Fair and Tender Ladies

by Chris Nickson

  ‘She can’t have come too far. The river’s not flowing fast.’

  ‘I’ll take a good look at her. Maybe that’ll tell us something.’ He paused.

  By the time the deputy arrived he’d had time to examine her. There were no wounds he could see, and the only bruises looked to have come from the water. He stood back and sighed softly. She looked as though she’d drowned. But why, when she’d come looking for her fortune? Why would she end up in the Aire after just a few days?

  ‘That’s Jenny Carter, John. Her brother told me about the ring she was wearing.’ He stroked the dead hand. ‘Both of them dead within a day of each other. Strange, isn’t it?’

  ‘What are you thinking, boss?’

  Nottingham shook his head. ‘I don’t know, John. But it’s a coincidence. You know I don’t like those.’

  ‘They happen,’ Sedgwick countered.

  ‘Maybe.’ He shook his head and blew out a long breath. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘She tried for work at Fanny Hardcastle’s. I asked this morning. Fanny turned her away.’

  ‘What about the other places?’ the Constable asked. ‘Did you go there?’

  ‘I did. She hadn’t tried any of them.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s something else, boss. I heard when I was asking about Jenny. You remember that man the mob killed?’

  ‘I do. Andrew Johnson.’ He recalled his brother’s face and his words. ‘What about him?’

  ‘One of the young whores down near the bridge told me she saw something.’

  The Constable looked up with interest. ‘Go on.’

  ‘She said two men attacked him. He was trying to sleep in a doorway down on Briggate. All he did was defend himself.’

  ‘Christ.’ He let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his hair. ‘So he put a knife into one of them. What happened to the other man?’

  ‘He ran off. She’d been scared to say anything.’

  ‘It was Wilcock Simms who died, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. A real troublemaker. Loved to drink. I don’t even know how many times we had him in for fighting.’

  ‘I remember him. Worked at the tannery.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Did the girl recognize the other man?’

  ‘King Davy.’ The deputy gave a dark smile. They both knew the man’s reputation. David King was a man who lived on the knife edge of temper. A few drinks could tip him over, and he’d start a brawl for no reason. He liked to call himself King Davy and there were few brave enough to gainsay him.

  ‘Did he see her?’

  ‘She says not. And she hasn’t told anyone else. You know what they say, you don’t peach on the King.’

  If Davy knew or found out, the girl would be risking a hard beating, probably worse. ‘Let’s have Mr King in.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘You’d better take two of the men with you, just in case.’

  ‘I can handle him.’

  ‘Take them, John,’ he ordered. ‘No chances. You know what he’s like.’

  The deputy left, and Nottingham wrote up the daily report and carried it over to the Moot Hall. He handed it to Cobb the clerk, who looked up at him shamefacedly.

  ‘Mr Nottingham,’ he said nervously as the Constable started to turn away.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You wanted … to know things that were happening.’

  ‘I’m listening, Mr Cobb.’

  ‘Mr Williamson’s going to be an alderman.’

  Nottingham smiled. ‘I thought you had news. He told me himself yesterday. You’ll need to do better than that.’ He stared at the man until the clerk began to blush.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  King sat back in the chair, long legs extended, looking around as if he owned the place. The Constable watched him carefully. He was young, no more than twenty-five, dark hair hanging lank to his shoulders, with a cocky glint in his eyes, mouth curled in a mocking smile. It was the type of face women might enjoy, Nottingham thought, at least until they came close; the man carried the stench of the tannery with him, and the mix of raw leather, piss and shit filled the jail. A long knife in its old sheath hung down his leg.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mr King,’ he said.

  ‘Our King Davy’s a good Leeds man. He’s happy to help,’ the deputy observed dryly. He was leaning against the wall, ready to move in case the man’s temper took hold. ‘No trouble at all,’ he said pointedly. Davy grinned and bobbed his head in a bow.

  ‘You were a friend of Wilcock Simms,’ the Constable began.

  ‘Aye,’ King replied slowly. ‘He were a good man. Worked wi’ ’im three year. I went to his funeral, an’ all. Plenty of us did.’

