Fair and Tender Ladies

by Chris Nickson

  The deputy nodded. ‘Yes, boss.’ He put down the cup and left.

  ‘You go home and sleep,’ the Constable told Rob.

  ‘I’m going to talk to some people first. This is my fault. Ericson.’

  Nottingham softened a little. ‘I’ve hired worthless folk before, too. Don’t blame yourself for someone else’s failings. Now,’ he said through clenched teeth, ‘let’s find this bugger and make him pay.’

  Before the Saturday cloth market Nottingham was on Briggate, moving among the weavers and the merchants. The sky was clear and pale, the sun already warm on his neck. He’d walked along the Calls, stopping to listen to Emily talking to her class, her voice tired and hoarse. The locksmith was already repairing the door, and gave him a quick nod as he passed.

  He listened to the noise and laughter around him that ended abruptly with the ringing of the bell. Business began in earnest, the quick whispers and bargaining and the handshakes to finish each deal. He saw it but he paid no attention.

  Who? Who had enough hate in them to do something like this? Nottingham glanced at the faces all around, each one absorbed in business. Someone in Leeds had done it, someone had taken his chances. And he had to catch them; he had to protect Emily and the girls in the school. She might have grown into a woman with a man of her own, but she’d always remain his daughter, whose tears he’d wiped away, who’d taken his hand to walk her first few, faltering steps. These days more than ever, he needed to watch over her. But so far he hadn’t even managed that properly. Since Mary’s death, it seemed, little had gone well for him.

  The night before, after Rob left for work, Nottingham had climbed the stairs and tapped lightly on the door of Emily’s room. She was sitting at the table, the tallow candle guttering and filling the air with its sour smell. The window was open and the shutters pulled back. In the distance, through the dusk, he could see lights from a few houses and farms. Emily turned and smiled at him. He sat on the bed, running his tongue around inside his mouth.

  ‘You know, Mama would have been so proud of you,’ he said after a while.

  ‘I hope so.’ Her fingers stroked the feather of the quill pen. ‘I think of her up in heaven looking down on us all.’

  ‘She liked Rob,’ he continued. ‘She always felt you two were a good match.’ He watched her blush slightly and took a breath. ‘We need to talk about the school.’

  ‘What about the school?’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘I’m not going to close it.’

  ‘I don’t want you to,’ Nottingham said gently, reaching out and placing his hand over hers. ‘I’m proud of you, too.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa.’

  ‘But it’s my job to make sure people are safe. Everyone in Leeds. You know that. But you especially. You’re my family, I don’t want anything to happen to you.’

  ‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘At first, when they left the slate, I was scared. Now I’m angry.’ She raised her head, then paused. ‘And it makes me sad. I can’t understand why someone would want to do something like that.’

  ‘I don’t either, love,’ he said softly. ‘But something I learned a long time ago was that people are strange. You can never really know what’s in their minds. I just don’t want you or any of the girls hurt.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘He won’t make me leave,’ she said again.

  ‘I know that.’ He squeezed back lightly. ‘And I’ll look after you. Rob, too.’

  ‘Do you think he’s mad, whoever’s doing this?’ Emily asked.

  He shook his head. ‘We’ll find out when we catch him.’

  ‘Do you have any idea …?’

  ‘Who’s behind it?’ He completed her question. ‘I wish I did.’

  ‘Papa,’ she said slowly, as if the words had been weighing on her mind. ‘I know you meant to help when you sent down the glazier and the locksmith.’

  ‘I was being a father. And the Constable.’

  ‘I know.’ She bit her lip for a moment. ‘But I need to be the one who looks after things at the school. People need to see it’s me. Not my papa, not the Constable.’ She smiled, trying to pull the sting from her words. ‘I’m glad you did it. Honestly, I am. But please, from now on will you let me send for workmen?’

  ‘Of course,’ he promised.

  She smiled her gratitude. ‘I know you’ll find whoever’s doing this.’

