Constant Lovers rn-3

by Chris Nickson

  He thanked her and set off, leaving an extra coin for the information she’d given him. The place was easy enough to spot, the only building on the horizon, but first he paused to glance at their old house. Perhaps the woman had been right and it had been pretty enough once, but neglect had very quickly eroded its beauty. Now the garden was overgrown, an unkempt tangle, slates hung loose on the roof, windows and door gone, salvaged by the other villagers.

  A few minutes later, as he rode down the driveway, he could see that the house the Gibtons had moved to was neither new nor especially grand. It looked like the home of a moderately prosperous squire. But it had pleasing, even proportions, and was built of ruddy brick with neatly mullioned windows. The grounds were carefully tended, and it was certainly several steps up from where they’d lived before. He glanced back over his shoulder. The cottage stood in the far distance, its outline faintly visible through a thin copse. How far they’d come, but what a small distance. How long before they had it pulled down, he wondered, and rewrote their history?

  A breathless young serving girl dashed out to meet him, bobbing a quick curtsey even as her eyes took in his old clothes.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Lord Gibton,’ Nottingham announced. She ducked her head swiftly and ran back in the house. He tied the horse’s reins to a tree and waited.

  He’d met people with titles before. At first he’d been nervous, unsure how to address them, how to act around them. Some had quickly put him at ease, pleasant fellows with easy, open manners. Most, however, took their superiority for granted, as if the world had been created solely for their ease.

  Baron Gibton was going to be one of the latter, the Constable thought as the man came down the steps. He was a scrawny man, hardly any meat on his bones, with a deeply lined, careworn face under a glossy auburn peruke. He was dressed in a suit of deep burgundy velvet, the tails of his draped canary waistcoat hanging close to his knees, his stock and hose an unblemished white. In London he’d have fitted in perfectly; out here, surrounded by countryside, he just looked affected and ridiculous.

  ‘The girl says you want to see me,’ he said briskly, eyes appraising Nottingham’s appearance. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘I’m the Constable of Leeds, my Lord.’ Nottingham didn’t bow or look down deferentially at the ground. ‘I’m here about your daughter.’

  Gibton stared for a few moments and then pursed his mouth, showing sharp teeth behind thin lips.

  ‘Come in. I don’t want everyone knowing my business.’

  He turned quickly on his heel and strode inside.

  The withdrawing room smelt heavily of wax polish. It was sparsely furnished with just a few pieces artfully placed, and looked strangely incomplete. The upholstered settle appeared recently purchased, its fabric still bright and unworn. A portrait of the baron and his wife, the paint barely dry, hung over the fireplace. Gibton sat down without offering any refreshment or comfort.

  ‘A Constable doesn’t come with good news,’ he said gravely.

  ‘No, your Lordship,’ he admitted. ‘Do you want your wife here?’

  The man waved his hand dismissively. ‘I’ll tell her everything myself later. Is Sarah dead?’

  ‘I’m sorry, she is.’

  Lord Gibton looked into the empty hearth, not showing any emotion, and the Constable was astonished and baffled by the man’s attitude. It wasn’t the way a father should act. If it had been Emily he’d have railed and needed to know every detail.

  ‘I believed she must be when her husband came here two days ago.’ His voice was low and even. ‘A girl like Sarah doesn’t simply vanish.’

  ‘She was found on Saturday,’ Nottingham began to explain. ‘We didn’t know who she was.’

  Gibton waved away his words. ‘I don’t want to know,’ he said. ‘Not now.’ His hands rubbed over his knees, a gesture without thought, just something to do.

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ the Constable agreed reluctantly, amazed at the man’s lack of interest. ‘There’s one thing I have to tell you, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Gibton didn’t even turn his head.

  ‘She’d been murdered.’

  ‘I’d surmised that much, Mister. . Nottingham, was that it?’ There was flintiness in his voice. ‘You’d hardly ride out here for a simple death.’

  ‘When she left to come here, her maid was with her. That’s what her husband said.’

