Constant Lovers

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Did Mr Jackson seem upset about anything lately? Was he quiet?’

  ‘Will?’ Tunstall chuckled, baring his yellow teeth. ‘As pleasant a soul as you could meet. Always ready to laugh with the workers, said it made them feel better, but I don’t know that it’s true.’

  ‘Was he courting?’ Sedgwick let the question slip casually. Tunstall shook his head emphatically.

  ‘Always working, that lad. If he wasn’t here he’d be off seeing customers. Did that one day every week. About the only time he wasn’t busy was Sunday and he’d have crept in here then if he could.’ He sighed. ‘He was no more than a lad, too. What could have made him do summat like that?’

  ‘We’ll try to find out,’ the deputy promised. ‘Did he go out to customers the same day every week?’

  ‘No, different days each week.’ Tunstall answered without thinking. ‘But he kept the orders coming and that was all that mattered. What about his family?’

  ‘The Constable’s informing his sister.’

  Tunstall wasn’t going to say too much, but he might have more luck with the workers, Sedgwick thought. They were men who’d need a drink after working here. Catch a few of them in an alehouse, buy them a jug or two and their tongues would loosen. Men always saw more than the bosses imagined.

  The afternoon was passing by, and the deputy decided he might as well wait rather than return to the jail. He slipped through the streets to Dyers Garth and lay back lazily on the riverbank. The swirl of the water was lulling and after a few minutes his thoughts started to drift. Come winter he’d be a father again, God willing. A new little bairn, a part of him. He’d loved James as a baby, and found real peace in holding him and watching him sleep. But he knew that the fear would be there, that something would happen, that Lizzie would die in childbed, that the newborn wouldn’t survive. It happened all too often, not one dead but both, leaving only a vast emptiness the heart couldn’t fill.

  He breathed deep to clear his head, letting the sun bring back some contentment, and dozed until the bells of the Parish Church tolled six. Slowly he roused himself, brushing grass off his breeches, and wandered back to the Calls. The men came out laughing, loud in their brief freedom. Some went their way, but one group of five passed through Back Lane to Low Holland and the alehouse that had been made from a cottage there.

  The deputy gave them five minutes, time enough to sit and wet their throats after a long day’s labour. Then he entered, greeting Nettie behind her trestle and pointing to the twice-brewed that would fight the day’s heat.

  ‘I know you,’ one of the men called to him. ‘You were at our place earlier. Talking to t’boss.’

  ‘Aye, I was.’ Sedgwick lifted the mug, took a long, deep swallow and walked over to join them on the bench. ‘I had some news for Mr Tunstall.’

  ‘What was that, then?’ another man asked. He had a face that seemed faintly familiar, but for the moment the deputy couldn’t put a name to it. ‘What’s the Constable’s man want at Tunstall’s?’

  ‘It was about Mr Jackson.’ Suddenly he remembered the man’s name – Caleb Rountree. He’d questioned him once about some stolen property, but they’d never been able to prove anything. ‘Did you know him, Caleb?’

  The others laughed that the law would recognize him and Rountree reddened, burying his face in his mug.

  ‘What’s happened to him?’ an older man asked quietly.

  ‘Dead,’ Sedgwick told them, looking around the table. ‘Killed himself.’

  ‘What?’ Rountree crashed his pot down on the wood, eyes wide in disbelief. ‘Give over! What would he want to do summat like that for?’

  ‘I don’t know. Any of you know him?’

  The older man struck a flint and lit his clay pipe, the sound of his drawing on the tobacco the only noise at the table. The others glanced at each other, unsure what to say.

  ‘He were better than Tunstall,’ the man said finally. ‘No side on him for all he were the boss. He knew the jobs and he could do them himself if need be. Crop a good length, too.’

  Sedgwick motioned for Nettie to bring a jug.

  ‘He worked us hard enough, though,’ Rountree complained.

  ‘You know much about him?’

  ‘What’s to know?’ asked Rountree sourly. ‘They have their lives, we have ours. Not like we’re going to mix, is it?’

