Free from all Danger

by Chris Nickson

  ‘What are you trying to say? They’re connected?’

  The old man shrugged his bony shoulders and spread his hands on the table.

  ‘I’m not saying anything, Mr Nottingham. That’s your job. I’m just observing. But perhaps it’s a thought worth considering.’

  Three pimps? Was that true? And why would Finer know, but not Rob? He frowned.

  ‘It’s an idea, I suppose.’ He didn’t believe it. One of the man’s misdirections, perhaps. That had always been his way. ‘Who’d be behind something like that?’

  Finer stared down at his fingers. The knuckles were knotted, twisted with time.

  ‘Maybe nobody. I suppose it could all be coincidence,’ he said slowly, and smiled. ‘But tell me: when have you ever believed in coincidence?’

  Nottingham shook his head. ‘No. I don’t see why they’d be connected.’ Pimps stuck to their trade, moneylenders to theirs. The only man he could recall in Leeds who’d done both was Amos Worthy, and he’d been under the sod for four years. ‘I can’t see it.’

  Finer smiled and shrugged again. ‘That’s your choice. You asked for ideas; I gave you one.’

  ‘True.’ But it was one that went nowhere. ‘How’s business?’ he asked.

  Rob was sitting behind the desk when he returned to the jail. There was no sign of Smith.

  ‘You let him go?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘He was at the Old King’s Arms till late,’ Lister replied with a sigh. ‘The landlord remembers him. Then he was playing hazard until daybreak. Two of those with him were merchants,’ he added.

  ‘He could have paid someone to kill.’

  Rob shook his head. ‘Not him. He enjoys doing the rough work himself.’ He pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘A boy brought this. Said you promised him a farthing.’

  Nottingham unfolded the note.

  I made him leave. The clock struck two as I closed the door. He was so drunk he could hardly walk. Does that help, sir?

  Mrs W.

  ‘Turner,’ he said, handing Rob the letter.

  ‘That leaves us with nobody.’

  ‘For the moment.’ He paced around the room. ‘Didn’t you mention other moneylenders?’

  ‘There’s only one more and he’s been in York since Friday. I checked. He lends to businesses, anyway. All above board and very respectable. Sorry, boss.’

  ‘Stanbridge had a notebook in his pocket. Most of the ink had run but we might find something when the pages dry. In the meantime, let’s find out where he went last night. Was he married?’

  ‘Him?’ Rob laughed. ‘No woman’s that daft. He lodged on the Head Row, just up from Rockley Court.’

  ‘Any servants?’

  ‘A man, I think.’

  ‘I’ll start there, have a look around and see where it takes me. What about the people who owed him money? Any of them could have done it.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Turner before I let him go. He’ll give me some names,’ Lister said with a thin smile.

  ‘Get some of the men on it. How many are worthwhile?’

  ‘There are three I’d trust.’

  ‘That’s better than it used to be,’ Nottingham told him with a chuckle. ‘I remember when it was just you and John Sedgwick who were worth your salt.’

  People greeted him as he walked through the market. A few familiar faces, some he believed he knew, others he could swear he’d never seen before. At the house by Rockley Court he introduced himself to the landlady.

  ‘Upstairs,’ she told him. ‘He has the top floor. Paid until the end of the year, too.’

  ‘Did he have many visitors?’

  ‘One or two.’ She pursed her mouth. She was a respectable woman, plainly dressed in a muslin gown with a patterned shawl draped over her shoulders. He could read her story on her drawn face. A husband who’d died and left her the house but little else, forcing her to let out rooms to make ends meet.

  The wooden stairs glowed with polish, and as soon as he knocked on the door a man opened it as if he’d been standing there, waiting.

  ‘I’m Richard Nottingham, Constable of Leeds.’ The words felt unfamiliar and awkward in his mouth. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about your employer by now.’

  ‘I have.’ The man looked him directly in the eye. He was young, probably not even twenty yet, with thick, fair hair and a curiously grave bearing, as if he was trying to appear older.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Joshua.’

  ‘How long have you worked for Mr Stanbridge?’