  ‘Yes. Anne had been her maid for years. Sarah never went anywhere without her.’

  ‘No one’s seen the maid.’

  Gibton looked up at him, engaged and curious for the first time. ‘Are you implying Anne might have had something to do with this?’

  ‘I’m not implying anything. I’m just trying to establish facts, my Lord.’

  He considered that and nodded finally.

  ‘Where did Anne come from?’ Nottingham asked.

  Gibton sighed. ‘She was a village girl, the same as the girl we have now. Tell me, did you stop in the village, Constable?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘I needed directions here.’

  ‘And what did they tell you? That we were above ourselves?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘My family used to own all this land. All of it. Then my sot of a great-grandfather gambled almost all of it away. There was a small amount left, enough to live but not in any kind of comfort or style. Still, my wife insisted that Sarah should have a maid. A girl needs that. None of them around here liked it. And they think even worse of us now we’ve inherited a little money.’

  The Constable made no response. He didn’t like this man, apparently so unconcerned about the killing of his daughter but taken over and eaten through with money and position. He wanted to be away from here, out in the clean air. He’d done what he needed to do and broken the news. He’d be back, he knew that, but only once he knew what questions to ask. Quietly he took his leave of the baron and let the horse make its own slow way back into Leeds as he thought.

  Everything felt wrong in the Gibtons’ house. He didn’t know what to make of it, but there was a darkness, a chill there that disturbed him.

  Six

  Sedgwick eased himself slowly down on the bed and sighed with exhaustion.

  ‘That feels better.’

  Lizzie grinned at the pained look on his face and the way he stretched out his long legs.

  ‘I thought you’d said you’d been sitting down all day.’

  ‘Aye, on a bloody cart.’ He shifted position carefully. ‘My arse feels like someone’s spent the last few hours kicking it. I don’t suppose we have any ale, do we?’

  ‘Aye, I bought some today, fresh brewed from old Mrs Simpson.’

  ‘Would you be a love and pour me some?’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘What did your last slave die of, then?’ she asked, but a smile played gently across her face as she moved towards his mug.

  As she passed it over, he took her hand. ‘I do love you, you know,’ he told her.

  ‘You’d better,’ she answered, eyes twinkling. ‘That’s your baby I’m carrying inside me.’

  He drank deep, almost emptying the mug, then asked, ‘So when. .?’

  ‘When’s it due, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Late February or early March, close as I can tell. But don’t you be telling anyone yet, John Sedgwick. There’s still a long way to go.’

  ‘I know,’ he agreed, standing up gingerly to take her in his arms. The truth was that he was eager to tell everyone, to let them all share his joy. Lizzie was right though, he knew that. He sounded out the months in his head. She was barely two months gone, and there was too much that could happen before the baby arrived.

  The door crashed wide and James bustled in, running straight for his father and grasping him firmly round the legs. He’d become a solid little lad with a strong grip and a ready smile. At four he kept growing out of the clothes the deputy scrounged for him, and the knees of his breeches were always ripped from playing; L
izzie seemed to spend most evenings working with a needle and thread.

  ‘And what have you been doing?’

  ‘Me and Mark and Andrew went down to the bridge and we threw sticks.’ The words came out in a breathless, eager stream, almost tumbling over each other. ‘And we ran over to watch them come out the other side.’

  ‘Did you? Who won?’

  ‘Mark, because he had the best sticks, he said.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll win next time.’ Sedgwick’s face turned serious. ‘You watch yourself on the bridge, though. I’ve told you before. The carts and horses always go too fast there.’ He waited until the boy gave him a grin then tousled his thick hair. ‘Now go on, your mam’s got something for you to eat.’

  And she’d become the lad’s mother, he thought as he watched Lizzie cut bread and cheese and pour a cracked cup of small beer for James. More of one than Annie, his wife, had ever been. She wiped away his tears, cleaned his grazes and cuts, and loved him fiercely.

