‘Don’t know.’ She shrugged as if the thought had never occurred to her. But she only had eyes for the bricks and mortar and the money it could bring her. ‘He couldn’t have had much, could he?’
‘No,’ the inspector agreed. ‘Who’s the lawyer?’
‘Mr Cockburn on Commercial Street.’ Suddenly she seemed worried. ‘Why? It’s all done proper. Our Henry’s left it to me, all above board.’
‘I’m sure it is.’ He smiled. ‘I just wondered.’
The roads on the Bank had been quiet, the cobbles empty. In the middle of Leeds he was engulfed by the relentless bustle of trams and carts, pavements filled with people. Women in their gowns and capes and wide hats. Men wearing caps and bowlers, a few with shiny toppers. And every one of them with a purpose. Business behind their eyes.
Harper waited for a small gap and ducked across Briggate as a hackney took off, the driver cracking a whip over the horse. Commercial Street was no better, so jammed with traffic it was impossible to navigate. Two men unloaded a dray. A young lad lazily changed the display in the window of the Irish Linen shop.
He found the building he needed and climbed the stairs to the third floor. It was quieter here, perched high above the relentless noise. Beside a polished wooden door a brass plaque read: James A. Cockburn, Solicitor. The inspector knocked once and entered.
A clerk perched on a high stool, copying a document. A high collar and black tie, a tight dark jacket. The clothing was long out of fashion but still something lawyers wore every day.
Cockburn’s office looked down over the street, light from the wide window shining down on to his desk. Mutton-chop whiskers, the hair thinning on top and going grey, bags under his eyes. An anonymous fellow, easy to lose in a crowd. But from the papers in front of him, he was a busy man.
‘The will’s begun its journey through probate,’ he said when Harper asked. An odd phrase, he thought. It made a simple procedure sound so grand.
‘Do you expect any problems?’
‘Not at all. It’s perfectly straightforward,’ Cockburn told him. ‘I reviewed it when Mrs Thorp came in.’
‘I’m curious what Henry had to leave.’
‘Oh?’ The solicitor cocked his head. ‘And why is that, Inspector?’
‘You know he was murdered last Friday night.’
‘Of course.’ A small nod.
‘There might be something in his will to help me find his killer.’
‘I don’t think so.’ A quick smile. ‘It’s a very basic document. The only item of value is the house.’
‘And that goes to his sister. She told me. What else is in there?’
‘Nothing that can help you, Inspector.’
‘I’d like to make up my own mind about that.’
Cockburn shook his head. ‘Unless Mrs Thorp gives her permission, I can’t show it to you.’ He paused. ‘As I said, though, there’s nothing in there to help your investigation.’
He squeezed and pushed his way through the people on the street, moving up Briggate then into Lockhart’s Cocoa House. Away from the bustle he had time to think as he sipped a cup of hot chocolate.
Something he’d learned early on – never trust a lawyer. Their words were as slippery as fish, darting this way and that. Cockburn wasn’t about to help him, and greed was the only thing on Rose Thorp’s mind, the rent from the house on Copper Street.
Maybe the solicitor was right and the will wouldn’t tell him anything at all. There was certainly nothing worth having in the house. Not unless Henry had hidden it very carefully indeed.
He turned his thoughts to a greasy man with protruding teeth, the one who’d been seen with White on the Bank.
‘There’s something that doesn’t add up, sir,’ Ash said. He’d listened to everything Reed told him. The mystery man with his bottle of acid. Arthur Crabtree and Annie in the shop.
‘I know. No reason to it.’
‘I don’t believe it’s a madman,’ the sergeant said slowly.
‘Why not?’ It appeared as plausible an explanation as anything else.
‘I’m not saying it impossible, sir, but very unlikely. You have to admit that.’
They were standing in front of the bakery. It had re-opened that morning, all the traces of damage vanished. Elizabeth had hired a man to walk around Burmantofts wearing a sandwich board to advertise the place and bring in custom. Special prices on bread and fancies.
