Fair and Tender Ladies

by Chris Nickson

  Nottingham loosened his stock and wiped the sweat off his neck. He wanted his bed, to sleep without dreaming, but it would have to wait a while yet.

  Lucy answered the door at the house on Lands Lane. Her eyes were still red where she’d been crying and she held a small piece of linen tight in her first. She looked up into his face and asked, ‘Have you done it?’

  He nodded. ‘Where’s Lizzie?’ The body had gone, he saw; the pallet was cleared and all the straw swept away.

  ‘She’s upstairs with the children.’

  The Constable felt as if he’d never reach the top, that his legs wouldn’t carry him all that way. But finally he was there. She was feeding Isabell, spooning something into the girl’s mouth while James played on the floor with a wooden animal.

  ‘It’s done,’ he told her.

  ‘Dead?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ She spat out the word. ‘I hope he goes to hell.’

  ‘Does that mean my da can come home now?’ James stood up, his long face so much the image of his father.

  ‘No.’ Nottingham sighed, not even sure how to answer the question. ‘I’m sorry, James. I wish it did.’ He turned to Lizzie. ‘I’ve arranged the funeral for eleven tomorrow.’ She nodded, her eyes lost. ‘I’ll come for you and the children.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She tried to smile but couldn’t.

  He sat in the jail for hours; he didn’t know how many had passed. Maybe he’d slept, he didn’t know that either. Finally he roused himself and trudged down Briggate, then out along the riverbank to the camp. People were beginning to gather, to build their fires from branches and twigs they’d scavenged, ready to cook whatever scraps they might have. There was no hint of a breeze to stir the warm air. Bessie was sitting with one of the groups, talking with a woman who had a baby at her breast. Someone pointed and she turned, rising slowly to approach him, the way she did with everyone, keeping strangers away from her folk. She folded her arms under her bosom.

  ‘I heard about Mr Sedgwick,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I, Bessie. So am I.’

  ‘I heard what you did, too. Good riddance to filth like that.’

  He looked around the camp. ‘Not so many here today.’

  ‘There’ll be more later. But some have gone off to look for work on the farms. It’s that time of year.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘Trying their luck elsewhere rather than risk the workhouse,’ she answered, looking him in the eye. ‘Do you blame them?’

  ‘No, I don’t. They started work on the place today. It’s supposed to be done by the end of this month.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘I didn’t even know the Corporation had agreed yet.’

  ‘They haven’t,’ he told her, and saw her mouth harden into a thin line.

  ‘I see. Same as ever in this place, then,’ she said with disgust. ‘I remember what it was like, the way they made the inmates wear those metal discs on their coats.’

  He recalled that, too. ‘They’re still cleaning the place out, all the rubbish is piled by the walls.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of it to cart off, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘There already is,’ he said and glanced up at the cloudless sky. ‘And the weather’s very dry. I’ve seen fires start when it’s like this.’

  ‘You should have warned them, Mr Nottingham.’

  ‘Not my job. I just wanted you to know.’

  Bessie pursed her lips and nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  There could be no good day for a funeral, the Constable thought. The blue sky, the sun were a mockery. Lizzie was next to him in the church, cradling Isabell. He’d escorted her, Lucy holding James’s hand as she walked behind from the house on Lands Lane. Emily had closed the school for the day, and sat on his other side with Rob, her face tight, hands clasped in her lap.

  The air was hot and still; with so many filling the building, it hurt to breathe. He turned his head, glancing at the faces he knew, all here to pay their last respects. So many of them. But no more than John’s due.

  Later, outside, he held Isabell as Lizzie stooped to gather up a handful of dry earth and sprinkle it in the grave, her head bowed, shaking with the tears. Very gently Nottingham put his arm around her to help her back.

  He waited until the others had filed past, each of them scooping up the dirt to tip it down on to the coffin, then added his own, saying farewell to the man he’d known so well. Molly the Mudlark threw in the earth from her small hand, reached into the pocket of her ragged dress and added a small lump of metal before she hurried on.

  Then it was over, and the crowds moved away with a quiet word to Lizzie or a touch on her arm. Tom and Hannah Williamson remained standing in the church porch.

  The merchant came over, sadness and embarrassment on his face, drawing a leather purse from the pocket of his expensive dark coat and holding it out to Lizzie. The Constable knew there was another, smaller one for Daley’s woman. The alderman had done his men proud.

  ‘We arranged a subscription,’ he said, pressing the money into Lizzie’s hand. ‘It’s not much, not for all Mr Sedgwick did.’ He bowed briefly and returned to his wife. Nottingham drew out the two documents he’d collected from Cobb earlier that morning.

  ‘The city’s going to pay you a pension and the rent on the house,’ he told her, seeing her eyes widen and the tears start falling again. ‘You won’t want for anything, I promise you that.’

  She couldn’t say anything, and he didn’t need any words. She had a lifetime of loss ahead. That much he knew.

  Finally he was alone in the churchyard. He walked over to stand by the graves, Rose and Mary, and the sun burned his neck as he stood, talking to his wife in his head.

