‘There’s a wagon on the way and a uniform to keep the gawpers away,’ Reed said when he returned. ‘I asked in the office downstairs. They heard a few people come and go yesterday. Didn’t see anyone, the windows face the wrong direction. At least they didn’t see us.’
‘Small mercies, Billy,’ Harper said. ‘We need to see the lawyer and the family. Which one do you want?’
‘The lawyer,’ Reed answered without hesitation. No one would break the news to a dead man’s family by choice. It was the worst of all duties, one Harper had done too many times over the years; it never grew easier.
‘Go through the place once more after they’ve carted him off, then go and see Desmond. I’m off to Far Headingley.’
He thought about taking the omnibus but a hackney carriage would be faster. The vehicle he flagged was driven by a quiet, serious man with a long, sad face, his horse sleek and shining from the brush. Inside, the plush velvet on the seats was worn, but at least it was clean. The trip seemed to take forever as they followed the road out past Woodhouse Moor and through Headingley. Well-fed wives and nannies with their charges crammed the narrow pavements. Then they were out where the real money lived.
The streets were wide and the young trees were growing tall; another few years and these would seem like shaded avenues. For now, though, everything seemed too new. It was all too raw and brash, an advertisement for new money. He had the cab drop him at the corner and waited until horse and driver had clopped out of sight.
Out here, no more than a few miles from all the chimneys and the press of people, the air was definitely clearer and cleaner. He breathed deeply a few times. This was why those who could afford it moved to the suburbs, he thought. The road was empty, no people, no chatter or laughter, no arguments. Those would all take place inside, in private and away from the neighbours.
He walked up a short, neat driveway to a house that stood on its own, the brick fresh enough to still look a blushing red, the dark paint around the windows sharp and bright. The maid who answered the door was no more than fifteen, a harried girl wearing a black dress and apron made for someone larger. The cap sat skew-whiff on her head, mousy hair tumbling down.
She left him in the parlour, and a minute or two later her mistress bustled in, eyes wide and worried to have a policeman in the house. She’d probably been a pale, pretty woman when Bell married her. Now, even covered with expensive creams, her features looked coarse and hard. She was wearing a rich dress, heavily corseted at the waist to preserve some semblance of a figure.
‘Mrs Bell,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ she asked quietly. ‘Something’s happened to him, hasn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Harper said gently, hoping she’d understand, that he wouldn’t need to say the rest.
‘I see.’ There was sadness in her eyes and her voice, but little more, as if she’d been expecting this news for a long time. No tears or screaming, just a sense of tired acceptance.
She sat down, gazing up at him. ‘Where did it happen?’ she asked quietly. ‘How did he die?’
‘We found him in his office,’ Harper explained. ‘It looked as if he’d been there more than a day. Hadn’t you expected him to come home?’
Mrs Bell shook her head. ‘Henry often stayed in town during the week. Sometimes from Monday to Friday if he was busy. I was used to it. How did he die?’ she repeated.
‘Someone killed him.’ He didn’t want to give more detail than that.
‘I see,’ she answered after a while. Her calmness worried him. It came too easily. She stayed silent for a long time. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, you must wonder what to make of me.’ He didn’t answer; he had no idea what to say. ‘I know exactly what my husband did for a living. I know how dangerous it is. Was,’ she corrected herself and raised her eyes to him. ‘So did he. That’s why he made sure we were well provided for. Do you know who did it?’
‘We’re looking for two men.’ He described them, but there was no recognition in her eyes. ‘Had he seemed scared or worried at all?’
‘Not that he said. But there were plenty of things he didn’t tell me, and I never asked.’ There was little regret in her tone. The woman had a hard streak of realism at her core, he thought, not the loving wife of hearth and home.
‘Does he have an office in the house?’
‘No. Henry was very firm about keeping his work separate from home.’ She’d slipped fully into the past tense, he noted.
‘Might I take a look?’
