Not Safe After Dark

MURDER IN UTOPIA

I had just finished cauterizing the stump of Ezekiel Metcalfe’s left arm, which I had had to amputate after it was shredded in one of the combing machines, when young Billy Ratcliffe came running in to tell me that a man had fallen over the weir.

Believing my medical skills might be required, I left my assistant Benjamin to take care of Ezekiel and tried to keep up with young Billy as he led me down Victoria Road at a breakneck pace. I was not an old man at that time, but I fear I had led a rather sedentary life, and I was panting by the time we passed the allotment gardens in front of the mill. A little more slowly now, we crossed the railway lines and the canal before arriving at the cast-iron bridge that spanned the River Aire.

Several men had gathered on the bridge, and they were looking down into the water, some of them pointing at a dark shape that seemed to bob and twist in the current. As soon as I got my first look at the scene, I knew that none of my skills would be of any use to the poor soul, whose coat had snagged on a tree root poking out from the river bank.

‘Did anyone see him fall?’ I asked.

They all shook their heads. I picked a couple of stout lads and led them down through the bushes to the river bank. With a little manoeuvring, they were able to lie on their bellies and reach over the shallow edge to grab hold of an arm each. Slowly they raised the dripping body from the water.

When they had completed their task, a gasp arose from the crowd on the bridge. Though his white face was badly marked with cuts and bruises, there could be hardly a person present who didn’t recognize Richard Ellerby, one of Sir Titus Salt’s chief wool buyers.

Saltaire, where the events of which I am about to speak occurred in the spring of 1873, was then a ‘model’ village, a mill workers’ Utopia of some four or five thousand souls, built by Sir Titus Salt in the valley of the River Aire between Leeds and Bradford. The village, laid out in a simple grid system, still stands, looking much the same as it did then, across the railway lines a little to the southwest of the colossal, six-storey woollen mill to which it owes its existence.

As there was no crime in Utopia, no police force was required, and we relied on constables from nearby townships in the unlikely event that any real unpleasantness or unrest should arise. There was certainly no reason to suspect foul play in Richard Ellerby’s death, but legal procedures must be followed in all cases where the circumstances of death are not immediately apparent.

My name is Dr William Oulton, and I was then employed by the Saltaire hospital both as a physician and as a scientist, conducting research into the link between raw wool and anthrax. I also acted as coroner; therefore, I took it as my responsibility to enquire into the facts of Richard Ellerby’s death.

In this case, I also had a personal interest, as the deceased was a close acquaintance of mine, and I had dined with him and his charming wife Caroline on a number of occasions. Richard and I both belonged to the Saltaire Institute – Sir Titus’s enlightened alternative to the evils of public houses – and we often attended chamber-music concerts there together, played a game of billiards or relaxed in the smoking room, where we had on occasion discussed the possible health problems associated with importing wool. I wouldn’t say I knew Richard well - he was, in many ways, reserved and private in my company – but I knew him to be an honest and industrious man who believed wholeheartedly in Sir Titus’s vision.

My post-mortem examination the following day indicated only that Richard Ellerby had enough water in his lungs to support a verdict of death by drowning. Let me repeat: there was no reason whatsoever to suspect foul play. People had fallen over the weir and died in this way before. Assault and murder were crimes that rarely crossed the minds of the denizens of Utopia. That the back of Richard’s skull was fractured, and that his face and body were covered with scratches and bruises, could easily be explained by the tumble he took over the weir. It was May and the thaw had created a spate of melt-water, which thundered down from its sources high in the Pennines with such force as easily to cause those injuries I witnessed on the body.

Of course, there could be another explanation, and that, perhaps, was why I was loath to let matters stand.

If you have imagined from my tone that I was less fully convinced of Saltaire’s standing as a latterday Utopia than some of my contemporaries, then you may compliment yourself on your sensitivity to the nuances of the English language. As I look back on those days, though, I wonder if I am not allowing my present opinions to cloud the glass through which I peer at the past. Perhaps a little. I do know that I certainly believed in Sir Titus’s absolute commitment to the idea, but I also think that even back then, after only thirty years on this earth, I had seen far too much of human nature to believe in Utopias like Saltaire.