  ‘Never know,’ the deputy said. ‘You might have heard something. Rumours.’

  ‘The wife saw him in town once,’ the older man said idly. ‘Middle of the day and he was with a lass.’

  ‘On a work day?’

  ‘Aye. She told me when I got home, that’s how I remember.’ He shrugged carelessly. ‘Neither here nor there, I suppose.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  The man scratched thoughtfully at the thatch of curls on his head. ‘Had to be before winter, I think. Couldn’t tell you any better than that.’

  No one else seemed to have anything to offer. Sedgwick stood, careful to leave the ale. ‘If you think of anything else, come and find me,’ he said. As he walked away Rountree was already greedily pouring for himself.

  By evening Lister had gone carefully through all the letters, scribbling notes in his tiny, cramped writing. Finally he threw down the quill in frustration.

  ‘Well?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘There’s nothing about any plans, just love notes and meetings.’

  ‘Keep looking tomorrow. There might be something in there. How do you care for the job?’

  ‘It’s surprised me,’ Rob replied thoughtfully. ‘I like it.’

  The Constable smiled grimly. ‘A suicide isn’t the best way to start, but you’ve done well. Go home and back at six tomorrow. And not a word to your father, please.’

  ‘I won’t say anything,’ he promised.

  Nottingham didn’t dawdle on the way home, but strode out of the city, fingering the letter in his pocket. His boots clattered over Timble Bridge and up Marsh Lane, and the door opened on a rusted hinge with a soft creak more redolent of winter than bright summer.

  Mary came quickly from the kitchen, her eyes expectant then glowing as he grinned.

  ‘You did it?’ she asked with a laugh.

  ‘I did,’ he told her with surprise and produced the paper from his pocket. ‘She’ll have no trouble finding another position with this. Where is she, anyway?’

  ‘In her room. She’s been there most of the day, poor love. Go and show it to her, Richard, it’ll cheer her up.’ She gave him a full, deep kiss and he drew her close, stroking the back of her neck until she pulled away. ‘Go on, make her happy.’

  He tapped on the door of Emily’s room and entered. She was sitting on the bed, a book open in her lap although she wasn’t reading. As she turned to him he could see the redness of old weeping in her eyes and the puffiness of her lips. He held out the letter.

  ‘Take a look at that,’ he said and waited as she unfolded it and skimmed the words once, then again, her mouth widening as she read.

  ‘Papa.’ The word was part question, part squeal of joy. She ran to him, arms wide, and hugged him. ‘But how did you . . .?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ he said, happy to see her mood so suddenly lifted. ‘Don’t worry, Hartington won’t say a word, and you should be able to find another position quite easily with a recommendation like that.’

  ‘With something like this I could be governess to the king.’ Her pleasure filled the room. ‘Thank you, papa.’

  He left her reading the paper again, feeling that perhaps today had been worthwhile.

  ‘For my money Sarah Godlove came into Leeds every week and met Jackson,’ the deputy said firmly. It was still early and the morning light shone with the promise of another warm day as the three of them sat in the jail. ‘I know we don’t have proof yet, but . . .’

  Nottingham sat forward thoughtfully in his chair, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled under his chin.

  ‘We can find that,’ he said slowly, ‘
or as close to it as we’re likely to get. You said Jackson was seen with a girl. They must have gone somewhere and they couldn’t have been alone in his rooms. After all, they had her honour to protect.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true enough,’ Sedgwick agreed.

  ‘Go and talk to his landlady. If anyone visited him there you can wager she’ll know and can probably give us a description.’ He turned his eyes to Lister. ‘We know Sarah liked to ride. Go and talk to the stables. If she was coming here she’d have wanted her horse somewhere safe.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Rob frowned. ‘And if we find out that it is her, what do we do then?’

  ‘Then we have a place to start digging. Think about it. She’s married and seeing another man. That gives Samuel Godlove a reason to kill her if he knows about it. Or Jackson, for that matter.’

  ‘What about the baby?’ the deputy wondered.

