The Iron Water

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Don’t be so cheeky.’

  ‘We’re a right pair, aren’t we?’ He squeezed her fingers gently.

  ‘You get any soppier and I’m definitely going to write up that reference, Tom Harper.’

  ‘There’s a piece in the paper about Morley, sir.’ Ash placed a copy of the Mercury on the desk in the superintendent’s office.

  It was part-obituary and part-complaint about the lawlessness in Leeds that allowed the city’s most promising boxer to be murdered. Harper read it quickly then tossed it back on the desk.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’re going back out to Archer’s.’

  ‘I thought you were there yesterday, sir.’ The sergeant picked his old bowler hat of the desk.

  ‘That was to see George. I’ve been thinking about it. I want to talk to Mrs Keeble again. Her nephew was kidnapped and the men who did it died. She knew Bob Hill, he’s gone. That’s far too much coincidence for my liking.’

  Maybe he should have pressed her harder the last time. But the slight hesitations in her answers had seemed so natural. Now he wasn’t so certain. Still, with two of them working on her, they’d make sure she gave them the truth.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Kendall said. ‘I want to see where this goes. You’re right, we need answers.’

  At least it meant a hackney, Harper thought. He couldn’t picture Kendall riding a tram and tramping across a field. They rode in grim, forbidding silence. As they neared the park he lowered the window, letting clean, warm air into the cab.

  Park Avenue was a wide sweep of road, built for carriages. A place to see and be seen. West Avenue was more of the same, large houses set back behind walls and young hedges.

  ‘Which one’s Archer’s?’ the superintendent asked.

  ‘Next one along, sir.’

  At the top of the drive Kendall straightened his coat and top hat. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘shall—’

  The blast of a shotgun interrupted him. One barrel, then the second. A pause. Another shot.

  ‘That’s inside the house,’ Harper shouted.

  He ran, feeling the gravel crunch under his boots, dashing up the steps to try the door. He pushed against it with his shoulder. It was too solid to give. One more shot, close enough to feel.

  ‘Go to the back.’

  Ash was ahead of him, long legs pushing hard as he rounded the corner. Kendall was at his shoulder, breathing hard.

  The door to the kitchen was wide open. The sergeant’s boots pounded up the stairs. Harper glanced around. Something was wrong. Not the blast. He could smell smoke.

  The superintendent dashed past him. Not one of the servants was in sight. Harper didn’t move. He turned his head, hoping his hearing wouldn’t fail him again. There. A noise behind a door at the end of the hall.

  The key was jammed in the lock. He turned it, forced the door back over the tile floor. Four people inside, their faces torn between fear and relief.

  ‘Out,’ he ordered. ‘Now! The house is on fire.’

  They rushed past quickly. Three women, one older man. No Susan Keeble. He moved, hurriedly checking the other rooms, her parlour, opening the door to the cellar.

  Nothing.

  His throat was dry, the hair prickling on his spine. Move, he told himself. Bloody move. His boots hammered on the wood as he ran up the steps. He could see the smoke, taste it. Sharp enough to make him cough.

  Kendall was standing over Archer’s body. It lay sprawled across the chequerboard tiles in the hall, eyes empty, a pool of blood growing around him. Already gone.

  ‘Sergeant!’ Harper shouted.

  ‘No one upstairs, sir,’ Ash yelled from the landing. ‘The fire’s in one of the bedrooms. It’s spreading.’

  ‘Leave it.’

  They needed to make sure everyone was out. People took precedence over property. He tried one door, then another. Nobody inside. One locked. He kicked the wood, a second time, a third until it gave, crashing back against the wall. Empty.

  Where the hell was Susan Keeble? And Roger Harrison? Had Archer’s bodyguard abandoned him?

  One last room. The one at the back that Archer had taken him into, with the furniture from his childhood. All the memories. The reminder not to return to those days.

  There he found Harrison, slumped but still alive. He moaned and stirred as the inspector started to drag him away.

  The man was heavy in his arms. Sweat ran down his chest. The smoke was starting to thicken and billow as the blaze spread. Then someone was reaching over to help. He glanced up: Ash. Between them they pulled and carried, leaving a slug trail of blood across the tiles.

