The Iron Water

by Chris Nickson

  ‘You’re with me this morning,’ Harper told the sergeant.

  ‘What about me, sir?’ Wharton wondered.

  ‘Back to routine for you, I’m afraid.’ He picked three thin folders off his desk. ‘Burglaries. Other crimes don’t end just because someone’s killed Declan Gilmore. We still have to deal with them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The lad looked crestfallen, as if someone had told him off.

  ‘You need the experience and I’m trusting you to do a thorough job.’

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’ Ash asked as they walked out along Woodhouse Lane. In the distance church bells were ringing. How many would answer the call, he wondered? He hadn’t grown up with church; his parents never went. When you worked six long days a week, the chance to sleep longer on a Sunday meant more than a hymn and a sermon.

  ‘We’re going to have another word with Eustace Morley.’

  ‘That idea of yours, sir. That someone’s trying to take over.’

  ‘Do you think I’m mad?’ the inspector asked with a smile.

  ‘Not all all, sir. But there are two questions, aren’t there?’

  ‘I know. Who could arrange all that without anyone knowing, and why didn’t they kill Morley, too?’

  Ash’s moustache twitched in a grin. ‘That’s more or less what I was going to say.’

  Claypit Lane was nothing special, but it was far enough from the factories for the air to smell a little sweeter and cleaner. Number two stood at the end of the terrace, a garden barely larger than a postage stamp in front, a small yard at the back, hidden from the ginnel by a wall. Two men stood, one on either side of the street: the guards sent by Gilmore and Archer to watch the boxer and each other.

  The landlady let them in grudgingly, pointing them up the stairs and to the bedroom at the back.

  ‘He’ll not be up yet,’ she warned. ‘He likes his sleep on a Sunday.’

  Harper banged on the door for a full minute before Morley answered, bleary-eyed and angry.

  ‘What?’ was all the boxer said when he saw them.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve been telling me the truth,’ the inspector told him.

  Morley shrugged and turned back into the room. A half light came through the closed curtains, and the air was stuffy, catching in the throat. There was a smell of sweat, a very male musk.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The boxer sat on the bed, yawning and rubbing the sleep away from his face.

  ‘Tell me something, Eustace. Why are you still alive and your friends dead?’ Harper wanted to catch the man before his mind was awake and see what escaped. ‘Here you are, sleeping well all night while they’re under the ground.’

  The boxer shook his head. ‘You make it sound like my fault.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Slowly, Morley stood, flexing his fists, until he was looming over Harper.

  ‘Don’t start accusing me,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Not if you want to get out of here in one piece.’

  The inspector stood his ground, Ash ready behind him.

  ‘Don’t threaten me,’ Harper told him. ‘Unless you prefer a cell to your own bed.’

  ‘Give over.’ He poured some water from a jug into the basin on a chest of drawers and splashed his checks, wiping a hand over his bald skull before reaching for a towel.

  ‘Who’s the red-haired man?’

  ‘Eh?’ Morley turned. ‘You what?’

  ‘Who do you know with red hair?’

  ‘The Gilmores,’ he answered after a pause. ‘And Declan’s dead, that’s what they say.’

  ‘That’s right. He was spread out on the cobbles with stab wounds in his back.’

  ‘I never really knew him.’ His face hardened. ‘And in case you’re going to ask, how could I do anything with two men following me everywhere?’

  ‘Why did Tench and Bradley have to die, Mr Morley?’

  ‘How the hell would I know?’ he snapped, on the edge of shouting.

  Good, Harper thought; he was rattled. Maybe he’d reveal something. ‘No ideas?’

  ‘No.’ He drew back the curtains, light pouring into the room.

  ‘You haven’t even thought about it?’

  ‘Of course I bloody have.’

  ‘They died and you didn’t. Is that what you thought about?’ The man didn’t answer. ‘Feeling guilty, perhaps?’ Harper was prodding, provoking.

  ‘Go on. Get yourselves gone.’

  ‘Why, Mr Morley? A bit too close to the truth?’