‘We’ll get the ghouls out shopping,’ she said with disgust. ‘They’ll be asking for all the details and looking for any signs of what happened. Won’t buy much.’ She sighed. ‘Still, a day or two and maybe that’ll pass.’
Reed hoped she was right. He’d only counted seven customers in the last half-hour.
‘Fine,’ he snapped at Ash. ‘If it’s not someone insane, then who did it?’
‘You said it’s nothing to do with the lad.’
‘How can it be? He’s only thirteen, for God’s sake. I’ve talked to his father.’
‘Plenty have gone bad by that age, sir. You know that better than I do. It doesn’t mean the boy’s done anything wrong, just that we have to look at it.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed slowly. Reed had to admit it, Ash had a point. He’d seen it often enough in the past. But Arthur Crabtree? No. He’d been sloppy; that thought should have been in his mind from the start. Instead he’d made assumptions and tried to fit everything into them. He’d grown too used to thinking of fires, where things were absolute.
‘I can ask around if you’d like, sir. Or you, if you’d prefer.’
‘I’ll do it.’ He’d asked Tom to give him responsibility for the case. But he’d been too slack; he hadn’t thought everything through. Now he needed to go back and do the work properly, to make it right.
‘And you’re certain no one could have been coming after the girl?’
‘Positive.’
Ash turned to stare at the shop, as if he was trying to imagine the scene when it happened. He rubbed his thick moustache. ‘Someone must have followed the boy here.’
‘He has a job at the brick works.’
‘That’s what, about a quarter of a mile away?’
‘Something like that,’ Reed agreed.
‘Five minutes’ walk. If someone wanted to attack him, that’s plenty of time.’
‘But he’d be moving, walking.’
‘True.’ Ash nodded. ‘Still, it’s worth asking around the brick works to see if they remember anyone loitering.’
Reed hated being schooled by a sergeant, but Ash was right. He should have already done all this. He wasn’t just out of practice, he’d become a liability as a detective.
‘I’ll take care of that, too.’
‘One last thing, sir. I know the bobbies have been talking to the chemists, but it might be worth paying a visit ourselves.’ He gave a small, polite cough. ‘You know what the uniforms are like.’
They were all basic things. He knew them; used to know them, at any rate. And he should have thought of them without prompting. Still, better late than never. It took him a couple of hours, but he discovered that Arthur Crabtree was as good a lad as he’d suspected. No complaint against him. Not even any real childhood mischief, let alone worse.
Down at the brick works they were eager to help. Arthur had been well-liked there. But no one remembered anyone around on Friday, and nobody recognized the faint description the boy had given. Dead ends. Ones he should have explored long before. Damn it.
He was no further along, though. Time to try the chemists’ shops.
‘Does he sound familiar to you?’
‘Protruding teeth and greasy hair?’ Kendall shook his head. ‘There must be dozens like that. But no one springs to mind.’ He puffed lightly on the pipe and began to cough, lifting his hand as Harper started to rise. ‘Don’t, Tom. I’m not a bloody old woman.’
‘I’ve talked to Tollman about this fellow seen with Henry White. He had four names off the top of his head, but none of them s
ound likely. Forger, pickpocket …’ He shook his head. ‘He’s going to see if there are more. I daresay Ash might know a few.’
‘Keep pushing. What’s going on with this acid case?’
‘Billy Reed’s looking into it; he’s off work at the moment and it’s his wife’s shop.’
Kendall grunted. ‘Is he getting anywhere?’
‘Ash is giving him a hand.’
‘I’d like that wrapped up soon. It always looks bad when children are involved.’
‘I’ll have a word with them.’
‘Good.’ He ran the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘I talked to the chief this morning.’ Harper waited. ‘He thinks the same as me: being in charge of the station could be the making of you.’
He wasn’t sure how to reply. ‘That’s very generous of him.’
Kendall pulled the pocket watch from his waistcoat. ‘He’s in front of the watch committee in about half an hour. We’ll have a decision tomorrow morning.’
‘I’m not going to hold my breath.’ The watch committee would never agree to promoting him; he’d made enemies of too many of its members.
