The constable didn’t hesitate. As Nelson raised his weapon, arm shaking, he brought the tip of the cudgel down on his wrist. The man’s fingers opened and the blade clattered to the boards.
This was the time: bustle him out of there before the shock wore off. Nelson came easily, not even turning to look back at his family as Nottingham led him away.
‘You’ve broken my wrist.’ He had his teeth gritted against the pain.
‘You shouldn’t have been holding a knife.’
Nelson sat placidly in the cell, head bowed, gently rocking to and fro. A few hours of cold and pain would soften him up, Nottingham thought as he turned the key in the lock.
Lister marched out along Boar Lane, then over the tenter fields that ran down to the river. In the distance, the woods were silent, only the caw of a single crow breaking the stillness.
The camp had gone. Just a few branches strewn on the ground and the cold remains of a fire hinted it had ever existed. The children had moved on. He hadn’t hoped for much, but he needed to check.
None of the men had spotted the cutpurses. But it was easy enough to stay out of sight in Leeds. Still, if they’d only been here a fortnight, Nick and Kate wouldn’t really know the town yet. Yet that didn’t seem to help catch the little bastards. Angrily, he kicked at a stone and watched it skitter across the grass.
Emily had visited the baby again after school, she told him as they lay in bed the night before; that was why she’d been late coming home. She’d held the girl, changed her, watched as she fed. He heard the wonder in her voice, the pleasure of it all. Mrs Webb was happy to suckle the child, especially if Emily gave her a few pennies every week. When the time was right they’d bring Mary home to Marsh Lane.
He hadn’t said a word. He knew how much she wanted this. A part of him felt the same way, filled with the idea of a child that was theirs. But then he thought again and the whole thing terrified him, being responsible for something so tiny and fragile. He’d be scared to touch her, let alone hold her in his arms. How could he look after someone so small? How could he teach her? How could he love her the way a father should when she wasn’t his own flesh and blood?
And there was Annie. What were they going to do with her? The boss didn’t appear worried, and Lucy was happy to have someone else around the house. But she couldn’t say there forever. They’d have to find someone to take her in.
Back on Boar Lane, among the press of unwashed bodies, the thoughts fled. Nick and Kate, that was his business.
The apothecary set the wrist. A sharp tug made Nelson cry out, then the man held on to the splints and wrapped them with a grubby bandage. Richard Nottingham stood and watched, sipping from a mug of ale. Finally they were alone.
‘I ent done nowt wrong.’
But his defiance was as thin as air.
‘No?’ The constable leaned against the wall. ‘Of course you haven’t. Innocent men always run from the law then pull knives.’ He sighed. ‘This time you can tell me the truth.’
‘I were feart.’
‘Maybe you were. After all, you know about a murder or two.’
Nelson brought his head up sharply, eyes wide. He opened his mouth, but no words came.
‘I dun’t know owt,’ he said finally.
‘Yes, you do,’ Nottingham said. ‘And you’re going to tell me.’
Five minutes of prying and threats and he had it. Nelson had been walking back late from Hunslet, caught in the foggy night. He’d stopped as soon as he saw the figures on the bridge. Two men, struggling.
‘Then I saw one mek a slash, like, and heave t’ other over the parapet. Felt like forever afore I heard t’ splash in watter. Then the man on the bridge, he picked summat up and tossed it over t’ side ’fore he walked off.’
‘Which direction did he take?’
‘Into town. He’d have seen me elsewise.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I stayed there.’ His eyes glared. Good, a little of the man’s spark was returning. ‘What do you think? I’m not daft.’
‘What did the man look like?’
‘Nobbut a shape in the fog. Big lad, mebbe. Strong, too, by t’ look of him.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t rightly know. Don’t want to, neither.’
‘Did you see his face?’
Nelson shook his head. Silence filled the cell. It had been foggy the night Smith was killed, Nottingham thought, and always thickest by the river.
‘What else?’
‘Nowt.’ He spat the answer. But it came too quickly and he looked away as he spoke.
‘Don’t lie to me.’
