He put more coal on the fire and watched the flames leap higher. Outside the rain was heavier, streaming down the window.
It was aggravating, fruitless work, but still better than being out in that.
Nottingham found Jem in his room by the stable at the Rose and Crown. A brazier kept the place warm, old sack stuffed into the cracks around the door to keep out the wind and the water.
‘Hazard of the trade,’ Jem said as he listened to the rain on the roof. ‘But God made it, so there’s no sense complaining.’ He brought out a jug. ‘That Molly slipped this out to me. Fancy a mug?’
The constable shook his head. ‘I can’t stay long. You heard about the body in Mabgate?’
‘Course I have. You couldn’t hear much else this morning.’ He grinned. ‘You know how folk are. They love a killing.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Not so you’d notice. Someone was talking about a man named Groves. Said he’d be happy to see Warren dead.’
Solomon Groves. A name dredged up from the past.
‘What else?’
‘No more than the usual blether. Are you sure you won’t stop for a drink, Mr Nottingham? It’s cats and dogs out there.’
TWENTY
The draper’s shop smelt of roses. Nottingham wiped the rain from his face and looked around. Hose, handkerchiefs, stocks that glistened in the candlelight. Little had changed over the years.
He heard footsteps and Groves came bustling through from the back room, halting as soon as he saw his customer.
‘Mr Nottingham.’ A smile quickly hid the dismay. ‘Are you looking to buy?’
‘Not today,’ the constable told him with a smile. ‘Just a word with you, Mr Groves.’
‘Of course.’ But he looked uneasy, as if he’d rather be anywhere else.
‘Tom Warren.’ He said the name slowly, watching as the man blinked a few times.
‘A terrible shame. I heard about it. So much death these days.’
‘I agree. But it’s strange, last night someone was saying you won’t mourn Mr Warren too much.’
‘Me?’ But the way he tightened his grip on his coat collar told the truth.
‘You,’ Nottingham insisted. ‘Why might that be, I wonder?’
‘Did you know him?’
‘We only met once.’
‘He was a very unpleasant man.’ Groves’s face reddened.
‘Blackmail?’ It was just a guess, but as soon as he spoke the word, he saw that he was right. The man’s face tightened.
‘Yes.’
Something else to add to the list of Warren’s crimes. He didn’t need the details; the knowledge was enough.
‘That gives you a reason to kill him.’
‘I—’ Groves’ face lost all its colour.
‘Don’t worry,’ Nottingham told him. ‘I don’t think it was you.’
‘Thank you. I couldn’t. Never. Not that.’ He took a few short breaths. ‘He kept asking for a little more money, you see. Just a little at first, but lately …’
‘You’re free of him now.’
‘I am.’ He sounded as if his life had begun again with Warren’s death.
‘Who else might be happy to see him gone? Do you know?’
‘No. I’m sorry.’ The man’s problems had probably been his whole world. Now he might be able to glance outside a little.
‘Then I’ll wish you good day.’
He was drenched by the time he reached the jail, water dripping from his hat and coat. The rain teemed down harder than ever. Drops bounced up from the cobbles, a thin river of it ran down the middle of Kirkgate.
‘You had the best of it today,’ Nottingham said as he shook himself like a dog. ‘What did you manage to find in Warren’s papers?’
‘Nothing.’ He put down the quill and rubbed his fingers. ‘With no accounts, I don’t even have an idea what to look for.’ He gestured at the papers. ‘I can go through them till Doomsday and these still won’t tell me a thing.’
‘We’re back where we started, then.’
‘I’ve made a list of his clients from all the bills of sale and invoices. But I’ve no idea if it’s complete.’
‘Is Tom Finer’s name there?’
‘Yes.’
That was good. Outside, the last of the light had faded, only the sound of the rain and a few carts moving slowly.
‘We might as well go home. We’re not going to achieve anything else today.’
The rain blew out overnight, but it left the ground sodden. The piles of wood for the bonfires were all wet; at this rate they’d be hard pressed to get a single decent blaze from them.
His boots squelched in the mud as he walked down Marsh Lane. The clouds still hung heavy, hiding the stars and the moon. But the bitter cold had passed; that was something. Somewhere a fox barked as it stole through the darkness.
They had a list of men who did business with Warren. That was a place to begin. But he was certain that the killer would have taken everything with his name on it. The best they could hope for was to uncover a hint and trust it led them somewhere.
It was slow work. When he met Rob in the White Swan at dinner time, Nottingham saw that he’d had no success, either.
‘All they want to know is where their accounts are,’ Lister said.
‘I’ve had the same,’ Nottingham told him. ‘One man demanded to know what we were doing.’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘I offered to check his ledger after we find it and he shut up fast enough.’
‘It’s taking us nowhere,’ Rob said. The killer was three, four, five steps ahead of them and probably laughing at the way they were flailing around.
‘Who gains from all this?’ the constable wondered.
‘No one. Not that I can see. That’s the problem. There’s no new moneylender in town, no rumours of any fresh pimps arriving. Since Josh Bartlett was killed, half the whores have gone, according to the night men. They’ve all become too scared.’
