The Leaden Heart

by Chris Nickson

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Chris Nickson from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Author’s Note

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Chris Nickson from Severn House

  The Inspector Tom Harper Mysteries

  GODS OF GOLD

  TWO BRONZE PENNIES

  SKIN LIKE SILVER

  THE IRON WATER

  ON COPPER STREET

  THE TIN GOD

  THE LEADEN HEART

  The Richard Nottingham Mysteries

  COLD CRUEL WINTER

  THE CONSTANT LOVERS

  COME THE FEAR

  AT THE DYING OF THE YEAR

  FAIR AND TENDER LADIES

  FREE FROM ALL DANGER

  The Simon Westow Mysteries

  THE HANGING PSALM

  THE LEADEN HEART

  Chris Nickson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2019 by Chris Nickson.

  The right of Chris Nickson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8879-2 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-597-8 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0216-1 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  Leeds, July 1899

  The train pulled into Pontefract station with a thick hiss of steam and two short blasts on the whistle. Tom Harper opened the carriage door and watched Mary jump to the platform with an eager look. Annabelle took his hand as he helped her down the step.

  She was wearing her new summer dress, a sky-blue colour that swirled around her ankles as she walked, carrying a parasol, a straw boater tilted at an angle on her head. It was another perfect summer day, not a cloud to be seen when he glanced up, the sun hot on his back as they walked along the road.

  A solid week of glorious weather. They’d had nothing like it in years. The temperatures had left people across England sweating in their heavy clothes. Hardly any crime, as if the criminals had all chosen to go on holiday. Maybe they had; as superintendent of ‘A’ Division with Leeds City Police, Tom Harper was simply glad to see the figures plummet. If they stayed low for the rest of the summer, he’d be a happy man. Aye, and if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Their luck couldn’t hold.

  Harper held his daughter’s hand as Annabelle led the way up the hill and into Pontefract Castle. A romantic ruin, they called it. Well, the second half of that was right, he thought as he gazed around. Mounds of ancient stones hinted at the building that had once stood here.

  But it was a fine Sunday to go somewhere, to be away from the stifling closeness of Leeds, to breathe some different air. And his wife deserved it. She’d spent the week running the Victoria while Dan the barman was away. Her pub, her responsibility, she told him. That was on top of her work as a Poor Law Guardian, talking to families around Sheepscar that needed help with their relief money, followed by a board meeting on Friday morning.

  ‘I’m jiggered,’ she’d said that evening as she collapsed on the settee with a cup of tea. ‘Do you know what the silly beggars wanted today?’

  ‘Go on,’ Harper said, ‘what was it this time?’ It seemed that every session of the Guardians brought fresh complaints.

  ‘Someone brought in a pile of different ulster coats for the workhouse girls and they wanted me to try them all on so they could see which was best.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘At first I thought they were joking.’

  That wasn’t the end of things, he was certain.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I told them they could stuff it.’ She smiled, then sighed. ‘Honestly, they don’t have a clue. I know some of them mean well, but …’ There might be elected women Guardians now, but equality wasn’t even on the horizon yet. Annabelle looked at him. ‘They say it’s still going to be nice on Sunday. We should go out for the day.’

  The castle was her idea; she’d seen an article in the newspaper. And it was pleasant enough to stroll around, he had to admit that. But after a few minutes they’d seen what little remained, and went to the cafe for sandwiches and lemonade.

  Mary was full of questions – what the castle had looked like, and all the battles that had been fought here. Seven years old and inquisitive about everything. He didn’t have any answers for her: history had never interested him. Instead, he bought a pamphlet of information to tell her what she wanted to know.

  As they walked around the town, she read them information about the king who’d been starved to death in one of the towers. Gruesome, but how many had gone for want of food over the centuries? It still happened, just to ordinary folk now, not royalty. When he was on the beat he used to see it week in, week out. Malnutrition, starved to death scrawled on the death certificates. The reality continued, as grim as ever.

  Annabelle slipped into a shop, coming out with a brown paper bag.

  ‘Try one,’ she said to Mary.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked suspiciously, holding up a thick black lozenge.

  ‘You’ll never know if you don’t eat it, will you, clever clogs? Pop it in your mouth and see.’

  Warily, the girl did as she was told, eyes widening as she bit down. ‘It tastes like Spanish!’

  ‘It is Spanish. Liquorice. They call them Pontefract cakes and they make them here. See, there’s even a picture of the castl
e stamped on them.’