Still he said nothing. Then, ‘I’ve heard what’s been going on. Them killings. The way he just turned and walked off like it were nowt … if he knew I’d seen it I reckon he’d do for me, too.’ There was a plea under his words.
The chase, the broken wrist. Nelson was terrified for his life.
‘Go home,’ he said.
‘You won’t say owt?’
‘No.’ People would hear that the man had been in the jail, but they wouldn’t know why. He hadn’t even had much to say, just an image as ghostly as the one the constable had seen. Big and broad. It could have been the same man. Or one of many in Leeds.
He was still sitting at the desk when Lister returned.
‘Not a peep out of the cutpurses.’ He sat with a long, weary sigh and stretched out his legs. ‘Maybe yesterday made them decide to leave. I feel like I’ve been round the town ten times today hunting for them.’
‘We’ll find out in time if they’ve gone.’ Nottingham raised an eyebrow. ‘I want the men on the same duty for the moment. Let’s keep the mayor happy.’
‘Yes, boss.’
The constable smiled. ‘Do you think you’ve got the strength to walk home?’
It was dark, but the chill of the day had eased. Thin cloud covered the sky, hiding the stars.
‘What about this dance at the Cloth Hall?’ Nottingham asked after he’d told Lister about Oliver Nelson. ‘Looking forward to it?’
Rob grinned and laughed. ‘You’ve never seen me dance, have you?’
‘I’ll wager you can’t be any worse than me. Mary used to love going to the balls,’ he began, then closed his mouth into a tight line and went quiet.
Annie was waiting in the house, wearing an old house dress of Emily’s that Lucy had cut down. The girl was bathed and clean, hair shining from the brush, but still nervous as she gazed up at all the adult eyes. Still, she was warm, she was fed. The cut on her neck was still a harsh red line, but it would heal well.
She helped to serve the meal, balancing each plate very carefully and walking slowly from the kitchen.
‘I talked to her after I came home,’ Emily said after she’d gone. ‘Annie’s a bright girl, Papa. Very sweet.’
‘You sound like you have something in mind.’ Nottingham’s eyes were twinkling.
‘Well,’ she began slowly, ‘I talked to Mrs Williamson today. They’ve just taken on a girl. But Lucy could use some help. And she could come to the school every morning.’
‘She lasted out there for a year,’ he reminded his daughter. ‘That’s a hard life. She might be a handful.’
‘Lucy did that, too,’ Emily reminded him. ‘And you wouldn’t want to be rid of her now.’
Was that what life was going to be like in the years ahead, he wondered? Taking in strays and giving them a home? Still, the girl needed somewhere, that was true enough.
‘She can stay until we find her a place somewhere else,’ he agreed. As Emily began to speak, he held up a finger. ‘But she goes to school part of each day.’
‘Yes, Papa,’ she agreed, but she was smiling. He noticed her glance uncertainly at Rob. He gave a small nod. ‘There’s something else.’
‘Go on.’
‘The baby that was left at St John’s.’ He watched as she reached across and took Lister’s hand and everything tumbled into place. ‘We’d like to give her a home, too.’
&nb
sp; ‘What about your teaching?’ Nottingham asked.
‘Lucy will look after her during the day. I’ve talked to her about it.’ She blushed. ‘That’s why another servant here might help.’
‘You’re sure about this?’ He looked from one of them to the other. Emily was glowing, Rob uncertain; but he’d do whatever she wanted.
‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘I am. As soon as she doesn’t need the breast any more. It’s your house, though, Papa.’
Maybe it was, but she’d outmanoeuvred him and sprung her small ambush perfectly. He knew what his wife would have said. She had had a generous heart. And perhaps it was time to hear a baby crying here again, to bring some new life into the place and wake it up.
‘You don’t need to ask. She’ll be welcome here.’
Emily beamed, her eyes brimming, on the edge of tears.
‘There’s one more thing, Papa: if you’re willing, we’d like to call her Mary.’
Rob listened as the constable questioned Annie about the cutpurses, amazed by the soft way he approached her. Nottingham settled himself awkwardly on a low stool, looking her in the eye, smiled and started by telling the girl she had a home here if she wanted it.
