Skin Like Silver

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Did you talk to any of them?’

  ‘The foreman. He said Sugden seemed completely mad. He’s going to be very careful for a while, I think. What about Mr Carr?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  As they settled on a seat inside the ’bus, Ash brought the newspaper out again.

  ‘You might want a look at this, sir.’ He pointed at a notice with a thick finger.

  Harper read quickly. A notice announcing the burial of Mrs Catherine Carr, to take place at St Matthew’s Church in Chapel Allerton. In the end, leaving had been for nothing at all; in death, her husband had reclaimed her.

  ‘Is this today’s paper?’

  ‘Yesterday’s, sir. It might explain a lot.’

  If Sugden had seen this in the asylum, it could be the reason he escaped. He read it once more. The funeral was tomorrow.

  ‘I think we’d better make sure we attend.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Ash gave a grim smile. ‘How are your hands?’

  ‘Pardon?’ He’d seen the man’s lips move, but he hadn’t caught the words.

  ‘Your hands, sir.’

  ‘Oh. Getting better.’ Annabelle had changed the bandages that morning. The skin was still raw and pale. Another day or two and he’d be back to normal. More than he could say for his hearing.

  ‘Sugden grew up in Hunslet,’ Reed said. ‘I’ve told the station over there.’

  ‘Good.’ The inspector nodded his approval.

  Kendall stood close, listening carefully.

  ‘I’ve sent out a general alert,’ the superintendent said. ‘And I’ll make sure there are uniforms close to the funeral tomorrow.’

  ‘One more thing, sir,’ the sergeant told him. ‘He’s trained as a sniper and a scout. He’s going to be hard to find.’

  With his rheumy eyes and heavy jowls, Barnabas Tooms looked like an old bloodhound who’d lost the scent. But appearances were deceptive; he was sharp, perhaps the keenest political operative in Leeds. In a fawn suit and loud, checked waistcoat, he held court every day in the snug at the Griffin Hotel on Boar Lane.

  More than any councillor, he knew how the system of government worked in Leeds, and how to turn it one way or another. He collected information and dispensed it. He gave and demanded favours, and he cast a very long shadow. Some said he was worth thousands. Some said he had nothing. Probably no one knew the truth.

  He wasn’t a source the inspector wanted to use. It put him in Tooms’s debt and that was a bad place to be; he had a habit of wanting payment in awkward ways. But Harper needed to know more about Neville Carr. The man had rubbed him the wrong way. It was nothing more than a gut feeling, but over the years he’d learned to trust them. If there was gossip and muck, Tooms would know it all. He’d tell, then exact his price in the future.

  ‘Inspector,’ he nodded. ‘Have a seat.’

  He pushed an empty plate aside, cutlery and crockery clattering. He was a tidy man with bushy white whiskers that grew down to his chin, the top of his skull almost bald.

  ‘Busy, Mr Tooms?’ The man liked a sense of respect.

  ‘This and that.’ He gave a brief, insincere smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Carr. The boot man.’

  Tooms pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘That’s business, not government.’

  ‘You hear things.’

  ‘Father or son?’ Tooms asked briskly.

  ‘Both,’ he replied after a moment. If he was selling his soul to Tooms, he might as well get full value.

  ‘You’re looking into the wife’s murder, then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tooms pulled a toothpick from the pocket of his waistcoat, cleaned it with a thumbnail and stuck it in his mouth, eyeing the inspector.

  ‘The old man’s a nasty piece of work. Always has been. Isn’t that why she left him? He’d sell his mother for a big order. The army investigated him twice for overcharging on goods delivered. The way I heard it, some money changed hands and they stopped asking questions. Civil enough to your face, but he always had the knife ready to go into your back.’

  ‘Nasty enough to kill?’

  Tooms considered the question.

  ‘Not himself,’ he said finally. ‘He’s too frail nowadays. But he knows plenty who’d do it for a fee. I wouldn’t put it past him, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I don’t mean anything,’ Harper told him blandly. ‘I’m just here to listen and learn.’

