It was still early but the inn was already busy, groups of men standing around and talking. Every market day would mean good money. The rich smell of stewing meat came from the kitchen and Harry Meadows stood with a smile on his face as he surveyed his kingdom.
‘Mr Nottingham,’ he said with pleasure, ‘what will you have to drink? There’s a fresh brew in the barrel.’
‘Nothing today. I need to talk to you.’
‘Oh?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘It’s better if we talk in private.’ He liked Meadows. The man was genial and open. And he had no desire to ruin his reputation over a single complaint.
For a second the man wavered, then nodded. ‘In the back.’
It was a passageway, the floor tiled, the walls made of stone. Crates of wine were stacked on the floor, next to a case of clay mugs. Beyond that he could see two women working in the kitchen, one close to Meadows’s age, the heat from the stove making perspiration run down her face as the other ladled out bowls of food.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s very likely not worth mentioning, but I’ve had a complaint that you’ve been watering down the ale.’
For a moment the man was silent. But Nottingham could see something flash quickly behind his eyes. Anger? Fear? The air between them felt sharp. Not too surprising; it was an accusation no innkeeper wanted. Then Meadows was in control again.
‘Me?’ He waved a hand toward the barrels. ‘Try anything you want. Be my guest. Pour it yourself if you like. Nothing’s watered here. Never has been and it never will be.’
‘I believe you,’ the constable said with a smile. ‘Only one person has said anything—’
‘Who was it?’ Meadows asked.
‘I don’t know. But it’s part of my job to look into it.’
‘Of course. But taste the ale, Mr Nottingham. It’s good, I promise you.’ The man took a breath. ‘I’d appreciate you keeping this private. I don’t want folk thinking I’d do anything like that.’
‘You’re doing a good trade.’
‘Better each week. And I’m going to have the cockpit open this Friday night. A good cock fight after the bonfires. It should be full. Come as my guest,’ he offered.
‘Thank you, but it’ll be a hectic night for me.’ Out in the bar, men were clamouring to be served. ‘You’re in demand.’
There wasn’t a landlord in Leeds who hadn’t been accused of watering his ale; every one of them faced the same thing, and most of the time it meant nothing. He’d done his duty. Now he had more important things on his mind.
TWENTY-THREE
‘What are you trying to tell me?’
Rob was in the Nag’s Head, nursing a mug of ale. He’d been listening to Ralph Harding for the last five minutes. The man had something to say, but he was going all round the houses to get there.
He was one of the informers that Lister had cultivated, and the tips he’d given had usually been good. Where he heard things Rob didn’t know, and he’d never ask. That was the man’s own business. But he’d sent a message and that meant he had something to say.
‘These murders,’ Harding muttered. He worked loading barges on the Aire, a heavily-built man with thick arms and powerful legs. A few days of dark stubble covered his face, and his hair grew thick and wild.
‘What about them?’ He stared at the man.
A sly glint came into Harding’s eye. ‘What’s it worth?’
‘You know me, Ralph. That depends on what it is. I’ve always been fair with you.’
‘Aye,’ Harding agreed. ‘Right enough.’
‘Tell me what you know.’
‘Someone was saying summat last night.’
‘If you’ve dragged me out for gossip …’
‘Nay, Mr Lister, it’s not like that. I heard him talking myself. He didn’t think anyone was close enough to listen, but I’ve got good ears.’
‘Get on with it. I don’t have all day to sit here.’
‘Right. Well, one of them said—’
‘How many were there?’ Rob interrupted.
‘Two. Young, the pair of them. Had their heads together but they didn’t keep their voices down. One said they were free and clear, that no one knew who was behind the killings.’
Rob took another drink. His throat felt dry.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘The other said that Friday would see it over. Their da had everything planned. Then they laughed.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘Just young. About his age.’ Harding pointed at a man aged about twenty standing close to the window. ‘Fair hair. Nothing to notice, really.’ He shrugged.
The man might be able to listen, but he might as well have been walking around with his eyes closed, Rob thought.
‘I want to know everything you can remember, Ralph,’ he said. ‘Every last thing. Any names?’
But there was nothing, as if he’d listened but scarcely bothered to glance at the pair.
‘Now, that’s got to be worth summat, Mr Lister,’ Harding said with a grin as he finished.
Rob took a penny from his pocket.
‘If you’d paid more attention it would be twice that. Use your eyes as well as your ears.’
Rob walked quickly back to the jail, hoping that Nottingham was there. But the place was empty.
He knew what Harding’s words meant and it galled him; he’d been so certain that the boss was wrong this time. But what was going to happen on Friday? How could they stop something they didn’t know?
‘It’s confirmation.’
The constable listened carefully as Rob recounted what Harding had told him. He sat with his hands steepled under his chin, frowning.
‘You were right.’
Nottingham sighed. ‘I’d be happier if it did us any good. So far we know that whoever’s in charge of all this has two fair-haired sons, and they’re all in on it. And we have until Friday to catch them.’ He looked at Lister. ‘It’s threadbare, isn’t it?’
‘It’s still a little more than we had before,’ Rob said.