He was used to seeing the boss question men, but here he was entirely different, gently nudging the girl in one direction or another with his words. The young children quickly learned to keep their distance from the older ones, she told him. But she’d kept her eyes open and remembered a few things. Nick was quick to anger and use his fists. He seemed to relish his temper and his violence. Kate looked as if she adored him for it.
‘Why?’ Annie asked. ‘Why would she do that, sir?’
‘Some people are made that way,’ the constable told her quietly. ‘They think power is important.’
He never talked down to the girl, he answered her questions seriously and thoughtfully. More than that, Rob thought, he made her feel welcome, a part of the family. Lucy hovered close the whole time like a mother hen, but she kept her mouth closed. Finally he thanked Annie and stood, pushing himself upright with a frown of pain.
‘What do you make of that?’ Nottingham said as they sat by the fire.
‘I think we’d better hope they’ve left Leeds.’
‘We can hope, but I doubt they have,’ he said after a moment. ‘Too much opportunity for them here. And it’s easy to hide.’
‘Then I don’t think this Nick will let himself be taken.’
‘No.’ The constable sighed. ‘Neither do I.’
FOURTEEN
There was a dampness in the air that leeched through his skin and made his joints ache as he walked into town. Mist lingered over the water and clung around the trestles set up on Briggate for the cloth market.
Nottingham walked up and down the street after the bell sounded to start trading, then past the small ginnel where Jane and the girl who looked like Rose had tried to make their living. Out on the bridge the fog hung more thickly, muffling all the sounds until they might have been coming from a different world.
All he had was a couple of blurred glimpses of a killer. But it was the same man, he knew that inside, even if he couldn’t make sense of the why or how behind it. Slowly, he strolled back, alert for anything untoward. Near Kirkgate he spotted Tom Williamson. The man was smiling broadly; the morning must have brought some good bargains.
‘A fine market today, Richard. Very fine.’
‘Made some money?’
‘I’ve spent enough.’ He laughed. ‘But never mind. I’ll turn a good profit on it.’ He rubbed at a sliver of dirt on his tricorn hat. ‘You’re coming to the dance, of course?’
‘Bonfire Night. Someone has to keep an eye on the town. I’ll leave the dancing to Emily and Mr Lister.’
‘Oh, come on, Richard. I remember you used to cut a fine figure.’
‘A very reluctant one.’
‘It’s for a good cause. Your daughter’s school.’ Williamson grinned. ‘I’m sure I could find a few widows who’d love to take a turn with you.’
Nottingham laughed. ‘That’s very kind of you. But we’d both be better off if I’m working. You know there’s always trouble on Gunpowder Treason Night.’
‘From what I hear, you already have enough of that. Armistead’s been complaining to everyone who’ll listen. He’s saying it’s too dangerous to walk on the streets of Leeds these days.’
‘A pair of cutpurses have been giving us a problem,’ he admitted and held up his bandaged hand as proof. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll catch them. Still, between us, watch yourself.’
‘I shall, don’t you worry.’ He glanced around the cloth market as if he was trying to spot something else worth his time. ‘I’d better get to the warehouse before those weavers arrive.’ His voice was merry. ‘A pity, though, you’ll miss an excellent dance.’
The constable had a man on the market at the top of Briggate, and walked through the crowds until he saw him in position.
Nottingham stayed by the Moot Hall steps, half listening to Jem entertain with his tales. But his eyes kept roaming across the faces. Maybe Rob was right; maybe Nick and Kate had been frightened away. But in his heart he doubted it; they weren’t done with Leeds yet.
The pair didn’t appear at the market, though, or anywhere else in town. All along the inns on Briggate, the weavers were celebrating selling their cloth and the whores were doing good business, every one of them out for a market day, teasing and touting for business.
There were plenty of faces he’d never seen before among the prostitutes, but none of them knew the dead girl who’d looked like Rose. She was in the ground now, but images of her kept appearing in his head, both the timid little thing who spoke so hopefully and the corpse he’d examined on the slab.
