Constant Lovers rn-3

by Chris Nickson

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Eighteen.’ Even as his skin flushed, Godlove raised his head higher, as if daring the other man to question him about age.

  Nottingham just waited, not rising to the bait.

  ‘What does she look like?’ he asked kindly, although he suspected he already knew the answer.

  ‘She’s small,’ the man said, raising an arm to indicate her height. ‘Fair hair, blue eyes. A lovely girl.’ He smiled. ‘Too thin, though. I keep telling her she needs to eat more.’

  ‘Was she wearing a wedding ring?’

  Godlove looked at him quizzically, not expecting the question. ‘Yes, of course. She always wears it, she’s a married woman.’

  ‘Does she have any marks? Is there anything that might make her stand out?’

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  ‘No scars?’ Nottingham prompted. ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Just a little one, here,’ the farmer said after a few moments’ thought. He showed his left hand. ‘Almost like a circle. You’d hardly notice it. And she can’t take the sun. The last couple of months she’s had to have a parasol and a bonnet every day to keep it off her. She burns very easily. It’s painful.’

  Nottingham was silent. So now he had a name for the corpse. He didn’t know what private sorrows the man was carrying, but he knew he was going to add to them.

  ‘Mr Godlove,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. I have no comfort for you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Godlove’s voice rose in panic and confusion.

  ‘Someone who matches the description you just gave me was found dead at Kirkstall Abbey on Saturday.’

  ‘What?’ The farmer’s head jerked up as if someone had pulled him hard by the hair. Words tumbled from him. ‘No, it can’t. . but. . no. . Kirkstall?’

  The Constable nodded his head sadly. ‘The body had the same scar. I’m sorry, she’d been murdered.’

  The man slumped forward, pushing his chin against his chest for a few seconds. Nottingham watched him breathe slowly, trying to regain control before he raised his head again, eyes full of pain.‘I don’t understand,’ he said simply, adrift now in a country he didn’t know. ‘You said she’s dead? And someone killed her?’

  ‘Yes.’ Godlove stared at him, and he knew he had to give the man the truth. ‘She’d been stabbed.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, uncomprehending, barely murmuring the words. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t even know who she was until you arrived.’ He paused, wondering how to phrase the next part. ‘We had to bury her yesterday. The heat. .’

  He watched Godlove but the man was too stunned by his wife’s death to take in the fact.

  ‘Murdered?’ The word came out in wonder and astonishment.

  The Constable stood up and began to pace, the sound of his boot heels hard on the flagstones. He needed the man’s attention. He had a name for the girl now, but he needed more, everything he could learn, and he needed it as quickly as possible.

  ‘Mr Godlove,’ he said. ‘How was she travelling? Did anyone go with her?’

  The farmer roused himself slowly, as if he’d only heard the words from a far distance. It took him a few moments to collect his thoughts.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He gave a weak, polite smile that did nothing to cover his torment. ‘She decided to ride. I have a carriage, but the weather was good and she had a horse she loved. It wasn’t that far.’

  ‘Who went with her?’

  ‘Her maid.’

  ‘Was she on horseback, too?’

  ‘No,’ Godlove said after a short while, ‘she wouldn’t get on one. She was scared of them.’

  ‘What’s the maid’s name?’ Nottingham persisted. So now there was someone else to hunt.

  ‘Anne.’

  ‘What does Anne look like? How long has she been with you?’

  ‘She came with Sarah when I married her.’ He was unfocused, drifting away. ‘She’s just a girl, plump, ordinary. Not especially pretty, but not ugly. I-’ He started to speak, then stopped. The Constable waited but he didn’t continue.

  ‘And what are your wife’s parents called?’

  ‘Lord and Lady Gibton,’ the man answered.

  Nottingham’s heart sank; it was all he could do not to grimace. The death of someone wealthy was one thing, the murder of an aristocrat was another altogether.

  ‘I want to take her home. I want to bury her properly,’ Godlove announced with surprising decision.

  ‘Of course,’ the Constable agreed quickly. ‘I’ll have the parish arrange it.’

