‘Come to see the new one, Inspector?’ He waved the saw at the table, his loud voice booming in the room. King was a man who relished his work, uncovering details and surprises, happier among the dead than the living. He was seventy if he was a day, but still stood erect. His hair had gone, leaving only a few wild, wispy grey strands over the ears, but the eyes still twinkled intelligently, and he had the longest, most graceful fingers Harper had ever seen, hardly a sign of age on them.
‘The one from the Infirmary?’
‘That’s him.’ A thin sheet covered the body.
‘Do you know what killed him yet?’ he asked urgently.
‘Of course.’ King dismissed the question. ‘Obvious as soon as I took a look at him.’
‘Poison?’ Harper asked hopefully.
‘Cyanide. He’d have died very quickly.’
He let out the breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. Thank God. They were safe. Neither of them would face charges. Billy hadn’t been responsible. But who had killed the boxer? Had his friend stayed in Leeds, staying out of sight and biding his time? Or had there been someone else? And why? What scared them so much that they needed the man dead? Did they believe he might break his silence? He shook his head. Wherever he turned in this tale there were no answers.
‘What else can you tell me about the body?’ he asked after a moment.
‘He’d taken a heavy beating, but I’m sure you know that. I can open him up in the morning and take a closer look if you like,’ the surgeon offered.
‘Will it tell us much?’
‘Probably not,’ King said with a shrug. ‘There’s one other thing. Your corpse didn’t put up a struggle when he was given the poison. There’s no sign of it.’
‘So …’
‘Either he was happy to die or he trusted the man giving him the liquid. Take your pick.’
More to think about.
King took off his bloody apron and threw it on to a desk. ‘You’ve brought me too many bodies lately, Mr Harper. That’s the third. I do hope it’ll stop soon.’
‘So do I, Doctor. So do I.’
‘I’ll have a report for you tomorrow. As long as you don’t send me any more corpses,’ he added pointedly.
Inspector Beaumont was still in the detectives’ office, sifting through a pile of papers and scribbling in his notebook.
‘Evening, Tom,’ he said when he’d finished, blotting the page lightly. ‘I thought you’d be bringing me your sergeant.’
‘You can have him in the morning if you want, Frank. Have you seen the boxer’s body yet?’
‘Not had time, we’re catching up after this bloody strike.’
‘He’s downstairs. King says he was poisoned. Cyanide. And I was over at the Infirmary. Whoever was watching him went off for a piss. When he came back the man was dead. Nothing to do with Billy Reed at all.’
Beaumont sighed and ran a hand through his long side whiskers and across his chin. ‘You’re sure?’ he sighed.
‘Positive.’
‘All right, have him come over tomorrow, just so we can make everything official. I’ll find out who was on duty at the hospital and give him a roasting. Are you any further on your case?’
Harper shook his head. ‘There’s still the missing girl.’
‘Just hope you find her alive.’ Their eyes met. They both knew the chances of that. ‘I hear your big day’s soon.’
‘Less than a fortnight now.’ He hadn’t thought about the wedding since they’d left Park Square. Everything seemed to be racing, moving so fast that he could barely keep pace.
‘And she has a pub, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘By God, you’re a lucky man,’ Beaumont said with a heartfelt grin. ‘There’s plenty who’d want someone like that.’
Harper smiled and stood. ‘I should probably go and see her now. It’s been a long day.’
‘Another day or two and we’ll have gas again. Small mercies, eh?’
‘Good night, Frank. Don’t work too late.’
The bed felt pleasantly cool, the cotton sheets crisp against his body. The window was open and he heard night birds calling and the hoot of an owl on the hunt. His ankle throbbed slowly.
He’d taken another hackney back to the Victoria. It seemed like a luxury, but he didn’t have the stamina to walk back across the river then wait for the tram. He was weary; the fire and fever that had pushed him through the day drained away. Billy was safe. He was safe. For an hour he’d wondered how much longer he’d be on the force, imagining himself as a prisoner in Armley and his sergeant on the gallows. At least that bloody nightmare had vanished.
