The boss was talking to Mr Shipley, the prim little draper with a shop near the top of Briggate. The man’s face was red with outrage.
Nottingham looked at Rob and gave a small nod.
‘The girl stepped in front of me and asked if I could help her,’ Shipley said. ‘She was crying, so of course I stopped. As soon as I was close enough, she pushed me. While I was off balance, the boy came out of nowhere and cut my purse strings. Then they were running off before I knew what had happened.’
‘How much money was in the purse?’ the constable asked.
‘Very nearly a guinea,’ Shipley replied.
‘What did they look like?’
‘She had long fair hair. Very pretty. A shawl over her shoulders. Threadbare, and an old dress that was too big for her. Thin as you like. I didn’t really catch a glimpse of the boy. I think he was about the same size as her. Dark hair, I do remember that.’
‘How old would you say they were?’
‘I don’t know. Thirteen or so,’ the man answered. ‘Twelve, perhaps.’
‘We’ll look for them,’ Nottingham promised.
‘Will I get my money back?’
‘We’ll do our best, sir.’ He put down the quill and stared at Shipley until he left.
‘We had another just like that last week,’ Rob said as he settled into the empty chair and poured some ale. ‘The description was more or less the same, worked the same way. Happened down by Holy Trinity Church.’
‘This was on Vicar Lane.’
Lister shrugged. ‘I’ve had the men looking, but …’ It was a needle buried deep in a haystack.
‘I know. Keep them on it.’ He shook his head. ‘Fair hair and dark hair. A girl and a boy. It’s nothing to go on. A guinea could keep them for a long time.’
Feral children, trying to live by their wits. Rob saw plenty of them every day. They haunted the market, snatching at anything left over at the end of the day. Most of them died after a few weeks. He’d been called out to look at their bodies often enough, in old buildings, in the woods, trying to find shelter on the tenter fields down by the river, and he’d sent them off to be buried with no name. Abandoned, run away, sold into labour and escaped; the same stories came over and over. Lucy, their servant, had been one until the boss rescued her.
The tale was that Nottingham had been one himself. His father was a merchant who threw his wife and son from the house after he discovered her affair. She’d become a prostitute and he’d worked, stolen, done whatever they needed. She died when he was twelve and he’d continued his half-life until old Arkwright had made a constable’s man of him.
‘Did you find any suspects from that list?’ he asked.
‘Not one,’ Nottingham replied. ‘Plenty of folk happy to hear he’s dead, though. What about you?’
‘The same.’
‘Are you positive this other moneylender isn’t involved?’ the constable asked.
Lister shook his head in irritation. ‘I told you, he keeps it all legal. Lends to merchants and businesses, everything in writing. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to risk that.’
‘Then there’s something here we don’t understand.’
‘We need to keep our ears open for any new moneylender in town. I’ve put the word out.’
The constable gave a dark smile. ‘It won’t be today or tomorrow. But soon enough. And we’ll come down hard on him.’ He glanced out of the window. Candles were burning in the windows on the other side of Kirkgate. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’
‘A fair girl and a dark-headed boy aged twelve or thirteen?’ Emily pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. Across the table, Nottingham watched her. She was already working when they arrived, scouring through her books to find something, then smiling in triumph when she discovered it.
He was proud of all his daughter had achieved with the school. Some had opposed it at the beginning but she’d never given in. Quietly, conscientiously, she’d kept going. The families of the poor girls she taught paid what they could; usually nothing. Tom Williamson and his wife had persuaded a few of the merchants to donate money to help. Between that and her legacy, it all limped along. All sorts appeared at her door, young and older, all eager to learn. She might have seen the pair.
‘No,’ she answered finally, running a piece of bread around her plate to sop up the last of the gravy. ‘They’re too old for school.’
‘If we catch them a judge will hang them,’ Rob said. He picked up his mug and drank. ‘Transportation to the Americas if they’re very lucky.’
Nottingham stayed silent. He knew both sides. Years before, he’d cut the occasional purse when he was desperate. When survival became a crime, the laws were wrong. He’d learned that the hard way. And he’d been lucky never to be caught.
SEVEN
‘Do you know a prostitute called Charlotte?’ Nottingham asked.
Lister gave him a sharp look. Cold weather had moved in overnight, leaving the grass rimed with frost, the leaves snapping under their boots as they walked into Leeds.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘Should I?’
‘No reason. Maybe it doesn’t matter.’
Nottingham had gone out again in the late evening, wandering quietly up and down Briggate and talking to the whores. One or two of the older women remembered him, but most were younger faces that were ageing quickly and growing hard. If he wasn’t a customer they didn’t have the time for him; they could be earning money. A few were happy to be called Charlotte if that was what he wanted. He smiled and walked on.
Finally he found Four-Finger Jane. Once she’d been the queen of Briggate, spending her evenings at the top of the street, up by the market cross where trade was brisk. But that had been years before. Now she had a spot down by the river, scratching for business. She always wore a glove to hide the missing finger a pimp had cut off in anger. The rumour was she’d killed him in revenge. No body was ever recovered. She’d never been charged.
