‘You? Why?’
She shrugged. ‘I gave them a little money. Anyway, he was there with her.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Pleasant enough, I suppose. We only exchanged a couple of words. He was very French. I liked his wife, though. No side on her at all.’
‘Did you ever see the moving pictures he made?’
‘No. I wanted to. Old Charlie Turner – you know, the one who owns Hope Foundry – he offered to take me, but I don’t know, there must have been something else I had to do. He told me he couldn’t believe his eyes.’ She shifted slightly in the bed. ‘What time does this fellow get in tomorrow?’
‘Just after twelve.’
‘Why don’t you bring him back here for his dinner? I’ve got a nice piece of beef. I’ll give him some Leeds hospitality if you like.’
EIGHT
Reed sat on his own in the Cork and Bottle, nursing a glass of beer, his eyes and ears sharp. No one had given him a second glance as he entered. No sign of recognition; he breathed a little more easily.
A group of five men talked intently around a table on the other side of the room. Some had been in the army, he felt certain of that. There was something in their bearing, the straight backs. And more in their eyes, the shared knowledge of what they’d seen abroad. Something time couldn’t disguise.
He waited, drinking slowly, until one of them stood to buy more beer, then drained his glass and joined him at the bar. He had to start somewhere. All he could hope was that these were the right people.
‘West Yorkshires?’ Reed asked. The man was leaning on the bar and turned his head, eyes suspicious.
‘What?’
‘Just asking, were you in the West Yorkshires?’
‘Aye,’ the man answered warily. ‘What about it?’
‘You just look familiar, that’s all. I thought I knew you.’
The man studied him then shook his head. He was in his thirties, scrawny, with curly hair that needed cutting. But he still held himself tall, the way it had been drummed into him. ‘Never seen you before. When were you in?’
‘I left in ’eighty.’
‘Afghanistan?’
Reed gave the hint of a nod.
‘I served with a few who were there,’ the man said. ‘In the Second?’
‘Yes. Kabul.’
The man extended his hand. ‘Peter Lawton. I was in the First. Beer?’
‘Billy Reed. Thank you.’
The man nodded at the group over by the wall. ‘Half of us were in. What do you do now?’
‘This and that.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s been hard to settle.’
‘Aye, I know what you mean. I doubt I’ve had a job for more than three month at a time since I came out.’ The drinks arrived. ‘Give us a hand with these, Billy. Come over and sit down.’
He found a stool, gazing at the stony faces.
‘He’s all right,’ Lawton assured them. ‘He was in Afghanistan.’ He introduced the men, Dick Boyd, John Godfrey and two others. Reed smiled inside. He’d seen the names of the men pulled in the night before; Lawton, Boyd and Godfrey were all on the list.
‘Oh aye?’ Boyd asked sharply. ‘Who was your sergeant?’ He was older, unshaven, with stubbly grey hair under a cap, his eyes hard, face wreathed in smoke from a pipe.
‘Dufton till he bought it in ’79. After that it was Clark.’ He didn’t even need to think. The images of them sprang straight into his mind.
Boyd nodded with satisfaction. He’d passed the test.
Reed sat back and let them talk. For a while there was nothing to it, rugby, the cold weather, one of them moaning about work. Then Godfrey said, ‘Think the rozzers will be back tonight?’
Lawton gave a dark chuckle. ‘Got Robbie and Daniel, didn’t they? But bugger all else.’
‘What happened?’ Reed asked.
‘Coppers came in here, full of piss and vinegar.’ Lawton sounded outraged. ‘Right here, in our place. Dragged us down to the nick, told us we’d killed some bloody Jew. Then they kept Rob and Daniel, all because they put up a fight. We was just sitting here, having a drink, not doing anything. No trouble.’
‘Sounds wrong to me,’ Reed told him.
‘Course it’s bloody wrong!’ Lawton raised his voice for a moment before shaking his head.
‘No respect,’ Godfrey said. ‘We served our country.’
‘We’re out of uniform now and that’s it. We’re on our own. You know what I mean, Billy?’
‘I do,’ he agreed.