  ‘She was stabbed, you said?’

  ‘Yes.’ He opened the desk drawer and took out the knife. ‘Have you ever seen this before?’

  Godlove shook his head. He was pale, looking wearied and far older than his years.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No.’ The man stood, head hanging down, and the Constable knew he’d have no more information today. ‘I’ll. . Can you. .?’

  ‘I’ll see she’s brought out to you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Godlove left slowly, going out into a day the Constable knew he would never be able to forget.

  Nottingham sat back and sighed loudly. With nobility involved he needed to inform the mayor. He waited a few minutes, trying to imagine how he might phrase things, then walked to the Moot Hall. The building dominated Briggate, sitting two storeys tall, square in the middle of the street, the stocks outside the arched front, the road flowing on each side of it like a river. On the ground floor the butchers’ shops were a stink of meat spoiling in the heat, the thick buzzing of flies like a curtain around them that reminded him of the insects heavy around the girl’s body. Nottingham entered through the heavy doors, leaving most of the sound outside, then walked up the polished steps and along a corridor where a thick Turkey carpet muffled his footsteps.

  He knocked on the wooden door and waited for the command to enter. Edward Kenion was behind his desk, as the Constable knew he would be. In less than two months he’d pass the chain of office to his successor, and he already looked as if he’d be glad to be relieved of its grievous weight.

  Kenion’s clothes might have been crisp, the cut and the material of his coat a subtle sign of his wealth, but the dark shading under his eyes showed the toll of long hours and responsibility, and his belly bulged further than before against the rich brocade of his waistcoat. It was a thankless job, Nottingham knew that, an ill reward for service to the Corporation. Some men paid a fine rather than take the post.

  ‘What is it, Nottingham?’ he asked sharply, barely glancing up from his papers.

  ‘I sent you a report about the girl out in Kirkstall.’

  ‘Aye, I remember. You didn’t know who she was.’

  ‘I do now. Her husband was just at the jail. He has a farm out towards Horsforth. Probably an estate, from the look of him.’

  Kenion looked at him wearily from under bushy eyebrows. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No. He said the girl’s father is Lord Gibton.’

  The mayor threw down his quill. ‘Bugger. Do you know who he is?’

  Nottingham shook his head. He’d never heard the name until a few minutes before.

  ‘God knows how long ago or why, but one of our kings made Gibton’s ancestor a baron,’ Kenion explained. ‘Along the way one of them lost all the estate and most of the money. About all they had left was the title and a little bit of land. They scraped by, from what I heard, poor by the standards they’d known before.’ He waved his hand. ‘A year or so back they got some money from somewhere. Now you’d think they always owned half the county from the way they act. He’s bad enough but his wife is even worse, a shrew. This means I’ll be hearing from them soon.’ He sighed. ‘I hope you can bloody well find his killer fast, Constable.’

  It was half wish, half command.

  ‘Sarah Godlove,’ he told Sedgwick when he returned to the jail. The deputy was there, practising his writing with a smal
l piece of chalk and some slate. Nottingham had taught him his letters, preparing him for the role of Constable some day in the future.

  Sedgwick cocked his head.

  ‘That’s the name of the dead girl. Her husband came in.’

  ‘Rich?’

  ‘He is,’ Nottingham answered. ‘But it’s worse than that. Her father’s a baron. I’ve just been to tell the mayor.’

  ‘Fuck,’ the deputy muttered.

  ‘Except they haven’t had much wealth for a long time. They’ve just come into money, evidently.’

  ‘Poor nobility?’ Sedgwick snorted. ‘Pigs fly too, do they?’

  The Constable smiled briefly. ‘That’s the story, anyway. You’d better have her exhumed and take her out to the husband tomorrow. He’s out at Horsforth. See what you can find out from him.’

  ‘What did he tell you, boss?’

  ‘She left on Thursday, going over to see her parents in Roundhay. It was meant to be a surprise visit. She was on horseback, had a maid with her. She never arrived.’

