‘I’d not call that a bad thing,’ Sedgwick laughed.
‘You might be right there.’ He gave a small smile and sat in the chair. ‘Right, what do we have?’ He listened closely as Rob related what he’d learned and the deputy aired his frustration. ‘We’ll have more people giving us names today. Look into them, John. We need to follow up on everything. I’m going to talk to the mayor and then see Mr Darden.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Go back to everyone you’ve talked to, see if they’ve remembered anything.’ He glanced at Rob. ‘And the same for you tonight.’
Martin Cobb sat behind his desk, the scrape of his quill the only noise in the corridor. Nottingham placed the report on the desk.
‘I need to see the mayor.’
‘Constable . . .’ the clerk began but Nottingham cut him off, his tone brooking no protest.
‘Now.’
Cobb looked down for a moment, then back up. ‘If it’s important you’d better go in.’
Fenton was standing at the window, looking out at a city lost in the fog. He turned as the door opened.
‘Any results from the poster?’
‘Someone came to see me yesterday with a name.’
‘And?’ the mayor asked brusquely.
‘The name was Jeremiah Darden.’
‘You believe it?’ Fenton almost shouted the words, his face reddening. ‘Are you a fool? Has being off work addled your brains?’
‘He lied about how some blood ended up on his grey coat,’ the Constable told him flatly. ‘The same colour Gabriel wears. That’s enough to warrant talking to him.’
‘If you accuse him you’ll end up looking ridiculous,’ the mayor warned.
‘I haven’t accused anyone yet. I just want to ask him some questions.’
‘Then make sure you keep it to that. Even if you should find something to properly incriminate Mr Darden, you will not arrest him without my authority.’ He paused. ‘Do you understand that, Nottingham?’
The Constable stared at him. ‘I’ll do my job, your Worship. The one the city pays me to do.’ He gave a small bow and left.
He needed to calm his temper before seeing Darden. After seeing the mayor his blood was hot, and it needed to be cold as January for the encounter. He let the fog swallow him, drifting down Briggate to Leeds Bridge. Sounds were muffled, even the creak of carts as they approached, and people came and vanished like ghosts in a dream.
The water rushed by, a few yards below him, with a noise as deep as the devil’s laughter. He leaned on the parapet and watched it, roiling and curling around the stanchions, until the anger had passed. Then he cut through to Vicar Lane to the house that had been in Darden’s family for generations.
The limewash had been renewed recently, still a bright, glowing white against the dark timbers. The windows were small and old, the door heavy, worn oak. At the side of the building a cobbled path led to the warehouse where Darden had his business.
He’d had few dealings with the man over the years; he’d maybe met him three or four times, and they’d never spoken long enough for him to gain a solid impression beyond the sense of wealth and power that surrounded him like perfume.
Nottingham let his fist fall on the door three times and waited. Soon he could hear a rush of footsteps and then he was looking at the harried face of the servant who’d appeared at the jail.
‘Yes, sir?’ the man asked as if they’d never seen each other before.
Nottingham smiled. ‘I’m the Constable of Leeds. I’d like to see Mr Darden.’
He entered the hall and waited while the servant went into a room, hearing the small murmur of voices. Then he was shown into a parlour where Jeremiah Darden sat in his chair, a copy of the Mercury spread over his lap. He took off his spectacles, a quizzical look on his face. There was an air of cleanliness about him, but the rich always looked clean and smelt of sanctity, Nottingham thought. Dirt never clung to them.
‘Constable?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Nottingham answered.
‘You wanted to see me?’
‘Yes. You’ve heard what happened to the children?’
‘The ones in the bell pit? Of course.’ He folded the newspaper and dropped it on the floor. Even seated he was a big, powerful man, his hands large, thighs thick in a pair of pale blue breeches, his hose pure white, shoes polished, silver buckles sparkling in the light from a hot fire. ‘What’s that to do with me?’
