The Iron Water

by Chris Nickson

The front of the house was imposing. The back, for tradesmen and staff, was plain. The entry was undecorated, almost an afterthought. A maid answered the bell and led him through to the kitchen.

  Pots bubbled and steamed on the large range. A long oak table ran down the centre of the room, covered here and there with large smudges of flour. And keeping an eye on it all was the housekeeper.

  She was a thin woman with sharp eyes, her hair tucked up under a cap, a white apron over a plain brown dress.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You, if you’re Miss Keeble.’

  ‘What if I am?’ She turned to the girl beside her. ‘Be careful with that dish. Break it and it comes out of your wages.’ Her eyes returned to him. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Harper.’ He paused long enough for her to take it in. ‘I think you know what it’s about.’

  ‘If it’s Bob Hill, you’re wasting your time. Everyone here liked him. We’re cooking for the wake.’

  ‘No. Something else. You know.’

  At first he thought she wasn’t going to move. Then she spun on her heel.

  ‘Follow me,’ she instructed.

  The room lay at the end of a short tiled hallway, the window looking down the hill towards the big lake in Roundhay Park. The fireplace was swept and empty, an old rag rug in front of the hearth. She sat in a rocking chair. Harper stood; there was nowhere else to sit. None of the luxury of the rooms above stairs.

  ‘Now, Miss …’ he began.

  ‘It’s Mrs,’ she corrected him. ‘Mr Keeble’s dead. And I know why you’re here.’ She snorted. ‘He couldn’t keep his mouth shut, eh?’

  ‘Two of the men who took your nephew are dead.’ He nodded towards the lake. ‘One of them was the man we pulled out of there.’

  ‘Oh?’ She cocked her head. ‘That still doesn’t tell me what you want here.’

  ‘What did you do after your sister-in-law told you about the kidnapping?’

  ‘Made sure they were all well,’ she said disdainfully. ‘What would you have done?’

  ‘And who did you tell?’

  ‘No one, of course.’ She gave him a withering look. ‘The silly cow shouldn’t even have mentioned it to me.’

  ‘You live in a house of criminals …’

  ‘It doesn’t mean that I’m one.’ Her voice took on a raw edge. ‘Is that what you’re suggesting?’

  ‘No,’ Harper replied slowly. ‘All I meant was that if you were angry or upset at what she’d told you, you might have mentioned it to someone. Mr Archer, possibly.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was firm. She stared at him.

  ‘You didn’t tell anyone?’

  ‘Sarah said they’d warned her. A word to anyone and they’d come back. Do you really think I’d do that to my nephew?’

  ‘I needed to ask.’

  ‘I daresay you did. And now you’ve had an answer.’

  ‘Then I thank you, Mrs Keeble.’ He stood and gazed out of the window, towards the lake. The water had the hard grey colour of iron. No working men and their families parading during the working week. A few governesses and children, an older couple strolling arm in arm. ‘How is it, working out here?’

  ‘Mr Archer’s a fair employer.’

  Something in her tone made him wonder. It was no more than a note in the words but it felt like damning with faint praise.

  ‘Do you know much about what he does?’

  ‘I know. But don’t ask me to tell you.’ She offered a thin smile. ‘I won’t.’

  Susan Keeble seemed like a cold, distant woman, he thought. But that didn’t mean much, it could just be her way.

  ‘It must be a sad time here with Mr Hill’s murder.’

  ‘That’s hardly a surprise, is it? He’d been with Mr Archer for years. Since the old days.’

  ‘Did you get along with him?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  She gave up very little; it was like drawing blood from a stone.

  ‘Do you have any idea who killed him?’

  Mrs Keeble raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘That’s their world up there. Mine’s down here.’

  Harper nodded. ‘Then I thank you for your help.’

  At the back door he tipped his hat to her and set off down the drive. By the stone gateposts he turned to gaze back at the house. It wanted to look solid and permanent, built for the ages. A testament of wealth. New money trying to look old. He was happier at the Victoria. At least that was built on honest labour.