  He felt lucky she’d come along, and he still wasn’t completely sure what she saw in him. At first, once she’d moved in, he’d been scared, fearful of how fragile things could be, that she’d just up and leave. After the first three months he began to understand that she was here to stay, that they’d made a family of sorts, one where there was love and joy. Now he couldn’t think of coming home to not find her here, welcoming, funny, warm. And the idea of being a father again, of her giving birth to his child, sent a surge of pleasure through him.

  ‘What are you smiling at, John?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m just happy.’

  She looked at him tenderly. ‘I am too, love.’

  Nottingham arrived at the jail early. He threw out the pair of grumbling drunks who’d been brought in the night before, then went to summon a baker to the Petty Sessions for selling adulterated bread.

  A few faint, high clouds trailed across the towering sky as he ambled back down Kirkgate from the bakery on Lands Lane. It was going to be another hot day. He ran a finger under his collar to loosen it from his skin, the flesh already damp against his fingers.

  Sedgwick was standing by the desk, his face locked in thought, a small, secret smile on his lips.

  ‘What did you make of Mr Godlove?’

  The deputy turned as the Constable spoke. ‘Morning, boss. I thought you said he was a farmer?’

  Nottingham settled in his chair and took off his stock. ‘That’s what he told me.’

  ‘He’s a bit more than that. Owns most of Horsforth, most like. Big, grand house, more servants than you can count. I don’t think he’s one of those out in the fields at first light breaking his back.’ He paused, considering what he’d just said, then added, ‘Still, give him his due. He doesn’t have any side to him.’

  ‘Did he have much to say?’

  The deputy rubbed a hand down his face. ‘Not a lot that was useful. He wanted us to open the coffin so he could have a last look at her. Took me a while to persuade him that it wasn’t a good idea. She’s going to be buried properly tomorrow. The local curate came while I was there and couldn’t do enough to help him.’

  ‘What about his marriage?’

  Sedgwick blew out a long breath. ‘I really think he loved her.’ He paused to frame his answer. ‘He was genuinely devastated, boss. Couldn’t sit still, kept pacing around the room while I talked to him.’

  ‘Did you talk to any of the servants?’

  ‘Aye, while he was with the curate. According to them, his wife had been shy at first. About the only person she’d really talk to was the maid she’d brought with her. They thought she felt she was too good for them since she had a title. Most of them had come around a little but they still weren’t too sure of her. She didn’t talk a lot, evidently. A couple of odd things, though.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She and her maid would go off for the day once a week. Not always the same day, mind. The maid would never tell the other servants what they did. They’d leave after breakfast and come back late afternoon.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ Nottingham said. ‘No one has any idea at all?’

  ‘Rumours and thoughts, you know what it’s like. Nothing with any substance. The other thing is, though, the washerwoman there reckoned that Mrs Godlove might be carrying a baby.’

  The Constable sat straight. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘No breech clouts last month, she told me.’

  ‘And Godlove didn’t say anything about it?’

  ‘Not a word. I don’t think his wife had told him.’

  Now that was interesting, the Constable thought. He was glad he’d sent Sedgwick; the man had a knack for charming out information.

  ‘So we have more questions, but we’re not any further along.’

  ‘Nothing to help us. What about the gentry?’

  Nottingham recounted the visit to Lord Gibton, then added, ‘There’s something not right about it all.’

  ‘What do you mean, boss?’

  ‘When I arrived he knew it must be bad news, but he never pressed me for any details. What would you do if someone came and told you James was dead?’

  ‘I’d want to know everything,’ Sedgwick replied.

  ‘Exactly. All he did was turn quiet. Said he knew she must have been murdered or I wouldn’t have ridden out there, and that was it. About the only time he spoke much was explaining how the family had lost their money and why his daughter had needed a maid. It was as if he had to justif?y everything about his life, never mind that his daughter was in the ground. It was just. . cold. It’s not human.’

  ‘How much did you tell him?’

