‘And what are we doing wrong?’ The constable’s expression hardened.
‘You should be cleaning out all the filth in this town. That’s where you’ll find him. It’s simple if you care to look.’
Rob turned away to hide his grin. The man was a menace. He knew how to run everything except his own business. That had struggled for years. Even his sons couldn’t make a success of it because Pargiter would never give them the chance.
‘That’s your advice, is it?’
‘It is,’ the man said firmly.
‘Then I suggest you leave right now, before I put you in a cell for trying to impede justice,’ Nottingham told him.
‘What?’ The man went goggle-eyed and colour rushed across his face.
‘Now.’
Very slowly, Pargiter rose. At the door he waved his stick. ‘I shall be writing to the Mercury about this.’
Rob raised his cup in a toast. ‘About time someone told him.’
‘Let him say what he wants.’ He sighed. ‘Are we doing something wrong here?’
‘No. We’re doing everything we can. What do we have to go on? A man with a coat pocket missing? I counted three of them this morning. And we’re relying on the word of a drunkard.’
‘I know, I know. We need more.’
‘We do,’ Rob agreed. ‘But where are we going to find it?’
He’d enjoyed throwing Pargiter out of the jail. The man had deserved it for years. But the satisfaction didn’t last. Doing everything wrong. That niggled and ate at his mind as he walked.
The weather was warmer again, as if it couldn’t choose between one thing and the other. He could hear the clear notes of Con’s fiddle at the top of Briggate, exactly what he needed to calm his soul.
It was a lilting air, full of promises and light. He stood a few feet away and listened, letting the music pour through him. Con held the final note until it became a whisper. Nottingham moved forward and threw a coin in the hat.
‘That was beautiful.’
‘I heard it once, a long time ago. I thought I’d see if I could remember it.’
‘You did.’
‘In parts, maybe.’ He shrugged and he adjusted the tuning on the violin, plucking at a string until his ear was happy. ‘I heard something else, too. I hoped you’d come by.’
‘What?’
‘It was just a snatch. Two men stopped and listened for a moment. But they kept on talking. One of them said their da had told him it would all come to a head on the fifth. Then the other one laughed.’
‘That was all?’
‘They moved on after that, I could hear them walking away.’
‘It could be nothing.’ Most likely it was an innocent fragment, nothing to do with murder.
‘Perhaps it is,’ Con agreed. ‘Their da, so it was a pair of brothers talking. It stayed with me, that’s all. The one who talked, he sounded young. Twenty, somewhere around there.’
‘Did you recognize their voices?’
‘No.’ Con frowned. ‘And you know me, Mr Nottingham. I remember the way people speak and walk. But they were new to me. They weren’t from Leeds, you could tell that. Not too far away, maybe, but not here. I just wanted to tell you, that’s all.’
He put a hand on the man’s arm. ‘I appreciate it. I’m glad you did.’
Did it mean anything? He wandered down the Head Row and along Vicar Lane, trying to hammer the words into the picture he had. A family? He’d imagined one man, working alone. Still, it was possible; a family would hold their secrets close, not letting a word slip.
He could feel his heart beating a little faster at the thought. Why hadn’t he imagined that?
In all likelihood, the words had nothing to do with this. A family affair, a phrase that had wandered out from behind closed doors. And not being from here – what did that mean? So many of the faces he saw every day were new. Families arrived all the time, trundling in with their possessions and their dreams. Young men, girls, everyone hoping the town contained the gold they hadn’t managed to find yet.
‘I think you’re making something out of nothing,’ Rob told him as they sat in the White Swan. Only bread and cheese on offer today, the cook ill. ‘They’re just words.’
The constable pared away a piece of rind with his knife.
‘Maybe, but it’s something to consider. The family part.’
‘No,’ Lister said after a few moments. ‘I know I didn’t believe you at first. I was wrong about that, I admit it. But we’d know if there was a family like that here. How could they hide it? It has to be one man.’