‘Then someone’s waiting for the right moment. He’s putting everything in place.’
‘Boss …’
Nottingham raised his hand. ‘Hear me out. I don’t understand how Warren became part of this, but it’s exactly the same method, the same murderer. He’s waiting until he’s ready to step in and take charge of everything.’
‘It seems too calculated.’
‘We’re dealing with someone who has a plan. Someone ambitious. I was told yesterday that it was like something Amos Worthy would do.’
‘But Worthy’s dead. I’ve told you, times have changed here.’
‘Maybe not as much as you think.’ He sat, thinking. ‘Stanbridge had dinner with Warren before he was killed. Who was the other man with them?’
‘Mark Ferguson.’
‘Go and talk to him again. Chances are he’s terrified now. In his shoes I would be.’
‘I will. I’ll enjoy that.’
‘You said the other moneylender deals with businesses.’
‘Probably half the merchants in Leeds borrow with him. That means plenty of aldermen. Everything’s absolutely legal.’
Nottingham nodded. ‘He’s probably safe enough, then. Killing him would cause too much outrage. I don’t think the murderer’s ready to flex his muscles that far. Not yet.’
‘And we still don’t know how to catch him.’
‘No,’ the constable agreed. ‘We don’t.’
Ferguson kept neat rooms above a shop on Boar Lane. Not the most fashionable address, but well appointed inside. A servant took Rob’s hat and greatcoat, leaving him in the parlour staring out at Holy Trinity Church across the street, its Meanwood stone still glittering white and the wooden spire climbing to the sky.
‘I hadn’t expected to see you again, Mr Lister.’
Ferguson stood in the doorway. A short, curled periwig today, a crisp stock and an elaborately embroidered waistcoat topped tight breeches and hose intended to show off his legs. There was a mix of resentment and fear in his
voice. Good, Rob thought: he could build on that.
‘I felt it was worth a visit. After all, you’ve been unfortunate in your choice of dinner companions. Stanbridge dead, then Warren murdered. I thought I’d better see that you were still with us.’
‘What?’ Ferguson’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘What do you mean? No one would want to kill me.’
‘I’m sure you’d know more about that than I would. But a man who preys on widows must make enemies.’ He gave a half-smile.
‘I think you’d better leave.’ Scared, but more confident when he was secure in his own home. It was easy enough to undermine that.
‘If you wish. Who do you have to protect you?’
‘Protect? Why would I need that?’
‘We don’t know yet who’s behind the killings. He’s clever. It could easily be someone you know and trust. I just wondered if you’d hired someone to keep you secure.’
‘Of course I haven’t. I don’t need anyone like that.’ His eyes flashed with anger and fear.
‘Joshua Bartlett thought the same thing. He was a big man, a fighter. But someone managed to lure him out to the tenter fields and kill him. If it can happen to somebody like that …’
‘What do you want?’ Ferguson asked, a desperate edge creeping into his voice.
‘Your memory. I need to know every name that was mentioned when you dined with Stanbridge and Warren.’
‘I don’t know. When they talked business, my mind drifted.’
‘Then I suggest you think, Mr Ferguson.’ A heartbeat’s pause. ‘Your life might depend on it.’
Rob was content to wait, to give the man time and let the pressure build. No doubt the man was attentive enough if the talk turned to women or ways of making money. Anything else, though? He wasn’t so certain.
‘I can’t remember. They might have talked about people.’ He stared helplessly. ‘I stopped listening to them.’
The best chance they had and he turned out to be a man with a head full of air.
‘Keep thinking about it. I want to know if any name comes to you. It’s important.’
Ferguson nodded quickly. ‘Am I in danger?’
‘You may be,’ Rob told him. ‘In your position I’d assume I was.’
At least that would give him something to think about. Rob smiled as he clattered down the stairs. Maybe fear would give him a spur.
Nottingham walked. Often the rhythm of it, the movement, helped him think. Did all this remind him of Worthy? Not of the man he’d known. But by the time he became constable, Amos Worthy was already established. He had a web of aldermen in his debt and he was beyond reach. All he’d ever been able to do was thwart the man here and there. Only death had been able to beat him.
Could there be another in his mould?
Finer seemed convinced. But he would happily send the law off in the wrong direction while he exacted his revenge.
Yet Nottingham could feel it, that one man on his own was behind this. So far, though, he’d left no trace. Not someone who’d been in Leeds for years, he was certain. Anyone with those ambitions would have made his move when Kirkstall took over as constable.
And he didn’t know the ones who’d come since. He didn’t have their measure. Rob was right; the town had changed. Yet even he couldn’t come up with a likely name. Whoever was doing this was very skilled at making himself invisible.
More than that, he knew things. He heard things very quickly. How? How could his ears be everywhere? And how had he been able to tempt people like Bartlett and Warren to places where he could kill them?
He realized he’d walked out past Town End and into the countryside. The fields were brown where they’d been ploughed, rising away to green on the hills where a few sheep grazed. The air was heavy with smell of damp earth and the puddles on the road deep enough to jolt a cart. Not even half a mile outside Leeds and this was a different world. Quieter, slower. More disturbing, in its own way. He felt comfortable among the noise and the voices, the women crying their wares, the bustle of Briggate. It was what he’d known all his life, his music.
