He could feel the pulse in his veins. Nothing else existed in the world except the man facing him. Meadows had a thin smile on his lips, even with his sons both dead just a few feet away.
It was time to end this game.
Nottingham raised the cutlass, ready to slice down. Meadows lifted his blade to parry the blow. It left him open. With his left hand, the constable brought the pistol from his greatcoat, thumbed back the hammer and pulled the trigger.
He was too close to miss. The bullet caught Meadows in the middle of his body, spinning him backwards as his chest seemed to explode. For somewhere in the night, the flash from a muzzle and the roar of a gun.
The man jerked forward like a puppet. For the smallest moment he stood, staring at the constable, mouth wide, his face coiled in – anger? pain? Then he fell, changing shape from flesh to ghost.
The constable stood. Smoke still curled up from his pistol and the harsh stench of gunpowder filled his nostrils. All three of them dead.
Slowly, the world seemed to creep in around him. The sounds of the revellers, the crackling of the fire, the woodsmoke and smudges of ash floating down through the air. He raised his head and blinked, turning to see the two young men behind him and the older one in front.
It was over.
He didn’t even notice Rob was there until the young man clapped him on the shoulder. He was grinning.
‘You did it, boss.’
He had. But it didn’t feel like a celebration. Just an ending of something awful. Five dead tonight. Six, if the boast about the other pimp was true. The threat might be over, but a butcher’s bill like that was hardly a cause for joy.
‘We did it,’ he heard himself say. The words seemed to come from someone’s else mouth. ‘I told you when I started that I was going to rely on you.’
‘I’ll call the men to come and take them away.’
‘Yes. And we need to put Meadows’s wife and daughter in jail.’
‘I’ll take care of that.’ He began to turn away, then stopped. ‘That last shot …’
‘What about it?’
‘I didn’t fire it.’
There was still a night to keep under control. As the families and the good folk drifted home, the mayhem began. The apprentices, the drunks.
He stopped at the Rose and Crown. John Reynolds looked at him and shook his head. Con was dead. No surprise. But he’d needed to hope for something; a miracle, perhaps. Now the beautiful music had gone from the world.
The bonfires had all burned down to cinders and ash. The town was silent, finally overtaken by the night. People slept. Even the drunks had stopped their yelling. Rob hobbled down Kirkgate, weary and aching. His knee had swollen again during the evening, tender and sore as he placed his weight on it.
The apprentices had been persistent, grouping and regrouping, in the mood for a fight. They’d had their battle. Now more than a dozen of them lay dazed in the cells, the others in their beds, nursing bruises and cuts as they dreamed.
Every minute had been full. He’d been too busy to think about Meadows and his sons. Now, in the quiet, it poured back into his mind. He’d killed a man. Not his first and it wouldn’t be his last. He didn’t like it, it would weigh on him for months. But sometimes it became part of the job. And with those three, they’d done Leeds a service. They’d needed to die.
Who had taken that final shot at Meadows? He’d been waiting, ready to pull the trigger if the boss needed it. Then he heard the bang, saw the flash from the corner of his eye, and watched Meadows stagger and fall. By the time he’d been able to struggle between the headstones, the gunman had vanished.
Mrs Meadows and her daughter were in a cell at the jail, sharing with three other women blind drunk from the celebrations. At first he was surprised to find that they hadn’t run. But then, where could they go?
He wanted nothing more than to tumble into sleep, not to have to think for hours on end. The boss had stayed, ready to talk to the Meadows women. He wanted reasons. Rob wanted rest.
A light burned behind the shutters on Marsh Lane. He could hear soft voices inside. As soon as he turned the doorknob, they stopped. Emily and Lucy turned to look at him.
Then she was there. He could feel her breath on his face.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No. Just …’
‘Papa?’
‘He’s fine. Not a scratch on him.’
Suddenly Emily was holding him up. He was too tired to stand.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The smell of coffee was too rich, too strong. As soon as he entered Garroway’s it surrounded him. Nottingham sat on the bench across from Tom Finer.
‘You won. The news is all over Leeds.’
‘I suppose we did.’ He was still too numb to think of it as a victory. He’d been awake all night, helping to control the apprentices, then talking to Marjorie Meadows and her daughter until his throat felt raw. He had a bruise on his arm from a club and some of Harry Meadows’s blood on his coat. ‘You were right about Amos.’
Finer looked at him, trying to understand. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Meadows was Worthy’s son. His bastard.’
‘He probably sired dozens of those in his life.’
‘Maybe he did.’ The constable tried to rub away the ache at the back of his neck. ‘But this one came back.’
‘Worthy threw the woman out as soon as she told him,’ Mrs Meadows said. ‘Gave her a little money and told her to get out of Leeds or he’d kill her and the bairn.’