  He saw the boxer tense his muscles then breathe deeply. ‘I said go.’

  For a moment he weighed the decision. The man had control of himself once more. He wasn’t going tell them a damn thing. If they stayed he’d be throwing his questions against a wall.

  ‘Good day to you, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Was it a waste of time, sir?’ Ash asked as they walked away. Harper tipped his hat to the men keeping watch on Claypit Lane.

  ‘No. I’m sure he knows something. The problem is discovering what it is.’

  ‘I’m don’t know we ever will. Not from him, anyway. Did you see it, though, the way he managed to close down? It was as if he shut a gate.’

  ‘Yes.’ Maybe it was a technique boxers learned, a way to keep the pain at a distance. He sighed. ‘We’re back to square one.’

  ‘If we keep digging happen we’ll turn up something, sir.’

  The inspector snorted. ‘With our luck we’ll just find more bloody holes.’

  At noon he left. There was nothing more on Declan. All they were doing was covering barren ground. Kendall had been seeking out his snouts once more, but he came back shaking his head.

  Tench and Gilmore, Harper thought. Somehow it all began there. They needed to find the copper-haired man.

  ‘Talk to Jeb the carter again,’ he ordered Ash. ‘And O’Shea. Get everything else you can on this mystery man.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Tom,’ the superintendent said wearily, ‘go. Enjoy your family. I think you’ve earned it.’

  By one he was strolling up Roundhay Road with Annabelle and Mary, past the businesses and the factories and the endless streets that fanned away like fingers. Harper was dressed in his best suit, the one she’d given him as a Christmas present. She wore a pale grey gown with a wide-brimmed hat, tied under the chin with a silk ribbon the colour of sunset, a parasol over her shoulder.

  Mary sat up in the baby carriage as her mother pushed her along, eyes wide with wonder at all the new things before her. Past St Aidan’s Church and through Harehills, then out beyond Gipton Woods before reaching the arch that led them into Roundhay Park.

  It felt like a dusty, high summer day. Out here the clouds weren’t so thick. There was blue sky, the sun shining down on their shoulders.

  The band was already playing, brass notes ringing out over the grass. A large crowd was gathered around the stand. Ladies sat primly on rugs. Young men and their belles stopped to listen. One old woman in a bath chair smiled, nodding in time with the music as she was pushed by a bored nurse.

  They stayed for the whole concert, right through to the national anthem at the end.

  ‘That was grand,’ Annabelle said when it was done. ‘Can’t beat music on a Sunday. Where do you want to go for our picnic?’

  In the end they settled on the Upper Lake, spreading a rug on the slope and watching Mary as she ran around, tumbling and exploring. They had food in a basket, bread and dripping, and a bottle of beer to share. Rowing boats moved across the water, while ducks clamoured for crusts that children threw from the path.

  ‘This’ll set me up nicely for tomorrow. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.’ Annabelle’s voice was lazy. She stretched, keeping an eye on their daughter. ‘And you need it, too.’

  ‘I need a piece of luck even more.’ Talking about it did no good. He changed the subject. ‘Have you been to see Maggie Dawson today?’

  ‘I popped over this morning. She seems to be settling in.’ She shook her hea
d. ‘Kept thanking me like I’d done something special.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Not really.’ She was on her feet, scurrying to stop Mary as the girl tried to speed away down the hill to the water. ‘She’s like greased lightning. What’s it going to be like once she really starts, eh? We’re going to need eyes in the back of our heads.’

  ‘Especially if she’s as lovely as her mother.’

  ‘Go on. You could charm the birds off the trees, Tom Harper.’ But she was grinning. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. It won’t be the mills or service for her. Not if I have anything to do with it. She’s going to get an education and do something with it. She’s the real reason I’m doing all this, you know.’

  ‘With the suffrage people, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. To see she has something better. Her and the other little lasses, like that one over there.’ She nodded towards a girl playing with a stick and a hoop. ‘All of them.’ Annabelle smiled and laughed at herself. ‘Sounds daft, doesn’t it? Me with my big ideas.’

