The Tin God

by Chris Nickson

  ‘No question, Tom,’ Binns answered. ‘Lamp oil. Spilled it around the floor and on the walls back here. At least the alarm went up quickly. Our lads were able to save half the place.’ He nodded at the firemen, looking sooty but cheerful as they rolled up their hoses. ‘My guess is he got in through the back door somehow. Thirty seconds to throw the liquid around. Toss in a burning rag as he left and bob’s your uncle.’ He frowned. ‘Amateur but effective. Mind you,’ he added, ‘if he wasn’t careful, that first flash of the flames might have given him a burn if he didn’t close the door straight behind himself. Some people like to see their handiwork. Make sure it’s actually caught.’

  ‘Is the rest of it safe?’

  ‘No,’ Binns told him. ‘It’ll have to come down. But if you want a look it probably won’t fall on you.’

  Harper left the investigator to his observations and calculations and let his gaze roam around what was left of the floor. Puddles of water pooled like small lakes. Where would the man hide his piece of paper? Nowhere it could be destroyed; there was no sense in that. Outside. It would need to be outside.

  It was on the low brick wall that separated the hall from the street, weighted down under a stone to make sure it wasn’t blown away. The man wanted it found, to claim responsibility and credit.

  The usual writing. Another pair of lines.

  That some drops of this lady’s heart’s blood

  Ran trickling down her knee.

  Harper didn’t recognize the words from Kidson’s book. But a trip to Burley Road would give him the answer.

  ‘Superintendent.’ Ethel Kidson greeted him with a smile. ‘I hope this doesn’t mean there’s more trouble.’

  ‘I’m afraid it does, Miss.’

  ‘Come in. My uncle’s in the parlour. He has a cold, but if we can help you at all …’

  The man was leaning over the table, head covered with an old towel as he inhaled from a steaming bowl. He sat up and Harper caught the sharp smell of mustard. Good for clearing the chest, his mother had always insisted.

  ‘My apologies.’ Kidson fumbled for his glasses and set them on his nose. ‘I picked up a chill in the Dales.’ He sniffled, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his nose.

  ‘We’ve had another pair of incidents. You might be able to help me with these.’

  ‘That one’s in my book,’ the man replied as he glanced at the paper. ‘This one, though … it’s Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard, isn’t it, Ethel?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle.’ She glanced up at Harper. ‘Another that Professor Child collected. It’s very bloodthirsty.’

  Kidson tapped the note with a fingernail. ‘I’ve written about this one in the Mercury, too. Not in detail, of course, because of consideration for the ladies. I think I have three or four versions. Some go back at least a hundred years. But it’s almost certainly older than that.’

  ‘It was at the scene of a fire this morning.’

  ‘I see.’ He placed the paper on the table and smoothed it out carefully. ‘I’m not sure what else I can tell you, Superintendent. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You published something about it. That helps. All the fragments so far are from your books or columns. Since we’ve had no luck among the song collectors you mentioned, it’s probably safe to assume he’s finding these in things you’ve printed.’

  ‘Plenty of people read the Mercury, though.’ Kidson sounded apologetic.

  And the paper always supported Liberal candidates. The shout at the hustings had come from the knot of Moody’s supporters. The Liberal candidate. Was there a connection?

  ‘Do you remember, Uncle, a few months ago Mr Ericson was saying that someone had been asking about you and your work?’

  ‘Was he? I don’t recall it.’

  Ethel Kidson turned towards the superintendent. ‘He’s another collector,’ she explained. ‘He mentioned it in passing. It just sprang into my head.’

  ‘Did he say who it was?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied hesitantly, then brightened. ‘We can go and ask him. You’ll be fine without me here for a little while, won’t you, Uncle?’

  In the hackney she was full of questions about Annabelle and the other women running for office, genuinely curious to know. By the time the cab stopped in one of the silent streets off Headingley Lane, Harper felt as if he’d been well and truly pumped for information.

  The house was set well back from the road, standing at the back of a large, untended garden. The building had an air of benign neglect, a slate hanging loose on the roof, a corner of stonework beginning to crumble.