  ‘So where’s the maid?’

  ‘I wondered that, too. Gone, apparently.’

  The deputy looked thoughtful.

  ‘What is it?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘Nothing, really. Had the maid been with them long? It could be the service lay gone wrong.’

  Nottingham shook his head firmly.

  ‘According to the husband, the maid had been with the girl a long time. I’m going out to Roundhay tomorrow to see the Gibtons. We should know more after that.’

  ‘How did the mayor take the news?’

  ‘I think he’d have been happier at his own funeral. He doesn’t seem to care much for Lord Gibton or his wife.’

  It was brushing twilight when Sedgwick returned to his room. There was dirt on his hose from where they’d opened the grave, and he could still feel death cloying in his mouth.

  It had been hard to watch the coffin pulled up from the earth, the sense of eternity disturbed. And harder still to hoist it up on to the cart, then cover it, ready for the morning and the journey out to Horsforth.

  Lizzie was waiting, a warm smile from her his welcome. She set the mending aside, pushing the needle into the fabric, and came over to kiss him. Down on the pallet bed, James turned over and burrowed back into sleep.

  ‘How’s he been?’

  ‘Up and down,’ she said. The boy had a summer cold, but they both knew it took so little for things to become worse. To live without money was to always walk on a knife edge. ‘He’s slept a few times today.’ She reached down and ran her fingers lightly across James’s forehead. ‘I think he’s over the worst of it, he seems cool enough now.’

  Lizzie had been a whore he’d known from his work. They’d shared jokes on night-time corners, her laughter genuine and infectious. She’d offered herself to him a few times, and once or twice, when things had been bad at home, he’d accepted. After Sedgwick’s wife had run off with a soldier, she’d turned up at his door, wondering who’d look after his son.

  She’d been living with him since the previous autumn and he was still surprised at the joy it brought him every day. He looked forward to coming home, to the feel of her lips on his, to the pleasure in her eyes when she saw him.

  He picked up some bread and began to chew.

  ‘John?’ Her voice was tentative, unsure, so unlike her that he turned.

  ‘Do you think I’m a good mother with James?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he told her, meaning it. She loved the lad properly, giving him ample care and attention. He’d blossomed with her, revelling in life, playing on the riverbank as she watched, discovering mischief, all the things he should be doing. He reached out and took her hand. ‘Why are you asking?’

  She smiled shyly.

  ‘Well, it looks like you’re going to be a father again.’

  Five

  He loved this time of day, the soft minutes between waking and sleep when his mind could wander freely. Mary’s head rested on his chest, her hair loose and tickling his cheek as she slept. The window was open wide and from the woods in the distance he could hear the restless hoot of an owl.

  Earlier they’d walked out past Burmantofts, taking a stroll in the quiet evening. It was a good way to put the cares of the day behind him, a chance for restful conversation. He understood that their new situation, just the two of them, was hard on Mary. She was alone all day, tending the house and the garden, feeling the emptiness and the silence of the place. When he came home she drank in his company, eager for words, a touch, a soft smile, the pleasure of talking.

  He stroked Mary’s shoulder through her shift and felt her stir slightly. Years before, he recalled, they’d discussed all the wonderful things they’d do once the girls had gone. Now that time was here and they were groping their way into it. Yet Mary was already gazing ahead to the day he’d retire.

  ‘Richard,’ she’d said as they passed the old burgage plots, heavy now with fruit and flowers and herbs, ‘we’ll be able to spend all our time together. We can do things.’

  He smiled at her, happy to hear the eagerness that seemed so girlish. After Rose’s death in the winter he’d watched helplessly as some of the light leave her. Now it seemed to have returned, her eyes twinkling as she dreamed of the future.

  ‘We’ll have precious little money,’ he’d pointed out. It was true; the city would grant him the house and a tiny pension — if he lived that long. He took her hand and tried to stop her thoughts. ‘Besides, that’s a long time off yet. Let’s just enjoy what we have now, shall we?’

  She laughed, pulling him down the lane towards home.

