The Hanging Psalm Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Chris Nickson from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Leeds, 1820

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Chris Nickson from Severn House

  The Inspector Tom Harper Mysteries

  GODS OF GOLD

  TWO BRONZE PENNIES

  SKIN LIKE SILVER

  THE IRON WATER

  ON COPPER STREET

  THE TIN GOD

  The Richard Nottingham Mysteries

  COLD CRUEL WINTER

  THE CONSTANT LOVERS

  COME THE FEAR

  AT THE DYING OF THE YEAR

  FAIR AND TENDER LADIES

  FREE FROM ALL DANGER

  THE HANGING PSALM

  A Simon Westow mystery

  Chris Nickson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY

  First published in the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2018 by Chris Nickson.

  The right of Chris Nickson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8831-0 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-957-3 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0166-9 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  Leeds, 1820

  They were grave men. Sober men, neat in their black coats, white stocks snowy and clean, tied tight at the neck. Important people, businessmen and landowners. Men who believed that wealth and position gave them a heavensent command of life. Three of them together at the carefully polished table, papers arranged in piles before them. The one in the middle spoke.

  ‘Your name is Simon Westow. Is that correct?’

  He waited for a moment before he answered. Let them look at me, he thought. Let them see me.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty in July. If I was told the truth.’ He wasn’t about to call them sir. If they wanted his respect, let them bloody earn it.

  ‘You were in the workhouse, I believe?’ The man kept his voice even, glancing at the sheet he held.

  ‘I went there when I was four, after my parents died. There was no one else to take me in.’ He could hear the scratch of a pen as the clerk in the corner took down his answers.

  ‘How did they treat you? When did they put you out to work?’

  ‘Are you really sure you want to know that?’

  That made them stop. Just for a second. But he had their attention. The man behind the desk gave a condescending smile.

  ‘Of course we do. That’s the purpose of this commission and these questions. Our intention is to find out about child labour.’ A slight pause. ‘But you must know that. I understand it was made perfectly clear to you.’

  Oh yes, he thought. Perfectly.

  ‘They set us on at the mill when we were six, and let the manufactories do their worst.’

  ‘Their worst?’ He laid a soft emphasis on the word. ‘And what might that be? Were you beaten often?’

  ‘We were,’ Simon told him. ‘Boys and girls alike.’

  The man looked down and shuffled a few of his papers.

  ‘More than once the overseer made us take off our shirts, climb into one of the bins on the floor, and he’d hit us with his stick until we were bloody.’ He let his words remain steady as the memories raged through his mind. The facts could speak loudly enough.

  ‘I see. What else?’

  ‘They’d tie a two-stone weight to our backs and make us work. Two of them for the bigger lads. They said it would make us strong so we’d be able to work harder.’

  They looked a little uncomfortable now, all of them shifting on their seats. Good.

  ‘There was one boy who could never do his job fast enough,’ Simon said. ‘He tried, but he couldn’t manage it. Every week the overseer hung him from a beam by his wrists and used a strap on his back to try and teach him a lesson.’

  ‘Did he improve?’

  ‘He died. He was seven years old.’

  The men were staring now. The clerk had stopped his writing. The only sound in the room was the soft tick of the longclock. But he hadn’t finished yet.

  ‘Once they took a pair of vises, and screwed one to each of my ears. Then they had me work half the day with them in place.’

  The man grimaced. ‘Why would they do that? How could it improve you?’

  ‘It was for their own amusement. I still have the scars.’

  But they wouldn’t want to see, he knew that. He’d leave this room and they’d try to forget everything he told them. Maybe it would return in their dreams tonight. Every night to come. Exactly the way it had for him for years after it was over.

  ‘Don’t you want to know where it happened?’ Simon asked. ‘Don’t you want the name of the mills and their owners?’

  The man shook his head. ‘That’s not part of this inquiry. We’re here to discover facts, not blame people for things that happened in the past.’ His voice changed, becoming oilier, trying to appease. ‘How long did you work there?’

  ‘Until I was thirteen. Seven years.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Westow.’

  He stood, back straight, and walked to the door. A final question made him turn.

  ‘What is your occupation now?’

  He s
tared at them. ‘I’m a thief-taker.’

  ONE

  As he left the Moot Hall, Simon curled his hands into fists and pushed them into the pockets of his trousers. Briggate was thick with carts and people, and he moved between them without noticing. His head was filled with the faces from the past. The children who fainted after working for twelve hours without any break for food or water, because the overseer wanted the most from them. The boy who lost three fingers in a machine and just stood and stared at the stumps, not able to say a word.