  ‘Not much at all. He never bothered to ask where she’d been found or how she’d died. I’ll tell you, John, I don’t know what to make of it. I’ve never seen anything like it. And something else — on my way I stopped in the village there, and the woman at the alehouse thought Godlove had paid them so he could marry Sarah.’

  ‘What?’ The deputy looked at him incredulously.

  ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, it should be the other way round — the girl brings a dowry. But after meeting Gibton I can almost believe it, especially since the baron took such pains to tell me he’d inherited the money.’

  ‘So what do you mean? They sold her to the highest bidder?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sure the rich and titled have their own term for it. Godlove must have been what, thirty years older than her?’

  ‘Something like that, aye.’

  ‘She was a pretty girl. Why would she look twice at him, let alone marry him? There was nothing Sarah could bring to a marriage, the Gibtons didn’t have money.’

  ‘Except a title,’ Sedgwick offered.

  ‘Exactly. For some people having a wife with ‘The Honourable’ in front of her name could be worth paying for. And who knows what their children would be?’ He paused to consider that, then pursed his lips. ‘Something that bothers me is what’s happened to the maid? Gibton insisted she was devoted to Sarah.’

  ‘That’s what the servants said at Godlove’s, too. No one had a bad word to say about her, but no one seemed to really know her. She hadn’t gone out of her way to make friends.’

  ‘She’s from Roundhay, and the alewife didn’t say anyone had seen her, so she must still be missing. We’ve had no more reports of bodies.’

  ‘Do you think she’s involved?’

  The Constable shook his head. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘For a start, we need to find the maid,’ Nottingham said. ‘Do we even know her surname?’

  ‘Taylor.’

  ‘We have to try and find her. She’s the one who was closest to Sarah Godlove. She might well be the key to all this.’ He marked the item on one finger. ‘We also need to know where Sarah went every week. That’s a mystery and it might well be important.’ He pushed a second finger back, then a third. ‘And we should try and find out the truth about this marriage.’
r />   ‘How?’ Sedgwick asked.

  ‘We ask questions. It’s the only thing we can do. You go out to Roundhay and talk to the maid’s family. Who knows, they might have had word from her-’

  ‘If she’s still alive.’

  The Constable acknowledged the words. He knew full well she could easily be as dead as her mistress, the body hidden away somewhere.

  ‘-or she might have told them things.’ He sighed. ‘Any information is better than we have right now. Anything you can find at all. Ask round the village. Sarah grew up there, people will have known her. You know what to do. Take the knife with you, too. See if anyone recognizes it.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ He stood up and stretched, grabbing the weapon from the drawer.

  ‘Do you want to ride up there?’

  Sedgwick made a face. ‘After being in that cart yesterday, I’ll walk.’

  The problem, Nottingham decided, was that he was dealing with so many unknowns. The people were just names, he didn’t understand their lives. Neither Godlove nor the Gibtons had any association with Leeds, and Leeds was what was familiar to him, what he understood in his heart and his soul. Outside the city he was just another stranger. What he needed was someone who might know something about these folk, someone to guide him a little.

  He retied his stock and set off down Briggate. Carters filled the road, cursing their horses and each other, while a farmer tried to drive a few cattle between the wagons, heading to sell them to the butchers in the Shambles.

  A short way up from the bridge he stopped by a house, its shutters spread wide and the sashes raised. Glancing through the window he could see the printing press, its brass gleaming, and beyond it a man at a desk. His head was lowered, the quill in his hand scratching rapidly at a piece of paper. The Constable opened the door and walked in.

  ‘Mr Nottingham.’ The man stood, extending a hand whose skin was discoloured by dark stains. James Lister was small and round, all beaming eyes and bulging belly, with an open, jovial face. He’d only taken over the Leeds Mercury in January after the terrible winter had claimed the life of his employer, John Hirst. But in his life he’d forgotten more about Leeds and the area around it than most people had ever known. Where the merchants dealt in cloth, fact and rumour were his stock-in-trade. ‘What can I do for you?’