Brass Lives

by Chris Nickson

‘We’ll have more tips from the public than we can handle, and most of them will be rubbish. It’s a idea, though. If we haven’t found Mullen by tonight, I’ll do it tomorrow.’

  If.

  He pored over every report until his sight blurred, hoping there might be some little detail the others had missed. But they were good, they were thorough. Nothing had slipped through.

  He took down the list from the wall and picked up his fountain pen.

  Fess murder

  Arson

  Metropole shooting

  Barracks robbery

  Francis Mullen

  Barney Thorpe

  One thing crossed off. It was a start.

  Harper went for his dinner, leaving the others to work. The privilege of rank. In the café at the market he ate the beef casserole and dumplings without noticing the taste, lost in his own thoughts and the noise rising from the stalls.

  SIXTEEN

  He was in Ash’s office, talking to the superintendent, when Galt tapped on the door. His face almost glowed with anticipation.

  ‘You’ll want to come and hear this, sir. We have a woman who claims she saw the Fess murder.’

  ‘Who is she?’ Harper asked, but he was already hurrying to catch the others.

  She was young and nervous, fingers kneading the handle of her reticule and peering anxiously around the room. Harper stepped back, leaving Galt to ask the questions. He had a gentle, reassuring manner, trying to put her at ease.

  ‘Thank you for coming in. You said your name’s Miss Milner?’

  She didn’t reply, just gave a tiny nod.

  ‘You told the sergeant at the desk you saw what happened in the Dark Arches.’

  ‘Yes.’ She was hesitant, slow to answer, too nervous to meet his eyes. ‘That’s right. Will I be in any trouble? You know, for being down there.’

  For being a prostitute, she meant. She’d taken a risk in coming here. Some coppers might put her in court.

  ‘No.’ Galt smiled. ‘We’ll make sure of that.’

  ‘Only I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it,’ she continued. ‘It wakes me up in the night. It’s given me nightmares.’ She turned her head to look at Harper. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I do,’ he replied. ‘Telling us might help, miss.’

  ‘Yes. I was …’ She didn’t need to explain. They knew.

  ‘What did you see?’ Galt gently prodded her along.

  ‘There … there were a man walking in from Neville Street.’ She paused, trying to find the courage to continue. ‘The light was behind him, so I could only see his … what do you call it?’

  ‘Silhouette?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s it, silhouette.’ Another gap as she hunted for words. ‘I weren’t far from the entrance, but he … he walked right by me. Didn’t even notice I were there.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I remember … he didn’t seem like he were, you know, looking for a girl.’

  ‘What happened after that?’ Galt kept his voice low and soothing.

  ‘I didn’t pay him no more mind. He wun’t business.’ Her fingers tightened around the handle of her bag. ‘Then I saw something … it were out of the corner of me eye. Somebody moving. I couldn’t see much, mind, the man who came in was further along and there wasn’t too much light from the street reaching down there.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But this other shape stepped out behind him. Next thing I knew there were this big boom that seemed to fill my ears, then the second man was running towards the street.’

  ‘Did you manage to see his face?’

  ‘Not anything proper.’ She hesitated. ‘He went by so quick and it were hard to see in there. But he were quite tall.’ Her gaze settled on Harper. ‘About your height, maybe. But in his twenties, you know, still young.’

  ‘Could you make out anything at all? His hair colour?’ Galt asked.

  ‘Dark,’ she said, then stopped and began again, more slowly. ‘Leastways, I think it was dark. But there was one thing. He had a scar on his cheek. The light caught it for a second. His right cheek. Just here.’ She traced a line from the edge of her eye down to just below the ear. ‘Like that.’

  ‘Are you certain about that?’ Harper asked. He felt as if he could hardly breathe. The woman stared at him, lowered her head and nodded.

  ‘Plain as day. Only for a moment, but I saw it.’

  ‘Can you remember anything else?’ Galt asked gently.

  Harper had stopped listening. He looked at Ash. The superintendent nodded. They both knew a man with a face like that. In his twenties and around the same height as Harper. It wasn’t Davey Mullen.

