Fair and Tender Ladies

by Chris Nickson

  ‘What I really need are books for them all,’ she told him. ‘Do you know most of them have never even opened one in their lives? But I just don’t see how we can afford them.’ The families of the girls paid what they could, but that was hardly anything; most could barely scratch together enough for their rooms, and food for their tables was often scarce. Emily stood most of the costs of the school from the money she’d been left, fretting over every penny to be spent. ‘Do you think any of the merchants might donate?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘Try Tom Williamson,’ he suggested. ‘He claims he’s making money now and he has a good heart. Two girls of his own, as well.’

  She beamed. ‘Thank you, Papa.’ He knew she’d do it, too, present herself at Williamson’s warehouse and persuade him with her passion.

  He went through to the kitchen for ale. Lucy, the serving girl he’d taken on shortly before Mary’s death, was starting to ladle out the stew.

  ‘I hope you’re hungry,’ she said. ‘I made plenty.’

  The lass always prepared ample and it had always vanished by the end of the meal. Rob and Emily both had the appetites of the young, as hungry as the devil himself by evening, and he was certain Lucy often finished a second plate when no one was watching. He didn’t begrudge them the food; he was happy to be able to provide it.

  ‘I can eat,’ he told her.

  She’d been a child from the streets, used to starvation and fending for herself. In the time when grief numbed him to the world she’d kept the house going, forcing him into routine, putting a full plate before him every night and coaxing him into swallowing one bite, then another and another, like a mother with her infant. It was impossible to imagine the place without Lucy now. She’d helped to ease the guilt off him with quiet words and silence when he needed it. But it still weighed him down; if he hadn’t been so determined to catch a pair of killers Mary would still be alive.

  They all talked over the meal, the servant sitting with them, as loud as anyone, and Nottingham wondered if he was the only one who missed another voice in the hubbub around the table. When they were done, Lucy vanished into the kitchen again and Emily followed her. She was teaching the girl to read, write and do her sums, determined to give her the same chance as every lass at the school. And Lucy responded with swift intelligence, gobbling down the knowledge then craving more.

  ‘Anything I should know for tonight, boss?’ Rob asked.

  Beyond the missing girl and keeping an eye on the new brothel there was little. By now Lister knew what to do. The son of the city’s newspaper owner had seemed like an unlikely Constable’s man at first, a lad who’d left every job he’d taken, but he’d stayed with this one. Now he was almost as valuable as the deputy.

  After Rob left to take charge of the night men Emily sat at the table to prepare her lessons for the next day. Nottingham heard grunts beyond the door as Lucy kneaded the bread dough, pushing down hard on it with her small fists before leaving it to rise overnight.

  Finally he took himself to bed, opening the window to draw in the warm air and soft sounds that filled the darkness. He lay under the old sheet, his eyes closed but still wide awake. This was the time he would have held Mary as they drifted away into sleep with the quiet, loving intimacy of touch and scent.

  He felt the hand against his shoulder and the comfort of the dream vanished like papers thrown into the wind.

  ‘Boss!’ Rob hissed and he sat up.

  ‘What?’ he asked, wiping at the puffiness around his eyes. The room was black; he couldn’t make out any shapes.

  ‘We found a body. You’d better come. It’s a murder.’

  ‘Aye, all right.’ Already he was climbing out of bed, reaching without thinking for his hose and breeches. ‘Where?’ He pushed his arms into the long waistcoat, the fabric shapeless now, its pattern long since worn to nothing.

  ‘Megson’s Court, just below the Rose and Crown. Throat cut.’

  He knew it well: old buildings half tumbled down and pushed one against the other, filled with all the stink of life and death.

  At the front door he pulled on his threadbare work coat.

  ‘Right, lad, show me.’

  ‘Is it a man or woman?’ Nottingham asked as they walked briskly up Kirkgate, the scuff of their boots the only sound in the night air.

  ‘Man. I didn’t recognize his face.’

