Gods of Gold

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Yes.’ It was a quiet, chastened answer. The inspector smiled inside. This was someone who’d talk. He took a small step backwards on the polished wooden floor, knowing Reed would understand the sign and take over; they’d worked like this often enough before.

  ‘Who negotiated the contract with the council, Mr Smith?’ The sergeant deepened his voice, giving it richness and resonance in the room.

  ‘Mr Cromwell and his lawyer.’

  ‘And your role, sir? What do you do?’

  ‘I take care of all the bills and invoices and make sure the wages go out to the pit.’ The man seemed to shrink into himself as they watched.

  ‘I see.’ Reed let the sentence hang in the air.

  ‘How long has the councillor owned the mine?’ Harper asked.

  ‘About two years,’ Smith replied in a quiet voice.

  ‘And when was the contract negotiated?’

  He hesitated. ‘One year and nine months ago.’

  The inspector raised his eyebrows. ‘Was Mr Cromwell aware of the quality of the coal at that time?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Smith was almost squirming on his chair.

  ‘But there were complaints after?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘How long after?’

  ‘Three months.’

  ‘Did you make him aware of them, Mr Smith?’ Reed took over again.

  ‘Yes,’ the man said.

  ‘And what did he do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Smith admitted after a long silence.

  ‘What did you urge him to do, sir?’ Reed wondered.

  ‘It’s not my decision. All I can do is advise.’ It was a feeble answer and they all knew it. But it let Smith avoid the responsibility and place it squarely on Cromwell’s shoulders. A sheen of sweat had appeared on the man’s forehead. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it away with two quick swipes.

  ‘How long has the council been investigating?’ Harper asked.

  ‘They started back in April.’

  Three months. If the police worked that slowly the city would be overrun with crime, he thought.

  ‘Does the mine make money?’

  ‘It does. There was a good profit last year.’ The man seemed eager to cooperate and answer now.

  ‘All to the alderman?’

  ‘He’s the owner. There are three other directors, but they only have tiny shares.’

  ‘And who are they?’ Harper smiled. He could already guess the answer.

  ‘Other councillors.’

  ‘Gentlemen on the gas committee?’

  ‘Not all,’ the man answered guardedly.

  Harper let the silence build, standing by the window to look out at the trees in full leaf.

  ‘Do you know anything about Mr Cromwell’s financial affairs, Mr Smith?’ he asked finally.

  The man shook his head. For all that he supposedly managed this office, he was nothing more than a clerk receiving his wage at the end of each week.

  ‘Then you’re not much use to me. Good day.’

  Outside, the square seemed to trap the sun. The warmth was stifling, with no breeze to move the branches on the trees. Harper lit a Woodbine.

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘He’s telling the truth,’ Reed answered. ‘He knows Cromwell’s going to sink and he doesn’t want to drown with him.’

  The inspector nodded. The councillor’s time in office was almost done. He’d end up quietly resigning his position, then in court. If his friends on the bench were feeling merciful he’d stay out of jail. But the waves were building around him. All Harper needed was to make sure he had his information before the man went down for the final time. He pulled out his pocket watch. Half past three. Still plenty of time.

  ‘Let’s find somewhere for a cup of tea,’ he suggested. ‘I’m parched.’

  His ankle still hurt, but it was a throb now, not the sharp pain he’d had yesterday. Still, he could feel it straining against his boot after a day of walking and he leaned heavily on the stick as they walked.

  There was no café on Park Square; the place was far too genteel for anything as common as that. They finally found somewhere on East Parade, still doing eager business with men darting across from the square outside the Town Hall. Harper settled on to a chair with a loud sigh of relief.

  ‘We’re still no closer to finding Martha,’ Reed said, spooning sugar into his drink. ‘And every day—’

  ‘I know, Billy.’ He cut him off sharply. It had begun with Martha and she was still out there. But each day that passed made it less likely they’d find her alive. He was all too aware of that. He knew he’d failed her.