‘Let’s keep an open mind. On everything.’ He broke open the hunk of bread. ‘Remember what I said about seeing what we want to see.’ He chewed for a moment, then washed the food down with a swig of ale. ‘How do you feel about fatherhood now?’
‘Still terrified. She’s so small, so … fragile.’
‘They grow. Faster than you can believe. You’ll turn around and the next thing she’ll be walking.’ He grinned. ‘Then you’ll be fending off her young men.’
‘But how do you know what to do?’
‘You don’t. No one does.’ The confusion on Rob’s face made him smile. ‘People will show you. They’ll offer more advice than you’ll ever want, and one half of it will contradict the other. But you learn as you do it. And Mary will have a family around her.’ He wondered about the girl who’d left her baby in the church porch. Was she alive or dead? How scared had she been, alone and with a new life in her arms? She probably couldn’t even care for herself, never mind anyone else. ‘Don’t worry. You and Emily will be good parents.’
‘I hope so. It’s just …’
‘I know, believe me. Bigger than anything you ever imagined.’ He pushed the empty plate and drained his mug. ‘Come on, we have a killer to find, whether it’s one man or a family.’
It will all come to a head on the fifth. Gunpowder Treason Night, with the bonfires flaring and crackling and everyone running wild. A perfect time. On Friday. And already Monday was sliding away into darkness.
Perhaps it really was nothing, just talk about something else.
But …
He trudged down Kirkgate, stopping at the church. A little time with Mary and Rose, telling them about the baby, hearing his wife’s soft laughter and seeing her smile. Then, before he left, a visit to John Sedgwick. His deputy for so long, the one who knew what he was thinking before he realized it himself.
Would the two of them together have done any better on this? But there was no answer in the empty graveyard.
A brighter morning, the sky clear and still full of stars as he walked down Marsh Lane, not even the first hint of dawn on the horizon. He hadn’t been able to sleep, troubled by too many thoughts.
Whether the remark Con heard meant something or not, it had infected him with urgency. November the second today, and sand running out of the glass every minute.
He was the only man on Kirkgate. He could easily have been the only one awake in Leeds, as his footsteps echoed off the buildings. At the jail he skimmed through the reports, hoping for anything that could be useful. But nothing more than the normal drunkenness and fights, and a complaint of adulterated ale from the Talbot.
Nottingham sighed as he built up the fire, waiting until it caught and the flames began to leap.
Coming to a head on the fifth …
He was still weighing the words when Rob arrived, stifling a yawn. The young man had been out late, going around the inns once more, talking, listening for any scrap. But as Nottingham looked up hopefully, he shook his head.
‘I want you to go around those pimps you know,’ the constable said. ‘Tell them to stay indoors on the fifth and keep their doors locked.’
‘Boss …’
‘And that moneylender, the one you say is above board, tell him the same thing.’
‘Thompson. We can’t. Not on a few words that probably have nothing to do with killing.’
‘What if they we
re talking about that and we end up with more bodies? Warn them. Make it sound serious. I’d rather be wrong and have them all alive.’
‘Thompson’s going to ask why we haven’t caught the man yet. And he has the ear of some important people in town.’
‘Then let him complain. Maybe we’ll have the murderer by then. The murderers. Tell him we’re trying to save his life. Maybe that will make a difference.’
‘What about the whores?’
‘I’ll go and talk to them.’ But he already knew it would be a hopeless cause. With so many men out, drinking and celebrating, it would be a busy night for them, with money in their purses. Most of them would take their chances. The ones with pimps would have no choice. At least he could warn them and try to keep them on their guard …
‘Stay at home?’ Thompson said in disbelief. ‘Why?’
‘Because things might turn dangerous on Friday,’ Rob told him.
‘Dangerous? What in the name of God are you talking about?’
He tried to explain, seeing the man’s anger rise.
‘My daughters have been pestering me for a week to go and see the fires. Now you’re saying I have to tell them no. Whose idea is this? Yours or the new constable’s?’
‘We think it’s best.’ Even if he didn’t believe it, he owed the boss his loyalty.
