Fair and Tender Ladies

by Chris Nickson

  Steam filled the windows at Garraway’s but he could make out the merchants seated at the tables inside, discussing business or reading the London papers that had come north. He passed the place and stopped at the building beyond it, close to Burley Bar at the edge of the city, a neatly-kept house with three storeys, the wood of the front door carefully polished to a deep shine.

  A maid answered his knock, offering a small curtsey.

  ‘I believe Mr Finer lives here.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He has the top floor, sir,’ she said with a bob of her head.

  ‘Would you tell him Constable Richard Nottingham would like to see him, please?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She gave one more nervous curtsey and scurried up the stairs. He waited in the hallway, the only sounds the muted passing of people and carts outside.

  ‘He says to go up, sir,’ the girl told him when she returned. ‘It’s right at the top, you can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he told her with a small bow that made her blush.

  The door was open. He tapped on it lightly.

  ‘Come in,’ a voice said.

  The Constable entered a well-appointed parlour, the paper on the walls a design of pale stripes, a pair of chairs gathered by the hearth, a table under a window that looked north to the moor where sheep grazed in the sun.

  The man standing before him wasn’t the Tom Finer that he recalled. The one in his memory had thick, dark hair that curled down to the nape of his neck and a heavy, powerful body. This one was still big, but most of the hair had gone; what remained above the ears was wispy and white.

  ‘Not what you expected, am I, Mr Nottingham?’ he said with a smile. At least the voice was still the same, an easy warmth that he knew could turn to ice in a moment. ‘They made you Constable after Arkwright went, did they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Finer said, gesturing at one of the chairs. ‘Some wine? Ale?’

  ‘Not for me,’ Nottingham said, settling on to the seat.

  ‘How did you hear I was back?’

  ‘Landlord Bell. He said you were talking to a young man there two nights ago.’

  ‘Two nights ago?’ The man frowned, then placed it in his mind. ‘You mean the one looking for his sister?’

  ‘He was dead before morning. Someone slit his throat.’

  Finer raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I knew someone had been killed; I’d no idea it was him. And you wondered if I had something to do with it?’

  ‘You can understand why. I know your past.’

  Finer put his hands in his lap. The flesh was pale as parchment and mottled with brown spots. An old man’s hands, the Constable thought.

  ‘I bought him a few drinks and we talked for a while. That’s all.’ He smiled. ‘He talked, mostly. I listened. But I did suggest he could look for his sister at that new brothel everyone was talking about.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought it might be worth a minute or two of his time.’

  ‘Did he go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He reached for the decanter on the small table and poured himself a glass of wine, drinking deeply then setting it aside. ‘But I can tell you I had nothing to do with his death.’

  ‘Did he mention anyone he’d met?’

  ‘I think I was probably the first soul he’d had a real conversation with in Leeds. He seemed a pleasant enough lad. None too sharp but devoted to his sister.’ He took another drink, finishing the wine, and sat back.

  ‘What happened to you all those years ago?’ Nottingham asked. The question had been preying on him since he’d heard the name.

  ‘Seventeen years, Constable, if you want to be exact.’ He glanced at the decanter and poured himself another glass, sipped and sighed slowly. ‘Amos Worthy wanted to kill me and it wasn’t just an idle threat.’ He shrugged. ‘I had plenty of money so I left while I still could. Not a word to anyone. And now Amos is dead.’

  ‘Cancer.’

  ‘I went down to the churchyard and walked on his grave.’ He laughed, a small, hollow bark. ‘I know, it’s childish, but it gave me some satisfaction to outlive the bastard. Did he ever tell you …?’

  ‘That he and my mother were lovers?’

  Finer nodded. ‘Obviously he did. I was sorry to hear about your wife, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He paused, not wanting to pursue that subject. Not with this man. Not with anyone. ‘What’s made you come back after all this time?’

  ‘Seventeen years in London and I still missed Leeds.’ He smiled wryly. ‘You wouldn’t credit it, would you? It’s true, though. I made plenty down there, but I’d had enough of the place.’ Nottingham could hear the capital in his voice with its veneer of sophistication and drawn-out vowels. ‘Always noisy, people everywhere. It was time. Look at me. I’m an old man now, Mr Nottingham. I decided to spend the last of my days here.’