  ‘Robbie Beckett,’ he said when they were out in the corridor.

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking, sir,’ Ash agreed. ‘We’ve had him in for assault. I think he used to be a member of the Erin Boys. He never struck me as a killer, though.’

  ‘We’ll find out. Where does he live?’

  ‘Somewhere in Harehills, I think.’

  ‘Send Rogers up there with three big constables and drag him down here. They should be able to handle any trouble. Robbie can tell us everything he knows.’

  Harper returned to the town hall to let the chief know what was happening and check his own desk for anything important. When he arrived back at Millgarth, Beckett was in the interview room, yelling about his rights, as if anyone might care. He looked the worse for wear, a scrape on his cheek and a bruise that would turn into a shiner tomorrow. The left shoulder of his jacket was torn and flapping down, giving him a faintly ridiculous air. His face was brick red with anger, the white scar standing out, livid.

  But one glance at his eyes showed the menace.

  ‘We’re searching his house, sir,’ Rogers said.

  ‘Many problems getting him down here?’

  ‘Nothing we couldn’t handle.’ The big man grinned.

  ‘I don’t suppose he’s broken down and admitted it?’ Harper asked with a smile.

  ‘Not yet.’ Rogers grinned again. ‘Early days, though.’

  ‘Keep at him. He’ll break. He shot Fess. Take that as read. What I want to know is why, and who put him up to it. That’s the important information.’

  Finally, he thought, things were beginning to move ahead again.

  Harper dug through the clutter in his desk drawer until he found the card, then he picked up the telephone receiver. He’d promised the man he’d ring when he had news on Fess’s murder. Charles Armstrong, Third Secretary.

  ‘The American Embassy in London, please.’

  When the call was over, he kept his hand on the receiver until the operator came on the line.

  ‘The Vi—’ he began. ‘Never mind. I’m sorry.’

  Tonight, he told himself. Tonight.

  With Beckett in custody, he felt the mood shift at Millgarth. The sense of anticipation that something was about to break. But two hours later, nothing had changed. Beckett still raged, though his protests were hoarse now. And they still had nothing new.

  Harper was waiting for the men to arrive with the Sheffield shooter when Sergeant Mason appeared, moving quietly through the detectives’ room.

  ‘We’ve had word about someone found beaten and injured at Roundhay Park, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought you’d want to know, what with those women marchers coming tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you. See what details you can find.’

  That was worrying. If there was a real problem, he might need to change things for the rally the Pilgrimage suffragists had planned for the park tomorrow. They’d be arriving in Wetherby this afternoon, a few miles up the road.

  Ten minutes and Mason returned. His face was pale and serious.

  ‘They’ve identified the man, sir.’ The sergeant took a breath. ‘It’s Davey Mullen. He’s on his way to the infirmary now.’

  Mullen? For a second, it didn’t register. But even when it clicked into place he couldn’t make sense of it.

  ‘How bad is he? Did they say?’

  ‘I
don’t know, sir. He’s alive, that’s all I got. A couple walking their dog found him in the woods at the top end of the Gorge.’

  ‘Tell Superintendent Ash. I want him out there and that whole area searched.’ The Gorge was what they called the part of the park that was overgrown with bracken and bushes; finding anything in that would be pure luck. If there was anything to find.

  ‘What about you, sir?’

  ‘I’ll be at the hospital.’

  No need to rush. That was what he told himself. The doctors would still be examining Mullen. But he still hurried through the streets, crossing the Headrow in the fine space between a handcart and a tram and cutting through to Great George Street and the infirmary.

  As he walked down the corridor, the scents of carbolic and illness seemed all too familiar, like the particular way his footsteps echoed sharp and clean off the tiled walls. He knew every turn, every room.

  Harper had to pace for half an hour, going back and forth until he wondered if he’d wear a groove in the floor. Then the doctor appeared, lighting a cigarette and running a hand through his thinning hair.

  ‘That’s probably the worst beating I’ve ever seen. Quite honestly, I’m amazed he’s still alive. And it looks like he had a bit of a hammering not long ago. But from all the scars on his body, Mr Mullen has been through a lot.’

