Constant Lovers rn-3 Page 18

  ‘Is she still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you told the coroner?’

  ‘Not yet. I wanted you to know first.’

  ‘Good. Let’s go and see her. Send someone for Mr Brogden,’ he said with distaste. ‘I’m sure he’ll call it suicide.’

  On the street the deputy gave a coin to a small lad who was up and curious, sending him scarpering off down Briggate. Then he joined Nottingham and the pair walked without speaking up to the Moot Hall.

  Weatherspoon was at his desk, his face full of anguish, standing as soon as they entered.

  ‘When did you find her?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘About an hour ago.’ The man’s voice was anxious and cracking. It wasn’t the first death here and wouldn’t be the last, but he knew it shouldn’t have happened. ‘As soon as I saw the night man wasn’t here, I checked on her straight away.’

  ‘Let’s take a look at her,’ the Constable said and the turnkey led them down the shadowy passage to the cell and pushed the door open.

  ‘Was it locked when you arrived?’ the Constable asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Weatherspoon said.

  She was hanging from a thick beam that supported the floor above. The old dress he’d given her at the jail had been ripped into ragged strips, knotted one to the other. As they entered, the draught caused her body to turn slightly so she was facing them.

  There was a puddle beneath her where she’d pissed herself and a joint stool kicked over on the flagstones. Nottingham reached out and touched her hand. The skin was cooling, but there was still the faint warmth of a lost life there. The tongue lolled from her mouth, and there was a heavy, livid bruise on her cheek. One more fragile soul lost to the noose, he thought sadly.

  ‘The coroner will be here soon. Leave her up until he’s seen her,’ Nottingham ordered.

  Without a word they moved back to Weatherspoon’s desk. At the other end of the building the prisoners were raising a clamour, demanding their breakfast.

  ‘Who’s your night man?’

  ‘His name’s Wilkie. Came about two months ago,’ the turnkey answered. ‘He seemed fine. It’s hard to find someone who’s willing to be here all night. .’ He pulled out a piece of paper with the man’s address scrawled on it.

  ‘Go and see if you can find him, John. If he’s around, take him to the jail.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Sedgwick ran up the stairs and into the growing day.

  ‘She was very quiet after you left yesterday. You must have given her plenty to think on.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Constable agreed slowly. ‘But nothing to make her kill herself.’

  Weatherspoon stared at him.‘Are you sure it was murder? In my prison?’

  ‘It probably was,’ Nottingham replied. ‘I’ll tell you that she stole from Amos Worthy, and we stopped a couple of men from attacking her.’

  ‘So you think he’s behind it?’

  Nottingham brushed the fringe off his forehead. ‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘But proving it’s going to be another matter altogether.’

  Before he could say more, he heard the rasp of sharp heels on the stone of the steps and turned. It was Edward Brogden, the coroner. He held a withered orange studded with cloves inside his handkerchief, and pressed it close to his nose to fight the smell. With his eyes, the Constable indicated that the jailer should show him the body.

  Brogden was in the cell less than a minute before hurrying back out in quick strides, confirming suicide in a single word then climbing back to the clearer air of Leeds.

  ‘He disagrees with your verdict, Mr Nottingham,’ Weatherspoon said.

  ‘Let him,’ the Constable said. ‘This night man, has he ever left early before?’

  The turnkey shook his head.‘He’s always been very responsible up to now. Hasn’t missed a day, respectful, good with the prisoners.’

  ‘He didn’t leave any kind of message? Not taken ill?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the jailer said.

  Nottingham studied the layout of the prison.

  ‘That door that goes to the main cells, was it locked when you came this morning?’

  ‘Yes,’ Weatherspoon confirmed. ‘Always locked at nine, every night when the church bell sounds. It’s good and solid.’

  In other words, the Constable thought, the prisoners wouldn’t have heard anything useful, and they’d have seen nothing.

  ‘You can cut her down now,’ he said. ‘I’ll send some men over to move her.’

