The Tin God

by Chris Nickson

  Dinnertime had passed before he managed to leave Millgarth. He had to go through the weekly disciplinary roll, with Sergeant Tollman marching in the constables who’d broken the rules. Fines, suspensions for one or two days; it was all standard fare. Only one whose record meant he’d probably be dismissed from the force, and he’d had it coming for years.

  He found Frank Kidson’s address on Burley Road in the City Directory. A very comfortable neighbourhood, Harper thought as he walked, even with plenty of industry at the bottom of the valley. The house looked trim enough, although the lintels and door frames needed a lick of paint. The windows shone in the weak sunlight. There was money here. Respectability.

  At first he took the young woman who answered the door for a servant. But she was too well-dressed, too precise in her speech.

  ‘I’m Superintendent Harper with Leeds City Police.’ He raised his hat. ‘I’m hoping to consult Mr Kidson about something. He might be able to help us.’

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘Goodness, you’d better come in,’ she said. ‘I’m Ethel Kidson.’ The woman blushed. ‘Not really. My proper name is Emma, but Uncle calls me Ethel. Please, come through.’

  She led the way to a back parlour that looked out over the garden. A few roses were still in bloom, splashes of pink and yellow against the rear wall. A man was seated at the table, pen in his hand, writing furiously, as if the words needed to gallop out of him. Books were piled everywhere, many more even than Annabelle had at home. All the shelves on the walls were full, and others were stacked around the floor.

  The furniture was old, probably expensive when it was bought. Now it seemed worn and shabby; Harper spotted two threadbare patches on the rug. But he had the sense that the people who lived here didn’t set much stock by their surroundings.

  ‘Uncle,’ the woman said, but he didn’t seem to hear. She smiled her apology and Harper grinned. Finally she shook the man’s shoulder. ‘Uncle, there’s a policeman here to see you.’

  Kidson looked up quickly, blinking with surprise behind his spectacles. His hair was dark and wild, standing on end as if he often pushed a hand through it as he worked. A thick beard, and bright, intelligent eyes. He was dressed in a dark woollen suit, sober tie, with a turnover celluloid collar on his shirt. Somewhere in his forties, the superintendent guessed; certainly much older than the woman.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, standing and extending a hand. ‘I’m trying to complete something.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘What would the police want here?’ He glanced at his niece. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong, have we, Ethel?’

  ‘It’s your knowledge I’m after, sir.’ He began to explain, but Kidson quickly interrupted him.

  ‘You think it’s a song? Do you have the paper with you, Mr …?’

  ‘Harper, sir. Superintendent Harper.’ He took it from his jacket, carefully wrapped in tissue.

  The man studied it for a minute, turning it over and back.

  ‘Well, I don’t know the writing, but that’s definitely a song, you’re right about that.’ He strode quickly to a bookcase and pulled down a thin volume. ‘What makes it especially curious is that it’s in here. My book.’ He marked the page with a slip of paper. ‘The song’s called Barbara Allen. But it’s quite well known. Famous, I suppose, if any old songs really are. The lines are “And he did die on one good day/ And she did die on the morrow.”’ He pursed his lips. ‘I wonder why someone would write down the words to that?’

  ‘We found the paper where a bomb had gone off.’

  Harper saw Ethel Kidson exhale slowly.

  ‘I’ll go and see to some tea.’

  ‘She’s invaluable to me,’ the man said with pride after she’d gone. ‘Keeps everything in order here, and she goes with me when I travel to collect songs. A remarkable memory for the tunes.’ He paused. ‘The chap who wrote that …’

  ‘We’re trying to find him. He almost certainly set off the bomb.’

  ‘I see.’ He clicked a fingernail against his teeth. ‘He could have copied it from the book, of course. I doubt he was a song-hunter. I’d probably know him otherwise. There aren’t too many of us.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Just as well, Ethel would say. But I’m not sure how I can help you, Superintendent.’

  ‘You already have, sir.’ He was about to leave when Miss Kidson returned, the servant walking behind her, carrying a tea tray.

  ‘Please stay,’ she said. ‘We don’t have too many visitors who aren’t involved with music.’