  ‘Mr Ericson is a little bit eccentric,’ Ethel Kidson whispered.

  The man himself was in his sixties, sitting in a parlour buttoned up in a thick Melton overcoat while a miserly fire flickered in the grate. He had thinning white hair smoothed down with pomade, spectacles with gold rims, and a face that seemed more heavy jowl than bone.

  He was genuinely happy to see Ethel, and curious when she introduced the superintendent.

  ‘Are we criminals?’ he asked with interest. ‘Have we broken the law?’

  ‘You told my uncle that a man asked you about him.’ She’d raised her voice, the way people often did around the elderly and the deaf. How long before people started that with him, Harper wondered?

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Ericson nodded. ‘It was back in the early summer. He said he admired Mr Kidson’s book and his columns.’

  Harper could feel his hopes beginning to rise. But how often had they been dashed before on this case?

  ‘The superintendent would like to know about him.’

  ‘Would you?’ He turned a pair of very clear, alert blue eyes on Harper. ‘Why?’

  ‘Police business, sir. Probably best if I leave it at that.’

  For a second, Ericson’s face reddened, as if he was angry. Then he shrugged. ‘Really, eh? Well, no matter, no matter. I didn’t know the chap, someone must have pointed me out to him.’

  ‘Did he give you his name?’ Harper asked.

  ‘I suppose he must have,’ Ericson answered. ‘But for the life of me, I didn’t pay any attention. He wanted to talk about music, and what Mr Kidson had done.’ With a smile, he nodded towards Ethel.

  Of course. To have a name would be too easy.

  ‘What did he look like, sir? What did he sound like?’

  The description matched. He’d felt certain it would.

  ‘Very pleasant man,’ Ericson said. ‘Genuinely interested in folk songs and collecting. Not an expert, but he seemed to know a little.’

  ‘And you’ve no recollection of his name? Or who pointed you out to him?’

  ‘No. The only reason it stayed in my head was that it seemed so odd.’

  ‘Odd, sir?’

  ‘It’s the first time anyone’s asked me about it.’ He gave a knowing smile. ‘Most people just think it’s strange. Especially at the club.’

  ‘The club? Which club?’

  But there could only be one. The Leeds Club on Albion Place. Members only. Wealthy men and their guests.

  ‘You’re certain it happened there, sir?’

  ‘Positive,’ Ericson told him coldly. ‘Now, was there anything else?’

  ‘Yes,’ Harper replied. ‘Was he a member, do you know, or someone’s guest?’

  The question surprised the man. He pinched his lips together as he thought.

  ‘I’d never seen him before. But that doesn’t mean much; I don’t often go there. If I had to guess, I’d say he was a guest. He didn’t seem quite at home, if that makes sense.’

  It did. And it made him reconsider Ericson. The man might be strange, but he had an acute mind.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You look as if that was useful,’ Ethel Kidson said as they waited at the hackney stand by Woodhouse Moor.

  ‘It was. Thank you for taking me there.’

  ‘He didn’t seem to say that much.’

  ‘Mr Ericson’s given me another line to pursue.’
When you were clutching at straws, even the slimmest thing could look like a haystack.

  Harper helped her up into the cab, raised his hat, and strode back into town.

  ‘Check the register at the Leeds Club,’ he told Fowler. ‘Make a note of all the men signed in as guests between April and …’ Early summer, Ericson had said. ‘August. And the members who brought them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How much good will that do us?’ Ash asked after a moment. ‘They’re just names, sir. They don’t mean anything by themselves.’

  ‘True,’ Harper agreed. ‘But it’s information. We know he was there. We’ll have a list, and he’ll be on it. If we come up with another list of names and look at them both …’

  Maybe it was just wishful thinking. But it was police work, deduction. And it might bring them some results. It was definitely better than nothing, he thought.

  He looked at his men. They looked drawn, worn down, the effort of the last few weeks apparent on their faces. He needed something very soon, before they lost their sharpness.