‘Where were you a week ago Saturday?’ the Constable asked, keeping his eyes on Darden’s face.
The man sat and thought. ‘Was that when they had the cockfight at the Talbot?’ he said after a few moments.
‘Yes.’
‘Then that’s where I was.’ He gave a small, bemused chuckle and rubbed his chin. ‘The first time I’ve ever been, if you can believe that.’ There was no sign of worry or hesitation.
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Not especially. I only went because my factor’s been saying for years that I should see it. I finally gave in.’ He snorted. ‘I lost a guinea and came home with blood on my coat from the damn bird. Anyway, what does that have to do with those children?’
‘You’ve seen the posters the city put up?’
‘Of course. I’ve given a pound towards the reward myself. Fenton came calling on me for money.’
The man had complete confidence, Nottingham thought. Pride seemed to seep from every pore. Most people would be nervous if the law came asking questions, but Darden acted as if it was the most normal conversation in the world, with nothing at all to hide.
‘It’s brought out plenty of people wanting the reward and giving us names.’
‘I still don’t see how that brings you here, Constable.’
‘Yours was one of the names.’
For a second the man’s face darkened, as if his temper was about to explode. Then he gave a long, deep laugh. ‘Me? And you believed them?’
‘We’re following up on everything,’ Nottingham said genially.
‘Well, there’s nothing here for you. If you don’t believe I was at the cockfight, ask my factor, Mr Howard, or whoever it is that owns the Talbot. They’ll tell you.’
‘I will,’ the Constable promised and smiled. ‘After all, I have to do my job.’
Darden stared at him as if trying to see a deeper meaning in the words, then gave a curt nod. ‘Next time try using a little intelligence, though. You should know better than to suspect a man like me. Good day, Constable. I don’t imagine you’ll need to return here.’
Outside, the fog wreathed around him as he walked. Darden had attempted to be polite, but there had been something beneath that, a deep disregard, arrogance, as if the man had believed himself above everything. He’d never asked about the children, never mentioned them, as if their deaths were nothing at all to him.
And he’d lied about being at the cockfight, the Constable was certain of that, just as he was sure that if he returned to the Talbot tomorrow, Bell would remember that the merchant had been there after all. And Solomon Howard was Darden’s factor, the man closest to him. He’d worked for and with the man for years now; he’d say whatever he was bidden to say.
In his gut he now believed that Darden was Gabriel. Proving it – even being allowed to try – would be another matter altogether. And the man knew that full well. He believed he was untouchable.
‘John, I want Holden watching Darden every day. He’s the best we have. Tell Rob to assign another of the men to cover nights.’
‘Yes, boss.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’
‘I am,’ Nottingham replied with certainty. He frowned. ‘He’s clever, though. Didn’t even blink at the questions, answered everything perfectly naturally. And at the end warned me not to come back.’
‘What? He threatened?’
The Constable shook his head. ‘Nothing as obvious as that. He just gave me a very strong hint that I should consider him above suspicion.’
‘S
o how are we going to prove any of this, boss?’
‘I’m going to find Caleb and have the lad take a look at him. He’s seen Gabriel, he can tell me if it’s Darden.’
‘And if it isn’t?’
‘It is,’ Nottingham said.
‘What about all these people giving us names? If I’ve had one this morning, I’ve had twenty of them.’
‘Do what you can and pass the rest to the men to look into. They’ll all come to nothing, anyway.’
‘What about the mayor?’
‘I’ll tell him we’re looking at everything.’ He gave a sly grin. ‘It’ll be the truth. We will be, just not quite the way he wants.’
Sedgwick glanced out of the window. ‘With this fog Holden will have problems following Darden. It’s not going to clear today.’
‘I don’t care if he knows we have someone on him. He won’t be doing anything stupid.’ The Constable pushed the fringe off his forehead. ‘I want him to know we’re there.’
‘He’ll go to the mayor, boss.’
‘Let him.’ He rummaged through a small pile of papers on the desk. ‘Do you have anything more on those recruits who vanished?’