  In the distance he heard the steam whistle from the Maid of Athens as it glided around Waterloo Lake. ‘Good ones, though.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She was silent for a long time, staring off into the distance. ‘I said I was in service before I started at the Victoria. I never really told you much about that, did I?’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ She’d only mentioned it for the first time the night before. But there was so much about her past that she’d never revealed.

  ‘I’d had it up to here with the mill, I wanted something different. Ended up at a big house. Turned into the old story.’ She sighed. ‘I was young and stupid enough to believe he really fancied me. I thought I’d end up as Lady Muck or something. As soon as they discovered I was up the spout I was out of there with no reference. Course, my family didn’t want anything to do with me.’ She was quiet for a long time. ‘I lost the baby long before it was born. Who can tell, happen it was for the best. Then the Atkinsons took me on at the pub. The wife wasn’t well by then and they needed the help.’ Annabelle shrugged. ‘You know the rest.’

  ‘That’s why you helped Maggie.’

  ‘Maybe it was one reason,’ she admitted. ‘Anyway, now you know my big secret.’ She turned and stared at him. ‘Are you shocked? Wish you’d never married me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he told her and squeezed her hand. ‘But I wish I could get my hands on whoever did that to you.’

  ‘I’m never going to tell you his name, Tom. It’s all history now. But our lass isn’t going to have anything like that. Nor any other girl, if I can do something about it.’ She stood, gathered Mary up and put her in the baby carriage, then folded the rug and packed the basket in quick movements. ‘Come on, we should probably start moving. It’s a long walk home.’

  Annabelle was quiet as they strolled. Mary fell asleep; all that exercise playing in the fresh air had tired her. He’d been honest, her admission made no difference to his feelings for her. He just hated that she’d been used that way. Like so many others before her.

  ‘And tomorrow everything changes.’ It was just words to break the long silence.

  ‘Secretary of the Leeds Women’s Suffrage Society.’ She said it with wonder and pride, shaking her head. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’

  ‘You’ll be wonderful.’

  ‘I’ll try. I’ll give it my best. This pamphlet we’re going to do could really change things. I’m sick of hearing people talk about the poor as if they’re animals. Maybe they’ll read it and learn something.’

  He understood. He saw it every day. The line between hope and hopelessness. They were walking along it now. After the crisp green of the grass in the park, Sheepscar seemed dirty and shabby, the bricks covered with soot, every breath filled with smoke and dirt. It was home, though. There was nowhere else he’d rather be.

  They left the perambulator in the hallway and he carried Mary tenderly up the stairs, her breath soft and warm against his neck. She didn’t stir as he laid her in the crib and slipped off her tiny shoes. Harper stood for a moment, watching his daughter, enjoying the peace and the utter lack of worry on her face.

  ‘Tom,’ Annabelle called quietly from the parlour, ‘someone slipped a note under the door for you.’

  Sir, Please come to Millgarth as soon as you receive this. You’re needed urgently.

  He looked at her. ‘I have to go.’

  She nodded; by now she was used to this.

  ‘At least we had a good afternoon,’ she said.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘I’m sorry to drag you back in, Tom.’ An empty plate stood on Kendall’s desk, next to a cup and saucer. Even with the window wide open, the air felt baked, ripe.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  The superintendent took a breath. ‘One of George Archer’s bodyguards has been killed.’

  Christ. This could start a wildfire.

  ‘Which one?’ Archer kept four men around him.

  ‘Bob Hill.’

  The inspector tried to picture him. He had the faint image of a strong, tall man in an expensive suit and pomaded hair.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘One of the constables was called to an empty house on Somerset Street. He found the body there.’

  ‘Somerset Street?’ It was where Archer had made his start. So close to where Tench and Ash grew up.

  ‘Right on the corner with Dufton Court,’ Kendall’s voice was as weary as the ages. ‘If that’s not a message, nothing is. Ash and Wharton are out on the house-to-house. The word is that Archer’s on his way.’ His eyes flickered towards the clock. ‘He’s probably there by now.’