But how many other faces had paraded through his mind over the years? He couldn’t even begin to count them. He’d tried to give every one of them justice. They all deserved that. Sometimes he’d succeeded. Too often, it seemed, he’d failed.
He felt as if he was spending his days chasing ghosts. Vanishing cutpurses, a man glimpsed in the murk who let no word slip to anyone. He eyed everyone he passed, trying to compare them to the figure he’d half seen. That was madness, and he knew it. What he needed was some substance, even the tiniest piece, that small thread he could tug and unravel the cloth.
At least no more had died. But five was too many, far too many in such a short space of time. And it hadn’t ended. Until he found the killer, he knew there would be more.
‘I want one of the night men watching the bridge,’ he told Rob. ‘Do we have anyone reliable?’
‘There’s Flint. He doesn’t drink too much and he follows orders well.’
‘Can he keep his eyes open and stay at his post?’
‘As long as you lay it all out clearly for him.’
The constable sighed. That was the way it had always been; those covering the nights seemed to be the lost, hopeless ones. But what could he expect? The job paid next to nothing.
‘I want him to stay out of sight. And if he notices anything …’
‘Yes, boss.’
Lister escorted Flint to a spot south of the bridge. Far enough away to keep hidden, but close enough to see, then run and break up any trouble.
‘You understand?’ he asked again. ‘Stay here. This is where you’ll be for the next few nights.’
‘Yes, Mr Lister,’ the man replied seriously. He tried hard, Rob knew, he wanted to work well. ‘Stand here till morn, and if owt happens on t’ bridge, go and break it up.’ Flint smiled, pleased with himself.
‘That’s it.’
He went through it all once again, then left. At least he could be sure that the man wouldn’t wander away during the night. Back at the jail, Rob talked to Crandall, telling him to keep the men alert as the inns closed for the night. Saturday was always bad. Men had been paid, they had a day of rest ahead of them. Drink would fire all the pent-up grievances and anger from the week. Fists and boots out on the cobbles. Kn
ives.
‘Bang a few heads together and drag them into the cells,’ Lister said. But he knew full well that Crandall wouldn’t be out there himself. Like his late relative, Simon Kirkstall, he was too delicate for a scrap.
Nottingham sat in the room off the stable behind the Rose and Crown with Jem. The storyteller had the place tidy, with sweet, fresh straw for the bed, a brazier burning to give some heat.
‘That Molly, the landlord’s daughter, she brings me food that’s left over from the kitchen,’ Jem said. ‘Lovely lass.’ He smiled as he looked around the small room. ‘This isn’t a bad place to spend the winter. Cosy enough, too. And folk seem to like the tales.’
‘You need to come out to my house again,’ the constable told him.
‘Any time you want me, it’ll be my pleasure. Did I tell you that three or four years back I went around with a magician?’
‘Magician?’ Nottingham said. He’d seen one at the market once, drawing a crowd that gasped and applauded his skill and showered him with coins.
‘Oh aye. He did it all – card tricks, made stuff appear and disappear, everything. They loved him in the markets. We were always being invited to people’s homes for the night. Grand places, an’ all. He’d entertain the gentry and I’d tell my stories to the servants.’ He laughed. ‘He got the money but I got the better food and company.’ He sighed. ‘We had a little circuit – Thirsk, Malton, Northallerton, then into York.’
‘Why did you stop?’
‘George, that was his name, he died. It were in Malton. We were sleeping in a farmer’s barn. Right as rain when we went to sleep, dead when I tried to rouse him the next morning. I’ve not been back since. Too many memories.’
Nottingham ate at the inn, watching people come and go. Conversation ebbed and flowed around him. John Reynolds, the landlord, was rushing hither and yon, up and down the stairs, serving food or clearing the tables.
Briggate was still busy with groups of men determined to enjoy Saturday night. He could hear some of them singing out of tune somewhere.
He realized he’d fallen back into the rhythm of the job without thinking, as if he’d never been away. Early mornings, evenings that stretched out late, too little sleep. But he’d done it for so long that it all returned as naturally as breathing.
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