  ‘What happened to him was unfortunate.’ He’d chosen the word carefully, watching for any change or anger on Davy’s face. King clenched his fists.

  ‘I’d have killed the bastard who did it meself,’ he said coldly. ‘He were lucky that mob got him or he’d have had to deal with me.’

  ‘Were you with Mr Simms the night he died?’

  ‘Aye,’ Davy admitted. ‘We were in a few places.’

  ‘What did you do later?’

  He shrugged. ‘Walked. Found some little whore on Briggate.’ King laughed. ‘Stupid bitch thought there were just one of us.’

  From the corner of his eye the Constable saw Sedgwick stiffen.

  ‘How long were you with her?’ Nottingham asked calmly. King might be telling the truth; whether he was or not, he was using the tale to taunt them.

  ‘Don’t know.’ King grinned. ‘We weren’t listening for the clock or owt. Just having our fun.’ He glanced towards the deputy. ‘Thought your woman might be out there. She’s a whore, in’t she? Worth a penny, mebbe.’

  The Constable flashed the deputy a warning with his eyes, and sat back in his chair. ‘What did you do when that was over?’

  ‘Went home. I’d had my fill for t’ night.’

  ‘Was anyone waiting for you at home, Mr King?’

  ‘Only the old cow as runs the rooming house. She’s always after me for her money.’ He turned and spat on the floor. It was a challenge; Nottingham chose to ignore it.

  ‘Did she see you arrive?’

  ‘Course not.’ He drew out the words. ‘Late home, early out, that’s me. Good way to avoid her.’

  ‘And what about Mr Simms? What did he do when you’d finished?’

  King shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Last time I saw him he were still in the whore.’

  The Constable glanced at Sedgwick. The deputy was staring hard at Davy, his face tight with anger. King had answered too readily, he thought. He’d been prepared, right down to the story about the prostitute.

  ‘And you’ve no idea what happened to Mr Simms?’

  ‘No. Course not.’

  ‘Then I thank you for coming here, Mr King. My condol-ences on the loss of your friend.’

  The man stood lazily and stretched. ‘You want me, you know where I am.’

  ‘What do you think, John?’ Nottingham asked when they were alone.

  ‘I think I’m going to break King Davy’s crown,’ he replied with quiet fury.

  ‘I daresay you’ll have your chance sooner or later. He was just trying to get to you.’

  ‘He did that, right enough.’

  ‘Our Davy was there when Simms was killed, I’m sure of it. They likely thought they’d found an easy mark.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It’s too late to make a difference now,’ the Constable said sadly.

  ‘We couldn’t have done anything else, boss. You know that.’

  ‘We could have protected him better than we did. Then he might still be alive for the truth to come out.’

  The White Swan was crowded with sweating men drinking down their ale to cool off. Nottingham sat on the bench across from the deputy.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing more on Jem Carter yet,’ Sedgwick said. ‘I was thinking abo
ut his sister, though. Maybe she heard what happened to him and then killed herself.’

  The Constable pursed his mouth. It made as much sense as any other explanation he could imagine. Grief or guilt could have taken her into the water. It had happened before; he could understand it well enough. But something about the two of them dying so close together niggled at him.

  ‘It’s possible,’ he acknowledged. ‘Tom Finer told Jem to go down to the Wades for the brothel opening. Maybe I’ll go down and ask.’

  ‘Plenty of people went to that, boss,’ the deputy said with a shrug. ‘Doesn’t mean anything. If the meat in that stew’s fresh I’m having some.’

  The sun was at its peak as he made his way along Swinegate, sliding between the people, the clamour of trade loud all around him. Maybe Mrs Wade would recall Jem Carter. It would be one more pace along the path; God knew there were few enough of those. At the black door he knocked, and heard footsteps bustle down the hall.

  ‘Good day, Miss Wade. I’d like to speak to your mother, if I may.’