  The man snorted. ‘You’re groping, Mr Harper. You’d never come and talk to me otherwise.’

  He looked like a carrion bird waiting for a feast.

  ‘The son,’ the inspector prompted.

  ‘Neville’s more than a bootmaker.’ Tooms dangled the phrase and grinned at Harper’s interest. ‘He has his eyes on a council seat, maybe even a member of Parliament in time. He’s ambitious.’

  ‘Is he like his father?’

  ‘You know about Neville’s marriage?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about him.’

  ‘He got a girl in the family way and they had to get married. She’s from a decent family, so it was all hushed up. He keeps a girl on the side, of course, but most do, don’t they?’ He didn’t wait for a response. ‘Very discreet, hides her away in Headingley and pretends that no one knows.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘I can find out if you need it.’ He made the offer sound like a threat. ‘But if you want my advice, you’ll keep clear of him. Neville’s spent the last two years cultivating the right people and putting money in their pockets. He’ll stand at the next election and he’ll win. A term on the council and then parliament, that’s our plan. And it’ll happen.’

  The inspector ignored this. ‘He has a child?’

  ‘Four of them. The oldest one, Gordon, he can be trouble. He has his moments. I just make sure no one hears about them.’ He rubbed his thumb against his fingers. Money. ‘Nothing that can affect Neville Carr’s chances when people go to vote.’

  ‘What’s Gordon done lately?’ Harper was curious.

  ‘You’re the copper,’ Tooms told him, ‘you find out. Anything else?’

  ‘Is that all the dirt?’

  ‘It’s all I’m giving you. Unless your pockets are deep enough to pay for more.’

  ‘You know the answer to that, Mr Tooms.’

  ‘Then I’ll wish you good day.’

  Whenever he talked to Barnabas Tooms, he always felt the need to wash after, as if there was slime clinging to his skin. He dealt with snouts and grasses every day, good people and evil; no one else had that effect on him.

  Patrick Martin was busy on Sykes Place. Harper spotted him talking to a woman at the door of a house and slid back around the corner to wait. The man arrived soon enough, his face grim, one hand clutching a Bible, tracts stuffed into a pocket of his coat.

  ‘Hello, Mr Martin,’ the inspector said brightly.

  ‘Mr Harper.’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Sorry, you took me by surprise.’

  ‘A bad day?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘People come around eventually. Sometimes it takes a while to pry open the door to their hearts.’

  He’d heard wisps of the conversation on the doorstep, blown to him on the wind. Martin had spent half his time berating the woman, telling her she’d go to hell if she didn’t repent.

  ‘I saw you on Cookridge Street last night,’ the inspector said. ‘By the Mechanics’ Institute.’

  ‘I was on my way home from a meeting with my superior. It happens every week.’ He gave a smile, more relaxed now.

  ‘I’m told you often stand outside suffragist meetings.’

  ‘I do.’ Martin stiffened his back. ‘Someone has to pray for their souls.’

  ‘Pray for their souls?’ He didn’t understand.

  ‘Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Saviour. Now as the church submits to Chri
st, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything.’ It’s in the Scriptures. Do you know it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s from Ephesians. These suffragists wanting the vote goes against the word of God. They should do what their husbands desire. That’s why I pray for them – so they see sense.’

  ‘Do you know one of those suffragists was murdered?’

  ‘I heard. It’s terrible.’

  ‘Isn’t there a commandment about that?’

  ‘Of course,’ Martin answered seriously.

  ‘Have you ever talked to the women after the meetings?’

  ‘I’ve tried to hand out tracts. None of them wanted to know.’

  Harper could hardly blame them. The man was a symbol of all the opposition they faced.

  ‘Have you ever followed any of them?’

  ‘No.’ Martin’s voice was reasonable enough, but the inspector could see the worry on his face. Somewhere in the distance came the sound of a barrel organ, joyful in the grimy dusk.

  ‘You keep a journal, don’t you?’ He’d heard somewhere that each superintendent had to account in detail for each day.