  ‘If she was carrying a baby,’ Nottingham warned heavily. ‘All we have is a servant’s take for that. And if there is a baby it might easily be Jackson’s.’

  ‘What about Anne Taylor?’

  ‘Who’s she?’ Lister asked.

  ‘Sarah’s maid. Vanished after his mistress died.’

  ‘Do you think she might have done it?’

  ‘No,’ the Constable told him. ‘She’s dead, like as not. She hasn’t been in touch with her family. Where else would she go?’

  The others left, and Nottingham picked up the pile of love letters Sarah had sent Jackson. Her writing was rounded, girlish, large on the page.

  My heart aches for you, she’d written. How can I wait until we meet again? You’re the blood in my veins, every thought in my head. The minutes pass like lifetimes, but my love for you grows with each one. S.

  He took up another page.

  My love, today was so wonderful. I feel blessed by your love. I can taste you, smell you, but I’m saddened that I have days before I see you again. Life would be so perfect if we were always together. I love you. S.

  On the third he read, How I wish we could always be together so my joy could be complete. Without you there would be nothing to live for.

  Her eagerness, her passion, leapt out at him. They were the words of a girl, but he had no doubt about the depth of her feelings. She’d loved Jackson completely. And his love for her must have been as absolute as hers – why else would he have killed himself once he learned she was dead? He felt saddened and sickened by the sad waste of life.

  He settled to finish his report, surprised but grateful that the mayor hadn’t demanded an arrest yet. Still, he thought as he walked up Briggate towards the Moot Hall, by the end of the day they might know a great deal more.

  On both sides of the street the traders were setting up for the Saturday market, their stalls spilling into the road. Men were shouting and boasting, servants flirting and gossiping, full of anticipation as they waited.

  He heard someone chuckle and turned to find Thaddeus Harris at his shoulder, a broad smile showing off a set of broken, rotted teeth, watching as his apprentice finished setting up the stall.

  ‘Seen Amos Worthy, Constable?’

  ‘No,’ he answered, surprised at the question. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Thought he might have come in to see thee. Someone robbed him last night.’

  Eleven

  He left his report with a clerk at the Moot Hall and walked swiftly down Briggate. Anything involving Amos Worthy was grim news. Nottingham was more than ready to believe it had been his men who’d cut the whore as a warning; it was his style. But Worthy was also a man of strange honour, and he and Nottingham shared a tangled history that reached back through the decades.

  The old, unpainted door on Swinegate was unlocked, the passage running straight through to the kitchen, and the Constable walked in without knocking. Worthy would be there in the tottering old addition to the already ancient house, enjoying the warmth of the fire in the hearth even in the midsummer heat.

  In his sixties, the man had aged since the winter. His hair had thinned, his face was a little more gaunt, and he’d taken to walking with a silver-topped stick since he’d been stabbed in the thigh. He was a rich man but he still dressed in the same old dirty clothes every day, hoarding the money he made from his girls and all the rest, a man with his finger in many of the city’s pies, some legal, most not.

  Even now, older and looking a little smaller, he wasn’t a man to be crossed. He had power and a violent temper. His justice was quick and his justice was bloody.

  He had a pair of men in the room who stirred and pulled their blades as Nottingham entered, but the pimp waved them away.

  ‘I thought you’d be here sooner or later, Constable,’ he said. ‘Little birds been singing, have they?’

  ‘A few words,’ Nottingham conceded, settling on a stool by the table and pouring a mug of small beer.

  ‘Help yourself, why don’t you, laddie?’ he said wryly. ‘Come to gloat?’

  ‘Come to warn you,’ the Constable corrected him. ‘What happened, Amos?’

  Worthy shook his head slightly. ‘Save your breath, laddie. I’m going to find who did this.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Make them pay,’ he answered matter-of-factly.

  ‘Kill them, you mean.’

  ‘Aye.’ He reached across, tore off part of a loaf and began to eat, ignoring the crumbs that fell on to his old waistcoat, a patchwork of stains and dirt.

  ‘No,’ Nottingham said.

  Worthy raised his eyebrows. ‘No?’

