No smoke plumed from the chimneys. Leeds already smelt fresher, the stink and stench dispersed by the rain and a breeze coming down from the Pennines. But soot still covered the buildings. It rubbed off on clothes, caught in the throat, floated in the air and left the stonework black as the grave.
A small crowd was gathered around the doorway across from the Ancient Orders of Foresters’ hall. The small brass sign read National Union of Gasworkers and General Labourers of Great Britain and Ireland. Harper eased his way between the people and entered.
It was no more than a single small room with bare boards and two desks, each piled high with papers. Behind one of them sat Thomas Maguire, exactly where Harper expected. From the look of him he’d been here for a day or two, his red hair awry, suit crumpled and a fine growth of bristles across his cheeks. He glanced up with wild, intense eyes. His frown of annoyance turned to amusement as he recognized the policeman.
‘Come to arrest me, Inspector?’
They’d met the previous year when Harper had been sent to observe a labour meeting at Vicar’s Croft. The police were wary of trouble. They’d expected a thousand builders to attend, all of them ready to go on strike. In the end, three thousand had arrived, overwhelming the place. Maguire had been one of the speakers, a passionate, convincing man in his middle twenties, full of energy and fire. He cared. That much was obvious in his words. There’d been no trouble that day, and Maguire had organized the strike that won the builders an eight-hour day.
Harper had talked to the man when he was finished, only a short conversation but he remembered it clearly. And it seemed that he’d stayed in Maguire’s memory, too. Like Annabelle, Maguire had grown up in the Bank; he knew what it was like to be poor. His parents were Irish, and there was still a trace of that in his voice.
‘Not today, Mr Maguire. Sorry to disappoint you.’
The young man sat back in his chair and rubbed at his face with pale hands. ‘Then what can I do for you? I have a strike to run, Mr Harper.’
‘I know that. I’ve just come from the Town Hall.’
The man raised his eyebrows. ‘Looking after the blacklegs? Our people are going to keep them pinned in there.’
‘It’s a bit more serious than that,’ Harper told him. ‘One of them was stabbed as he made his way in. He’s dead.’
Maguire leaned forward, suddenly attentive, giving a brief glance to the man at the other desk. ‘The poor, sad man,’ he muttered. His eyes were shrewd and suspicious. ‘You think one of our men did it?’
Harper shrugged. ‘There are thousands of them in Victoria Square. They’re angry, they were shoving at the blacklegs. What would you think?’
‘I’d think you have a difficult case, Inspector. But I’m not sure what you want me to do.’
‘I’d like you to talk to those men down there. They’ll listen to you.’
‘And say what?’ Maguire asked sharply. ‘Ask someone to give himself up so he can be hanged for murder?’
‘The man who died has a wife and children. He’s just like those on strike.’ Maguire started to object, but Harper kept talking. ‘You know what the blacklegs were told? That they were coming to work in a new plant.’
‘Really?’ he asked sharply. He nodded at the man behind the other desk, who picked up his hat and quickly left. ‘We have a strike we can win, Inspector. And if they try and move those blacklegs from the Town Hall out to the New Wortley works there could be more people dead.’
‘You know the mayor’s sent for the cavalry?’
Maguire shrugged. ‘Battles to be fought.’
‘Think about what the papers will say,’ Harper told him. ‘It won’t look good.’
‘Come on, Inspector. When does the press ever treat the working man fairly? We’re already scum to them. Listen to this—’ He grabbed a copy of that morning’s Yorkshire Post off the desk and started to read out loud: ‘The town in darkness’. That’s just the headline. On the evening of the first day we do not like the look of the contest.’ He looked up. ‘They’d like to see us crushed, Mr Harper, but we’re damned if we’re going to be. They’ll use this and I can’t stop them. I’m sorry someone’s died, but I need to worry about all those men out there.’
‘He was a human being, too,’ the inspector reminded him, his gaze steady. ‘And those men are as hard done by as your own.’
