Gods of Gold

by Chris Nickson

  ‘What are you going to do about those lasses, sir? I’ve heard about Betty Parkinson. They say she’s in Menston.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘I was thinking, sir.’ He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. ‘The other lasses, they can go back where they came from. But Martha’s going to need someone to look after her. Me and the missus, we’ve never managed to have any children. She’s always wanted a little girl.’

  The inspector smiled. Ash was a good man. ‘I’m sure it could be arranged,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, well, we’ll see, eh, sir?’

  Who’d care about girls who vanished from orphanages, the unwanted ones, or little Martha from Fidelity Court? She was nobody, nothing. If Ash hadn’t been worried and come to him, no one would ever have known. And they’d never have found the blackleg’s killer.

  He was still making sense of it all when another constable entered, the dust and dirt roughly brushed from his uniform, brown smeared over dark blue. He was one of those who’d raided the house on Wetherby Road.

  ‘What did you find?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘Two bodies, sir. Little ’uns, no bigger than them you brought out.’ His voice was broken, gulping air between sentences. ‘Surgeon’s on his way there. Two of the lads are still digging.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Harper said quietly. He wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t make it easier to hear. Alone, he sat on the edge of his desk and lit another cigarette, smoking it down until the heat began to burn his fingers before striding briskly down the corridor, heels ringing on the tiles.

  He walked into a room filled with silence. Reed and the detective constable sat on one side of a table, Sadler and his wife on the other. They all looked up as he entered.

  ‘They’ve found the bodies of two children in the garden,’ Harper announced. He stared at Mr and Mrs Sadler. ‘You’re going to hang for murder.’

  ‘We don’t know anything about that,’ Bob Sadler protested, his eyes wide and wild. His wife kept her gaze on her lap.

  ‘No?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘All we did is look after the girls. We’d only been there six months.’ He looked at Reed. ‘I told you already.’

  ‘And what about the visitors?’ Harper asked mildly. ‘You wrote down all their names, didn’t you?’

  ‘Aye,’ Sadler admitted reluctantly.

  ‘How did you know who they were?’

  ‘A gentleman takes his jacket off and there’s time to look when he’s occupied elsewhere,’ Sadler told him, venom in his voice.

  ‘How often was Tosh Walker there?’

  ‘Never.’ It was Barbara Sadler who answered, her voice so quiet that Harper had to watch her lips to make out the words. ‘He had nowt to do with the place.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ she told him, looking the inspector in the eye. ‘And we had nowt to do with dead girls, neither,’ she continued. ‘We looked after them like they was our own.’

  ‘Your own daughters that you sold to strangers,’ Reed said in disgust. She had no answer. Harper gave the sergeant a small nod and left. If they were going to get any information, it would come from the Sadlers. There was a crack there now; all they had to do was prise it open.

  He sat in the office, taking the last Woodbine from the packet. He was still there when Kendall returned, bitter frustration on his face.

  ‘Tosh isn’t saying a bloody word. Claims he doesn’t know who Albert Walker is. Just sits and bloody smirks at me. Curtis says that if we don’t charge him soon, we’ll have to release him. I hope you have something I can use.’

  ‘Two bodies in the garden of the house. Children.’ He saw the superintendent shudder. ‘They’re still digging. The Sadlers say they don’t know anything about that. And they claim they don’t know Tosh.’

  ‘Do you think Reed can break them?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said after consideration. ‘We spent months looking into Tosh before and we never found this house. He’s hidden it well. You know what he’s like, he never lets the right hand know what the left’s doing. He’ll have had nothing to do with the Sadlers directly. Probably nothing we can ever prove in court.’

  Kendall brought his fist down hard on the wood. ‘I’m not going to have the bastard make a fool of us again.’

  ‘You might not have to,’ Harper said. ‘I’ve been thinking …’ He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the small book they’d found at the house in Wetherby Road. While he waited he’d made a copy of all the names in it; it was hidden away in his desk.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  They released Tosh Walker four hours later. Harper was standing outside Millgarth as the man emerged, Curtis at his side, and squinted up at the clear sky.

