‘Bring the lass here,’ she said, her eyes glistening. ‘I like Mary. You remember how she came down here when James went missing. She never had any side on her. Bring Mr Nottingham, too. He’s going to need someone around him who cares.’
‘That new servant is going to stay with him.’
She sighed deeply. ‘Well, if anyone knows about death, that girl will. You go and find who did it.’
‘I’m going to,’ he promised.
‘You know who it is, don’t you?’
‘I have a very good idea.’
She looked up at him. ‘Then do one thing, John Sedgwick. When you’re sure and you find him, don’t wait for him to swing on the gallows.’
‘I hadn’t planned on it.’
The coroner came and went, in the house less than a minute, lifting the sheet and seeing the eyes set in the fixed, stunned gaze of death. On his way out he said, ‘I’m sorry,’ but Nottingham barely heard the sound of his voice.
Lucy directed the men who came to remove the body, making them enter and leave through the back garden. The Constable sat in the parlour, staring at the hearth where the fire had died. After they’d gone he heard the girl working, scrubbing away at the stains on the stone. The blood would never go completely, he knew that. He’d see it every day. Worse than anything, he understood that one morning he’d see it and it would be nothing more than a mark on the flagstones.
‘I’ll start another fire,’ the girl said as she raked out the ashes. ‘It’s perishing in here.’
In a few minutes the room was warmed, the flames licking at the air. He hadn’t moved. Whatever was happening, it all seemed unimportant now.
‘Do you want something to drink? To eat?’
He raised his eyes to her. Hers were red with crying, too, but she was doing her best. Nottingham shook his head slightly. He didn’t have any appetite, any thirst. Outside, the day was ending, and she bustled around, closing the shutters and lighting candles. He heard her moving around upstairs and all he could think of was the way Mary walked, how familiar everything about her had been to him.
Lucy returned and sat on the small tied rug in front of the hearth. Its colours had faded and it was covered with small burns from jumping coals. He recalled Mary making it in the fifth year of their marriage, using scraps of fabric and part of an old sack.
‘Do you remember when you were young and you lived out there?’ the girl asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ he answered after a long silence.
‘What did you do when someone died?’
‘I don’t know,’ he answered. In truth he couldn’t recall.
‘We used to tell stories about them. No one else was ever going to remember them.’
‘Not tonight,’ he told her softly. ‘I can’t face that tonight.’
She nodded her head.
‘I just need to be alone.’
For a few minutes she was busy, laying out her pallet in the kitchen. Then there was silence.
It was all his fault. If he hadn’t goaded Howard with the silk pouch and made it clear that he knew the man was Gabriel, Mary would still be here, sitting in the other chair, sewing, reading, talking. But he’d been so confident about the taunt. And now sorrow and guilt wound tight around his heart. She’d paid the price for what he had done.
If he’d listened to her, if he’d retired after he’d been wounded, none of this would have happened. But he’d needed to show he was strong, to prove that he was still the man he’d once been, that he could do the job was well as ever. He had to be a proud man.
Now he was alone with his pride, and all its gold was tarnished.
He’d make them pay. But it would be a fleeting satisfaction. They’d taken something far greater from him. And from Emily. He knew he should be with her, comforting her, but he didn’t have the strength right now. All he could do was feel the grief tighten all around him.
Tonight he needed her to himself, to gather the memories around himself and try to gain some warmth and solace from them. He had to breathe her in alone, to hear her voice in his ear from every corner of the house.
He knew no one would understand, least of all Emily. She’d want to be here, to have his arms around her, to share her tears with him. Tomorrow he’d do that, hold her and cherish her. Her mother was dead and she needed her father in a way she never had before. Part of him wanted to go and bring her home, but he couldn’t. She’d hate him for it, he hated it in himself, but in his heart he knew he had no choice. One last time he wanted Mary with him.