  He tried to grin but it wouldn’t reach his eyes. He closed the door, seeing her turn back to the books. In the bedroom he took off his boots and lay back, forcing his eyes to close. Her words had hurt, a pain around his heart. All he’d wanted to do was help, to see things done swiftly and honestly.

  He could never look at her without seeing all the people she’d been, the little one who used to charge around the house laughing, the lass who could lose all time in a book, the wilful and the silent. But the world had changed. She’d grown into a woman. A woman who’d always refuse to rely on anyone else. He had to learn that afresh each day, to remember it.

  And now there was this.

  The hour of the market seemed to pass in a few heartbeats and the bell tolled again. Voices rose, weavers heaving lengths of cloth on to their shoulders to take to the warehouses while workers dismantled the trestles to carry them to the other market at the top of the street.

  ‘Thinking, Richard?’ Tom Williamson said.

  ‘I am,’ he answered with a frown. ‘A good profit this morning?’

  ‘If I’m lucky I might make a little money,’ he answered cautiously. It was an understatement; Nottingham knew full well that the merchant had become one of the most successful in Leeds, forward-thinking and starting to bring in good money from the American colonies.

  ‘Someone broke into the school last night,’ the Constable told him.

  Shock spread over Williamson’s face. ‘Good God. Was there much damage?’

  ‘Enough. All those books you paid for were all destroyed.’

  ‘What?’ he asked in horror, and the only reply Nottingham could offer was a shake of his head. ‘I’ll send Hannah a note; maybe she can help. Do you have any idea at all who’s doing it?’

  ‘I’ve been asking. Have you heard anyone saying anything against the place?’

  ‘The school? No one.’

  ‘How about people objecting to educating the poor?’

  ‘It’s not something they really talk about.’ Williamson said, and the Constable knew he was right. ‘Mind you, I did hear Walter Mitchell, you know him, Larkin’s factor, say something,’ the merchant continued. ‘He didn’t think there was any need, all they’d ever do was work as drudges, anyway.’ He shrugged. ‘But a few of us had shared some bottles of wine. I doubt he meant anything.’

  ‘Mitchell?’ Nottingham was struggling to bring the man’s face to mind. ‘Is he young, brawny?’

  ‘That’s the one. He’s always loud after a few drinks. But I know him, Richard,’ the merchant protested. ‘There’s no real harm in the man. He wouldn’t do anything.’

  ‘Someone did,’ the Constable pointed out. ‘I think I’ll talk to Mr Mitchell.’

  Williamson raised his hands. ‘It’s your business. But you’ll be wasting your time.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Nottingham said. ‘Any more word on the workhouse?’

  ‘I’m still going through the figures Mr Finer gave me.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘It’s exactly as I told you, so far everything he’s proposing makes sense.’

  ‘Keep looking. You have to keep looking.’

  ‘I will, I promise,’ the merchant agreed. ‘But I have to keep my mind open.’

  The Constable nodded. ‘Of course. Thank you.’

  ‘And Richard, please don’t tell Walter Mitchell you heard anything from me.’

  Larkin’s warehouse was behind his house on Briggate, a large, old stone building. The heat hit the Constable as he walked in, the heavy smell of wool tickling his throat.

  Mitchell had rolled out a length of cloth he’d bought at the market to inspect
it closely for flaws. He’d thrown his coat over a table and unbuttoned his elaborate waistcoat. His breeches were covered with dust from the fabric. He glanced up and waved Nottingham over to a desk to wait.

  The factor took his time, picking here and there at the wool until he was satisfied and nodded to the workers to roll it up again. He rubbed at his clothes, poured himself a mug of ale and came over to the Constable.

  ‘You chose a bad time,’ he said bluntly. ‘You ought to know Tuesdays and Saturdays are always busy.’

  ‘My apologies.’ Nottingham kept his voice genial. Mitchell was an imposing figure, fully six feet tall with broad shoulders and heavy arms. He’d taken off his periwig to show hair cropped close against the skull. A thin scar ran from his mouth to his chin, leaving his face with a twisted, sinister look.

  ‘What do you need, Constable? I’ve got too much to do here.’