That was true. One more tiny piece. But not enough, and time was falling away in front on them.
‘It looks as if we’re both going to be out late asking questions.’
But no answers. Not the ones they needed, anyway: Someone muttered to the constable about a coin clipper as he sat in the Turk’s Head. That was good to know. He’d deal with it once this threat was done.
By the time he walked home the sky was clear, the moon bright, and thousands of stars shining in the sky. The cold had returned, and his breath bloomed like a small cloud.
His head ached. Not from the ale, but from all the words he’d heard during the evening. Too many of them, and not a single one that could help him find the man and his sons.
In bed, he lay listening to the small sounds of the night and trying to slough off the day. Perhaps Rob had discovered something.
Lister pushed his hands into his pockets as he strode down Kirkgate. He felt as if he’d been in every tavern in Leeds and learned nothing. A few drinks to keep his throat moist, but his head was still clear.
Someone was running along the street towards him. Rob turned, one hand grabbing the cudgel. It was probably nothing, but the last, strange night-time encounter had left him wary.
The sound grew closer. He could make out the shape of a man. The moon caught the face. Fair hair and an intent expression.
‘Constable’s man,’ Rob called out. ‘Stop.’
But the man kept coming. Light glinted on something in his hand. Rob drew the cudgel, ready.
It was easy enough to step aside in time. He remembered the lessons his fencing master had given him when he was younger. As the man passed, Rob brought the cudgel down hard. It missed the man’s head but caught him between the shoulder blades. No more than a glancing blow. Not even enough to bring him down.
The man stopped and turned. Young, big and broad, a cocky grin on
his face, and a long knife in his hand.
He was quick, feinting one way, then striking another. But he was untrained. He might as well have signalled every move. If it came to brute strength, he’d win, but Rob wasn’t about to give him that chance. A cudgel was more than a match for a knife. With no one around to help him, it had to be.
He waited, parrying, slipping away, seeing the other man’s frustration rise. Good. Let him make mistakes; Rob would be ready.
The opening came and he swung the club down hard. The man twisted away, but he was too slow: it stung on his wrist and made him drop the blade.
With a angry roar he kicked out. The toe of his shoe hit Rob on the kneecap before he turned and ran off.
Rob didn’t follow. He couldn’t. It was all he could manage to stay on his feet. Christ, it hurt. If he tried to move, pain shot up his leg. His foot could hardly take his weight. Very slowly, breathing hard, he bent and picked up the knife. It was very ordinary, cheap, but the steel had been ground to a deadly edge. He slid it in his pocket and took a step.
It was enough to make him gasp. He didn’t fall down, but it made him feel sick to his stomach. He forced himself, clenching his jaw. Another, then one more.
The fight couldn’t have lasted more than a few moments, not even a minute. It had seemed like a lifetime. He’d know the man when he saw him again, and he had no doubt about who it was.
Rob let the leg drag. It seemed easier that way. Each yard felt like a small victory. By the time he reached Timble Bridge he had to stop and rest. The knee was swollen when he put his hand on it, half as big again as it should have been.
Sheer effort of will carried him home. He’d had worse injuries, two that could have killed him, but nothing like this. Someone told him once that the body quickly forgot pain. He’d be glad to be rid of the memory of this. By the time he opened the front door he was panting, just grateful it was over. He had no idea how long it had taken. He’d simply concentrated on getting here.
The stairs were hard. His knee wouldn’t bend at all, so he had to hop up them in a sharp clatter of noise. Emily was the first awake. She lit a candle, standing on the landing, looking down at him.
But she didn’t panic, didn’t scream. She’d seen things like this her entire life. Nottingham appeared in another heartbeat. Without a word he came and helped, taking Rob’s weight. He was stronger than he looked, Lister thought. The man had worn down to sinew and muscle.
Soon he was lying on the bed, breeches and hose removed. It wasn’t a pretty sight. His knee was misshapen and ugly. But it was a beautiful relief not to have any weight on it.
Emily knew what to do. She vanished, coming back with a bandage and a basin of cold water. She soaked the cloth, wrung it out, then wrapped it around his leg. Rob closed his eyes, settling back. The sharp agony was starting to recede and he could breathe more easily.
‘What happened?’ the constable asked.
‘I met one of the sons.’ He went through it, seeing everything in his head. ‘He thought he’d be able to beat me.’ Rob gave a wry smile. ‘If he hadn’t been so scared, he probably would have done, too. I couldn’t have given him much of a fight with this.’
‘You’re alive,’ Nottingham said. ‘And that will go down in a day or two.’
‘Friday’s not far away.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ He smiled. ‘But you’ll be more use to me if you’re rested and able to move. Try to sleep.’
Try? He thought he might not wake until next year.
He’d lied. He needed Rob now. His knowledge, his persistence. His sense of doubt. It was always better to have someone willing to question him and make him think. Wednesday. Two more days, and he was no closer to finding the man and his sons.
Attacking the deputy constable? They were either growing bold or wild. Too sure of themselves, that they’d win. But it wasn’t over yet. It had barely begun.