Besides, I had another quality that would not permit me to let things rest: if I were a cat, believe me, I would be dead by now, nine lives notwithstanding.

It was another fine morning when I left Benjamin in charge of the ward rounds and stepped out of the hospital on a matter that had been occupying my mind for the past two days. The almshouses over the road made a pretty sight, set back behind their broad swathe of grass. A few pensioners sat on the benches smoking their pipes under trees bearing pink and white blossoms. Men of ‘good moral character’, they benefited from Sir Titus’s largesse to the extent of free accommodation and a pension of seven shillings and six pence per week, but only as long as they continued to show their ‘good moral character’. Charity, after all, is not for everyone, but only for those who merit it.

Lest you think I was a complete cynic at such an early age, I must admit that I found much to admire about Saltaire. Unlike the cramped, airless and filthy back-to-back slums of Bradford, where I myself had seen ten or more people sharing a dark, dank cellar that flooded every time it rained, Saltaire was designed as an open and airy environment. The streets were all paved and well drained, avoiding the filthy conditions that breed disease. Each house had its own outdoor lavatory, which was cleared regularly, again averting the possibility of sickness caused by the sharing of such facilities. Sir Titus also insisted on special measures to reduce the output of smoke from the mill, so that we didn’t live under a pall of suffocating fumes, and our pretty sandstone houses were not crusted over with a layer of grime. Still, there is a price to pay for everything, and in Saltaire it was the sense of constantly living out another man’s moral vision.

I turned left on Titus Street, passing by the house with the ‘spy’ tower on top. This extra room was almost all windows, like the top of a lighthouse, and I had often spotted a shadowy figure up there. Rumour has it that Sir Titus employed a man with a telescope to survey the village, to look for signs of trouble and report any infringements to him. I thought I saw someone up there as I passed, but it could have been a trick of sunlight on the glass.

Several women had hung out their washing to dry across Ada Street, as usual. Though everyone knew that Sir Titus frowned on this practice – indeed, he had generously provided public wash houses in an attempt to discourage it – this was their little way of asserting their independence, of cocking a snook at authority.

As befitted a wool buyer, Richard Ellerby had lived with his wife and two children in one of the grander houses on Albert Road, facing westwards, away from the mill towards the open country. According to local practice after bereavement, the upstairs curtains were drawn.

I knocked on the door and waited. Caroline Ellerby opened it herself, wearing her widow’s black, and bade me enter. She was a handsome woman, but today her skin was pale and her eyes red-rimmed from weeping. When I was seated in her spacious living room, she asked me if I would care for a small sherry. While Sir Titus would allow no public houses in Saltaire, convinced that they encouraged vice, idleness and profligacy, he held no objection to people serving alcohol in their own homes. Indeed, he was known to keep a well-stocked wine cellar himself. On this occasion I declined, citing the earliness of the hour and the volume of work awaiting me back at the hospital.

Caroline Ellerby smoothed her voluminous black skirts and sat on the chesterfield. After I had expressed my sorrow over her loss and she had inclined her head in acceptance, I moved on to the business that had been occupying my thoughts.

‘I need to ask you a few questions about Richard’s accident,’ I explained to her, ‘only if, that is, you feel up to answering them.’

‘Of course,’ she said, folding her hands on her lap. ‘Please continue.’

‘When did you last see your husband?’

‘The evening before… before he was discovered.’

‘He was away from the house all night?’

She nodded.

‘But surely you must have noticed he was missing?’ I realized I was perhaps on the verge of being offensive, or even well beyond the verge, but the matter puzzled me, and when things puzzle me I worry away at them until they yield a solution. I could no more help myself than a tiger can change its stripes.

‘I took a sleeping draught,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t have woken up if you’d set me down in the weaving shed.’

Given that the weaving shed contained twelve hundred power looms, all thrumming and clattering at once, I suspected Caroline of hyperbole, but she got her point across.

