Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Chris Nickson from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
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
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Afterword
Recent Titles by Chris Nickson from Severn House
The Richard Nottingham Mysteries
COLD CRUEL WINTER
THE CONSTANT LOVERS
COME THE FEAR
AT THE DYING OF THE YEAR
FAIR AND TENDER LADIES
FREE FROM ALL DANGER
The Inspector Tom Harper Mysteries
GODS OF GOLD
TWO BRONZE PENNIES
SKIN LIKE SILVER
THE IRON WATER
ON COPPER STREET
FREE FROM ALL DANGER
A Richard Nottingham Novel
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 published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2017 by Chris Nickson.
The right of Chris Nickson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8753-5 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-867-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-930-5 (e-book)
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
To the memory of the real Richard Nottingham and his descendants.
How can you go abroad fighting for strangers?
Why don’t you stay at home free from all danger?
Our Captain Cried All Hands,
Traditional Folk Song
ONE
Leeds, Autumn, 1736
Sometimes he felt like a ghost in his own life. The past had become his country, so familiar that its lanes and its byways were imprinted on his heart. He remembered a time when he’d been too busy to consider all the things that had gone before. But he was young then, eager and reckless and dashing headlong towards the future. Now the years had found him. His body ached in the mornings, he moved more slowly; he was scarred inside and out. His hair was wispy and grey and whenever he noticed his face in the glass it was full of creases and folds, like the lines on a map. Sometimes he woke, not quite sure who he was now, or why. There was comfort in the past. There was love.
Richard Nottingham crossed Timble Bridge and started up Kirkgate, the cobbles slippery under his shoes. At the Parish Church he turned, following the path through the yard to the graves. Rose Waters, his older daughter, married and dead of fever before she could give birth. And next to her, Mary Nottingham, his wife, murdered because of his own arrogance; every day he missed her, missed both of them. He stooped and picked a leaf from the grass by her headstone. October already. Soon there would be a flood of dead leaves as the year tumbled to a close.
Most of the people he cared about lay here. John Sedgwick, who’d been his deputy and his friend. Even Amos Worthy. The man had been a panderer, a killer, but they’d shared a curious relationship of hatred and friendship until cancer turned him into a husk and finally claimed him.
And now there were just two left alive. Richard and Emily Nottingham. Himself and his younger daughter. She ran a school for poor young girls and she had her man, Rob Lister, the deputy constable of Leeds these days. They were both young enough for life to wind out endlessly into the distance, its possibilities broad and open.
He stood for a minute then sighed as he straightened the clean stock around his neck and left the dead to their peace. As he passed the jail he glanced through the window. Empty, but that was no surprise. Lister and the men he commanded would be out, working. Rob had been in charge of everything since Simon Kirkstall, the constable, died a fortnight before. Fallen down stone dead in the White Swan as his heart suddenly stopped beating, the tankard still in his hand.
Nottingham turned on to Briggate. People nodded and said their hellos as he went by. The street was busy, clattering and booming with the sound of voices and the rumble of carts, the harsh mixture of smells – the iron tang of blood in the Shambles, horse dung, night soil left on the cobbles, a press of unwashed bodies.
At the steps to the Moot Hall, he glanced up at the statue of Queen Anne, then pushed open the heavy wooden door. At the top of the stairs the corridor had rich, dark panelling and a thick Turkey carpet. A different, grander world from the one below.
The mayor’s office stood at the far end. Nottingham brushed some faint dust from the shoulder of his good coat and glanced down at the polished metal buckles of his shoes. He knocked and waited until a weary voice said, ‘Enter.’
John Brooke had become Mayor of Leeds only three weeks before, taking his year in office. He was a wool merchant, a man who’d been a member of the corporation for more than a decade. Successful, wealthy, busy, and now he was burdened with this position for the next twelve months.
‘Richard,’ he said with a welcoming smile as he rose, a curling grey wig falling onto his shoulders. He had his hand extended, two gold rings twinkling on his thick fingers. ‘Thank you for coming. Sit down.’
Nottingham eased himself into the chair, feeling the creak in his knees.
‘I wondered why you sent a message.’ It had arrived the afternoon before, just an invitation with no reason or detail. A mystery he’d mentioned to no one.
Brooke took a breath.