  Harper didn’t know how Cromwell was tied to Martha, but the connections were there. They had to be, one to another to another, like steps along a hidden path.

  ‘What are you going to ask the alderman?’ asked Reed.

  He wasn’t completely sure himself yet. ‘About his financial troubles. Who he owes money to.’

  ‘You think he’ll tell you?’ the sergeant wondered.

  ‘I think so,’ he replied after a few seconds. ‘He’s going to be rattled enough by losing the strike. We know he’s in debt and that he’s under investigation. He’ll crack. If he doesn’t today, he will tomorrow.’

  ‘What did the super say?’

  ‘Reminded me that the man’s still a councillor. I should treat him with due deference.’ Harper smiled.

  ‘Do you want me there?’

  He considered the idea. Two policemen could seem very intimidating. He needed the man to open up quickly, to tell him everything he needed.

  ‘Not this time,’ he said eventually. ‘If we question him again, then yes. You might as well go home early for once.’

  ‘I’ll wait until you see him. I can catch the tram on Woodhouse Lane.’

  He knew what that meant; Reed wasn’t relishing an empty evening and was in no hurry to leave. It would mean less time at the Hyde Park Hotel, fewer drinks, a steadier head in the morning.

  ‘So you’re meeting someone on Sunday?’ The words came out lightly but the sergeant still blushed again.

  ‘I told you, it’s nothing. Just a walk with her and her children.’

  ‘Ah, a widow woman.’ He grinned. ‘We all know what they’re like. She’ll have her claws into you before the afternoon’s done.’

  ‘Like Annabelle did with you?’ Reed countered with a sly smile.

  ‘That’s right. Cast her spell over me, she did.’ He was joking, but there was some truth behind it all. There was something magical about her, a force that drew him.

  ‘Won’t be long before you’re a married man yourself.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ he admitted proudly.

  ‘She already has you wrapped around her finger.’

  He acknowledged the fact with a nod. Why try to deny it? He knew it was true enough and it made him happy. He’d taken Billy out to the Victoria to meet Annabelle one evening. The sergeant had tempered his drinking and been good company, light-hearted and joking for once. But when he left, she’d turned to Harper and said, ‘That friend of yours, he has troubles, doesn’t he, Tom? I can see it in his eyes.’

  He’d never understood how she’d known; he’d told her little about the man. But that was Annabelle. She sensed these things. More than that, she always seemed to be right.

  They lingered over the tea, making it last until it turned cold. Finally he said, ‘Time to go.’

  The crowd outside the Town Hall had melted away leaving no more than a few hundred stragglers; all the others had gone off to celebrate victory. The ones who remained were lingering to hear details about the settlement with the blacklegs, all of them hoping the men would be sent away with nothing.

  That couldn’t happen, of course. To Harper it was obvious. They’d taken the jobs in good faith then been badly treated and cheated by the council. They needed to leave with something in their pockets. The only questions were how much they’d get a
nd how soon. As long as they remained in Leeds there’d be no stokers going back to the gasworks.

  He hobbled around the edge of the mob and through the front door, past a pair of saluting constables, standing at attention and sweating in their woollen uniforms, caps at an exact angle, eyes forward on the people, ready for anything. Not that there’d be much they could do if the crowd decided to surge.

  Reed was close behind him. ‘You go home Billy,’ he said. ‘I’ll be fine from here.’

  The doors to the council chamber were closed. The voices on the other side sounded weary and defeated. Not long, he thought. They’d be winding things up, ready to go home to their wives and children and put the nightmare of the strike behind them.

  He rested his weight on the stick and waited, smoking a Woodbine and letting his mind wander. Any minute now. The first sound of scraping chairs came from inside the room.

  ‘Sir?’ He turned, seeing a young, embarrassed-looking bobby. ‘Do you know where—?’ He glanced down at his open notebook. ‘Where Sergeant Reed is?’

  ‘He just left for the day. Why?’

