I was the ragged one in a class full of those from good homes, with their refined manners and good clothes. They disliked me for that, cruel as all children are. But once it was evident that I outshone them in the classroom, they shunned me. When they did deign to speak, they taunted me, pinched me, hurt me. My lot was to be cleverer than they, and they didn’t like that in such an urchin.
They were the first to make me feel inferior.
He sat back, looking at his work. The copperplate script was beautiful, a delight to the eye. But after so many years of clerking, it should have been. He put down the quill, flexing his fingers.
In Christ’s name, it was bitter here. Even with a fire, there was a chill deep in his soul, one that felt as if it would never leave. He’d spent too many years away from English winters, down in the heat and the sweat, and it had lightened his blood.
Still, the cold weather had brought something good. It had been easier to keep Graves’s corpse without the smell of rot filling the air. And then, when he was ready to let it be discovered, there were so few people on the streets that moving it to the riverbank had been a simple task.
Yes, there was luck involved, but also planning and preparation. He’d spent years readying himself for this, filling his days and dreams with the triumphs. Now it was becoming real, the first stage almost complete.
But it wouldn’t be finished until he’d celebrated it, written it all down, and sent it on to be read. His only regret was that he wouldn’t see the looks when he revealed his secret, and allowed them to understand what had mystified them.
Still, a man couldn’t have everything in this life. But he’d get much of what he wanted. Enough, certainly enough.
Five
Leaving Graves’s house, Nottingham turned back towards the jail, then changed his mind and walked briskly up Briggate before turning at the Head Row towards the fuggy warmth of Garroway’s Coffee House.
As always, the exotic smells of coffee, tea and tobacco overwhelmed him. Steam plumed from a kettle, and low, murmured conversation filled the air, a mix of business and gossip from the merchants who frequented the place, smoking their pipes as they talked and drank.
It was one of them he was seeking. Tom Williamson was sitting by himself, grimacing as he read the Mercury, an empty cup pushed away on the table. Standing over him, the Constable said quietly, ‘Tom.’
Williamson raised his eyes and began to grin until he remembered.
‘Richard. I heard about your daughter. I’m so sorry. .’
Nottingham set his mouth in a grim line and nodded. There was so much he could say to this man, as close as he had to a friend among the merchants, but it was better to keep his peace. If he began to talk about the things on his mind he might never stop.
‘Sit down. Do you want something to drink?’
Before Nottingham could reply, he was signalling for two dishes of tea to be brought. In his thirties, Williamson had taken over the family business on his father’s death. He’d been groomed for it all his life, apprenticed to a merchant in his teens, then spending time abroad to understand the markets before coming back to Leeds. In the two years he’d been running Williamsons, so Nottingham understood, business had boomed. He was a symbol of the success of Leeds, the rise of the city, the dominance of the wool trade.
‘How are you, Tom?’
Williamson crumpled the newspaper, letting it drop to the floor. His open, honest face could hide nothing — something Nottingham had always imagined a disadvantage in a merchant, although it never seemed to hamper his trade.
‘Fair, apart from the weather, of course. Business is down, but that’s to be expected in the winter, of course.’ He shrugged and paused. ‘But you want to talk about Sam Graves, don’t you?’
The Constable nodded. ‘A good guess,’ he said with a faint smile.
‘Hardly,’ Williamson responded. ‘The murder’s on everyone’s lips, and you’re not the type to just pass the time of day.’
‘I gather he and your father didn’t get along.’
Williamson laughed, shook his head and rolled his eyes. ‘That’s an understatement, Richard. They hated each other. Sam beat my father on a big contract — this was years ago, you have to understand that. You didn’t know what my father was like, but he held his grudges close, especially when he believed Graves had bribed people to get the contract. I don’t think they ever spoke again.’
A man brought the dishes of tea and the Constable waited until he’d gone.
‘What was Graves like?’
Williamson considered his answer as Nottingham raised the cup, blowing across the surface of the dark liquid before sipping. As always, it tasted bitter to him, not worth the money people paid for it.
‘I liked Sam, although I’d never have dared tell my father that. He was good at what he did and he made money. He knew wool and he knew the market. He cut corners at times, but most people do, that’s how business works.’
‘How about other people? Did they like him?’
‘He was as popular as anyone,’ Williamson replied guardedly.
Nottingham raised his eyebrows and Williamson grinned, suddenly looking ten years younger. ‘Show me a merchant everyone likes and I’ll show you a bankrupt.’ He cupped his hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘The thing you have to realize, Richard, is that business is competition. It’s all well and good being liked, but being respected is better. We’re looking for profits, and those don’t come with pleasantries. But Sam was respected, there’s no doubt about that. He’d been in business a long time, he’d served on the Corporation. About the only thing he hadn’t done was be mayor.’ He paused. ‘Do you have any idea who killed him?’
‘None,’ the Constable answered briefly.
‘That’s not going to stand too well with Mr Kenion,’ Williamson suggested wryly. ‘Sam helped him a lot back in the old days.’
‘It doesn’t stand well with me, either,’ Nottingham said bitterly. ‘Do you know anything about a new contract he was discussing in London?’