‘I’ll get right to the point: of course, you know what happened to poor Simon. You must, everyone’s heard by now.’ He filled his clay pipe, lit a taper from the candle on his desk and brought it to the bowl. ‘Leeds needs a new constable.�
�
It did, Nottingham knew that, and a better one than Kirkstall had been. He’d heard about the man every night from Rob. The way he always grasped the credit and did none of the work, rarely even dirtied his hands. The town deserved much more than that. Brooke knew it too, he could see it in his eyes.
‘Yes, but what do you want from me?’ Nottingham began. ‘My opinion? Rob Lister knows the job. He has plenty of experience. He’d be a credit to us all.’
Brooke pushed his lips together. ‘I’ve no doubt he would. He’s an impressive lad, very quick, and he’s clever.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s only one problem.’
‘What?’ He didn’t understand. He knew Rob. He shared his house with the lad and Emily, he saw him each day. There was nothing wrong with his character or his work. And Lister wanted the position.
‘He’s too young,’ Brooke answered slowly. ‘I’ve talked to the other aldermen. We’re all agreed: we need someone older. Someone with more authority.’
Nottingham frowned. If the man didn’t want his advice, why bother inviting him here? ‘You should give him the chance. I know he’d do well.’
The mayor shook his head. ‘No. We’ve decided against that.’
‘Then make him constable until you find someone older for the job. Give him that, at least. The men respect him.’
Brooke sighed. ‘Believe me, Richard, I don’t doubt him. But the aldermen were unanimous. What we want is to find someone who can live up to everything you did as constable.’
‘Then why are you asking me? You don’t want Rob and there’s nobody else I can think of.’
‘Yes, there is.’ The mayor looked straight into his face. ‘We want you to come back as Constable of Leeds – until we find someone.’
For a moment he was certain that his ears had deceived him, that he’d slipped into a ridiculous dream.
‘Me?’
‘You,’ Brooke told him again. ‘Until we find the right man for the job. You were the best we’ve ever had, Richard.’
Nottingham had to smile. It was unbelievable. How many enemies had he made among the corporation over the years? How many times had he sat in this office and argued with different mayors? Half the aldermen in town had rubbed their hands with glee when he retired, he knew that. And now they claimed he was the finest constable Leeds had ever known.
‘It’s been a long time,’ he said.
‘Not that long. Only two years.’
But it felt like a lifetime.
Along with Tom Williamson the merchant, Brooke had been one of his few true supporters among the aldermen. This was probably his idea, one he’d bullied through.
‘And you all agreed?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘All of us,’ Brooke confirmed.
‘I’m older now.’
‘Wiser, too, I hope.’ The mayor smiled.
Maybe it would be a good thing, Nottingham thought. Something to stir him. He knew he needed to stop hiding in the past. This would give him purpose, it would keep him solid. If he accepted the job he’d be forced to live in the here and now, to always be aware and alert. He remembered when he was young and without a home, sleeping behind bushes, living on what little he could earn or steal. Each morning had brought the task of surviving until night fell. The only thing that mattered was today. No future, only now.
He took a deep breath.
‘I’ll do it.’
Brooke was on his feet, beaming and shaking hands again.
‘I hoped you’d agree. Thank you, Richard. I know you’ll do an excellent job.’
‘Only until you appoint someone, though,’ he said. ‘And you agree to consider Rob for the job.’
‘Of course.’ But Brooke’s assurance was just gloss. The man would say anything at the moment. He’d make sure to hold the mayor to that promise when the time came.
The whole thing seemed impossible. He’d never imagined returning to the job, never dreamed of it. He’d been happy to walk away from it. Even now, after he’d agreed, a part of him wasn’t certain this was the right thing to do. But it had happened, he’d made his decision. He was the Constable of Leeds once again.
The mayor reached into a drawer, brought out a bunch of keys on a heavy ring and pushed them across the desk.
‘You’ll be needing these.’
Nottingham weighed them in his hand, the metal cold against his palm. So familiar that he might never have put them down.
‘I believe I will.’
TWO
Nottingham turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door to the jail. The smell of the place – the fear, the old sweat, the dust that lay everywhere – brought memories flooding down through his mind. As he sat behind the desk, touching the old, worn wood, he felt as if the last two years had melted away and he’d never retired at all.
Piles of notes, documents, all needing attention. A battered quill tossed down, the sharpening knife beside it. The pot of ink with the top open so the liquid inside had dried. He breathed slowly, looking around the room, then walked through to the cells. He’d spent so much time in this place that it was part of his blood.
