The thief had made away with some plate, worth almost ten pounds if the blustering owner was telling the truth. It was a good sum, a fortune to many men. Nottingham sighed and tried to rub the weariness of a broken night from his face. He knew exactly what would happen. The Alderman would have a quiet word with the mayor. Then John Douglas would have to put pressure on him to find the goods and the man who’d stolen them.
Tuesday morning brought rain to blight the early cloth market. He walked down Briggate in his greatcoat and tricorn hat, surrounded by the scent of wet wool, the rich smell of Leeds’s prosperity. Wind gusted up from the river, leaving the weavers soaked at the trestles, covering their cloth as best they could. The merchants huddled together, clustering in doorways, the quiet confidence of money in their talk. Once the bell rang they’d forget the weather to look and buy and calculate the profits in their coffers.
Someone had driven cattle into the city to be killed and butchered at the Shambles and the road was thick with muddy cow pats, strong and stinking. He heard the heavy, grievous lowing of the beasts further up the street as they were put to the knife.
Back at the jail he fed the fire and dried off, his coat steaming as the heat took hold. By the time the deputy arrived from his rounds Nottingham was settled with a pie left over from the day before and a mug of small beer.
‘Quiet market, boss?’
‘The merchants will have made another fortune so they’ll be happy. Any word on this burglar?’
‘Nothing. No one has any names, no one’s been trying to sell the plate. I even went over and asked Joe Buck and he hasn’t heard anything.’
The Constable frowned. If Buck, the largest dealer in stolen goods in the city, didn’t know, the thief was keeping quiet.
‘What about Lucy? Did Caroline come up with the name of her pimp?’
‘I haven’t seen her yet. She’ll be out later.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Don’t fancy her chances of doing well in this.’
‘It’s market day. Enough people will be flush that trade will be good. I need that name, John. We’ve got nothing else.’
From the Moot Hall up to Harrison’s market cross at the Head Row, stalls lined Briggate. The patter of rain made a tumbling dance on the ragged sheets the vendors had put over their stalls.
Old clothes, pans and pots, baskets, and more competed for space with withered carrots and potatoes kept through the winter to sell. Chickens squawked in terror as their cages were stacked. The street was a clamour of people inspecting and bargaining. A woman yelled her wares, apples that had been fresh before the flesh had puckered, hoping for a few pennies from the last of autumn. Men and women moved against each other, packed tight. It would be the perfect place for the pickpocket to strike again, and the Constable needed to try and find him.
Nottingham walked through, fingertips tight on his money, alert for a hand, watching for a glance or a sly movement. Sedgwick was there too, doing the same thing, the pair of them bait in the press of people. They finally gave up as the church bell struck noon. The rain had stopped, but that was the only good thing about the day. They stood by the cross and the Constable rubbed the rough, worn stone.
‘He’s in there,’ he said, looking at the crowd.
‘I’ll wager we’ll have someone in later who’s had his money lifted.’
Nottingham shook his head. ‘I won’t bet against you. Whoever it is, he probably knows our faces.’ He paused and glanced at the deputy. ‘Caroline should be out and earning by now.’
The Constable walked down the Head Row and along Vicar Lane. After the strident bustle of the market the streets seemed curiously quiet. Carts still passed, servants shuffled on their way back to work, arms laden with purchases, harried looks on their faces, but the noise was that of every day. It should have soothed him but it didn’t.
He was on edge and he knew it. He wanted the name of the pimp. They had nothing else, no way into finding out who’d killed Lucy Wendell. Whoremasters killed their girls; he’d seen it too often over the years. One blow too many, in drink or in anger, a harsh touch with a knife. He’d made enough of them swing.
But this murder was different, deliberate and evil. And that was why he had to find the killer.
