‘Papa was withering away.’ She rapped once on the glass and the murmur from the girls inside dropped to silence. ‘You know that’s true.’
It was; Richard had started to exist, not to live. He’d lost interest in things, as if he was withdrawing from life.
‘He’s going to need your help,’ Emily said.
‘That’s exactly what he said.’ He let out a slow breath. ‘I’m sorry. I just needed to tell someone.’
She nodded, her mouth in a soft, sad smile.
‘Papa’s a good man. You know he is.’ Emily looked at him pleadingly. ‘Give him a chance, Rob. Please. He gave you one when he took you on, remember? You always admired him before.’
‘Yes.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘You’d better go before there’s a riot in there.’
A few yards down the street, he glanced over his shoulder. Emily had already vanished, but he felt heartened. It helped to tell someone who understood, who could see. The anger inside him had already shrunk. An old woman selling apples from a basket shouted her wares. He bought one, crunched down on the crisp sweetness and felt the fires subside.
Nottingham locked the door of the jail. The ring of keys weighed heavy in his pocket as he walked down Briggate towards the river.
Rob … he couldn’t really blame the lad. He’d always been outstanding at his work, he’d earned his chance to shine, and now it had been pulled away from him. But there was nothing he could do about that. He was going to need Lister at his side. Pray God Rob would let his rage burn out and then come around. He didn’t want work and home poisoned with an atmosphere of resentment.
He was close to the bridge when a voice hailed him and he turned to see Tom Williamson hurrying along the path from his warehouse on the river.
The rich chestnut periwig fell to his shoulders, and he was dressed in a black coat of fine wool with an embroidered yellow silk waistcoat as bright as a summer flower. The merchant had the grace to seem faintly embarrassed by his peacock appearance. He was growing portly, Nottingham decided, face flushed from moving quickly. But underneath the fancy clothing there was a very sharp mind.
‘Brooke made you the offer, then?’
The constable smiled. Of course, Tom Williamson would know; he was an alderman.
‘He did, and I accepted. But I told him Rob Lister should have the job.’
‘No.’ Williamson shook his head firmly. ‘He’s good, but he’s not ready yet. We need some stability, Richard. You’re the perfect man for that. I told them you were the best we’ve ever had in the post.’
Nottingham reddened a little at the praise. ‘You look as if you’re doing well yourself.’
The merchant brushed a hand over his coat. ‘The business keeps growing, and my wife insists I dress the part.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, I feel like a fool dressed this way. How can a man work in these clothes?’ He pulled a watch from the waistcoat. ‘I’m sorry, I have an appointment. We’re thinking of a venture to export to more of those American colonies. Times change, eh?’ He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. ‘Good luck with the job. I’m glad to have you back.’
He bustled away up Briggate.
Nottingham placed his elbows on the bench.
‘Tell me what’s been going on. The things I ought to know.’
Rob rubbed his chin as he thought, sipping at a mug of ale. The White Swan was busy, men talking loudly and laughing, but they had the table to themselves; people always gave the law a berth. Lister had returned from wherever he’d gone half an hour before. To see Emily, the constable supposed; at least he’d come back calmer and ready to talk.
‘It’s been quiet lately. There’s not much more than I’ve told you most evenings over supper.’ He shrugged.
‘That’s for home,’ Nottingham told him and Lister dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘I need to know for the job.’
‘There’s still very little to say. We haven’t had any real trouble since early summer and that killing up by Woodhouse.’ He took another drink. ‘Two pimps have disappeared in the last few weeks. But you know how it is. They come and go.’
‘What about the girls who worked for them?’
‘Still here with new protectors, I suppose.’ He gave a bleak smile. ‘I haven’t looked. Cutpurses, of course. Fights and drownings. All the usual things. Oh,’ he added, ‘Matthew Bell sold the Talbot six months ago. But everyone knows about that.’
