‘A lot of people will have been going round with their eyes closed this morning, sir. You know what I mean.’
He did. Being deaf, dumb and blind meant being safe.
‘Remember, Charlie’s going to be looking. I want the killer first.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Number twenty-seven was exactly the same as every other house on Bread Street: soiled bricks, front door opening on to the pavement. He glanced over his shoulder. The only people left were Thompson and another policeman standing over the corpse. Everyone else had melted away. Around him he felt the heat of the day building and pushing against his face.
The woman who answered the door had a hawk face and hard eyes, her thin mouth frowning at him. As she glanced out and caught a glimpse of Declan’s body she crossed herself quickly.
‘You’ll be the police.’ There was no pleasure in her voice.
‘Detective Inspector Harper. You know Declan Gilmore?’
‘Of course.’
‘What kind of arrangement do you have with him, Mrs …?’
‘Riley,’ she told him. ‘My man was Ben Riley.’
He remembered the name. A violent little man, one of Gilmore’s Boys of Erin, he’d died in a knife fight. So this was his widow’s reward, the inspector thought.
‘What do you do for Declan?’
‘I give Maggie and her boy a place to live. He pays her rent.’
‘What else?’
‘He wanted me to keep an eye on her.’ Her own eyes were defiant, but he wasn’t going to rise to that challenge.
‘Did you see anything this morning?’
‘Nothing until I heard everyone outside. He was lying in the street.’
‘No one running away?’
She shook her head. ‘Not a thing.’
‘I’d like to talk to Miss Dawson.’
‘Upstairs, the door straight ahead.’
He climbed the stairs to a cramped landing with bare boards, feeling her eyes on him. The bannister wobbled under his hand. Maggie Dawson answered at the first knock. Her window looked down at the street, Gilmore’s body displayed in front of her. A small boy sat on the bed, knees gathered up. He and his mother both had the gaunt look of people who’d never had enough to eat, and the pale colour of people who didn’t see the sun.
‘Miss Dawson, I’m Detective Inspector—’
‘Is he dead?’ She was in her middle twenties, a thin shawl tied like a scarf around her dark hair.
‘Yes.’
She gave a deep sigh of relief. ‘Good.’
‘Do you know who did it?’ he asked. ‘Did you see it happen?’
‘No,’ Dawson replied. ‘But if I did I’d give him a kiss.’ She reached across and ruffled her son’s hair. The boy looked up at her hopefully. ‘We’re free now, Sean.’
‘Free?’ He didn’t know the word. But how many on the Bank would?
She was happy to talk, as if it had been too long since she could speak her mind. Maggie had been Declan’s girl when she was younger. He’d been dangerous, attractive, and she’d been proud to be seen with him. Never mind what her parents thought; Gilmore was an important man and some of that rubbed off on her when she was at his side.
It lasted until she became pregnant. He stopped calling on her then, but still kept a watchful, controlling eye. Any man who showed an interest was warned off. Gilmore wouldn’t marry her but he wouldn’t let her go. Her parents forced her out of the house, refusing to be shamed by their daughter.
Maggie had nothing. With her belly growing, no one would give her a job. Declan made the offer of a room. She had no choice; she grabbed it. When Sean was born he wanted to take the child and have him raised. But with nothing else in the world she wasn’t going to give up her baby.
‘I told him he’d have the bairn over my dead body,’ she said with a sad, wry laugh. ‘For a while I thought he would.’
She was kept to the house under Mrs Riley’s eye, never allowed out alone. No callers, no friends. Declan came on Tuesday and Thursdays to see the lad, an attentive father but not generous. He refused to let Sean go to school. He’d never gone himself, he said, and it had done him no harm.
Harper stared out of the window. The mortuary cart had arrived, the horse standing placidly as Gilmore’s body was loaded in the back. All that remained was a smeared pool of blood on the cobbles.
‘Did you arrange for someone to kill him?’
‘Me? How would I do that?’ She turned, eyes wide. ‘That bitch doesn’t let me talk to anyone. She worshipped the ground he walked on, the bastard. You know what I did when I saw him down there? I thanked God.’