  Stars shone in a clear sky and the moon was bright enough to guide them along the road.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘The church clock rang three a while ago,’ Rob answered. ‘I thought I’d better come and fetch you. I sent one of the men for the coroner.’

  ‘You did right,’ he said thoughtfully. God knew that death was common enough; poverty and hunger demanded their toll every week. Murder came more rarely. An argument, a husband who imagined a grievance against his wife, a fight that blossomed out of hand when men had been drinking. He’d wager this had started in an inn or a beershop.

  They passed the jail and turned down Briggate. The Constable led the way through the passage to Megson’s Court, his shoulders rubbing on either side of the opening, the stench of piss and shit and death strong and sickly in his nostrils as he emerged into the square of ground.

  Two men stood in one corner holding flaming torches, and he walked over to them. In the light he made out the body of a man lying on the ground.

  ‘Hold the light so I can see his face,’ he ordered, squatting beside it.

  ‘Do you know him, boss?’ Rob asked.

  ‘I do. His name’s Jem Carter. He came to see me this morning. He’s the one who thought his sister had run off to Leeds.’

  FOUR

  The Constable rose stiffly, his knees aching, still staring at the body. He turned at the sound of footsteps, and nodded to the coroner as he approached. Brogden halted, wrinkling his face at the stink of the place before he even approached the corpse. For once he hadn’t taken time over his appearance; there was a hole in his hose, and he had left his wig at home and pulled a hat down firmly on his head.

  ‘Bring that damned torch closer,’ he barked, bending a little to glance at the corpse before straightening again. ‘Dead,’ he announced, then walked away hurriedly without a backward glance.

  ‘Take him to the jail,’ Nottingham told the men. Once Carter was in the cold cell he’d be able to look at him properly. He glanced around the court. No candles glimmered behind any of the windows but this was a place where they kept clear of the law. ‘Wait. Hold that flame up again,’ he said suddenly.

  The Constable rolled the body a little, studying the ground beneath.

  ‘There’s hardly any blood. Someone brought him here.’ He glanced up at Rob. ‘Start knocking on doors. Someone must have seen something.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘I’ll send Mr Sedgwick down when he comes in.’

  He walked slowly back up Briggate. All around him the city was waking, the sky lighter, thin spirals of smoke beginning to rise from chimneys. Why would anyone kill Jem Carter? The man was only looking for his sister. What had he found instead?

  By the time the deputy arrived Nottingham had already examined the body laid out on the bench in the cell they used as a mortuary. Carter’s face was bruised into ugliness; someone had beaten him fiercely; his teeth were knocked out, cheekbones broken, jaw at an angle, marks all over his body. Whoever did this had been brutal, the Constable thought. There were grazes across the man’s knuckles where he’d tried to defend himself. But it was the single deep slash across the throat that had killed him.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘In here, John.’

  The deputy joined him, glancing down at the corpse. ‘Poor bastard took a battering. Who was he?’

  ‘Jem Carter. The one with the missing sister.’

  ‘He only arrived yesterday, didn’t he? Where did they find him?’

  ‘Megson’s Court. But he was killed somewhere else; there was next to no blood around the body. I told him
to lodge with Mrs Lumley. Go down there and see if she knows anything.’

  ‘Yes, boss. Anything in his pockets?’

  ‘Empty. Turned out. Not too surprising given where he was. Rob’s talking to the people there.’

  Sedgwick shook his head. ‘He’ll not have much luck. You know what they’re like – see nowt, hear nowt and say bugger all.’

  ‘True enough,’ he agreed with a short sigh. All he could hope was that murder might loosen a tongue or two. ‘Go and join him when you’re done.’ He paused. ‘Whoever did it must have been strong; Carter’s big.’ He turned the man’s hand over, feeling the thick calluses on the palm and fingers. ‘He was a farmer, he’d be strong enough, too.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he can fight,’ Sedgwick pointed out.

  ‘Or maybe he found his sister and someone didn’t want him to take her,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘See what you can discover.’