The sound of footsteps and a voice calling out brought him back. His heels rang out on the flagstones.
Rob stood, one hand ready on the hilt of his knife. He’d filled out from the lad Nottingham had first taken on as a constable’s man and his eyes had the wariness of experience. He was dressed in his working clothes, an old, stained coat, thick breeches, woollen socks that Lucy the servant had darned again and again, and heavy boots. There was a small scar on his cheek and more that were hidden, but he’d earned every one of them on the job. Nottingham understood that; he had enough of his own.
‘Richard. What are you doing here?’ His mouth was open, eyes wide with astonishment. ‘You’re all dressed up, too.’
‘The mayor wanted to see me.’ He hesitated. There was no easy way to break the news. ‘He’s asked me to return as constable until they find someone permanent.’ Nottingham opened his hand. ‘I told him you should have the job, but the corporation want someone older. He asked me. For now, at least.’
‘But—’ He could see the resentment, plain and bright on the young man’s face. God knew he deserved the position. And now it had been given to his lover’s father. ‘When you retired …’
‘I know. I swore I’d never come back,’ Nottingham agreed gently. ‘I remember. And I haven’t set foot in here since. This is John Brooke’s request.’
Lister’s body seemed to tighten, his face set so he’d give nothing away.
‘What about me?’
‘You’re still the deputy. No, you’re more than that,’ he added, as if it might make a difference. ‘I’m going to need your help.’ He’d realized just how true that was as he walked down from the Moot Hall. His skills had rusted to nothing. He was older, not the same man the mayor remembered as Constable of Leeds. He’d lost touch with the town. Every day the place grew more crowded. People arrived, hoping to find their fortune here. But prosperity only existed for the few. Most only managed to discover more desperation. So many of the faces he saw now belonged to strangers, people who’d arrived to hope, to live. He didn’t know them or their crimes. ‘I hope you can give it.’
Rob pushed a hand through his hair.
‘I have to go and meet someone,’ he said quickly and stalked out, slamming the door behind himself.
Nottingham sighed. It was going to be a difficult return.
Lister seethed as he walked away. His hands were bunched into fists, the knuckles white, his mouth clenched shut. He’d earned that job. For two years he carried Simon Kirkstall; the man had only been given the post because his wife was an alderman’s cousin. Rob had done the work, all the dark, dirty tasks that came along. But it was Kirkstall who courted the corporation, who boasted to the Mercury and the aldermen about the arrests he made. He testified in court about events he’d never seen, and walked in processions with the proper gravity and sober expression and grand clothe
s.
All the constable’s men knew the truth. Probably many others, too. The only ones to mourn Kirkstall would be his wife and children.
And now … now Richard Nottingham was back. He liked the man, loved him like a father. He lived in his house, Nottingham’s daughter was his wife in everything but name. And he’d been an excellent constable. But his day was over. Two years was a long time. Leeds had swirled and changed beyond anything he knew.
He strode out and kicked angrily at the leaves that had blown across from the churchyard, sending up a spray of red and green. The Calls was noisy with men working on the river barges, women hawking this and that while their grimy children played games in the gutter.
He ducked through a doorway and twenty young girls turned to stare at him.
‘Read your books for a minute,’ Emily Nottingham told them. ‘And do it quietly.’
She wore a plain brown woollen dress, old and frayed at the hem, the sleeves smudged white with chalk dust. Her hair was twisted up, out of the way, showing the curve of her neck. To him, she was the loveliest woman in the world.
He guided her outside, letting the carters and the porters make their way around them.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked quickly as she saw his expression. ‘Has something happened?’
‘They’ve asked your father to come back as constable,’ Lister said, and he couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.
‘What?’ Her voice rose, eyes widened in disbelief. ‘But why?’ She glanced through the window into the class room and made a sharp gesture as a girl stared at them.
‘Just until they find someone else. That’s what he told me. They say he has the age and experience.’ He snorted.
‘I didn’t know they’d even talked to him. He never said a word to me.’ She reached for his hand and stroked it lightly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It sounds as if it just happened. He’s never shown any sign of wanting to come back.’ He needed to talk, to get it out. But she was torn, he could see it. She loved him. But she loved her father, too, and now here she was, caught between them. ‘He seemed happy enough doing nothing.’
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