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘I questioned a couple of the men arrested at the hustings,’ Fowler said. ‘They both said it was a middle-aged man with greying hair who shouted. They’d never seen him before among Moody’s supporters. He was passing round a hip flask at the meeting.’

  Not even a disguise and Harper had missed him. How? He’d been looking for the man, examining all the faces. Did he have some way of making himself invisible in a crowd?

  ‘Excellent work.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘I go down to the Bay quite often,’ Millgate said. ‘It’s a pretty place to spend the day.’

  He kept gazing around uncomfortably.

  ‘In the summer, perhaps,’ Reed said. ‘Rather bleak in the winter, though.’

  ‘Depends what you like, Inspector. I enjoy that.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with the smuggling there, would it?’

  ‘You keep harping on about me and smuggling. That judge said I was completely innocent—’

  ‘That judge was conned and we both know it.’ He leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. ‘You weren’t even born innocent, Terrier. What are they going to think down in the Bay when word drifts back that you and I were seen together having a pleasant conversation in a tea room?’

  ‘Why would anyone care?’ He tried to sound casual, but Reed heard the tremor in the man’s voice and saw the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. Good, he thought. Time to press the advantage a little. Just enough to leave the Terrier dangling and wanting some help.

  ‘You heard what happened to Tom Barker, didn’t you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The body they pulled out of the water just after the storm.’

  ‘He drowned, didn’t he?’ Millgate asked sharply.

  ‘The rumour is that he was informing.’

  Suddenly the Terrier looked very uncomfortable in his good clothes, as if the tweed jacket itched uncontrollably against his skin and the leather of his shoes pinched hard against his feet. He seemed like a man with a desire to be back in his second-hand Leeds suit.

  ‘Maybe your friends hadn’t told you about him.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Reed.’ He reached into his waistcoat, brought out his watch and glanced at it carefully. ‘I need to go.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you around town,’ the inspector told him. ‘After all, Whitby’s a small place. And Robin Hood’s Bay is even smaller.’

  He’d baited the hook properly, he thought as he watched Terrier John leave. Now he had to hope his fish would bite. Reed laughed at himself. Fish. Whitby must be burrowing into his soul.

  ‘The list, sir.’ Fowler rubbed his knuckles. ‘I think I’ve got cramp from all that writing.’

  Seven pages of names. Harper leafed through them, recognizing many. Powerful Leeds figures: factory owners, councillors, men who’d inherited their wealth. He’d even met a few of them at the charity events senior police officers had to attend. Nothing unusual or suspicious. But their killer was in there somewhere.

  ‘Did anything stand out to you?’

  ‘I can’t say it did, sir. But then, I’ve never heard of most of them.’

  ‘We’ll see where it takes us. Go back over the case file. Make a note of every name and compare them against these.’ He thought for a second. ‘It would be easier if these were in alphabetical order.’

  ‘Sir,’ Fowler said plaintively. Harper smiled at him.

  ‘Get a bobby to do it. One of the trainees.’

  Fowler grinned. ‘Gladly, sir. I’ll get right on it.’

  Was this how they were going to solve the case? Whittling away at names on lists? Not so much a detective as a clerk. It felt wrong. But if it gave them the answer they needed, he wouldn’t complain.

  Maybe policing was changing. Perhaps they’d all end up at their desks most of the day with endless lists, picking out the guilty from columns of names. He liked the world he knew, sitting with informers in pubs, listening to the broken bits of gossip that slowly built a case against someone. He loved the chase, that feeling like no other when you were after your man and you had him in your sights. At this rate it would be the neat men with ink-stained fingers in command of the divisions, and he’d be back on the beat. He tapped a hand against his belly. A little stouter now. More solid. He’d need a new uniform if he ended up pounding the pavement again.a

  ‘I’m not letting it stop the meeting,’ Annabelle said. Her voice was determined. Harper knew better than to argue with her. ‘I’ve been down to see the place.’

  ‘Where will you hold it?’ he asked. ‘Half the hall has burned down and the rest is unsafe.’