  ‘He has. In America.’

  The doctor nodded as if that explained everything. ‘He’s young and he’s strong. He’ll survive, but it’s too early to say if there’ll be any permanent damage. It’s possible, and there might well be internal injuries that will show themselves.’

  ‘When can I talk to him?’

  ‘You can’t,’ the doctor told him. ‘He has a broken jaw; I’ve wired it closed. He won’t be saying anything for a while.’

  How the hell was he going to find out who’d done this?

  ‘His hands,’ Harper said hopefully. ‘Can he write?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘No. There are broken bones in both hands. They were thorough.’

  He exhaled slowly. ‘Can I see him, at least?’

  ‘Not for the moment. We’re watching him very closely. I’m not allowing any visitors for twenty-four hours. Maybe more. He needs time and a lot of care.’

  ‘But—’

  The man cut him off. ‘Those are my orders. I don’t care if you don’t like them. My concern is with the patient.’

  For a few seconds they stared at each other. Then Harper nodded. ‘I want to find out who did this to him. You can understand why I need to talk to him.’

  ‘As soon as he’s well enough, I’ll tell you. But for now … he needs rest. Complete rest.’

  Nothing but frustration at the hospital. He rushed back to Millgarth. The men needed some victory to stop them feeling as if they were drowning.

  ‘Beckett’s confessed to shooting Fess, sir. Took a while, but he gave it up.’

  Rogers sat back on the chair with a smile. He was the only one in the detectives’ office.

  ‘Good work,’ Harper told him. ‘Who told him to do it? He didn’t dream up the idea of shooting Fess all by himself. Where did he get the gun?’

  ‘He claims he was offered ten pounds for the job.’

  ‘Who did that?’

  ‘Bert Jones. You know, sir, the man who used to be Barney Thorpe’s bodyguard.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Harper said. ‘I know.’

  ‘Beckett says he was paid half before it happened and given the gun. He received the rest afterwards when he returned the weapon.’

  All back to Thorpe again. And he was with the undertaker now, beyond any questions in this world. This case was twisting in and around itself. He’d believed Mullen was at the centre of things. It was beginning to look as though he was nothing more than a dupe himself. Why? Where was this all going?

  ‘I sent some uniforms to bring Jones in, sir,’ Rogers continued.

  ‘We’ll see what he has to say for himself. Did Beckett mention the Erin Boys at all?’

  ‘No, sir. Says he hasn’t been a member in years.’

  Maybe, maybe not, he thought. ‘Are all the others out at Roundhay Park?’

  ‘Everyone except Sergeant Sissons, sir. He said he needed to talk to someone.’

  ‘Has the man from Sheffield arrived yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Once more he took out his pen.

  Fess murder

  Arson

  Metropole shooting

  Barracks robbery

  Francis Mullen

  Barney Thorpe

  Davey Mullen

  He couldn’t wait any longer; he needed to get to Roundhay Park and see where Mullen had been dumped.

  Through the gate in the railings on Park Lane; there was nowhere closer. Harper followed the track. On any other day, this would have been a summer stroll through the park.

  The area was thick with brambles and gorse, a valley with a small, winding stream. A rough dirt track climbed higher, then down again, until he reached the coppers at a small wooden bridge over the running water. Isolated, hidden, but only about two hundred yards from the road.

  ‘Where was he found?’ Harper asked.

  ‘By that holly bush, sir,’ Galt said with a frown. ‘His clothes were filthy and torn. They must have dragged him a long way from Park Lane. We found tracks and marks. It’s a fair distance.’

  ‘Why here?’ Harper wondered as he looked around. There was nothing significant about the place. Just plants and dirt. ‘Why all the effort to put him here?’

  ‘Perhaps because it’s out of the way.’ He hadn’t heard Ash arrive. ‘That could be a message in itself.’

  No. That didn’t make sense. ‘I don’t see it. If that was the case, they could have left him out in the country. It would have been easier. Or why not simply kill him?’