  The man reddened. ‘I’ve been ordered to bring him in for questioning, sir.’

  ‘Questioning?’ He echoed the word disbelievingly. ‘What for?’

  ‘It’s the prisoner in the hospital. He’s died.’

  SIXTEEN

  ‘What? He can’t have,’ Harper protested, his shout loud enough to make heads turn for a moment. It was impossible. The man couldn’t be dead. ‘I only saw him a few hours ago. They were going to discharge him into custody.’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ the constable apologized. ‘They only told me he’d died and to fetch the sergeant.’

  ‘Sergeant Reed’s on his way home.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ There seemed to be gratitude in the man’s eyes; if the sergeant wasn’t here, it would be someone else’s job to bring him in.

  The door to the council chamber opened and the first people began to file out, men in well-cut suits, looking prosperous but sobered by the last few days. There was little conversation between them.

  Harper was aware of the constable standing at his side, wanting orders. Cromwell emerged, tall and thin, cadaverous with his lean face and black suit, the jacket cut long in the older fashion, a frock coat that showed a short, tight waistcoat and high-waisted trousers. His shoulders were stooped, as if the world was pressing down heavily on him.

  ‘Who’s in charge of the investigation?’ Harper asked the constable quickly.

  ‘Inspector Beaumont, sir.’

  Harper knew Frank Beaumont well. He was from B Division; competent, a thorough policeman, but not always quick on the uptake. He pursed his lips, trying to think rapidly as he watched Cromwell walk away. He desperately needed to know what had happened to the boxer. But right now he needed to talk to the alderman.

  ‘Can you tell him I’ll personally make sure Sergeant Reed reports to him first thing in the morning. Is that good enough?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The constable looked happy not to have to pursue anything further. ‘I’m sure he’ll take your word.’

  ‘Good.’ He began to hobble away after Cromwell, moving as quickly as he could. ‘Councillor,’ he called. ‘Sir.’

  The man turned, looking as if he’d been pulled from dark thoughts.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Inspector Harper, Leeds Police. Might I have a word, sir?’

  ‘What do you need, Inspector? I’m about to go home.’ His voice was as tired as his face.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, sir.’ He gave a smile. ‘If we can just find an office …’

  Cromwell nodded his condescending acceptance. After trying two doors, Harper found one open. It was small, but with a table, two chairs, and a window for light it was all he needed.

  The councillor settled on one of the chairs. Harper took his time, leaning the stick carefully, moving around a little. All little things to leave Cromwell uneasy. Finally the inspector sat, turning so his good ear would catch every word.

  ‘Has everything been resolved about the blacklegs?’ he began.

  ‘The replacement workers,’ the alderman corrected him impatiently. ‘There’ll be mediation in the morning. We’ll make sure they don’t go away empty-handed.’

  He had the air of a man surrounded by defeat, hands clasped around a briefcase on his lap.

  ‘I believe you own a mine in Middleton, sir.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And you’re under investigation for selling poor quality coal to the council.’

  Cromwell cocked his head to the side. ‘Where did you hear that, Inspector?’

  ‘Here and there, sir.’ He gave another smile. ‘It’s a pity about the replacement worker who was murdered.’ The change of subject was deliberate, a way to keep the man off balance.

  ‘It was terrible. But I understood you’d found his killer.’

  ‘We did,’ Harper agreed with a ready nod. ‘But it raised some questions.’

  ‘Then you should ask the man you arrested,’ Cromwell said irritably.

  ‘Unfortunately, sir, he’s died.’

  Shock paled the councillor’s face, then a flicker of relief that quickly vanished. ‘That’s unfortunate.’

  ‘I agree, sir, it is.’ He took a breath. ‘I hear you’re having financial troubles, sir.’

  ‘You seem to hear a great deal, Inspector.’ Cromwell’s voice was cold.

  ‘It’s my job, sir. Hearing things and making connections.’

  ‘And what do you want with me?’