  ‘Quietly?’ the Constable asked pointedly.

  ‘Very quietly,’ Finer agreed. ‘These rooms are comfortable, they’ll serve me well.’

  He had no doubt that the man was paying handsomely for somewhere like this. But he was equally certain that Finer had prospered down in London; he was ruthless enough to do well anywhere. His coat and breeches showed expensive tailoring, and the buckles on his shoes shone like real gold.

  Nottingham stood. ‘I’d best move on,’ he said.

  ‘I wish you well in finding the murderer, Constable.’

  ‘No doubt we’ll be running into each other, Mr Finer.’

  ‘Perhaps we will, laddie, perhaps we will.’ He raised his glass in a toast as Nottingham left the room.

  Walking back to jail, he considered what Finer had told him. He didn’t believe that the man had really returned to Leeds simply to wither and die. The person he recalled was subtle, and never did anything without a host of reasons, each one nesting inside another to hide the truth. There was more going on, that was Finer’s way. He didn’t know what yet, but he’d need to stay alert to find out. But did he believe what the man had said about Jem Carter? There didn’t seem to be any reason for him to kill the lad, but the Tom Finer he recalled had always seemed so plausible that he could explain away the devil.

  The problem was that it was hard for him to be sure of anything any more. Since his decision, his risk, had cost Mary her life, every decision, every step, every breath had become fragile. He’d become cautious, wary, a man without certainty or compass.

  SEVEN

  Standing on Briggate, the deputy paused to think. Where would Jem Carter have gone? Tuesday had been a market day; he’d have looked around there in the hope of spotting his sister. But most of the traders wouldn’t be back until the next market on Saturday, and by then their memories would be dim.

  One or two were local, though, selling their goods most days of the week up by the market cross. Martha Whittaker and her daughters baked their pies every night, then she carried them from her home on the other side of the river each morning. She’d been doing it for years; he could remember his da buying him one when he was a nipper. By nine she’d be done, everything sold to the customers who loved the food that was heavy on the meat and fair on price, and she’d go back to her bed for a few hours’ rest before starting again.

  She was sitting on a small old stool at the side of Briggate, the few remaining pies laid out on a tattered cloth in front of her. She looked up as his shadow fell over her, her eyes rheumy and squinting, her hair close to silver in the sunlight.

  ‘Mr Sedgwick, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, Martha, it is. Business good?’

  ‘Fair to middling, fair to middling. If you’re looking, the beef’s tasty today, it cooked up a treat.’ She leant forward and whispered, ‘The lamb’s a bit stringy.’

  He dug out some coins, paid her and put a beef pie into the deep pocket of his coat. She slid the money away carefully and sat back, looking at him. Although she dressed plainly enough in an old gown that had seen many better years, he knew she made good money fro
m her business, enough to support three daughters and a son, her man long since gone.

  ‘Were you busy during the market?’

  ‘Always busy then,’ she replied. ‘Always.’

  ‘Did you have someone around asking questions, looking for a girl?’

  She thought for a long time and then shook her head slowly. ‘No one like that, love. I’m sure of it.’

  He thanked her and moved on, seeing Sad Luke sitting on the steps of the cross. He lived somewhere beyond Cavalier Hill, and went out early in the morning to gather the wild onions, garlic and herbs that grew out there, collecting berries and fruit into summer and autumn. He was no older than the deputy, but no one had ever seen a shred of happiness on his face. No matter how good the weather or how much money he made, Luke’s mouth was always set in a quizzical frown.

  ‘Mr Sedgwick,’ he said with a small bob of his head.

  ‘Morning, Luke.’ He took off the battered tricorn hat and wiped his forehead. ‘Grand day.’

  ‘Aye, fair.’ The man squinted disappointedly at the sky. ‘Too hot later, mebbe. And too dry this summer if it stays this way.’