  He walked down Briggate, his steps fast. As he’d told Weatherspoon, he knew Worthy was behind all this, but he’d never prove it. Nothing would stick to that bastard. He’d lay a penny to a pound that the night man had already vanished, taking his possessions with him, a richer man than when he’d begun work the evening before.

  There was nothing he could do. He could feel the rage building. The pimp had won again. He wanted to do something, hit a wall, anything to relieve the fury and frustration, but instead he balled his fists and pushed them hard into the pockets of his coat.

  Lister was at the jail, waiting. Nottingham had forgotten he was supposed to show him how to watch the cloth market this morning.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rob. That girl, Nan, died in the Moot Hall cells.’

  ‘What?’ He began to stand up.

  ‘She was hung. The coroner’s said suicide, but you can guess for yourself what happened. The night man’s gone missing.’

  ‘What?’

  The Constable let out a long, slow breath and made a decision.

  ‘Look, enough people have seen you around by now for them to know you’re a Constable’s man. Go and walk up and down where they’re selling cloth. The word’ll spread quick enough, don’t worry.’

  ‘And if I see something?’

  Nottingham smiled. ‘Just do your job. Bring them here, put them in a cell and we’ll deal with them later.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  He’d barely left when Sedgwick arrived, giving a quick shake of his head.

  ‘Room’s unlocked, just the furniture left in it. Neighbours said it sounded like he left in the middle of the night. They thought he must have owed on his rent and was doing a flit.’

  ‘He did that, right enough. Bought and paid for,’ Nottingham said.

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘I’m going down there,’ the Constable announced, ‘and then we’ll go to Horsforth.’

  ‘Boss,’ the deputy warned, and Nottingham raised his hand placatingly.

  ‘I’ll let him have his moment of gloating. And then I’ll warn him. Nothing more, John, I promise.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No. We’ve a history, Amos and me. Better just the two of us. If you want something to do, go and keep an eye on Rob, he’s looking after the cloth market. I won’t be long.’

  He strode along Boar Lane, the fury like a lump in his gut. He made his way down Swinegate and pushed open the anonymous door of the house. But the way to the kitchen was blocked by a big young man. The Constable had seen him before, tall and blocky, always dressed in a jacket and breeches that appeared too small for his huge frame. Today he wore new clothes and a short wig that looked ridiculous on such a large head. He didn’t move, but stood filling the passage.

  ‘I’m the Constable.’

  ‘No one goes in until they hand over their weapons. Mr Worthy’s orders.’

  Nottingham took the knife from its sheath on his belt as if to hand it over. As the guard’s eyes followed the movement, the Constable shoved his knee hard into the man’s cods and he dropped on the floor, clutching himself.

  ‘You don’t make demands of the law,’ Nottingham told him and opened the door.

  There were two more of Worthy’s men in the kitchen, lounging against the far wall, but he didn’t dismiss them. Instead they stood by the back door, hands resting idly on the hilts of their daggers, eyes fixed on their employer. He was sitting at the table, a mug of ale by his hand.

 
; ‘What’s wrong, Amos? Looks like something’s got you scared.’

  The procurer tilted his head and calmly pursed his lips. ‘Just looking after things, Constable. A little protection never goes amiss.’

  Nottingham raised his eyebrows.

  ‘So what brings you here?’ Worthy asked. ‘Checking on my well-being?’

  ‘The girl who robbed you killed herself at the Moot Hall last night.’

  The pimp shrugged.‘Saves the cost of a trial and a hanging, anyway. You should be pleased, laddie.’

  ‘The night jailer’s disappeared, too. Left in the middle of his shift. Gone from his room, too.’

  ‘Nowt so queer as folk. You ought to know that by now.’

  ‘You must have paid him plenty.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’ He grinned. ‘Nice idea, though.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’ Nottingham’s voice turned hard and the two men by the door stood straighter.

  Worthy waved the suggestion away. ‘Believe what you like, Constable. There’s nothing you can prove, is there?’