He wasn’t going to learn anything more here. Gilmore would already have his men out, asking questions. In his mind the inspector could hear the clock ticking.
‘If you hear anything, Miss Dawson, please tell me.’
She nodded and he turned away towards the door.
‘You never said your name.’
‘Detective Inspector Harper.’
‘Is your missus called Annabelle?’
‘Yes.’ Her question surprised him. ‘Why?’
‘Tell her Jenny Dawson’s sister said hello, will you?’
Nothing yet from the house-to-house but the inspector didn’t expect much. This was the Bank, where no one liked the police. Gilmore would hear far more from these people. They were scared of him.
Millgarth was quiet, the bobbies out on their beats. Superintendent Kendall waved him in as he tapped on the door.
‘Well?’
He summed up the little he knew, and finished: ‘It’s going to be a race between us and Charlie Gilmore.’
Kendall rubbed a hand across his mouth. ‘Any ideas who’s responsible?’
‘Not a clue. It must have happened on York Road or right at the corner of Bread Street. It’s busy there, especially in the morning. Someone saw it. Whether they’ll talk to us is another matter.’
‘Could it be our mystery man? The same one who killed Tench and Bradley. Upping the stakes?’
‘It’s possible.’ He’d tried to puzzle it on the way back to the station. There were plenty who’d love Declan dead, but few with the courage to try. George Archer would never be so stupid. His men would stand out round there. And why would he want to start a war when he was trying to become respectable? There was nothing in it for him.
‘I’m going to need more men, sir,’ he said.
‘Do you think Wharton’s up to the job?’ He could sense the superintendent’s reluctance.
‘He’s good. Real potential.’ Harper hesitated. ‘But I thought you didn’t want him around anything that might involve Archer.’
‘We don’t have much choice.’
A noise made them stir, loud shouts that lasted so long even Harper heard it clearly. He dashed through to see Ash forcing a man up against Tollman’s desk.
‘What have you got?’ the desk sergeant asked.
‘Resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer, suspicion of murder.’
‘I’ll get him down in the cells for you, Fred.’ Tollman grabbed the prisoner’s shirt with a large fist and pulled him close. ‘You’d best do as you’re told if you know what’s good for you.’
‘That’s the carter I was looking for. Jeb,’ Ash explained, brushing dirt off his suit. ‘He didn’t seem to think he needed to help us.’
‘Let him stew for a while. Tollman will make him feel welcome. We have something else.’
‘It’s not Archer, is it, sir?’
They were back up on Bread Street, Ash at his side. Only the blood dried on the road was a reminder of the death. Women were out, donkeystoning their steps and gossiping, eyeing them warily as they passed.
‘No. He’s got more sense than this.’
‘Declan,’ the sergeant mused, ‘where do we start?’ He glanced back and nodded. ‘Sir.’
It was Wharton, rushing to join them. He hadn’t heard the slap of shoe leather on pavement. Bloody hearing.
> ‘The superintendent said you wanted me, sir.’ The young man’s eyes were wide with excitement, eager to work on his first big case.
‘I need everyone I can get,’ Harper told him.
‘What do you want me to do, sir?’
The inspector remembered how he felt the first time he’d been involved in a murder. Wharton would learn it was nothing special. Just the grind of police work, knocking on doors and asking questions, then hoping people had told you something close to the truth.
But what did he want them all to do? All the house-to-house had yielded was people who might as well have been in another county for the help they’d given.
‘Sergeant, go and talk to Archer. I really don’t believe this has anything to do with him, but I don’t want him poking his nose in.’
‘Yes, sir. About this time he should be at the Bull and Mouth for his dinner.’
‘And if he has any ideas about who killed Declan …’
‘He might decide to dob someone in for the fun of it.’
‘Use your head.’ He watched Ash stride away and turned. ‘Right, Mr Wharton, you’re with me. I hope you’re feeling brave.’
The Sword was alive with men. A crowd had gathered on the pavement, spilling over on to the road. Men in their shirtsleeves, trousers held up with braces, caps on their heads. Young and older, and not a woman to be seen.