  And finally, the day he carried a girl back to the workhouse, the bloody patch steadily growing on her skirt after two men had their pleasure with her during their dinner break. Catherine was her name. She’d just turned eleven the week before; that was all he ever knew about her. She moaned in his arms, in too much pain to cry.

  He was thirteen then, grown big and strong and defiant. He pushed the door of the matron’s office wide, and gently laid Catherine on her desk. The woman protested, shouted, but he didn’t want to hear anything she had to say. He’d heard enough, day after day: piety, duty, gratitude. Instead, Simon turned on his heel. He was never going back.

  There was an early April chill in the air as he stood and gazed down on the river. The water moved slowly, putrid and dirty. Swirls of red and ochre and blue eddied on the surface, waste from the dyeworks. A dead dog bobbed lazily up and down in the current.

  Simon took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. He needed to let his thoughts ebb away. He needed to forget. To let the fire burn down to embers again.

  From the corner of his eye he noticed a movement, a shadow.

  ‘It’s only me.’ The girl kept a wary distance, eyes on him. She was fourteen, older perhaps, maybe even younger. Sometimes she seemed old, ageless, silent and looking. And as invisible as any of the children who roamed the streets in Leeds. An old, patched dress that was too small for her. Stockings that were more holes than wool, battered clogs on her feet. A pale face and hands and a threadbare shawl over her blonde hair. ‘Rosie sent me after you. I saw you leave the Moot Hall and followed you here. You’re all dressed up today.’

  Simon had worn his good suit, the short, double-breasted jacket in fine worsted with long swallowtails and tight, narrow trousers. A ruffle at the front of his shirt and a tall-crowned hat with a curled brim on his head. He’d wanted to make an impression, to show them that a boy from the workhouse could be a success. But by now he probably no longer even existed for them.

  ‘What does she want?’ He took a breath, tasting the soot that spewed from the factory chimneys. Slowly, he felt the anger recede.

  ‘Someone’s waiting to see you. I caught a glimpse before she sent me out. Looks like a servant.’ She waited a moment. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘Tell her I’ll be there soon.’

  He watched her move away, melting into the press of people. Who noticed a child? Who noticed a girl? That was what made Jane so useful. She could follow without being seen, she could overhear a conversation without anyone realizing she was close.

  Simon gazed around. Grim faces everywhere. People who looked as if they were just clinging on to life. He began to walk. The anger started to fade. But it would never vanish.

  The house stood on Swinegate, right on the curve of the street. He could hear his wife in the kitchen, talking to the twins as she worked. She raised her head as he entered, pushing a lock of hair away from her cheek. An apron covered her muslin dress. She brought the knife down sharply on a piece of meat.

  ‘Jane found you, then?’ Rosie asked.

  He nodded. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I gave him a cup of ale and left him in the front room. He arrived about half an hour ago.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘He seems to have a high opinion of himself. Didn’t want to talk to a mere woman.’

  Simon nodded. Too many men like that.

  ‘How was it?’ she asked.

  ‘What you’d expect. Give them three lifetimes and they’d never understand. All it did was drag up the past.’

  She offered him a tender smile. ‘It’ll go again. It always does, Simon.’

  ‘I suppose it will.’ She was right; it always had before. His sons peered at him around the corner of the table, two small, identical heads. He stuck out his tongue and they began to laugh. They were the best medicine he knew.

  His smile vanished as he opened the door and walked into the front room. The man in the chair jerked his head up at the sound as if he’d been sleeping.

  ‘I’m Simon Westow. You wanted to see me?’

  ‘My master does.’

  Jane was right. He was a servant. But a trusted one, if someone was sending him here. Older, with sparse grey hair and a stiff, formal manner to match his dark clothes. Haughty; Rosie had pegged him well.

  People didn’t normally seek Simon out. They placed a notice in the Mercury or Intelligencer for their stolen property. He found it, returned it, and gave them the name of the thief. In exchange, he received the reward. If they chose to prosecute, they could take their chances in court.

  That was how a thief-taker worked. Only a few came here to buy his services. When they did, it meant the job needed discretion.

  ‘Who’s your master?’

  ‘He’d rather not say just yet.’ The man gave a forbidding smile. ‘But he’d like to meet you today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a delicate matter. He’d prefer to tell you himself.’ The man reached into his waistcoat pocket with two long fingers and drew out a sovereign. ‘He believed this might convince you.’

