Table of Contents
Cover
The Richard Nottingham Historical Series by Chris Nickson
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
Afterword
The Richard Nottingham Historical Series by Chris Nickson
THE BROKEN TOKEN
COLD CRUEL WINTER *
THE CONSTANT LOVERS *
* available from Severn House
THE CONSTANT LOVERS
A Richard Nottingham Mystery
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 2012
in Great Britain and the USA by
Crème de la Crime, an imprint of
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2012 by Chris Nickson.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Nickson, Chris.
The constant lovers.
1. Nottingham, Richard (Fictitious character) – Fiction.
2. Constables – England – Leeds – Fiction. 3. Leeds
(England) – History – 18th century – Fiction. 4. Detective
and mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9'2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-518-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-525-1 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-226-9 (ePub)
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 living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For Thom Atkinson,
The best writer I know, a good, true friend.
Just because, dammit.
And now every night at six bells they appear
When the moon is shining and the stars they are clear
These two constant lovers with each other’s charms
Rolling over and over in each other’s arms.
Traditional broadside ballad
One
Richard Nottingham crossed Timble Bridge as the bell in the Parish Church chimed seven. The morning air was July warm, and the low water in Sheepscar Beck slipped quietly over the rocks. He stopped for a moment, feeling a gentle joy in life. For a few small minutes at least, everything could be right with the world. No crime, no anger, just the sound of the stream and the quiet chatter of birds up in the trees that shaded the bank.
All too soon, once he walked past York Bar and up Kirkgate, Leeds would envelop him and life would return. The noise and the full, heady stink of the city would rush in like a wave. Once again he’d be Richard Nottingham, Constable of Leeds. After such a long winter of cold, ice and deaths, this summer of 1732 was exactly what people needed, placid and peaceful. He lingered, loath to go, his hands resting on the wood of the trestle, letting his thoughts wander. Finally he turned, pushed the fringe of hair back from his forehead and walked into the city.
As he passed the Parish Church his eyes flickered to the graveyard, immediately picking out the spot where they’d buried his older daughter, Rose, in February. The grass grew thick and green over her bones; next spring the earth would have settled enough to put up the headstone that waited in the mason’s yard.
He carried on past the White Cloth Hall where the wool merchants would be adding to their fortunes later in the day, and the jumble of houses, new and old, that lined the street, to the jail at the top of the street. He unlocked the heavy wooden door, opened the window to release the stifling heat that already filled the room, and settled at his desk.
Spring had been quiet, just small crimes and the minor everyday violence of life. But as June arrived they’d caught a thief. It was fortune, sheer good luck rather than skill that had reeled him in. The man had been dead drunk at the Rose and Crown, and his tools and the carefully packed gold coins had tumbled from the pockets of his waistcoat when Nottingham tried to rouse him.
The trial had been short and the sentence the only one possible. A week later the man had been taken up to Chapeltown Moor in the back of a cart and hung from the gallows. The event had drawn a good crowd, pulled in by the spectacle and the glorious weather. For a short time it had almost felt like a fair, with jugglers and fiddlers and a hastily printed broadside, everything building to the climax of the noose.
But in the end it had proved to be a poor business. The man had been heavy and no sooner had he been put to swing, the cart leaving him jerking and dangling, than his neck had broken. It was over in an instant.
The hundreds gathered hadn’t been happy. They’d been drinking, anticipating the cheap enjoyment of long minutes of suffering and it had been snatched away from them. For a short time they swayed on the edge of mayhem and riot and the Constable had tensed. Then the hangman had cut down the body and they’d roared towards it, pulling at clothes and hair, women rubbing their babies against thick dead fingers for luck.
Once the dangerous moment passed he’d been able to leave, walking back to the city, bowing his head obediently to the aldermen and mayor as they passed in polished coaches or on sleek horses, chattering away earnestly about markets and profit with no mention of the life that had just ended.
And now it looked as if some false servants had come to Leeds, taking work and then robbing their new masters – a service lay. Just the day before, Morrison the chandler had reported that the maid who’d been with him barely a week had vanished. Five shillings had gone with her, along with three fine lace handkerchiefs that belonged to his wife. There’d been a similar incident a fortnight earlier, this time a male servant who worked for a merchant. He’d only been employed for three days and had run off with ten shillings in coins and some silver plate.
Nottingham had barely sat down to write his daily report when the deputy arrived, breezing in on his long legs and tossing his battered old hat on to the chair.