  ‘Three months.’ His answers were brisk and crisp. Polite enough, but no respect behind the words.

  ‘You know what he did?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I need to see his desk.’

  No more than a moment’s hesitation before he led the way to a large drawing room that looked out over the street. Well-furnished, with a desk pushed against the wall. Nottingham began to glance through the papers.

  ‘Where did he go last night?’

  ‘He had dinner at the Rose and Crown,’ Joshua said. ‘Mr Stanbridge left here just after six.’

  ‘Did he return?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  There was nothing about Stanbridge’s business in the desk. Nothing he could spot elsewhere as he searched through the rooms. Maybe everything was in his notebook. Or perhaps he kept the details in his head. At the door he turned to face the young man. There was something in the set of his mouth that stirred a faint memory.

  ‘Was your father named Michael?’

  ‘Yes.’ Surprise filled the lad’s eyes.

  Michael Lawton. A thief, a fighter, a drunk, an unhappy, violent man. Someone who believed the world owed him a living and tried to claim it with his fists. He’d tumbled into the river during a flood, drunk. His body was never found.

  ‘And you’re working for a criminal. It seems you didn’t learn much growing up.’

  The young man straightened his back. ‘I’m not my father. I do honest work.’

  ‘I hope that’s true,’ the constable said, then added, ‘and if you have any ideas about taking over Stanbridge’s business, Mr Lawton, you’d do well to forget them.’

  ‘Oh aye, he was here,’ John Reynolds said at the Rose and Crown. ‘Dinner for three in a private parlour.’

  ‘Who were the other guests?’ He sipped at a mug of small beer the landlord had filled for him.

  ‘We were that busy, I didn’t see. You’ll need to ask the serving girl.’ He vanished through a door for a moment and called a name. ‘She’ll only be a moment.’ He grinned. ‘Here, I’ll tell you what, Mr Nottingham. We have someone you might recall bedding down in the stable.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Old Jem. Remember him? He showed up yesterday.’

  Jem had always seemed old, with his long white beard and stringy grey hair. Nottingham had been a boy when he’d first seen him and he’d looked ancient even then. Jem walked around the county, telling his stories in the marketplace for coins, finding bed and a hot meal with folk who’d take him in for a night or two. He’d stayed at the house on Marsh Lane a few times when the girls were small, rolling out his blanket near the hearth, exchanging a tale or two for warmth and a bowl of stew. But he’d heard nothing of the man in ten years or more.

  ‘It’s been so long I thought he must be dead.’

  ‘Aye, well, he doesn’t look as if he’ll last another winter if he stays on the tramp,’ Reynolds said with a sigh. ‘I told him he was welcome to the room where Hercules used to live. Stay as long as he likes, until spring if he wants. You know how he is, though. Itchy feet.’

  He’d just finished speaking when a young woman appeared, tucking her dark hair under a cap.

  ‘I was just cleaning that pantry,’ she said with an impish grin. ‘What have they been doing in there? It’s a tip.’

  Reynolds smiled indulgently.

  ‘My daughter,’ he explained. ‘You were working in the top parlour last n
ight, Molly. Who was up there with Mr Stanbridge?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘There was Mark Ferguson, getting himself drunk and spilling his food all over himself, same as ever. And Tom Warren. You know what he’s like, he looked down his nose the whole time.’

  ‘No one else came? How long were they here?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘It was just them. They must have stayed about three hours, I suppose.’ Her face cleared. ‘Yes, it must have been. Lily was just finishing as I cleared the plates and she leaves at nine.’

  ‘Did you hear where they were going?’

  She shook her head. ‘I never pay attention to what customers say unless they’re talking to me.’ She gave a quick smile. ‘Better that way. And I bat their hands away, of course.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He turned to leave and Reynolds said, ‘If you want to see Jem he’s probably down by the Moot Hall now.’

  FOUR

  Jem was exactly where the landlord had promised, sitting atop his pack on the Moot Hall steps and entertaining a small audience with his tale. Market days always meant a good crowd of people to entertain.