If only. The words filled his mind. If only he hadn’t shown Howard the pouch. If only . . . He knew the hours would trail and spin in front of him and the guilt would weigh heavier and heavier in his head. It would last a lifetime.
The afternoon had passed in a blur. The deputy had spoken to the undertaker. He’d pushed and bullied the curate at the Parish Church to arrange the burial for the next day. As twilight began, he turned from Kirkgate on to Briggate and climbed the stairs in the Moot Hall, the sound of his boots muted by the thick carpet.
Martin Cobb scribbled away at his papers, a circle of candlelight on his desk, glancing up as he heard someone approach.
‘Mr Sedgwick. I haven’t seen you since Mr Nottingham came back. How are you?’
‘I want you to give the mayor a message.’
Cobb looked up at him curiously. ‘What is it?’
‘Tell him to be at the church at two tomorrow. In his robes.’
The clerk sat back and rubbed his chin. ‘Why would Mr Fenton need to do that? He’s a busy man.’
‘Because someone murdered the Constable’s wife this morning and we’re going to bury her.’
‘What?’ Cobb asked, shocked.
But the deputy was already walking away.
He spent another two hours passing the word. He finished on the other side of the river, sitting in Joe Buck’s parlour, feeling awkward in the dainty chair, sipping at a glass of ale. He wanted to be moving, to be doing something more.
Buck studied his face. ‘You know who did it, don’t you?’
‘Gabriel,’ Sedgwick answered. ‘Solomon Howard. He’s Jeremiah Darden’s factor.’
‘Powerful men,’ Buck mused. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Prove it. And then I’ll kill them.’
The fence nodded. ‘I’ll be there tomorrow. And I’ll have people start asking. Anything they find, it’s yours. Mr Nottingham’s always been fair with me.’
Back at the jail Mary’s body was in the cold cell. He lit a candle and slowly unwrapped the sheet. It seem so strange to see her in death, her face still, her eyes empty. Alive, she’d been so gentle. At first he was reluctant to remove her clothes, to see her naked. She’s was the boss’s wife, a woman who’d shown his family kindness, whose voice he could hear in his head. He started then stopped. Finally he took a deep breath and tried to think of her as just another corpse.
She’d been knifed five times; all the cuts were the same size. There were the beginnings of bruises on her sides and legs, as if someone had kicked her. He ran his fingers lightly over her scalp and found a lump under her hair. Had that happened before or after she died, he wondered?
Tenderly, he covered her once more. Soon enough they’d come to remove her corpse. He knew he’d taken things into his own hands by arranging the funeral, but it was the right thing. The boss didn’t need that on top of everything else.
He was sitting at the desk, thinking, when Rob arrived. He was wearing his good suit rather than his work clothes, his face closed and anxious.
‘How is she?’ the deputy asked.
‘How do you think?’ He poured a glass of ale and drank it down. ‘She was crying and screaming. She wanted to go home.’
‘You didn’t let her?’
Rob shook his head.
‘Lizzie’ll look after her. The funeral’s tomorrow at two.’
‘Did the boss arrange it?’ Lister asked in surprise.
; ‘I did. It’s one thing less for him to think about at the moment.’ The deputy looked up. ‘Right, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to talk to the clerks at Darden’s when they finish work. You’re going to see as many of the merchants as you can. You’ll do better at that than I would. That’s why I wanted you dressed up.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
He’d thought about that during the afternoon. ‘Tell them that someone murdered Mrs Nottingham and persuade them to come to the funeral. When you’ve done that, ask a few questions – can they think of anyone who might have done it. Then drop in something about Darden and Howard.’
‘I will.’
‘Leave everything else to the night men, I don’t give a bugger what it is. You and I are going to work on this until we have them.’
‘She was good to me,’ Rob said emptily.
‘Aye, and she cared about Lizzie, and James and Isabell. The world’s lost a grand woman. The boss knows that more than anyone. But now she’s in the cold cell. Someone stabbed her five times. Just keep thinking about that.’