  Ash took a breath and shook his head. ‘Honestly, I’m guessing, sir. We haven’t found a blessed thing here.’

  ‘How’s Mullen, sir?’ Galt asked.

  ‘Alive. The doctor says he’ll survive. Beyond that …’ He shrugged. ‘Beckett’s confessed. Said Bert Jones paid him and gave him the gun.’

  Ash frowned. ‘Barney Thorpe.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Harper took out his pocket watch. ‘We’ll get the truth out of Bert. I need to go and meet the Pilgrimage women.’

  ‘We’re not going to find anything in all this,’ Ash said. ‘I don’t think there’s anything to find.’

  ‘Go back to Millgarth.’ They’d be more useful there.

  The road wound through villages, Bardsey, Collingham, plenty of others, before the car crossed the old bridge into Wetherby and parked by the police station. Harper desperately wanted to be back in Leeds. He wanted answers from Bert Jones and this man Driscoll from Sheffield. More than any of that, he wanted to hear what the doctor had told Annabelle.

  A uniformed sergeant escorted him to the campground. ‘Right over there, sir. We have a constable posted, but we don’t expect any trouble.’

  In spite of everything Annabelle had said, he’d anticipated more of them; up to fifty, even a hundred. But all he saw were around two dozen women, their faces brown from the sun. A pair of horse-drawn caravans were drawn up, two tents pitched, small fires already burning.

  The curious had gathered, asking questions or simply looking.

  Miss Beaver was formidable, short but with broad shoulders, and a crisp manner. She relaxed once he explained he wanted to make sure everything went smoothly in Leeds, and introduced him to the others who’d come down with her from Newcastle. They seemed like a cheery bunch, all wondering what they’d find the next day.

  Miss Beaver eyed him curiously, then said: ‘There’s a Mrs Harper on the welcoming committee for tomorrow. Any relation?’

  ‘My wife,’ he answered, and saw their surprise. He decided to say nothing about the idea of Annabelle going to London.

  The woman’s eyes lit up as soon as she began to speak about the pilgrimage. She had the zeal
and the fire of a true believer. If only it was that simple, he thought, women would already have the vote.

  He stayed long enough to introduce himself and be polite. The marchers wouldn’t cause any problems. On the journey back to Leeds, he tried to find some rhyme or reason in the jumble of Thorpe, Jones, Beckett, and Mullen. There was no thread to grab and follow. As soon as he thought he knew what was happening, the ground shifted under his feet.

  And then there was the arson. He hadn’t forgotten that; he definitely hadn’t forgotten that.

  ‘Drop me at the town hall,’ he instructed the driver.

  ‘I’m stymied, sir,’ Harper said. ‘We keep learning more, but I feel like I’m blundering through a maze. I thought you might have an idea. Something fresh.’

  Chief Constable Parker took a breath and narrowed his eyes.

  ‘It sounds like we need to know more about Thorpe, for a start. He seems to be involved in too many things here. We’d better start finding out everything we can about him.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Parker steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘There are two things in here that worry me,’ he said after a moment. ‘The Metropole gun came from the barracks robbery. How?’

  ‘With a little luck, we ought to know that soon. Bert Jones should be able to tell us. After all, he was Thorpe’s bodyguard for a long time.’

  ‘How many guns were stolen?’ Parker asked.

  ‘Four.’

  ‘We know about one. If Jones has another, that still leaves two. I’d like to find them. The other thing is Mullen.’ The chief rolled the name over his tongue. ‘Any idea about what happened to him?’

  ‘None at all. And he won’t be able to speak for weeks. Broken jaw.’

  Parker stared at the ceiling. ‘What about the murder of his father?’

  ‘We still don’t have a clue on that either. As soon as we solve one thing, another two pop up.’

  ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you, Tom?’

  He did; he could have given the short speech himself. The newspapers were asking more and more questions, and soon the Watch Committee would be joining them.

  Parker had to say it; it came with the job. But he knew full well that Harper and his men couldn’t magic the answers out of thin air. Solutions took work. They took time. And they needed a healthy dose of luck, the right break at the right moment.