‘No jobs that pay owt to live on,’ Lawton continued. ‘You know why, don’t you?’
‘Bloody Irish and Jews,’ Boyd said as if it was a litany, his voice quiet.
‘That’s it,’ Lawton said. ‘Everyone knows they’ll work for nothing, so why would the bosses pay a real wage?’ He looked around the table as the others nodded and stared at Reed. ‘Right, Billy?’
He nodded. ‘It’s true enough. Seen it myself.’
Lawton smiled. ‘See? Everybody bloody knows it.’
That was as far as they went but he hadn’t expected more. It was a start. He was in.
‘Do you go down to the Anchor at all?’ Reed asked.
‘Where’s that?’ Boyd wondered.
‘Mabgate. They only like the English there,’ Reed said.
‘No, but it sounds like somewhere we’d like,’ Lawton laughed.
Reed sat with them until ten, then stood up.
‘Had enough?’ Godfrey asked with a laugh.
‘Got to be up early and look for work.’
‘Come back tomorrow night,’ Lawton told him. ‘We’ll be here, won’t we, lads?’
‘Happen I will.’
Harper stood in the Midland station. Wind howled down the platforms, scattering papers and rubbish like leaves. The place was filled with noise: the engines, voices, a train moving off, another arriving with a scream of brakes.
He glanced around. No sign of Reed, and just coming up to noon, according to the clock. He felt a thin twinge of fear, hoping that nothing had happened to him.
‘Penny for them,’ a voice said and he turned quickly. At first he couldn’t place the face, then he saw and began to laugh.
‘No danger of anyone recognizing you. Quite the baby face there, Billy boy.’
Reed snorted. ‘I keep taking myself by surprise whenever I glance in the mirror.’
‘Happen Elizabeth will like it.’
‘Oh, she will. She’s always complaining about the beard. Itches, she says.’ He grinned. ‘She’ll be over the moon.’
‘How was it last night?’
‘Met them easily enough. It’s what you’d expect. All Jews and Irish taking the jobs so there’s nothing left for an honest man.’
‘Did they …?’ Harper asked.
The sergeant shook his head. ‘Early days yet. But they seemed to accept me. I’m going back tonight to see what else I can find out.’
‘Did you ask about the Anchor?’
‘They don’t know the place.’
So much for that idea, the inspector thought. ‘Just watch yourself. Don’t go and do anything daft.’
‘Don’t worry. But they know something. I can feel it.’
Harper hoped he was right. It was all they had and it was precious bloody little.
‘We need the one who used the knife,’ he said. Down the track he heard a whistle and the slow intensity of noise as the train approached. ‘That’ll be my Frenchman. Be here tomorrow. If you need me sooner, send word to the Victoria.’
The passengers alighted. The men first, some in elegant frock coats and striped trousers, others in shorter, modern suits. Then the women, helped down from the carriage with a hint of ankle and stocking as they trod carefully down the steps.
Couples and families moved away from the platform. A pair of businessmen with shiny top hats and determined frowns passed him. All that remained was a man on his own, carrying a valise and shambling along.
His hai
r was long, all the way to the collar of his heavy greatcoat, and a battered hat was pulled down tight on his head. He looked around, curiosity in his eyes. Harper lifted a hand in greeting and the man began to stride towards him.
‘Captain Muyrère?’
‘You’re Inspector Harper?’
They shook hands, Muyrère’s as big as a bear’s paw. His moustache was shaggy, as unkempt as the rest of him. But he seemed perfectly comfortable with himself.
‘Call me Tom, please. I’m here to help you.’
‘Bertrand. Muyrère. From Dijon.’
He spoke English clearly and fluently, the accent no more than an undertone. He stood a good four inches taller than Harper and at least three stone heavier. But he carried himself well, his gaze seeking out all the sights around him.
‘I can take you to your hotel.’
‘Good.’ Muyrère smiled. ‘But first, please, a cup of tea. Train journeys always make me thirsty.’
‘Of course.’
Sitting in the Express Tea Room on Wellington Street he was surprised at the way the man seemed to relish the drink, sipping deeply then lighting a cigar. His eyes twinkled with amusement.