‘Hello, Jane.’ He stood close to her. Across the road, the door opened at the tavern and in the brief wedge of light spilled out he could see the ravages of the French pox on her face.
‘I heard you were back, Mr Nottingham.’ She smiled, showing a mouth with half the teeth missing.
‘I’m looking for someone. A girl named Charlotte.’
‘Never for poor Jane, though.’
He took a coin from his breeches and placed it in her hand, watching as it vanished into the pocket of her dress.
‘I’ll take it but you’re wasting your money,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen more Charlottes and Emilys and Emmas than I can count over the years.’
‘I’m interested in the last few weeks.’
She shook her head. ‘They come and go so quickly, they might as well not bother with names. And none of them talk to me the way they once did.’
‘Someone told me to look for Charlotte.’
‘I can ask, if you like, but I don’t know any.’ She began to cough; it lasted fully half a minute before she could speak again. ‘Winter again. It always comes around too soon. Why do you want her, anyway?’
‘I’m looking into those pimps that have vanished. Three of them.’
‘If there’s a God they’ll all be rotting in hell.’ There was fire behind her voice.
‘Do you know anything about that?’
‘No. I mind my own business. They let me be, I’m not going to make them money.’
‘If you hear anything … especially about Charlotte …’
‘I’ll send word,’ she promised.
‘Where do we look today, boss?’ Lister asked.
‘Let’s start turning over rocks and see what’s underneath. I want you to talk to that other moneylender. I know—’ he raised a hand to stop the protest ‘—he’s a proper businessman. But they have their secrets, too. And if someone’s trying to force their way in, they’ll have their eye on him, too. When is he due back from York?’
‘He should have returned last night.’
‘Then go and see him this morning.’ Nottingham began to look through the papers on the desk, tearing away the wax seal of a note. ‘It looks as if I’m going to have to spend some time with the mayor.’
‘Two killings, Richard. Two.’ Brooke didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Instead he drew quietly on the clay pipe. ‘It’s not the best way to start, is it?’
Beyond the window the day was grey, with thick, heavy clouds and a bleak, sober light. A fire burned in the grate and he was grateful for the warmth.
‘We’ve been looking into it since the first body was pulled from the river,’ Nottingham answered.
‘Any idea who’s behind it?’ The mayor’s sharp eyes were watching him.
‘Not yet.’ He wasn’t going to dissemble. ‘If you want my guess, someone is looking to take over that business. He’ll show his hand soon enough and then we’ll have him.’
‘Soon isn’t now,’ Brooke reminded him quietly. ‘Some of the members of the Corporation have been muttering.’
Already? he thought. So much for having their confidence. ‘They always will.’
‘I fought hard to convince them to have you back.’
‘You’re the one who said they all wanted me,’ he reminded Brooke.
‘They did – after I persuaded them. And you really were the best we’ve had. But they’re after results. They want to know there’s law here.’ His gaze hardened. ‘So do I.’
‘You’ll have it.’ Inside, he could feel the anger beginning to bubble. ‘Once we have someone to arrest.’
‘Make it soon, Richard. Please. I know you can do that.’
Edward Thompson’s house on Briggate was modest, two doors away from the office of the Leeds Mercury. As Lister passed the newspaper’s building, he glanced through the window. His father was already at work inside, head bent over the desk, quill scratching rapidly. Good luck to him, he thought.
A servant showed him through to Thompson’s parlour, everything neat, the furniture all the best quality. But the man could easily afford it. He hadn’t been in Leeds too long, but he’d done well for himself. He loaned to merchants to see them through the times when cash was short. And as the wool trade kept growing, his business increased.
Rob had met him a few times. Thompson was a family man, with a wife and three daughters. Somewhere near forty by the look of him, flesh beginning to turn jowly from expansive living, but always well turned-out.
He bustled through the door five minutes later, wearing a dark, heavy jacket and a white silk waistcoat.
‘I’m sorry you had to wait,’ he said. ‘It’s about these deaths, I suppose? Sophie told me about them when I came back last night. My wife,’ he explained with a quick smile.
‘Has anyone threatened you?’ Lister asked.
‘Me?’ Thompson said in disbelief. ‘Why would they do that?’
‘Because you’re a moneylender. There were three of you in Leeds. Now there’s only one.’
‘No. They haven’t.’ He pursed his lips, eyes hard. ‘And if there’s another sense to your question, I don’t like it.’
‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask, Mr Thompson.’
‘If you did your job properly you’d know I’m not like Smith and Stanbridge.’ He glared. ‘They were leeches. I conduct business. We don’t have a bank up here. I’m as close to it as you’ll find in Leeds.’
‘And it’s paid you handsomely.’
‘Why shouldn’t it?’ He had an edge to his voice. ‘I just told you, this is business. I provide a service the merchants need and they use it. Now, if you’ve finished, I think this is over, don’t you?’
‘As you wish.’ Lister picked his tricorn hat off the table. ‘But watch out for yourself, please. Keep on guard.’
Thompson looked as if he was about to speak, then gave a quick nod and left the room. The servant let Rob out into the cold.