  ‘Where were you last night, Mr Mitchell?’

  The factor’s eyed narrowed. ‘Last night? I was at home, in my bed. Where the hell do you think I’d be?’

  ‘Can anyone attest to that?’ Nottingham asked calmly.

  ‘Of course they can. My wife was right there next to me and the servant saw me out this morning,’ he replied brusquely. ‘What’s this about, anyway?’

  ‘There was damage at my daughter’s school last night.’

  The factor looked at him uncomprehendingly then began to laugh loud enough for the workers to stop and stare. ‘You think I was responsible?’

  ‘Were you?’ The Constable asked evenly.

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t be a bloody fool.’ He dismissed the idea in a moment. ‘Why would I want to do something like that?’

  ‘I hear you don’t feel the poor should be educated.’

  ‘Of course I don’t. Waste of time.’ His face cleared as he understood. ‘Tom Williamson been peaching on me, has he? I knew you two were close.’ He leaned forward, spreading his large hands on the desk. ‘Let me tell you something, Mr Nottingham, and I’m not going to repeat it. You’re right, I don’t think there’s any sense in giving education to the poor. They won’t use it. But that’s as far as I go. Is that clear enough for you?’

  ‘Perfectly, Mr Mitchell.’

  ‘Then some of us have work to do. You don’t need to come back here.’ He strode away, yelling an order to one of the men who scurried to obey.

  Outside, the Constable drew in a breath, the warm air welcome. He believed the factor; there was nothing false about his outrage. He walked down Briggate, ignoring all the clamour of the market, crossed the bridge and slipped through the streets to a neat house that stood out from its neighbours, the windows shining, the paint on the door bright and glossy.

  The big man who answered his knock had skin so black it almost seemed blue in the sunlight. He smiled, displaying a full set of white teeth.

  ‘Mr Nottingham. Good to see thee,’ he said, his Leeds accent as broad as any the Constable had ever heard. ‘Come on in. He’s in the parlour.’

  ‘Thank you, Henry. You look well.’

  ‘Aye, grand weather always brings out the best in me.’

  Joe Buck was seated at his desk working through his accounts, dressed as elegantly as ever in a coat and breeches of the best silk with silver buckles on his shoes. Fine enough for royalty if they should ever drop by, the Constable thought, and a reminder of the good money the man made fencing stolen goods.

  ‘You look like a man with a hundred cares and nowhere to put them,’ Buck told him.

  ‘Maybe I am, Joe. I feel that way,’ Nottingham admitted wearily. ‘You know my daughter runs a school.’

  ‘Of course I do. I’ve heard nothing but good things about it.’

  ‘In the last few days the windows have been broken, she’s been threatened and last night someone destroyed all the books there.’ He counted the incidents out on his fingers and looked at Buck. ‘What do you make of that?’

  ‘I’d say someone doesn’t like the place,’ the fence said slowly.

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘I haven’t heard a whisper. But I’ll put the word out for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Your lass, how is she?’

  ‘She’s angry,’ he replied. ‘So am I, Joe. I want whoever’s doing this.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ Buck promised. ‘I’m glad you came, though, I was going to send you a note.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I hear Tom Finer’s back in Leeds.’

  ‘You heard right.’

  ‘He used to be a nasty piece of work, by all accounts.’

  ‘More than you’d want to know. He and Amos, they made a real pair.’

  ‘I hope you’re keeping an eye on him, Mr Nottingham.’

  ‘I’m doing that, Joe. Why, are you worried he might want to go back into the stolen goods business?’

  ‘From what folk have been telling me, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t either. But you know me, Joe. I don’t trust anyone. Whatever you hear about the school, I want to know. I’d be grateful.’

  ‘You will, Mr Nottingham. I promise.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Rob wandered through the inns and alehouses along Briggate. The weavers were enjoying a final drink before putting goods on their packhorses and starting back to their villages. Some were happy, with a better price than they’d expected weighing down their pockets. Others sat sullen, jingling fewer coins than they’d hoped, or left with a length of unsold cloth.