Nottingham had heard the news and forgotten it again. The Talbot Inn had been where half the criminals in town congregated. A cockpit in the back room, whores upstairs. And Bell himself, surly, quick with his fists. He was no loss to Leeds.
‘What’s the place like now?’
‘The new owner still has the cock fighting on a Saturday night. It’s popular. But he’s spruced the place up. It’s a pleasure to go there now.’
‘Who bought it?’
‘Someone named Harry Meadows. Not local, from up north, I think. Amiable enough.’ Lister smiled and raised his mug. ‘And he doesn’t charge us for ale.’
Nottingham was listening carefully. He needed to learn so many things about his own town. But if there was little crime he’d have time to ease himself back into the job. And the Talbot becoming respectable after all these years? He’d have to see that for himself.
‘I told you, I’m going to need to rely on you. We both understand that I don’t know Leeds too well any more.’ Lister opened his mouth to speak but Nottingham stopped him. ‘I know you think you should have had the job. So do I. But Brooke made it clear they wouldn’t have appointed you, anyway. They think you’re still too young. Perhaps we can change their minds.’
He watched the young man’s face. Rob hadn’t learned to control it yet; it was like reading a book. His expression gave away his thoughts, all the anger he’d tamped down.
‘I’m with you,’ he said after a moment. ‘Boss.’
‘Thank you.’ The constable smiled. ‘Now, tell me the rest.’
It was late; Nottingham knew that as the banging stirred him from a deep, dreamless sleep. By the time he reached the stairs, Rob was already at the door, listening as one of the men spoke quickly.
‘What is it?’ he called out.
‘Body in the river, sir,’ the man answered. He didn’t recognize the face.
‘A drunk?’
‘That’s what we thought at first, sir.’ The man shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘We got a hook and pulled him to the bank. Someone had cut his throat.’
‘Where’s the body?’ Nottingham asked.
‘Just past the bridge, sir.’
‘We’ll be there. Have you sent for Mr Brogden?’
‘Who?’ The man looked confused.
‘Brogden. The coroner.’
‘It’s Hoggart now,’ Lister corrected him softly. ‘Brogden retired last year.’
Of course. Without thinking, he’d issued the order he’d given so often in the past.
‘Then get Mr Hoggart there, please.’
‘I already sent someone for him, sir.’
Leeds slept. No lights through the shutters, still far too early for smoke to start rising from the chimneys. Shadowed gables all along Kirkgate. The only sound was their boots on the cobbles, matching each other stride for stride. Nottingham glanced across as they passed the churchyard, the way he always did, then huddled deeper into his old greatcoat as a chill wind pawed at his face. They passed places so familiar that he didn’t even need to see them: the old tithe barn, the mansions built by Pawson and Cookson and Barstow, Widow Clifton’s house, Mr Dodshon’s shop, the White Cloth Hall. Across from Vicar’s Croft they turned down Call Lane, footsteps echoing sharply off the high stone wall that shielded the Dissenters’ Meeting House and Mr Atkinson’s large home with its grand Italian cupola.
Someone had thrown a cloth over the corpse, a ragged piece of old sailcloth that stank of tar. Three men stood close by, one holding up a lantern to light the scene. He didn’t know
a single one of them.
‘Mr Hoggart,’ Lister said, and the tallest of the men turned. He had the type of face that would always need a shave, stubble dark on his cheeks, a weak chin, and watery eyes.
‘He’s dead, no doubt about that.’ A dark chuckle. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a finely-woven coat and the gleaming leather of his boots caught the light.
‘This is Richard Nottingham, the new constable.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, sir. I just hope we don’t see each other too often.’ With that, he gave a nod, turned, and walked off into the darkness.
Nottingham pushed back his old bicorn hat and knelt slowly, feeling the ache in his knees and the dampness of the earth through his breeches.
In the lamplight the man’s hair seemed to glisten long and black, slicked down against his skull, a few weeds clinging to his skin. The river had washed his wound clean, but the slash across his neck gaped like a smile. He heard the sharp intake of breath.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Robert Stanbridge,’ Lister said coldly. ‘He’s a moneylender. I can’t say I’m sorry to see him dead.’