Tom Finer had his usual seat in Garroway’s, the coffee dish in front of him already empty. He was reading the London paper and put it aside as Nottingham sat down.
‘You look worried.’
‘Someone tried to kill my deputy last night.’
‘Tried?’ His eyes flashed. ‘How is he?’
‘Quicker than his opponent,’ Nottingham said with satisfaction. ‘But the man got away.’
‘Is it …?’
‘Someone young and big with fair hair. I’ve heard there are two men around like that. They’re talking about their father and saying Friday is when everything will happen.’
‘Then you’ve heard more than me.’
Was Finer lying? He didn’t know; it was impossible to tell. The man always had so many things working and moving, wheels within wheels. He might already know about the family and be taking his steps to kill them. That would be completely in character for him.
‘What have you learned?’
‘Nothing at all.’ He gave a thin, sour smile. ‘And that’s with the offer of money.’
He didn’t believe that. Finer knew something. He was just keeping it to himself. But was it more than he’d already discovered?
‘It’ll happen once the bonfires are lit,’ Nottingham said.
‘Stupid remark. Of course it will. All that noise and confusion. You’ll have people drunk and shooting off their guns to celebrate. Your men will all be busy. What better time for mayhem?’
‘I wonder what they’re planning to do.’
Finer shrugged. ‘We talked about Amos last time.’
‘I remember.’
‘This is exactly the kind of trick he’d love.’
By the time Nottingham had first become constable, Amos Worthy already had the crime in Leeds firmly in his grip. Anyone who challenged him found he’d just signed his own death warrant. But he’d never known the young Worthy, when he was still trying to push out everyone else.
‘What do you mean?’
‘To take advantage of what’s going on to get rid of an enemy or two. They’d disappear and no one would ever know what had happened to them.’ He glanced around the coffee house. ‘How many pimps are left?’
‘A few.’
‘Easy for three men to handle in a night.’
‘They’ve all been warned.’
‘And how many of them will listen? It’s all a guess, anyway. I don’t know what they intend any more than you do.’
He wasn’t lying this time.
‘Then I’d better get to work.’
Finer was staring out at the Head Row, watching the people and the carts as they moved.
‘I think the worst thing for a man must be to survive winter and die in the spring,’ he said.
‘Are you ill?’
‘No.’ He gave a weary shake of his head. ‘But when you reach my age, you tend to think about death. The shadows grow longer.’
Rob tried walking. But his leg gave under him as soon as he put any weight on it. He needed to hold himself up to stop from crashing to the floor.
Lucy bustled into the room. ‘Back into bed,’ she commanded. ‘I thought I heard you moving around.’ She watched as he settled and pulled the blanket over his body.
Not even a cut; that was the damnedest part. The man’s knife hadn’t touched him. Just a kick and he was crippled until the swelling in his knee went down. A day or two, the apothecary had said when he visited. But that was too long. The boss needed him out there now.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Lucy told him. ‘But there’s no point. You can’t help him when you’re like this.’
‘Then what am I supposed to do?’ He’d never been one to lollygag around.
‘What Miss Emily told you.’
Rest, she’d ordered. Easier said than done. An hour of lying here was enough. He felt trapped, useless.
‘Read a book.’
Emily had left two for him, and the new edition of the Mercury. He’d leafed through them, but he’d never been one to lose himself in a story. He couldn’t even settle enough to
go through the paper.
He was angry at himself. If he’d been faster, landed that first blow properly, dodged the kick …
No point in playing what if. Regrets weren’t going to help him mend any faster. But he’d seen the man. Next time he’d take him down.
By dinner, Nottingham realized just how much he relied on Rob. He’d talked to the people he knew and learned nothing more. He was going round and round in circles.
Lister was familiar with the people who’d come during the last two years. They were the ones he needed now, and they were all strangers. He sat in the White Swan, eating a meat pie and trying to think his way forward.
He was drawing closer. But not close enough yet, and time was running out. He could feel the men, the father and his sons. Sometimes he believed he could almost see them out of the corner of his eye. But when he turned his head, there was nothing.
They’d felt confident enough to attack Rob. That angered him. It worried him. They must believe they were going to win. How?
‘Someone said they’d seen you come in here.’
He looked up, dragged from his thoughts as Jem stood by the bench, the pack sitting high on his back.
‘Were you looking for me?’ He gestured at the bench and the old man sat with a sigh.
‘Aye.’ His eyes twinkled. A serving girl came by and the constable nodded. She returned with a mug of ale and put it down in front of Jem. ‘Good health.’
‘What is it?’
‘People are saying your Emily’s man was hurt badly last night.’
‘Who’s saying that?’ The only person he’d told was Tom Finer and he’d given no details.
‘It’s the gossip.’ He raised an eyebrow in question.
‘Not true,’ Nottingham said.
‘I haven’t seen him this morning.’
‘You probably don’t see him most days, Jem.’ He laughed, but to his own ears it sounded false. ‘Someone attacked him. That part’s true. But Rob saw him off and the man escaped. Who started this? Do you know?’
Free from all Danger Page 21
