Gods of Gold

by Chris Nickson

  He pushed his way through the crowd and into the room that smelt of old, rank sweat. Papers were piled high on the desk. Maguire sat in his chair, wearing the same clothes as two days before, his hair unruly, eyes wild and exultant.

  ‘Mr Harper,’ he said, eyeing the stick and the limp. ‘I hope it wasn’t one of our men who did that to you.’

  ‘An accident,’ the inspector answered.

  ‘Sorry to hear that. What can I do for you this grand day?’

  ‘You’ve won?’

  Maguire lit a cigarette and waved his hand, watching the smoke rise.

  ‘All but. We’re giving them a little so it doesn’t look like a complete rout.’ He shrugged. ‘It’ll be settled this morning. Tomorrow night all those men outside will be back at work.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘We’ve shown them what happens when they try to take advantage of working men. There’s hope for the world yet.’ He gazed at the inspector. ‘But you didn’t come here for famous victories, Mr Harper. More about the dead blackleg, God rest his soul?’

  ‘We know it wasn’t one of the strikers who killed him.’

  Maguire raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

  ‘The man’s in custody,’ Harper continued. ‘I’m looking for some information.’

  ‘Are you now?’ He smiled slyly. ‘And what might you need?’

  ‘I’d like to know about the members of the gas committee.’

  Maguire sat back and stared. ‘Why’s that now, Inspector? Or can’t you tell me?’

  ‘You’ve dealt with them.’

  ‘I have,’ he agreed with a nod.

  ‘You must have found out about them, their strengths and weaknesses.’

  ‘It’s a wise man who understand his opponents,’ he answered. ‘Tell me, Mr Harper, are you a card player?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  Maguire smiled. ‘Then I’d advise you stay that way. You tip your hand too easily.’

  Harper laughed. ‘Do I?’

  ‘You tell me none of the strikers were involved in that murder and then you ask me about the gas committee. It doesn’t take a great mind to make the leap from one to the other. You think one of them is behind it.’

  ‘Very perceptive, Mr Maguire,’ he acknowledged. ‘What can you tell me about them?’

  ‘Why? The police have hardly been our friends. Do you know how many union members have been hurt in the last few days? Your chief constable even armed his men with cutlasses against us.’

  ‘I need to know because it could save the life of a young girl,’ Harper said flatly.

  ‘I won’t ask you how,’ Maguire replied slowly. ‘You wouldn’t tell me anyway.’

  ‘No. But now you understand.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, as if he’d agreed to something. He stubbed out the cigarette and lit another, the harsh sulphur flare of the match filling the air for a moment. He closed his eyes and started to speak. ‘Alderman Gilston’s the head of the committee. He’s the one who caused the strike. A venal little man, Mr Harper, and nowhere near as clever as he believes he is. He thinks he’s a man people should follow. The only trouble is that he couldn’t lead his way out of a paper bag. But a criminal?’ He pursed his lips and mused. ‘He doesn’t have the imagination. He thinks in pounds and pennies. He has gods of gold. Life’s a balance sheet to him. You know the type?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Good. Wilks and Dodds will do anything Gilston wants. I doubt either of them has ever had an original thought between them.’

  ‘They made money,’ the inspector pointed out.

  ‘They inherited money,’ Maguire corrected him. ‘Life’s much easier when you don’t have to earn a living.’ He grinned. ‘Or so I’m told.’

  ‘That leaves one man.’

  ‘It does. Alderman Cromwell. The man whose namesake decimated Ireland, if you know your history. I dare say our Mr Cromwell would like to leave his mark, too, but he never will.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s a weak fellow, Mr Harper. He’d like to be great and never will be, but that doesn’t stop him trying.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing that I know about,’ Maguire admitted. ‘But in your shoes I’d keep my eye on him.’

  ‘Because you don’t like him or because you don’t trust him?’

  ‘Both,’ the man answered without hesitation. ‘When you were a schoolboy, was there a sneak in your class?’

