He knew the building he wanted, although he’d never been inside it before. Tom Williamson had just moved into his new warehouse down by the Aire the month before. Built for him, it offered more space than the tumbledown place in the yard behind his old, cramped house on Briggate, and made loading cloth on to the barges much easier.
The Constable pushed open the door and entered. Already everything had the unmistakable smell of cloth. The office, its battered desks looking out of place in this new setting, stood to one side, empty as all the men worked together to store the lengths the merchant had purchased at the afternoon’s coloured cloth market.
Williamson himself was supervising, stripped to his breeches and shirt, sleeves pushed up to show pale, scrawny arms. Nottingham waited, watching as the men worked in concert with pulleys and brute strength to put the cloth away on the shelves. The high windows, glass still clear and clean, were open to pull in fresh air, but everyone was sweating and cursing.
He waited quietly until they’d finished and Williamson walked towards him, towelling off his face and neck with an old scrap of linen. He was in his middle thirties, a slight man, full of energy, drive, and the kind of honesty all too rare in a merchant. He smiled as he noticed the Constable leaning against a wall.
‘Richard,’ he said pleasantly. ‘What do you think of it?’
‘Impressive,’ he answered truthfully. The large new place, its stonework bright, was an indication of the ambition Williamson had as a merchant, and of the fortunes of the wool trade in Leeds. Across the city, business was growing fast, with orders coming in constantly, and all because of the quality. No one in the country could match it. Profits were good and going to become even better. Tom Williamson had grown up in the business, his father a merchant, his own apprenticeship served in the city and abroad, and he’d taken over the firm when his father had died two years before. Now it was on the cusp of being one of the largest in Leeds.
The merchant poured himself a mug of ale and drank quickly before offering one to Nottingham.
‘It’s a big investment,’ Williamson said with pride. ‘But give it two or three years and it’ll be paying for itself. Come on, let’s go outside, I need some air after all that.’
Nottingham followed him and they sat together on the riverbank.
‘So what brings you here, Richard? You’re not one for social calls.’
‘Will Jackson.’
The merchant frowned. ‘I heard. That was terrible,’ he said with a long sigh.
‘Did you know him?’
Williamson took another drink. ‘Not especially well. We’d say good day when we met, that type of thing. But from what everyone said, he was up and coming, making a name for himself.’
‘Did you do business with him?’
‘I’ve used Tunstall’s a couple of times, mostly when there were orders I had to fill quickly.’ He wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. ‘You know how it is, you develop a relationship with companies. There’s a cloth finisher we’ve used for years. They’re fine, so I don’t have any reason to change.’
‘What do you know about Tunstall’s?’
Williamson eyed him curiously. ‘Trying to find the reason he killed himself??’
‘More or less,’ Nottingham answered evasively. In part, at least, it was the truth. The merchant considered his answer.
‘As far as I know, they’re going well. Jackson really built the business up. He came to see me a few times, trying for my custom. I imagine Elias is worried now.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
A suicide left a long, stained shadow, one that people were eager to avoid. Trade at Tunstall’s would suffer as long as people remembered what Jackson had done.
‘It’s not like you to investigate suicides, Richard, even if they’re in a place like that. Is there something more?’
‘Possibly,’ was as far as he’d go in response. Tom was a friend, one of the few merchants who didn’t look down on him or his office. But something stopped him saying more and he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he felt too unsure about everything at the moment, still trying to tie down the tenuous connections between peoples’ lives.
‘I don’t envy you your job,’ Williamson said, shaking his head.
Nottingham laughed. ‘Why’s that?’
‘All you see is misery. People hurt, robbed, even dead.’
‘But we catch the people who did it. That rights a wrong. Surely that’s a good thing?’
‘It’s what you have to go through to do it. It makes my life seem very straightforward.’
‘For what it’s worth, I couldn’t be a merchant.’
Nottingham stood up, leaving his own history unspoken. His father had been a merchant, one who’d sold his business and moved away after throwing out his family. All he’d left his son was his surname.
‘Be glad you’re not,’ Williamson told him. ‘It’s a brutal business, Richard.’
The Constable grinned. ‘Just not as brutal as mine.’
With a wave he headed back to the city. He felt frustrated. The more he learned, the less he seemed to know or understood about this case. As he walked he pried the pieces apart in his mind and tried to slowly reassemble them to see if they made any more sense.
They had a girl who’d been murdered, one who’d been married for just a year to a man much older than her. She might have been pregnant. She had a lover she saw weekly who had killed himself after she’d died. She’d gone to visit her parents and taken her maid, but never arrived. The maid was missing.
Her husband had paid her parents handsomely to have her in marriage, but he’d fallen in love with her.
That was what they knew. He was certain that she hadn’t been the victim of a robbery on the highway. If that had happened she’d just have been left by the road. They wouldn’t have used an expensive knife and left it in her body. So it was someone who knew her.
He needed more. He needed the small pieces that would connect these items and let him see the real picture. As it was, the fragments he possessed couldn’t even tell him how large that picture might be. Until he had more information, something solid, he’d be like a dog chasing its tail and becoming more and more frustrated. Someone had wanted Sarah Godlove dead. If he could only understand why, he might be able to find out who.
