Convalescence

by Nickson, Chris

  “If it’s solid silver, it’ll be worth a fortune.” Rob paused, thinking. “Anybody who had that stolen from them might have sent someone after it.”

  “I suppose so,” the deputy agreed after a little while.

  “If he found it, he’ll be long gone now.”

  “And left Langton here, dead for his sins. Just ask in the beer shops tonight,” Sedgwick told him in frustration.

  “No one seems to have seen him, boss. I asked in the dram shops, the beer shops, the inns.” He stopped and took a bite of the bread. Lister and the constable stood in the kitchen of the house on Marsh Lane, the door open to catch the faint breeze, the early light clear and sharp.

  “Your idea’s good,” Nottingham told him and Rob smiled at the praise. “If the urn’s really that valuable, I can believe someone being sent after it. But whoever came would need a man who knows Leeds to help.” That made sense, Lister thought. A man who knew where to look, to pass the word. “I’d keep your eyes open for someone who suddenly has a bit of money.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t ignore everything else, though,” the constable warned.

  “We won’t, boss.”

  “George Richmond,” Sedgwick said without hesitation. “He’d be the man for something like that.”

  “George? The one who’s on the bridge most days?”

  “That’s him.”

  Lister had always thought of Richmond as someone solitary, a poor soul whose mind had left him. Hardly someone to guide a killer. “Are you sure?” He found the idea difficult to swallow.

  The deputy finished a mug of ale and placed it on the desk. Outside the clouds were tinged with pink and purple. The day had passed in a welter of tasks: reports, evidence at the Petty Sessions, talking to a man who’d been robbed outside Holy Trinity Church. There weren’t enough hours to do everything, even with the day men to help.

  “There was something, three, maybe four years back,” he explained.” A man was murdered here. We never found out who did it, but the talk was the killer came from Hull and I still think it was George who showed him where to find the victim. Never found the proof, that’s all. I’ll go and talk to him in the morning.”

  “What do you think happened with Langton?” Rob asked.

  “I don’t know, besides the fact he’s in a pauper’s grave now.”

  “Where does George live, anyway?”

  “He used to have a room in one of the courts off Vicar Lane. See if you can find out tonight.”

  Lister nodded. It was the middle of the week, the time when men had no money to be out drinking away their pains and sorrow. He’d have time to ask questions and discover where George lived. But he’d keep his mind open to other things, too. Just the way the boss suggested.

  By ten he had the information he needed. Old Hercules, who looked after the horses and cleaned tables at the Rose and Crown, knew George Richmond. In a strange way it made sense, Rob thought. The pair of them seemed to live outside the world everyone else understood.

  Cloud had built up during the night. By the middle of the morning the constable could feel the closeness in the air, the storm that was building, like a physical pressure tight against his chest. There’d be no walk to Timble Bridge today. Once the rain started it would be a deluge to leave the road thick with mud. Even with a stick it would be too easy to slip and reopen the wound. He’d seen Mary watching him as he stared out of the window. She didn’t have any cause for fear; he wouldn’t be setting foot out of the house today.

  He’d talked to Rob when the lad came home, the name George Richmond quick off his lips. Sedgwick had always thought the man was guilty back when Joseph Latham has been killed. He’d never been as convinced. There’d been nothing but a rumour and a whisper or two, Richmond seen with a stranger that night.

  After Rob had escorted Emily to school and gone off to his bed, Nottingham sat at the table, a piece of paper and a quill in front of him. He needed to send a message to the deputy, something to push him onto the right path.

  John –

  Don’t waste your time on George Richmond. I know you believe he was behind that business in ’30, but it was never him. I told you that at the time, but you didn’t want to believe me. He’s no more than he seems, lonely and addled.

  You’d do better to look to Walter Archer. I had my doubts about him three years ago. He has relatives in Hull. His wife’s from somewhere in the north east, I think. We both know he’s a man who’ll do anything for a few coins. It might be worth talking to him.

  He sanded the paper and folded it. Would he do better to let things be and give the deputy his head? No, he decided. Outside the rain began, hammers of noise battering against the windows and the ground. Once it passed he’d have next door’s boy take the note to the jail.

  The more he considered things, the more he could see Walter Archer for this. He spent his time wandering around town, in the dramshops and on the corners, a man who lived just on the far side of the law, but rarely worth pursuing. He was good with his fists, cruel when he needed to be; the only reason his wife put up with him was that she was as bad herself.

  Half an hour later and the storm had passed; only a misting drizzle remained. The air was clear, filled with a tumble of fresh, sweet scents. He watched the lad skip through the mud, the letter in his coat pocket. The clouds scudded away, leaving blue sky and sunshine. If the ground dried enough he might be able to walk later, after all.

  The deputy was soaked, coat sodden, his hose wet to the calves. He’d found George Richmond in his room, sitting on a chair and staring at the wall. Sedgwick had asked his questions, but he might as well have been talking to the moon for all the sense he heard in response.