  He gazed at her later as she let down her hair then untied the mantua dress he’d bought her in May. It was second-hand, the blue faded to the colour of dawn sky, but she loved wearing it. She slipped into bed, curling around him with a kiss. Thoughts of the young man he’d once been touched him, his curious, cautious shyness, the sense that the world could fall at any time. And he realized he loved her more now than he had back then. A different love, less ardent maybe, but stronger than youth.

  Nottingham set off early for Roundhay, taking the gentle horse from the ostler and following the road that ran out by Sheepscar Beck. He could see people already hard at work in the fields but there were precious few travellers at this hour; all he encountered was a pair of riders and they were going into Leeds.

  He passed a small sign guiding travellers to Gibton’s Well. He’d heard of the place, that the waters there were supposed to be beneficial. For a while it had been fashionable and some of the merchants and aldermen had come out with their wives, all hoping to be healed of their aches and pains by its waters. None of them had ever looked much better.

  He continued up the gentle slope, the vista spreading out green before him, sheep grazing in large white flocks.

  By the time he reached Roundhay village the sun was well risen, the warmth rounding on his shoulders and leaving his throat dry. He stopped at the alehouse, letting the horse drink from the stone trough while he went inside for a mug of small beer.

  It was nothing more than a ramshackle cottage with a bench and two barrels of ale resting on trestles. The woman who served him was small and old, her back bent, lines cracking deep on her face.

  ‘Do you know Lord Gibton?’ Nottingham asked.

  The woman chuckled. He could see her gnarled knuckles as she poured his ale.

  ‘Oh aye, Lord,’ she said mysteriously, took a clay pipe from her apron and lit it, blowing smoke up to the low ceiling. The Constable waited and she continued, her voice rough and gravelly. ‘Allus had their airs, they have, thought they were better than everyone, although the family’s lived almost like the rest of us longer than anyone can remember.’

  She made a half-hearted attempt to wipe the table, brushing a few stale crumbs on to the earth floor with her hand, happy to continue the gossip.

  ‘What happened to their money?’

  ‘All sorts of tales,’ she
said dismissively. She leaned forward, bringing the smell of ancient sweat and foul breath. ‘I’ll tell you what most folk round here say, though. Long time ago, they owned all this land but lost it at cards.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  She shrugged. ‘All I know is they got some money again and they’re back living like royalty.’ She spat towards the empty hearth.

  ‘How long ago did that happen?’ Nottingham asked.

  She stopped to consider, counting back in her head.

  ‘About eighteen month back, something like that,’ she answered finally. ‘Not too long before that little lass of theirs got wed.’

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Aye, only one they had. They’d had some others, but they all died. Some of them as babbies, some older. Doted on that girl, they did, couldn’t do enough for her. Married her into wealth, from the way she dresses when she comes back.’

  ‘Does she come back often?’

  The woman paused and thought. ‘Every month or so, I suppose. Hard not to notice her, way she prances around the place on her horse.’

  ‘So where did this all new money come from?’ he wondered.

  ‘They said they’d inherited it,’ she said, rolling her eyes, every word oozing doubt. ‘I reckon it was that farmer paid for Sarah. Cost him enough if it was, mind.’

  ‘What?’ He couldn’t believe that. He knew well enough about the dowries many women brought to marriage, anything from land and coin to a small chest of sheets, but he’d never heard of a man paying to wed a girl. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Summat folks have said here and there,’ the woman said with a small air of defiance. ‘Makes sense enough. There’s no one to leave brass to the Gibtons.’

  He considered the idea. Who’d sell their daughter that way? But the more the thought lingered, the more he had to admit that it could happen. With the rich, everything was wealth and power, however they could obtain it.

  ‘Where do they live now?’

  ‘Moved out the village.’ She clicked her tongue at the idea. ‘They used to have a cottage close to the crossroads but they left that. It was a pretty enough place, too, bigger than most. If you want to find them, go along the old Roman road, the one that goes to Moortown. There’s a house about half a mile down, set back behind some trees. That’s what they bought with their fortune.’