‘Of course,’ she agreed with a gracious nod. The frightened-looking maid accompanied him.
But she hadn’t lied; there was nothing. A library, but the desk there was almost empty. Finally, back in the parlour, Harper asked, ‘You said he kept a room in town. Where was it?’
‘He stayed with Mr Desmond, his lawyer. In Park Square. They were good friends.’
And that would be where he kept his books. They’d be safe with a lawyer. Knowing Desmond’s reputation, though, he’d probably never show them to the police. Harper stood and offered her another condolence; there was nothing more to be learned here.
He caught the omnibus at the stop by the ancient oak across from the Skyrack public house, gazing out of the window as the vehicle trundled along and thinking as the houses thickened around him and leafy trees vanished into brick and soot. Close to St John’s Church he alighted and strode down to the Town Hall. It was time to add to the super’s worries and tell him about Henry Bell.
ELEVEN
Kendall listened carefully, exhausted eyes trying to focus. How long had the man been awake, Harper wondered? Too long, that was certain; his attention kept wandering away so that the inspector had to keep repeating himself. Kendall would only have snatched moments of rest until the strike was resolved.
He’d heard the rumours as he entered the building. The blacklegs were already heating the retorts out at New Wortley. Soon they’d be making gas. But most had already left, escaping into the crowds that waited around the walls and greeted them like heroes. Meadow Lane was nearly empty, little more than a handful of workers left. The council was losing the strike.
‘No ledgers anywhere?’ the superintendent asked.
‘He keeps them with his lawyer, according to the wife. You know what Desmond’s like.’
‘Do you think he could be behind it all?’ Kendall asked.
‘I don’t know.’ He’d considered the idea on the journey into Leeds, but he couldn’t believe it. There wasn’t a policeman in Leeds who’d trust Desmond, but it was impossible to think of him killing his clients, and he’d been Bell’s lawyer for years. ‘Reed’s gone to see him.’
Kendall nodded and tried in vain to stifle a wide yawn. The weariness had turned him into an old man, his hair grey and unkempt, the lines so deep on his face they could have been cut into the skin.
‘These two men, the boxer and the other one,’ he began slowly. ‘I can see how Col Parkinson connects to Henry Bell, he’ll have borrowed money. But how in God’s name did they end up on the Town Hall steps?’
Harper shook his head. ‘I don’t know that yet, sir. I can’t see how it all fits together.’ He paused. ‘But it all seems to hinge on this pair.’
‘Find them. You know the council’s still saying that the strikers are behind the murder?’
‘But they’re not,’ Harper protested, starting to rise from his chair. ‘We both know that, sir. The strikers had nothing to do with it.’
Kendall raised his hand, waiting until the inspector finished. Quietly and firmly, he said, ‘Until you bring in those two and prove they did it, that’s the line the council’s taking.’
Harper knew full well why they were doing it. This strike was war between union and council. And in a battle like this, words could be powerful weapons. Leeds was crippled, and those in power couldn’t allow that situation to last. They’d use anything they could to win, even if it was a lie. If it was repeated often enough it could become the truth.
‘Tom,’ Kendall said gently. ‘You have no idea how bad it is out there. The cavalry’s guarding the works out at New Wortley. There are crowds of strikers outside who look like they might storm the place at any time. The mayor’s going to read the Riot Act later today. They’re going to issue the constables with cutlasses.’
‘What?’ Harper asked in disbelief. He’d heard of things like that, long ago, but not now, not in this modern age.
‘I never thought I’d live to see it,’ the superintendent said sadly. ‘They’re scared it’ll all go out of control.’
‘Yes, but …’ He found he simply didn’t know what to say. He knew what the Riot Act meant, he’d had to learn it when he trained as a constable. After it was read, if the mob didn’t disperse in an hour, the soldiers would open fire and damn the consequences. Englishmen shooting Englishmen; it didn’t bear thinking about. The council wasn’t just scared, it was terrified.
