That was it. Ash took him to Millgarth and I went home.’

  ‘He admitted everything last night.’

  ‘I’m sure he did.’ He wasn’t going to ask more. He didn’t want to know. ‘Have you found Lester yet?’

  Harper shook his head. Every bobby in Leeds had the man’s description. He wouldn’t be free much longer.

  ‘We’ll find him. I’m not worried about that. What did Elizabeth say when you told her you’d solved the case?’

  ‘It wasn’t me who solved it,’ Reed reminded him. ‘But she’s glad it’s over.’

  ‘How’s the girl?’

  ‘Annie? She’s started working again. In the back room where no one can see her. Keeps a scarf tied round her head and jumps a mile if you talk to her.’

  ‘What do you think? Will she ever get back to normal?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Reed leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. What could normal be like for her now? ‘Whatever happens, it’s been a bad business, Tom. Christ knows how many kids Jack Crabtree hurt.’

  ‘He won’t be doing that again.’ Harper stood, extending his hand. Reed shook it without hesitation. ‘Look after yourself, Billy. Don’t take any stupid risks.’

  ‘Everyone home safe. That’s what we always say here.’ The smile faded from his face. ‘Sad news about Kendall.’

  ‘It was. There’ll be a proper memorial service. I’ll see you there.’

  Commercial Street was full of people. They spilled off the pavement as he passed the Irish Linen shop on the corner of Lands Lane. A man pulled a woman back sharply, just before a cart would have knocked her down.

  Leeds felt like a city that was too full, Harper thought. Everywhere was crowded, straining at the seams. Along Briggate and Boar Lane it was almost impossible to move for the crowds. The trams hurried past, an endless series of them bringing people into town and carrying them home again. And over it all, the thick industrial aroma. The stench of business and empire.

  Sergeant Conway was waiting at Millgarth, pacing restlessly around the detectives’ room and smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Where do you have to go today?’ Harper asked.

  ‘I’m still digging into Willie Calder, sir. There has to be something there.’

  Somewhere, the superintendent thought. So far, though, they hadn’t been able to ferret it out.

  ‘Let’s go, then.’ Harper smiled. He wanted to work with the new man, to get a proper sense of him. So far he seemed impressive, someone not too hidebound by routine and the rule book. Time would tell. He followed as the sergeant strode across St Peter’s Square, past the mission, and stopped to take his bearings.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know the streets too well around here yet.’

  ‘You’ll learn. Where are we going?’

  ‘I got a lead on someone called Four-Finger Harold.’

  Harper chuckled. ‘Harold? Is he still around? He tried to pick a pocket in Fidelity Court just after I’d started on the beat. They had him tied up like a chicken when I arrived.’

  ‘I was told he knew Calder very well.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible. I’ll tell you this: he’s one of the most incompetent criminals in town, though. Can’t do anything right.’

  Conway sighed. ‘Maybe he was pulling my leg, then. Being new and that.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ He changed the subject. ‘You’ve known Ash a long time?’

  ‘Fred and I started on the force together. Same batch of recruits. We always got along like a house on fire. He’s an interesting lad.’

  ‘He is,’ Harper agreed. ‘What about you? Are you married?’

  ‘Six years.’ Conway grinned with pride. ‘Two children, a third on the way. I hear you have one, sir.’

  ‘That’s right. A daughter.’ They came to the narrow opening of a court, dark and miserable, the ground just dirt beaten down by generations of feet. It all stank of piss and vomit.

  There were no numbers on the houses. Angry shouts came from one of the buildings, rattling the loose glass in the window.

  ‘Third one along,’ Conway said. ‘The room at the back.’

  They’d both seen too many places like this. Homes for the desperate. Places beyond hope. The house was full of dirt, mould, sweat, every bad thing under heaven. Harper clamped a handkerchief over his mouth. At the edge of his hearing he caught a low sound. Something familiar that he couldn’t quite place.

  The sergeant knocked. No answer.

  ‘Try the doorknob,’ Harper told him. It turned easily and he pushed it open.

  The buzzing of flies erupted like a storm. They were all over the body, turning it into a seething black lump. As Conway waved his hand, they rose, only to settle again a few seconds later.

  ‘Looks like he’s been dead a little while, sir.’

  ‘A day at least,’ the superintendent guessed. Smelt like it, too, but the weather had been warm. ‘Let’s get him over to Dr King. He can tell us what happened. I’ll go back to the station and arrange it. You take a look around.’

  Even with the stench in the court, it seemed like blessed relief to be outside, to draw air into his lungs. He breathed deep, walking quickly, issuing orders once he reached Millgarth. Soon enough some poor men would have to move the corpse. Better them than him; he’d wait until it had been cleaned and cut open. And meanwhile he’d let Conway do the searching on his own. He gave a quick, small smile. Maybe rank did bring a few privileges.

  But what had happened to Four-Finger Harold?