She was exactly where he expected to find her, a cap covering her hair, wearing the only dress she possessed, a muslin gown with its pattern so faded it was impossible to make out. She’d pulled it down to show off what bosom she still had, the skin wrinkled and aged between her breasts. She held a fan over her mouth, waving it coyly to hide her rotten teeth and the foul smell of her breath. But her eyes twinkled when she saw him.
‘You ran off fast enough yesterday,’ Caroline said. ‘Did your fancy woman see you?’
‘I’m safe, she’s only around Thursdays and Fridays,’ Sedgwick answered with a wink to make her giggle, the years falling from her face for a moment. ‘Did you find out a name for me?’
‘I did,’ she said proudly. ‘It’s going to cost you, though.’
‘I expected that. Nowt’s free in this life. Nor in the next one, probably.’ He took a coin from his pocket and gave it to her. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Joshua Davidson. Strange man with a limp. He has two lasses. Says they’re his sisters, but I don’t know.’
‘How do you mean?’
She looked up at him with eyes full of hurt. ‘Mr Sedgwick, what kind of man would turn his sisters out for whores?’
‘More than you’d imagine. You look after yourself,’ he told her.
‘And you look after your Lizzie and that little girl, Mr Sedgwick.’
He took the name back to the jail. The Constable raised his eyebrows when he heard it.
‘I’d better go and have another talk with Mr Davidson.’
‘You want me to come with you, boss?’
‘No,’ Nottingham answered slowly. ‘I might have misjudged him once, but I won’t do it again.’
Although morning had passed the shutters were still closed at the small house by Shaw Pool. He hammered heavily on the door and waited, then knocked again, rattling the wood in its warped frame. Finally he heard footsteps and Davidson appeared, barely dressed in shirt and breeches, blinking and yawning.
‘Constable,’ he said in sleepy surprise. ‘What brings you back here? Nowt wrong, is there?’
‘You’d better let me in,’ Nottingham said stonily. ‘I’ve some questions to ask.’
Davidson limped heavily away and the Constable followed him to the kitchen. There was coal in a bucket but no fire burned in the room and he felt the chill in the air. An old table had been scrubbed clean, three chairs pulled up close to it. The floor was beaten earth, worn down by generations of feet.
‘Sit thisen down,’ Davidson said with a smile. ‘There’s some ale if you like.’
Nottingham remained standing and shook his head. ‘You’ve been lying to me.’
The man cocked his head and gave a gentle, bemused smile. ‘Me?’ he asked.
‘You.’
‘What have I lied about?’ Davidson scratched his head.
‘You said you only run two girls.’
‘Aye, that’s right enough. Me sisters, like I told you.’ He poured himself a mug of ale from a tall old jug that stood by the window.
‘What about Lucy Wendell?’ the Constable asked.
The man chuckled. ‘Is that what this is about, then? Little Lucy?’
‘It is, Mr Davidson. She’s missing, and the last time she was seen was when she was whoring for you.’
‘That were all of one night,’ Davidson said, shaking his head sadly. ‘She didn’t bring in any money, anyway. The way she looked and all, and her getting heavy round the belly, I told her it wasn’t the life for her.’
‘So you beat her when she didn’t earn anything.’
‘I bloody well did not.’ The man crashed the mug down hard on the table, eyes blazing. ‘I’ll not have it said I hit lasses.’
‘No?’ Nottingham asked, hi
s eyes cold, watching the pimp’s face carefully. ‘Who did, then?’
‘Someone who had her and didn’t pay.’
‘And why should I believe you?’
‘Ask me sisters if you like. They’ll tell you.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Out earning, I expect. They were both gone when I woke up.’
He’d find them later and ask his questions.
‘Why did Lucy come to you?’
The man wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘I don’t know, and that’s the truth, Constable,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘Happen I was the first she saw. We’d not been here too long ourselves when she came around.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Said she needed work, and would I look after her. I couldn’t understand too much of what she told me, mind, it was hard to make it out. She wasn’t a pretty lass to start, and then there was that lip. When you saw that. .’ He shook his head.
