Fair and Tender Ladies

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Jem Carter, sir.’

  ‘You’d better sit down and tell me about her, Mr Carter.’

  He offered the man ale, and waited as he drank and wiped his mouth.

  ‘What’s your sister called?’ he asked kindly.

  ‘Jenny, sir.’

  ‘And how old is she, Mr Carter?’

  ‘Sixteen. Just last month.’

  The Constable sat back and stroked his chin.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Ilkley, sir.’

  He’d heard of the place, no more than that, a village some dozen or so miles away to the northwest. The man had either walked all night or slept in a wood somewhere. Carter was staring at him, eyes full of hope.

  ‘What makes you think Jenny might be here?’ he asked, although he’d heard every possible answer so many times he could have recited them all himself. The country girls arrived in their dozens each year, heads turned by tales of rich, handsome men seeking a pretty young bride, or the fortunes to be made in the city. But they were nothing more than stories. There was no gold on the streets of Leeds, only the empty tinkle of coins they earned on their backs. At the end of a week they’d be lucky to have two thin pennies left. How many ever made their way home again?

  ‘She allus wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere big.’ Carter blushed. ‘Our Jenny’s one of them girls who’s been full of dreams since she was a bairn. Me da said he’d find her a husband but she told him no, she wa’nt ready yet.’

  ‘What does your family do?’

  ‘We’re farmers, sir,’ he said with pride, sitting a little straighter on the chair. Nottingham nodded and pushed the fringe off his forehead.

  ‘When did Jenny leave?’

  ‘Saturday morning.’ Carter sat forward, elbows on his knees. ‘She said she were going to take some food to one o’ t’ old women down the other end of t’ village. She does that,’ he explained. ‘She’s a good lass at heart. When she hadn’t come back by dark we went looking. She’d never even been there.’

  And now it was Tuesday. Walking, the girl would likely have arrived on Saturday afternoon. More than two days ago, but with a little luck she might not have disappeared completely yet.

  ‘What does she look like?’

  ‘She’s nobbut a little ’un, a tiddler.’ Carter smiled for a moment at the thought of his sister. ‘Look at her and you’d reckon she were younger, mebbe thirteen. I used to tease her about it.’

  ‘Does she have fair hair like you?’

  ‘Aye, that’s reet. But it’s long, down her back, the way lasses have it.’

  ‘What was she wearing, Mr Carter? Did she take anything with her?’

  ‘Just an old blue dress, an apron and a cap. She had some food in a basket.’

  ‘And money? Did she have any with her?’

  He shrugged, not really knowing. ‘A few pennies, mebbe. I’m sure she din’t have more than that.’

  Nottingham paused, thinking. ‘Are you the oldest in the family?’

  ‘Aye, sir, I am. I’ve two younger brothers and another sister besides Jenny. And there’s me da. Me mam died where I were little.’ He held up the middle finger of his left hand. ‘Jenny wears a ring there that used to belong to our mam. It has a shape like a rose on it.’

  ‘We’ll look for her,’ he said. The man’s face brightened, but the Constable knew he had to add more. He didn’t want Carter to believe he’d see his sister again in an hour or two. ‘You have to understand, I can’t make you any promises. We may not find her. We don’t find everyone who comes here. She may not even be in Leeds, have you thought of that, Mr Carter? She could have decided to try her luck in London.’

  ‘She’ll be here,’ the young man said firmly, as if he was trying to convince himself. It was what he needed to believe, Nottingham realized. ‘Find her, mister, please.’

  ‘We’ll do everything we can,’ he promised. ‘What about you? Are you staying to search for her?’

  ‘I am. Me da give me some money and told me to keep looking until I bring her home.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you know any good lodgings, sir?’

  ‘Try Mrs Lumley on Call Lane,’ the Constable advised. ‘Ask anyone down there, they’ll show you. She keeps a clean house and her prices are fair. Tell her I sent you and she’ll treat you well. If I find your sister I can send word to you there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Carter rose, standing as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

  He glanced at the man as he left, knowing that eventually he’d likely walk home alone and empty-hearted and no one would ever hear of Jenny again. Nottingham worked for a few more minutes, hearing the bustle of Leeds coming alive outside the window, the cries of the early hawkers, the trundle of carts along Kirkgate and the shouts of their drivers. As the clock of the Parish Church struck half past six he wearily put down the quill and set off down Briggate, seeing men set up trestles for the cloth market, dodging between the folks who thronged the pavements and a drover leading cattle up to the Shambles.