The Constable was still trying to make sense of everything as he entered the jail.
‘Boss?’ Lister said, shaking Nottingham into the present. ‘I think I’ve got something here.’
‘What’s that?’ He sat down, hopeful for anything that might move them along.
‘I’ve been going through Will’s business letters. From the look of them he was trying to sell his share of Tunstall’s.’
‘What?’ He stopped. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m positive.’ He picked up the letters and riffled through them. ‘From what I can see, it started about three weeks ago. He wrote to a few people who might be interested. Said he was looking to leave Leeds.’
The Constable’s heart started beating a little faster. ‘Did he say why at all?’
‘Not that I’ve found,’ Rob replied. ‘He had two people who were interested, one from Bradford, another from Wakefield. Quite seriously, too, from the look of the letters. But it all stopped about three days before he killed himself.’
‘Which would be when news of Sarah’s death would have started to spread,’ Nottingham mused.
‘They could have been running off together.’
‘It’s possible,’ he allowed guardedly. ‘How much was he asking for his share of Tunstall’s?’
‘Enough to live on quite well for a while.’
The Constable sat down, brushing the fringe off his forehead.
‘Go back over all the letters from Sarah, see if there’s anything to indicate them leaving together.’
‘I didn’t see anything before-’ Rob started, but Nottingham held up his hand.
‘We didn’t know what to look for before. There
might be something in there that makes sense in the light of this. Have you found anything else?’
‘That’s all.’ Lister started to knead his neck. ‘What’s it like outside?’ he asked with a weary grin that made the Constable laugh.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll be back out there soon enough, and then you’ll be wishing you were back here with some papers.’
‘If you say so, boss.’ Rob smiled.
‘Just make sure you go through everything today. Tell me in the morning if there’s anything more.’
‘Yes, boss.’
Past Timble Bridge he looked into the distance, watching the small specks of men working in the fields, and the sheep grazing contentedly on the grass. This murder was weighing hard on him. Every scrap, every pace ahead had to be hard won, it seemed.
He wanted to put it all behind him when he stepped through his doorway, but he knew it was never as simple as turning a key in a lock. Whatever he did, it would nag quietly at the back of his mind. It was simply his way. He loved his job, too much perhaps.
Emily was sitting in the chair. She’d been reading, but looked up with a warm smile when he entered. Her eyes were bright and her skin clear, all the traces of her misery now history. In a way he envied her her youth, being able to put things behind her so quickly.
‘I went to see Mrs Rains at the Dame School today,’ she told him.
‘Was she surprised to see you?’
‘Yes,’ Emily answered with a little laugh. Mrs Rains had recommended her for the post as Hartington’s governess.
He settled down across from her. ‘What did she have to say?’
‘Well,’ she began, and from the way she lowered her head, the colour rising in her face, he could tell that she was eager with good news, that it needed to burst out of her. ‘She asked if I’d like to teach there with her.’
‘Really?’ he asked and she nodded emphatically, biting her lip, her grin wide. ‘Oh, love, that’s wonderful.’ He reached across, squeezed her hand and kissed her flushed cheek. ‘What did your mother say?’
‘She said she thought it was the best news she’d heard in a long time. She’s gone into town to buy some cloth to make me a new dress for work.’
Nottingham laughed, infected by her joy. ‘So when do you start?’ he asked.
‘Next week,’ she answered excitedly. ‘She wants me to begin on Monday. It’s going to be so lovely, papa. I can live here, and the school’s become quite busy now, I’ll be doing a lot of teaching on my own, too. That’s why I’m reading now.’ She indicated the small pile of books next to her. ‘I have to be ready.’
‘You’ll do very well,’ he assured her. ‘I have faith in you — and so does your mother.’
‘Thank you, papa.’ Her smile was wide enough to light up any room. ‘And thank you for persuading Mr Hartington to write his recommendation. I don’t know how you managed to do that. .’
He stood up and ruffled her hair.
‘Don’t you worry about how. You’ve got a position that’ll suit you well. Just make sure you work at it.’
‘I will, papa,’ she promised with pleasure.
In the kitchen he found cheese under a cloth, bread and ale and he’d just returned to the sitting room when Mary arrived home with two lengths of cloth under her arm.
‘Oh, Richard,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I had to go and buy these.’ She glanced at their daughter, eyes twinkling. ‘Did Emily tell you?’
‘She did, and it’s glorious news.’
‘If she’s going to be teaching she needs a new dress and petticoat, so I thought I’d sew one.’ She gave Emily the plain cotton. ‘You can make the petticoat,’ she told her. ‘It’ll be good practice for you. I’ll do the dress.’
‘Yes, mama,’ the girl replied with no real enthusiasm. Mary rolled her eyes and vanished into the kitchen. Nottingham followed her. Dust motes hung in the sunlight through the window.
‘I haven’t had a chance to cook anything today,’ she explained.
‘This is fine,’ he told her, holding up his plate. ‘What do you think about our daughter, the teacher?’
