Constant Lovers rn-3 Page 14

  It was no surprise, perhaps, that Lord Gibton hadn’t mentioned it during their interview. More secrets to keep quiet. A family with plenty of those, it seemed.

  At the inn he settled the horse at the trough and bought a mug of ale, deliciously cold, with just enough edge of bitterness to satisf?y him. Two farmers were talking quietly in another corner of the room, but otherwise he had the place to himself.

  The more he thought, the more he wondered at the curious coincidence of Lady Gibton’s dark mood happening just when her daughter was due to visit. He didn’t care for coincidences. He mulled it over, slowly and deliberately examining the idea, until eventually he was willing to concede that coincidence was all this might be. Sarah’s visit to her parents was a surprise. Godlove had told him that right at the start. So they wouldn’t have known she was coming.

  The more he discovered about the family, the more it disturbed him. There was an ugly strain of madness in them. But there was more than that. He knew the gentry had their own ways, but to blatantly sell their daughter the way they had, that was cold, calculating, and beyond his understanding. At times a life with no social position to worry about was much easier.

  He gulped down the remainder of the ale, and left. Time to reflect had only brought more confusion. While he’d been inside, clouds had thickened in the west until they were bearing down dark and thick from the Pennines and promising another storm to clean out the day.

  Riding back down to Leeds the city was spread out before him, the spires of the churches standing out, with the sharp, warm colour of Red House visible on the Head Row. He felt a languor spreading through him, and for all the world he could have sprawled out and slept for an hour under a tree.

  But he wasn’t going to have the chance. It was still only late morning and there was plenty to do before he could rest. He returned the horse and walked back to the jail, his joints aching from the ride. He was getting older, no doubt of it. In his forties now, he was still fit and fair, but the pains and rheums came more easily and lingered longer. The hair that had once been so blond and handsome, his pride when he was younger, was paler now, with streaks of silver to mark the time. At least, he thought vainly, he hadn’t gone bald the way so many did. There were a few small mercies.

  The jail was empty save for one man in a cell. The deputy had left a note; the man was a pickpocket he’d caught in the act. Sedgwick and Lister were trying to find the missing servants. If Worthy reached them first they’d face the task of hunting for evidence against the pimp; that, he knew, would be close to impossible. None would peach on him. The vulnerable would keep quiet out of fear, the rich to seek favour.

  He tried to write a report, but after two lines he put down the quill; he simply couldn’t settle to it. It was the weather; it made his skin prickle and concentration was impossible. He pulled on the coat and left, ambling down Briggate and letting his feet take him where they would.

  By the time he paid real attention he was already south of the river and walking out along Meadow Lane. In the last few years it had begun to turn into a grand avenue; a few merchants had built their homes over here, looking haughtily over the river, the courts and yards of the poor hidden away in the spaces behind the clean, proud frontages and deep, lush gardens. In the distance lay the Quaker Meeting house and burial place, a small, simple structure of plain stone.

  Nottingham knew a few Quakers, all of them honest, sober men. He didn’t understand their faith but he admired them for it. The last traces of his own belief had died in February with his older daughter. He still attended church, but the words he heard there had become nothing more than a familiar form that had lost all its meaning. Mary felt the same, he knew. How could anyone offer his soul to a God who’d rip his family apart for no reason?

  He began to retrace his steps and had just reached Leeds Bridge when the first thunder came, its echo reverberating like doom along the valley. As if in answer, the first large drops of rain arrived, followed by the swift, startling crackle of lightning. The Constable stopped and raised his head, letting the water land on his face.

  While others ran for shelter he stayed still, the coolness washing his skin, the comfort of the rain reaching his heart. He could feel the downpour soaking through his coat, but it didn’t matter. Already the air seemed fresher, the sultriness vanishing.

  By the time he reached the jail the heavy shower had passed, the air clear, dust damped down on the streets. The sun was out again but the overbearing heat had broken. Lister and the deputy were already there, deep in discussion over a mug of ale.