Annabelle had taken the bandage off his ankle, easing it away from his skin. The iceman had been during the day and she’d kept some to rub on his skin. It felt like balm and he sighed, his leg resting on a footstool. When it was dry she wrapped it again.
‘You rest that properly,’ she told him. ‘Not that you will.’
‘I can’t. I need to find her.’ He had to believe Martha was still alive.
She sat next to him and he drew her close.
‘You will.’
He stroked her hair, feeling her settle and the warmth of her breath against his neck. She was his; he still couldn’t quite believe it. Soon she’d have his name. Annabelle Harper. The thought made him smile.
He trusted her completely. With his life. He’d never felt like that about someone before. He’d courted, he’d even thought he’d wanted to marry, but there’d been no staying power to his feelings. This was different.
All he knew about her was what she’d told him. That hadn’t been much. She seemed to want to keep her childhood out of sight and out of mind, hidden behind a curtain. He knew he could ask the bobbies who patrolled the Bank. They’d have known her family, could have given him chapter and verse. But he was content to let the words and the history come from her, if she ever wanted to tell him.
‘What are you thinking?’ Annabelle asked quietly.
‘Nothing,’ he told her. The truth wouldn’t serve any purpose. He was here, he was happy and looking forward to life with her. All the days and years ahead seemed to stretch out like a warm, inviting road he wanted to walk. For the rest of his life. He was certain of that, just as certain as he’d been when he took the oath to be a policeman.
He’d always been one to take his time over the big decisions. He weighed everything first, to test it and be sure it was what he wanted. He’d be a good, faithful husband, just as he’d tried to be a good bobby and detective.
He looked down at Annabelle, her hair wild around her shoulders, eyes closed as she snuggled against him, a smile on her lips, and knew he’d made the right decision. He remembered Lucy Thorp. They’d walked out for the best part of a year and she’d been eager enough to become Mrs Harper. He’d enjoyed the time he spent with her. But every time she mentioned marriage he felt as if the sky had clouded over. He still saw her sometimes when he was working, behind the counter of the hosiery shop she ran on the Headrow. If she spotted him she pointedly looked away. He’d been fair with her, he’d been honest.
And there had been the other girls over the years, none of them quite right for him. Lovely, every one of them pretty, a few free with their favours, others reticent. But he’d never been able to see himself with any of them in ten, twenty, thirty years. Annabelle was different. She joked that it had taken him six months to propose, but he knew that it had taken him that long to pluck up the courage, scared she’d turn him down.
He felt her stir.
‘I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to sleep.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantel and stifled a yawn. ‘It’s only ten. I must be getting old.’
‘You work hard.’ He knew she’d be up a little after four, ready to work, to do whatever was needed, and she’d keep going until evening. She wasn’t one to leave a job to someone else if she could do it herself. If she finished a day not feeling exhausted, she wondered what was wrong.
&nb
sp; ‘Someone has to look after this place. And the bakeries.’
‘Better get your rest, then.’
‘Tom, I’ve been thinking …’ she said, and he knew it would be a while before he was able to rest.
‘Go on.’
‘You told me about that moneylender.’
Henry Bell. Another of the boxer’s victims. ‘What about him?’
She rose and started to pace around the room, the way she always did when she was thinking, her crimson skirt swishing around her ankles, the white blouse as crisp and clean as if she’d just put it on.
‘They charge plenty of interest, don’t they?’
‘They gouge the poor,’ he said firmly.
‘What if someone was to lend money at little or no interest?’ Annabelle asked.
‘Then every Tom, Dick and Harry would be at their door.’ He was about to say more then realized what she meant. ‘You?’
She nodded. ‘I could help them.’
‘And you could lose a lot of money.’
‘I’d be careful,’ she said. That he was willing to believe. She spent when she wanted, but she knew where every penny went. ‘I’d only lend to people I knew, people I could trust.’
‘What if they didn’t repay?’
