Brass Lives Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Chris Nickson from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Afterword

  Also by Chris Nickson from Severn House

  The Inspector Tom Harper mysteries

  GODS OF GOLD

  TWO BRONZE PENNIES

  SKIN LIKE SILVER

  THE IRON WATER

  ON COPPER STREET

  THE TIN GOD

  THE LEADEN HEART

  THE MOLTEN CITY

  The Richard Nottingham mysteries

  COLD CRUEL WINTER

  THE CONSTANT LOVERS

  COME THE FEAR

  AT THE DYING OF THE YEAR

  FAIR AND TENDER LADIES

  FREE FROM ALL DANGER

  The Simon Westow mysteries

  THE HANGING PSALM

  THE HOCUS GIRL

  TO THE DARK

  BRASS LIVES

  Chris Nickson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2021

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

  Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  This eBook edition first published in 2021 by Severn House,

  an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  severnhouse.com

  Copyright © Chris Nickson, 2021

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Chris Nickson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-9088-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-811-5 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0549-0 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  For Julia Marlene Bedore Baldwin

  1954–2020

  The first American I loved.

  ONE

  Leeds, June 1913

  ‘There’s going to be a march,’ Annabelle Harper said as she put down her copy of Common Cause.

  ‘Isn’t there always a march for something or other?’ Tom Harper asked. ‘What’s this one about?’

  She picked up the magazine again and opened it at the page she’d dog-eared. The suffragist magazine had arrived that morning and she’d worked her way through the articles between her other jobs – running the Victoria public house and arranging a series of information salons about democracy and Parliament for women.

  ‘This one’s different. It’s going to be big. And it’ll be national. People will be starting out in all different parts of the country and making their way to London. On foot, in caravans, then everyone will meet in the capital for a huge gathering. Thousands of us.’ She smiled at the thought. ‘They’re calling it the Great Pilgrimage. A peaceful gathering,’ Annabelle added pointedly, glancing at their daughter Mary, who was working on her business accounts, ‘to show that the suffragists aren’t like the suffragettes.’

  ‘And the suffragists haven’t achieved much in twenty years,’ Mary replied without raising her head. But there was no sting in her voice. They both wanted the same thing: votes for women. The difference was the paths they took. Annabelle was old enough to believe that the violence of Mrs Pankhurst’s women did little to help the cause. Mary had the bristling anger of youth burning inside her.

  ‘You said “us”. Are you going?’ Harper asked.

  ‘I might,’ Annabelle replied with a smile. ‘What do you think? It’ll give you two the chance to be shut of me for a little while.’

  ‘What, you, march all the way to London?’ he asked, staring at her in disbelief. He couldn’t picture his wife doing that. She’d gladly tramp around Leeds, but not two hundred miles to the capital.

  ‘Don’t be so daft. I’ll drive.’ She smiled. ‘I can offer a lift to some others who don’t fancy Shanks’s pony.’

  ‘Of course you should go.’ They’d been married for twenty-three years and together almost every day of that time. A few nights away from him might do her the power of good. The Victoria more or less ran itself, and Leeds wouldn’t fall apart while she was gone.

  Annabelle had been a suffragist speaker in the town for a long time, up on the podium and making the case for women’s votes. She’d earned the chance to enjoy the company of so many who thought the same way.

  The weather was on her side, too, he thought; only June, but the summer had been balmy so far. Plenty of sun, warm, no more than a few showers of rain to help things grow. Perfect for a long trek.

  ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Positive.’ He nudged Mary.

  ‘You go, Mam. Get some fresh air and see the country.’ She lowered her head again to concentrate on the figures.

  ‘Maybe I will. Go on then, clever clogs, how much profit did you make last month?’

  ‘The business is doing very nicely, thank you.’ Mary grinned. For the last three years she’d run a secretarial agency and school. Annabelle had put up the money and used her name to start the business as soon as their daughter turned eighteen. Mary had repaid her mother in full long before she turned twenty-one. Now she was of age, she’d officially taken over. Trade was brisk; there was no shortage of clients who needed typewriting performed, and word of mouth was constantly bringing more. With a flood of young woman eager to earn a living from office work, Mary had tapped into a boom.