TWENTY
He went from merchant to merchant, from home to warehouse. The news had passed already, the way it did in Leeds, and they all received him with serious faces and words of condolence. Without question they agreed to attend the funeral, but none had an idea who could have been responsible. And when he started his questions about Darden and the factor, their mouths shut and their eyes began to look elsewhere.
He found Tom Williamson at the new warehouse by the river. Men were preparing a shipment of cloth to leave for Hull the next morning. A small, fussy clerk checked against his list and pettishly directed Rob to the office.
The merchant was there, a brazier burning to give some heat to the room. His head was down, concentrating on a column of figures.
‘Mr Williamson?’
He looked up, taking a moment to place Lister. ‘Did Mr Nottingham send you?’
‘You haven’t heard the news?’ He seemed to be the first who didn’t know.
‘What news? What’s happened?’
‘Someone killed the Constable’s wife this morning. Stabbed her in her house.’
Williamson sat back, looking stunned. He ran his hands down his face. ‘Richard . . .?’
‘He found her,’ Rob said.
‘What can I do?’
‘The funeral’s tomorrow at two.’
‘I’ll be there, of course. I met her a few times. She always seemed a lovely woman.’
‘She was,’ he said with quiet feeling.
‘You’re James Lister’s lad, aren’t you?’ the merchant asked thoughtfully. ‘The one who’s courting the Constable’s daughter?’
Rob raised his head. ‘I am.’
‘How is she?’
Lister just stared at him.
‘Please, tell them both how sorry I am for them.’ He stayed silent for a short while, then asked, ‘Do you know who did it?’
‘Not yet,’ Lister lied. ‘Can you think of anyone?’
Williamson shook his head.
‘What do you know about Mr Darden and his factor?’
‘What?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘You think they’re behind it?’
‘No, nothing like that. We’re just gathering information on them.’
‘Richard had asked me about them, too. I told him what I knew.’ He rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘There’s something going on, isn’t there?’
‘I’m just doing what I’m told,’ Rob answered blandly, trying to keep all the expression off his face. Williamson stared at him, then sighed. ‘There was something I was going to tell Mr Nottingham when I saw him. I’d forgotten all about it before; I was only a boy when it happened, but my father fumed about it for years.’
‘What was it?’
‘It must have been, what, twenty-five years ago now?’ He counted off the years in his head. ‘Close enough to that, anyway. Mr Darden lent the Corporation some money. I don’t know how much it was and I’m sure it’s long since been paid. But my father always said Darden received preferential treatment because of it.’
‘What did he mean?’
‘I don’t know. It’s probably nothing. I’ve never heard any more about it.’
‘Thank you.’ Rob stood.
‘I’ll be there tomorrow,’ Williamson promised.
It was the only new thing he’d learned, an incident that happened a lifetime before. Still, he wondered why no one else had mentioned it. Memories were long, especially for anything that gave one merchant an advantage over the others.
He was walking back up Briggate, wrapped in his thoughts, wondering what he could do next, when a hand took his sleeve.
‘I heard,’ James Lister said. ‘It’s terrible. Do you have anyone yet?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Please, tell Mr Nottingham how saddened and shocked
I am.’
‘You can tell him yourself. The funeral’s tomorrow at two.’ He pulled away and continued up the street.
The deputy was waiting on the corner. The church bell had struck six and it was full dark when the three clerks emerged. They wore shabby clothes, the seats of their breeches shiny from being perched on stools all day.
‘Evening, lads,’ he said. They were all well into middle age, with grey hair and the worn-down look of men worked too hard for too little. ‘I’m the deputy constable. I’d like a word.’ He smiled. ‘Can I buy you all a drink?’
The first jug of ale went quickly and he ordered a second. He listened to them complain, wittering like old women, ears pricked for any loose talk. As their words wound down, he asked, ‘What did Mr Darden and Mr Howard do this morning?’