‘Believe me,’ she went on, ‘I have been tormenting myself ever since… If I hadn’t taken the sleeping draught. If I had noticed he hadn’t come home. If I had tried to find him…’

‘It wouldn’t have helped, Caroline,’ I said. ‘His death must have been very swift. There was nothing you could have done. There’s no use torturing yourself.’

‘You’re very kind, but even so…’

‘When did you notice that Richard hadn’t come home?’

‘Not until George Walker from the office came to tell me.’

I paused before going on, uncertain how to soften my line of enquiry. ‘Caroline, believe me, I don’t mean to pry unnecessarily or to cause you any distress, but do you have any idea where Richard went that night?’

She seemed puzzled at my question. ‘Went? Why, he went to the Travellers’ Rest, of course, out on the Otley Road.’

It was my turn to be surprised. I thought I had known Richard Ellerby, but I didn’t know he was a frequenter of public houses; the subject had simply never come up between us. ‘The Travellers’ Rest? Did he go there often?’

‘Not often, no, but he enjoyed the atmosphere of a good tavern on occasion. According to Richard, the Travellers’ Rest was a respectable establishment. I had no reason not to believe him.’

‘Of course not.’ I knew of the place, and had certainly heard nothing to blacken its character.

‘You seem puzzled, Dr Oulton.’

‘Only because your husband never mentioned it to me.’

Caroline summoned up a brief smile. ‘Richard comes from humble origins, as I’m sure you know. He has worked very hard, both in Bradford and here at Saltaire, to achieve the elevated position he has attained. He is a great believer in Mr Samuel Smiles and his doctrine of self-help. Despite his personal success and advancement, though, he is not a snob. He has never lost touch with his origins. Richard enjoys the company of his fellow working men in the cheery atmosphere of a good tavern. That is all.’

I nodded. There was nothing unusual in that. I myself ventured to the Shoulder of Mutton, up on the Bingley Road, on occasion. After all, the village was not intended as a prison. It was beginning to dawn on me, though, that Richard probably assumed I was above such things as public houses because I was a member of the professional classes, or that I disapproved of them on health grounds because I was a doctor. I felt a pang of regret that we had never been able to get together over a pipe and a pint of ale. Now that he was dead, we never would.

‘Did he ever overindulge?’ I went on. ‘I ask only because I’m searching for a reason for what happened. If Richard had, perhaps, had too much to drink that night and missed his footing…?’

Caroline pursed her lips and frowned, deep in thought for a moment. ‘I’ll not say he’s never had a few too many,’ she admitted, ‘but I can say that he was not in the habit of overindulging.’

‘And there was nothing on his mind, nothing that might tempt him to have more than his share that night?’

‘There were many things on Richard’s mind, especially as regarded his work, but nothing unusual, nothing that would drive him to drink, of that I can assure you.’ She paused. ‘Dr Oulton, is there anything else? I’m afraid I’m very tired. Even with the sleeping draught… the past couple of nights… I’m sure you can understand. I’ve had to send the children to mother’s. I just can’t handle them at the moment.’

I got to my feet. ‘Of course. You’ve been a great help already. Just one small thing?’

She tilted her head. ‘Yes?’

‘Did Richard have any enemies?’

‘Enemies? No. Not that I know of. Surely you can’t be suggesting someone did this to him?’

‘I don’t know, Caroline. I just don’t know. That’s the problem. Please, stay where you are. I’ll see myself out.’

As I walked back to the hospital, I realized that was the problem: I didn’t know. I also found myself wondering what on earth Richard was doing by the weir if he was coming home from the Travellers’ Rest. The canal tow-path would certainly be an ideal route to the tavern and back, but the river was north of the canal, and Richard Ellerby’s house was south.

On my way to the Travellers’ Rest that evening, I considered the theory that Richard might have attracted the attention of a villain, or a group of villains, who had subsequently followed him, robbed him and tossed his body over the weir. The only problem with my theory, as far as I could see, was that he still had several gold sovereigns in his pocket, and no self-respecting thieves would have overlooked a haul that big.