‘Do you have any idea how many people round here live on tick?’ He knew; most of them only survived because of it. At the butcher, the baker, the grocer. ‘If they didn’t have that, they wouldn’t be able to put owt on the table,’ she continued. ‘The wives won’t stand for that. If they don’t pay I’ll make sure no one gives them credit and everyone knows why.’
‘Just local?’
She nodded. ‘I won’t deal with anyone I don’t know well.’
‘It’s a dangerous business,’ he warned her. He thought of Tosh Walker, a moneylender by a different name. A predator.
‘And I’ll have a copper for a husband.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘What do you think, Tom?’
‘It has possibilities,’ he admitted reluctantly. And many pitfalls, he thought. ‘Just don’t rush into it.’
‘I’m not going to. I wanted your opinion.’ She smiled. ‘After all, we’re going to be married soon.’ She reached out, pulled him to his feet and kissed him. ‘And I’ll be glad when that’s all done. I’ve been for three fittings for the dress. Three.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll only wear the thing once.’
‘I thought it was going to be a small wedding.’
‘It is,’ she insisted. ‘But if you think I’m not going to look my best you’ve got another think coming, Tom Harper. Not on a day like that. Do you have your suit yet?’
He shook his head. There was plenty of time. He’d call in and see Moses Cohen. They’d grown up together in the Leylands and the man had taken over his father’s tailoring business. He’d sew something good together in a couple of days, something smart, better than Barran’s or Hepworth’s, a suit that would do his wife justice. With a fresh shave and a new shirt and tie from the Co-op he’d look respectable.
‘Just make sure you take care of it.’ She yawned again. ‘I’m off to my bed.’ She kissed him again and said, ‘You’ll solve it, Tom. You always have.’
Not always, he thought as he lay in his own bed. There was a brief, tiny shriek. The owl must have found its prey. There were many times he’d never found the culprit. Those were the ones he never forgot. Back when he was starting out as a detective constable, Kendall had told him it would be that way. At the time he hadn’t believed it; he knew better now. Most of the successes didn’t take much work. It was usually a husband, a wife, a fight that moved out of control. The failures were all firm in his mind, a series of pictures that galled whenever he thought about them.
But Martha Parkinson wasn’t going to join them, he was going to make certain of that. No matter what waves it caused.
SEVENTEEN
He came to, woken by a hand shaking him. It was still dark, the room so black that he couldn’t see a thing.
‘Tom,’ Annabelle said urgently, ‘There’s a bobby downstairs wants you.’
He sat up quickly, running a hand through his hair. He heard the rasp of a match, then a candle guttered slightly before the flame took hold. She was standing by the bed, her hair down, a robe wrapped tight around her nightdress.
‘I’ll talk to him,’ he said.
He hobbled down, relying on the stick, his ankle throbbing with each step. The bar smelt of old beer and stale smoke. All the glasses had been washed, the ashtrays wiped clean, the spittoons sluiced out. Dan the barman stood in the corner. He lived in a room at the back of the building.
The constable was so young that he barely looked old enough for his ill-fitting uniform. He looked embarrassed to be here, to see a senior office in his nightshirt.
‘What is it?’ Harper asked. The last time someone had disturbed his sleep, Col Parkinson was dead. This had to be as important.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The man was tripping over his words. ‘I went to your lodgings and they said you’d be here.’ He blushed and Harper laughed inside. The lad thought he’d been having a dirty night. ‘The desk sergeant said you’d want to know. It’s about Councillor Cromwell.’
He felt his stomach lurch, knowing what he was about to hear.
‘Dead?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How?’
‘Shotgun. He killed himself at home.’
‘Right. I’ll be at the station as soon as I can.’
Within five minutes he’d thrown on his clothes, given Annabelle a quick kiss and was walking along the deserted street. No respectable person would be out and about at this hour. All the cabs would have gone home, the horses in their stables, and the next tram wouldn’t be along until dawn. He gritted his teeth, moving as fast as he could.