  By the time the train brought them back to Leeds, the bag was empty, Mary’s tongue was black, and she was absorbed in the pamphlet again. Harper looked at his wife and smiled. The girl was a sponge for words and facts, her head always in a book, tucking every scrap of knowledge away in her brain. With each year, he could see more of Annabelle in her – the same high, proud cheekbones and bow mouth, the flashes of red in her dark hair when the light caught it. Less of himself, luckily for her. But similar eyes, deep-set, always watching.

  He felt content as they walked past the guard checking tickets and out into the sweltering station. A porter hurried by, face glistening as he pushed a trolley loaded with cases and chests. The change of scene had been a good idea. If it was still like this next week, maybe he’d suggest a trip up to the Dales. Grass and clear air; a proper tonic.

  He spotted a copper in uniform ambling around, eyes alert for pickpockets. The bobby noticed him and saluted.

  Outside, he glanced at the newspaper seller’s headlines: tensions rising towards war in South Africa, a burglary at a house in Leeds. Nothing that needed his attention.

  Salad for tea. A couple of slices of cooked tongue, a few wilted leaves of lettuce, tomato, cucumber, and some buttered bread. A fine, light meal for a day like this. No factories open on the Sabbath, but still the smell of grime and machines came through the open window, bringing the thin layer of dust and dirt that defied cleaning and settled on everything.

  ‘Da?’ Mary raised her head from the Pontefract pamphlet. ‘Did you know that in the Civil War’ – she took pains to pronounce it slowly and correctly – ‘they tried to knock the castle walls down with cannons?’

  ‘From what we saw, they must have succeeded.’ He winked at Annabelle.

  ‘Oh no,’ Mary told him seriously. ‘That was later, when they tore it all down.’ She held up the thin book. ‘It says here.’

  TWO

  A warm night, just the sheet to cover them, windows in the bedrooms open wide. Harper left the Victoria early, before heat could blanket the day. Not a whisper of a breeze in the air, the open top of the tram crammed with men.

  The factories had started up again and the air shimmered above the chimneys, tiny smuts of soot raining down across the city. He pitied the men at the engine works on a day like this; with the furnaces and white-hot steel, they’d feel as if their skin was on fire.

  In Millgarth police station the air was stale and muggy. By the time he reached his office he was already damp with sweat. Harper raised the window sash, pushing hard on the warped wood. But outside was no cooler.

  ‘I saw the headline about burglary,’ he said, once the detectives had assembled in his office. ‘Have you arrested anyone yet?’

  ‘We’re still looking into it, sir,’ Inspector Ash replied. ‘A big house off Woodhouse Lane, that’s why it ended up in the papers. There were six gentlemen playing cards in the study. Three servants downstairs and not one of them heard a thing.’

  Nine people in the house and a burglar had crept in and out unnoticed? He was daring. And very good.

  ‘Gentlemen?’ He’d noticed the inspector’s careful choice of words.

  ‘George Hope and some of his friends,’ Sergeant Fowler replied. With his thin face and receding hairline, he looked more like a young professor than a copper.

  Harper winced. Hope had owned the foundry on Mabgate. Retired now and on the boards of half a dozen institutions around Leeds. Plenty of friends on the council. Soon enough he’d be receiving a summons from the chief constable on this one.

  ‘How did the burglar get in?’

  ‘Open window in the bedroom, sir.’ Walsh’s turn. He was the youngest, the newest in the squad, here for two years, still a detective constable and eager to prove himself. ‘Looks like he shinned up a drainpipe and managed to edge across. Once he was inside, he made himself at home. Wandered all over the place. Took things from almost every room upstairs.’

  ‘Nobody heard anything?’ It seemed hard to believe.

  ‘Not a dickie bird. Went out the same way, only this time he must have been carrying a fair bit.’

  ‘That window’s a good fifteen feet off the ground, too,’ Fowler added.

  Harper thought quickly. ‘Pawnbrokers and fences,’ he said.

  ‘We talked to the fences last night, sir,’ Ash told him. ‘There’s a list of the stolen items going out to the pawnbrokers this morning.’

  ‘How much did he take?’

  ‘Some money and jewellery, probably worth the best part of fifty pounds.’

  The superintendent gave a low whistle. That was a very grand haul. He ran through names in his head.

  ‘The only two I can think of for something like that are Dicky Dennison and Rab Taylor.’

  ‘Taylor died back in January, sir,’ Ash said, ‘and Dennison’s serving two years down in London.’

  Someone new, then. Unknown. Damnation.

  ‘Working alone, do you think, or an accomplice?’