‘Who were his enforcers?’ Slowly, Nottingham pushed himself upright. He needed to examine the corpse properly, somewhere with light, not out here in the wind and the chill.
‘He only had one. Daniel Turner.’
‘I want him at the jail.’ He turned to the two waiting men. ‘Bring the body, I’ll look at him later.’
He set the fire with chips of wood under the coals and a few hanks of wool, lit it with sparks from the tinder box, and waited for some warmth to fill the room.
‘Who’d want this Stanbridge dead, do you think?’
‘It could be almost anyone.’ Rob chewed his lip as he thought. ‘He’s only been in town for a year or so. Moneylending’s become quite an industry here.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Maybe a competitor or someone who couldn’t repay him and thought he’d cancel the debt forever.’
‘Who would you go after first?’
‘Toby Smith. He’s the other one who lends money to the poor.’
‘Why him?’ Nottingham asked.
‘Because I’m certain he’s responsible for two killings, but I’ve never been able to prove it. People were too scared even to talk about it, let alone testify.’
‘Drag him down here.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Leave it until later, when everyone can see. No one’s going to be above the law here.’
Lister smiled. ‘Yes, boss.’
By seven he’d marched home for his breakfast. Emily had already left for her school, and Lucy was pounding down the bread dough in the kitchen.
‘Was it urgent?’ she asked as she brought a bowl of porridge for him.
‘Urgent enough,’ he allowed. She’d grown into a stout, open-faced young woman, very different from the fearful little orphan he’d brought into the house. Now she ruled the home so thoroughly that it was impossible to imagine her not here.
She’d been delighted by the news that he was constable again, sponging down his old work coat and carefully brushing it, ready for him to wear. Emily had hugged him, eyes bright. And Rob seemed to have come to terms with it all well enough; in the evening they’d sat by the fire and talked.
Two years and he hadn’t realized quite how much Leeds had altered. The surface looked the same, but underneath the currents had all shifted. He needed to master them or drown.
At eight he was back on Briggate, watching the progress of the cloth market. That remained a constant, there long before he was born, its business conducted in whispers, thousands of pounds changing hands in just an hour. But it had grown, too, just like everything else; these days the trestles were tightly packed along both sides of the street from Leeds Bridge all the way up to Boar Lane, filled with merchants strutting in their grandeur and the hopeful weavers with heavy eyes and bent backs who’d made their way in from the surrounding villages.
Further up the street, men and women were setting up their stalls for the Tuesday market. All manner of things were for sale, from fruit and vegetables to chickens and butter, the tinkers with their mended pots and pans and the bustling trade in old clothes.
Nottingham walked from the bridge all the way to the market cross by the Head Row and slowly back. He’d done his duty. Now it was time for some real work.
THREE
Stanbridge’s body lay in the cold cell. Next door to him, Daniel Turner waited to be questioned, pulled from his lodging house in the middle of the night. He’d speak to the living in a few minutes; first Nottingham would see what the dead could tell him.
The river had taken one shoe. The other clung to Stanbridge’s foot, the leather lumpen and wet. But the buckle looked like real silver. Finely woven hose, breeches that fitted well against his thighs. A few coins in the pockets and a handkerchief of best linen.
No cuts or tears on the fingernails. No bruises under the jacket and shirt; it didn’t look as if he’d had chance to fight. The long gash across the front of his neck had probably been made from behind. The moneylender had been dead in an instant.
He found a notebook inside the coat pocket. The constable flipped through the pages but water had blurred the ink beyond reading.
Stanbridge’s scalp was all stubble, cut close to be comfortable under a wig.
He walked around the slab, staring, hoping for some inspiration, any clue that might prod him along. But there was nothing here to help him find the murderer.
Time to talk to the man’s enforcer.