  He looked for Four-Finger Jane at her usual spot by the opening to a court just up from the Rose and Crown. She wasn’t there so, he walked on, crossing the street as he spied Little Sal standing close to the entrance of the Old King’s Head.

  ‘Hello, Sal.’

  ‘Mr Nottingham.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘Come to spend some of that money the city pays you?’ She stood no more than four feet in her shoes, always ready with a smile. She’d been a fixture on Briggate for at least five years, suddenly appearing one morning with her grin and ready patter. The novelty of her size made her popular with the men and he’d heard tales about some of the things she was willing to do.

  He smiled at her. ‘If I was looking for that you know you’d be the first I’d come to see.’

  ‘Aye, I know, love,’ she answered with a wink, the lines of age showing through the white lead and powder around her eyes. ‘That’s what they all say. So what is it?’ she asked wearily. ‘I know you’re not here to pass the time of day with me.’

  ‘A girl, came to town on Saturday. Called Jenny.’

  She shook her head in exasperation. ‘Jenny? They’re all called Jenny these days. Or Sophie or Sarah or whatever sounds young or elegant.’

  ‘This one really is a Jenny, Sal. She’s blonde, small, sixteen but looks younger. Her brother’s looking for her.’

  ‘You know how many like that I’ve seen, Mr Nottingham?’ she asked with a sigh. ‘Dozens. Hundreds, mebbe. All of them hopeful for a week until they’ve no more money or food in their bellies.’

  ‘I know,’ he replied. What she said was the simple truth. ‘Just ask around anyway, will you? I’ll pay if you find something.’

  ‘I will,’ Sal agreed and stared at him, her eyes serious ‘But I daresay you’ll be keeping your money. You know the odds as well as I do. If she dun’t want to be found, she won’t be. And I’ll tell you this, if she’s a good reason for leaving home I’ll not give her up.’

  He nodded. ‘Just do your best. Please.’

  The Constable left her to her work, seeing her pull down her bodice a little to display more of her small breasts. He set off on his rounds of Leeds, walking the streets he knew so well, eyes alert, feeling the simple pleasure of the sun on his face.

  By seven he was in the White Swan, a mug of ale and half a pie in front of him. He’d barely begun to eat when the deputy slid on to the bench opposite.

  ‘Hardwell’s widow is going to talk to the undertaker. They’ll collect the body later today.’

  ‘How did she take the news?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘She knows what a feckless bugger he was. I heard something interesting while I was out, though. There’s a new brothel opening tonight on Swinegate.’

  ‘Tonight?’ he asked in astonishment, wondering why they’d heard nothing of it before. ‘When did this get out?’

  ‘I don’t know, boss. This morning was the first I’d heard.’

  ‘Who’s running it?’ Nottingham asked. It
worried him that there’d been no rumours about this, that no one had said anything to him. He should have known long ago.

  ‘A widow called Mrs Wade, apparently.’

  ‘I don’t know the name.’

  ‘Aye,’ the deputy agreed, ‘it’s a new one on me, too.’

  ‘Better see what you can find out about her, John.’

  Sedgwick grinned. ‘Already did, boss. Seems she came here about three months back with her son and a pair of daughters.’

  ‘Three months?’ he said in surprise. ‘She’s taken her time, then. Kept it quiet, too.’ It seemed strange, wrong; most would have been eager to talk the place up and open as quickly as possible. ‘Where’s she from?’

  ‘No one seems to know. From all I hear she’s been busy pouring money into the house. That’s why it’s taken so long.’

  The Constable raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘It ought to be a bloody palace after all that time.’

  Sedgwick laughed. ‘Couldn’t happen, boss; she took Amos Worthy’s old house.’

  Amos Worthy. Nottingham shook his head. The man was dead but he’d never be rid of him. ‘I’m surprised she’s opening in less than a year, then.’ He smiled. ‘Half that place should have been torn down long ago. And I doubt an army could ever get the rest properly clean.’