  ‘Alone is what we think, sir,’ Walsh replied. ‘One of the servants nipped out for a smoke and didn’t spot anybody else.’

  ‘We’ll crack it, sir.’ Ash grinned. ‘Don’t you worry.’

  Harper wasn’t worried. He had the best team of detectives in Leeds, maybe the country. Better than Scotland Yard with their swollen heads.

  But finding an unknown man, that would be a grind. And what advice could they offer people? Don’t leave your windows open? In this heatwave, no one would pay a blind bit of notice. They’d prefer some air and take the risk.

  At least he didn’t have to do the legwork. Very occasionally, rank seemed like a blessing.

  Harper had just finished putting together the duty roster for August when the telephone rang, the line crackling harshly enough to hurt his bad ear.

  ‘Tom? It’s Billy. Billy Reed.’

  Reed had been a good friend once, sergeant to Harper’s inspector, until they fell out. Then he’d transferred to the fire brigade and been promoted. Two years ago he’d taken a job in Whitby, in charge of police there.

  Annabelle and Elizabeth, Reed’s wife, were still close, exchanging regular letters. She ran a tea shop now, close to Whitby Market. Harper and his family had visited the Christmas before last. It had been a pleasant few days, but not the way it had once been. That would never return.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Reed answered quickly. ‘I hate to ask, but I could use a favour.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘My brother died, so I have to come back to Leeds for the funeral. I think you met him once.’

  Long ago. Charlie? He thought he vaguely remembered the name. Thin and pale, with mousy hair and a waxed moustache.

  ‘I’m sorry, Billy.’

  ‘We were never that close, but …’

  Of course. It was family. Harper understood.

  ‘Do you need somewhere to stay? Is Elizabeth coming with you?’

  ‘If you don’t mind. He lived in Harehills and the Victoria’s close. It’ll only be for a few days, if that’s all right. Elizabeth is run off her feet at the tea room. Whitby’s full of holidaymakers and the place is packed every day. Besides, she never really knew him.’

  They had an empty attic room at the pub. It wasn’t much, but the bed was comfortable.

  ‘Of course. You know you’ll be welcome, as long as you need,’ Harper said. ‘When are you arriving?’

  ‘This afternoon. The telegram only came an hour ago.’

  ‘We’ll expect you.’

  He lowered the receiver, picked it up again and asked the operator for the Victoria. They’d had a telephone installed at the beginning of the year. Between his rank and Annabelle’s post as Guardian, he hadn’t been able to fight the idea any longer.

  She picked up on the third ring, listening as he explained.

  ‘I’ll air it out for him.’

  ‘Billy’s already been and gone up to Harehills,’ Annabell
e said as she kissed him. ‘Mary’s over having her tea with Maisie Taylor. I said you’d pick her up at seven.’

  She’d changed from her usual working clothes into a dress of pale yellow silk with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a high neck. Very prim and proper.

  ‘Meeting tonight?’ Harper guessed.

  ‘We’re discussing the relief budget for next year. I know they want to cut it. I’m going to try and make sure they don’t.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘We ought to sell tickets. It’s going to be a knock-down, drag-out fight.’

  ‘Do you think you can win?’

  ‘Probably not, but I’m going to try.’ A sad smile. ‘If I lose, at least I’ll go down swinging. Sit at the table, tea’s ready.’

  Salad again.

  ‘What’s this?’ He prodded the mound at the side of the plate. Not meat, not quite fish.

  ‘Crab. Billy brought it. Quite the delicacy in Whitby, he says. Mind you, I had the devil’s own job getting it out of the shell. Ended up taking a hammer to it.’

  Not bad, he thought. They looked at each other as they took tentative bites, then started to laugh.

  At six she was gone. Harper settled down in his shirtsleeves, tie off, collar stud loosened, and read the newspaper. Councillor Howe was buying more land. A big noise in the building trade, making money hand over fist as houses kept going up. Never a problem with planning permission, of course.

  Noise filtered up from the pub downstairs. Men thirsty for a drink after a long, hot shift.

  He slipped out with a wave to Dan, then strolled up Manor Street. Evening heat pressed against the ground. Front doors stood open, inviting a draught that never came, women standing outside waving fans as they tried to cool off.

  At the Taylors’ he stewed in the kitchen, sipping a glass of lemonade with Arthur and hearing about the brickworks where he was foreman. Then Mary was ready, satchel looped over her shoulder, chattering ceaselessly as they started the short trot home.

  Billy Reed walked down Roundhay Road. People moved all around him, but he barely saw them. His feet moved automatically, one in front of the other as he tried to make sense of what he’d been told.