‘What else? There must have been more than that.’
‘She said she’d been dismissed and she couldn’t go home. One look at her with the belly starting to bulge and you could see why.’
‘Was that all she said?’
Davidson scratched his head again, a fingernail digging into the scalp for lice.
‘Aye, there was summat odd, I suppose. She said he’d find her if she went home.’
‘Who?’
‘I didn’t ask. It didn’t seem to matter.’ He took another drink then poured himself more of the ale.
‘If you didn’t think anyone would want her, why did you take her on?’
‘I told you, we’d just come to Leeds ourselves. I thought she might bring in a little. Besides, our Sarah felt sorry for her.’
‘And are you always so kindhearted, Mr Davidson?’ the Constable asked.
The pimp stared at him. ‘Mebbe I was a bit when I came here. Not now. It’s a cruel place, is Leeds.’
‘What happened when she was hurt?’
‘The lasses brought her back here and cleaned her up. Whoever he was, he’d done a right job on her face, it were all bloody and swollen up. Sarah looked after her, sat up with her all night.’
‘What about the next day? Was she willing to go out again?’
Davidson shook his head. ‘She didn’t want to. She was scared. Offered to stop here and clean for us instead. Look at me, Mr Nottingham.’ He opened his arms appealingly and glanced around the room. ‘Do you think I’d know what to do with a servant girl? So she went back out with our Sarah and Fanny.’
‘But she didn’t come back.’
‘No. When they were done they went looking for her, but she’d gone. Not seen her since.’
‘You didn’t search for her?’ Nottingham wondered.
Davidson shrugged. ‘What for? I thought she’d decided I were right and she wasn’t made to be a whore. Best to let it be.’
The Constable stared at the man. His leg might stop him moving fast but he had a large pair of fists that could damage a girl. His tale seemed plausible enough but he still wanted to talk to the girls.
‘You’d better be telling me the truth,’ he said finally.
‘I am, Constable. I told you, ask me sisters.’
He found them down by the bridge, standing close to the old chantry chapel. He could hear the yells of the men from the barges out on the river, loading cloth from the warehouses that would end up in more countries than he could name.
The girls were easy to spot, with the same pinched, hungry faces as Davidson, looking as if youth had been drained from them too early. They were standing together and talking, warily eyeing the men who passed. A few weeks before they’d probably had an air of innocence but it had already been rubbed off them, leaving their mouths and eyes hard. He walked up to them and the taller one turned, appraising him quickly.
‘We’re only looking for gentlemen today, love,’ she told him.
‘I think you’ll talk to me,’ he said with a friendly smile.
‘Oh aye?’ she asked cockily. ‘Why’s that, then?’
‘Because I’m the Constable of the City.’
The girls looked at each other with the kind of quick, silent conversation only sisters could manage. He’d seen it in his own daughters when Rose was alive.
‘We heard you said this was all right unless we caused trouble,’ the girl said.
‘It is,’ he agreed, keeping his voice light. ‘But I need to ask you some questions. You’re Sarah?’
The taller one hesitated then gave a brief nod.
‘I need to know about a girl called Lucy.’
Sarah sighed. ‘What about her? She were hardly with us long enough to draw breath.’
He asked what he needed to. Everything they answered echoed Davidson’s words. Lucy had been a timid little thing, hadn’t talked much. With her face and the signs of a baby on the way they knew not many would want her, but she might have made enough to keep body and soul together. They’d looked after the girl when she was hurt, bathed her face and tried to ease her tears.
‘She said she didn’t want to go home?’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ Fanny said. ‘She said he’d find her there.’
‘Who would?’ Nottingham asked.
The girls shrugged together.
‘Her business,’ Sarah said. ‘If she’d wanted to tell us, she would have.’
‘Who beat her? Was it your brother?’
The girls glanced one to the other and started to laugh.