  Rob and Emily walked quietly along the Calls to the school, the sad, solemn air of the funeral hanging over them. She was ready to come home, he knew that; the Williamsons had been kind, but two nights there were enough for her.

  First, though, she needed a few books to prepare the next day’s lessons. He waited as she unlocked the door, knowing she was holding her breath and hoping no one had been in. He knew it was safe enough, at least for now. The women still had their husbands out, but there’d be fewer of them each night. Soon they’d need a night man front and back on the place again.

  He threw back the shutters, letting light flood the room as she searched through a pile on the table.

  ‘Got them,’ she said.

  She was interrupted by a tap on the door. Rob raised his eyebrows and she shook her head, not expecting anyone. Carefully, one hand close to his knife, he opened up.

  ‘Mr Williamson,’ he said in surprise. ‘Mrs Williamson. Come in, please. We were just about to leave.’

  ‘I hope it’s not a bad time,’ the merchant said. ‘A sad enough day.’

  Lister nodded, standing aside as they entered.

  ‘I’m sorry, there’s only the benches to sit on,’ Emily apologized.

  Williamson turned to his wife.‘This is Mr Lister,’ he said. ‘He’s James Lister’s son. From the Mercury.’

  Rob offered a small bow and Hannah Williamson smiled.

  ‘Emily told us you two have been courting,’ she said. ‘You work for Mr Nottingham, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘He keeps us all safe,’ Williamson said.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Emily interrupted. ‘I hadn’t expected any one.’

  ‘We were talking on the way back from the … service.’ Williamson placed his hand over his wife’s. ‘We’ve enjoyed your company the last few days. We agreed that we’d like to pay to replace the books that were destroyed.’

  ‘All of them?’ Emily’s voice rose in disbelief.

  ‘It would be our honour.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked from one of them to the other, her eyes wide, close to speechless. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Your dedication has impressed me,’ Mrs Williamso
n told her, and looked at her husband expectantly.

  ‘We’d also like to cover the expenses of the school,’ he said.

  ‘But—’ Emily started, then closed her mouth.

  ‘You run it exactly as you want, just the way you have been,’ the merchant continued. ‘We don’t want a say in any of that. It’s your school. The only thing you need to do is send the bills to us.’

  Rob stared at Emily. Joyful tears ran down her face; she reached into the pocket of her dress for a handkerchief and wiped hurriedly at her face.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she told them.

  ‘All you have to do is say yes,’ Hannah Williamson prompted kindly.

  ‘And you truly don’t want anything at all in return?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Williamson assured her, his wife nodding in agreement.

  ‘Then I … Yes.’ She looked from one of them to the other then blurted, ‘Yes, of course. Yes. Thank you.’

  Rob sat quietly and watched, the first time he’d known her lost for words, the expression on her face caught somewhere between laughter and tears.

  ‘We met your mother a few times at church,’ the merchant said. ‘I think she’d have been so happy to see what you’re doing here.’ He stood, helping his wife to rise from the low bench. ‘If there’s anything you need here, just ask us. Anything at all. We’ll do whatever we can.’ He bowed, first to Emily, then to Lister, and led his wife out.

  They listened to the footsteps fading and the sound of the street. Then she turned and ran to him, holding him tight as if she couldn’t believe the last few minutes had really happened.

  ‘They want to pay for it all!’

  ‘You deserve it,’ Rob said, kissing her lightly on the lips. ‘You’ve earned it. Everything they said was true.’

  She pulled back for a moment, her eyes suddenly doubtful.

  ‘Do you think Papa had something to do with this?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘No,’ he said with certainty. They’d been too busy finding John’s killer to think of anything else.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said, clutching him again, her smile wider than the river, and for a moment he saw the little girl she must have been. Her joy filled the room and the words flooded out of her.

  ‘Come on, I want to go home and tell Lucy. And Papa, when he comes. Tomorrow I’ll tell the girls and we can all write a letter of thanks.’

  It was evening when Lucy returned to the house on Marsh Lane, subdued for once, not wanting to talk, quickly settling in the kitchen to begin baking bread for the morning. The Constable understood.

  He listened with pride as Emily poured out her news, eyes glowing with pleasure. He embraced her and congratulated her, but today her words couldn’t touch his heart.

  How would he go on without John? He’d trusted him completely. He’d never even needed to think about it. He’d known the deputy would be there, doing whatever he demanded. People had liked him. People talked to him, he knew how to draw them out, he was one of them. And Lizzie had loved him.

  Now they’d all have to manage without him. Rob was good; he’d learned so much and come so far in the last two years. He was dogged and eager to learn. But he’d never possess John’s easy manner or be able to coax words and secrets from people with a smile or a drink.

  The night slowly settled around him. Emily and Rob went to their bed and Lucy made up her pallet in the kitchen. The Constable kept the window open, catching the smallest hint of a breeze in the leaves and the distant song of the night birds. He sat in his chair by the empty hearth.

  Maybe his time had passed. Maybe he should finally see the sense in all those things Mary told him before she died. He’d done what he could in Leeds – he had the scars on his body to show that. But the ones in his mind and across his heart ran deeper.