As it turned out, the Travellers’ Rest was as respectable a tavern as Richard had told his wife, and as cheery a one as I could have hoped for after my gloomy thoughts. It certainly didn’t seem to be a haunt of cutpurses and ruffians. On the contrary, the gas-lit public bar was full of warm laughter and conversation, and I recognized several groups of mill workers, many of whom I had treated for one minor ailment or another. Some of them looked up, surprised to see me there, and muttered sheepish hellos. Others were brash and greeted me more loudly, taking my presence as an endorsement of their own indulgence. Jack Liversedge was there, sitting alone in a corner nursing his drink. My heart went out to him; poor Jack had been severely depressed ever since he lost his wife to anthrax two months before, and there seemed nothing anyone could do to console him. He didn’t even look up when I entered.

I made my way to the bar and engaged the landlord’s attention. He was a plump man with a veined red nose, rather like a radish, which seemed to me to indicate that he was perhaps a whit too fond of his own product. He nodded a crisp greeting, and I asked for a pint of ale. When I had been served, noticing a slight lull in business, I introduced myself and asked him if he remembered Richard Ellerby’s last visit. Once I had described my late colleague, he said that he did.

‘Proper gentleman, Mr Ellerby was, sir. I were right sorry to hear about what happened.’

‘I was wondering if anything unusual happened that evening.’

‘Unusual?’

‘Did he drink too much?’

‘No, sir. Two or three ales. That’s his limit.’

‘So he wasn’t drunk when he left here, unsteady in his gait?’

‘No, sir. Excuse me a moment.’ He went to serve another customer then came back. ‘No, sir, I can’t say as I’ve ever seen Mr Ellerby inebriated.’

‘Were there any rough elements in here that night?’

He shook his head. ‘Any rough elements I send packing, up to the Feathers on the Leeds Road. That’s a proper rough sort of place, that is. But this is a respectable establishment.’ He leaned forward across the bar. ‘I’ll tell thee summat for nowt, if Mr Salt won’t have public houses in his village, there’s no better place for his workers to pass an hour or two than the Travellers’ Rest, and that’s God’s honest truth.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said, ‘but surely things must get a little out of hand on occasion?’

He laughed. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

‘And you’re sure nothing strange happened the last night Mr Ellerby was here?’

‘You’d be better off asking him over there about that.’ He nodded towards Jack Liversedge, who seemed engaged in a muttered dispute with himself. ‘I’ve as much pity as the next man for a fellow who’s lost his wife, poor beggar, but the way he’s carrying on…’ He shook his head.

‘What happened?’

‘They got into a bit of a barney.’

‘What about?’

He shrugged. ‘I heard Mr Liversedge call Mr Ellerby no better than a murderer, then he finished his drink and walked out.’

‘How much longer before Mr Ellerby left?’

‘Five minutes, mebbe. Not long.’

I mulled this over as he excused himself to serve more customers. Jack Liversedge’s wife, Florence, a wool sorter, had died of anthrax two months ago. It is a terrible disease, and one we were only slowly coming to understand. Through my own research, I had been in correspondence with two important scientists working in the field: M. Casimir-Joseph Davaine, in France, and Herr Robert Koch, in Germany. Thus far we had been able to determine that the disease is caused by living microorganisms, most likely hiding in the alpaca wool of the South American llamas and the mohair of the Angora goats, both of which Sir Titus imported to make his fine cloths, but we were a long way from finding a prevention or a cure.

As I sipped my ale and looked at Jack Liversedge, I began to wonder. Richard Ellerby was a wool buyer. Had Jack, in his distraught and confused state, considered him culpable of Florence’s death? Certainly from what I had seen and heard of Jack’s erratic behaviour since her death, it was possible, and he was a big, strong fellow.

I was just about to go over to him, without having any clear plan in mind of what to say, when he seemed to come to a pause in his argument with himself, slammed his tankard down and left, bumping into several people on his way out. I decided to go after him.

I followed Jack down the stone steps to the towpath and called out his name, at which he turned and asked who I was. I introduced myself.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘’tis thee, Doctor.’

The towpath was unlit, but the canal was straight, and the light of a three-quarter moon lay on the still water like a shroud. It was enough to enable us to see our way.

‘I saw you in the Travellers’ Rest,’ I said. ‘You seemed upset. I thought we might share the walk home, if that’s all right?’