‘If you’re so certain, why haven’t you arrested anyone yet? Don’t be so ridiculous.’ He slammed a hand down on his desk. ‘All you’re doing is spreading panic.’
‘We’re trying to keep people safe.’
‘I’ll be talking to some friends of mine about this,’ Thompson said.
‘That’s up to you.’
‘Yes,’ the man replied coldly. ‘It is. And now I have some work to do.’
Exactly as he predicted, Rob thought as the servant showed him out. But he’d done his duty. It was no better during the rest of the morning. The pimps barely listened. One laughed in his face. And who could blame them? If they were cowed by faint threats, they wouldn’t last long.
He didn’t believe it himself. He couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t evidence, it wasn’t even rumour. Just a few flimsy words a blind fiddler had overheard and blown into something important. Yet the boss chose to take it seriously. He’d revised his opinion of the man once, acknowledged he’d seen something others couldn’t believe, and been right. But this was caution based on nothing …
Nottingham didn’t go around the whores. They’d never accept it from him; they’d simply think the law was trying to keep them from earning a living. Instead he went to Lands Lane and knocked on Lizzie’s door.
‘Mr Nottingham,’ she said in surprise. She wore a stained apron over an old dress, her hair caught up under a cap. ‘Come in.’
Isabell stood by the table, dressed like her mother, small fists pressed down into bread dough.
‘We’re in the middle of …’ Lizzie gestured.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve come at a bad time.’
‘No, no … there’s ale if you want it.’ She held up flour-covered arms. ‘Help yourself.’ ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’
‘There’s something you might be able to do for me,’ he told her. He explained as she kneaded, showing her daughter what to do. James would be off at the bluecoat school, gaining more education than his father had ever enjoyed.
‘But if you’re willing, I want you to be very careful,’ he finished. ‘Just talk to one or two that you know and let them spread the idea. The people behind all this, they’re ruthless.’
Lizzie said nothing, watching Isabell shape the bread into a loaf. She took it, placed it on a wooden shovel, and slid it into the hot oven.
‘Half an hour,’ she said to the girl and smiled. ‘Now go and clean yourself up. Look at you, you’re a mess.’ As the girl climbed the stairs, Lizzie’s expression grew more serious.
‘Do you believe it?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘But the more I think about things, it seems possible. The women might listen to you.’
‘I can tell them but they’re not going to listen. They’ll earn good money on Friday. I used to look forward to it, back when …’ She shook her head to toss away the memory.
‘Only if you’re willing.’ For a moment he saw Grace, the girl who looked like his dead daughter. ‘But be careful. The people behind this are ruthless.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Lizzie said. ‘I can pass the word to a few. After that it’s up to them.’
‘I wouldn’t ask for more than that. Thank you.’ He stirred on the chair. ‘Did I tell you I’m going to be a grandfather?’
Home, and what had they accomplished? A day and an evening of walking, watching, of talking to men and to women. Following ideas that all seemed to lead nowhere. Nottingham turned his key in the lock of the house on Marsh Lane. It was dark inside, the banked fire giving just enough of a glow to make out a jug of ale and a cup on the table.
His mouth was dry and he swirled the drink around, letting it go down his throat like honey. From the kitchen he heard Annie start to snuffle and cry, then Lucy, soft and soothing. ‘Go back to sleep. It’s only a nightmare. You’re safe now.’
‘Does she have them often?’ he asked. ‘The nightmares.’
‘A few times.’ Lucy glanced at the back door. It was closed, Annie in the garden, feeding crumbs to the birds. ‘She dreams she’s back there. I had the same thing when I first came here. It’ll pass once she’s properly settled.’
‘Do you think—’ But he had to stop as the girl returned, picked up the broom and started to sweep the flagstones. Her reading book lay on the table, open to where she’d been studying first thing. Annie was bright, she was eager, a good worker. He’d been lucky with the waifs he’d brought into the house. Before he knew it, the months would pass, Mary would be weaned and living here. A rag-tag bunch. But a family, as surely as if they were all blood. His wife would have been pleased by it.