‘Mister,’ Sarah told him, ‘it weren’t our Joshua. He wouldn’t dare raise his hand to a lass. I’d kill him mesen if he tried. I know what he seems like, but he’s soft as summer butter.’
‘It was someone she was with,’ Fanny interrupted. ‘Hit her all round the face. Thought it should have been free wi’ her. Poor thing cried half the night.’ She paused. ‘She weren’t made for this. I’m not sure she were made for anything.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, she had the lip.’ She stared at him to be certain he understood her. ‘And mister, she were simple. Didn’t know what you meant half the time, you had to show her. And then there were the babby. No lass should have all that,’ she said seriously. ‘It were like God hated her.’ She blushed and looked down.
‘What about when she left?’ he asked gently.
‘She came out with us the second day,’ Sarah said. ‘She didn’t want to, not after what had happened, but it’s like Joshua told her, you have to make money to eat. We left her here and that was it. She never came back.’
‘You didn’t look for her?’
Her eyes widened, surprised by the question. ‘Why? She weren’t one of ours.’
Davidson’s tale hadn’t fully convinced him. It had slid too glibly off his tongue. This was different, though. He’d no doubt the sisters could lie with the best of them when it suited them, but what they’d told him had the stark, spare ring of honesty. And it left him little further along.
Rob had watched the dark blue of evening turn to thick black on the western horizon. He’d already made his first rounds with the men, seeing everything quiet in the inns and alehouses. It was still early in the week and people didn’t have enough money left to cause trouble. That would come after they were paid on Friday or Saturday.
He knew the smells of Leeds at night now. They weren’t as strong as in daylight, the shit of carters’ horses worked hard into the street and dried, the harsh steel tang of blood around the Shambles fading with nightfall, the rank stink of unwashed bodies now locked behind closed doors.
He made his way down to the river, hearing the water flowing and seeing a pair of fires glowing on the bank, looking for all the world like an entrance to hell. The sight made him think of tales of the gabble ratchets his governess had scared him with when he was young. Looking around, he half expected to see the eyes of the dogs made by the devil from the souls of children who’d died before they could be baptized. Instead he saw faces: people w
ho had arrived a month or so before with the first warmth of spring. He’d met them on their first night, just men and women who had nothing, keeping each other safe in the darkness and looking for fitful work in the city or the country that surrounded it.
There were more of them now, maybe forty in all, a mix of the wounded and the weary, the hopeless and the defeated. The trust had vanished from their eyes, and the love from their hearts. They left with the dawn, only coming back when dusk fell.
They kept the fires burning all through the night, sleeping close to the flames for warmth and protection. The men kept cudgels close to hand to fight off the drunks who came for sport or rape.
One man stood as Rob approached. He was slight, his hair lank, but he stood out from the others, wearing clothes that had he kept carefully clean, his boots shiny from spit and effort. His right arm was withered, wasted and useless, life’s dark joke that would always be with him.
‘Mr Lister,’ he said.
‘Evening, Simon.’
Rob joined the others in the circle around the blaze. He saw some eye him suspiciously, wary of any authority. But Simon Gordonson was the one who seemed to speak for them all, a smiling man who persisted through a life that had done him no favours.
He’d made his way as a clerk for a shoemaker until the sleeping sickness had taken his wife and children at the tail of the previous summer, just as the nights grew chill. In his grief he’d given up his home, the things that no longer had meaning to him, and taken to wandering. He’d come back to Leeds a few weeks before, bringing the others who’d joined him, a strange, dispossessed band.
The men passed a jug of ale around and Rob took a short swig before handing it on. A pan of something bubbled over the fire. The women sat further away, almost in the shadows, babes and small children asleep on their laps, their bodies warmed with coats or threadbare blankets. Dogs rested nearby, raising their heads occasionally to sniff something on the breeze.
‘Crime keeping you busy, Mr Lister?’ Gordonson asked. He was an affable soul with a ready smile. Only rarely did it slip, but Rob could see the bottomless sorrow beneath the mask.
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