‘You’re wondering, Tom. I can see it on your face. All those questions. Why do I speak English well, why do I like tea?’
Harper laughed. ‘That obvious?’
Muyrère cocked his head. ‘We’re policemen, we read people, monsieur, it’s our job. I lived in London for three years after the war. I learned the language and I came to appreciate your drink.’ He raised the cup in a toast.
‘War?’ He couldn’t remember a war.
‘Twenty years ago, Inspector.’ He smiled kindly. ‘You were no more than a child then. I was in the French army. The Prussians beat us.’ His eyes clouded at the recollection. ‘So many men died. Good men, some of them. I decided it was best to leave France for a while.’ Muyrère shrugged. ‘I went back and became a policeman. And now I’m trying to find out what happened to Monsieur Le Prince.’ He finished the tea. ‘I’m in your hands, Inspector.’
Harper had booked the captain into the Old Hall Hotel on Woodhouse Lane. As they entered, he glanced back to look at the Cork and Bottle on the Headrow.
The hotel room was small but comfortable – a good mattress, clean, the bedding fresh and aired. Muyrère nodded his approval and left the case on the bed.
‘What now, Tom?’
‘My wife wondered if you’d like to join us for Sunday dinner. She thought you might not know England.’
The Frenchman bowed his head slightly.
‘I’d be honoured, of course.’ He patted his belly. ‘I have a rule, never refuse a meal.’
‘Have you just come over from Dijon?’
‘No.’ The man grinned. ‘I have friends in London. I spent Christmas with them. I needed to talk to Scotland Yard.’
‘Have you learned much yet?’
Muyrère shrugged once more, a gesture that seemed to say everything and nothing.
‘Time will tell.’ He pulled out his pocket watch. ‘And now … your wife will be expecting us?’
A hackney took them out along North Street. Muyrère stared with eager curiosity at the factories and the cramped back-to-back houses, saying nothing but taking it all in. He gave a quizzical look when the cab stopped outside the Victoria, then followed Harper inside and up the stairs.
Annabelle bustled out of the kitchen when she heard them, removing her apron and tossing it on the back of a chair. She was flushed with the heat of cooking, but dressed in her favourite gown, the dark red and blue that set off her features. Her hair was up, elaborately pinned, and she was wearing the jet pendant.
‘Madame Harper,’ Muyrère said, taking her hand between both of his and kissing her lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you for your invitation. It smells delicious.’
She smiled. ‘Sit yourself down. The Yorkshires are almost done. Tom, take his coat and pour him a drink. I’ve even got a bottle of wine. I thought you might like that, being French.’
They talked about life, about France and Leeds. About everything but work. Muyrère was charming and funny, praising the food and the cook, clearing his plate of the Yorkshire pudding with onion gravy, then the beef, potatoes and vegetables. He only shook his head when Annabelle suggested pudding.
‘Madame, you’ve filled me. No more, but thank you.’
He drank slowly, savouring the wine and smoking another cigar as the others ate.
‘Annabelle met Le Prince,’ Harper said.
‘Really?’ He stared at her with interest. ‘I never had the chance. What did you think of him?’
She reddened a little. ‘About all we said was “How are you?”. He seemed nice enough. I liked his wife, though. Poor thing must be sick with worry.’
‘He really just vanished?’ Harper asked. ‘That’s what I read.’
Muyrère nodded and lit a thin cigar. ‘His brother claims he saw him on to the train in Dijon. When it arrived in Paris, no Le Prince, no luggage.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Other people saw someone board, too. I talked to porters at the stations on the line. No one remembers him getting off.’
‘Are you sure the brother’s telling the truth?’ Harper asked. It was the obvious place to start.
‘No one can say it was definitely Louis who boarded. No one else talked to him.’ The man chose his words carefully.
‘No sign of a body in Dijon?’
‘Nothing. We searched the brother’s house, his business. And no sign of the camera.’
‘Very strange,’ the inspector admitted. ‘Have you talked to the passengers on the train?’