The merchant furrowed his brow. ‘I’d heard something about it — well, rumours of it, nothing more than that. I know Sam kept going down there, but that’s all. He was tight-lipped about the whole affair, but that’s the way he was about most things in business. That was his generation, never let a word slip or someone will be there before you; my father was the same.’
‘Nothing more than that?’
Williamson shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. Some people thought it was the government, some people thought it might be with the Spaniards. Sam was the only one who really knew. He’d smile about it, but that was all.’
Nottingham took another small sip of the tea, swallowing it quickly to avoid the harsh taste. He leaned forward, confiding quickly and softly. ‘I’m baffled, Tom. I don’t have any idea who might have wanted to kill him, where he was killed, and certainly not why. That worries me. I feel like a blind man in a crowd. I don’t know where to turn.’
Williamson sat back in his chair, considering.
‘What do you know about him beyond business?’ Nottingham wondered.
‘Not a great deal,’ the merchant answered eventually. ‘If he did anything bad, he hid it well. Truth to tell, Richard, he probably really was all probity and rectitude, just as he seemed. I know he went to church every Sunday, he seemed to love his wife, and his daughters married well, if I recall. There was never a word of mistresses, but he might just have been very discreet. And if he was ever seen with a whore, well, no one would ever hold that against him.’
Nottingham sighed.
‘I’m sorry,’ Williamson said again. ‘Sam wasn’t a man for scandal. I know it makes your job harder.’
‘It makes it bloody impossible,’ Nottingham replied with a sour laugh.
‘You’ll find him, Richard. You always have.’ Williamson stood up. ‘I need to go.’ He tried to lighten the tone. ‘If I’m not there, the business will surely fall apart by noon. I’ll try as
king a few questions for you, but I honestly don’t think there’s much to learn.’
‘Thank you.’
Joshua Forester was doing what he did well, what he’d come to love. He was listening. In the inns and stableyards, all people were talking about was the murder. It was all speculation — not one of them had known Samuel Graves — but that didn’t matter.
They all had plenty to say; gossip was the common currency of everyday life, a relief from numbing work. At times Josh felt as if they couldn’t see him, that he wasn’t really there, as they carried on around him as if he didn’t quite exist.
But his whole life had been like that. It had saved him, allowed him to steal food and cut purses to survive, and helped him become a good Constable’s man. He pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of the coat that was four sizes too big for him and belted with a piece of rope.
At least he had good boots. He’d taken them from the corpse of a merchant’s son the month before; his old ones were worn through at the sole and leaked. But why would the rich need boots after death, anyway? For them it was just a short walk to heaven.
The boss had noticed, of course, giving him a short, hard look, but saying nothing. He protected his men. Josh had been astonished to learn that Richard Nottingham had once lived like him, out on the streets, scrabbling, fighting, hungry. Even now, with the pain of grieving written on his face, he seemed in control of everything.
Nottingham could move among the wealthy, converse with the powerful men of the city, and also those who had nothing. But his life had covered both sides of the coin. At times Josh had to wonder if that was why he’d been appointed Constable: because the Corporation were embarrassed to see a merchant’s son, even one that had been cast out, among the poor.
But he knew the truth was much more than that: that Nottingham was good at his job. He kept order in the city, and he was a strong leader. He knew how to get the best from his men. He’d encouraged Mr Sedgwick to learn how to read and write, grooming him for the future. He saw things in people that others didn’t.
Josh didn’t know his letters or numbers, and he didn’t care. He was happy as he was. Thirteen or maybe fourteen now, he relished the steadiness of his work, and the sense that for the first time in his life he had a future that went beyond the night. The companions he’d had when he was a thief had mostly drifted off. He saw a few in the city, and the rest, well, the winter would have taken its toll on those who’d stayed in Leeds. He shared his room with Frances, a girl he’d known for four years. She was, he supposed, around his own age; he’d never asked and she’d never volunteered the information, if she even knew. In the old days he’d protected her, fed her, and she’d clung to him. When the others slowly melted away, she’d stayed; by then it seemed perfectly natural for them to be together without even discussing it. Not that they ever talked about much, words weren’t their way. She had food ready for him when he returned from working, and held him close in the cold nights. She’d said she thought she might be having a bairn, but her belly was still flat, so he wasn’t sure what to make of that. Time would tell, he imagined.
He liked his job, knowing there would be work tomorrow, the day after and next week, and the regular pay. It was more than he’d ever known before. So Richard Nottingham had his loyalty. And Frances, in an odd way, had his love.
Today, though, he was going to disappoint the boss. People were out, in spite of the cold — they were always out, it seemed, no matter the weather — but they had nothing worthwhile to say, just rumours and idle thoughts. Throughout the day he shifted from place to place, from stable to draper, but there was nothing useful. The only consolation was that they didn’t know about the skinning. They would, sooner or later. Someone would talk.
He made his way back to the jail, face numb from the bitter weather, hungry for some warmth. Nottingham raised his eyebrow as Josh walked in. When he simply shook his head, the Constable murmured, ‘Damn.’