  Just long enough to be polite, he decided, and a quarter of an hour later he replaced his cup in the saucer and stood.

  ‘Thank you again.’

  ‘Take a copy of Uncle’s book,’ Miss Kidson insisted. ‘This way you’ll have the words of the song.’ Before he could refuse, she’d picked one from a pile and placed it in his hand.

  ‘If you think of anything useful, please drop me a note at Millgarth,’ Harper said.

  ‘Of course,’ Kidson agreed. ‘Tell me, Superintendent, do you know any songs?’

  ‘Songs?’

  ‘Old songs. Maybe your parents sang them.’

  ‘No, sir, I don’t,’ he answered, and saw the disappointment in the man’s eyes. ‘You should talk to my wife. She has plenty of old Irish songs she remembers from her parents.’

  ‘Perhaps I will,’ the man said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I will.’

  FIVE

  Kidson and his niece made a curious pair, Harper thought as he sat on the tram into town. But they seemed perfectly content with their life full of old songs. He looked at the book with its brown leather binding. Traditional Tunes: A Collection of Ballad Airs, Edited with Notes by Frank Kidson. Inside, he found a few pieces he remembered from his childhood: Geordie, that old Mr Bell at the end of Noble Street used to bellow when he was drunk, or The Grey Mare that his Aunt Edna would always perform at family gatherings. He’d completely forgotten about them; he’d certainly never imagined they were part of history.

  There seemed to be nothing special about the words of the song the bomber had written down, other than it mentioned a woman’s death. The morrow. Was that a clue? It couldn’t be. A day and a half had passed since the bomb. Well, it might not bring them much closer to identifying him, but it was two steps in the right direction.

  ‘Is it good?’ Annabelle nodded at the book. He had it open on the table as they ate, the way she did so often.

  ‘Folk songs,’ Harper replied. ‘A lead to the bomber.’

  She raised an eyebrow, then glanced over at the clock. ‘You can tell me later. I need to go downstairs. Dan’s poorly, so I said I’d look after the bar tonight.’

  ‘I thought you were going out knocking on doors this evening.’

  ‘Needs must,’ she told him. ‘I still have a pub to run.’ Annabelle kissed him, nuzzled her daughter on the top of her head, and was gone.

  ‘Da, do you have to learn all those songs?’ Mary asked. ‘There must be hundreds of them in there.’

  ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘I only have to look at them. I don’t even have to sing. Do you know why that’s good?’

  ‘Because you don’t have to know them all by heart?’

  He leaned close to her and whispered: ‘Because I have a terrible voice.’

  Before he left Millgarth for the day, he’d compared notes with Ash and Fowler. The sergeant had spent some time with Tollman, going through years of records and trying to come up with suspects. The inspector had been out asking questions, talking to his touts.

  But between them, it was a poor harvest. And it barely looked better after he told them what he’d learned from Kidson. Harper listed the points on his fingers.

  ‘We know our suspect is an educated man who hates women in politics. Either that or he fears them. He has the knowledge to make a bomb and he’s ruthless enough to set it off. On top of that, he’s interested in folk songs, at least ones that seem to mention women dying. But,’ he added cautiously and held up Tradition
al Tunes, ‘he could have found it in this. It’s Kidson’s book. Not a fat lot to go on, is it?’

  ‘Since we’ve had no luck so far with the first two things, maybe we should look at the song angle,’ Ash suggested. ‘After all, there can’t be many people interested in that.’

  ‘Do you know any?’

  ‘One or two I could ask,’ he replied after a moment and turned to Fowler. ‘What about Walter Summerfield? He likes a good sing in the pubs, doesn’t he?’

  ‘If you can call that singing. I’ve heard cats that were more in tune.’

  ‘I recall him telling me someone had come around once, wanting to know if he remembered any old songs. Paid him a tanner for each one.’

  Fowler began to laugh and pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘Knowing Walt, he probably made half of them up on the spot.’

  ‘Talk to him,’ Harper said. ‘And any more you can come up with. We need names. I want this man in court before he can do more damage.’

  On the way out, Tollman had called him over to the desk.