  ‘A sneak?’ He wasn’t sure what Maguire meant.

  ‘The one you’d make sure never heard anything. If he did he’d be straight off to the teacher to pass it on and make himself look better.’

  In spite of himself, Harper smiled. There’d been a someone exactly like that at his school, his nose always runny, listening at doors and corners, shunned by all the others.

  ‘I think Alderman Cromwell must have been one when he was a lad,’ Maguire went on. ‘He’s just grown into his cunning, that’s all.’

  ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘He owns a mine in Middleton. Cost him plenty enough, too. It’s a strange coincidence, though, that once it came under new ownership the mine received a contract to supply coal to the gasworks in Leeds. One hand feeds the other, Mr Harper, and if both hands belong to the same man, so much the better, eh?’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  ‘The papers are on record.’

  ‘I dare say it’s legal.’

  ‘It is, it is, even if it goes against everything most men call moral.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘Oh, it becomes better, Inspector. Our good Alderman Cromwell is under investigation.’ There was real, deep pleasure in his voice. ‘He thought he’d increase his profits by selling the gasworks substandard coal. A greedy man.’ Maguire shook his head. ‘He’ll pay for it, too.’

  He stubbed out the cigarette and stood, stretching his back and yawning.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Harper, I’ve a few men to humble and many more to please this morning.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘And after that I’ll get roaring drunk with the lads then take to my bed and sleep for two days. He took a battered bowler hat off the rack. ‘I wish you well, and I hope you find the girl.’

  There was some real summer warmth to the day as he walked back to Millgarth, stopping to buy a bag of liquorice from Mr Marks’s stall in the market. The sharp taste felt good in his mouth, cleansing away the bitter taste of corruption.

  Reed was still at his desk, going through Bell’s ledgers and making notes. Harper glanced at the photograph of Martha Parkinson, propped against the inkwell on his desk.

  ‘What do you know about the coal business, Billy?’

  ‘Coal?’ The sergeant frowned, confused. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I think we’re both about to learn.’ He pulled the watch from his waistcoat pocket, checked the time and wound it. ‘I’ll tell you on the way to Park Square. The speed I’m moving with this ankle maybe we’ll be there by dinner time.’

  FOURTEEN

  The Park estate stood on the edge of the city centre, the houses simple and graceful, built around a manicured grass square. It had been there since long before he was born, but unlike all the dour yards and courts that had simply grown, higgledy-piggledy and mismatched, this had all been planned and laid out carefully, a place for people with money. It was somewhere a man could breathe and enjoy life, as long as he possessed the means.

  Once families had lived here. Children and their nannies had played on the grass that stood protected behind railings, dutifully cut every week. Now it was filled with offices, with lawyers and doctors and all the professional people who could afford the rents and kept their solemn hours in the expensively decorated rooms. It felt apart from the rest of Leeds, like a place that kept the world at bay with wealth.

  The door to number eleven was a deep black, and the hallway smelled of beeswax, carpeted to soften the footfalls. Desmond’s name was
a simple brass plaque on a polished ground floor door. Harper turned the handle and walked in.

  Soames the clerk raised his head, smiling politely; two others carried on with their work, hunched over their desks. They all wore dark, sober suits, their clothes fifty years out of date, pens scribbling sharply on paper.

  ‘Inspector,’ Soames said with a small nod. ‘Sergeant. Can I help you?’

  ‘We need to talk to him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s with a client,’ Soames answered apologetically. It was all a game; maybe there was a client, maybe not.

  ‘Tell him we’re here, please,’ Harper told him. The man glanced, then hurried away, vanishing through a door and returning a few seconds later.

  ‘Go through, sir.’

  The room was lined with bookcases that reached all the way to the high ceiling, and the tall window looked down on the square. Desmond was seated behind a large wooden desk with elaborately carved corners. The lawyer’s robe and short wig were tossed idly over an armchair in the corner.