  He looked as old as Methuselah now, with his long beard wispy and pale as the first snow, hardly any hair left on his head. He still wore the same old coat, although it was little more than tatters on his back. The constable waited until he’d finished the story, one or two coins dropped into his hat, then approached.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Jem.’

  The man looked up. His eyes were clouded and Nottingham noticed the stout hawthorn stick at his side.

  ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘I know your voice.’

  ‘Richard Nottingham.’

  The man broke into a grin, showing a mouth that was more gums than teeth.

  ‘Aye, that’s it. With the wife and two girls and the warm fire.’

  ‘Only one girl now.’ He tried to keep the sorrow out of his voice. ‘My wife’s gone, and one of my daughters. The other’s all grown up.’

  ‘I’m right sorry. She was a kind woman, your missus.’ He moved his head around. ‘It’s grown, this place, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Bigger every single day. Where have you been?’

  Jem struggled to his feet, reaching for the stick to steady himself.

  ‘I’ve mostly been on the coast these last few years. Scarborough, Whitby, all the way up to Newcastle.’ He wheezed a little as he stood. ‘Grand folk up there. But I had the urge to come back here again. You were constable, weren’t you,’ he said as if he’d suddenly recalled it.

  ‘I am. For the second time.’ He laughed. ‘It’s a long story and not worth the telling.’

  He remembered the way Rose and Emily were always entranced by Jem’s stories, reluctant to go to their beds until they’d heard just one more, then another. Maybe the girls at Emily’s school would be, too. And maybe the tales would take his daughter back to a time when they were all together.

  ‘How would you like to make a little money?’ he asked. Mark Ferguson and Tom Warren could wait a few minutes. He’d need to talk to Rob, anyway; he didn’t know either of the men.

  It had been a waste of a morning, Lister thought. First Smith, then working his way through the names of those who owed Stanbridge money. All he’d seen on their faces was relief to learn he was dead and their debts cancelled. A tradesman, a minor merchant, a mechanic with a house in Turk’s Head Yard. But not a sniff of a killer about any of them.

  Nothing. All they had were wisps of smoke that vanished as soon as he reached for them.

  He was striding over Leeds Bridge when he caught a glance of Nottingham escorting an old man who moved slowly and leaned on a stick. What was he doing? For the love of God, they were supposed to be working, finding a murderer, not aiding the infirm. He shook his head. The boss had been good once but bringing him back was a mistake.

  Nottingham waved through the window to draw Emily outside. She had a distracted air, mouth twitching in annoyance at being interrupted, but to him that barely mattered; she’d always be his girl, smart, beautiful and brave.

  ‘What is it, Papa?’ Her voice was sharp as she stared at Jem, curious, not sure why he was here.

  ‘Don’t you remember him?’

  ‘No,’ she answered with irritation and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Papa, but I’m in the middle of a lesson.’ She wiped a strand of hair off her face. ‘I need to get back.’

  ‘When you were little he used to stay with us sometimes and he’d tell you stories.’

  Emily looked at Jem again and Nottingham could see the memories start to flood back into her eyes.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She reached out and took the old man’s hand. ‘I’m sorry. I should have known.’

  ‘Nowt to worry about, lass,’ Jem told her. ‘You weren’t no more than a bairn then. You da says you run this school and you’ve got a man of your own now.’

  She blushed, the first time Nottingham had seen that in years.

  ‘I thought your girls might like to hear some of Jem’s stories,’ he said. ‘You too, perhaps.’

  ‘Oh, they’d love it.’ She laughed. ‘It’ll give them a break from all that learning. And from me.’

  The constable took a few coins from his breeches and placed them in Jem’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Now, young, lady, if tha’ll just lead me in.’

  Nottingham winked at Emily and walked away.

  Lister was waiting at the jail, sipping on a mug of ale.

  ‘Any luck?’ Nottingham asked as he entered.

  ‘No.’ He slammed down the mug on the desk.

  ‘Stanbridge had dinner with Mark Ferguson and Tom Warren last night. Do you know them?’

  ‘We’ve met,’ he said shortly and snorted. ‘They’re quite a pair. Ferguson likes to try and talk widows out of their savings when he’s in bed with them and Warren’s very clever with figures. Too clever for his own good; he almost ended up transported to the Indies last year.’