Nottingham turned and walked back slowly to town. He didn’t have any answers, but perhaps the problem had a shape at last. Yet the man behind it all was still no more than a shadow in the mist.
He’d become used to Annie serving the food, as if she naturally fitted into the place. She was still shy, always looking down, unsure if she was doing the proper thing. But she’d settle. Lucy was looking after her well. The girl was beginning to fill out a little, more than the skin and bone she’d been when she arrived. And the fear that haunted her face had disappeared.
After the meal, Emily called her in and set a book out on the table, going over the page word by word, helping her pronounce the words then put each sentence together. His daughter had patience, Nottingham thought. But she was right: twice through and the girl was reading it as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Emily looked at him and raised her eyebrow questioningly. He nodded. The girl had a quick mind.
Sitting by the fire, the soft drone of reading in the background, the constable laid out his thoughts and questions for Rob.
‘How could he have known that Four-Finger Jane had been asking questions for me? And what did he say to Warren and Bartlett? With all the deaths, they should have been on their guard.’
‘He’s somewhere he can hear things,’ Lister answered. ‘He has to be.’
‘One of our men?’
Rob shook his head. ‘They don’t have the wit for it, never mind the drive. But he might have heard it from one of them.’
Men drank and talked. It wouldn’t take much to draw information from them.
‘What about the other question?’
‘Josh Bartlett wouldn’t have been afraid. He probably never gave a moment’s thought to my warning. He was greedy. So was Warren.’
‘Dangle the possibility of easy money in front of them …’
‘They’d be there with their tongues lolling out,’ Rob said.
Nottingham remained silent for a long time, frowning and staring into the flames of the fire. Finally he pushed himself to his feet.
‘I think we need Jem and his stories tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Time for a bit of liveliness around here.’
The temperature dropped harshly through the night. Even before dawn, the cart tracks in the mud had dried into hard ruts. Every step was tricky; judge it wrong and a man could break an ankle.
At the cloth market, buyers and sellers completed their business quickly, eager to get out of the cold. It was a rushed affair, over long before the hour had gone by, men already taking down the trestles to carry to the Cloth Hall for the afternoon’s trading.
And further up Briggate, fewer had come to sell their wares. Less shouting and haggling. People simply wanted to buy what they needed and return to the warmth. Nottingham spotted a few children, pale and icy and hoping for any kind of scraps. But around the Shambles the packs of dogs still gathered, quick and snarling after anything tossed away.
He found Jem outside the Moot Hall and gave his invitation.
‘Maybe I should come early. Not too many wanting to stop and listen today. Can’t blame them, neither.’
‘As early as you like. Give Lucy a good tale and she’ll probably warm your ale for you.’
‘How can I resist an offer like that?’
No Con today, but the weather was too bitter for his fingers. Too raw for anything, and it felt as if it was growing harder with each hour. Just the cusp of November and it felt like the middle of January.
At midday he was in the White Swan, grateful for the fire and all the bodies around. The meat pie filled his belly and the ale washed it all down neatly. It had been a wasted morning, and he knew it. Hardly a soul around to give him answers, and he didn’t even know what questions to ask.
Had he lost the knack of the job? Grown too stale and dull in the last two years? He was missing something, some link in the chain of things. So was Ro
b, and he was young and sharp. But he lacked experience; Brooke had been right in that, at least. Together, though, perhaps they could beat the man behind all this. They had to. It was as simple as that.
He was dragged from his thoughts as Michael the landlord slid on to the bench across the table. A burly man with a perpetual frown, his hair was greyer now and wilder than ever, with thick, spreading whiskers.
‘You look like a man with a weight on his mind.’ He had a mug grabbed in a large, scarred fist, and took a deep drink as he looked around.
‘Too many of them.’ Nottingham managed a wan smile.
‘You ought to own a place like this. If it’s not the customers giving problems, it’s the people I buy from. Wanting their money before they’ll deliver or trying to short-weight me.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Still, you do hear a few things here and there.’
‘Oh?’ This was why Michael had come over. Not to complain, to pass information.
‘Had a man in last night. Henry Meecham, you know him?’
‘No.’
‘He looked like he’d been to a few other places first. Slurring his words and not making sense half the time. But he had money to pay for his ale and he didn’t look like he was about to start a fight.’
‘What did Meecham say?’ He knew Michael’s way; he needed to be eased along, and even then he’d take the long road.
‘That he’d seen a killing in Mabgate.’
‘What was he doing up there?’
‘I didn’t ask him. But he sounded certain enough about it.’ He took a clay pipe from the pocket of his apron, tamped down the tobacco with his thumb, and lit it from a taper. ‘I thought you might want to know.’
‘I’m grateful.’ The constable could feel his heart thumping in his chest. ‘Where do I find him?’
‘That’s the trick with Henry. You never know where he’ll sleep it off.’
‘Doesn’t he have a home?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Michael shook his head slowly, hair flying around. ‘Mostly where he passes out.’
Free from all Danger Page 18