  ‘How long ago did it happen?’

  ‘The report came in just after four.’

  When he was sitting on the grass and enjoying a picnic with his wife and daughter, all the cares banished from his mind. This certainly brought them all rushing back. He glanced at the clock. Almost seven.

  ‘Do we know how he died?’

  ‘The body’s gone to Dr King but it looked like he’d been garrotted. I went over and saw the corpse.’

  ‘Two bludgeoned, one stabbed, one garrotted.’ Harper shook his head. ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘At first I thought it must be Charlie Gilmore. Revenge for his brother. Then this arrived an hour ago.’ He slid a piece of paper across the desk. The writing was shaky, only half-formed.

  None of my men did this and not on my orders. CG.

  ‘Will Archer believe that, though?’

  ‘It seems like you were right,’ the superintendent said darkly. ‘Someone’s trying to move in.’

  Harper was trying to think, to find pieces that might fit together.

  ‘I’m going over there.’

  It took less than three minutes to reach Somerset Street. He didn’t need to ask which house; a constable standing in the doorway of a building missing some of the slates from its roof told him everything.

  The bobby saluted and moved aside to let him enter. Pieces of rubble littered the floor where part of the ceiling had caved in. Half the stairs were missing.

  ‘Who found the body?’ he asked.

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Tollman, sir.’ He paused for a heartbeat. ‘The sergeant’s my dad. This is my beat.’

  He should have guessed: the lad had the same grave voice and mischievous eyes. All that was missing was the paunch and the moustache.

  ‘Who reported it?’

  ‘A lad and a lass, sir. I think they were trying to find somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed, if you know what I mean.’ He gave a smile. ‘It scared them out of their wits.’

  ‘How often do you go past here?’

  ‘Every hour or so, sir. I wasn’t that far away when I heard the shouting.’

  ‘Where was the body?’

  ‘Scullery, sir. He was face down. I recognized him as soon as I turned him over. George Archer likes to come round here regular and he
brings his men with him.’

  The inspector gazed up and down the street. Only a few people remained now there was nothing to see.

  ‘I heard Archer was here.’

  Constable Tollman pointed. ‘Over at number twenty, sir. Him and the other bodyguard went inside half an hour ago. He came over but I wouldn’t let him in. Had a face like thunder.’

  ‘Who’s on the house-to-house besides Wharton and Sergeant Ash?’

  ‘Two constables, sir. I know they’ve done Somerset Street. They’re fanning out from there.’

  ‘Good,’ Harper said approvingly. ‘Keep your eye on this place for now. I’ll go and have a word with Archer.’

  There was nothing to distinguish number twenty; it was just another house in the terrace, weighed down by years. There were cobwebs in the corners of the window frames, and the doorstep was dirty.

  The tiny woman who answered his knock glared at him then moved aside. He followed the voices through to the parlour. The men filled the room. Archer had the only chair, his three bodyguards standing. Roger Harrison looked away, keeping watch over Somerset Street. He moved forward as Harper entered.

  Archer was impeccably dressed, the tie knotted just right, not a hair out of place, his face looking as if it had been shaved no more than an hour before. A businessman in the slums.

  ‘Come to gloat, Inspector?’ Acid dripped through the words. He gave a crooked smile. ‘Do you need me to speak up so you can hear me?’

  Everyone knew now, he thought. Water off a duck’s back, Harper told himself. All Archer wanted to do was rile.

  ‘I’m here to find out who killed him,’ the inspector said.

  ‘That’s hardly difficult. We both know who did it.’

  ‘And who’s that?’ He knew the reply but he wanted to hear the man say it.

  ‘Charlie Gilmore.’ Archer spat the name. ‘He reckons I killed his brother so he’s murdered one of my men.’

  ‘Did you stab Declan? Or have it done?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t.’ He gave Harper a withering look. ‘I told your sergeant. Why would I do that?’

  ‘I’ve got some news for you, then.’