  ‘Outside.’ She paced angrily around the room. ‘It’s not raining. Everyone can dress warm. I’m not letting him stop me, Tom. He keeps trying, but it’s not going to work.’

  ‘Do you think many will turn up?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she shouted in exasperation. ‘Can’t you see that? I need to show him.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ He kept his voice calm. She had to do this, and he’d be there with her, watching, although he wasn’t certain if he could trust his eyes after the hustings. How could he have missed the man, he asked himself again? How?

  She was gathering layers: a shawl over her heavy wool gown, a thick muffler round her throat, a warm cloak, gloves. And finally, the hat. Plum-coloured velvet tonight, decorated with an iridescent peacock feather that glistened in the light from the gas mantle.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

  He hadn’t even had a chance to remove his overcoat. At least they wouldn’t need the Engineers tonight.

  ‘Is Mary with Ellen?’

  ‘She’s had her tea. She’ll be tucked up in bed by the time we’re home.’

  He’d seen less of Mary since this campaign began. That was inevitable. If Annabelle was elected, it would continue. She’d have meetings in the evenings, duties, all the demands on her time. They were lucky to have Ellen. Not quite a servant, not quite a governess, almost like another member of the family.

  Once this was all over, though, he was going on holiday with his wife and daughter, before Annabelle took office and the madness really began. Christmas in Whitby. He’d write to Billy Reed in the morning and ask Elizabeth to reserve the rooms in the guest house.

  They were almost late. On the way, a woman stopped them and began chattering to Annabelle. Harper kept a respectful distance, glancing around for anyone suspicious.

  ‘That was Mrs Carter,’ she explained as they hurried along the street. The smoke in Leeds hung low tonight, leaving the air foul. ‘Her mother’s a widow, doesn’t have a penny in savings. She’s been told she’ll have to go to the workhouse. She’s hoping I can stop it.’

  ‘You’re not even elected yet.’

  ‘Try telling her that,’ Annabelle answered with a shake of her head.

  ‘What did you say to her? Can’t
the family take her in?’

  ‘They have five children and two rooms,’ she said. ‘Where would they put her? The old woman has all her wits, she can walk around with a stick. What’s the point in putting her in the workhouse? All the people she knows in the world are on her street.’ She sighed. ‘I received a report in the post today. A woman said that a board of male Guardians spent over an hour discussing whether the clothes of children in the workhouse should have buttons or hooks and eyes on their clothes. An hour.’ He could sense her anger rising. Good; there’d be a spark to this meeting, no matter if only one person was listening. ‘Do you know what happened at the end?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The dressmaker decided for herself. It makes me furious, it really does. Aren’t there more important things to talk about?’

  The smell of charred timber lingered around the wreckage of the hall, acrid in the nostrils and throat. There were more people milling about than he expected, about fifteen of them. Some were curious, others surprised, as if the news of the fire hadn’t reached them.

  Working people, the men in their caps, women in plain bonnets and worn clothes. They were here, they were ready for something, and Annabelle gave it to them. From the first word she was on the attack.

  ‘This happened because someone is scared of women. Not just as Poor Law Guardians or on School Boards. He’s afraid of women. Frightened of half the population. What is there to worry him? Do you know? Because I’m blowed if I do. Just three years ago there were fewer than two hundred women as Poor Law Guardians in the whole of England. Two hundred out of a total of thirty thousand. Women aren’t exactly taking this over, are they? We want to increase that number here. People believe we should. Important people. The Archbishop of Canterbury, no less, thinks there should be more of us. I’ll tell you what the Secretary of State for India said: “No Board of Guardians is properly constituted when it is composed entirely of men. Having regard to the fact that so large a proportion of the population of our workhouses are women and children, it seems vital to me that women should take their part in Poor Law administration.” Even the men at the top of government and the church think we belong. The one who set fire to this place – to your hall – he’s swimming against history. Women are running for the offices they can hold, and some of them are going to be elected. If not this time, then next, or the one after. We’ve started and we’re not going to stop. That tide he’s swimming against, it’s going to drown him.’