‘Morning, boss.’ He was smiling, happy. John Sedgwick had grown into his position, a long way from where he’d started out as a rough, raw lad, lanky and awkward, all too aware of the pox scars across his cheeks. He’d blossomed to become an ideal deputy Constable, resourceful, persuasive, and willing to put in the long, aching hours the job demanded.
‘Did you talk to
Morrison?’ Nottingham asked.
Sedgwick shrugged. ‘According to him it was his wife who hired the girl. She says the lass knocked on the door one day looking for work. Claimed to have arrived from Knaresborough.’
‘And she took her on just like that?’
‘It was lucky timing, her maid had left the week before. And there was a reference, evidently. But Morrison’s wife doesn’t remember the name on it. Of course.’ He snorted.
‘Any description?’
‘Nothing worth having. She sounds like half the girls in Leeds – dark hair, small, quiet and polite. Went by the name of Nan, but you can wager good money that’s not what she’s really called. Morrison thinks she might have had blue eyes. From the look on his face I reckon he’d been hoping to tup her.’
‘Do you think he did?’
‘Just wishful thinking, most likely.’
They knew no more about the male servant. Dark hair, obedient, middle height; he could have been anyone. It could be a pair working together, or there might even be more of them. The last time they’d had this problem, three years before, it had been a gang of five, three women and two men, and they’d proved slippery to catch. The Constable sighed.
‘Put the word out. She’ll probably try to sell the lace somewhere. I’m going to check the market.’
The trestles for the cloth market lined each side of Briggate, the main street of the city, winding all the way from Boar Lane down to the bridge over the Aire. Each Tuesday and Saturday morning the clothiers brought their goods in from homes, the dyed lengths they’d woven that were the product of weeks of work, and with the brief tolling of the bell the business of buying and selling drew underway.
Nottingham walked slowly down the street, as amazed as ever at the silence of the transactions. The merchants and factors would move from table to table, inspecting the quality and comparing the dyes against the swatches in their pockets. As soon as they found what they wanted, all it took was a few whispered words. A matter of seconds and the bargain was sealed.
He’d lived here all his life, but the ceremony of it all never ceased to surprise him. It had all the sanctity, the quiet holiness, of church. It was the lifeblood of the city. At each market thousands of pounds quietly changed hands. There was more wealth here than most people could imagine.
The Constable exchanged greetings with some of the merchants. They were dressed in light suits of good worsted, advertisements for their products, waistcoats flowing long and gaudy to their knees, hose brilliant white in the sunlight, shoe buckles shining silver and gold to flaunt their riches.
In his old work coat, stock untied and breeches worn shiny, Nottingham offered a contrast They had their periwigs, short and lovingly powdered or full-bottom and glossy, while he kept his hair long and pulled back with a ribbon on his neck. They had the money and the power in the city. He kept them safe to enjoy it.
Within ten minutes more than half the boards were empty, the material moved away to be carried to warehouses later. Then the clothiers would lead their packhorses back out to the villages across the West Riding, coins jangling in their pockets, ready to start weaving all over again.
He stopped on the bridge, arms resting on the wide stone parapet. The river was sluggish, as lazy as the weather, bubbles showing where fish rose to snap at flies. He listened to its soft burblings for a few minutes, watching the water as it meandered.
Finally he pushed himself away and back into the tumult of Leeds. There was still plenty of work to be done. He strode back up Briggate, the noise from the inns loud and merry now most of the business had finished.
The merchants were smiling, money spent carefully and much more to be made later. Nottingham had barely turned the corner on to Kirkgate when a shout and running footsteps made him turn.
The man was panting, ancient boots dusty and a sheen of sweat on his face. ‘Are you the Constable?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘I am.’
‘You’d better come quick, then. There’s a dead lass.’
Two
‘Where?’ Nottingham asked urgently. The man was bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
‘Out at Kirkstall Abbey,’ he answered, pushing the words out.
‘That’s not Leeds,’ the Constable told him.
‘Aye, master,’ the man protested, wiping his face dry with large hands, hair plastered against his scalp, ‘but they don’t know what to do. So they told me to fetch you.’
Nottingham considered. Leeds was the largest town in the area. Sometimes they sent for him from the neighbouring villages if a crime was too great for them.
‘Come down to the jail,’ he said finally.
He sat the man down, poured him a mug of small beer and watched as he gulped it down quickly, followed by another.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Luke, sir. Luke Edgehill.’
‘You ran all the way in?’