‘Perhaps,’ Maguire allowed.
Harper turned to leave. He’d hoped for more, but this strike was war. A sudden thought struck him. ‘You work as a photographer’s assistant, don’t you?’
‘When time allows.’ The man smiled and waved a hand around the office. ‘Not so much at the moment.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘The London Photographic Company up on Briggate. Why?’
‘Do you remember a girl having her picture taken last year? She’d have been eight. Long dark hair.’
‘We probably get five to ten of those a week, Mr Harper. Last year? I could pass her on the street and not know her face. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’
Harper cut through the outdoor market on his way back to the station. The first stalls were setting up, men moving half-heartedly, with muttered conversations and grumbles. No one was waiting to buy and he guessed precious few would arrive during the day. No gas meant no work and no wages; people would have no money to buy anything.
The café by the fish market was open. Like so many other places, they still cooked with an old coal stove, keeping to the familiar ways; pans boiled and sizzled on the blacklead range in the kitchen. Today, that meant constant trade. After a long wait, the harried waitress brought porridge, tea, and bread with dripping to his table. He ate gratefully, relishing the taste and wondering when he’d ever find time to eat again.
He finally pushed the plate away, lit a Woodbine and sipped at the drink. Reed had been right – how were they supposed to find a killer in that mob? For a minute he’d hoped that Maguire might be willing to help, but he was more concerned with his own men than the death of a blackleg.
Harper smoked two cigarettes as he sat and tried to think, the tea slowly growing tepid in the chipped mug. People came and went, but he scarcely noticed them as he tried to imagine what he could do, how he could even begin to solve this murder.
Finally he stood, brushing the fallen ash off his coat, stroked his moustache to clean it and walked back out to the street.
Behind Millgarth the police wagons were lined up, the horses docile in their traces. Inside, crowds of uniformed men filled the rooms, some talking, others trying to grab brief moments of rest. He saw black eyes and bruises, torn coats, a bandaged head, one constable hobbling with a stick.
The office was quieter. Reed had finished his report and was leaning back in his chair, dozing; he should do the same. But even as he tried to make himself comfortable he knew it was hopeless. His mind swirled with pictures that weren’t going to grant him any peace. Harold Gordon lying on the floor with his empty eyes. Col Parkinson swinging from the beam. Little Martha out there somewhere.
Harper worked at his desk until nine, bringing his notes on the cases up to date. Not that there seemed to be a great deal to write. Much of the time he simply sat and brooded, trying to find a way ahead in his investigations.
As the clock struck the hour he finally gave up in frustration, threw down the pen and stood up.
‘Work to do,’ he said, tapping Reed on the shoulder. ‘Come on.’
By the time he left the station the sergeant was right behind him, rushing as he crammed the bowler hat down on his head and straightened the sleeves of his suit.
‘Where are we going?’ Reed asked.
‘We’re going to pay Henry Bell another visit and see what he’s remembered overnight.’
They cut through the courts between Vicar Lane and Briggate, coming out to a street that was almost deserted. Leeds seemed like an empty town. Shopkeepers stood hopefully in their doorways, vainly gazing up and down for custom. Carts, cabs an
d trams moved smoothly and rapidly along the road.
‘You’d think everyone had left and forgotten to tell us,’ Reed said.
‘If they have any sense they’ll all be at home. Half the businesses are probably closed anyway. And Leeds isn’t any place for a woman right now, not with everything ready to explode.’
The sergeant grunted his agreement as they turned on to Commercial Street. Harper caught a glimpse of someone in the shadows at the rear of a shop, writing by candlelight. We might as well have moved back fifty years, he thought.
They clattered up the stairs to Bell’s office. Harper turned the door handle and walked in. But the small room was empty.
‘Maybe he’s one of those who’s avoiding Leeds today,’ Reed suggested.
‘And left his door unlocked?’ The Inspector shook his head. ‘I made sure it was secure when we took him yesterday. Besides, with a strike on there’ll be men needing money. These’ll be busy times for Henry.’