  The late afternoon was sultry; the city smelled of sweat, smoke, and metal. All the clean air after the storm was a faint memory. In the bar the windows were open, dark patches of welcoming shade in the corners.

  ‘She’s out,’ Dan told him. ‘Left about an hour ago with the little one.’

  ‘Did she say where?’

  ‘Burmantofts.’ The barman paused. ‘Tom, do you know that new lass who started today? Doing the baking.’

  He had to think for a moment. Maggie Dawson; he’d forgotten about her.

  ‘Maggie, yes.’

  ‘Is she spoken for, do you know?’

  Harper grinned. ‘No, Dan, I’m sure she isn’t. Not any more.’

  SEVENTEEN

  A quarter of an hour saw him in Burmantofts and at the shop. The writing over the door was still new enough to gleam, the windows freshly cleaned with vinegar and newspaper. A Closed sign hung in the door, but through the glass he could see Annabelle with Mary cuddled close, talking earnestly with Elizabeth.

  He tapped on the wood and she waved him in.

  ‘She’s going to buy the bakeries!’ Annabelle announced before he could even speak. She twirled around the floor, spinning her daughter in her arms and laughing. ‘Isn’t it perfect news, Tom?’

  ‘It is,’ he agreed. Elizabeth looked flushed and nervous, her face beet red. ‘Congratulations. Really. Billy must be happy for you.’

  ‘He is.’ She smiled. ‘But all this talk about lawyers and agreements, it scares me.’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Annabelle told her. ‘Everything’s simple enough.’ She was beaming with pleasure. ‘I’m so glad you want them. You were meant to have them.’

  ‘I’ve done the sums so often I can probably see them in my sleep.’ Elizabeth took a worried breath then said, ‘There’s not many who’d give someone a chance like this. Are you positive you want to sell?’

  ‘I am.’ Annabelle looked like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her face seemed smoother, younger, happier. ‘They’re all yours now.’

  ‘Bar the contract,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Now,’ Annabelle insisted. ‘I just hope you’ll want to keep buying my bread.’

  ‘As long as the quality’s good.’ The both began to giggle at some joke he didn’t understand. He felt superfluous, a cloud at the edge of the celebration. But the pleasure was infectious. It was a giant opportunity for Elizabeth and Billy. The shops might not make them rich but they’d be comfortable. Life changed.

  Annabelle seemed to radiate happiness as they strolled home. ‘I’m so glad she said yes. I thought she would, but …’

  ‘There was always the chance she’d refuse.’ He paused. ‘That’s one thing done, anyway.’

  ‘The big one.’ She gave a contented sigh.

  ‘How was your first day on the new job?’

  ‘Like untangling a skein of yarn after a kitten’s been at it,’ she replied with a sigh. ‘But I think I’ve started to tease the knots out now. The lass they sent to help me is a godsend, too. It’ll get easier once we’re on top of things.’

  ‘They’ve found a treasure in you.’

  Annabelle snorted. ‘Fool’s gold, more like. But I’m enjoying it,’ she admitted as they walked. ‘It’s something different. Mind you, I could live without doing the books.’

  ‘You’ll feel strange, not having the shops.’

  ‘I feel better already. Not like you.’ From the corner of his eye he saw Annabelle assessing him. ‘Bad news
today?’

  He shook his head. ‘Strange, more like. I know it means something, but I’m not sure what.’

  ‘That’s about as mysterious as you’ve ever been, Tom Harper.’

  ‘It’s been a curious day.’ He took her arm.

  ‘We have four killings, two of them done by someone with red hair. The other pair might as well have been carried out by an invisible man for all the witnesses we have,’ Harper said. He looked at Ash and Wharton. The pair of them were staring at the floor. ‘Any suggestions?’

  In the freshness of the morning he’d taken the first tram into town and walked down George Street to Millgarth. No reports of violence waiting on his desk; the peace between Archer and Gilmore had held for another night.

  Half an hour later Ash had arrived. None of his questions the day before had brought answers. The same for Wharton. No one would admit to seeing a thing. Was the killer very clever, the inspector wondered, or just luckier than any man deserved?