  Most of the faces he knew in Leeds were the ones who came out at night, and there weren’t many of those around at this hour. Finally he spotted Matthew, tucked in a corner at the Turk’s Head, an empty cup on the table in front of him. He worked moving cloth to warehouses after the market, a few coins to keep him going until something else came along.

  Rob bought a mug of ale and carried it over.

  ‘You look like a man with a thirst,’ he said, seeing the hunger for drink in the man’s eye as he glanced up.

  ‘Aye, thank you, Mr Lister, I could reet do with that.’ His hand snaked out for the mug and he took a long sip. He was perhaps thirty, his beard and hair stringy, most of his teeth gone, dressed in clothes that were more holes and hope than material.

  ‘You know about the school on the Calls?’

  ‘Aye,’ Matthew replied, his eyes unfocused, fist tight around the ale.

  ‘Do you know anyone who wants it gone?’

  The man turned his head slowly. ‘Gone? What’s tha’ mean?’

  ‘Someone’s been damaging the place at night.’

  Matthew pursed thin lips and shook his head. ‘Nowt I know.’

  As Lister made to stand up, the man added quietly, ‘Get thisen to Leviticus Holt. Seen him creeping round all hours of dark.’

  Rob knew Holt, a small, vicious man who took strange ideas into his head. It was possible, he thought.

  ‘Where’s he staying now?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Matthew answered. ‘I keep out of his road.’

  It was the sensible way; there was no knowing when Holt would turn on someone. Most kept their distance, wary of his odd, unpredictable ways.

  He tried other places along the street, but heard nothing of use in the answers or the gossip. Finally he gave up, leaning wearily against a wall, the sun hot on his face.

  ‘You’ll get no work done like that.’

  He opened his eyes and saw the deputy loping towards him.

  ‘If I stay here much longer I’ll be asleep.’

  ‘Go on home, then. Found anything?’

  ‘Someone suggested Leviticus Holt.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sedgwick nodded his agreement. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him if he has it in his mind. I’ll find him.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Catch him early enough and he’ll be sober. He’s harmless then.’

  Lister pushed himself upright. ‘I’ll leave him to you.’ He waved an arm la
zily and walked away.

  Leviticus Holt, the deputy mused. It made more sense than any other name else he’d heard. There was a streak of madness in the man. He hoarded his grievances the way a miser held his coins. The last he knew, Holt had a room at the bottom of the Head Row in one of the old houses the city kept threatening to tear down.

  He brought the cudgel from his coat as he entered the place, looping the thong around his wrist. The stairs felt fragile under his boots as he went down to the cellar, one hand against the wall to steady himself.

  The door was unlocked and he pushed it open, letting in a few glimmers of light. Holt was asleep on an old pallet. The room stank of stale sweat and the old piss that overflowed from a bucket in the corner. There was nothing else, no table or chair, no clothes hanging from nails on the wall.

  Sedgwick tightened his grip on the stick and pushed his boot against Holt’s leg.

  ‘Wake up, you bugger,’ he said loudly.

  For a moment there was nothing more than the thick rasp of breathing, then Holt sprang up quickly, one hand going for the knife in his belt, a snarl on his lips. The deputy brought the wood down hard on the man’s thick wrist, making him cry out.

  ‘You didn’t ought to have done that,’ Holt said, doubling over and cradling his arm.

  ‘Try that again, I’ll break the bloody bone,’ Sedgwick warned him. ‘And then I’ll haul you off to the jail. Is that what you want, Leviticus?’

  The man glared, rubbing his bruised arm. ‘I think you already broke it.’

  ‘Don’t be so daft, that was nothing more than a love tap. You’d know if I meant it.’

  ‘What you want?’ the man demanded.

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  Holt chuckled. ‘Drinking, where else?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Talbot, Old King’s Head.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘And after?’

  ‘Came back here. I was sleeping until some bastard woke me,’ he complained.

  ‘What about the damage you did to the school on the Calls?’

  ‘What school?’ Holt asked in confusion.

  ‘The one Emily Nottingham runs.’