  The girl led him through and once again he was waiting in the parlour with its thick Turkey rug and slowly ticking long clock. The minutes passed. He looked at the paintings, sat and stood up again, then Mrs Wade entered, expensively dressed in dark blue silk and crisp white lace, her eyes inquisitive.

  ‘Constable, forgive me,’ she said in a rush. ‘I hadn’t expected to see you again. Is something wrong?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he answered with a smile. ‘It’s just a question. Did your opening go well?’

  She laughed. ‘Very much so, Constable. There must have been half a hundred gentlemen here. I could hardly move through them all.’

  ‘That’s a good start for you.’

  ‘All I could have hoped,’ she agreed with satisfaction. ‘Did you come here just to ask me that?’

  ‘Do you remember if any of them was a country lad, quite young?’

  She shook her head. ‘I honestly couldn’t say. There were so many I didn’t know. So many I didn’t even see. I’m sorry, Constable, but I can’t help you. Who is he, anyway?’

  ‘Someone killed him Tuesday night.’

  ‘I heard about that,’ she said with a frown. ‘It’s truly terrible. But I couldn’t tell you if he’d been here.’

  ‘Thank you anyway. Has your business stayed good?’

  ‘Excellent. The gentlemen of Leeds seem to like us.’ She looked around the room, smiling. ‘I think I made the right decision moving here.’

  ‘Then I hope it stays that way. The last time I was here I asked you about a girl.’

  ‘I remember.’ She cocked her head. ‘What was her name again?’

  ‘Jenny. Small, fair hair. I wonder if she came looking for employment after we talked.’

  She bit her lip, thinking. ‘I’ve had a dozen girls looking for work. I saw them all myself. We have four here and I’ve been thinking of taking on another since we’re so busy. But no, there was no one calling herself Jenny.’ Mrs Wade eyed him. ‘Do you always take this much trouble over a missing girl?’

  ‘We found her body in the river. The murdered man was her brother.’

  ‘That’s a terrible thing,’ she answered after a little while. ‘I’m sorry if I seemed short with you. I only wish I could help.’

  On the way out he saw a young man climbing the stair, hands pushed into the pockets of his breeches. He had wide shoulders and dark hair. The son, Nottingham thought. What was his name? Mark? Then he disappeared from view without glancing back.

  NINE

  On Saturday morning Nottingham stood in the doorway of the house on Marsh Lane, waiting for Emily. She was making an early start, with plenty to do at the school before the pupils arrived. Finally she rushed down the stairs, a shawl pulled around her shoulders, eyes shining at the prospect of a day spent teaching.

  There was a widening band of pale blue at the horizon as they crossed Timble Bridge, the girl hurrying to keep pace with her father.

  ‘You’ll be there before your pupils for once,’ he teased.

  ‘Papa!’ she said, feigning outrage. ‘I’m not as bad as that.’

  He smiled, amused. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I didn’t have time to talk to you last night, Papa,’ she said. ‘You came home late.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’ Work had kept him busy until well after dark then he’d sat in the White Swan for a hour, quietly sipping a a mug of ale.

  ‘I wanted to tell you, Mr Williamson’s wife came to the school yesterday,’ she said excitedly. ‘She’s very grand, isn’t she?’

  ‘Is she now?’ He thought back to his conversation with the merchant. ‘What did she think?’

  ‘She wants to help us.’

  ‘Help?’ he asked. ‘How?’

  ‘She’s going to talk to some of the other merchants’ wives and raise money for us. We’ll be their charity.’ She smiled widely and clutched his arm happily. ‘It’s good news, Papa.’

  ‘It’s wonderful news,’ he agreed.

  ‘It means we’ll be able to afford more books. Maybe even somewhere larger …’

  ‘I hope you can, love, but don’t go making plans before the money’s there.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t,’ she promised, but he knew she was already thinking ahead. It was her way; since she’d left the cradle she’d been a dreamer.

  They turned from Kirkgate on to the Calls; he’d escort her all the way to the school. His mind was elsewhere when she cried out, ‘No!’