  Four dead. Two separate killers who just happened to be active around the same time? Possible, but it would be one hell of a coincidence. And he didn’t believe in those.

  ‘Right,’ he said eventually. ‘Back out there. We need something. I don’t care how small it is, just something. Look back over Declan’s murder again, too. See if anyone can recall our mystery copper-haired man anywhere. I’m off to see Dr King.’

  At least it was cool in King’s Kingdom, down in the cellar and away from the heat. The body was lying on the table, stripped down to the flesh.

  ‘There,’ the doctor said, indicating the dark line at the neck. ‘That’s your killer, inspector. Someone garrotted him with wire.’ He peered closer. ‘It wasn’t too thin.’

  But Harper was staring at the dead man’s face. There was a large bruise on his right temple, by the hairline. King followed his gaze.

  ‘A heavy blow,’ he said. ‘From the look of it, enough to knock him out.’ His fingers examined the wound, moving and probing with surprising gentleness. ‘He was probably unconscious when the wire went around his neck. He wouldn’t have known a thing about it. That’s something, I suppose.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘Nothing you won’t already know. He’s well-fed, heavily muscled. Whoever hit him must have taken him by surprise.’ He picked up the corpse’s hands one by one, inspecting the knuckles. ‘No contusions here. He didn’t fight back.’ King nodded. ‘Definitely taken by surprise. Does that help you at all, Inspector? It’s all I can give you.’

  ‘It tells me something,’ Harper said. ‘I’m just not sure what.’

  ‘Working it out is your job. All I can go on is what’s in front of me.’

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Susan Keeble,’ the inspector said to Sergeant Tollman. ‘Does the name mean anything?’

  The big man stirred himself behind the counter, running his tongue across his lips.

  ‘Receiving stolen goods,’ he answered after a few seconds. ‘It must have been ’85 or ’86. Three months if I remember rightly, sir.’

  The man always amazed him. He was an encyclopaedia of Leeds criminals.

  There was more. ‘Her husband was Gilbert Keeble, sir. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Housebreaker?’ He had a faint image of the man. An unlikely brother for the wife of a bible seller. But you couldn’t choose family.

  ‘That’s the one. Fell off a roof as he was starting a robbery and died five years back.’

  ‘Did either of them do business with Archer?’

  Tollman pursed his mouth. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. I don’t recall anything specific.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He started towards the office and stopped. ‘That lad of yours has the makings of a good policeman.’

  The sergeant beamed and puffed up with pride. ‘I’ll tell him you said that, sir.’

  The information on Keeble was useful, but it didn’t bring him any closer to a killer. To his copper-haired man. He had to find him before Archer or Gilmore did, or the first he’d know about it would be another body. It didn’t feel like a race; it seemed as if he was wading through deep mud.

  ‘You look all in,’ Annabelle told him.

  ‘I feel it,’ he said with a smile. They were sitting in the bar of the Victoria, all the life of the pub carrying on around them. Mrs Turner from Meanwood Road had shuffled across to natter for a moment and complain about her bunions. Mr Bailey, with the hardware shop a little further up the street, paid his respects.

  Annabelle came down two or three times a week, more if one of the staff was poorly. This was her place, her home. All the regulars were old friends; she even knew most of the occasional customers by name, ready to ask after families, to laugh and joke with them. In the Victoria she was the queen.

  For many years she’d been down here every night, working behind the bar until long past closing time. Then she’d be up first thing to keep an eye on everything in the bakery and make sure the bread delivered to the shops met her standards. But marriage had changed that. Motherhood even more.

  Ellen was upstairs to keep an eye on Mary. Their daughter was already asleep in her crib; her eyes had closed quickly while Harper read to her. Time for an hour down here, a chance for Annabelle to talk, and flirt with all the men she’d known for so long.

  ‘You go back up if you want.’ She leaned close and spoke softly in his good ear. ‘I’m fine.’ He smiled at her and took a drink of beer. ‘For a few minutes, anyway.’

