Gods of Gold

by Chris Nickson

  ‘I heard that Cromwell had written my name somewhere.’

  ‘That’s right. It’s why I had them call you out.’ He pulled a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his worn jacket. Harper took it, feeling the grease marks that made it transparent and glanced at the sergeant.

  ‘My fault. I’d been eating before I came here.’ He gave an apologetic shrug.

  Chief Inspector Harper had been written at the head of the page in a shaky hand. Nothing else.

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘On the desk in the library. According to the maid he’d been working there before he came out here.’

  ‘No other note?’

  ‘Nothing I’ve seen.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you want the case, sir? Only we have plenty on, what with the strike and all. Suicide, there won’t be much here, anyway.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Harper agreed. ‘You can leave.’

  The man was wrong. There would be plenty here. The trick would be finding what it meant.

  Gutteridge looked grateful as he lumbered away. Alone, the inspector knelt and started to go through Cromwell’s pockets. It was a gruesome task, wiping away messy pieces of brain and flesh and fragments of bone, but after ten minutes he had everything.

  Seven pounds in notes, another couple in coppers and silver. A handkerchief, still folded. The councillor’s pocket watch was gold, inscribed on To George, with all love, Hannah inside the cover. There was a fountain pen and a few scrawled notes, all to do with council business and information on the strike. Nothing useful, nothing to show why he’d taken his own life.

  ‘See if you can find a sheet and cover him,’ he told the constable. ‘I’ll be in the house.’

  The servant who’d let him in was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in front of her. She appeared calmer now, the tear tracks scrubbed away from her cheeks. But her eyes were still rimmed with red from the crying and she sniffled as she spoke.

  ‘Is there another in the pot?’ he asked, taking the chair across from her. She poured for him and he took a drink. Strong enough for the spoon to stand up in it; just what he needed.

  ‘A terrible business,’ Harper said.

  ‘We all heard the shot.’ The girl spoke as though her mouth was dry and she had to force every word out.

  ‘How have things been here? Any arguments, any worries?’ The servants knew much more than their masters ever realized. They could often tell him what was happening in a house better than a man’s wife. The girl hesitated before shaking her head. There was something, he decided. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Marie, sir.’ She looked about sixteen, tall and gawky in her uniform, with most of her hair tumbling out from the white cap.

  ‘Well, Marie, I’m Inspector Harper. I’m going to be here for the rest of the night, going through papers. Your mistress is asleep, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The doctor give her summat to knock her out. She were screaming and crying to wake the dead.’ She realized what she’d said and put a hand over her mouth in shock.

  ‘What about the other servant?’

  ‘He give her the same, sir.’

  ‘It’s bad when something like this happens, Marie. But you’ll be helping everyone if you tell me what you know.’ Her eyes blazed for a moment, but he continued gently, ‘I know it seems like you’re betraying your employers if you tell me all their confidences and secrets. But not in this case. We need to understand. Does that make sense?’

  She nodded and he waited. The girl would talk, he was certain of that.

  ‘I know he had problems,’ she began hesitantly. ‘Wi’ t’mine. And the strike, course.’

  ‘But?’ He sensed there was more.

  ‘Money. I heard him talking to people a few times.’

  ‘To his wife?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Marie answered.

  ‘Was it bad?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Did anyone visit the councillor this evening?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Two men.’

  For a moment he felt his heart beginning to beat faster. But it couldn’t have been the boxer and his friend; one of them was in the mortuary already.

  ‘Who were they? Did they give their names?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘No, sir. They said Mr Cromwell was expecting them. I hadn’t seen them before. I showed them through to the library.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About eight o’clock.’

  ‘How long did they stay?’

  ‘I heard the master show them out about half past.’

  ‘Did you hear any of the conversation?’

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘What did Mr Cromwell do after that?’

  ‘He went back into the library and stayed there until …’ She didn’t want to complete the sentence.

  ‘Did he see his wife at all?’