  The factory chimneys around Leeds were already pouring out smoke. He could taste it on his tongue and feel it in his lungs, enough to make a man hack and cough. People were back at their work. The town chattered and clanged with the music of industry. All around there was an undercurrent of sound. A city of empire once more.

  ‘Mr Walker,’ the inspector said.

  Tosh turned, smiling and looking smug. ‘You’ll have to do better, lad. You’re not going to get me.’

  ‘I’m arresting you for supplying children for prostitution and living off immoral earnings. I’m going to have to ask you to come back into the station.’

  Curtis stepped between them, holding his case close against his ample belly. ‘Mr Harper, we’ve been through this. Superintendent Kendall was forced to release my client.’

  ‘That was for murder.’ He didn’t take his eyes off Tosh. ‘Some of Mr Walker’s clients have decided to give evidence against him.’

  It was the first time he’d seen panic on Tosh Walker’s face.

  ‘Now, sir, if you’d just come with me.’

  The Sadlers had been exact in their note-taking. They’d written down not only the name of every visitor to the house, but the dates, the times and how long they’d stayed.

  He watched Kendall leaf through the book, the horror rising on his face with each page. There were only twenty-three names in there. But there were councillors, including Charles Cromwell, businessmen, a clergyman and a judge. Harper didn’t know why the couple had kept their record – blackmail or protection, perhaps? – but it had been complete.

  ‘Dear God,’ the superintendent said finally. ‘If this gets out …’

  ‘It doesn’t need to, sir. Perhaps the Chief could have a word with one of two of the men in that list. In exchange for their willingness to write depositions against Tosh Walker, that book never sees the light of day.’

  Kendall raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s blackmail, Tom.’

  ‘That’s justice, sir. And we’ll be able to put Tosh away for a long time.’

  The superintendent frowned, weighing the book in his hand as if it held all the heaviness of the world. Finally he nodded and went into his office, coming out with the top hat on his head.

  ‘I’ll be gone an hour or two,’ he said.

  ‘One last thing, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Twenty-three names, twenty-three resignations,’ Harper said flatly. ‘Or twenty-two. One of them’s dead.’

  After a moment, Kendall nodded.

  The inspector went out, smelling the smoke which was taking over the air once more. He wandered around the market, buying another packet of cigarettes and smoking two of them as he walked. Given a choice, he’d have put every name on the list in jail. But that would never happen. Those men had too much power, too much influence. If he’d gone up against them, they’d have made certain everything was buried.

  This way, using the chief constable, they wouldn’t have that chance. He’d spent a long time sitting in the office and working it all out. And for those who baulked at losing their positions, he still had all the information. It could prove useful some day.

  He passed by the café but he wasn’t hungry. His stomach felt tight,
every nerve taut, anger and anticipation tamped down tight. He crossed to Briggate, slipping between walls and houses through to Fidelity Court. The door to Col Parkinson’s house was closed at the top of a small flight of worn stone steps, the windows blank and empty. A pair of children played, kicking a ball against a wall and paying him no attention. The night soil thrown out first thing had dried in the runnel, making the air stink of shit and piss. He passed through and out to the other side.

  In a day or two he’d take Martha to see Betty Parkinson. Both mother and daughter deserved that. The girl would have a home with Ash and his wife. Somewhere to grow up safe and loved. And the other two girls? Just as the constable had said, back to the orphanage and Beckett Street. It wasn’t much, but it would be better than Wetherby Road. Anything would be.

  By the time he returned to the station, there was a report on his desk. They’d uncovered a total of four bodies from the garden. The police surgeon confirmed they were all girls, every one under the age of ten, in the ground for more than three months, probably closer to a year. Who had they been, Harper wondered? What were their names? Was anyone missing them and hoping they’d return? He’d find out. Sooner or later he’d be able to name the dead.