  ‘It doesn’t take much to see the cause of death, Superintendent,’ King said. ‘Knife in the heart. Like those bodies you brought me a little while ago.’

  ‘Henry White and Willie Calder,’ Harper told him. The doctor waved his arms. Flies had laid their eggs deep inside Harold’s corpse and even in the chill of the mortuary they were starting to hatch.

  ‘Yes.’ He brushed another insect off the corpse. ‘I need to get this one out of here before these things end up everywhere. Give me a hand.’ He opened a door and Sergeant Conway pushed the table into a thick-walled room. ‘With luck, that should kill them,’ King said with relief.

  ‘How long has he been dead?’ Conway asked.

  ‘A day, more or less. With this weather it’s impossible to be certain. Does that help you at all?’

  ‘It does. Did you see anything else?’

  ‘It didn’t look as if there’d been a fight,’ the doctor answered after a little thought. ‘No sign of resistance, no grazes on his knuckles.’ He balled his hand into a fist to illustrate. ‘That’s all I can tell you without cutting him open. That, and he must have lived in squalor.’

  ‘He did, sir,’
Conway said.

  ‘Pity the poor man, then.’

  ‘Who gave you the tip about Four-Finger Harold?’

  ‘I heard it through someone I know in Armley, sir.’

  ‘I think you’d better track him down. Having that name pop out of the blue then finding him dead seems like too much of a coincidence. I don’t even see where he fits into things.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, I plan on finding out, sir.’ Conway had a glint in his eye. ‘And I’ll make sure I get the proper story this time.’

  They parted outside Millgarth. Harper watched the man walk away. For once he didn’t feel any envy.

  The plaster was still drying on the wall, with the fresh, acrid smell that caught in his throat. The wood of the door was still too new, too bright. But already the memories were becoming dulled, Harper thought as he entered. No more shudders of fear as he entered the building, and he couldn’t pinpoint exactly when they’d stopped. His hands didn’t shake.

  Life rolled along. The incident had quickly become part of the past, much like Kendall’s death or Maguire’s. He could picture every second of it, but now he felt like an observer, as if it had happened to someone else.

  Stupid, he decided. What did it matter, anyway? There was work to do.

  ‘Elizabeth will be pleased,’ Annabelle said. ‘Once word gets out that you’ve arrested someone, it should all be back the way it was.’

  They were sitting in the bar of the Victoria. People kept interrupting to say hello, to wish her well and discuss something or other. Harper was used to it. This was her domain. Ellen was upstairs with Mary while they enjoyed a rare evening down here.

  By the second glass of gin, her face was flushed and she sounded happy.

  ‘It’ll never be right for the girl, though,’ he said. ‘Or the lad.’

  ‘I know.’ She breathed deeply. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. But the shops—’ She stopped as an older man he didn’t recognize came and bowed. This was how it always was during their times down in the pub. People liked her, they enjoyed her company, to share a few words. It made him proud to see it all, to watch them paying court to her in her little empire.

  ‘Elizabeth is going to take care of the lass; she already told me that,’ she went on.

  ‘I saw Billy Reed this morning. The girl’s back at work. Just not where people can stare.’

  ‘Happen it’ll help. Maybe there’s something the suffragists can do for her.’ She took a small pad and pencil from the pocket in her dress and made a note.

  ‘You used to remember everything,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Too much on my mind these days,’ Annabelle told him, but he noticed that she turned away from him as she spoke. ‘This way I make sure I don’t forget. Just because I clump around like an elephant doesn’t mean I have the memory of one.’

  The good weather had faded overnight. It was still close, warm for so early in the year, but the sky was grey and heavy, a misting rain falling. A day to wear a mackintosh, Harper thought, feeling the dampness on his face as he walked down George Street from the tram.

  Ash was waiting, staring down at the yard and the mounted patrolmen, wearing their capes and ready to leave.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t report back last night, sir. It was late when I finished.’ There was a spare, sober quality to his voice that made Harper stop.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A rumour I heard. I spent half the day trying to see if there was anything to it.’

  ‘Well? Spit it out.’

  ‘That Cecil Lester had killed himself.’

  ‘Has he?’

  The inspector shook his head. ‘Not that I managed to find. Couldn’t even discover where it all began. But you’ll see why I was busy, sir.’

  ‘Of course.’ If they’d found Lester’s body, the case would be closed. They hadn’t even had a confirmed sighting of him since he’d run. The man had gone to ground.

  ‘I’ve got someone watching the house,’ Ash continued. ‘But I don’t think he’ll go home. People know what he’s done, there won’t be many doors open to him.’

  ‘Have you announced it?’

  ‘No, sir. It wouldn’t be right for that lass of his, the one Crabtree …’ He let the words fade away.

  ‘Where are you with the Henry White murder?’

  ‘No further along, sir.’ Harper could hear his frustration. ‘Mark Conway told me about old Harold. Too odd not be connected, isn’t it?’