He could hear her husband’s anger and resentment in the words. He’d brought her and the girl from the cell to the office, given them ale and let them warm themselves by the fire before he started his questions. But there was really only one thing he needed to know: why?
‘Where did they go?’
‘Here and there, the way he told it. Richmond, Malton. They ended up in Settle. When he was old enough, she told him all about his father. Every bad thing she knew, until Harry hated him.’
‘Was Mr Meadows a publican? Was that true?’
‘He was.’ She raised her heard proudly. ‘And we did keep a good inn. But Harry, he couldn’t keep away from the thieving. Just small things. Nobody ever found him out.’
‘If you were doing so well, why did you come to Leeds?’ Nottingham asked.
The woman pulled the shawl more closely around her shoulders, though the room was warm.
‘That was Harry. He always had it in his mind that he was going to show his father. He was going to be bigger and better than him. That was going to be his revenge.’
‘But Amos Worthy is dead.’
‘Harry came here five years ago,’ she continued. ‘He brought our boys. He wanted to see his father, see what he’d done. They even had a drink with him, but Harry never told him who he was. When he came home, he was angry. He told me he was going to topple his father, to take everything away from him. But he’d do it when he was ready. Once our boys were big enough to help him.’
‘Then he must have been disappointed to arrive and find Amos in the ground.’
‘He was.’ She gave a curt, single nod. ‘But he wasn’t going back. He said he’d build something bigger than his father ever had. He’d make sure people remembered Harry Meadows, not Amos Worthy.’
‘What about you? What did you do?’
She lifted her head and stared at him. ‘He was my husband.’
As if that was explanation enough. And perhaps it was, he thought.
‘What’s going to happen to us?’ Mrs Meadows asked.
‘You helped him,’ the constable told her. ‘Both of you. You’ll be tried. I don’t know what the court will decide.’
The girl began to cry and her mother folded her close. How many dead – seven? eight? nine? – and they’d done nothing to stop him. As he locked them in the cell it was hard to feel any sympathy.
He ordered Waterhouse and Dyer to take the revellers over to the petty sessions. They’d have their minute be
fore the magistrate, to be fined and turned out with sore heads and wounds. Good riddance to them.
Nottingham sat at the desk and sipped from a mug of ale. It was light outside. He could hear men starting to sweep up the ashes from the bonfires. Another hour and there’d hardly be a reminder that they’d ever burned. The days moved on, and soon enough the cloth market would begin on Briggate.
With a sigh, he put on the old bicorn hat and went to make sure everything was well.
‘That was it?’ Finer asked in disbelief. ‘He wanted to show he was a better man than Amos?’
‘That was all.’ He understood. Somehow, it didn’t seem to be enough of an explanation for all the killing. It was such a small thing. There should have been more. But at least he finally had the truth.
‘What about my ledgers?’
‘Once we find them, I’ll see they’re returned to you.’ But not before he’d examined them closely to discover exactly what the man was doing.
‘A little bird said you were willing to face three of them by yourself.’
Nottingham raised an eyebrow. ‘You have some very observant birds. But it’s wrong. Rob Lister was there, too. And he wasn’t the only one.’
‘Oh?’ Finer asked. His curiosity was piqued.
‘There was someone else, someone who fired a pistol at Meadows. I don’t suppose your little bird would know anything about that?’
‘Now, what would make you think that?’ He stared blandly at the constable.
‘Because I know you.’
‘Then you have your answer.’ Finer stood, buttoned his coat, and tied the muffler around his neck. ‘My ledgers,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget.’
‘I told you.’
‘Amos.’ Finer shook his head. ‘The past never dies quickly here, does it?’
John Brooke was in his office, poring over papers, as Nottingham entered.
‘I heard what happened at St John’s last night.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘You did a good job.’
He’d done what was needful, nothing more. If he could have stopped it earlier, he’d have done it gladly.
‘No,’ the constable answered. ‘Too many died. Far too many.’
And Con among them. Pointless deaths, every one of them, simply to satisfy one man’s ambition to prove he was better than his father.
‘But it shows we were right to appoint you as constable again.’ The mayor smiled. ‘With this and the cutpurse, you’ve shown yourself well.’
‘Maybe.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m tired. I haven’t been home since yesterday morning.’
‘Then go and sleep, Richard. You’ve earned it.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed dully. ‘I’ll do that.’
Nottingham stopped at the Parish Church. He glanced at Worthy’s grave, wondering if the man was laughing himself hoarse somewhere. He’d have appreciated the joke of a bastard come to usurp his father, only to find him dead.
But Nottingham spent his time at the two headstones standing side by side. Rose and Mary. He talked to his wife, letting it all spill out, the sorrow, the regrets, the failings. In his mind she still looked exactly the way she had on her last morning alive. She didn’t age, she was fixed in time, she had a beginning and an end. He was the one moving forward, slowly and reluctantly.