  For every killing he solved there’d be another, from now until the end of time. For every runaway he found there’d be two more he’d never see. Each day he grew more weary. He’d always done his job with everything in his power. He’d cared, he’d hoped. But since Mary died nothing had been the same. And now … he felt as if a door had closed.

  He’d find Jem Carter’s murderer and whoever had been damaging the school. But when those were done he’d write his letter of resignation and try to discover what peace remained in his heart.

  The thoughts and memories swirled as he lay down to sleep. Tomorrow they’d to begin finding answers to all their questions.

  The pounding on the door woke him immediately. He pulled on his breeches and took the cudgel from the table before answering. It was Drinkwell, one of the night men, breathless from running, soot smeared across his face.

  ‘Fire, boss.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The workhouse. Spotted it a few minutes ago. They’ve got a bucket chain going.’

  ‘Go on back. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  He turned and saw Rob near the top of the stair.

  ‘Get yourself dressed, lad, we’ve got a blaze to deal with.’

  By the time they arrived the fire had taken full hold, cinders and sparks rising high in the air. It had broken through the roof, and flames were licking at the sky and lighting up the whole area. The men were working hard with their buckets but the Constable could see they’d never win. If the wind rose a little everything could leap to Queen Charlotte’s Court; it was little more than ten yards away.

  ‘Stop it spreading over there,’ he ordered.

  More folk began to arrive, curious, drawn by the light and the flames. Nottingham and Rob worked with them, sweating, aching, keeping the houses damp enough so no fire could take hold. Finally, just as the sky started to lighten, a low creak like a moan came from the workhouse. Everyone stopped and turned to watch as the building began to topple in on itself, charred timbers falling so heavily that the ground shook.

  It was over. The fire was still burning but there was little more damage it could do.

  ‘See Emily to school then do the morning rounds,’ he told Rob. ‘I’ll keep my eye on this.’

  With the excitement done, folk began to drift away to work or their beds. The sun appeared, making the heat of the blaze shimmer as it rose into the air. The workhouse was gone. It would need to be completely rebuilt and he knew the Corporation wouldn’t spend the money for that.

  The Constable saw the foreman, standing off to the side as the labourers clamoured around him, wondering if they’d be paid for the day. He waited until the argument had ended.

  ‘No more work for you here,’ Nottingham said.

  ‘Just to haul away whatever’s left when it’s cooled down,’ the man replied sadly. He nodded over at the others. ‘No wages for them, neither. Would have been a few weeks’ work, too.’ He wandered off, shaking his head.

  ‘What do you think started it, Mr Nottingham?’ He turned at the sound of Finer’s voice. The man was staring intently at the ruins, the burned wood and broken stones, as if he could will them back into shape.

  ‘There were piles of rubbish all around yesterday. If someone set a fire in them …’ He didn’t need to say more.

  ‘And do you think you’ll find out who did it?’

  The Constable sighed. ‘I don’t know. I’ll try.’

  ‘But not too hard, I suspect.’ Finer gave a fragile smile. ‘And not so easy with your deputy dead.’

  ‘I didn’t see you at the funeral.’

  ‘I’d never met the man. I’m sorry for your loss but I had no business there.’ He paused. ‘You being here, this is where you should be. This is your business.’

  ‘I always do my job,’ Nottingham chided him, then pointed out, ‘It’s odd, though – I understood that the Corporation wasn’t even going to debate your proposal until today.’

  ‘This afternoon, at their weekly session,’ the man agreed.

  ‘But the work had already started.’

  ‘And I thought you understood the way of the world, Mr Nottingham.’ Finer’s tone hardened
. ‘Come on, you know better than that, laddie. Or if you don’t, you’re not the man I thought.’

  ‘You might be surprised at some of the things I know.’

  The man gave a roar of a laugh. ‘That’s better. Perhaps I misjudged you, Constable. Perhaps Amos really did teach you more than I’d imagined.’ He gave a small bow and walked away, his head still held high but his steps slow, feet shuffling against the ground.

  Nottingham stayed a little longer, walking around the wreck of the place, not smiling, not frowning. At least no one had been hurt or killed and there was no damage to the court. And it meant no one would suggest another workhouse for several years. Unless someone peached there’d be little likelihood of ever finding the person responsible. And he didn’t really care.

  He broke his fast with wild strawberries from a seller yelling her wares as she walked up and down Briggate. They were small, gathered from the woods, the juices sweet in his mouth, and he licked the red stains from his hands, savouring the last taste of them on his skin.

  A breeze came, catching his hair and lifting the fringe off his forehead; without thinking he pushed it back down. He passed the Moot Hall, the tang of blood from the butcher’s shops so strong he could taste it in his throat. Servants were lined up outside the baker’s to take home loaves. A storyteller caressed a few onlookers with his words, then stopped, looked pointedly at his hat on the ground and only started up again when someone threw in a coin.

  Another day. He’d send Rob to question Matthew Wilson, the man that Granger, the night watch at the water engine, had named. And he’d go hunting for Simon Johnson, to see if he had anything to say about the damage to the school.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Where could he begin to look for Johnson, though? There was nothing to distinguish him, he was someone who faded easily out of sight and mind; no doubt he’d grown used to it, depended on it as he wandered the roads with his brother through the years.