  ‘You know the answer to that.’

  The pimp pushed his face forward, his features set like flint. ‘Aye, laddie, I do. If you knew it was me, you’d be hauling me off to your jail now.’

  ‘Oh, I know well enough,’ Nottingham told him. ‘I just can’t prove it, that’s all.’

  ‘Then don’t come bothering me with it until you can.’ He turned back to the ale. ‘You’ve said your piece and salved your conscience. Now you can bugger off.’

  He returned to the jail deep in thought. Sedgwick was there, ready to leave, his face showing how much he was dreading the ride.

  ‘You’re safe from horseback today,’ the Constable told him. ‘There’s something going on and I want you to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Worthy’s keeping his men close and he’s hired a new one. You remember that lad who used to haul carcasses around for one of the butchers at the Shambles?’

  ‘The one who looks like a walking mountain? Aye, I remember him. He could stop a cart.’

  ‘Well, he’s working for Worthy now. It looks to me like Amos is worried. I want to know what’s going on so we can stop it.’

  ‘You think it’s Hughes?’

  ‘Very likely.’

  Sedgwick picked at a fingernail. ‘We could just let them kill each other and get rid of them all.’

  ‘I doubt the mayor would like that too much,’ he answered with a dark smile. ‘He wants us to try and keep the bodies off the streets, remember? You know who to talk to. Find out what’s happening.’

  ‘What did he say about Nan?’

  The Constable screwed his face up in disgust. ‘What do you think? He doesn’t know a thing about it, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m going to see Godlove. Get on it, John. Take Rob with you, he can see what makes the city tick. It’ll open his eyes a bit.’

  The deputy was relieved that he didn’t have to ride. He always felt awkward and fearful on horseback, scared that he might fall off at any minute. He was much more comfortable on his own two feet, surrounded by the familiarity of Leeds, the faces, the streets that had been his life.

  He found Lister at the bottom of Briggate, watching as the weavers took down the trestles and packed up. Some were already hauling the cloth they’d sold over to the warehouses.

  ‘No problems?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There never are, really,’ Sedgwick told him. ‘They’re an orderly lot. They’re just cut-throats on prices, most like. Come on, we’ve work to do.’

  He led the younger man over Leeds Bridge and into the streets south of the river. They had a different flavour, a little more spacious, closer to the country, the smell sweeter. The deputy ignored the wealth of Meadow Lane and moved instead into the hovels huddled tight against each other along Hunslet Lane and Bowman Lane.

  The house he wanted was cleaner than its neighbours, windows shining, soot proudly scrubbed off the brickwork so it glistened as if it was new. The deputy knocked on the door.

  ‘We’re going to be talking to Joe Buck. He’s one of the biggest crooks you’ll ever meet,’ he explained. ‘And one of the richest. He looks mild enough, but don’t let that fox you. Let me do the talking.’

  ‘He’s got money?’ Lister asked.

  ‘Plenty of it.’

  ‘So why does he live in this place?’

  ‘Some people don’t need to flaunt it. He’s a man of surprises, is our Joe. You’ll see.’

  The servant who opened the door was as tall as the deputy and more muscular, in a shirt so white it seemed to glow in the sunlight, tailored black breeches and a waistcoat the same shade of bright blue as the sky. A pale powdered periwig sat on top of a head as dark as Middleton coal.

  ‘Master in?’ Sedgwick asked casually, as if this was a conversation the two men had experienced often in the past.

  ‘In’t back,’ the servant answered, the accent local but underlaid by something else that gave the words a rich musicality. ‘Tha knows where.’

  Sedgwick winked at Rob and they made their way down the small passage that opened into a well-decorated parlour, light beaming through the windows, the furniture all in good taste and polished to a sheen, a thick Turkey carpet covering gleaming floorboards.

  The man rose as they entered. The deputy had never seen him when he wasn’t immaculately dressed, even for just resting at home. Today the suit was deep, sober blue, the stock and shirt white, and waistcoat a vivid shock of contrasting colours that somehow managed to suit him. In his early forties, he’d not yet run to fat, and lines barely aged his face.