‘What do you want to do?’
Harper grinned. ‘Good chance for a nosy around, anyway.’
There was little in the battered desk. A few magazines, all of them well-thumbed, the ink smeared, a couple of art postcards of naked women pushed to the back of a drawer. No ledgers, no list of debtors.
‘He probably keeps everything safe at home,’ the sergeant grumbled.
‘Maybe. Try that cupboard in the corner.’
He heard the door creak open, then turned quickly at Reed’s sudden intake of breath.
NINE
Bell’s wrists had been tied tightly behind his back. He’d been strangled, the fingermarks still vivid on his neck, eyes bulging wide in terror and desperation. Harper placed his hand against the man’s face. The flesh was waxy and cool; he’d been dead quite a few hours. He rubbed the jacket, his fingertips feeling dampness on the wool. When he’d turned Bell out of the station on Marsh Lane the night before it had been pouring with rain; the man hadn’t had a raincoat.
‘What do you think?’ Reed asked.
‘This happened last night,’ he said slowly. He stood, gazing down at the corpse. ‘If I had to guess, our Mr Bell came back here last night after I’d finished with him. Someone must have been waiting for him.’
‘That still leaves who and why.’
The inspector pursed his lips. ‘My money’s on the prizefighter and his friend. Look at those marks on his neck. Whoever did that had strong hands. And he strangled Bell from the front, too. He was staring right into his eyes as he killed him.’
‘A cold man.’
‘Aye,’ Harper agreed slowly. ‘Very.’
‘That still leaves why, though.’
The inspector looked out of the window at the people passing two floors below. None of them glanced up; no one had any idea there was a body up here, the life squeezed out of it.
‘They must have heard we’d taken him in,’ he said, ideas taking shape in his mind.
‘Maybe they wanted to see what he’d told you,’ Reed suggested.
‘Possibly.’ He wasn’t too sure. Bell had been scared. He’d tried to hide it in his bluster, to brush it off by repeating the same answers. But he hadn’t succeeded, even though he stuck to his story time after time. The fear was always there in his eyes.
‘Or maybe it was to make sure he couldn’t tell you anything.’
He nodded. ‘I think that’s more likely.’
‘You know, if we report this we’ll be stuck writing up reports all morning.’
‘We were never here, Billy,’ Harper replied quietly. ‘There’s nothing useful, anyway. Just close that door and we’ll walk away.’
Reed shrugged, pushed the cupboard door to, the corpse out of sight again, and they left.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ the sergeant said and they strode up Albion Street. ‘I’ll try to find some of the uniforms who were on the steps when they brought the blacklegs in last night. They might have seen something.’
‘Good.’ Harper nodded his approval. ‘Try for names, faces, anywhere we can start. I’ll talk to Gordon’s friends again. They might have remembered something.’
The crowds still filled Victoria Square, thousands of them, moving back and forth like a tide of people lapping up against the Town Hall.
‘God help the blacklegs if they try to take them out through that,’ Harper said as they stood and watched.
‘They won’t,’ Reed said, his voice full of military certainty. ‘They’ll wait until the cavalry’s here and use the troops to guard them as they go.’ He shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. ‘It’s what I’d do, anyway.’
Inside the building, a clamour of voices and footsteps echoed around the high marble corridors and stairways. The blacklegs had been moved from the crypt into the main hall. Half of them were asleep, jackets bunched under their heads for pillows. They’d been fed sandwiches and mugs of cocoa; pieces of crust were scattered around the floor.
Harper searched through the crowd for Gordon’s friends, finding them huddled in a corner by the tall organ, smoking their pipes and talking in low voices. Allinson nodded a wary greeting as the inspector approached.
‘Have you found him yet?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Harper admitted, looking around the faces. Harry Gordon’s brother turned away, anger and bitterness clouding his eyes. ‘I was wondering if you’d remembered anything else.’