  ‘Get caught in it again, did you, boss?’ Sedgwick asked with a grin.

  ‘Stayed out in it,’ he replied, pushing a hand through his hair. ‘It felt good after a morning in the saddle. Now, anything more on these thieves?’

  ‘They’re not staying at any of the inns,’ Lister told him. ‘But,’ he added, ‘a couple who could well be them have been seen drinking at a couple of alehouses and in the gin shop down on Call Lane.’

  ‘When did someone last think they saw them?’

  ‘Night before last,’ the deputy answered. ‘So it looks as if they’re still here. They’ve probably found a room in one of the courts.’

  Nottingham rubbed his chin against the back of his hand, feeling the rasp of stubble against his skin.

  ‘Then it’s only a matter of time until Worthy finds them. He’s put the word out and there’ll be plenty eager to get into his good graces with a quiet word. This pair must be stupid. Either that or they still don’t know he’s looking. Or they’re planning something else here.’ He thought for a minute. ‘Is there any pattern to the places this couple might have been?’

  ‘Mostly down towards the river, the Calls, Call Lane, up by Currie Entry. All this side of Briggate, though.’

  ‘Right. John, take some of the men and start asking in the courts down there. Find the old women who sleep with their eyes open, they know everything that’s going on. See if you can track these two down. I want them before Worthy can get his hands on them.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘What about me?’ Lister asked.

  ‘I’ve got something else for you, Rob. I need to find out more about Baron Gibton’s wife. Do you know anyone in those social circles?’

  ‘Not really,’ he said doubtfully. ‘But I suppose my father would. Do you want me to ask him?’

  ‘Yes, as long as you tell him that none of this can appear in the Mercury.’

  ‘I will,’ Rob agreed readily. ‘What do you want me to ask these people?’

  ‘I’ve been hearing some interesting things.’ He recounted what he’d been told that morning. ‘I want to find out just how mad she really is. I’ve never heard of anyone dismissing the servants for a few days before.’

  ‘And if anyone’s reluctant to say?’

  Nottingham cocked an eyebrow. ‘That says a lot in itself, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Rob agreed.

  ‘There’s as much in what people don’t say as in the words that come out of their mouths,’ the Constable advised him. ‘Remember that. I told you that listening well is a big part of what we do. Listening for what they don’t say is just as important.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Lister grinned. ‘Can you tell me something?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Why do you want me doing this? I could have been out with Mr Sedgwick, helping to chase down those thieves.’

  Nottingham smiled and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Because you’re more useful to me this way. Being your father’s son will get you in to see the type of people who know the Gibtons, and they’ll be more likely to talk to you than to me. Does that make sense?’

  Lister nodded, doubt still in his eyes.

  ‘Look, we all have our strengths,’ the Constable explained. ‘We just need to make the most of them. John can get more out of those women in the courts in five minutes than I could in a month. You’ll be better at this. It makes sense to do w
hat we do best.’

  Rob knew where he’d find his father. The man spent far more time at the Mercury office than he did in his own home. He was at his desk, scratching away quickly with his quill, hair unkempt, the cuffs of his old, mended shirt black from ink. He never so much as glanced up when the door opened.

  Lister flopped down in a chair and waited. He wouldn’t receive any attention until his father had his thought written down satisfactorily. Finally the older man lifted his head. He started to smile then switched to a look of concern.

  ‘Don’t worry, they haven’t got rid of me yet,’ Rob grinned. ‘I’m here on business.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to hear that,’ James Lister said with relief. ‘You’ve bounced from job to job so much-’

  ‘I plan on staying with this one, father. It’s interesting. The Constable and Mr Sedgwick have a great deal to teach me.’

  The older man raised his eyebrows. ‘If you want to know about crime, I suppose they do,’ he said archly. ‘Now why has Mr Nottingham sent you here?’

  ‘He wants me to talk to some people who know Lady Gibton, to see if she’s as mad as she seems. And that’s not for the paper,’ he added quickly.