Millgarth was quiet, all the night patrols out, the drunks sleeping it off in the cells. Candles burned on the counter, a reminder that, although the strikers had celebrated, Leeds wasn’t back to normal yet. The sergeant stood behind the desk, big and firm as a rock. He picked up a piece of paper and held out his hand.
‘The address, sir. C division are already out there.’
He looked. It was out beyond Harehills, off Roundhay Road, and sighed; it would have been quicker to go there directly.
‘Is there anyone to take me?’ He tapped the stick lightly against his leg.
‘I’ll see what I can find. It’ll take a few minutes, sir.’
Harper asked the question that had been bothering him since he left the Victoria. ‘What made you call me out?’
‘There was a note, sir. I believe Mr Cromwell had written your name on it.’
He nodded. Interesting. ‘Who’s covering it?’
‘Detective Sergeant Gutteridge,’ the man answered. The name came out politely enough but still managed to convey a word of distaste. The inspector understood why. Gutteridge was a clumsy ox of a man, who could break something just by walking past it. He was always dishevelled, his suit covered in small stains, his hair and moustache too long. Even worse, he was lazy, forever sloping off somewhere, returning with the smell of beer on his breath that no mint imperial could quite cover. Harper had never understood how he’d become a detective, let alone a sergeant. He shook his head sadly. ‘I believe you might be able to find a cup of tea down in the changing rooms while you wait, sir,’ the desk man told him with a wink. ‘Some of the men have rigged up a small stove.’
Twenty minutes later he was sitting on the board of a cart as the horse pulled them past Sheepscar. The pub was dark, curtains closed, everyone asleep. The cart was the one they used to take bodies to the mortuary, and he half-believed he could smell death in the wood. But it was a damned sight better than walking.
The only sound was the slow clop of hooves and he looked around. There was enough of a moon to make out shapes and silhouettes. Once they passed Harehills the houses thinned, and the buildings became larger and more imposing. Off to the right, Gipton Woods loomed, menacing in the darkness
. The last time he’d been out this way he’d walked up to Roundhay Park with Annabelle on a bright Sunday afternoon at the beginning of April. The daffodils had been in bloom, brilliant patches of yellow scattered across the land.
A little before Oakwood he spotted lights burning in the windows of a house and pointed. At the end of the drive he alighted, sending a disappointed driver back to Millgarth and work.
A flustered maid answered the door, the tracks of tears still plain on her face. She showed him through the house. He noticed the heavy, expensive furniture that cluttered the rooms. Lanterns burned brightly. A sob caught in her throat and she turned away.
The uniform guarding the door to the garden saluted quickly once he recognized the inspector, and led the way through the garden to a wooden summer house. Inside, Gutteridge was crouched over a body that lay on the floor, a shotgun at its side. The air still smelt sharply of cordite.
‘Suicide?’ he asked.
Gutteridge looked around, then pushed his bulk up with a wheeze. ‘You can look for yourself, sir, but I’m sure it is.’
There was nothing left of the face beyond scraps and an eye that dangled awkwardly. Blood and pieces of bone clung to the ceiling and walls. The corpse lay on its back, legs splayed, the first finger of the right hand still curled around the trigger of an expensive shotgun.
He was right; there was little doubt that Cromwell had come out here and taken his own life.
‘When was it reported?’ Harper asked.
‘Servant found a bobby just after eleven o’clock,’ Gutteridge recited. ‘She’d heard the shot and came out to look. Sent the younger maid to find one of ours, then collapsed.’ He glanced down at the body. ‘Can’t say I blame her. He’s not a pretty sight, is he?’ He pulled a cheap cigar from his pocket, struck a match and lit it, the fumes covering the other smells in the small room.
‘What about the wife?’
‘The doctor’s already been and given her a sedative. Just as well, too, she was almost hysterical by the time I arrived.’
‘Who else is in the house?’
‘Just the two servants,’ Gutteridge said. ‘The children are grown and gone, two daughters and two sons.’
Gods of Gold Page 17