‘As you will.’

We walked in silence, all the while growing closer to the mill, which rose ahead in the silvery light, a ghostly block of sandstone against the black, starlit sky. I didn’t know how to broach the subject that was on my mind, fearing that if I were right, Jack would put up a fight, and if I were wrong he would be justly offended. Finally, I decided to muddle along as best I could.

‘I hear Richard Ellerby was in the Travellers’ the other night, Jack.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. I hear you argued with him.’

‘Mebbe I did.’

‘What was it about, Jack? Did you get into a fight with him?’

Jack paused on the path to face me, and for a moment I thought he was going to come at me. I braced myself, but nothing happened. The mill loomed over his shoulder. I could see a number of emotions cross his features in the moonlight, from fear and sorrow to, finally, resignation. He seemed somehow relieved that I had asked him about Richard.

‘He were the wool buyer, weren’t he?’ he said, with gritted anger in his voice. ‘He should’ve known.’

I sighed. ‘Oh, Jack. Nobody could have known. He just buys the wool. There are no tests. There’s no way of knowing.’

‘It’s not right. He bought the wool that killed her. Someone had to pay.’

He turned his back to me and walked on. I followed. We got to the bottom of Victoria Road, and I could hear the weir roaring to our right. Jack walked to the cast-iron bridge, where he stood gazing into the rushing water. I went and stood beside him. ‘And whose place is it to decide who pays, Jack?’ I asked, raising my voice over the water’s roar. ‘Whose job do you think it is to play God? Yours?’

He looked at me with pity and contempt, then shook his head and said, ‘You don’t understand.’

I looked down into the water, its foam tipped with moonlight. ‘Did you kill him?’ I asked. ‘Did you kill Richard Ellerby because you blamed him for Florence’s death?’

He said nothing for a moment, then gave a brief, jerky nod. ‘There he were,’ he said, ‘standing there in his finest coat, drinking and laughing, while my Florence were rotting in her grave.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘I told him he were no better than a murderer, buying up wool that kills people. I mean, it weren’t the first time, were it? He said it weren’t his fault, that nobody could’ve known. Then, when I told him he should take more care, he said I didn’t understand, that it were just a hazard of the job, like, and that she should’ve known she were taking a risk before she took it on.’

If Richard really had spoken that way to Jack, then he had certainly been guilty of exhibiting a gross insensitivity I had not suspected to be part of his character. Even if that was the case, we are all capable of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, especially if we are pushed as far as Jack probably pushed Richard. What he had done had certainly not justified his murder.

‘How did it happen, Jack?’ I asked him.

After a short pause, he said, ‘I waited for him on the towpath. All the way home we argued and in the end I lost my temper. There were a long bit of wood from a packing crate or summat by the bushes. He turned his back on me and started walking away. I picked it up and clouted him and down he went.’

‘But why the weir?’

‘I realized what I’d done.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘It’s funny, you know, especially now it doesn’t matter. But back then, when I’d just done it, when I knew I’d killed a man, I panicked. I thought if I threw his body over the weir then people would think he’d fallen. It weren’t far, and he weren’t a heavy man.’

‘He wasn’t dead, Jack,’ I said. ‘He had water in his lungs. That meant he was alive when he went into the water.’

‘It’s no matter,’ said Jack. ‘One way or another, it was me who killed him.’

The water roared in my ears. Jack turned towards me. I flinched and stepped back again, thrusting my arm out to keep him at a distance.

He shook his head slowly, tears in his eyes, and spoke so softly I had to strain to hear him. ‘Nay, Doctor, you’ve nowt to fear from me. It’s me who’s got summat to fear from you.’

I shook my head. I really didn’t know what to do, and my heart was still beating fast from the fear that he had been going to tip me over the railing.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘all I ask is that you leave it till morning. One more night in the house me and Florence shared. Will you do that for me, at least, Doctor?’

As I nodded numbly, he turned and began to walk away.