  ‘This came for you today, sir. Your name on it, not just Superintendent. Looks a bit like Mr Reed’s writing, and it’s a Whitby postmark.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He slipped it into his pocket without a glance.

  He played sums with Mary, then spelling, until it was time for bed. She was like a sponge, soaking everything into her brain. When he was her age he had gladly left his learning at the school gate; more of it was the last thing he wanted. The lessons themselves had often seemed too much. He read her a story from The Blue Fairy Book, glad that some part of her still seemed young enough to enjoy it.

  Once she was asleep, he settled before the fire with a fresh cup of tea, took out the letter and slit it open.

  Dear Tom,

  I hope you are all well and that the job is going smoothly. I feel like we landed on our feet when we moved here. I like the job and it’s not too strenuous. Elizabeth is opening a tea shop in town. There are already a few, but she thinks she can do well. She sends her best wishes to everyone.

  I’m writing because I saw someone we both know here. Terrier John. Do you remember him? John Millgate is his real name. Been here for three years. Evidently he arrived with money in his pocket. He still appears to have plenty of it and owns a respectable house.

  I seem to recall he was always scraping just to make ends meet in Leeds, so he’s come into something somehow. Was there a crime where you never managed to recover the money or arrest anyone? I’ve been racking my brains, but I can’t think of any, although it could be after I moved to the brigade.

  I’d appreciate any information you can give. As far as I know, he’s not involved in anything here, or so my sergeant says.

  Wishing you all the best,

  Billy

  Terrier John. He hadn’t heard the name in a long, long time. There had been crimes they’d never solved, but none where the thieves had made off with much. Certainly not enough to leave a man wealthy. He’d dig into that tomorrow.

  He folded the letter and left it on the side table; Annabelle would be glad of a little news about Elizabeth.

  ‘Any luck with that Summerfield man?’ Harper asked.

  ‘He’s seventy if he’s a day, sir,’ Ash replied. ‘And not the least interested in politics. Took us a while to finally track him down in the Horse and Trumpet.’

  ‘But he did come up with something interesting,’ Fowler continued. ‘Seems that someone was going round the pubs a while back, asking about old songs.’

  ‘Not Kidson?’

  ‘Definitely not. Summerfield knows him.’

  ‘Did he get a name?’

  ‘Not that he recalls,’ Ash said. ‘Only a vague description. Man in his forties, well-dressed, short hair going grey.’

  ‘But …’ Fowler picked up the thread with a grin, ‘he did give the man the names of some other singers. Didn’t find any of them last night, but I’ll go out again this evening.’

  ‘Very good.’ They had the first decent sniff of their man, like hounds raising their heads as they picked up a fox’s scent. ‘I’ll want everything you can find out about him tonight. We have a start now. Keep looking, and tell me as soon as you find anything. Ash, I need a word with you.’

  Once they were alone, the door closed, he said, ‘Terrier John. Do you remember him?’

  The inspector chuckled and rubbed his moustache. ‘I ran him in once or twice when I was on the beat. He never knew when to give up, did he?’

  ‘It seems he’s turned up in Whitby.’

  ‘Has he, now?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Mr Reed spot him, did he?’

  ‘He sent me a letter. Evidently Terrier’s been there about three years.’ He paused. ‘And he arrived with money. Living like a gentleman, no job, bought himself a house. What do you make of that?’

  ‘He must have some sort of fiddle going on,’ Ash said. ‘Bound to. Terrier never turned an honest penny in his life. He wouldn’t even know what one looked like. And I doubt he had a rich uncle to leave him a legacy.’

  ‘Billy Reed asked about any unsolved crimes here before the time John showed up in Whitby. Ones where we never recovered the money.’

  The inspector pursed his lips. ‘Nothing springs to mind.’

  ‘No,’ Harper agreed. ‘But go back and see. We might have forgotten it. You might ask a few questions, too. Just in passing.’ He grinned. ‘We don’t want anyone thinking we’re nosing around.’

  ‘I’ll be very circumspect, sir.’ When the superintendent raised an eyebrow, Ash said: ‘Nancy’s all in favour of us widening our vocabularies. I don’t even ask why any more.’