  ‘How much did she take?’

  ‘Ten guineas.’

  It was a sizeable sum, the Constable had to admit.

  ‘If anyone dies, it’s after a trial.’

  The pimp snorted. ‘That’s if you catch them.’

  Nottingham said nothing, but kept his gaze on the man. ‘I hear you have some competition, too.’

  ‘Oh aye? Who would that be, then?’

  ‘Someone called Hughes. Arrived recently with his girls.’

  ‘I’ve heard the name,’ Worthy said absently. ‘You know how it happens, Constable. They come and go.’

  Forced out or dead, Nottingham thought.

  ‘One of his lasses was cut the other night.’

  ‘Shame,’ the pimp said flatly, his eyes blank.

  ‘I won’t ask if it was your doing.’

  There was no response.

  ‘Whoever did it needs to hear what I’m saying, though,’ the Constable continued. ‘It stops here.’

  Worthy raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘And if you think Hughes is behind this theft, don’t. There’s been a service lay in the city. How did it happen?’

  Worthy at least had the grace to lower his head. ‘I took on a new lass last week after the last one left to get wed. There’s a whole house upstairs needs looking after.’

  ‘Was she called Nan?’

  ‘Aye. Been around, has she?’

  ‘I think there’s two of them, her and a man. What did she look like?’

  ‘Pretty enough,’ he answered. ‘Not too tall, long dark hair, blue eyes, not filled out yet.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Fourteen, fifteen?’ Worthy shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask. She had a reference.’

  ‘And you never thought she’d be stupid enough to steal from you.’

  The pimp turned, his face dark, his voice quiet and menacing. ‘It’ll be the last time she steals from anyone, Constable.’ He spat on the floor. ‘I have people out looking for her.’

  ‘Call them off, Amos.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘If she stands trial she’ll hang for the ten guineas.’

  ‘And your way’s better? Find her and kill her?’

  ‘Aye, laddie, it is. I can’t do anything else. She’s made a laughing stock of me.’

  Nottingham understood. If Worthy didn’t catch the girl and take his revenge, others would think he was losing his power and come after him. Hughes was already try
ing to push his way in, to challenge the man’s power. His own men might start doubting his judgement and sharpening their knives. Worthy lived in a world that had no use for mercy or compassion. But understanding that didn’t mean accepting it. The Constable took a drink.

  ‘I told you, you’re not the only one she’s done this to. There are two of them, we’ve been looking for them.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t bloody found them yet, have you?’ His voice was sharp as metal.

  ‘We will.’

  ‘Not before I do, laddie.’

  ‘We’ll see about that, Amos.’ He stood up, brushed the fringe from his forehead and left.

  Sedgwick was already back at the jail, putting a prisoner into one of the cells, the man shouting in drunken incoherence.

  ‘This early?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘Left over from last night, more like. He was wandering all over Boar Lane.’ The deputy hung the key back on the hook. Ale was good, being drunk once in a while was fine, but he had no time for public stupidity.

  ‘Did you find anything out at Jackson’s?’

  ‘A woman used to come to visit one day a week, right enough. Not always the same day.’

  ‘Very good.’ The Constable settled back in the chair.

  ‘She visited with her maid, so the landlady thought everything was proper. Thought it was a relative who cared for him.’

  ‘Even better. And what about a description?’

  ‘The woman was young and blonde, tiny little thing according to the landlady. Seemed very respectable, always wore an expensive gown. The maid was just a little older, with dark hair. Got to be Sarah, boss.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘But we have something else to think about.’

  ‘Oh?’ He pursed his lips, waiting.

  ‘That girl from the servant lay. Her name was Nan, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, Nan’s either been very bold or very stupid. She stole ten guineas from Amos Worthy last night.’

  Sedgwick’s face broke into a grin and then laughter. ‘Oh, that’s lovely, boss. I could kiss her for that.’

  ‘You’ll not get a chance if Worthy finds her first,’ the Constable told him seriously. ‘Word’s spread about it. He said he’s going to kill her.’