  ‘They say she’s been making friends with some of the aldermen, too,’ Sedgwick told him.

  ‘Has she now?’ He sat back, thinking. Whoever she was, the woman seemed to have taken care to set everything up well. ‘Maybe I’d better go and see her, before she starts believing she’s above the law. What about the rest of her family?’

  ‘Tom Farraday said the daughters are a pretty pair.’

  ‘There’s a son, you said?’

  ‘A big lad, according to Tom.’

  ‘Could be useful in a place like that,’ Nottingham mused. ‘While I think on it, someone was in this morning. His sister’s run off and he thinks she’s in Leeds. Probably got here Saturday night. Small, blonde, looks younger than sixteen.’

  The deputy rolled his eyes. ‘Sounds like half of them who end up here. And the other half have dark hair.’

  ‘I know.’ The Constable smiled sadly. ‘I asked Little Sal to keep her eyes open.’

  Sedgwick nodded his acknowledgement as the serving girl brought his stew and ale. Nottingham drained the last of his drink.

  ‘Enjoy your food, John. I’ll pay this Mrs Wade a visit after the cloth market.’

  All along Briggate, from Boar Lane down to the bridge over the Aire, the weavers were ready. Every Tuesday and Saturday morning they travelled in from villages all around Leeds to display their cloth. As soon as the market bell rang, the merchants would move between the trestles that lined both sides of the street, examining the fabric and making their bargains in whispers. It had been going on for more years than anyone knew, back through the generations. Thousands of pounds would change hands in an hour, with barely a loud word spoken. The wool business was the soul of Leeds. It put money in the city’s coffers and made those who traded in it rich.

  The Constable walked around slowly, nodding greetings here and there, his eyes watching carefully for cutpurses. Trouble was rare, but he always came himself or sent the deputy. Even after a lifetime of seeing it the quiet magic of the cloth market still gripped him.

  When it was all done and the merchants began to drift away before the closing bell, he walked down to Swinegate. It was a cramped street, tradesmen working busily in their shops, the tapping of hammers from the cobbler, goods artfully displayed outside the chandler to tempt people into buying. Puddles of stinking piss dotted the road, thrown out from windows at first light. He moved around mistresses and their servants and dodged between small groups of men making their bargains until he stood in front of the small wooden door.

  It had been repainted, now a deep, shining black, coat after coat to give a heavy lustre. He raised his hand and knocked loudly, remembering how often he used to walk in unannounced, along the passage and through to the kitchen where Amos spent much of his day.

  Until the cancer took him Worthy had been a pimp, and one of the most dangerous men in Leeds, with the aldermen deep in his pocket. His girls serviced them, he lent them money, and the men of the Corporation protected him. But there’d been a curious bond between the criminal and Nottingham, deepened when he discovered that Worthy had been his mother’s lover years before. The Constable might have wanted to see the man swing, but he valued his company, too. And it was Worthy who’d spited Nottingham by leaving Emily money in his will, promising it would give her freedom. In the end he’d been right about that, too.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  The girl looking up at him wasn’t a servant, he decided immediately. She was dressed too well, in a rustling gown made to fit and flatter, her dark hair carefully curled where it peeked from her cap. Her looks stopped shy of beauty but there was an allure about her that men would remember and desire.

  ‘I’d like to see Mrs Wade,’ he told her. ‘I’m Richard Nottingham, the Constable here.’

  She dipped her head. ‘Of course. Come in, sir, and I’ll fetch Mama.’

  The girl showed him through to the parlour and closed the door quietly behind him. He remembered the room as it had been in the Worthy’s time, dirty, dingy, filled with cobwebs that were never cleared from one year to the next. Now it had come alive, the walls bright with flocked paper in the new style, a colourful Turkey rug over the gleaming boards on the floor. The windows, once so grimed that they kept out most of the light, sparkled. A long clock stood against the wall keeping quiet time. In spite of himself, he was impressed.

  He’d barely been there two minutes, just enough to take in the strangeness of the place, when the woman bustled in. She was short and heavyset but carried herself regally, the silk of her dress swishing gently as she crossed the floor, her eyes bright and calculating, an aloof smile on her face.