  Kendall had unlocked the front door. Sunshine and clear skies outside. It seemed unreal after all he’d just seen.

  Tenderly they eased the man down the stairs, resting him on the grass. He groaned, grimaced. Ash knelt over him.

  ‘Don’t you bloody die on me, Roger. Don’t you bloody dare.’

  ‘Who?’ Harper asked. ‘Who did it?’

  ‘Susan.’ It came out in two cracked syllables, a hoarse whisper.

  He felt stupid.

  It had been right there all the time, in front of him. He just hadn’t wanted to see it. He simply couldn’t imagine a woman behind it all. She’d spun him into her web. Fooled him without even trying.

  He glanced up at the footsteps on the gravel. Kendall. His face was drawn, shoulders slumped. His enemy was dead, but he didn’t seem to find any satisfaction in it.

  ‘Sir?’ Harper said.

  ‘What?’ He saw the superintendent shake his head, trying to clear it.

  ‘It’s Susan Keeble. She’s the one we want.’

  The servants had vanished. Who could blame them? There was nothing more for them here, and who’d want to stay near a charnel house? Flames licked from the top corner of the building, forming a haze in the air. He didn’t care. Let the whole damn place burn down.

  How much time had gone by since the shots? It felt like a year but it couldn’t be more than ten minutes.

  She had a start on him. At the bottom of the hill the park spread out, acre after acre of it. All the places she could hide, corners to disappear into.

  ‘Which way?’ Kendall asked.

  Whatever he said, it would be a guess. ‘Try along there.’ He pointed to the far side of the lake. ‘I’ll take this side.’

  He skittered and slid down the steep slope, seeing marks in the earth. Tiny piles of dirt, the grass bent and flat. Someone had come this way. Very recently.

  She’d used a shotgun to kill Archer. Had he seen it in the house? Harper tried to picture each room in his mind. Nothing.

  With every step he looked around, alert for the slightest movement. He passed the empty rowing sheds.

  Which way now?

  No hint.

  All he could do was hope. He followed the dusty path next the water. On the lake a pair of swans glided close by.

  Harper could feel his chest rising and falling, the pulse pounding in his neck. To his left, the slope rose gently from the shore. His eyes scanned the trees.

  He was a target.

  Every step seemed loud.

  She might not be here. And if she wasn’t …

  He walked faster.

  A single figure ahead, sitting on the grass, dark against the brilliant green.

  Harper paused for a moment. A few yards more and he was close enough to see.

  Susan Keeble. The shotgun lay across her lap. She didn’t turn her head, didn’t seem aware he was there.

  ‘Mrs Keeble.’ He shouted the name, keeping his distance.

  The woman looked up and stared at him.

  ‘Put the gun down.’

  She glanced at the weapon, as if she was astonished to see it. But she kept it in her hands.

  ‘Put the gun down, please.’

  Keeble moved her head away to gaze over the water. They were close to the spot where Tench’s body had surfaced.

  He took one step closer, then another. ‘Why?
Why did you do it?’

  She snapped around to look at him again. In one motion the gun was at her shoulder. Pointing. Steady. He raised his arms, not taking his eyes off her.

  ‘Talk to me,’ Harper said gently. ‘Tell me why.’

  One more pace forward.

  From the corner of his eye he could see someone on the other side of the lake. Kendall. Too far away to do any good. He had to do this himself.

  ‘Put the gun down,’ he repeated, keeping his tone soft, trying to be reasonable. In the distance a group of geese began calling, the sound ceasing as suddenly as it had begun.

  She stood, the gun still trained on him.

  The sky seemed too blue for this. The sun was too bright.

  He stood his ground. She began to move towards him. Small, steady steps. He could see her eyes now, dark and intense.

  She stopped no more than thirty feet away. If she pulled the trigger now he’d be a dead man. Pictures flashed through his mind: Mary, Annabelle. If he ran he might stay alive for them. But he didn’t turn. This was his duty. If he didn’t do it someone else would have to.

  ‘Why?’ he asked again.

  ‘To end it.’ Her voice was strong, clear enough so that he could pick out every word.