Harper pushed his way through, sensing Wharton close behind. Two large men blocked the door.
‘You’d better move,’ the inspector told them. ‘I’m going inside.’
‘Mr Gilmore gave his orders—’ one began.
‘We’re the police,’ he stated. ‘You can let me in or I can arrest you. It’s your choice.’
‘You and whose army?’ the larger one laughed. He was heavily muscled, bushy red mutton-chop whiskers obscuring his cheeks.
Harper didn’t bother to reply. He brought his knee up fast and hard between the man’s legs then watched him gasp and topple.
‘Do you want the same?’ he asked the other guard.
Gilmore was sitting at the large table, a glass of Irish whiskey in front of him, giving orders to waiting men.
The babble of voices faded away as people turned to stare.
‘Get out, Inspector.’ Gilmore kept his voice even. ‘You’re not welcome here.’
‘You and I are going to have a talk.’
‘We don’t have anything to say to each other.’ He made the words sound final.
‘Then I’ll do the talking, and you’re going to listen.’ Harper glanced around the faces in the room, all of them hard as stone. ‘I’m going after Declan’s killer, not you. Make sure you remember that, because if you get in my way, you’ll end up in a cell.’ His gaze moved slowly across the room. ‘Any of you.’
‘Have you finished?’ Gilmore’s voice was a rumble.
‘You’ve been warned.’
‘You’ve said your piece, Inspector. I did you the courtesy of listening. Now get out of here.’
Harper barged his way past sullen faces out on the pavement and through to fresh air, riding the anger inside. It had probably been a waste of breath. But he’d needed to do it, to tell Charlie Gilmore publicly that he was in charge.
‘Will you do it, sir?’
He’d forgotten that Wharton was there. The lad was pale and scared.
‘Arrest them?’ the inspector asked in surprise. ‘Of course I will. Charlie knows it, too. I don’t make empty threats. But it won’t stop him.’
‘Then why bother, sir?’ He kept looking around.
‘Because if we hadn’t gone in there, he’d think he was in command. I needed to remind him that he’s not.’ He looked at Wharton’s face. ‘We were safe enough. Even Charlie Gilmore isn’t stupid enough to attack a copper.’
‘What are we going to do now?’
‘Back to Millgarth.’
‘The people round there are only going to talk to Gilmore,’ Harper said. They were in the office; Kendall leaned against a desk, smoking and listening intently. ‘We won’t hear a word.’
The superintendent turned to Ash. ‘You spoke to Archer. What did he have to say?’
‘He’d already heard by the time I found him, sir, but he looked shocked,’ the sergeant said. ‘Like he couldn’t believe it.’
‘Couldn’t believe his luck?’
Ash shook his head. ‘Stunned more like, sir,’ he answered after a moment. ‘But he did tell me he’d pass on anything he learned to Gilmore.’
Kendall raised an eyebrow. ‘What did you say to that?’
‘I suggested he might like to speak to us instead.’
The super ran a hand through his hair. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Have you talked to the carter you arrested yet?’ Harper asked Ash.
‘It’s the next thing I’m going to do, sir.’
‘I want a name for this red-headed man. A better description. Anything we can use.’
‘Do you think he could be involved in Gilmore’s death, sir?’
Harper sighed. ‘Right now I don’t know a damned thing.’
‘I want men out there. Talk to your informants. I’ll go and see the ones I know.’ Kendall took a watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Meet back here at six.’
They all looked dispirited. The window in the office was wide open but the air still felt heavy and stifling. The clock ticked loudly on the wall. Five past six.
‘Anything?’ Kendall asked and they all shook their heads. Wherever they went, Gilmore’s men had been there first. He was offering good money for information about his brother’s murder; the police couldn’t compete with that.
Only Ash had news.
‘Jeb the carter admitted everything in the end.’
‘Who hired him?’
‘It’s just the same as O’Shea, sir. Received a message to be somewhere at such-and-such a time. Two guineas for his trouble. No names.’