‘Bugger all.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘I went back again. No one will admit to letting them go and they didn’t leave without help. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere on it.’
The bell at the Parish Church sounded for noon, the noise deadened by the fog.
‘Come on,’ the Constable said, ‘let’s go next door to the Swan and have dinner. See if the world looks any better with a full belly.’
TEN
Nottingham walked down Briggate, the chill of the fog seeping through to his bones. His greatcoat felt damp to the touch, tiny drops forming on the wool. In the distance he could hear shouting; he moved faster, following the sounds down towards Swinegate. As he turned the corner the noise grew louder, a babble of voices yelling obscenities and threats. He charged forward, shouldering men aside until he reached the middle of the mob.
‘Stop!’ he shouted, using his stick to push people away. A man was on the ground, curled in on himself, his hat a few yards away, dark wig close to his head. Someone raised his foot to kick and the Constable hit him sharply on the knee. ‘What’s going on here?’ When no one answered, he said, ‘You know who I am. You can give me some answers or spend tonight in the jail.’ He pointed at a fat man wearing a threadbare coat and sweating as if he’d worked half a day ‘You. Tell me.’
‘It’s him,’ he answered, trying to catch his breath. ‘It’s that Gabriel. He killed them children.’
The Constable glanced down. He knew the man’s face. He was Mr Sorensen, one of three Swedish merchants who’d arrived in Leeds ten years before. They’d set up in business and slowly established themselves, marrying local women and becoming part of the fabric of Leeds.
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Just look at him,’ the fat man answered with a smirk, and a few others nodded and murmured. ‘He’s got a grey coat and breeches and a wig. Listen to him, you can tell by the way he speaks. He dun’t sound right.’
He moved forward a pace and Nottingham raised the stick as a warning, smelling the heaviness of ale on the man’s breath. He knew all too well how the mood of a mob could shift in an instant. He needed to control them or there’d be more violence.
He picked out a spindly man with a long face at the front of the crowd. ‘You, what’s your name?’
Taken aback, the man answered without thinking, ‘Tom, sir.’
‘You think you can attack a man on the street?’ the Constable asked.
The man looked around the gathered faces and shifted uneasily. ‘We were arresting him,’ he said. ‘To get the reward.’
Somewhere, Nottingham could hear running feet. But the fog was too thick to see anything or even judge how far away they were.
‘No, you weren’t. If you’d carried on you’d have killed him. Do you want to hang for murder, Tom?’ He said the words evenly and let them have their impact. None of the crowd had moved back. They weren’t willing to listen, the blood lust had risen. The fat man was leering at him, ready to pounce forwards. He balanced the stick, ready to use it, holding it so the silver top would hurt whoever it hit.
‘Right, break this up.’ Two of his men came through the mist, swinging their cudgels ready for a fight. Now the odds had changed the swagger vanished from the small group, like air going out of a bladder.
‘Take this one to the jail,’ the Constable ordered. He looked around. ‘Any of you still here when I count to three will go with him.’
‘You can’t do that,’ the fat man protested.
Nottingham turned to him. ‘I just did it. You’re going to be charged with assault.’ He put his face close to the man. ‘This isn’t a city where you can take the law into your own hands. You’re going to learn that.’
His men took the fat man’s arms. Everyone else had vanished.
Carefully, he knelt by the merchant. The man was conscious. His nose had been broken and there was blood all around his face.
‘Can you stand?’
‘I think so,’ Sorensen answered, his voice so thick with pain and fear the Constable could barely make out the words. He hawked, spitting out some blood and two teeth, moving himself gingerly on to his hands and knees and staying there as he gathered his strength.
The Constable held him by the arm to steady him, giving Sorensen something to grab as he raised himself with a long groan. Nottingham bent and picked up the man’s wig and hat.
‘Why?’ The merchant moved his head slowly to clear it. ‘Why they do that?’