  ‘No, sir. She was in the parlour until ten and then she went to bed.’

  ‘She didn’t go in and say goodnight?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir.’ She paused. ‘It’s not their way.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘The men who came tonight. Can you describe them?’

  She thought for a long time.

  ‘They were both normal, I suppose,’ she said, eyes half-closed as she tried to picture the man. ‘One a bit smaller than you, maybe. He had dark hair.’ She touched her nose. ‘That was sharp. Handsome enough, but …’ She shrugged. ‘He kept looking at me. I didn’t like that. But he din’t say owt.’

  The boxer’s friend. That was his first thought. A poisoning in the afternoon, a visit to the councillor in the evening, after which Cromwell kills himself. The man seemed to carry death around with him.

  ‘What about the other man?’

  ‘He were well-dressed. A gold ring here.’ She held up her left hand and waved the little finger. ‘Big side whiskers, bigger n’ yours. Going grey above the ears.’

  ‘Anything else?’ She could have described one of thousands of men in Leeds.

  ‘He had a little scar on his forehead down to his eye. An old one.’

  ‘Which eye?’

  ‘His right.’

  Harper knew someone who had a scar exactly like that. Tosh Walker. The man he’d been trying to prosecute for years, the one who made witnesses vanish or recant their words.

  ‘You’ve done very well,’ he told her. ‘Can you show me to the library?’

  The room was wrongly named, he decided as he settled down with a candle. It had polished oak bookcases that ran from floor to ceiling along one wall, but hardly any books on the shelves. Cromwell obviously hadn’t been much of a reader; the few volumes he had all dealt with business. There was a padded leather club chair and a small table next to it with a decanter of whisky and a single glass.

  The desk was full of papers. He started with the ones on top, scanning through them quickly, discarding most and keeping a few to examine later. Every drawer was full. He was surprised the councillor hadn’t bothered to lock them. Some documents were council business, the minutes of meetings and committees. The summons to appear before an investigation looked interesting, as did the letters from the man’s bank. From all Harper could make out, Cromwell was close to bankruptcy; only the contract for coal from the mine had been keeping his head above water, and that just barely.

  He was a perfect victim for Tosh Walker. And with that name, things began to fall into place. Harper could readily imagine Walker forcing himself into Henry Bell’s moneylending business, bringing in the boxer and his friend to collect the debts. It would explain why Bell had been too scared to say anything when he’d been questioned. And why he’d had to die – before he could tell what he knew.

  And Cromwell? That seemed simple enough. If the strikers could be discredited, the gas committee would win the strike. The investigation into the substandard coal would vanish and he’d remain afloat. So, an arrangement with Walker for one of his men to commit murder. But it had all gone wrong;
it had come to an end after the devil had come to exact his price. Whatever he’d paid, it had left the councillor desperate enough to blow out his brains.

  The only piece that didn’t fit was Martha Parkinson. Tosh Walker was many things, but there’d never been a whisper of anything to do with children. He wanted money and power. Children didn’t fit into that.

  He put it to the back of his mind as he worked through everything in the desk. Two hours later he had a small stack of papers to take with him, the rest spread haphazardly across the desk. He made his way back to the kitchen. The maid had gone. Out in the garden it was light. The constable guarding the shed tried to hide a cigarette in his cupped hands, waving away the smoke as the inspector approached.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Harper told him. ‘It’s been a long night.’

  The bobby had found a sheet to hide Cromwell’s body and give him some dignity in death. The inspector drew it back, checking to make sure he’d missed nothing earlier. Suicide. He had no doubt. He covered what was left of the head again and glanced at his pocket watch. Almost six.

  ‘I’ll send the wagon for him,’ he told the constable and made his way along the drive to Roundhay Road. At least his ankle hurt less this morning.

  Harper sat in Kendall’s office. As soon as Reed had arrived he’d sent him across the river to answer the questions about the boxer’s death. It was no more than a formality, but Billy had still looked nervous as he left.