Kendall sighed. ‘Two men from the Chamber of Commerce have agreed to arbitrate. The union’s already said it’s willing. The first meeting’s this afternoon.’
Harper could imagine Maguire at the union offices down on Kirkgate smiling with glee as he sensed victory. The gas committee had handled everything so stupidly and arrogantly. Times had changed; working men wouldn’t simply bow down and do what they were told any more. Reading the Riot Act was a last gasp of the old order, a desperate move to prove that the council was still in control by declaring war on their own people. Come the next election, folk would remember.
‘You see why we need to find the boxer and the other one today?’ the superintendent asked.
He nodded.
Reed was at his desk in Millgarth, a neatly-bound set of ledgers sitting in front of him. He waved at them proudly as Harper walked into the office.
‘A present from Mr Desmond.’
Harper was impressed. He hadn’t expected the lawyer to give them up at all.
‘How did you manage to persuade him?’
‘Didn’t have to,’ Reed replied with a smirk. ‘He wanted me to take them.’ His face turned serious. ‘To tell you the truth, I think he’s worried. I was watching his face when I told him Bell was dead. He wasn’t just shocked, he was petrified. Couldn’t hand over the books fast enough.’
‘Did you press him at all?’
‘I tried.’ Reed shrugged. ‘He wasn’t saying much.’
‘Have you gone through them?’
‘I took a look, but they might as well be in French for all the sense they make to me. We need someone who knows numbers.’
‘No names in there?’ Harper asked, surprised.
‘Just letters, jumbles of them. A code.’
That made sense, in case anyone stole them. But it would be a simple code, he felt certain of that; Bell had never struck him as an intelligent man. He opened one of the books and saw columns of figures, all small amounts, written out in a neat copperplate hand. The debt on one side and the payments next to it, as far as he could judge. Not that they added up – the payments were always far greater than the amount owed. At the top of each page, letters were strung together, seemingly at random. No words he could understand. Reed was right, it was a code. Harper leafed through. There was more of the same on every page. It was all beyond him, too.
Bell had been scared when the inspector had interviewed him. Terrified, but he hadn’t talked. Desmond was scared. Everyone in Leeds seemed to be scared, he thought. The council, Bell, Col Parkinson before he was killed, all the men threatened by the boxer and his friend, there was fear in everyone’s eyes. Somewhere, someone was pulling the strings behind this, someone who didn’t care how many died or suffered.
‘Forget the numbers for now,’ he decided after a minute. Someone else could study those later. ‘Let’s go and find this prizefighter and his friend.’
‘Where?’ the sergeant asked.
‘No idea.’ Harper smiled, more in hope than anticipation. ‘But if we dig deep enough and long enough we’re bound to come across them.’
The superintendent had promised him three constables and he selected them carefully. Ash, who’d first suspected that Col Parkinson’s daughter might be missing, knew all the yards and courts behind Briggate, and the people who lived there. It was his beat; the two others could take their lead from him.
‘Talk to Ginny Dempsey,’ the inspector ordered. ‘She’s had people looking. Follow up on everything. If anything seems strange, anything at all, start asking questions.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the constable replied, his eyes shining, grateful to be doing anything that took him away from the strike and back to his patch.
‘And if you find them, keep hold of them. For God’s sake don’t let them slip away.’
‘Don’t you worry, sir.’ Ash winked, his voice steady and certain. ‘I’ll make sure they don’t go far. Bring them here?’
‘Yes.’
Harper and Reed drifted in and out of the public houses along Vicar Lane and by Kirkgate market. There were few enough customers with money to spend, hardly any people on the streets. One shop even had a notice in the window: CLOSED FOR THE DURATION OF THE STRIKE. If it went on much longer there’d be many more of those. Another day or two of this and all the businesses would be closed, no one working; Leeds would drift to a halt.
‘They’re not round here,’ the sergeant said. ‘No sign anywhere.’