‘They thought you were Gabriel. The child killer.’
‘Me?’ Sorensen’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘But why?’
‘Because you’re wearing grey. Because you sound different. Because they all want the reward.’
‘So.’ He nodded and began to dust himself down.’
‘Do you want me to fetch the apothecary?’
‘No,’ Sorensen answered. ‘But help me home if you will, Mr Nottingham.’ He spoke in a curious accent, the native singsong of his words overlaid with the stony roughness of Leeds. He limped a few steps, grimacing, then set his mouth and tried to walk normally, still favouring his left leg.
‘I know Leeds,’ Sorensen said thoughtfully. ‘I been here ten years. I know people not so stupid always.’
‘Not always,’ the Constable agreed. ‘But twenty pounds is a fortune to many of them. And some of them don’t trust outsiders.’
The merchant shook his head sadly. They walked slowly up Briggate towards Sorensen’s new house at Town End, just beyond the Head Row. ‘Idiots,’ he muttered quietly.
‘You’re right,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘But remember they’re poor, they don’t know much.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘It’s not an excuse.’
‘Mr Fenton asked me to contribute to the reward. I said no.’ He turned to the Constable and raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe this is what I get instead,’ he said wryly.
‘Tell the mayor. He might listen to you.’
They parted at the merchant’s door. The man had a large home with a clean, spare front.
‘Thank you for coming when you did,’ Sorensen told him.
‘Send for the apothecary,’ Nottingham advised. ‘He can give you something so you won’t hurt so much later.’
‘You know?’ The man rubbed his jaw. Bruises were beginning to bloom on his face.
‘I do.’ He had too much experience of all that. He hesitated, then added, ‘It might be best if you didn’t wear anything grey or a wig. At least for now.’
The attack hadn’t surprised him. It was bound to happen sooner or later, for exactly the reasons he’d given Sorensen. It probably wouldn’t be the only one, either. All it needed was a single spark and there’d be other blazes like this, with no one around to stamp them out.
The mayor had offered the reward and he wouldn’t
withdraw it now. Even an attack on a merchant like the Swede wouldn’t make him change his mind. Fenton wasn’t the kind of man who could admit he was wrong.
The fat man sat in the cell, eyes furious, face florid, the veins broken all around his nose. He stood as he saw the Constable.
‘You can’t do this to me.’ His voice was ragged and raw.
‘Sit down and shut up.’ He stared until the man reluctantly obeyed.
‘We was just trying to stop Gabriel,’ the man said, but all his power had gone.
‘Instead you set on an innocent man.’
The man said nothing.
‘You’ll be at the Petty Sessions tomorrow. No one’s going to give rough justice in Leeds.’
Sedgwick had a list of names and addresses of people someone thought could be Gabriel. He spent the afternoon going from one to the next. None of them was the man, and he knew they wouldn’t be.
Over the years he’d learned to trust the boss. If he said Darden was Gabriel, then he was. What he couldn’t see was how they were going to prove it and take him to the gallows. Even if they could find evidence, the mayor and the Corporation would protect him. They’d never let one of their own be found guilty of a crime like this.
How could they find out more? He wondered about Darden’s factor, Solomon Howard. He didn’t know the man but he’d seen him often enough at the cloth markets. He was prim, close to priggish. He always dressed well, more like a merchant than an employee, carrying an air of superiority with him.
In his late forties, he was Darden’s man through and through, and had been for years. No one knew the merchant better. He’d be privy to many of the man’s secrets. But Howard had always struck him as a brittle man, with little backbone under the thin veneer. How would he react if they began questioning him?
He played with the idea, keeping it at the back of his mind as he worked. By the time evening gathered he’d talked to almost twenty men, none of them remotely like Gabriel, rag pickers and labourers, clerks, shopkeepers on Briggate. But however much he hated it and saw it as a waste of his good time, he knew it had to be done. There were more names for Rob later, and this would go on for days yet.
At the Dying of the Year Page 8