  As Kendall returned, he gestured for the inspector to follow into his office.

  ‘Close the door,’ he ordered as he settled behind his desk.

  ‘What did the chief say, sir?’

  Kendall straightened his tie and took out the pipe, filling it with quick, deft movements, then struck a match, puffed and let it draw before he answered.

  ‘What you’d expect. He talked to two of the men when I was in his office. They’ve both agreed that Walker offered them the girls, and they’re willing to put that in writing as long as their names don’t come out.’

  ‘And resignations?’

  ‘They agreed to that, too. Reluctantly. The chief’s going to go around the others. You’ll be able to read about them all going in the paper. There’ll be speculation of a scandal, you know.’

  ‘The papers can think what they want. They won’t know the truth.’

  ‘We’ll let Tosh go. You can wait outside and arrest him again. I think you deserve the pleasure, Tom.’

  He took Walker by the arm, his grip firm around the man’s elbow. As they pushed through the doors, Walker leaned into him and spoke quietly.

  ‘You think you’ve got the kingpin, Tommy boy. But you haven’t. Not even bloody close. You just wait and see. It’ll take time, but you’ll find out.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  He woke, and for a moment didn’t know where he was. This wasn’t the Victoria. He sat up in bed, mind clearing; he was in his old lodgings, for one final night.

  Light poured through the thin curtains. He took the watch from the table at the side of the bed: almost seven. He couldn’t recall when he’d slept so late. He glanced over to the new suit hanging on the front of the wardrobe, pale grey worsted, beautiful, light against his body, as perfect as a tailor could make.

  ‘Stitched it myself,’ Moses Cohen told him when he’d gone for a fitting on Tuesday. ‘Take a little in here,’ he said, fingers in the waistband, ‘a good roll on the collar when we press it.’ He smiled and nodded with satisfaction. ‘For one day you look like a lord.’

  He’d bought a new shirt from the Co-op on Albion Street, glistening white, the collar stiff and sharp enough to cut him, a new tie, even a pair of spats to set everything off. When he’d put everything on the night before he almost didn’t recognize himself. The man in the mirror looked prosperous.

  There was a jug of hot water outside the door, the way Mrs Gibson liked to organize it every morning. He stropped the blade and shaved carefully, running a hand over his chin to feel for any roughness, and trimmed his moustache with a pair of scissors.

  By eight he’d eaten the eggs and bacon the landlady had bought. He was dressed and ready. The licence was in his jacket pocket. He had money, a handkerchief, everything he needed. He sat for a minute then was back on his feet, pacing around the room, eager for time to pass. He smoked a Woodbine, staring out at the buses and carts on Chapeltown Road. The day was already hot, not a cloud in the sky.

  He couldn’t see why Annabelle had made him sleep here the night before. It was no more than some ridiculous superstition. But she’d been adamant about it.

  ‘Everyone knows it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,’ she said when he complained. ‘Anyway, I’ve taken care of it – I had a word with the landlady where you used to live. She’ll put you up for the night. You just make sure you’re at the register office for eleven.’

  And he would be. He wound his watch for the third time that morning and slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket. Three more hours as a single man and there was nothing he wanted to do.

  An hour later, still restless, he was ready to leave; all he was doing was pacing grooves into the floor. He presented himself at the landlady’s door for her approval.

  ‘You look a picture, luv,’ she said, eyeing him up and down. ‘More handsome than my Alan when we were wed. I hope that lass of yours knows how lucky she is.’ She rose on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, leaving the smell of lavender water on his skin.

  He walked into town, strolling, trying to stretch time. But three quarters of an hour later he was already at the market, buying a white rose to wear in his buttonhole. He’d considered stopping in at Millgarth to let them all see him in his best clothes. But in the last few days he’d spent too long there, preparing the case against Tosh Walker. Every night he’d worked long into the evening, checking then checking again that everything would be watertight, that the man wouldn’t wriggle out of a long sentence in Armley.