‘Aye.’ He grinned with pride. ‘That’s why they wanted me; I can run.’
He was a young man, maybe eighteen, long, dirty blond hair damp and stringy, skin coloured by the sun and the wind. Tall and wiry, with guileless blue eyes, he looked directly at the Constable.
‘What else do you know about all this, Luke?’
‘Not much, sir.’ He scratched at his scalp. ‘One of the farmers found her by the old abbey this morning when he went to look after his sheep. She’d been stabbed, they told me.’
That certainly sounded like murder, Nottingham thought with a sigh; no wonder they wanted him there. But the abbey was a good three miles away; walking there and back would take too long.
‘I’ll ride out there,’ he offered.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Edgehill stood. ‘I’ll go back and tell them you’re coming.’
Through the window Nottingham watched him lope easily up Kirkgate then disappear into the crowds.
At the ostler’s he selected his usual horse, a placid animal that he’d come to trust over the years. He never felt comfortable so far off the ground, but at least this beast didn’t leave him fearful. Slowly he headed out along the road from Leeds, past the end of Boar Lane, where the houses gave way to fields and cottages that hugged the river.
Sheep grazed on the higher ground, and further down the crops were growing fast, ripening into rich colours. The heady scent of flowers, lavender and honeysuckle and others he couldn’t name, clung in the air as he passed, clear and pure after the reek of the city.
By the time he reached the abbey sweat had soaked his shirt, making it stick against his skin. The old buildings, now just suggestions of what they’d once been, lay on a broad strip of ground between road and river. Only the church still had a sense of majesty, the nave a triumph of arches, the crumbling tower clawing towards heaven.
The abbey had once been important and wealthy; it had owned most of the lands around Leeds and beyond until King Henry took everything. That was what Ralph Thoresby had told him long ago, and Thoresby had known all about the history of Leeds. To Nottingham it was nothing more than an attractive ruin. He’d walked out here a few times on Sundays with Mary back in the distant days when they were courting.
In the bright light it looked like a painting sprung gently to life. Trees gave shade, the river flowed gently a few yards away. But close by one of the ruins, now little more than a few heaps of weathered, shapeless stone, a small group of men had gathered. He dismounted, feeling the tight ache in his thighs, and walked the horse over, pulling off the tricorn hat to wipe at his forehead.
‘I’m Richard Nottingham, the Constable from Leeds,’ he announced. ‘One of you sent for me?’
‘That were me.’ A thickset man moved forward, his bearded face set in a dark frown. He was in an old shirt and breeches, sleeves rolled up over weatherbeaten, hairy forearms. ‘Didn’t know who to get.’ He gestured at a grand house partway up the hill. ‘Master’s gone for a week, so I sent the lad who works here to fetch you.’
‘
He said you’d found a girl dead.’
‘Aye. She’s back there, other side of the refectory.’ There was a restlessness about the man, shifting uneasily from foot to foot as he talked, his gaze moving around. Shock, the Constable guessed, and fear. Seeing a body often left folk that way.
‘Why don’t you show me where she is?’ he suggested.
The man walked away without a word. A black and white dog that had been lying in the shadow of a tree rose and followed him.
‘What’s your name?’ Nottingham asked him as he tried to keep up. It was simple, human talk, trying to put the man at his ease.
‘Tobias Johnson.’ The man offered a broad hand for the Constable to shake. ‘I look after the land for the master. We graze the sheep out here.’
‘When did you find the girl?’
Johnson stopped to calculate.
‘Mebbe two hours ago. Bit longer, perhaps. I’d been working a few fields away and came back through here. The dog smelt summat, started whining.’ He reached down and patted the animal. ‘He dun’t do that usually, so I thought I’d better look. She were just over here.’
They rounded a corner, the fragment of wall that stood thick and taller than a man. The girl lay on the ground, curled close to the stone, almost touching it. Against the lush, even colour of the grass her skin seemed eerily pale, the deep blue of her dress glistening. A knife handle protruded from her back, blade buried all the way to the hilt.
Nottingham squatted by the body, turning her slightly to look for any other wounds. She’d been a pretty girl, with long, pale hair. The dress was made of high quality material with a pattern woven in; there was nothing cheap about the fabric or the stitching. He glanced at the weapon: polished rosewood, the fittings shining brass. It was all money.
A few hours ago, a day, maybe a little more, whoever she was, this girl had still been alive. Slowly, tenderly, he laid her back down and rose to his feet, knees cracking.
Constant Lovers Page 1