  ‘I tell you what, the lass from the Society is good. Bertha Quinn. She’ll go places, you mark my words. Picked everything up just like that.’ She snapped her fingers, then looked up as Fred Donnell, one of the managers from the ironworks on Mabgate, put another glass in front on her and gave a quick nod. ‘Thank you,’ she said, raising it in a toast. ‘Your good health.’

  Harper glanced around the pub. His thoughts turned back to the man with red hair. Who was he? It had to be someone local, someone who knew how things were organized in the city. But for the life of him he couldn’t think of anyone from Leeds who fitted the bill. He sighed and tipped the last of the drink down his throat. Brunswick beer. It had been part of his life since he was born. The smell of the brewery in the air when he was a child. His first job there after schooldays had ended. And now it lubricated his evenings. He couldn’t escape his own past.

  ‘You go,’ she advised, kissing him on the cheek. ‘I won’t be long. Just a quick word with a few people and I’ll be along.’

  He nodded. He was ready for sleep. Maybe it would bring him some inspiration.

  ‘I’ve remembered something, sir,’ Ash told him. Even at seven o’clock in the morning, with the windows wide open, the office was still stifling in the July heat.

  ‘What is it?’ Please God, Harper thought, let it be something useful.

  The sergeant glanced pointedly at the clock. ‘Happen it would be a good time for a cup of cocoa, sir. Just to start the day.’

  And away from anyone who might overhear and pass it on.

  ‘Well?’ Harper asked as they sat in Lockhart’s cocoa house on Lower Briggate, steaming mugs in front of them.

  ‘I’ve been racking my brains, going over everything. I keep thinking there must have been something I never realized.’ He took a breath that became a low sigh. ‘You know I grew up with Len Tench, sir, and we both became friendly with Ted Bradley when we started at the chemical works.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d forgotten all about it, but Ted used to say he knew a proper criminal.’

  ‘Go on.’ He knew Ash well enough to be certain it was leading somewhere.

  ‘I lost touch with them all when I joined the force. But the name of this chap popped into my head today.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I thought he was just boasting. We never met the man or anything, so I never paid it much mind. Always thought he was boasting. But last night the name popped into my head. Bob Hill.’

  Hill. George
Archer’s dead bodyguard. They seemed to be lining up. Harper blew on his cocoa until it was cool enough to sip.

  ‘So we have a connection,’ he said slowly. It wasn’t much. It was as thin as a thread. But it was something.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I should have remembered before.’

  ‘It’s hardly your fault. It was a long time ago.’ The inspector was working things through in his head. ‘Morley claimed that none of them ever told anyone what they’d done.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t have to. Think about it for a minute, sir. That fellow whose son was taken—’

  ‘Cookson.’

  ‘You said that his wife told her sister-in-law. She’s Archer’s housekeeper. She could have mentioned it to Hill. If there was a description, a name …’

  ‘Susan Keeble swears she didn’t tell a soul, she was too scared for her nephew.’

  Ash shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s nothing. I just wanted to mention it.’

  ‘It’s a link. Perhaps it’ll turn into something.’ It seemed they were building a web of connections. But too slowly. And he still had no idea who was the spider at the centre of it all. ‘Somehow or other, this all turns on the man with red hair,’ Harper said.

  ‘We’ve not had any luck finding him. We’ve been turning the city upside down.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas?’ the inspector asked bleakly. ‘I certainly don’t.’

  ‘I wish I did, sir.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘About the only good thing is that Archer and Gilmore aren’t at each other’s throats.’

  Maybe they were too busy. Archer’s men were looking for Hill’s killer while the Boys of Erin were hunting Declan Gilmore’s murderer. Everywhere Harper had gone yesterday, someone else had been there first, asking questions, making threats.

  ‘Perhaps Wharton’s found something,’ he said hopefully.

  He hadn’t. Frustration showed on the young man’s face. He was still too eager, wanting quick results.

  ‘Sir,’ he said after finishing his report, ‘I’d like to go out on the Brooker case again tonight.’

  ‘You don’t need my permission for that,’ Harper told him with a smile.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it. I honestly believe it was an accident.’