  ‘Same method of death. But I don’t know how it fits. Someone’s three steps ahead of us.’ The superintendent corrected himself. ‘He knows where to turn and who’s involved while we’re still running around and playing blind man’s bluff. Or Harold could be in there to throw us off the scent.’

  ‘True enough.’ Ash snorted. ‘Any suggestions, sir? I’m damned if I know what to do.’

  ‘Not really. But now we have another murder, I’ll be out working today, too.’

  He gave orders, such as they were. Conway would go back to the man who’d told him about Harold and follow the crumbs of information from there. Ash would look at Henry White once again, to see what they’d missed. There might be some tiny scrap they’d passed by before. And Harper intended to do his own digging into Willie Calder’s life. Between them, surely they’d be able to tug some of the pieces together.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Emmeline Calder was supervising as men packed up all the items in the house. She’d been released from Armley Jail; with her husband killed, no one had a mind to pursue the case against her.

  Her face still wore the grey prison pallor, and her hair was gathered in a tight bun at the back of her head. There was no sign of the servant girl; she’d have been dismissed, for the same reason the woman was leaving this place. A life she could no longer afford.

  ‘Did Willie have much put by?’ the superintendent asked.

  She shook her head. Her eyes glittered with resentment and her mouth was a thin, sharp line. ‘If he did, he never told me about it,’ she said.

  The woman seemed to move from room to room like a ghost. He followed. ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘His brother’s rented me a place in Holbeck.’ She stopped and turned suddenly. ‘You know him, he’s one of yours.’

  Detective Sergeant John Calder.

  Her new home would be nothing like this. No more grandeur. She’d be starting all over again, selling much of what she owned to survive. But that was what happened. Mrs Calder would have her life of genteel poverty, a life that would shrink with each year. At least she had family keeping an eye on her. That was more than many.

  ‘Who do you think killed your husband?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered quietly. ‘I’ve thought and thought. He was fair. Only bought silver and he paid a good price for it.’

  ‘He broke the law doing it,’ Harper reminded her. The police had given the house another thorough search, but they hadn’t found more than the few items they’d used to arrest him. Calder had been a very careful man.

  ‘At least you have plenty to sell.’ Every table had been filled with trinkets, each room had good furniture.

  ‘That’s right.’ She stared at him, face blank. ‘I can sell off my past piece by piece, to keep myself alive a little longer. What do you want?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out why your husband was murdered. Who this J.D. man was that Henry White mentioned in the writing he left for Willie.’

  ‘If you ever find out, come and tell me. Maybe it’ll make me feel better when I’m asking for something on tick at the corner shop.’

  ‘You could help me.’

  ‘Your man asked before, remember? When I was in a cell. I didn’t know anything then and I don’t know any more now. Willie’s dead, that’s all there is to it. And I have to live.’ She plucked at her left hand then tossed her wedding ring down on the table. ‘That’ll be off to the pawnbroker this week. It’s not as if it’s doing me any good.’

  She was bitter. She was brok
en, he decided as he walked up towards the Otley Road. But he believed her. Willie had probably kept a lot hidden, even from her. Certainly from his brother.

  As he caught the tram a thought came. On impulse he alighted at Raglan Road. The street veered off at an angle beside Woodhouse Moor. The small police sub-station stood on the corner of Clarendon Road, hardly big enough for the tall man inside.

  ‘Hello, George,’ Harper said.

  The man grinned, a broad smile cracking his long face. ‘Hello Insp—, I mean, Superintendent, sir. What brings you all the way out here?’

  George Forshaw had already served a quarter of a century on the force by the time Harper joined. He was still a constable, still content, and he’d forgotten more about policing than most men ever learned. But these days Woodhouse was more his speed, working the day shift then strolling up the road to his home in Hyde Park.

  ‘Bartholomew Bush.’

  The name had come unbidden. He didn’t even know when he’d last thought of the man. But he was someone who might have a few answers.

  ‘He’s still alive, sir. Saw him Monday morning. Not as active these days. But who is?’ Forshaw added ruefully.

  ‘Still in the neighbourhood?’

  ‘Oh yes. The only way he’ll shift from here is in a wooden box. The same house, sir, if you remember it, and he’s usually at home.’

  ‘Has he been up to much lately?’

  The constable chewed on his lower lip. ‘Nothing I’ve heard. I doubt he could manage it these days, but he’d never admit he’s past it.’

  At one time Barty Bush had been a very successful thief. He planned his crimes meticulously, laying all the goods off to fences before he went home after a burglary. Even when the police knew he’d done a job, it was rare they could prove it.

  Now the years had caught up with him, Harper saw as Bush opened his front door. Heavy white eyebrows, forests of hair erupting from his nostrils and ears. Almost bald on the top of his head, wispy side whiskers creeping down to his jaw. With his back bent, he appeared every inch an old man. It was hard to imagine the daring crook he’d once been.