  The deputy knew the rooming house on Call Lane. Ma Lumley took pride in her home, kept the windows washed, and the step scrubbed clean each morning. She changed the linen regularly and never allowed more than three to a bed.

  She answered at the first knock, wiping her hands on an old rag, eyes lively under her cap, her gown plain but clean. The woman had to be close to fifty, but she didn’t seem to have aged since he’d first met her five years before.

  ‘Mr Sedgwick,’ she said, her mouth breaking into a wide smile. ‘I don’t often see you these days. How are those bairns of yours?’

  ‘Doing grand. James is near the top of his class at the charity school.’ He laughed. ‘Give him another year and he’ll be writing better than me. Isabell’s charging round, trying to get into everything. My Lizzie swears that trying to keep up will be the death of her.’

  ‘You’ve got a good lass there, right enough. Just make sure you hold on to her.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, I’m going to.’

  She eyed him speculatively. ‘What brings you here, any road? Must be work, you’re not one for idle chitter-chatter.’

  ‘Do you have Jem Carter stopping here?’

  ‘I do; Mr Nottingham sent him down yesterday. A very nice lad, good country manners.’ She clicked her tongue then looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why, what’s he saying, I didn’t charge him fair?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’ He paused for a moment. ‘We found him during the night. Someone killed him.’

  ‘Killed him?’ She echoed the words in disbelief, her hand rising to cover her mouth, all the colour suddenly vanishing from her face. ‘Oh, my Lord. But …?’

  ‘We don’t know yet.’ He answered the question she hadn’t asked. ‘That’s why I’m here, to see what you can tell us.’

  She nodded, a helpless look in her eyes, biting her lip.

  ‘Did he tell you why he’d come here?’

  ‘His sister, you mean? Yes. It’s so sad, is that.’ She glanced at the deputy. ‘Do you think …?’

  He let her question lie and continued. ‘What time did he go out last night?’

  She remembered slowly. ‘It must have been close to seven. Her next door was shouting for her youngest and she always does that then. Mr Carter said he was going out to see if he could spy the lass.’

  ‘Did he say where?’

  She shook her head. ‘I doubt he’d know where to start in Leeds, Mr Sedgwick. He didn’t know the place at all. Just walk around and hope to spot her, I suppose.’ She thought of something and lifted her head. ‘His pack’s still in his room. I saw it when I was cleaning this morning. Do you want to take a look at it?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ He followed her into the house and up the stairs. There wasn’t a speck of dirt to be seen anywhere. ‘Didn’t you notice he hadn’t come back last night?’

  ‘I thought he must have gone out early this morning,’ she answered.

  The room smelt of sweat and sour breath, and the window stood wide to draw in a little air. She’d made up the bed, the sheet tucked carefully over a pallet of packed straw. She pointed into the corner at a leather satchel.

  ‘There it is. You’d better take it, I suppose. Happen his family will want it.’

  It weighed next to nothing in his hands. He lifted the flap and pushed a hand inside, feeling a shirt and a pair of soft woollen hose. No papers, and no man would be fool enough to leave his coins there. He hoisted it on his shoulder.

  ‘Was there anything else he said? Anything at all?’

  ‘No.’ She pursed her mouth, scraping at her memory, then shook her head. ‘No, nothing. He was quiet. A lovely, polite lad.’ Her voice trailed away, then she said. ‘You find whoever did it, Mr Sedgwick. He deserves that.’

  ‘We’ll do our best. You know that.’

  At Megson’s Court he found Rob still knocking on doors and learning precious little for his time. A few allowed that they might have heard something in the middle of the night but none of them would admit to looking.

  ‘Go home, lad,’ he said. ‘You look like you need some sleep. I doubt the folk in here would give us the warmth off their piss, let alone something we can use.’

  ‘You’re right about that,’ Lister admitted, frustration showing on his face. He took a slow breath and walked away, raising his arm in a weary farewell.

  The deputy looked at the houses. He’d had dealings with one or two men from this court, letting them off small charges when he could easily have taken them to the jail. Murder seemed like a good reason to call in favours. He strode over to a squat stone building in the corner, letting his fist fall against the old, rotten wood of the door.