  It kept her busy six days a week, often late into the evening. But never on Sundays; that w
as her rule. Those were special. Whatever the weather, that was when Mary went out with the Clarion Cycling Club. It gave her a break from the agency, away from the routine of the office. It was good exercise in the fresh air, and above all it offered a chance to be with other young people. She’d take her Raleigh bicycle out of the shed in the pub yard and head up into the Dales or out to the Yorkshire Wolds and back, fifteen or twenty of them pedalling mile after mile. The Clarion was a political group, full of earnest young socialists and suffragettes; she’d made plenty of friends. But one lad in particular stood out: Len, from Cross Green. He was finishing his apprenticeship as a machine fitter, with the promise of a good job at Hunslet Engine ahead of him. For the last six months he and Mary been walking out together two or three times a week. It was more than a light romance, that was obvious; this was proper courting. Mary had gone to meet his parents, and he’d been over for his tea several times. Harper and Annabelle liked the lad. He was bashful and quiet, but who wouldn’t be when your girlfriend’s father was a copper?

  The telephone bell put an end to his thoughts. He’d never cared for having the instrument at home, but it was a necessary evil, a part of his job. Much the same with the car and driver he had now. Since he’d been promoted again, rank demanded the honour. But it went against the grain, left him isolated. A copper needed to be out, walking around, hearing things and seeing them. Talking to people.

  ‘Deputy Chief Constable Harper.’ Almost two years now, and it still came as a surprise every time he said the words. Top brass in the police force of one of the biggest cities of the empire. Who’d have believed that was possible when he was pounding the beat round the courts and yards behind Briggate all those years ago?

  Chief Constable Parker had persuaded him. Deputy chief was a new position, and Harper hadn’t been keen to apply. He was happy running A Division, working out of Millgarth police station. He knew his manor inside and out, and he had a crack squad of detectives he’d spent years training. Why move?

  ‘You’ll be in charge of all the detectives in Leeds, Tom,’ Parker said. ‘I’ll guarantee you can stay in plain clothes. Not many evening functions. And better pay.’

  Finally, the chief had worn him down and he’d stood in his frock coat and top hat before the Lord Mayor to formally accept the rank. Annabelle was beside herself with pleasure. He wasn’t so sure he’d done the right thing. He still wasn’t convinced.

  Harper listened with the receiver pressed tight against his good ear. Even that gave him trouble these days; his hearing had deteriorated again. He needed to concentrate on every word.

  ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘That’s Millgarth business. Drag out Superintendent Ash. Wait, make it Inspector Walsh; he can take care of it.’ He shook his head as he finished the call. ‘Honestly, ringing me about a burglary. For God’s sake, that’s why we have officers in the divisions.’

  ‘A few years back you’d have been dashing out of that door,’ Annabelle reminded him.

  ‘More than a few,’ he told her with a grin. ‘And certainly not for something as minor as a break-in. And do you know what? I don’t miss that part of things a bit.’ He settled beside her. ‘Right, you were going to tell me about this march …’

  TWO

  ‘Thank you for coming upstairs, Tom.’

  Harper had received the note from the chief constable’s secretary. Could he pop in for a quick word when he had chance? It was good news, he promised. All he had to do was climb the steps to hear it. These days, Harper had his office on the ground floor of the town hall. The building echoed with footsteps and voices. All the marble and shining surfaces of his new surroundings still felt foreign and uncomfortable, as if he was an imposter here. He’d spent his entire working life as a copper at Millgarth, next to the market. Noise was everywhere. Never mind, he told himself each day, he’d grow used to this sooner or later. He was still waiting.

  ‘Something worthwhile, sir?’

  ‘Oh, it is. It certainly is.’ Chief Constable Parker of Leeds City Police was beaming and rubbing his hands together. ‘You’re definitely going to love this. We’re releasing Lilian Lenton from Armley Gaol next Tuesday. You know who I mean? The suffragette.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  She was awaiting trial for offences in Doncaster. The court case had been all over the papers, but never a mention of where she was being held. He knew she’d been on hunger strike in prison. Lenton would be released under the Cat and Mouse Act so she could put on weight before they dragged her back to a cell and it started all over again.

  ‘Here.’ Parker slid a photograph across the desk. It was a candid shot of a young woman with her dark hair down over her shoulders, bundled inside a bulky coat. She looked as if she had no idea the picture was being taken. A brick wall stood in the background. ‘That’s her. They used a hidden camera at the prison.’