  Someone had smashed half the mullions on the street window of the school. This was deliberate, he thought immediately, not children throwing stones. Glass glittered in the street. He put his arm around her, drawing her close.

  ‘Let me look inside,’ he said. He saw her hand was shaking as she gave him the key. But there was no one within and the closed shutters had kept most of the damage out of the room. He made sure the back door was secure then brought her in.

  ‘You sweep it up,’ he told her. ‘I’ll have Thompson the glazier come by this morning.’

  She looked up at him uncomprehendingly. All the earlier joy had vanished from her face. ‘Why, Papa? Why would anyone want to do this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he told her. There could be so many reasons; he’d have Sedgwick ask people if there were any rumours flying around. ‘You go on,’ he said gently.

  Rob was at the jail, yawning wide as the Constable entered.

  ‘Get yourself to the school,’ Nottingham ordered.

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’ Lister asked urgently, standing up and reaching for his coat. ‘Is Emily all right?

  ‘She’ll be fine, she’s just shaken. Someone broke the windows there. See Thompson on the way. Tell him I asked if he could look to the job this morning.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘You could give her a hand down there, there’s glass to clean up.’

  ‘I’ve got a job for you, John,’ he told Sedgwick once the deputy had arrived and downed a mug of ale. ‘Go down to the Calls. Ask if anyone saw or heard anything last night. Someone smashed the windows at Emily’s school.’

  ‘What?’ he asked in alarm. ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s not hurt. Rob’s down there now. I want to know what happened. It was probably drunks, but …’

  ‘Aye, boss, of course. I’ll find out what I can.’

  The Constable paced the room, wanting to do something yet knowing there was nothing more he could do; Sedgwick and Rob would look after everything. But Emily was his daughter. He needed to look after her, to protect her.

  After the clock struck seven he took the report to the Moot Hall and left it on the clerk’s desk, then strode back down Briggate for the cloth market. The weavers already had their cloth laid out, talking to each other as they enjoyed their Brigg End Shot breakfasts of beef and beer. At the top of the streets the merchants gathered in small knots, gossiping, heads nodding quietly.

  He waited impatiently until the bell rang the half hour and the market
began, then walked up and down a few times, alert for cutpurses, nodding to the whores who stood entranced by the business, the bargains made in whispers.

  For once he couldn’t settle to watch it all happen. Instead he stalked off, turning along the Calls to stand where he could see the school and the sharp glass of the broken windows waiting for the glazier. There were other things, more urgent things he needed to think about – Jem Carter’s murder, Jenny, even Tom Finer – but this pushed them all out of his head. It was probably nothing more than drunks looking for destruction and noise, but what if there was more? What if someone hated the idea of poor girls being educated? What if someone wanted to hurt Emily?

  Finally he tore himself away, his mind still blazing, and strode to the Saturday market at the top of Briggate. He wandered around, squeezing his way through the press of people. Vendors shouted out their wares, voices competing against each other, trying to draw people in to buy. He’d come out of habit; two of his men would be here, ready to respond if someone yelled that they’d been robbed. He just needed to be somewhere familiar, a place to give him some order. His gaze moved across the faces, barely noticing them until one on the far side of the street made him stop. It was Simon Johnson, the brother of the man killed by the mob, bargaining for something from one of the stalls. The sight came as a shock; from the way he’d cursed Leeds and its people he’d have expected the man to be long gone. He was about to go over to the man when a voice cut into his thoughts.

  ‘Constable, we meet again.’ He turned and found Tom Finer at his shoulder. In spite of the weather, the man was dressed warmly in a coat and breeches of heavy wool, a tricorn hat pulled down on his head. Outside his rooms he looked smaller, almost frail, his hand resting on a polished stick. The Constable looked across the street again; Johnson had gone. Yet one more thing to add to the turmoil.

  ‘Enjoying the market?’ Nottingham asked and tried to smile.

  ‘They say the sun’s good for old bones.’ Finer gazed around the crowd with a broad grin. ‘But this is good for the soul.’

  ‘I’m sure there were markets in London.’ He began to move away but Finer wasn’t ready to let him leave yet.