Daniel Turner was a large man with dull eyes, a heavy body edging into fat. His belly bulged and there were jowls under his cheeks, although he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.
‘Why did you kill him?’
‘Kill?’ He squinted. ‘I en’t killed nobody.’
‘The man you work for is dead. Someone slit his throat,’ Nottingham said.
‘It wan’t me.’ He started to rise off the bunk in the cell then sat once more, eyes glinting. ‘I were with a lass last night, anyway.’
‘Who?’
‘At Mrs Wyndham’s.’ He had a thick, empty voice. The stink of beer wafted on his breath. ‘There until two. The clock were striking as I went home.’ He stared resentfully. ‘I’d just got to sleep when your men came.’
‘What was the girl’s name?’
‘Don’t remember.’
That didn’t matter; it would be easy enough to check.
‘Who saw you come back to your lodgings?’
‘No one. All asleep, weren’t they?’
They’d found no blood on his knife or his clothes, no evidence that he’d been the killer, and it was impossible to tell how long Stanbridge had been in the water before they found him. He took Turner back to his cell.
At the desk he scribbled a note to the brothel keeper:
Was someone called Turner there last night? Large, ugly fellow, quite young. If so, what time did he leave? He hesitated for a moment, then signed it Nottingham and folded the paper carefully.
Standing at the door, he called to a boy.
‘Do you know Mrs Wyndham’s on Vicar Lane?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He was ragged, hands and face filthy, legs bare and pimpled with cold below his breeches.
‘Take this and wait for an answer. There’s a farthing in it for you.’
The lad snatched the note and ran off. He’d know the truth soon enough. But that wasn’t any guarantee of Turner’s innocence. The murder would only have taken a second, then one more to tumble the body into the Aire.
He couldn’t feel his direction in this yet. He felt like a man fumbling his way around a maze in the darkness.
The door opened and Lister pushed a small man into the room before taking him by the collar and sitting him on the chair.
‘Toby Smith,’ he announced. ‘A moneylender and maybe a murderer. Who knows?’
The man turned and showed a set of sharp, discoloured teeth. He had a feral look, eyes wild,
his hair unkempt and dark.
‘Why would I want to kill Stanbridge?’ Smith shouted. ‘He wasn’t even competition to me.’
‘He’s certainly not now, is he?’
Nottingham gave a small nod to Rob; he’d dealt with the man before, he could question him. Let the lad see he trusted his instincts. And there was someone who might be able to give him some helpful information …
Tom Finer was in his usual seat at the window of Garroway’s Coffee House, holding a bowl to his mouth. He looked shrunken now, an old man’s body growing more compact each year. But his eyes were clear, shining with a darting, sly intelligence.
‘Richard Nottingham.’ He smiled. ‘And the Constable of Leeds again, I hear. Congratulations to you.’
‘Thank you.’ He lowered himself on to the bench. Outside, the world went by, carts rumbling and the steady, even clop of horses’ hooves, men and women passing on foot. Inside, the window was covered in condensation and the heavy aroma of coffee cloyed in the air.
‘A dish of tea? Coffee?’
Nottingham shook his head. He’d never acquired the taste for either.
‘What do you know about moneylending here?’
Finer raised a bushy eyebrow. He’d started out as a crook in Leeds before running off to London a few decades earlier. He’d made himself rich there and returned a little more than two years ago. Since then he’d earned himself another small fortune in property as the town boomed.
‘Straight to the point.’ He sat back. ‘But I’m curious – why would you think I’d know anything about that?’
‘Do you?’ Nottingham countered with a smile.
Finer raised the bowl of coffee again and drank, hiding his face.
‘I suppose I might have heard a few things,’ he admitted after a while. ‘One of the moneylenders is dead.’
‘I already know that. I was just examining his body. That’s hardly news.’
‘The rumour is that three pimps have vanished, too.’
‘Three?’ He couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘I knew about two.’
‘Three,’ Finer said with certainty.
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