Ashton, the head clerk, the quietest and gravest of them, answered warily, ‘Why do you need to know?’
‘Knowing things is my business.’
‘It’s Tuesday. Mr Howard was at the cloth market. Mr Darden went with him.’
‘Aye, I know that. And this morning someone killed the Constable’s wife. Stabbed her five times.’ He glanced around the faces. ‘So you’ll see why I’m asking.’
‘They came to the warehouse after the market,’ Ashton told him. ‘They allus do that. Got to check the cloth the weavers bring and make sure they don’t cheat us.’
‘What about when that was done?’
‘Looked at the orders we were sending out.’
‘How long did that take?’ Sedgwick asked.
‘I wasn’t listening to the church clock. Then they went out.’
‘Where did they go?’
The clerk shrugged. ‘They don’t tell us, they just go.’
‘When did they return?’
‘Mr Howard came back about dinner time. Mr Darden didn’t come back at all. Nowt strange in that. He’s retired.’
‘How did Howard seem?’
‘Mr Howard was the same as ever.’ The man emphasized the title. ‘Wanted everything done yesterday. He must have been home, though.’
‘Why’s that?’ the deputy asked sharply.
‘He’d changed into an old coat and breeches. Spent part of the afternoon looking through cloth on the shelves.’
‘Is that usual?’
‘Mr Howard isn’t a man to ruin a good suit.’
‘Does he look through the cloth regularly?’
Ashton shrugged again. ‘A few times a year.’
‘Was he different in any way?’
‘Not that I saw. But we were working.’
‘He had a right short temper,’ one of the other clerks said.
‘What did he do?’
‘Clouted one of the lads who moves the bales around. Not just once, quite a few times until the boy was crying.’
‘Is he often like that?’ Sedgwick watched them carefully, seeing the small, uncomfortable glances they exchanged.
‘It happens,’ Ashton said flatly.
‘What else do you know?’ the deputy pressed them.
‘Nowt, re
ally. I’ve worked for them for years and they’ve been good to me.’ He paused. ‘If you want them guilty of summat, I’ll tell you now – they’re not.’
Sedgwick stood and nodded his thanks. Outside the night felt raw; the chill clawed at his face as he made his way back to the jail. Rob was there, giving instructions to one of the night men. As soon as he’d gone, the deputy poured some ale and stood by the fire, feeling its heat.
‘Well?’ he asked.
Lister told him what he’d learned and Sedgwick recounted what the clerks had told him.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘They were gone part of the morning. They had the time, there’s no doubt about that,’ Rob answered. ‘But there’s nothing to show their guilt, is there?’
‘Aye. We need to find out where they’re supposed to have gone. I’d like to take a look at those clothes Howard wore during the morning, too.’
‘What do we do next?’
‘Nothing tonight, lad. I’m going home to rest. There’ll be plenty of time for more tomorrow. And the funeral.’
‘Will you tell Emily . . .?’
‘Of course I will. Don’t worry, we’ll look after her.’
‘What about the boss?’
‘He’ll do what he needs to do.’
He opened the door softly. Lizzie was sitting close to the hearth. She put a finger to her lips to hush him. He settled on the other chair, looking down to see Isabell sleeping peacefully in her crib, her illness now nothing more than a memory.
‘I put Emily in our bed. I think the poor lass has cried herself to sleep for a while. That boy of hers didn’t want to leave her.’
‘I’ll take her home in the morning. The funeral’s at two.’
‘Have you found anything yet?’
‘Not any proof.’ He was tired, the anger and frustration burning inside him.
‘Find it, John,’ she urged him.
‘I will. Don’t worry about that. If it’s there we’ll find it.’
‘Have you seen Mr Nottingham?’
He shook his head. ‘Better to let him be for now.’
‘Mebbe.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I’ll tell you something, that girl could have done with her father tonight. I did what I could but she needed more than me.’
At the Dying of the Year Page 16