  ‘End what?’ He swallowed hard. If he could keep her talking there was hope.

  ‘Everything.’

  He nodded towards the lake. ‘Why don’t you tell me about Len Tench?’

  ‘After my sister told me about the kidnap I talked to Bob Hill. He knew who it had to be. He arranged it all.’

  ‘Where did Lamb come in?’

  For a moment she said nothing. Then, ‘You know what George Archer did after my Jack died? Offered me a job as his housekeeper. As if being a skivvy and saying yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir was a great reward.’ He waited. She’d started, it would all come out. ‘I hated him. He’d gone soft. All he wanted was to be accepted. I saw that. I made Bob see it. Charlie Gilmore was weak, too. The pair of them were ready to be taken.’

  She lowered the shotgun for a second and he breathed in. Then she brought it up again, aiming straight at his face.

  ‘What about Declan?’ he asked.

  ‘He knew Lamb.’ There was a deadness in her voice. No inflection. Reciting history. Everything pared away to bald facts. ‘Declan knew Charlie had lost his hunger.’

  ‘Why did you let Eustace Morley live?’

  ‘People would miss him. They’d ask questions.’ Simple. Pragmatic.

  She came closer. Twenty feet. Impossible to miss now.

  ‘When did you decide to get rid of Bob Hill?’

  ‘That was Lamb.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘He had imagination. He saw that we didn’t need Bob or Declan. We could do it all together. Just him and me.’

  And when Morley beat Lamb to death the plans had unravelled. Killing the boxer had been nothing more than revenge. Morley would never suspect a woman, so he’d let her get close enough to stab him.

  She moved sideways, gesturing to him with the barrel until they were standing right at the edge of the lake. She’d fire and he’d go tumbling into the water. Die from his wounds, die from drowning. Either way he’d be a corpse. Another one to fish out. Another one for Dr King to examine.

  Susan Keeble started to speak again. The gun had been lying there. All she had to do was take it and wait. Archer never asked her if she knew where it was. He treated her like she was nobody. When the missus and their boy went out this morning she took it as a sign. Time to put an end to things.

  Very slowly, Harper extended his hand.

  ‘You’ve done it all now. It’s over. You can give me the gun.’

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand, do you?’

  ‘Understand what?’

  Her answer didn’t come in words. She turned the gun so the muzzle was under her chin. Before he could move, she’d pulled the trigger. Both barrels. Powerful enough to throw her off her feet and into Waterloo Lake.

  He jumped in after her. He didn’t even think if she was dead or alive. The sound of the blast rang in his head. Harper broke the surface, gasping at the cold, and saw her just a few feet away. Two strokes and he was there. Arms around her, pulling her to shore. He climbed out, dragging her behind him, up on to the grass.

  Her face was gone. Nothing there at all. As if she’d never been.

  He settled on his hands and knees, coughing and retching up the water and the fear, pushing his forehead down against the grass. The sun was warm but he was shivering wildly.

  ‘Tom? Are you hurt?’

  He hadn’t heard Kendall. No footsteps. The man was simply there, standing over him, his long shadow pointing down towards the lake.

  ‘I’m fine.’ His own voice surprised him: so steady, so reasonable.

  ‘Can you stand?’

  He tried to push himself upright. A hand holding his arm helped. At first his legs buckled but Kendall kept a strong grip, stopping him from falling.

  ‘What about the house?’ The thought came into his head.

  ‘Take a look.’

  He turned. Black smoke was spiralling up into the sky. A lick of flame rose then vanished. The blaze was in control. By the time the fire engines arrived there’d be nothing left of Archer’s dream home.

  Maybe that was for the best.

  He didn’t want to glance at the body beside him but he knew he had to. Where the face had been it was just shreds of skin and splinters of skull. Wet, matted hair.

  His sodden jacket clung to him as he eased it off and covered her head. However many she’d murdered she still deserved some dignity.

  ‘Come on,’ Kendall said quietly, a hand on his arm. ‘The bandstand’s just up ahead. We’ll wait there.’

  Sitting, he put his head back and closed his eyes, resting against the solid wood. Everything came again. The words, the emptiness in her eyes, the barrel of the gun pointing at him, never wavering.