  ‘Mrs Wade.’ He bowed his head slightly.

  ‘Constable.’ She smiled at his greeting. ‘I’ve heard your name, of course. But I’m surprised to see you here. Is something wrong?’

  ‘I’ve been told you’re planning to open a brothel here.’

  ‘I’m opening an establishment,’ she agreed with a cautious smile. ‘Tonight. But I prefer to think of it as somewhere gentlemen of standing can enjoy a glass of wine and some company,’ she corrected him carefully.

  ‘That’s just a brothel by another name.’ He smiled at her.

  Mrs Wade inclined her head. ‘If that’s what you care to call it. I prefer a different title.’ She kept her gaze full and direct. ‘But it’s hardly the only place of its kind in Leeds, is it?’

  ‘True enough,’ he acknowledged. ‘I hear you’ve been living here for a few months now.’

  ‘We have. I thought it made sense to get to know Leeds a little first, to meet the right people and make sure this was the proper place for us.’ She waved a hand at the room. ‘And it’s taken a while to decorate the house, of course.’

  ‘More than decoration, I think,’ he said admiringly. The woman had taste as well as money. ‘It certainly looks different.’

  ‘Thank you. Of course, I understand you were a regular visitor when Mr Worthy was alive.’

  He glanced at her sharply to see if her words held a deeper meaning but her face was impassive.

  ‘Often enough,’ he agreed mildly. ‘If you’ve heard about Amos then you’ll know why.’

  ‘People have told me stories about him.’

  ‘I daresay they have,’ he replied wryly. ‘Most of them are probably true.’

  ‘Yet he was never convicted of anything?’

  ‘No. Amos had powerful friends.’ He paused. ‘You’ve been making a few of your own, I hear.’

  ‘I find that gentlemen of influence usually have money to spend.’ She offered a bland smile.

  ‘And you brought your family with you?’

  ‘I did. My son and my daught
ers. That was Sarah who showed you in. My other daughter is Anne, and my son is Mark.’

  ‘Might I ask where you lived before, Mrs Wade?’

  ‘Here and there. We’ve been in so many places over the years.’ She smiled again and he noted the way she skipped around his question. ‘But I hope we’ll be here for a long time.’ She glanced at the wallpaper and frowned. ‘After all, I’ve invested enough in it.’

  ‘Then I wish you well,’ Nottingham said. ‘As long as you keep an orderly house we won’t have any problems.’

  ‘I trust you’ll come to the opening tonight, Constable,’ she offered.

  ‘No, but thank you,’ he replied. ‘I doubt many of the other guests would welcome me here. I hope it’s a success for you, though.’ He started to open the door, then turned as a thought struck him. ‘Tell me, do you have a girl named Jenny here?’

  ‘Jenny?’ She pursed her lips then shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘She’d have arrived in the last few days. Blonde, looks very young.’

  ‘No, there’s no one like that.’

  ‘If she comes looking for work, would you let me know? Her brother’s searching for her.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll be glad to do that,’ she agreed quickly. ‘I’m pleased to have had the honour to meet you, sir.’

  Come evening, on the way home, Nottingham stopped at the churchyard, as he did so often, standing by the graves of his older daughter Rose and his wife Mary. There was space for him, too, when his time came. And there’d been many occasions in the last six months when he’d wished it would come soon, nights when the longing lapped at his neck and the loneliness sighed in his ears. His mind knew full well that Mary was no more than bones and rotting flesh under the earth but here, in his heart, he could believe she was still with him, listening, laughing, smiling, loving him. Since the murder he’d fallen out of love with the world, as if it had moved away and left him standing still.

  He stayed for a few quiet minutes, then crossed Timble Bridge, home to the house on Marsh Lane. Inside, Rob and Emily sat at the table in eager discussion. She looked up, smiled, then came to greet him with a small kiss to his cheek.

  ‘Busy day?’ he asked, although he already knew the answer. For her, every day was filled with work from the moment she arrived at the school on the Calls, and she often sat late into the evening, planning and writing, tired but happier than he’d ever seen her. She’d even considered taking on an older girl to help her in the classroom.