  ‘It seems to me that it would have looked good for the gas committee if the blackleg had been knifed by a striker. It might have turned public opinion.’

  ‘What are you trying to insinuate, Inspector?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. It’s just an observation. But I’m sure you’ll admit that a man with a great deal to lose might have wanted that solution more than anything.’ He stopped and sat back in the chair.

  ‘Are you accusing me?’

  ‘No, sir. Of course not.’

  ‘That’s just as well. If you implied I had anything to do with a man’s death I’d make sure you were straight off the force.’ His eyes were furious, but there was a sheen of perspiration on his face.

  ‘Is it true, sir? That you’re having financial troubles.’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’ He stood, looking down on the policeman. ‘I take it we’ve finished, Inspector. I’ll be having a word with the chief constable. I’m sure he’ll be talking to you.’ He tried to make his words threatening, but he couldn’t put much weight behind them. The door closed loudly as he left.

  Tomorrow, Harper thought. Cromwell knew something. In the morning he’d press the man and discover what it was. But now he needed to turn his attention to the dead boxer. He’d seen the man. He’d been awake and aware, recovering; he clearly remembered the bobby at the bedside say he had orders to take the man to the cells later.

  Something was very wrong. He had to find out the truth before morning. If the death really related to the beating, he wouldn’t be able to save Billy. The sergeant would be in the dock for murder, and he’d hang. Harper himself would be bounced off the force and probably end up in jail. But he couldn’t believe that. He daren’t believe it.

  The doctor at the Infirmary had already left for the evening and the body had been taken over to Hunslet for the police surgeon to examine. Finally, Harper found a nurse who’d been on duty. She was harried, coming to the close of a twelve-hour shift. She looked to be in her forties, strands of grey hair peeking from her cap and splatters of blood across the white apron.

  ‘I thought he was improving,’ he said.

  She looked around cautiously before answering.

  ‘He were, love. We were going to discharge him in t’ morning. The doctor said so himself.’

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘That bobby needed the privy. He asked us to keep an eye on the man while he w
as gone.’ She paused and he guessed what she was going to say next. ‘We were busy. Mr Johnson down on the wards had one of his fits and it teks three of us to hold him down.’ She looked up at him apologetically. ‘By the time your constable come back the man was dead.’

  ‘Any idea what killed him?’

  ‘It’s not my place to say, love. I’m not a doctor.’

  But she probably knew. He waited.

  ‘It looked reet enough like poison to me,’ she said quietly after a short while. ‘But I didn’t say that.’

  The surgeon would discover it soon enough. Christ, he’d better. ‘What about the doctor?’

  ‘He just signed the death certificate.’ She sighed loudly. ‘There’s someone else in the bed now. There’s never enough room for patients in this place.’

  ‘And never enough nurses?’

  ‘Nay, love.’ She gave him an exhausted smile. ‘That, too.’

  He took a hackney from the Infirmary over to Hunslet, willing the vehicle onward through the heavy flow of traffic along Briggate and over Leeds Bridge. Carts piled high with goods trundled along, horses’ heads low in their traces. A carriage slipped in and out between them.

  The springs were poor in the cab and the rattlejack and bouncing along the road vibrated dully through his ankle. By the time they arrived at Hunslet Lane climbing down was painful; it took a few yards to shake off the worst of it.

  The B Division building was less than ten years old; some red brick still showed through the soot. Inside, though, it smelt like every other police station in Leeds, the mingling aroma of unwashed bodies, fear, vomit and urine that seemed to have seeped into the walls.

  He made his way down the steps to the cellar, every bad thing he could imagine roaring through his head as he passed through an unmarked door away from the holding cells. It was quiet here, cool after the heat of the day. With no gas, candles provided the light, offering deep shadows and mystery.

  This was the Kingdom. That was what everyone called it, although few on the force ever visited it, and Dr King ruled it absolutely. He was the police surgeon and had been for the last thirty years.

  He turned at the footsteps, waving a saw menacingly. Harper took a step back.