The cloth market began without problem, but when had it been any different? The wool trade was the lifeblood of Leeds; no one wanted problems here. The merchants moved around quietly, all of them elegantly dressed, flaunting their wealth and power.
He knew he looked like a scarecrow in comparison. Thick, darned woollen hose, old, baggy breeches, and a heavy, tired coat long out of fashion. No shoes with glittering buckles but boots with hobnails. Clothes to keep him warm, to take all the wear that came with the job.
Nottingham walked by the trestles. He was about to leave when he saw John Brooke marching down Briggate, pipe clenched tight in his mouth, nodding his hellos to the merchants and clothiers. He wore a tricorn hat so beautifully blocked that it seemed to shine, and a greatcoat elegantly cut to flatter his figure.
The man would want to talk, no doubt about that. He’d only taken a few paces when the mayor put out an arm.
‘I was hoping to catch you, Richard. I’ve been hearing a few things.’
‘Oh?’ he asked, as if he didn’t know what was coming.
‘Thompson’s been complaining to a few people. Is it true that Lister suggested he and his family don’t go to the fires on Friday?’
‘It is. I thought it best.’
Brooke waited for an explanation. Let him ask for it, the constable thought.
‘I take it you have good cause,’ the mayor said finally.
‘A possibility,’ he replied carefully.
Brooke stared at him, trying to assess how serious he was.
‘Unless you’re positive, I don’t want anyone spreading rumours. People enjoy themselves on Gunpowder Treason Night. We’ve already had to cancel the dance because poor Tom Williamson was killed.’ He made it sound like a reproof.
‘I won’t say a word to anyone else.’ That was true enough. Thompson and the pimps had been told. Any other word would pass to the whores through Lizzie. His part was done.
‘Make sure you don’t. And keep the apprentices in line on Friday. Crack a few heads if you need to. Last
year they almost ran riot.’
The mayor didn’t mention the deaths. But whores, pimps and moneylenders barely mattered to him. They weren’t upstanding citizens who complained to the corporation.
‘I’ll make sure everything is in hand.’
The traders were preparing for the Tuesday market. Goods brought in by cart, on packhorses, or in bundles carried on their own backs. The Shambles was already busy with the sharp swoosh of cleavers as butchers hacked at their meat. A steady stream of women eager for the freshest cuts. Not that it would be likely to go off today; there was a brisk chill in the air.
He passed Jem sitting on his pack outside the Moot Hall and in the middle of a tale. The old man raised his hand in greeting. By the market cross, Con was in full flow, notes sparking off his fiddle. But he stopped in the middle of the melody, put up his bow, and called out, ‘Mr Nottingham! Mr Nottingham!’
The constable turned quickly. Con never interrupted his music. ‘What’s so important?’
‘I heard them again, the two I told you about.’ He was close, his words a whisper in the ear. ‘Late yesterday, just as I was finishing.’
He didn’t doubt the man. Con had never mistaken a voice or a footstep. If he said it was them, then it was.
‘What were they saying?’ he asked urgently, keeping his voice low.
‘Nothing important. I tried to follow them, but there was a press of people just there.’ He gestured down Briggate. ‘By the time I was past it, they’d gone.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, although it didn’t help at all. They could be anywhere in Leeds.
‘If I hear them again—’
‘Don’t do anything,’ Nottingham warned him. ‘It could be dangerous.’
The blind man nodded and looked like he was about to speak. Instead, he put his fiddle up to his shoulder again and began to play.
The constable listened for a few seconds. The music was a sweet, soft air that promised spring. With winter arriving so early this year, they’d all be ready for that.
While he was up here he decided to stop at the Talbot and discuss the anonymous complaint he’d received about watered ale at the Inn. It was likely nothing, every single tavern had them, sometimes two or three times a year. Part of his job was to investigate, because some tradesmen did offend – bakers sometimes put chalk in their bread along with the flour to make up the weight and increase their profits. But a few hours in the stocks outside the Moot Hall quickly discouraged them.
Free from all Danger Page 20