  ‘Morning, Roger,’ he said. The old man who answered was buttoning up his breeches, and a long grey beard spilled over his chest in a wiry tangle. He looked fragile, as if he might keel over at any moment, but the deputy knew his eyes and hands were sharp; he could still cut a purse with the best of them. ‘You’ve had some goings on during the night.’

  ‘Have we, Mr Sedgwick? I were sleeping.’

  ‘Were you buggery. I know you, you wake if a fly beats its wings.’ The man lowered his eyes. ‘What did you see? We found a body.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The deputy stared at him. ‘Right, you’ve done your duty and said nowt. Now you can tell me the truth.’

  ‘I couldn’t make out much,’ Roger said hastily.

  ‘With that moon? It was bright as day.’

  ‘He stayed in the shadows. All I could see was that he was pulling summat that looked like a man.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Nay, Mr Sedgwick, I don’t know. Just a man. Nowt special.’

  ‘Tall? Short? Fat? Thin?’

  Roger looked up pleadingly. ‘I don’t know. Honest, I don’t.’

  ‘How long was he here?’

  ‘Just dropped the body and left. No more than a few moments.’

  ‘What time was this?’ the deputy pressed.

  ‘Two, mebbe. I’m not sure.’ The man shifted uneasily. ‘Really, I’m not.’

  ‘And who came out after?’

  ‘A couple of them,’ the old man admitted reluctantly. ‘I saw them go through the pockets.’

  Aye, they’d do that here, Sedgwick thought. ‘Who was it?’ he asked. Roger didn’t reply. ‘Who?’ he repeated.

  ‘Dick Chapman. I couldn’t see the other one properly.’

  The name was no surprise. Chapman was someone who’d take his grandmother’s last pennies from her pocket along with the food she’d bought to eat.

  ‘Anything else I should know, Roger?’

  The old man shook his head.

  He tried Chapman’s door, a room up two flights of stairs in a building where the wood seemed to crumble under his touch. He pounded loud and long enough to make the neighbours shout out in complaint, but no one answered. No matter, he thought, he’d find him later.

  Rob felt the sun on his back as he crossed Timble Bridge and strolled up Marsh Lane. He was drained, the weariness of a long night spreading through him. He unlocked the door and
walked through to the kitchen, pouring himself ale before listening to Lucy read as she took a break from her cleaning. She still stumbled over many of the words, pausing and trying them out in her mind first, but in six months she’d come a long way.

  He loved living in this house. Not only because he was with Emily; here he felt part of a family, more than he’d ever known with his own parents. Even with the sadness, and the ghost of the Constable’s wife who hovered over the place, there was life and warmth here. It seemed like home.

  Lucy finished the passage and for a few minutes he went through it with her, explaining the words she didn’t know before letting her speak the piece twice more until it came fluently off her tongue.

  Finally he stood, more than ready for bed. But after he lay down, rest wouldn’t come so easily. The picture of the body they’d found kept slipping into his mind, the face beaten to a mess. Even when he found sleep it was broken by shards of dreams that stirred him. By early afternoon he was awake, restless and hot in the bed but still tired. He wondered if John had been able to find something at Megson’s Court. They hadn’t talked to him, closed their doors in his face before he’d said five words, or heard him out then shook their heads quietly and went back to their lives.

  Sometimes he wondered if he was made to be a Constable’s man, whether life mightn’t be better if he did something else. He was still only nineteen, there were years ahead of him. But he loved the work more than anything he’d ever done, the way it was always different, especially all the long nights that might spark into flame in moments, when the blood surged through his body.

  The Constable found Little Sal easily enough, in the same spot as the previous morning. Now she looked exhausted, barely raising a smile as she approached him.

  ‘Tuesdays, Mr Nottingham,’ she complained. ‘As soon as the market’s over and they have money in their pockets, all they want to do is spend it. They fair wore me out yesterday.’