‘You might be surprised. They want someone in the post before I go.’
Harper stood. He’d known the superintendent too long. He didn’t want to think of him no longer here, dying.
‘I’d better get back to work.’
Nothing more by the time he caught the tram, watching the shops on North Street go by. What did he have? Hints. A man with Henry that they couldn’t identify. Words overheard in a pub. Nothing he could even knot together.
He walked through the bar of the Victoria. A fire burned in the grate to warm the place, but there were few customers. Their money was all gone; they were scraping by on nothing until Friday and the wages were paid. Over in the corner old Charlie Crowder played dominoes with Harry Fisher, the sound of knocking tiles the loudest thing in the pub. He waved to Dan and went up the stairs to their rooms.
Books were spread across the table in a jumble, along with a paper and a pen. But Annabelle knelt on the floor, playing a game with Mary and a doll. He kissed them both on the top of their heads. For a moment he tried to listen, but his ears were tired and his hearing wouldn’t co-operate. In the kitchen the teapot was still warm and he poured a cup, standing and looking out over the yard and across Sheepscar.
Another few months and he’d have lived here for five years. Married, happy, settled in the pub. Roundhay Road, Manor Street, Holroyd Street; they’d become home. Faces he knew, people he liked. He’d become part of the fabric of the area. Accepted in spite of being a copper, because he was Annabelle’s husband.
With so much suddenly changing, he needed some things in his life to remain the same. He had an anchor in this building. And he had Annabelle, and Mary, although she was growing so fast that sometimes she seemed like a different girl from minute to minute, shifting like quicksilver.
Superintendent Harper. It appealed; impossible not to. But the prospect terrified him. As an inspector he was only responsible for his investigations, along with a sergeant. Maybe a detective constable too, if he was very lucky. A promotion meant he’d look after everything in Millgarth: uniforms, plain clothes, even the horses.
‘Penny for them.’ He sensed the rustle of her gown, felt her hands around his waist, the press of her body against his back.
‘Probably only worth a farthing.’ He told her about the watch committee.
She hugged him and kissed the back of his neck. ‘I’m proud of you, Tom.’
‘Why? I haven’t done anything.’ Nothing more than the job he was paid to do, and he was having no success with that.
‘Kendall and the chief constable don’t see it that way.’ She seemed about to say more when Mary shouted, ‘Mam!’ from the other room.
Later, once the child was in bed and asleep, he sat by the fire, staring at Annabelle as she worked.
‘You’re back to it.’
She put down the pen and smiled. ‘I decided that moping wasn’t going to solve anything. I was probably feeling sorry for myself as much as I was for Maguire.’
‘He was a good man.’
‘He was,’ she agreed sadly. ‘And he deserved better. From all of us.’
‘There’ll be a good turnout for the funeral.’
‘That’s why they’re having it on Sunday,’ she pointed out. ‘Everyone will be free to go. Miss Ford has sent a letter round to the Suffrage Society, the Labour Party wants members there. The unions are organizing something.’
‘And what about you?’
‘They’ve asked me to speak at the service.’
That explained the books, he thought. And the determined look in her eye. She had a purpose again after drifting for a few days.
‘What are you going to talk about?’
‘Something that’s not politics. There’ll be plenty ready to go on about everything he’s done. I’ll tell them what I remember. I’m going to talk to a few others who knew him when he was a boy.’ She held up one of the books; he recognized the spine. Maguire’s poems. ‘I’ll read one of these, too. You know, I’m not sure I ever saw him happier than when the publisher sent him the first copies.’
He sat for a moment, hesitating, then said, ‘He was drinking a lot. That’s what I heard.’
‘I know. People told me, too. I have eyes and ears, Tom.’
Of course she did. And she kept them open.
‘I’m not saying he was perfect or some sort of saint,’ Annabelle continued. ‘But I should have done something. I didn’t, and it’s too late now. About the only thing left is to make sure he’s remembered. I’ve put in a guinea towards a headstone.’ She sighed. ‘Sometimes I wish the pub didn’t run itself so smoothly. Work’s a good way to distract yourself, isn’t it?’