  His father pursed his lips in distaste. ‘Of all people, Robert, you should know I can keep a confidence as well as anyone.’

  ‘When it suits you,’ Rob laughed.

  The older man shook his head in a sly grin. ‘You know Matthew Simpson, don’t you?’

  ‘You know I do.’ The pair were often in the inns together.

  ‘Talk to his parents. They’ve dined with the Gibtons quite a few times and they might be able to tell you a few things. And if you catch Lucy Simpson on her own and charm her a bit she’ll give you all the gossip you can stand.’

  ‘That’s a start,’ Rob said. ‘Is there anyone else?’

  James Lister sat back, steepling his fingers over his ample belly.

  ‘Try old Mrs Mapperly, if you can get any sense out of her,’ he said finally. ‘She lives out past Town End in one of those small cottages. If I remember rightly she knew Catherine Gibton’s family; I can’t recall their name just now.’

  Rob stood. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So you really do like this work?’ his father asked doubtfully.

  ‘I do. It’s not like anything else. I think I’ve learned more about Leeds in the last few days than I ever knew before.’

  ‘Just be careful,’ his father warned. ‘There are things worth knowing and things best left alone.’

  ‘Don’t worry, father, I’ll be fine.’

  The Simpsons lived on Kirkgate, between the jail and the church, just three doors from where Ralph Thoresby had kept his museum, empty now since his death but still famous in Leeds.

  Matthew was off attending to his work as a lawyer, but his mother was happy to entertain one of his friends. Lucy Simpson was a smiling, guileless woman, one who didn’t have enough to occupy her time, Lister guessed. She dressed smartly in all the fashions fresh from London, doing everything she could to hide her age, pulling her stays a little tighter each year, attending all the assemblies and concerts, and dining in the houses of friends all across the area.

  ‘Catherine Gibton?’ she said in surprise. ‘Why would you want to know about her?’

  ‘You know I work for the Constable now?’ he asked her confidentially, and when she nodded he continued. ‘It has to be secret. That’s all I can tell you.’ He knew her well enough to be certain she’d take the bait and he was right. In less that half an hour he’d learned everything he might want to know about Lady Gibton, although he was certain much of it was wild gossip, slander and outright lies.

  But it was enough to establish that Catherine Gibton was a woman of delicate nerves, given to deep, dark moods and violent outbursts. She took every slight, real or imagined, to heart and never let any of them fall away.

  She could lock herself away for days at a time when the black dog came, refusing food and raging loud and long into the night. If Lucy Simpson was to be believed, she’d become even worse in recent years; her madness could strike with little warning. It had reached the point where the baron and his wife attended fewer and fewer affairs. The title meant that the invitations still arrived, but so often they were refused.

  It was a curious portrait Matthew’s mother had painted, Rob thought as he walked up Briggate, the afternoon sun pleasingly warm on his back. The woman sounded like a terrible creature, shrill, fearsome and impossible to please, and in a strange way he felt sorry for the husband who had to live with it all.

  He crossed the Head Row and passed St John’s church, strolling out into Town End. This was where many of the merchants had chosen to build their large new houses, the brash statements of wealth that showed they could afford the cleaner air outside the city. The grammar school stood apart from everything in a field, and the whole area was a curious mix of country and town.

  Virginia Mapperly’s cottage was definitely part of the country. Old and run down, it must have stood there for generations, he decided, tucked away beyond the grandeur of the new mansions. He knocked politely on the door and waited, pulling down on his coat and waistcoat and checking that his stock was well tied. A good impression could count for a great deal.

  The woman who eventually answered stood straight-backed, dressed in a silk gown that was long out of fashion but beautifully kept. Her right hand, mottled with the brown spots of age, rested on a polished stick and she regarded him with a long, inquisitive gaze.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ she said in a firm voice.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ he agreed. ‘I’m Robert, James Lister’s son. He suggested I come to you.’