  ‘It’s part of my job.’

  ‘Could you bring it to Millgarth? I’d like to take a look at it.’

  ‘Am I under suspicion, Inspector?’ There was anger in his eyes. And more. Fear.

  It’s was Harper’s turn to smile.

  ‘No, sir. Just following through and checking. Nothing more than that.’

  There was one more thing to do today. He walked over to Briggate, the taste of soot on his tongue, seeing the dark clouds on the horizon. Henry Reeve was in the bar of the Central Hotel, scribbling in a notebook with a glass of beer by his side.

  ‘Still working on that book?’ Harper asked.

  The man shrugged. He had thin shoulders and long, graceful hands. A careless appearance, with a shock of hair dragged this way and that, and curious, intense eyes.

  ‘I keep trying, Tom, but it doesn’t seem to like me.’

  Reeve was a reporter for the Leeds Mercury, his days spent following up on stories. By late afternoon he was always here, sitting with his pencil, writing words then crossing them out again.

  ‘I have a favour to ask.’

  ‘That’s never a good thing to hear from a copper.’

  ‘There was a girl raped in the Arches a couple of nights ago. It’s possible it had something to do with the murder down there, but I want to keep that part quiet for now.’

  Reeve was attentive, pencil poised above the paper.

  ‘I don’t have much of a description.’ The inspector told him what he knew. ‘There’s one more thing. He had a lisp.’

  ‘That narrows it down.’

  ‘Not enough, though. Can you print something? The usual – Police would like to talk to, and all that? With my name?’

  ‘I can do that,’ Reeve agreed. ‘Do you really think it has something to do with the murder?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Is it true what they said?’

  ‘What’s that?’ He was surprised it had taken so long for word to spread.

  ‘That the metal had melted on her.’

  ‘You know better, Henry. I couldn’t say, and you couldn’t print it, anyway.’ He rose. ‘I appreciate it.’

  If nothing else, he might be able to give Nellie Rider some justice. And maybe it would lead to more.

  ‘Another meeting tonight,’ Annabelle told him as she buttoned up her coat and hunted for her umbrella. ‘Filthy out there, too.’

  The rain had begun as Harper sat on the tram. Now he stared out of the window at the growing puddles, hearing the water cascading down the drainpipes.

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ he said.

  ‘I do,’ she said tenderly. ‘There’s a speaker from Manchester.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘The old Assembly Rooms.’

  ‘Then take a hackney. There and back.’

  ‘I will,’ she promised. ‘Don’t you worry, Tom.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’ll look after myself.’

  He kissed her. ‘Make sure you do.’

  ‘I have to. Especially now.’

  She’d shown him the letter while they ate. A note from Miss Ford, asking if she’d consider becoming a speaker at the suffragist meetings. Annabelle had power, the woman had written, and even better, she had experience of life. She’d made something of herself.

  He was certain she’d spent the whole day fretting about the note, pacing around the room until she’d worn grooves in the boards.

  ‘I thought it was daft at first,’ she said. ‘Who’d want to hear me yattering? Then I thought maybe there was something in it, after all. Yes and no all day.’ She laughed at herself. ‘Like a yo-yo.’

  ‘Are you going to do it?’ he asked. She blushed and nodded. ‘If it’s what you want, I’m behind you.’

  ‘I still don’t see why she thinks I’d be any good.’ She tied her hat under her chin. ‘I’m nowt special.’

  But he understood it very well. Annabelle had grown up poor and made something of herself. She was an example of what women could achieve, no matter where they began. She was at home with people of all classes, men and women. She spoke her mind, no fear or favour.

  ‘I think you’re very special,’ he told her.

  ‘I should hope you do,’ she grinned, ‘or you’ll be out on your ear.’ She exhaled slowly. ‘Seriously, Tom, I don’t know that I can stand up and address a crowd. I’ll be shaking.’

  Public speaking was one thing she’d never done. But she’d never been slow to voice her opinion about things.