Early the following morning, after a miserable night spent tossing and turning, grappling with my conscience, I was summoned from the hospital to the works office building, attached to the west side of the mill. I hurried down Victoria Road, wondering what on earth it could be about, and soon found myself ushered into a large, well-appointed office with a thick Turkish carpet, dark wainscoting and a number of local landscapes hanging on the walls. Sitting behind the huge mahogany desk was Sir Titus himself, still a grand, imposing figure despite his years and his declining health.

‘Dr Oulton,’ he said, without looking up from his papers. ‘Please sit down.’

I wondered what had brought him the twelve miles or so from Crows Nest, where he lived. He rarely appeared at the mill in those days.

‘I understand,’ he said in his deep, commanding voice, still not looking at me, ‘that you have been enquiring into the circumstances surrounding Richard Ellerby’s death?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, Sir Titus.’

‘And what, pray, have you discovered?’

I took a deep breath, then told him everything. As I spoke, he stood up, clasped his hands behind his back and paced the room, head hanging so that his grey beard almost reached his waist. Though his cheeks and eyes looked sunken, as if he was ill, his presence dominated the room. When I had finished, he sat down again and treated me to a long silence before he said, ‘And what are we going to do about it?’

‘The police will have to be notified.’

‘As yet, then, you and I are the only ones who know the full truth?’

‘And Jack himself.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Sir Titus stroked his beard. I could hear the muffled noise of the mill and feel the vibrations of the power looms shaking the office. It was a warm day, and despite the open window the room was stuffy. I felt the sweat gather on my brow and upper lip. I gazed out of the window and saw the weir, where Richard Ellerby had met his death. ‘This is not good,’ Sir Titus said finally. ‘Not good at all.’

‘Sir?’

He gestured with his arm to take in the whole of Saltaire. ‘What I mean, Dr Oulton, is that this could be very bad for the village. Very bad. Do you have faith in the experiment?’

‘The experiment, sir?’

‘The moral experiment that is Saltaire.’

‘I have never doubted your motive in wanting to do good, sir.’

Sir Titus managed a thin smile. ‘A very revealing answer.’ Another long silence followed. He got up and started pacing again. ‘If a man visits a public house and becomes so intoxicated that he falls in a river and drowns, then that is an exemplary tale for all of us, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I would, sir.’

‘And if a man, after visiting a public house, is followed by a group of ruffians who attack him, rob him and throw him in a river to drown, then again we have an exemplary – nay, a cautionary - tale, do we not?’

‘We do, sir. But Richard Ellerby wasn’t robbed.’

He waved his hand impatiently. ‘Yes, yes, of course. I know that. I’m merely thinking out loud. Please forgive an old man his indulgence. This place – Saltaire – means the world to me, Dr Oulton. Can you understand that? The world.’

‘I think I can, sir.’

‘It’s not just a matter of profits, though I’ll not deny it’s profitable enough. But I think I have created something unique. I call it my “experiment”, of course, yet for others it is a home, a way of life. At least I hope it is. It was my aim to make Saltaire everything Bradford was not. It was designed to nurture self-improvement, decency, orderly behaviour and good health among my workers. I wanted to prove that making my own fortune was not incompatible with the material and spiritual wellbeing of the working classes. I saw it as my duty, my God-given duty. If the Lord looks so favourably upon me, then I take that as an obligation to look favourably upon my workers. Do you follow me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And now this. Murder. Manslaughter. Call it what you will. It disrupts the fabric of things. It could destroy any trust that might have built up in the community. No doubt you remember the troubles we had over anthrax some years ago?’

‘I do, sir.’ In 1868 a man called Sutcliffe Rhodes had garnered much support from the village in his campaign against anthrax, and Sir Titus had been seriously embarrassed by the whole matter. ‘But surely you can’t expect me to ignore what I know, sir?’ I said. ‘To lie.’

Sir Titus smiled grimly. ‘I could never ask a man to go against his beliefs, Doctor. All I ask is that you follow the dictates of your own conscience, but that you please bear in mind the consequences. If this issue surfaces again, especially in this way, then we’re done for. Nobody will believe in the goodness of Saltaire any more, and I meant it to be a good place, a place where there would never be any reason for murder to occur.’