  ‘They dined together at the Rose and Crown.’ Nottingham hesitated. ‘Didn’t you tell me yesterday that two pimps have left Leeds?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lister replied. ‘Why?’

  ‘Someone said it was three, that’s all.’

  ‘No. Only two that I know of.’ He cocked his head. ‘Who was the old man I saw you with?’

  ‘Him?’ He laughed. ‘That’s Jem. He used to come through here quite often, years back. I thought the girls at school might enjoy his stories. Emily always did.’

  ‘We need to attend to this murder,’ Lister reminded him.

  ‘We will,’ Nottingham said calmly. He heard the rebuke in Rob’s tone and ignored it. ‘Which of the pair do you want?’

  ‘I’ll take Ferguson. I’d like to wipe the smirk off his face. He’s too slippery and charming. About time he got his comeuppance.’

  ‘Where will I find Warren?’

  ‘Try the Talbot, he usually has his dinner there. You can’t miss him, the man must have the longest nose in England.’

  ‘Tell me what you know about him.’

  Lister thought for a moment. ‘If I remember rightly, he must have come here just after you retired. Doesn’t speak much. A very dour face, thin lips, always looks like he disapproves of everything. He’s a bookkeeper. From some of the talk, he might do a little forging, but I’ve never had cause to look. I think he takes care of the accounts for that old man you know, the one who keeps buying land.’

  ‘Tom Finer?’

  ‘That’s the one. And a few more who keep right on the edge of the law. We had him in court June of last year for altering some ledgers. Swore he didn’t do it and managed to get off.’

  Interesting that Finer’s name would crop up, Nottingham thought as he strolled up Briggate, hardly sensing the clamour and call of voices that surrounded him.

  The Talbot was busy with the market crowd. The floor was swept and windows sparkled to let in the light. They were only small changes but they made the place much brighter and air
ier than he’d ever seen it. It felt welcoming. A tall man stood behind the bar, heavy belly hidden behind a leather apron, a piece of linen thrown over his shoulder and a broad, honest smile on his face.

  ‘Good day to you, sir.’

  A serving girl brushed by, cheery-faced, in a clean gown. He recalled the way the inn had been during all the years Matthew Bell owned it. Grimy and greasy, with everyone surly and on the border of anger.

  ‘I’m Richard Nottingham, the Constable here. You must be Mr Meadows.’

  ‘At your service, sir.’ He ducked his head slightly. ‘I heard they’d asked you back to replace poor Simon Kirkstall. Terrible thing, terrible.’ He waved his hand around. ‘Do you think the place has improved?’

  ‘It has. Beyond belief.’ As he glanced around he couldn’t see any of the old, familiar faces. But he did spot Warren in the corner, a bowl pushed away across the bench. He held a mug, head down as he read the Mercury. Rob had been right; the man’s nose was something anyone would remember, long, thin, and straight. ‘Definitely much better.’

  ‘You’ll have a drink on me, I hope, sir,’ Meadows continued, as he filled a mug from the barrel. ‘I’m trying to run a good house here. It’s building slow but steady.’

  ‘Thank you. What made you come to Leeds?’

  ‘Opportunity. Pure and simple.’ His smile was open and infectious. He looked to be a little past thirty, a full head of curly hair and warm eyes. ‘I had a place up in Settle, but there’s only so much a man can do there.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘It’s too small, you see. I have ambitions.’

  ‘And what might they be, Mr Meadows?’

  ‘Call me Harry, everyone does. I want to own the best inn in England. So I came down here with my wife and daughter and two sons. Brought my staff with me.’ He laughed.

  ‘And you think this place could be it?’ Nottingham asked doubtfully. He knew the reputation the Talbot had enjoyed for far too many years.

  Meadows laughed. ‘A new broom, sir. It’s not easy, but in time, people will flock here. You mark my words.’ He turned to serve another customer and the constable wandered away. Harry Meadows was jovial, everything a landlord should be, and he’d certainly done this place the power of good. But with the heavy weight of the past it carried, he’d need plenty of luck.