  ‘You’ll be fine.’ Harper grinned. ‘Just be who you are. No airs and graces.’

  She snorted. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’

  Alone, he had time to sit and stare, thinking about life and death. Too many things were crowding him. The murder of Catherine Carr. Stanley Sugden escaped from the asylum. The rape of Nellie Rider. The dead baby.

  Each of them pulled him in a different direction. Sometimes his job made him feel like a man on the high wire, simply trying to keep his balance as he crossed. One wrong step and he’d go tumbling down.

  But he couldn’t do anything about the baby until he knew where the Waites had gone. He was relying on the beat bobbies to gather information. And the piece in the Mercury should bring leads on the rape.

  That left Sugden and Katie Carr. The man was the immediate danger. Armed and violent. With some luck, the inspector hoped, he’d wake in the morning to discover that Sugden was in custody and on his way back to Menston. But life was never that kind.

  Catherine Carr. The possibilities just kept growing. The man outside her lodgings. The ones who watched the meetings. Patrick Martin. Robert Carr, the husband. Not himself, but he had the money enough to hire someone. And revenge on her for leaving, for belittling him, could be a powerful reason.

  Too many. He hadn’t been able to whittle them down yet. He watched the runnels of water slide down the window.

  The knock on the door made him turn. He hadn’t caught the footsteps on the stair. His hearing was growing worse. He should go back to that expensive doctor, but he already knew what the man would say: there was nothing he could do. It would only be a waste of money.

  ‘That barman knows my face so he said to come up, sir,’ Ash said as the inspector let him in. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s on my way home.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘I thought I’d go out to Tramway Street again. Call at the houses where there was no one home before.’

  ‘You found something?’

  ‘Not much.’ He pushed his lips together doubtfully. ‘There was something. The man at number 35 was just going to bed when he heard someone running. He looked out of the window. There’s a street lamp there, so he caught a glimpse.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He says he saw someone with fair hair. Reasonably well-dressed, bowler hat. Big sid
e whiskers. But he was gone in a moment.’

  And they both knew how reliable witnesses were. Ten of them would see a dozen different things. The description fitted many men in Leeds … including Patrick Martin.

  ‘Very good. Do you want a drink while you’re here?’

  ‘I shouldn’t, sir, but thank you.’ He smiled. ‘The missus will be keeping my tea warm.’

  After the constable left Harper made a cup of tea and sat in the chair. Pat Martin. They were going to have a long chat tomorrow. But first there was a funeral.

  TEN

  The day was grey. The rain had passed, but the sense of dampness lingered in the air. At the Chapel Allerton omnibus terminus, leaves were falling and scattering on the breeze. The three of them walked past the board school and crossed over the Harrogate Road.

  Iron railings surrounded the cemetery, and a church that looked the worse for its years stood at the far end, close to a high brick wall. From inside they could hear a voice droning.

  ‘We can wait out here,’ Harper told them. ‘Look around. Sugden could be hiding anywhere.’

  ‘If he’s even here,’ Reed answered.

  ‘There are supposed to be a couple of bobbies around, too. Just keep your eyes peeled.’

  ‘No one,’ the sergeant said when he returned. ‘Mind you,’ he warned, ‘Sugden’s a trained scout and a sniper. He’ll be used to hiding himself and waiting.’

  ‘Then we’d better stay very alert, Billy. They’re coming out.’

  The bell tolled, and the congregation appeared with the coffin. Robert Carr supported himself on his sticks, his son Neville on one side, a young man on the other. The grandson, Gordon, Harper supposed. Servants from the house. But not many others. And no Miss Ford. The suffragists wouldn’t be welcome here.

  The vicar read the service of the dead and the body was lowered into the open grave. Carr had reclaimed Catherine in death, making her into the loving wife he’d desired. The true history could be swept away, and the fiction would live on in the headstone.

  He looked around. Ash stood close to the road, keeping a respectful distance away, hat in his hands. Reed was close to the church, eyes moving around.

  It was time for the final blessing.

  Then the shot rang out.