He stayed until the chill pulled at his face. Then he turned, walked back to Kirkgate and over Timble Bridge.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Christmas Day, 1736
He sat with his granddaughter in his arms. The baby was sleeping, her head resting in the crook of his arm, tiny fists bunched together as if she was fighting rest. The day, all the people, had overwhelmed her. Soon enough Emily would gather up little Mary and take her back to the wet nurse. But she’d become a regular visitor, slowly growing used to her home, her new family.
Family. He had them around him. His rag-tag family, not built on blood, but something more solid. Emily and her lover. Lucy the servant. Annie, coming out from her shell now she was starting to believe that no one would send her on her way. Lizzie and her children, James and Isabell, playing by the fire, a sudden flare-up of argument between brother and sister quieted with a mother’s word. And Jem, snoring away now he’d paid for his supper with a few tales to hold everyone spellbound.
They’d dined well on a piece of beef, a gift from one of the butchers in the Shambles. It had surprised him, gratified him; he’d brought it back yesterday for Lucy to cook. She looked at him thoughtfully and asked, ‘Where did you steal it?’
‘Get away with you,’ he laughed. ‘Any decent constable would catch me if I tried to run these days.’
He’d returned from York three days before, after testifying against Nick the cutpurse for murder. He stayed for the verdict, although it was never in doubt. The judge put on the black cap and Nottingham glanced around the courtroom, half-expecting to see Kate there, waiting. But there was no girl, only Nick, no flicker of an expression on his face as he listened to the sentence.
Only two nights away, and fine company at the Starre Inne, but it felt good to be home, to be surrounded by everything he cherished. Some were missing, but they’d never be too far from him. And with Annie and tiny Mary, there was new life, the wheel revolving.
‘I think your daughter needs changing,’ he said to Emily, and she took the baby from him.
‘I can do it,’ Rob offered, and the constable saw her stare at him in astonishment. ‘I ought to know how, at least.’
The lad’s knee had mended without harm; a few days of rest and he was good as new. But the young healed quickly, he thought. Their hearts as well as their bodies.
They’d barely mentioned Meadows or the night in the churchyard. What was there to say, anyway? They both knew what had happened.
Things had been quiet in Leeds, nothing more than petty crimes that were solved by the end of the afternoon. It was as if a hush had descended on the town with winter.
Nottingham had searched Meadows’s rooms above the Talbot. He’d found plenty of papers from Warren’s office, but never Tom Finer’s ledgers. The man had never asked for them again.
Lizzie yawned, stretched, and stood.
‘We’d better go home before I fall asleep,’ she said as she gathered her children. ‘Thank you. For everything.’
‘Believe me, it was my pleasure,’ he told her. ‘You’re always welcome here, you know that.’ He dug two farthings from his breeches pocket for James and Isabell.
‘We’ll walk with you,’ Emily said. ‘Mary needs to go back to Mrs Webb.’
The door closed. All that remained was the sound of Lucy and Annie washing the pots in the kitchen and Jem snoring softly in the corner.
Peace.
AFTERWORD
The inns in this book existed. The Talbot did indeed have a cockpit, and the fights were a big attraction. Garroway’s was there, the only coffee house in Leeds at a time when the drink was rare and expensive, as was tea. Gunpowder Treason Night, as it was called, celebrated the smashing of Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot to blow up Parliament – the exact opposite of how it stands today.
Richard Nottingham, too, was real, and he was the Constable of Leeds, although there’s no mention of him retiring and coming back to work. In fact, there’s precious little mention of him at all in the records, just a note by a member of the Town Waits (musicians) of him marching in a parade, and even there he’s wrongly called Deputy Constable. No portrait, no headstone, so little left. We know he married in 1676 (to Jane Wood, not to someone named Mary), and he died in 1740, but I’ve been unable to discover any record of his birth so far. They had several children, most of whom lived; the oldest, Elizabeth, married the second son of a baronet. As Richard held the office of Constable until 1737, he must have been a good age when he retired.
However, all that blank canvas gives me the luxury to invent his life and his family. And hopefully, he lives on a little.
I’m very grateful to Kate Lyall Grant for being willing to bring Richard out
of retirement, and to everyone at Severn House for all the work they do; it’s truly appreciated. In Lynne Patrick I have a wonderful editor, and my agent Tina Betts does a splendid job. All those in libraries and bookshops: like every writer, I thank you. My partner, Penny, gracefully puts up with plenty of silence as I work.
Above all, thanks to those who’ve read and loved the previous books and asked me if there will ever be more. Without that, Richard would still be enjoying many quiet days. Thank you for your support.
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