He had to laugh. She knew that half the time he was thinking about cases and investigations.
‘I don’t think you’ll ever want for something to do.’ She kept herself busier than anyone he knew.
‘That’s because there are always things that need to be done.’ Her face turned serious then she gave a weak smile. ‘Sorry. I’m not preaching, honest. But there’s a meeting next week that Miss Ford wants me to address. I have to prepare for that, too.’
‘Where this time?’
‘Wortley. We had a good crowd there in December. It’s growing, Tom. It’s really beginning to take hold.’
She believed in suffragism. She spoke for it, she fought for it. But Annabelle was enough of a realist to know that votes for women wouldn’t come soon. Maybe not in her lifetime. But Mary, she’d have it. Everyone would have the vote then, all men and women.
‘You can keep all those things Maguire believed in alive.’
‘I plan on it,’ she said, and he didn’t doubt her for a moment.
‘Be back here for noon,’ Kendall said as he prepared to leave.
‘Noon?’ Harper asked.
‘To find out if you’re the new superintendent. I told you, the decision’s this morning.’
He hadn’t forgotten. He’d simply tried to push it out of his mind, to focus on more pressing things: Henry White’s murder, the acid attack. More immediate.
‘I will.’ He pulled the watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked it against the clock on the wall. A few hours yet until midday.
Ash was outside, talking to a constable in uniform. He raised an eyebrow to the inspector, a silent request to wait. Another minute and they were done, and Ash fell into step next to Harper.
‘You learn something new every day, sir.’
‘What’s that?’ He was going over to Kirkgate with nothing specific in mind. No one special to see.
‘Did you know Henry White had a lady friend?’
‘What?’ He stopped in the middle of the pavement. He’d never heard a whisper about it. The only woman to visit him in Armley was his sister; she’d gone once.
‘That’s what Hodgkins was telling me when you came out. Seems he kno
ws the lass’s sister.’
‘Who is she?’ He thought of Henry. Hard to believe any woman would find him irresistible.
‘A married woman. Mrs Parkin.’
Someone’s wife. That would explain the secrecy.
‘What do we know about her? And Mr Parkin?’
‘He’s a clerk, evidently. They have a house on Bayswater Mount.’
He could picture the street. A row of through terraces, no more than fifteen years old. Very respectable and definitely not cheap. Parkin must be doing well for himself, a senior clerk at least.
‘We need to talk to her,’ Harper said. But police on the doorstep, especially in plain clothes, that would be the talk of the neighbourhood. Her husband would hear. No need for her secret to be revealed. ‘Do we know the house number?’
‘Indeed we do, sir,’ Ash said with a grin.
‘I have an idea.’
The café was a few yards away from a tram stop in Harehills. Far enough from Bayswater Mount that no one would recognize Mrs Parkin. If she carried a basket, she would appear to be shopping on the parade. He’d sent a boy to her house with a note. Now he had to wait and see if she’d come.
He sat alone, a cup of tea undrunk in front of him. Ash occupied a table by the window to keep watch on the main road. Finally a woman entered, looking around quizzically. She had the dowdy look of someone who dressed to avoid being noticed. He probably wouldn’t recall her face tomorrow. Mrs Parkin was thin. Bony, her face all angles. Somewhere around forty, he guessed, and showing every year of her age.
Harper nodded his head and she sat across from him, ordering tea from the waitress. She looked around, nervous as a rabbit.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me,’ he began. Politeness would be vital here. She’d need to know he was discreet. ‘I believe you knew Henry White.’
As soon as he mentioned the name her face seemed to collapse. No tears, but she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. She was wearing decent clothes. A heavy, black wool coat against the March weather, a hat from a good milliner. But somehow she made them all anonymous.
‘I did.’ She took a small, neat sip of the tea then looked him in the eye. ‘I loved Henry. And I can’t tell a soul about it.’
On Copper Street Page 6