‘What about this red-haired man?’
‘Claimed he’d never seen him before, doesn’t know his name. He had his face hidden most of the time.’
‘Do you believe him?’ Kendall asked.
‘I do, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘I might have pushed him a little to be sure …’
‘Anything that shows?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then don’t worry about it.’ Harper could see the concern on the super’s face. ‘Go home, let’s think about it again in the morning. We’ll have plenty of uniforms out tonight to stop any trouble.’
THIRTEEN
‘Tom?’
‘What?’ He looked up from his food. White’s Chop House was crowded and noisy. Too many voices, too much sound confusing his ear.
Annabelle smiled. ‘I just asked if you were enjoying it.’
He’d barely noticed the food. The lamb was juicy, with a strong mint sauce to set off the taste, roasted potatoes, and a large helping of cabbage. But it was simply something to put in his mouth.
She’d been waiting when he came home from Millgarth, wearing her best frock and the pale yellow scarf he’d bought her, her hair artfully arranged and a bonnet in her hands.
He’d pushed open the door to the parlour, glad to be back. It crashed into something, leaving a space just wide enough for him to squeeze through.
A wooden tea chest, crammed with books and folders, blocked the way.
A ledger with Bye-Laws of the Society written in flowing script on the cover. Another marked Minutes of Meetings. Everything she’d need for her new role as secretary.
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ Mary was in her arms, reaching out for her father. He took one of the tiny, pudgy hands and squeezed it lightly. Annabelle nodded towards the chest. ‘There’s another like that arriving tomorrow.’ She shook her head. ‘God only knows where we’ll put them all.’
‘Starting to regret it?’
‘Not a chance.’ She grinned and kissed him. ‘Someone’s going to be coming to help out with the accounts, anyway. I’ll be able to fo
cus on other things.’
‘Your research on drink?’
‘That, arranging the meetings, and about a hundred and one other bits and bobs. Now Miss Ford’s working with the Independent Labour Party so much I’ll be a Jill-of-all-trades.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, it made me decide something. We’re going out tonight, you and me. It’s about time we stepped out on our own. And the way you look right now it’ll do you the power of good.’
She was right. It had been too long – too far back to remember. But tonight? He was dog-tired, his brain swirling and numb from the day.
‘Before you say a word, I heard all about Declan Gilmore,’ she continued. ‘You know the world’s a better place without someone like that. Come on, Tom, it’ll take you out of yourself.’
‘What about—?’
‘Ellen’s going to look after her ladyship. She’ll spoil her rotten.’ Annabelle took his arm. ‘Hurry up, I’m famished.’
The hackney had dropped them on Boar Lane, all the hubbub of a summer evening around them. People paraded, stopping to stare at the extravagant displays in the windows at the Grand Pygmalion. A young couple, their heads together, stared at rings in the jeweller’s window. Somewhere in the distance a group of men was shouting and laughing.
‘I told you,’ she said, smiling at all the life around them. ‘Now, where are we going to eat?’
‘I thought we might go on to the music hall afterwards,’ Annabelle suggested as they ate their pudding. She wiped a trace of the jam roly-poly from her mouth. ‘Do you fancy that?’
He knew what the question meant: she already had the rest of the evening planned.
‘Who’s playing?’
‘There’s Vesta Tilley at the City Varieties.’ She glanced at him from under here eyelashes. ‘We could have a good singalong. Burlington Bertie.’
He wasn’t keen. All he wanted was his bed. But she had that look in her eyes, and he couldn’t deny her. Tomorrow was Saturday and she had a meeting of women to address in the evening. Monday she’d start as secretary to the Suffragist Society.
‘I can manage that.’
She beamed. ‘Good. We’ll have a laugh. The other acts don’t look bad, either.’ She seemed so eager that it was impossible to gainsay her. Like a little girl given a treat. Would their daughter be like that in ten years or so? She could do a lot worse than take after her mother. Annabelle played with the fringe of the scarf. ‘I love this. The colours are beautiful. I don’t know what possessed you to buy it, though.’
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