  ‘I want to bring Tosh Walker in.’

  ‘The question is how soon he’ll walk out of here again,’ the superintendent said.

  ‘The maid will pick him out as a visitor to Cromwell’s last night.’

  Kendall rubbed the back of his neck. He looked refreshed in a clean grey suit, the black tie carefully knotted at the throat, moustache precisely clipped, his hair parted in the middle and pomaded down.

  ‘There’s no law against visiting a man who commits suicide later, Tom.’

  He knew what the man was doing. They’d played this game often enough, one of them acting as the devil’s advocate, testing the weaknesses in an argument or a case.

  ‘I believe the man who was with him was the boxer’s friend. I’m as certain as I can be that he went into the Infirmary and killed the boxer.’

  The superintendent shook his head. ‘It’s all speculation. Even if you’re right, Walker will have this man hidden away. From what you’ve told me, there’s nothing you can prove. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you don’t have anything, Tom. And what about the girl? How does she come into this?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he admitted.

  ‘Find something. Show me any connection between her and Tosh Walker, anything at all, and you have my blessing to put him in the cells. I’ve wanted that bastard for a long time,’ Kendall said with feeling. ‘If he’s been doing something to little girls, I’ll see him hang.’

  Harper stood. It was almost eight, and he already felt exhausted. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. ‘I’ll find it. It’s got to be there.’

  ‘Anything you need, just ask. I’ll need men to escort the replacements to the station this afternoon, but apart from that, the strike is over.’

  ‘The blacklegs are going to be paid?’

  ‘They are,’ Kendall answered firmly. ‘They did what was asked of them, it’s only fair. None of them knew what they were letting themselves in for.’ He paused. ‘And this time we’ll secure the bridge over Whitehall Road. Not that I expect any problems when they’re going. The stokers will be back at work tonight. Not before time, either.’ He shook his head. ‘A stupid bloody mess.’

  ‘A pointless one.’

  The superintendent sighed. ‘I’ll agree with you there, although I’d never admit it to the chief. You’re sure everything’s taken care of with Reed?’

  ‘Positive, sir. Frank Beaumont will give him a good talking-to and then he’ll be back here.’

  ‘Maybe this will drum some sense into him. Tell him, Tom, the next time there’s a problem, he’ll be gone from the force.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Reed walked back across Leeds Bridge in the sunshine. Nine o’clock and it was already warm, the sky a clear, pale blue. This was the way July was meant to be, the way he remembered it when he was a child. In the Army, when he’d been stationed somewhere hot, the heat never seemed to vanish. For months on end the days would bake his bones under his flesh. His woollen uniform would itch and his pack become too heavy to bear.

  For now he felt grateful simply to be walking free. The interview had been brief enough, no more than the formality he’d been promised. At the end, though, Inspector Beaumont hadn’t dismissed him. Instead he’d made Reed stand as he ranted and roared. It was the kind of dressing down he’d seen in the regiment. All he could do was stand at attention and take it, feeling the man’s spittle across his face as he yelled. It took a full five minutes before the inspector grew hoarse. By then, everyone in B Division knew about Reed’s faults, his drinking, his violence, the weakness that left him in the black moods. Like a good soldier he’d stayed still, letting the words wash over him and away, staring straight ahead until he was told to go, marching through the station without looking at anyone else.

  By tonight, he knew, it would be all through the force. Humiliation. But that was what Beaumont had wanted. Out on Hunslet Road he took the packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, hands shaking badly. He wanted a drink. He needed a drink. But he wasn’t going to have one until he was off duty. He breathed out slowly, forcing himself to calm as he walked, his face like thunder. What really galled was that so much of what Beaumont had said was true. He knew he drank too much. He knew things haunted him, the pictures and faces that wouldn’t go away, no matter how much he tried. He knew his failings well enough, the anger that could grip him and come out through his fists.

  The sergeant gave himself time before returning to the Millgarth. When he settled at his desk he let out a long breath.