  ‘Women, eh?’

  ‘God bless them all. No more reports of trouble on the campaigns, at least.’

  ‘There will be. We need to keep alert and stop it before it becomes serious. I’ll breathe easier once we have this bomber behind bars.’

  ‘I’m going to pop in at a couple of meetings tonight. The uniforms will be out keeping watch, too.’

  ‘And the army’s going to check every hall,’ Harper said. ‘I know we’re doing all we can, but—’

  ‘But it’s your missus out there, too, and some lunatic on the loose.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘We’ll find him, sir.’

  ‘Let’s make it soon. Before anyone else dies.’

  ‘I’m jiggered.’ Annabelle sank into the easy chair and took off her button boots. ‘That’s better,’ she said with a sigh. ‘They’ve been killing me for the last hour.’

  ‘You’ve got a hole in your stocking, Mam,’ Mary said.

  ‘I’m surprised I have any feet left, the amount of walking I’ve done.’

  Harper poured her a cup of tea from the pot on the table. She grinned as she took it from his hand.

  ‘I always knew there was a reason I married you.’

  ‘Rough afternoon?’

  It was coming on dusk, the air hazy with the hint of darkness. The supper plates had been cleared away, and Mary was lying on the rug, looking at a picture book.

  ‘I feel like I’ve traipsed round half the streets in Sheepscar. I swear there were a few I’ve never even seen before.’

  ‘A good reception?’

  ‘Very,’ Annabelle said thoughtfully. ‘Some who weren’t convinced, but I don’t expect to win them all. It’s encouraging, though.’ She leaned back against the antimacassar and closed her eyes. ‘I’m just glad there isn’t a meeting tonight.’

  ‘You can read to me,’ Mary said.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Harper said. ‘Go on, get ready for bed and I’ll be in to tell you a story.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Annabelle said when they were alone. She leaned back and closed her eyes. ‘I don’t think I can move.’

  ‘You need to soak those feet.’

  ‘I will,’ she said. ‘No news?’

  ‘A hint of this and that. But nothing definite.’

  She nodded. ‘I saw the letter from Billy. Elizabeth opening a t
ea shop. Very grand, isn’t it?’

  ‘She’ll probably do well.’

  ‘I’m sure of it. She’s got her head screwed on right, that one. I was thinking, we should go and see them next summer. Maybe make a little holiday of it, two or three days. Mary would love it. I’ve never been to Whitby.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Harper agreed.

  ‘Could you be a love and see if there’s another cup in the pot? And I don’t suppose you fancy filling a bowl with warm water?’

  ‘What did your last one die of?’

  She opened one eye and stared at him. ‘The same thing you will if you’re not careful.’

  SIX

  No reports of trouble at the meetings. Good.

  ‘Any suspicious characters?’ he asked Ash.

  ‘It was mostly women and older folk. No one you’d look at twice, sir.’

  ‘What did you discover in the pubs?’ Harper asked the sergeant.

  ‘It seems our friend has been about a bit, asking about songs,’ Fowler answered. ‘I came across three people who talked to him. Funny thing, though, sir, he’s only interested in ones about death and dying.’

  ‘Did you come up with a name?’

  ‘I did,’ he answered slowly. ‘And a better description.’

  ‘Go on,’ the superintendent told him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘He claims he’s called Randall Stonebrook. I checked the City Directory. Nobody by that name.’

  ‘I suppose that would have made it too easy for us.’ He sighed.

  ‘He’s about five feet nine, sandy hair starting to turn grey on the temples. Middle forties at the most. A local accent, but educated. Decent clothes.’

  ‘That’s more exact than we usually get.’ Still not a great deal, but something.

  ‘Three different people and they all agreed. I think that might be a first.’

  Harper chuckled. Usually witnesses wildly contradicted each other.

  ‘Get that circulated to the bobbies on the beat. One of them might recognize him.’

  ‘And if they spot him?’

  ‘Drag him in for questioning.’

  No reply from Leeds, but Reed hadn’t really expected anything yet. They’d need time to dig around and ask a few questions. Tom had probably given the job to Ash. But he’d hear something, he was certain of that.