‘What else would we know? It were the middle of the night, we were in a strange place and all them people looked like they wanted to kill us,’ Allinson told him dismissively, his words full of reproof. ‘The only thing we cared about was being safe.’
‘How far up the steps were you when it happened?’
‘How far?’ The man took the pipe from his mouth, pushing down the tobacco as he thought. ‘I’m not sure. Close to the top?’ He looked at the others, waiting for something, but they remained close-mouthed and grim. ‘You know what we want, mister?’
‘What?’ Harper answered.
‘Just to be shut of this place. To take Harry home to his wife and bury him.’
‘I’ll see what I can arrange.’
Allinson nodded, as much gratitude as he was ever going to offer. ‘We can’t even go out. I wanted to write to Harry’s wife but they won’t let me go to t’ postbox.’
‘That’s for your own safety.’
‘Mebbe,’ he muttered.
‘I’ll do what I can for you,’ Harper promised.
He picked his way back out through the sleeping men to search for Reed. The police seemed to be gathered in a large room off the main hall, but before he could enter, someone shouted his name. Turning, he saw Kendall striding along, strain and sleeplessness showing on his face.
‘What progress have you made?’
Progress, he thought? What could they have done? The superintendent knew better than that.
‘Sir—’
‘The chief constable needs a report to give to the aldermen.’
Harper considered what he could say. ‘We’ve interviewed witnesses. Reed’s talking to the constables who were there. We hope to know much more soon.’ It meant little but it sounded hopeful. Kendall nodded weary approval.
‘They expect a lot with this. The whole country’s watching us.’
‘We’ll do everything we can, sir.’
‘I know, Tom. See what you can discover today. They’ll be moving these workers over to Wortley this evening.’ He didn’t need to say more. It was going to be madness, a procession full of howling and violence. Finding anyone in all that would be impossible. They’d be lucky if more people didn’t end up as corpses along the way. ‘Leeds is desperate for gas. The business leaders are already complaining to the mayor.’
‘You know what chance we have of finding the killer, sir.’
‘I do.’ Kendall grimaced. ‘But they don’t. And they’re the ones who give the orders.’ Harper didn’t need to ask who he meant. ‘Do what you have to do. If you need to stretch the law, this is one time that no one�
�s going to mind.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And although they’d like you to keep working until you find the killer,’ the superintendent added carefully, ‘I know you can’t think worth a damn when you’re dead on your feet. There’s going to be little you can do tonight.’
The inspector smiled. ‘I understand.’
Kendall nodded and walked away.
‘Found anyone?’ Harper asked. Reed was drinking a mug of tea and writing in his notebook as he sat on a bench in the tall marble hall. Knots of uniformed officers sat around on the floor, their jackets off, some of the men using them as pillows as they slept, others smoking and silent, a mirror of the workers in the other room.
‘Four of them. It’s strange, though. Come here, I want to show you something.’ He led the way to the windows, with a view of the steps and the mass of people beyond. ‘The uniforms say there was a cordon by the lions. And men up either side.’
Harper studied the scene. There were two sets of stairs leading up to the Town Hall. The carved stone lions stood on either side of the upper set. Above that it would be difficult for men to press in; they’d have needed to climb over the statues first.
‘Allinson told me it happened just past the lions,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘The uniforms said the men were home and dry by then. No one could get to them.’
‘Maybe he had it wrong. It’s possible.’
‘There’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘There were men there,’ Reed said.
‘Who?’
‘Workers from the council.’
‘What, do you think one of them knifed Gordon?’ Harper’s voice rose as he asked the question.
Reed shrugged. ‘Do that, then blame the strikers. It’s possible.’
The inspector let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his hair. ‘That’s all we bloody need.’
If that was true, it would change everything. No one would like where it led. He knew what the council wanted: to paint the strikers as violent, desperate men who wanted to destroy society. This murder was exactly what they needed. It would play well for them in all the newspapers; it might turn public opinion. But if one of their own was responsible …
Gods of Gold Page 8