  ‘Bad?’ Harper asked. Reed just nodded. ‘But no charges?’

  ‘No.’

  Harper leaned close to the sergeant and hissed. ‘Think about what would have happened if you’d been the one who’d killed him.’

  ‘I have.’ The sergeant raised his eyes. ‘Believe me, I have, all the way back here. I’m sorry, Tom.’

  ‘It’s done now. But for God’s sake, Billy, you’re going to need to keep a lid on that temper.’

  ‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘Believe me, I know.’

  Harper gave a brief nod; the business was over.

  ‘I talked to the super about Tosh Walker,’ the inspector said. ‘He won’t let me bring him in yet. We need proof. I’m going to talk to Cromwell’s widow and see if she can tell me anything.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘What doesn’t fit into all this?’

  ‘The girl. Martha,’ Reed replied without hesitation. ‘Walker’s never had anything to do with young girls.’

  ‘Nothing that we’ve discovered,’ the inspector corrected him.

  ‘What do you mean? Come on, we both know she’s probably dead somewhere.’

  ‘What if she isn’t, though?’ Harper asked. ‘What if there are other girls with her?’

  ‘That’s impossible.’ He dismissed the idea. ‘We’d have heard if other girls had gone missing.’

  ‘Would we?’

  ‘Of course we would. Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘But what if they’d vanished from orphanages or the workhouse?’

  ‘Even then,’ Reed insisted.

  ‘And if they were the fractious children? The ones who never did what they were told and caused trouble. Think about it. The guardians breathe a sigh of relief, say nothing, and still collect money from the council for the children.’

  ‘I don’t see it,’ the sergeant said after a while. ‘That would be a—’

  ‘Conspiracy? Crime?’

  ‘Yes.’
/>
  ‘Then prove me wrong. Go to the orphanages. Go to the workhouse. Ask some questions and make sure the numbers add up.’

  Reed nodded in reluctant acquiescence, then said, ‘I still think you’re wrong.’

  ‘Maybe I am,’ Harper told him. ‘But at least we’ll know. And if I’m not …’

  It was stuffy on the lower deck of the omnibus. The windows wouldn’t open, and the leather seats made Harper’s back sweat, shirt clinging to the skin. They passed the Victoria, its doors wide to air the place out, and the horses drawing the vehicle clopped slowly up Roundhay Road.

  The inspector was tired, ready to nod off. He pulled the watch from his waistcoat. Almost ten. He’d been up since one and he still hadn’t eaten. He felt the low growl of hunger in his belly. Dinner time, he told himself. He’d have something then.

  The house was quiet. The drive was empty, all the curtains drawn as a sign of mourning. The body would have been removed, the copper off on his duties.

  He knocked on the door. Marie, the sad maid from the night before, answered. There were dark circles under her eyes and her face looked strained. All of this was beyond her understanding. Wherever she’d grown up, people managed, they dealt with things. They didn’t take a shotgun, point it at their face and pull the trigger as an answer.

  ‘Hello, Marie. Do you remember me?’

  She nodded, then recalled her place. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is Mrs Cromwell awake?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But …’

  He knew. She didn’t want to see anyone. But he needed to see her, to ask questions while her memory was sharp, even if it was painful.

  ‘Can you tell her I’m here, please? It’s important.’

  The girl showed him through to a parlour, everything shaded and shadowed by the curtains, a room in half-light. But it had the feel of somewhere that was well used, with pictures on the walls, comfortable furniture gathered around an empty hearth and a piano in the corner with sheet music scattered around. Knitting sat on a small table, next to a novel, The Master of Ballantrae, a length of yarn as a bookmark. Epic adventure and romance for the wife, he thought.

  Photographs stood in silver frames. The prominent ones on the mantel showed Cromwell in his alderman’s robes, with the mayor and other figures. The children, two boys and two girls, were consigned to the top of the piano, studio portraits showing serious faces. But there was no picture of Mrs Cromwell to be seen.