For the rest of the morning they worked their way down Kirkgate, all the way out to Marsh Lane. One or two claimed to have seen the men, but not since the start of the strike.
‘What if they’ve gone?’ Reed asked.
He didn’t believe that. He couldn’t afford to. If it was true, Martha Parkinson might disappear forever. He’d propped the girl’s photograph on his desk at Millgarth, a reminder of what was really important in all this. More than Col, Henry Bell or Harry Gordon. They were dead; he couldn’t bring them back. But he could find Martha.
He didn’t allow the darker idea into his mind. He had to believe that she was still alive somewhere.
‘They’re still here,’ Harper told him. ‘I can feel it.’
They turned up the Headrow, stopping into every one of the pubs, looking down the yard to Thornton’s music hall. According to the poster outside the building, Dan Leno, Vesta Tilley and the Lions Comique were appearing all week. Strike? No Gas? The show will go on! a note added. Maybe he’d bring Annabelle here; she loved a good laugh and a sing-song. God knew that he could use some entertainment himself.
By the time they’d worked their way along to the Town Hall hunger was pulling at them. He heard the clock strike noon.
‘There’s a café at the station,’ Reed suggested.
Harper sat and stared out at the platforms, the bustle of people coming and going, porters moving trunks and cases. Whistles sounded loudly, then a wild puff of steam. Smoke billowed under the glass roof, the smell of coal burning hot as an engine pulled out with a shriek of wheels on track.
He hadn’t been on a train in a year. The summer before, with a day off and nothing to do, he’d taken an excursion to Scarborough. The sun had shone as he walked along the beach, jacket over his shoulder, waistcoat unbuttoned against the heat. He wandered along the North Bay pier, enjoying fish and chips in the sea air, and finished with a drink or two in a fisherman’s pub before coming home in the evening. Next year, perhaps, he and his wife would go there for a real holiday. He’d never had one before.
Wife. The word made him smile. All too soon he’d put the ring on her finger. He’d already bought it, a thin band of gold that had eaten deep into his meagre savings, sitting in its box on top of a chest of drawers in his lodgings.
‘Penny for them,’ Reed said as he chewed a sandwich and sipped from a mug of strong tea.
‘Not worth the money, Billy.’ He ate for a little while, barely tasting the beef or the bread. ‘Go and talk to your informers when you’re done. See if any of them have any word.’
‘What about you?’
/> Harper shrugged. ‘I’ll keep looking until I find them,’ he said.
Who were these men? How could they move around so freely, with no one knowing their names or where they were living?
By two he’d found no trace, and went back into the old, shabby courts where Ash and the other uniforms had spent the day searching.
‘Anything?’ he asked, even as the constable shook his head.
‘Not been around in days, according to this lot.’
‘Since the gas strike began?’
Ash thought before answering. ‘Aye, that’d be about right.’
‘Give it until the end of the shift.’
‘Any more word on the strike, sir?’ the constable asked gravely. ‘I heard the mayor was going to read the Riot Act.’
He knew Ash had been out there the other night, in the thick of it. There was no mark on him, but all that meant was that he’d been one of the lucky ones.
‘That’s right. But the two sides are talking. Maybe it’ll all be over by tomorrow.’
‘Let’s hope so, eh?’
‘How bad was it?’
‘Bad enough,’ Ash answered finally but nothing more. He gazed around. ‘Eh up,’ he said quietly. A boy was running towards them, one of Ginny Dempsey’s brood by the look of him, in patched knickerbockers, his feet and calves bare, kicking up dust as he moved.
‘What is it, lad?’ the constable asked.
‘Me mam said to tell you they’ve been seen on White Swan Street,’ he gabbled.
Ash looked at the inspector.
‘Let’s take them in,’ Harper said.
They knew this area. They could find their way around its tight corners and strange ginnels without even thinking. In less than a minute they were on Swan Street, behind the music hall.
The boxer and his friend were strolling idly along, towards Lands Lane, backs to them, as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
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