  ‘I see,’ she replied slowly, and he felt she was assessing him. Her hair was carefully brushed, powder on her face; she was elegant, looking as if she might be about to leave for an important engagement. Finally she gave a sharp nod and said, ‘Don’t dawdle on the doorstep then, young man, you’d better come in.’

  She still sat the way her governess must have taught her, rigid and upright on the polished wooden chair, her back rod straight. Across from her, taking the low stool she offered, he felt like a child.

  ‘I knew your grandmother well,’ she told him. ‘She died before your time, I think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A wonderful woman, and hard pressed to keep that hellion who’s your father in check,’ she told him with a secretive smile. ‘Did you know he was always in trouble? The masters at school would beat him, then his father would beat him because the masters had been forced to.’

  Lister laughed. It was hard to imagine his father that way, rebellious and rabble-rousing.

  ‘He said you knew Lady Gibton when she was young.’

  ‘So that’s why you’re here.’ She looked at him again, more curiously this time. ‘And why do you want to know about her, I wonder?’

  ‘I work for the Constable,’ he explained, watching her eyebrows rise in surprise. ‘We do need to know about her, and I’ll keep all your confidences, but I must also ask that you don’t say anything to anyone else.’

  ‘And how did you come to work for Mr Nottingham, young man?’ she asked.

  ‘He was looking for someone, and I needed a job.’ He began to shrug then stopped, remaining on his best behaviour.

  ‘His father was a merchant here, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ He didn’t know that. This was a day for revelations, he thought.

  ‘It’s old business now,’ she said dismissively. ‘If he wants to tell you, I’m sure he will. Or you can always ask your father.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  She looked at him, studying him closely, then seemed to come to a decision.

  ‘So, Catherine Hall. That was her maiden name,’ she explained. ‘What do you want to know about her?’

  ‘Anything you can tell me.’

  ‘Well, Master Lister, pour me a glass from that decanter and I’ll tell you what I know. It’s not a great deal, I warn
you.’

  He took her some of the deep-red wine, watched as she sipped and set the crystal down delicately on a table. Her furniture, like everything in the room, was carefully chosen, and none of it cheap. She was a woman who’d had some money, he guessed, and who chose to keep the standards she’d always known even if her income was much lower now.

  ‘She was the prettiest child I ever saw,’ Mrs Mapperly began, smiling briefly at the memory. ‘And very well behaved when she was little. Her father was a butcher, you know. He had a shop on the Shambles and did well for himself.’

  ‘Is the family still there?’

  She put a finger to her lips and continued.

  ‘Everything was fine until Catherine was seven. Was it seven or eight? I forget after all this time. Anyway, she was outside her family’s shop on Briggate and a cart toppled as it went by. She was trapped underneath. They managed to get her out and she seemed well enough, just bad bruises and scrapes, that kind of thing.’ She paused to take another sip of the wine and stared into the liquid for a long time before picking up the tale. ‘My guess is that she hit her head and something happened to her mind, though. After that this lovely girl developed an evil temper. She’d been so placid before, a kind, sweet thing to match her looks, but when she drew into her mood she started screaming and howling if anyone tried to stop her doing things. God knows her father tried to beat some sense into her, but that didn’t work.’ She took another small drink, swirling the glass lightly and watching the light refract off the wine. ‘Her temper improved as she grew older, but she’d still fly into rages and break things. I think people forgave her because she’d turned into such a beautiful girl. People will tolerate a lot in beauty, it seems,’ she said reflectively. ‘All the young men wanted to marry her, but they weren’t good enough for her mother. After all, the family had made a little money in trade, and with Catherine’s face she thought she could aim high. Have you met Lord Gibton?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Rob replied.

  ‘He was a charming young man back then. I suppose he had to be since the family had lost most of its wealth. Anyway, he believed he was getting a prize in Catherine, and her mother did everything but throw the girl at him so she’d have a title. I suspect the pair of them have spent all the years since then regretting it.’