  He looked prosperous, his suit the best tailoring money could buy, nails clean and buffed, cheeks so closely shaved beneath grey side whiskers that they seemed to shine. But under the sophisticated exterior his eyes were fearful and hunted.

  ‘Mr Desmond,’ the inspector said as he sat, turning his head to hear clearly.

  ‘What is it, Mr Harper? I’m a busy man.’ His tone tried for irritation, but Harper could hear the nervousness underneath. ‘I gave you Bell’s ledgers.’ With his bulging eyes and hooked nose, there was nothing attractive about the man. But the inspector knew he had a young, pretty wife who seemed content on his arm. That was what happened with rich men, he found: it made some women blind to many faults. And Desmond had plenty of money. He earned it, too; he was one of the best lawyers in Leeds, sharp and clever, his mind precise and ruthless in the labyrinth of the law, and he charged his clients accordingly.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘and we’re very grateful, Mr Desmond. All in code, though, isn’t it, sir?’

  ‘Is it?’ he asked. ‘I never looked at it. Henry just kept it with me where it was safe.’

  Harper didn’t believe a word. Desmond would have been through every page of the book; he was a man who wanted to know all his clients’ secrets. He delved into the nooks and crannies; it was how he knew to the guinea exactly how much to charge them. If he’d found something it could explain why he was so scared.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll tell us a great deal,’ he said with a smile. ‘But that’s not why we’re here, sir.’

  ‘No?’ The lawyer gave him a curious look, something almost like relief behind his eyes. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Some information.’ Harper smiled again. ‘I’m sure you’ll be happy to help where you can.’

  ‘Of course.’ Desmond gave a short, condescending nod.

  ‘Alderman Cromwell. Do you know him?’

  ‘Of course I know him,’ the lawyer answered brusquely, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  ‘Is he one of your clients?’ Desmond shook his head and the inspector continued, ‘What do you know about him, sir?’

  ‘Know about him?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’re looking into his affairs.’ Harper paused. ‘This is in confidence, of course.’

  ‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid, Inspector. I know Charlie Cromwell, but that’s all.’

  ‘No gossip?’ Reed interrupted.

  ‘I try to ignore gossip, Sergeant.’ The lawyer pushed his thin lips into a frown.

  ‘Never useful, sir?’ Harper asked. ‘I find there’s often a grain of truth in rumour. I’m sure a man like yourself keeps abreast of everything happening in Leeds.’

  Desmond shrugged. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you heard anything about the alderman, sir?’

  He sat back, staring at the policemen. ‘Nothing of any importance,’ he said finally. ‘Just idle talk.’

  Harper stood, Reed following, and they started to leave without another word. The inspector let the sergeant go, then quietly closed the door behind him, walked back to the desk and put his hands on the polished wood, leaning close to the lawyer’s face.

  ‘Something’s scaring you, Mr Desmond.’ He kept his voice low, little more than an intimate whisper. ‘I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out. And if you’ve been keeping something back that could help me, I assure you, you’re going to be scared of a great deal more.’ The lawyer’s eyes had widened but his face remained impassive. ‘That’s a promise. I’m trying to find a little girl who’s been missing more than a week. You’d better think about that.’

  He was turning the handle when the words came, so quiet he barely made them out.

  ‘Cromwell’s in debt. You should look into that.’

  The heavy door closed silently.

  Reed was outside, staring at the grass in the square.

  ‘Cromwell owes money,’ Harper told him.

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’ The inspector lit a Woodbine, watching the smoke rise into the warm air. ‘You see what you can find out. I think it’s time to have a word with the alderman himself.’

  ‘If he’ll see you.’

  ‘He will.’

  ‘I thought you said they were negotiating to finish the strike.’

  ‘I dare say he’d be glad for an excuse to leave,’ Harper said with a smile. ‘If Maguire was telling me the truth, the gas committee’s going to come out of this looking like fools.’