Maybe Brooke made a mistake in persuading the Corporation, Nottingham thought. Perhaps he wasn’t the right man to do this job now. He’d spent two years away from crime and murder, living in the small world he’d allowed himself. Coming back to this was like plunging into icy water, so cold he could barely breathe, let alone swim.
But he’d accepted the offer, he’d made the bargain. He had to find his way. And underneath it all, he was angry that the mayor had doubted him so quickly. If he deserved the man’s trust, he deserved all of it.
‘No luck with Thompson?’
‘He more or less threw me out of his house,’ Rob answered with a smile. ‘He’s respectable. His clients are merchants. That’s true. I warned him to keep looking over his shoulder.’
‘Probably best,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘And I told the mayor we’re not going to find the murderer today or tomorrow.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He wasn’t happy, probably best to leave it at that. But I can’t remember when it was any different. With me, and old Arkwright before that. They expect us to work miracles for them, and when we can’t, we’re not worth what they pay us.’
‘Where do we go from here, boss?’
‘We keep asking questions,’ the constable told him. ‘And we keep our eyes and ears open. I don’t see much else we can do.’
Lister had gone off somewhere. Nottingham was banking the fire for the night when he heard the timid knock on the door.
It was a small boy shuffling around in men’s shoes that were far too big for his feet, his breeches holed at the knees, thin shirt through at the elbows. His face was ruddy from the cold.
‘Are you Mr Nottingham, sir?’ The lad looked up at him. Dirt was ingrained in his cheeks and his hair was matted.
‘I am.’
‘Jane says can you come and see her, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ He started to take out a farthing, then selected a penny. At least the boy could put something warm in his belly against the bitter night.
The lad looked at the coin wonderingly then darted off, scared the constable might change his mind.
The same entrance to the same court, with the sound of the river a few yards away and the creak of boats moored for loading. A mist was rising, softening the edges of the world.
As he approached, a man came up to Jane. A few words and they vanished down the passageway. The woman had a living to earn, after all. He could wait. The constable walked to the bridge and stood with his elbows resting on the stone parapet.
Shreds of fog drifted in the night air. There was no breeze, only the clinging dampness he could feel deep in his chest. He was growing old, noticing his aches and pains more and more each day and relishing the heat of a good fire to warm his bones.
A man shouted from somewhere and a voice answered before the pair of them began to laugh. A lone cart rumbled over the bridge, irons wheels rattling over the cobbles. Finally Nottingham moved. He’d given her enough time.
Jane wasn’t waiting at the entrance to the court. Another customer already? From her appearance the night before she needed all she could get. He was about to go to the White Swan for a drink and try later when he heard a groan. Not pleasure; this was pure pain. He called out her name but there was no answer.
The passage was black. No light reached this far. He had to feel his way along, heart thumping, eyes trying to pick out something, anything.
His feet found her first, touching the soft lump on the ground. He knelt, fingertips searching until he found her head, then feeling for a pulse in the neck. Jane’s flesh was still warm, but her life had gone. The man he saw must have been her killer.
There was blood on the front of her dress, wet and sticky under his fingertips. Barely dead.
He had to leave her. He needed some of the men to help. As fast as he could, he ran up to the jail, legs hurting with every stride. The night watch was just arriving. He sent one for the coroner, two more with the old door to transport the body, and another with a light to guard the scene.
His mouth was dry. Nottingham gulped at a d
rink of ale and saw he’d left a bloody print on the mug. It was all over him – his greatcoat, his hands. He began to clean himself but stopped – what was the point? The blood would be back as soon as he began to examine her.
‘Find Mr Lister and have him meet me there,’ he ordered as he left.
The men were waiting for him. They stood, silently watching him, all of them with dour, brutal faces. But that was who you needed to keep law in the darkness. The lantern flame flickered, enough for him to see Jane lying there. She’d drawn up her knees and thrown out her arms before she died. He must have heard her final sound.
Whores were killed. There were men who considered them fair sport. But this, just after she’d sent him her message? This wasn’t anger. This was deliberate. He could feel it.
In his mind, Nottingham tried to picture the figure he’d seen disappear down this passageway with Jane. Tall, perhaps? A hat of some kind. But it was no more than a suggestion, a faint outline in the night and the mist.
There was no peace on the woman’s dead face. Nothing more than agony, lips back in a rictus smile, eyes wide. He reached down and lowered the lids; it was the one thing he could do for her at this moment.
Hoggart came bustling through, wearing a heavy coat that reached down to his calves, the gold buckles of his shoes glittering in the light. He sighed, told the man to hold the lantern higher and squatted by the body.
‘She hasn’t been dead long, Mr Nottingham.’
‘I know. Only a few minutes.’
‘Well, there’s nothing anyone on this earth can do for her now.’ He stood, looked down at the corpse and shook her head. ‘You might as well take her away.’
She was on the slab of the cold room in the jail when Lister arrived. The candles burning in each corner of the room made it nearly as bright as day.
He had her naked, the tattered old gown cut away so he could examine the wound. In the stomach. It must have taken her a few minutes to die, and she’d done so in horrible pain. If he’d come back sooner … but what could he have done? He couldn’t have saved her. Nobody could, the knife had gone too deep. But he might have caught her killer.
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