  The deputy smiled to himself. Luke would never change, forever gloomy and seeking out the bad in everything.

  ‘Were you at the market yesterday?’

  ‘Allus am.’

  ‘Did you have a stranger asking about his sister?’

  ‘Him?’ Luke ran his tongue across his thin lips. ‘Aye, he was here. Tried to tell me my onions weren’t no good.’ He sounded affronted at the small memory.

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘Nowt, really.’ He rubbed a finger along his nose. ‘I told him he’d do best to go looking for the whores. That’s where half the lasses end up anyway.’

  ‘How did he take that?’

  ‘Walked off,’ Luke replied flatly. ‘Daft bugger.’ He looked up at the deputy with wide eyes. ‘And them onions were right good, too.’

  He needed to ask in the brothels, Sedgwick decided; Jenny might have found work there. But two of them had heard nothing of her, shaking their heads when he asked about new girls. Finally he walked down to Vicar Lane and rapped lightly on the door of a well-tended house, as ordinary as all its neighbours. Only the shutters closed tight against the daylight marked it out as anything different.

  He waited a while then tried again, knowing that anything before mid-afternoon was early here. Finally a bleary-eyed maid let him in and shuffled off for the mistress.

  Fanny Hardcastle had dressed quickly, her face still puffed with sleep and her hair loose, hanging grey and drab to her shoulders. She saw him and her mouth turned down at the corners.

  ‘I hope you know what time it is, Mr Sedgwick. Some of us are not long to our beds.’

  Her brothel was long-established, opened decades before by Fanny’s mother. It was almost an institution on the city, catering to many of the merchants and aldermen in town, making them feel comfortable and cared-for in a house that was sometimes better than home, with good seats, warm fires and excellent company.

  He gave her his best smile, trying to charm her into a good temper.

  ‘How’s your mam?’

  ‘Not doing so well. She gets her attacks and whatever the apothecary gives her doesn’t help.’ The woman pulled a shawl tight around her shoulders. ‘You’d better not be here just to ask after her.’

  ‘It’s to do with a murder.’

  ‘A murder?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You mean that man they found yesterday?’ She straightened her back and raised her head. ‘It’s nothing to do with us, I’ll tell you that right now.’

  ‘I know, love. Don’t go fretting yourself.’ He smiled again. ‘I’m looking for a girl who might have been here. Small, fair hair, name of Jenny.’

  ‘Country girl? Tiny little thing?’

  ‘The sounds like her.’

  ‘I know her, right enough,’ Fanny told him with a curt nod. ‘She came by on Sunday, looking for work.’ He was suddenly alert, staring at her. ‘But I told her, we’re full of lasses. You know what it’s like here. Mam and me treat them well and they don’t leave. Except Sophie, of course, she went off to wed Mr Marcham back in January. Most of them stay for years. I had to send that one on her way.’

  ‘Do you know where she went?’

  Fanny shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea, Mr Sedgwick. She looked that sad when I turned her down I thought she was going to burst into tears.’

  ‘You’ve not seen her since?’

  ‘Neither hide nor hair. I felt so sorry for her that I gave her sixpence.’ He was impressed; Fanny Hardcastle was usually so tight with her money she could make a coin squeak. ‘To tell you the truth, I hoped she’d see sense. She’d have been better off going back home and marrying a farmer’s lad. I can tell the ones who are cut out for this, they’ve got a brass front. Your Lizzie had it. Not this one, though.’ She looked at him appraisingly. ‘So who was this man to her, then?’

  ‘Her brother.’

  She grimaced. ‘That’s a bad business, Mr Sedgwick.’

  ‘I know, love.’

  ‘I hope you find whoever did it.’

  ‘You and me both, Fanny.’ He stood. ‘Give my best to your mam. I hope she feels better soon.’

  The Constable had just finished his dinner, a pie bought from a seller down by the bridge. He brushed the crumbs from his old coat and looked at the river. Too many things were gnawing at him: Jem Carter’s murder, the missing girl, the return of Tom Finer. Could Finer have killed? He still wasn’t sure, even though something inside said no.