  ‘Tom, talk to the super first. Tell him what’s happening. After yesterday …’

  He was right, Harper knew. He should talk to the superintendent before he did anything. They were already on a warning and Cromwell was a councillor, not an ordinary criminal. If Desmond was right, he might not have money but he did have power. He was still one of the people who controlled Leeds.

  ‘No,’ was all Kendall said.

  ‘Sir,’ Harper protested, but the superintendent cut him off.

  ‘Not until the strike’s settled. That’s an order.’

  They sat in an empty office on the first floor of the town hall. The crowds had poured back into Victoria Square, restive and loud, waiting for the news that they’d won and the council had been forced to agree to the strikers’ demands. Soon enough there’d be a party out there. They’d all be singing and waving their flags. A victory for the workers. A rare enough thing at any time.

  Kendall had changed back into plain clothes, his suit fresh, hair pomaded and moustache carefully clipped above his lip, the grey showing silver in the light. His top hat sat on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Martha Parkinson,’ the inspector said.

  ‘Don’t play that game with me, Tom.’ Kendall snapped. ‘I’m the one who taught you how to do it.’

  ‘With respect, sir, we need answers and he might have them.’

  ‘You said that about the boxer. Have you had anything from him yet?’

  ‘No.’ He didn’t give the superintendent the full truth; he hadn’t been to the infirmary to see the man. But he would.

  ‘Then work on him instead. Once the strike’s all done, then you can talk to Alderman Cromwell. Not before, do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He stood, and Kendall sighed.

  ‘Tom, I want that little girl safe as much as you do. But if we do anything to jeopardize the end of this strike, it’ll be your job and mine. We could have a dozen like her all gone, bodies piling up along Briggate, and they’d still play second fiddle to this. Leeds is depending on it being resolved and nothing can interfere with that. Nothing. The chief constable and the mayor have made that perfectly obvious.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We’re losing thousands of pounds every day. Other places in England are passing us by and laughing at us. All the business leaders are furious. We need this to be over, we need that more than anything else just now.’

  Harper left, angry, coming out into Great George Street and the war
m sun. The infirmary was no more than a hundred yards away, just past the confectioner’s and the postbox on the corner. The grand Gothic towers and elaborate decoration outside the building always seemed to promise magic rather than medicine to him. Perhaps that was what it really was – the doctors seemed to kill almost as often as they cured. He walked in through the Winter Garden, light pouring through the great glass ceiling on to the statues that lined the walls. The chairs where the patients could sit had been moved out and tennis nets crossed from pillar to iron pillar in the hall. ‘Come and join us!’ a bright poster announced. ‘Games every afternoon!’ He moved into the tiled corridors where the only sound was of the nurses walking, the click of their heels and the swish of their uniform skirts. He hated coming here; the building was filled with the smells of illness and death and the carbolic that failed to mask it all. At least the smoke and stench of industry seemed honest. This was … He didn’t have the words to describe it. Every time he entered the place the odour caught on his clothes and in his nostrils, and it seemed to take days to wash it away.

  The boxer had a room to himself. He was handcuffed to the bedstead, and a constable sat on a plain wooden chair close by, uniform buttoned up, cap lying in his lap. He started to rise to attention, but Harper waved him down. The window was closed, the air stuffy and close.

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘No, sir,’ the constable replied.

  Harper stood by the bed, looking down. Cleaned up, the fighter’s face was a map of cuts, his eyes swollen, a red weal around his throat. Reed had given the man a real battering, there was no doubt about that. But he could understand it. No response, not even an acknowledgement, would be enough to make a man push harder and harder until he went over the edge.

  The constable coughed. ‘The doctor said he has swollen testicles, too, sir.’ His raised his eyebrows. ‘Very painful, he says.’

  The boxer’s eyes didn’t flicker. He didn’t turn to glance at the inspector, simply stared straight ahead. His lips looked dry and cracked.

  ‘You’re going to stand trial for the murder at the Town Hall,’ Harper told him. ‘As soon as you’re well enough you’ll be in court, then on remand in jail.’ The man didn’t even seem to hear him; he might as well not have been there.