  He heard a match strike, then the harsh smell of the superintendent’s tobacco. It was oddly comforting – normal, on a day when the world had turned upside down.

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘She admitted everything. I’d just never believed a woman could do all that.’

  ‘What about today?’ Kendall asked. ‘Did she explain that?’

  ‘I think …’ He stopped. Was it madness or desperation that made her shoot Archer and Harrison? Maybe she tiptoed that line between clarity and insanity, one foot on either side. ‘She hated Archer.’

  ‘So did I. I’m glad he’s dead.’ He heard Kendall’s long sigh. ‘But I’d rather have put him in the dock.’

  Somewhere in the far distance he could hear the urgent ringing of a bell. He felt weary, the exhaustion rising through his body.

  Perhaps he slept. Perhaps his thoughts simply drifted. He was slowly aware of another voice.

  ‘I got Archer’s body out, sir. The brigade’s there now, but I don’t think there’s anything they can do to save it. Our lot are on the way.’

  ‘Take Inspector Harper home, Sergeant.’

  He blinked and sat up, seeing the pair of them just a few feet away.

  ‘My report.’

  ‘In the morning,’ Kendall told him. ‘There’s time for it then.’

  His shirt and trousers felt clammy against his skin. He walked slowly, as if he wasn’t sure he could manage it; every step seemed an effort. They didn’t talk. The words would all come later. For now, silence was just fine.

  A hackney was letting out a customer by the entrance to the park. Ash waved it down.

  ‘Sheepscar,’ he said. Harper could feel the cabbie’s eyes on him, the disdain at his appearance.

  ‘I’m not having him inside. Look at the state of him.’

  ‘Police,’ the sergeant told him, never changing his tone. ‘I said Sheepscar. Or maybe you’d prefer to lose your licence?’

  At the Victoria, Ash escorted him through the bar, shaking his head at Dan’s worried stare. Then th
e stairs, and the door to their rooms.

  ‘Tom—’ Annabelle began, then saw him properly. Her eyes widened. She crossed the room, taking his face between her hands. ‘My God …’

  ‘He’s fine.’ Harper could feel Ash behind him, warm breath on the back of his neck. ‘He just needs a hot bath and a long sleep.’

  ‘What …?’ Her eyes darted between them.

  ‘He’s been in Waterloo Lake. I’ll let him tell you all about it. I need to get back to the park.’

  The clump of heavy footsteps and he was gone.

  Annabelle stood in front of him, hands on hips. ‘I’ll fill the bath. You get yourself out of those wet clothes.’ From the corner of his eye he saw Bertha Quinn sitting at the table, a pen still in her hand, trying to hide her curiosity. ‘Go on. I’ll be there in a minute.’

  Until he closed the bedroom door he had no idea of the time. Mary was stretched out in the cot, eyes closed, oblivious. Afternoon already. The day seemed to have disappeared.

  Harper stripped, leaving the soaking clothes on the floorboards. His boots were as heavy as bricks from the water. He could hear the clank and hiss from the bathroom. She’d had a geyser fitted the year before, revelling in the luxury. Hot water whenever she wanted. For the first time he truly appreciated the idea.

  Annabelle appeared, holding a towel.

  ‘Ready soon enough. Wrap yourself in that, it’s been in the airing cupboard.’ She tucked it around him then sat at his side. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  The words came this time. No hesitation. He could see each moment. Smell it. Taste it.

  ‘I’ll turn off the water,’ she said when he was done. She kissed him. ‘Better her dead than you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Annabelle shook her head. ‘What did I tell you, Tom Harper? You went and underestimated a woman.’

  He smiled. She changed the mood. Pulled him out of the darkness. And she was right. She’d warned him about it before.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The start of August burned hotter than July. Finally the cooler weather came, bringing nights that offered a chance to rest properly. In the early days of September Harper gave his evidence at the inquests. Everything simple, straightforward. No lies. No need to nudge the truth. The newspaper reporters stayed busy in court, scribbling away in their notebooks. The verdicts were never in doubt. Harrison had died in hospital: unlawful killing for Archer and the bodyguard. And for Susan Keeble, a simple suicide.