‘I think she’ll probably be self-important and insufferable for a while,’ Mary answered with a sardonic smile. ‘But it’ll be good for her. And she’ll be here with us.’
‘You’ve missed having her here, haven’t you?’ He reached across and stroked the back of her hand.
‘I liked it with just the two of us,’ she said with a low, thoughtful sigh. ‘But somehow it feels more complete with her here again.’
‘She’ll go in time, you know. She’ll meet someone and be wed.’
Mary looked up at him, her eyes wide. He knew she was thinking of Rose, married and so soon dead.
‘That’s for the future, Richard. She has plenty of time for that.’
He took a mouthful of cheese and drank from the mug.
‘We could take a walk later if you like,’ he suggested. ‘Just the two of us. Emily has her reading to keep her busy.’
‘And I’ll have my sewing if I’m going to finish her dress by next week. I need to measure her, cut out the fabric.’ She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I can’t, Richard, I’m sorry. I’m going to be up until all hours every night.’
‘It’s fine,’ he told her softly and dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead.
His coat hung on the hook and he delved in the pocket for the folded and crumpled copy of the Mercury before sitting down. As usual there was little in it he wanted to know. Reports copied from the London papers that had circulated a week or two before, a short item each on Sarah Godlove and Will Jackson that offered nothing new. There were marriages in Mirfield, and someone was offering Dr Daff?y’s pills, proven to be efficacious for gout and too many other things to count. He dropped the newspaper on the floor and closed his eyes.
The banging on the door woke him. He started up, blinking and disorientated for a second. He was alone in the room. Somewhere upstairs he could hear Mary and Emily talking. Light was still coming through the window, but lower now — he must have slept a couple of hours.
‘Wait,’ he shouted in a thick voice, shaking his head to clear it. He lifted the latch. Sedgwick was waiting outside. This wouldn’t be good news, he could see from the deep frown on the deputy’s face.
‘Someone found a body, boss. I think it might be Sarah’s maid.’
Fifteen
He took his coat from the hook and pulled it on as they walked quickly into the city.
‘Where was the body?’
‘In some woods out along the river, going towards Kirkstall.’
‘Who found it?’
‘Someone out snaring coneys,’ the deputy said. ‘It’s private land,’ he added pointedly.
‘I don’t care if it’s the King’s bloody court,’ Nottingham said, ‘not if there’s a corpse. Is someone bringing it in?’
‘Aye, I’ve got two of the men on it.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘Yes,’ Sedgwick answered, his face sombre, the pock marks on his cheeks standing out in the dying light.
‘How bad is it?’
‘Bad, boss.’ He grimaced. ‘Been there a while and the animals have been at it.’
‘So what made you think it was Anne Taylor?’
They were heading up Kirkgate at a crisp pace. As they passed the Parish Church the Constable cast a glace at the churchyard; even in the twilight his eyes immediately picked out Rose’s grave.
‘Well, it’s a girl, I can tell that much, and what’s left of her hair is dark. Slender.’
‘Was she clothed?’
‘Not much of it left, but she had been. I don’t think we’ll ever be able to find out what killed her. I told the coroner. The men will bring her in after he’s seen her.’
They settled in the jail to await the body.
‘We need to see if there’s any way to identif?y her and tell the family,’ Nottingham said. ‘They’ll want to bury her.’
Sedgwick slipped next door for a mug of ale and the Constable pushed at his cheeks with his palms, rubbing away the last of the sleep. If the corpse was Anne it would simply confirm what he suspected. But it didn’t help them find the killer.
He was still sitting with his thoughts about it when the door opened and two of the night men struggled in with a bundle on a willow hurdle, covered with a wretched, stained old blanket. They knew what to do, and carried it through to the cell the city kept as a morgue. On their way out he gave them a few coins for ale; if the remains were as far gone as the deputy had said, they’d need a drink.
He went through and pulled off the cover. But after a single glance he had to turn away, breathing slowly and shallowly to keep down the bile rising in his chest. Sedgwick hadn’t said enough. This was far beyond bad.
Nottingham took a kerchief from his breeches pocket and tied it around his face, trying vainly to keep the stench of death away. The putrefaction was so strong it made his eyes water and he had to keep stopping to wipe them with his sleeve.
The corpse had been a young woman, he could make out that much, but God only knew what she’d looked like. Her eyes were gone, pecked away, the skin all over her body chewed by beasts. One arm had been gnawed off, the teeth marks still sharp on the bone, maggots and flies crowding around the thick dried blood of the stump.
He did what he could to try and find anything recognisable in the decomposed flesh, stopping often to clear his mouth with a swig of ale, carefully examining what was left of the body. With what little remained there was no possibility of discovering what had killed her; John had been right on that. He did manage to find a birthmark, a small patch of darker skin on the skin around her hip, but nothing more. It might be enough to identif?y her.
He came out shaking his head and downed a deep cup, not tasting the beer but feeling it swill through his mouth, cleansing it.
‘Better get her out of here as soon as possible,’ he said, sitting down gratefully. ‘Find someone to take her tonight. And have the undertaker put her in a coffin with the lid nailed down.’
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