Muyrère moved his head from side to side. ‘The ones I could find. No one saw anything.’ He gave a small, wry smile. ‘Of course.’
Harper understood. Finding witnesses was always difficult. Reliable ones were even rarer.
‘Was he on his way back here?’ Annabelle asked.
‘No, madame. To America.’ Muyrère sighed. ‘Now we come to the difficult part. Two years ago, Le Prince was granted patents on his moving picture camera over here and in America.’ He held up a single finger. ‘That was for his camera with sixteen lenses. But he’s developed a new camera with just one lens, and he wanted a patent on that.’
‘But if he’s invented it, what’s wrong with that?’ Annabelle asked with a frown.
‘Nothing,’ Muyrère agreed. ‘But there are others seeking a patent on cameras that do the same thing. Powerful men in France and America.’
‘That’s enough to make you wonder,’ Harper said.
‘It is, Inspector.’ The voice was slow. ‘I’ve never come across anything like this before. Have you?’
‘No.’ He didn’t envy the man his job. Three countries and business rivalries? How could anyone solve that? He was on a hiding to nothing.
‘And I hope you never will,’ Muyrère chuckled. ‘Believe me, monsieur, you don’t want it. Theft, burglary, murder. Those I understand. But this … I don’t think we’ll ever know the truth. Not the whole truth.’ He gave his shrug once more and stood. ‘Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’m tired. Trains might be fast but they’re not so comfortable. Madame, thank you again. Tom, we’ll work tomorrow?’
‘I’ll come to the hotel at eight.’
‘Merci.’
Harper waited on the corner with the captain until a hackney passed, on its way back to town from the suburbs. It was already dark, the cold biting down hard. Gas lamps illuminated small patches of ice.
‘Until tomorrow, Inspector.’ Muyrère offered a wry smile and shivered. ‘I like England, but I wish Louis had gone missing in the spring.’
‘Sleep well.’
Harper reached Millgarth a little after six. The day shift had just taken over; Tollman stood behind the desk, leafing through the night ledger. The inspector hung up his coat and laid a fire in the office, twisting paper, then piling on kindling and coal before lighting it. He’d seen his mother do it so often when he was a boy that it f
elt like second nature. He scraped ice from the inside of the window and gazed out into the darkness.
There were papers on his desk, interviews with Abraham Levy’s neighbours and friends. He went through them all, finding nothing he hadn’t already discovered.
He was still reading when Tollman entered. ‘Something that might be of interest, sir.’
‘What’s that?’
‘There was a fight last night by Jews’ Park on North Street.’
‘Oh God.’ He sat upright. It was what everyone called the scrubby patch of grass on the edge of the Leylands. ‘Anyone hurt?’
‘No, sir. Two lots of youths involved. They scattered as soon as our lads arrived. Can’t identify anyone. I thought you’d better know, what with the Levy business.’
‘Thank you,’ he said and heard the sergeant’s large boots march away.
He was still thinking about it when Kendall bustled through, waving Harper into his office. His cheeks were pink and shining from a shave and the cold. His frock coat was freshly pressed, the wing collar of his shirt crisp and sharp. The man was always immaculately turned out.
‘Did you meet that Frenchman?’
‘Yes, sir. We had him over for his dinner. He’s in the Old Hall. I’m seeing him in an hour.’
The super nodded. ‘Any word from Reed?’
‘He’s made a start.’
Kendall sighed. ‘I hope you’re doing the right thing, Tom. I’ve already had the chief constable wanting to know what’s happening. He needs someone in custody.’
‘Sir …’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He held up a hand. ‘I shouldn’t have made you pull them in. Not without a scrap of evidence.’
‘Tollman told you about the fight last night?’
Kendall nodded. ‘There are going to be more,’ he said. ‘The longer this drags on, the more tempers will fray. It’ll be harder to keep a lid on things. Four days, Tom. That’s all I can give you. We need an arrest by then.’
‘Yes, sir.’ It was as much as he could hope for, he knew. ‘But it’d be faster if I didn’t have to look after this French captain, too.’
Two Bronze Pennies Page 6