  Harper’s mouth hardened. Why had anyone felt the need to do that? Secret pictures were supposed to be against the law. ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know there are rumours she’ll try to run.’ He ran his tongue around his thin lips. ‘To make you even more cheerful, because of that danger, Special Branch have decided to handle the surveillance when she’s released from prison. They’ve taken it out of our hands.’ He grinned again; this time Harper joined him.

  ‘A pound says she’ll be gone two days before they even realize it.’

  Parker shook his head. ‘My money’s on three. It’ll take that long to dawn on them.’ He gave a deep, hearty laugh. When he first took the job, at the start of 1909, he’d been a rigid, straight-backed man, hard enough to earn a reputation as a disciplinarian. But he’d eased up as he grew into the position. These days the men liked and respected him.

  ‘I’ll take that bet.’

  ‘Their officers are arriving on Monday. I want you to go over everything with them.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘And after that we can sit back and watch them make complete bloody fools of themselves.’

  No ordinary policeman liked the Branch. They tried to be a force within the force, thinking of themselves as the elite, the chosen ones looking down on everyone else. The truth was a very different beast; they were nothing more than thugs with warrant cards, picked for their fists and their aggression, not for their brains.

  He’d been back in his office for an hour, sipping a mug of tea and reading the daily reports from the divisions, when the telephone rang.

  ‘Morning, sir. It’s Superintendent Ash.’

  The familiar voice made him smile. Until Harper’s promotion, the two of them had worked together every day. Then Ash had taken over A Division and moved up in rank to run the station. The man wouldn’t ring unless there was a good reason.

  ‘Good morning to you, too. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Something that might strike your fancy, sir,’ Ash replied after a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like your dinner at the café in the market, would you?’

  ‘I imagine you could twist my arm,’ Harper said. ‘Your shout?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Between one thing and another, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a free lunch with you yet.’

  He walked, glad of the exercise on a warm day. Briggate was thronged with Thursday shoppers crowding the pavements. Trams and lorries and carts bustled up and down the road. Harper cut through County Arcade, astonished as ever at its elaborate gilt and splendour, before crossing Vicar Lane, entering Kirkgate Market and climbing the stairs to the café on the balcony.

  Ash was waiting at a table. He’d always been a big man, but now he looked broader than ever, the shaggy moustache over his top lip as grey as his hair. His face crinkled into a grin and he stood, hand extended.

  ‘Thank you for coming, sir. I hope you don’t mind that I went ahead and ordered; I know you like the cottage pie here.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Harper said, and it was. ‘What’s so important? Something wrong at Millgarth?’

/>   The station would always have a special place in his heart. It was home.

  ‘Nothing like that, sir. Something a little unusual, though.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Ash held a letter in his hand, written on thin onionskin paper. ‘This arrived from America, sir. From the police in New York.’

  That was enough to pique Harper’s curiosity. ‘What do they want?’

  ‘It appears that one of their criminals is on his way here. He’s probably arrived now.’ Ash stopped and pinched his lips together. ‘He’s coming back here, that is. It seems he grew up in Leeds, moved to America when he was ten years old. Followed his mother. She went ahead and got herself settled.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘His name’s Davey Mullen. Born on Somerset Street.’ It was no more than three minutes’ walk from where they were sitting, a row of run-down, hopeless houses. ‘He’s twenty-one now.’

  Harper rubbed his chin. ‘What’s he done to make them write to us?’

  Ash grimaced and shifted on his seat. ‘It’s more like what hasn’t he done, sir. Quite a list, given his age. It took me by surprise.’ He paused, just long enough to be sure he had Harper’s attention. ‘They’re as certain as they can be that Mullen’s murdered at least six people.’ He let the sentence hang between them in the air. ‘Four of them shot, the other two beaten to death. And two of those shootings were in broad daylight, with witnesses.’

  ‘Then surely—’ he began, then stopped when he saw the look in Ash’s eyes.

  ‘The witnesses decided to leave the city or refused to testify.’

  Harper sighed. The old, old story. Fear and intimidation.

  ‘Why’s he coming here?’

  ‘Recuperation. That’s what he told people. He’s a member of a gang. It seems some people from another gang found him on his own outside a dancehall and shot him eleven times.’

  ‘Eleven?’ Harper said in disbelief. ‘Come on. Nobody can survive that.’

  ‘He did, and he made a full recovery. He refused to tell the police who did it, but not long after he was back on his feet the bodies of some of this other gang started turning up. Now he’s heading to Leeds until things cool down in New York.’