  Billy Reed was already in Park Square, sitting on a bench and reading the Leeds Mercury. Harper flopped down beside him. The sergeant glanced over quickly, then again.

  ‘Bloody hell, Tom, what did you do, steal a rich man’s suit?’

  ‘Nice, isn’t it?’

  ‘Has Annabelle seen it?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He snapped open the watch. Barely ten o’clock. He lit another cigarette, watching the smoke rise and shimmer in the light.

  ‘You’d better watch out. She might expect you to dress like that all the time.’ He paused. ‘Still, you’ll look the part when they make you a superintendent.’

  Harper laughed long and loud enough for people to turn and stare. ‘Don’t be so daft. I’ve got the wrong accent and the wrong politics. And the right enemies now. They’re never going to promote me again.’

  ‘You took down Tosh Walker.’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll wait until he’s sentenced before I celebrate.’

  The hackney arrived at eleven on the dot. Dan the barman climbed down, the first time Harper had even seen him in a suit and tie. He reached up to help Annabelle. Then she was there, in a pale cream dress that captured the sunlight, clutching a bouquet, a veil of lace covering the hair that had been combed up high on her head.

  She smiled as she saw him and he reached out to take her hand.

  ‘I always knew you’d scrub up well,’ she said.

  It seemed to be over almost before it had begun. The guests were all on time. His sisters brought their father, an old shell of a man who no longer recognized his own son or even his own name, helped by their husbands and children. Annabelle’s brother and sister were there, spouses in tow, everyone gazing at the bride in astonishment. They stood and took their vows, a rush of words, he placed the ring on her finger, then she was Mrs Annabelle Harper and he was kissing her, feeling her lips cool against his. He heard one of his sisters crying quietly.

  She’d taken care of everything, the photographer waiting outside, posing them into stillness for a picture, three cabs waiting at the kerb to take them all back to the Victoria. Weeks before, when he’d suggested luncheon at a hotel instead, she’d simply shaken her head.

  ‘Tom, I own a pub and two bakeries. Why in God’s name would we want to put good brass in
to someone else’s pocket?’

  By four, Harper’s jacket was off, tie loosened, waistcoat unbuttoned. The bar was filled, more friends than family. Kendall and his wife sat off by themselves in a corner, a full schooner of sherry in front of each of them. Reed was talking earnestly to a regular from the Victoria who’d served in the army. The food was long gone and the men were intent on demolishing the fresh cask of beer, while their wives drank the gin.

  He walked through the etched glass door into the tiny snug, astonished to see Tom Maguire there, holding court with two or three men listening to his every word.

  ‘Surprised to see me, Inspector?’ he asked with a grin.

  ‘Very.’ He looked around. At the mention of his rank, the others had vanished. He bent his head slightly to hear over the noise in the pub. ‘How do you know Annabelle?’

  ‘She was a friend of my older sister, God rest her soul. Grew up on the next street.’ He raised his glass in a toast. ‘I’d say you’re a lucky man to have Mrs Harper.’

  ‘I can’t disagree with you there.’

  ‘I ran into her during the week,’ Maguire told him. ‘That’s when she invited me. She has some interesting ideas, that good wife of yours. Talking about lending money to those who need it.’ He took a swallow of his beer.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘First I told her it was madness.’ He smiled. ‘Then I said that if a man thinks he’s getting something for nothing, he’ll value it that way. I let her know she’d need to charge a little interest for people to take her seriously.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘Nodded and thought about it. She was like that when she was younger, too.’ Someone began playing a piano in the saloon bar and voices joined in on When You Wink The Other Eye. ‘That sounds like our signal to join the others, don’t you think? And my congratulations again, Mr Harper. I envy you, truly I do.’

  It was two hours later that his sisters took him aside, pushing small presents into his hand, telling him he’d married a lovely girl. He knew that. She was over by the bar, half-listening as her own sister’s husband loudly set the world to rights. He caught her eye and nodded at the door. She smiled, made her excuses. He took her hand as they climbed the stairs.