He shook his head in sadness and let the silence stretch again. Above the noise of the mill I suddenly heard men shouting. Someone hammered on the door and dashed into the office without ceremony. I couldn’t be certain, but my first impression was that it was the same shadowy figure I had seen in the ‘spy’ tower.

‘Sir Titus,’ the interloper said, after a quick bow, ‘my apologies for barging in like this, but you must come. There’s a man on the mill roof.’

Sir Titus and I frowned at one another, then we followed him outside. I walked slowly, in deference to Sir Titus’s age, and it took us several minutes to get around to the allotment gardens, from where we had a clear view.

The man stood atop the mill roof, full six storeys up, between its two decorative lanterns. I could also make out another figure inside one of the lanterns, perhaps talking to him. But the man on the roof didn’t appear to be listening. He stood right at the edge and, even as we watched, he spread out his arms as if attempting to fly, then he sprang off the roof and seemed to hover in the air for a moment before falling with a thud to the forecourt.

It was a curious sensation. Though I knew in my heart and mind that I was witnessing the death of a fellow human being, there was a distant quality about the event. The figure was dwarfed by the mill, for a start, and just in front of us, a dog scratched at the dirt, as if digging for its bone, and it didn’t cease during the man’s entire fall to earth.

A mill hand came running up and told us that the man who had jumped was Jack Liversedge. Again it was an eerie feeling, but I suppose, in a way, I already knew that.

‘An accident and a suicide,’ muttered Sir Titus, fixing me with his deep-set eyes. ‘It’s bad enough, but we can weather it, wouldn’t you say, Doctor?’ There was hope in his voice.

My jaw tensed. I was tempted to tell him to go to hell, that his vision, his experiment, wasn’t worth lying for. But I saw in front of me a sick old man who had at least tried to do something for the people who made him rich. Whether it was enough or not was not for me to say. Saltaire wasn’t perfect – perfection is a state we will never find on this earth – but it was better than most mill towns.

Swallowing my bile, I gave Sir Titus a curt nod and set off back up Victoria Road to the hospital.

In the days and weeks that followed, I tried to continue with my work – after all, the people of Saltaire still needed a hospital and a doctor – but after Jack Liversedge’s pointless death, my heart just didn’t seem to be in it any more. Jack’s dramatic suicide lowered the morale of the town for a short while – there were long faces everywhere and some mutterings of dissent – but eventually it was forgotten, and the townspeople threw themselves back into their work: weaving fine cloths of alpaca and mohair for those wealthy enough to be able to afford them.

Still, no matter how much I tried to convince myself to put the matter behind me and carry on, I felt there was something missing from the community; something more than a mere man had died the day Jack killed himself.

One day, after I had spent a wearying few hours tending to one of the wool sorters dying of anthrax, I made my decision to leave. A month later, after sorting out my affairs and helping my replacement settle in, I left Saltaire for South Africa, where I eventually met the woman who was to become my wife. We raised our three children, and I practised my profession in Cape Town for thirty years. After my retirement, we decided to move back to England, where we settled comfortably in a small Cornish fishing village. Now, my children are grown up, married and gone away, my wife is dead and I am an old man who spends his days wandering the cliffs above the sea watching the birds soar and dip.

And sometimes the sound of the waves reminds me of the roar of the Saltaire weir.

More than forty years have now passed since that night by the weir, when Jack Liversedge told me he had killed Richard Ellerby; more than forty years have passed since Sir Titus and I stood by the allotments and saw Jack’s body fall and break on the forecourt of the mill.

Forty years. Long enough to keep a secret.

Besides, the world has changed so much since then that what happened that day long ago in Saltaire seems of little consequence now. Sir Titus died three years after Jack’s fall, and his dream died with him. Fashions changed, and the ladies no longer wanted the bright, radiant fabrics that Sir Titus had produced. His son, Titus junior, struggled with the business until he, too, died in 1887, and the mill was taken over by a consortium of Bradford businessmen. Today, Saltaire is no longer a moral experiment or a mill workers’ Utopia; it is merely another business.

And today, in July 1916, nobody believes in Utopias any more.