Sedgwick had gathered a list of the employees sacked by Graves. He’d been thorough, insisting the clerk go back ten years. There were only twelve names, so either the merchant had picked his men well or he was a soft-hearted employer, which the deputy found impossible to believe in the wool trade.
One man had been sent to prison, another transported, both for theft. As to the others, their offences had been quite trivial — smoking in the warehouse, late to work too often, minor infractions but enough to warrant dismissal. He knew enough to follow up, to find the men if he could and talk to them. One of them might well be the murderer. Anyone could do anything in the right circumstances, he’d learnt that much in his time on the job.
By late afternoon, after trudging from address to address and feeling as if he was chasing shadows, he’d managed to find three of the men. One was so wracked with consumption that he seemed to shimmer between life and death on his mattress in a foetid room. Another had hands turned into crippled, shiny claws by a lifetime of work; he couldn’t have held a knife.
The third was more interesting. Adam Carter was in his late thirties, tall, broad, still strong, still without work, his manner curt and furtive, scabs on his face and knuckles as prizes from the fights he’d been in over the last fortnight. He’d lost his job in the Graves warehouse five years earlier. Sitting in the dram shop, spinning out one glass of gin as his eyes craved another, he remembered Graves.
‘A right bastard, he were,’ he said, the froth of bitterness full on his words. ‘I were late five times in a month, that’s all. I told him I was willing to work later to make up for it. My daughter were ill, see, and I’d to look after her since my wife weren’t well. They both died a month back from the cold.’ He swallowed a little more, grimacing at the taste while Sedgwick sat, listening. ‘Anyway, I tried to tell him, but the self-righteous bugger didn’t want to know. Sent me packing.’
‘You still hate him?’ Sedgwick asked.
Carter looked up, blue eyes lifeless. ‘I’ve lost my family,’ he answered flatly. ‘Of course I hate him. I fucking hate everyone now.’
‘You know someone killed him.’
‘Aye, it’s all over for him, and about bloody time, too.’
Sedgwick stared at him, an accusation in his eyes.
‘No, it weren’t me.’
‘And can you prove that?’
‘Course I can’t.’ Carter hawked and spat on the stone floor. ‘You can’t prove it were me, neither. If you could, we wouldn’t be here now, you’d have me in the jail.’
It was true, and Sedgwick acknowledged it. Carter didn’t have the cunning of the killer, and probably not the skill. This man had given up on living. Whoever killed Graves had a force within him, a deep desire that drove him.
‘I might want to talk to you again,’ Sedgwick warned.
Carter shrugged carelessly.
‘Tha’s found me once. I’m not going anywhere.’
When he reached the jail, Nottingham and Josh were sharing a jug of ale from the White Swan next door. Sedgwick poured himself a mug and gave his report.
‘So there are seven we still need to talk to,’ the Constable mused. ‘You two can work on that tomorrow, you know what to do. I’ll find out about the ones who were convicted.’
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Go home, the pair of you. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.’
Alone, he drained the cup. The evening outside was loud with the sound of voices, carts, and horses. He wanted the peace of silence. He wanted to be somewhere the thoughts didn’t crowd him, where all this vanished and he could feel free.
Terrible as it was, he knew this murder was what he needed. It was forcing him out of himself, pushing him away from the darkness that had consumed him since Rose died.
Nottingham looked at the names of the two convicted men scrawled in his notebook. Had he given evidence at both their trials? He couldn’t recall. But he’d testified so many times, against so many men, that it was impossible to bring many details to mind.
El
ias Wainwright had been found guilty of stealing cloth from the factory. It was just scraps and offcuts that would have been thrown away anyway. But he’d taken them without permission, and that was a crime. He’d almost certainly have been released long ago.
Abraham Wyatt had been more calculating, he remembered that much. A clerk, he’d been clever enough to embezzle from Graves, and it was sheer accident that he’d been caught. Everyone expected him to hang, but he’d pleaded benefit of clergy and instead he’d been transported, given seven years in the Indies, something many considered worse than the noose. Death out there came slow, he’d heard, from heat and sickness. Few ever came back. Not many lasted a single year, let alone seven.
He banked the fire and blew out the candle, locking the heavy door behind him as he left. A thin wind funnelled down the street and he pushed the collar of his greatcoat close around his neck. Kirkgate was quieter now, the people gone to their houses, trying to keep the winter at bay for another night and praying for the advent of spring.
Six
A long week passed and they found nothing. Whoever had killed Samuel Graves had left no clues, no hints. For all the hours of questions and long searches, he might as well have been invisible.
Deep down, Nottingham knew full well that the man was still in the city. There was more to come, he could feel it. There had to be; no one did that then just vanished. All he could do was keep looking and wait.
Graves’s papers arrived. He’d pored over them for hours, reading through every piece of correspondence. He’d been going to London to try to secure a contract to provide blankets for the army. It would have made him a very wealthy man if it had happened, but the Constable was certain that it wasn’t the cause behind a murder like this.
Every day the Mayor ranted at him to solve the murder. Every night, when he lay in bed, it preyed on him, until the thoughts of Rose replaced it with something even deeper and darker.
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