  Eventually he had to admit it; if George hadn’t lost his wits, he was a fine actor. He’d arrived with his hopes high and he was leaving filled with frustration, out into the driving rain. He slipped into the White Swan, a chance to dry off over a pie and a mug of ale. By the time he went next door to the jail the sun had returned. He picked up the note that had been pushed under the door.

  Aye, he knew Walter Archer well enough.

  It took him most of the morning to discover that Archer and his wife occupied a cellar on the Calls. They’d lived there since winter, he found out after going from one person to the next, finally finding a whore on Briggate who knew the pair of them. He stared at the building, half the limewash missing, the timbers on the upper storey looking as though they’d been eaten away, mortar crumbling between the stones.

  He hammered on the door, but no one answered. He tried again, and when there was nothing, he forced the lock with the tip of his knife. It gave quickly enough. Light came through a small, cobwebbed window, dim but enough to make out a bed of straw covered by a dirty, torn sheet, half a loaf of bread on the table and a full jug of ale. A few ragged clothes hung on nails. They were out but they’d be back. Sedgwick closed the door carefully as he left.

  All through the afternoon he watched for them, going by the places where he’d seen them in the past. Twice he returned to see if they were at home. By evening there was still no sign and the deputy was beginning to worry.

  “Keep checking for them,” he told Rob. “If you see anything, send for me.”

  “You’re sure it’s Walter?”

  “I am now. I can feel it in my water,” Sedgwick said with certainty. “The boss was right. I don’t know where they’ve gone, though.”

  “Think they’ve flitted?”

  “No,” he answered slowly. “Not with everything they own in their room. But they might very soon. I’ll wager they’re lying low for now. They’ll go when it’s quieter.”

  Nothing. He checked not long after the bells at the Parish Church rang four in the morning. No one had been back to the cellar. Lister was waiting in the jail when the deputy arrived. He shook his head and Sedgwick frowned.

  “I’d best have the men keep looking. You go on home.”

  They’d never find w
hoever had done the killing, the constable was certain of that. The man who wielded the knife would have vanished back to Durham or wherever it was, carefully carrying the urn. Probably Archer and his wife had never imagined anyone would connect them to murder.

  He sat at the table and ate his dinner of bread and cheese, barely sipping at the ale. They might still catch the couple, though. They’d try to flee; they had to. He hoped the deputy had men out on the roads and another to watch the cellar in case they went back. Then he shook his head. There just weren’t enough men for all that.

  Finally he picked up the stick and eased himself out of the chair.

  “I’m going to take my walk,” he said to Mary. “I might stay by the bridge a while.”

  “Just to the bridge?” she asked.

  “No further,” he promised.

  The hot sun had hardened yesterday’s mud into today’s ruts, and he moved carefully along the road, then found a patch of deep shade on the bridge, a cool place to rest. Carts passed, some going into Leeds, others heading out along the road that went to York. People passed in conversation, barely noticing him. Lone stragglers nodded a greeting; one or two even stopped to pass the time of day.

  He heard the bells of the Parish Church sound one, then two, and he stayed where he was. In the background, Sheepscar Beck burbled and flowed over the rocks. It was a pleasant place to spend time, peaceful enough, and the travellers going by gave entertainment.

  Three o’clock came and went. He began to stir, wondering if it was too late. Another few minutes, Nottingham decided, then he’d go home again.

  He saw them well before they spotted him. They kept glancing backwards, over their shoulders to make sure no one was pursuing them, not ahead. The constable smiled and walked to the side of the road, leaning on his stick.

  “Mr. Archer,” he called. “Mrs. Archer. A pleasure to see you both.”

  The shock of the words made them stop. Nottingham saw the panic on Archer’s thin face. The pair of them carried small sacks over their shoulder. For a moment the man half-turned, then understood the folly of going back. Instead he gave a false smile and walked forwards.

  “Constable. It was all over town you’d been hurt. People are saying you’re going to retire.”

  “I doubt I’m ready for that yet, Mr. Archer. A few more weeks and I’ll be back at the jail.” He bowed his head towards the woman. “Leaving Leeds, are you?”

  “Aye.” Archers ran his fingertips inside the neck of his shirt. “We thought it was time to try somewhere new.”

  “Hull, maybe? You have relatives there, don’t you?”

  “Aye, maybe.”

  “All that weather off the sea, though,” Nottingham said. “Cold in winter, I hear.”

  “Perhaps.” The man shrugged.

  “Or there’s always Durham. Your part of the world, isn’t it?” he said to Mrs. Archer.

  He’d been watching Archer’s eyes and it took nothing to move aside as the man charged forward, then to drive the stick between his legs to send him sprawling. By the time he’d raised himself to his knees Nottingham had pulled the pistol from his coat pocket.

  “The pair of you sit down, backs against the parapet. I’m sure there’ll be someone along for you soon enough.”

  Maybe it really was too soon to consider retiring, he thought.

  If you enjoyed this story, I hope you’ll read the Richard Nottingham novels:

  The Broken Token

  Cold Cruel Winter

  The Constant Lovers

  Come the Fear

  At the Dying of the Year

  Coming in hardback in September 2013:

  Fair and Tender Ladies (January 2014, US and ebook)