  The gold felt heavy in Simon’s palm. Solid. Real.

  ‘Where and when?’

  ‘Three o’clock. Do you know Drony Laith?’

  ‘Yes.’ Out beyond Gott’s big mill at Bean Ing. Just woods and fields, where the town ended and the countryside began.

  The man stood and gave a small bow.

  ‘What would you have done if I’d refused?’ Simon asked.

  ‘My master gave me a second sovereign. He’ll see you at three.’

  He tossed the coin and watched it skitter across the kitchen table. Rosie’s hand moved swiftly and it vanished into the pocket of her skirt.

  ‘Handsome money,’ she said and grinned. ‘Who does he want you to kill?’

  ‘I’ll find out this afternoon.’ He poured a mug of ale and drained half of it in a gulp.

  She kneaded the bread dough, fingers spread as she pushed it down. She’d given the boys a small scrap; they sat, stretching it between them until it snapped, then starting over again.

  This was where he felt complete. This was home.

  Rosie began to shape the loaves, concentrating on her work. She’d blossomed, he thought, so different from the girl he’d seen sitting at the side of the road all those years before, staring helplessly at a mile marker.

  ‘I hope you can read, mister,’ she’d said. ‘Which way is it to London? The words are all a jumble to me.’

  He’d told her, but she didn’t pick up her bundle and start walking. Instead, he sat next to her. They talked. An hour later they were heading back into Leeds. He had four shillings in his pocket, all his money in the world. Enough to rent them a room and buy food. He’d earn more tomorrow. He had a reason now.

  After the workhouse, he’d starved for twelve months, taking any work he could find, stealing food when there was nothing. He slept in old buildings until he had the money to share a bed in a doss house. An old soldier taught him the alphabet, and to read a few words. From there, he learned on his own. A newspaper someone had thrown away lasted a week, struggling through it in the night by the light from candle stubs until he could read properly. Then he noticed the advertisements for missing property and the rewards for their return. Simon had met plenty of criminals. He listened well, he was large and strong.

  And he discovered he had a talent for the work. He’d been doing it for two years when he met Rosie.

  Fourteen years later, she was still here.
He’d taught her her letters and her numbers, and she learned quickly. She balanced his anger with her humour.

  ‘Who sent him, do you know?’ Deftly, she slid the loaves into the oven.

  ‘Not yet. Has Jane come back?’

  ‘I heard her go upstairs.’

  He knocked quietly, waiting for her reply. The attic was almost bare, just a bed, a basin and jug on a small table, and a haze of ragged curtain covering the window.

  She’d been here for two years, yet there was nothing of her in the room. No trace; as soon as she walked out, she might never have been there. But he understood. Own nothing you couldn’t carry. A portable life, always ready to move, to run. Until he met Rosie, he’d felt the same way.

  ‘I saw him leave.’

  ‘I need you to go out to Drony Laith,’ Simon said. ‘I’m meeting his master there at three.’

  He didn’t have to tell her to keep out of sight. It was habit; she’d learned it on the streets. Don’t let anyone see you steal. Keep clear of authority. Get caught and you’d end up in chains, waiting for Botany Bay. Maybe the noose if you drew a hanging judge.

  ‘I saw his face this time. I know him. He works for John Milner.’

  That was interesting, he thought. Milner owned property all over Leeds. He had investments in two of the new manufactories that had sprung up since Napoleon’s defeat. They’d never spoken, but Simon had seen him in town, a sour prig of a man with a miserly face.

  But what property had he lost that needed to remain such a secret?

  ‘Let me know if anyone comes along with him or if anyone’s following.’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘Dinner will be ready soon.’

  The tenter poles stood on Drony Laith, but no cloth was stretching on the hooks today. It was nothing more than a barren field that ran down to the water, past the rubble of the demolished dye works, a copse of oak and ash rising on the far side. Simon stood and waited. Behind him, the brute, ugly mass of Bean Ing Mill rose like a monster from a tale, swallowing people in the morning and spewing them back out at night. Above the building, the sky was blurred with smoke rising from the chimneys.

  He wasn’t old enough to remember Leeds before the factories. Even when he was young a few had already been there. Now more and more were rising every single year. They drew the hopeful and the poor from all over Yorkshire. Simon saw them arrive, looking around in wonder as they imagined good work and steady wages ahead. Then he’d spot them again a few months later, broken and ragged and wondering why they’d exchanged the field for the factory.