  A voice next to him said, ‘Penny for them, Richard.’

  He turned and saw Tom Williamson, one of the few wool merchants who treated him as an equal. He was dressed in a coat and breeches of pale yellow silk, his stock sparkling white, a full, dark periwig on his head: a peacock in his gaudy.

  ‘Not worth your money,’ Nottingham told him. ‘You’re looking prosperous.’

  Williamson had inherited his company from his father. As soon as he’d taken charge he’d started to bring in new ideas, sought out fresh markets, and in just a few years it had paid off handsomely.

  ‘Not my idea,’ he said, pulling at the coat as if he felt awkward in it. ‘Hannah thought the material would be in the London style. I told her it’d be filthy up here after half a day. Look at that.’ He pointed to the marks on the sleeve and the knee. ‘You can’t run a business and dress like the gentry.’

  ‘You can employ a factor and spend your days at leisure.’

  ‘Never,’ Williamson laughed. ‘I enjoy it too much. Some people are called to the church, I was called to the wool trade. You know me, Richard.’

  It was true enough. The merchant never seemed happier than when he was at the cloth market or working in his warehouse.

  ‘Mind you,’ Williamson continued slowly, ‘they’ve asked me to become an alderman.’

  Nottingham had heard the rumours for a few weeks. They’d been little more than whispers, but they’d had the ring of truth.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said warmly. Williamson sighed, but there was pride in his small smile.

  ‘Old Petty’s retiring.’ He glanced around and leaned closer. ‘They say it’s because he’s nearly dead, but the truth is he’s such a contrary bugger the rest of them can’t take it any more. I was going to say no but Hannah won’t let me. She wants to be an alderman’s wife.’

  The Constable smiled. ‘You’ll do well. They need some fresh blood.’

  ‘They do,’ Williamson agreed, then added drily, ‘just not mine. I’ve little enough time as it is. But when a wife insists …’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘By the way, your daughter came to see me this morning.’

  ‘That’s my fault, I’m afraid,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘I suggested she try you for funds.’

  ‘It was a good idea, Richard. She’s passionate about that school, isn’t she?’

  ‘Very,’ the Constable said.

  ‘Persuasive, too,’
he said with a chuckle. ‘I gave her money to pay for her books. I might even suggest Hannah becomes involved. Now our two are being schooled she’s been looking for good works.’ He paused. ‘Mind you, I’m not sure I’d fancy her chances against your Emily.’

  Nottingham laughed. ‘She’s always had her own mind. Once it’s made up no one’s going to change it.’

  ‘Is she still walking out with James Lister’s boy?’

  ‘She is. They’ve been courting a while now.’

  The two of them stood silently for a minute, watching the water flow.

  ‘Charles Waterson went to the opening of that new brothel the other night,’ Williamson said. ‘He says it’s quite the place.’

  ‘As long as there’s no trouble there I wish them well.’ The Constable stirred. ‘I’d best be on my way. Congratulations again.’

  EIGHT

  It was a pale, tender morning as the Constable walked down Marsh Lane and into Leeds. There was the scent of dog roses in the hedgerows, the air full of hope and promise for many. By the time he reached the jail on Kirkgate he was smiling; today might be a good day.

  ‘Morning, Rob. How was the night?’

  ‘You’d better look in the cold cell, boss,’ Lister said, his expression pained.

  Nottingham strode through. The body on the slab was covered with an old blanket. He drew it back and saw a girl’s face, the blue eyes staring at nothing.

  ‘We pulled her from the river about an hour back. She was caught in some bushes downstream from the warehouses. No one saw her until first light.’

  The Constable nodded, removing the covering from the girl. Twigs and moss were caught in her fair, wet hair. She was small, not even five feet tall, and her face was so young. He rubbed her hands, feeling rough calluses on the palms, and an old, worn ring with a design like a rose on her middle finger. The clothes clung to her thin body, the pattern of her dress so faded and blurred, the boots worn.

  ‘I think we’ve just found Jenny Carter,’ he told Rob quietly. ‘Her brother said she had a ring like that.’