  ‘Mr Sedgwick,’ the man said, extending his hand in greeting. The deputy didn’t take it, but glanced admiringly round the room.

  ‘The thieving business must still be good, Joe.’

  He enjoyed watching the man wince, but the reply was calm and even.

  ‘Business keeps going. Gentlemen, sit down.’ He waved them to a pair of chairs by his own, gathered around an empty hearth.

  ‘You must be Mr Lister,’ he said, glancing at Rob and idly letting him know how well informed he was. ‘I’ve met your father a few times. He’s done well since he took over the Mercury.’

  ‘Run into Amos Worthy lately?’ the deputy cut in.

  ‘As little as possible,’ Buck answered with a small, pained smile.

  ‘Not planning on trying to take over his interests?’

  The man looked as if he’d been insulted. ‘Mr Sedgwick, he deals in girls, you know that.’

  ‘And other things. Besides, people expand their empires.’

  ‘Not into those areas.’ Buck shook his head in distaste. ‘Mind you, there’s been some bad blood between him and someone else from what I’m told.’

  ‘Edward Hughes,’ Sedgwick said and Joe nodded. ‘We’ve already come across him. Have you heard of anything big building between them in the last day or so?’

  ‘No,’ he said, then spread his hands. ‘But I stay out of that.’ He paused. ‘You should have a word with Bessie Hardcastle. She always knows what’s going on.’

  ‘Aye, that’s a good idea. Always one to collect gossip, is Bessie. Thank you, Joe. Just make sure you watch yourself.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, Mr Sedgwick.’

  Back outside, the deputy looked at Lister. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. What does he do?’ Rob wondered.

  ‘Joe? He handles stolen goods, a lot of them. I know he looks like a molly, him and that servant, but don’t be fooled. He’s a tough man under it all.’

  ‘Who’s Bessie Hardcastle?’

  ‘An abbess,’ Sedgwick said, and grinned at Lister’s confusion. ‘A bawd, she runs a brothel. Been doing it since God was a lad. Half the time I think she hears about things before they happen. I should have thought of her before. It’ll still be early for her, mind. The lar
k’s her nightingale.’

  The house stood on Vicar Lane, just down from the corner of the Head Row. It was a nondescript place, with nothing to mark it out, fitting tidily between its neighbours. The deputy knocked lightly on the door and stood back, staring at the upper storeys where shutters were closed tightly behind the glass.

  Finally the maid answered, a girl who would have looked demure except for the saucy twinkle in her eyes. She showed them through to a parlour hung with the fug of old smoke and stale beer.

  ‘Are they all like this?’ Lister asked, gazing around.

  ‘All what?’

  ‘Brothels.’

  ‘You mean you’ve never been in one?’

  ‘No,’ Rob admitted with a deep blush.

  Sedgwick laughed. ‘Well, there’s all sorts. This one’s respectable, looks like any other house and there’s plenty of decorum.’ He indicated the good furniture and the painting hung over the mantle. ‘This is where the merchants and the men from the Corporation come. It seems like home. They feel comfortable here.’

  Before he could say more a woman bustled into the room, still adjusting a cap over her hair. She was in her forties, hard hawk-faced, her skin still puff?y from sleep.

  ‘The girl said it was you, Mr Sedgwick. What can I do for you so early?’

  ‘Hello, Fanny,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘Business good? I was hoping for a word with your mam.’

  ‘She’s still sleeping,’ the woman told him. ‘She’s been poorly lately, she doesn’t do as much as she used to.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. How old is she now?’

  ‘Seventy-eight, as close as we can reckon,’ Fanny Hardcastle said with pride. ‘Remembers everything, too, even Charles coming back after Cromwell.’

  ‘So are you looking after things at the moment?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And getting the same gossip as her?’

  The woman sniffed and stood straighter. ‘I’d better be or I’ll want to know why.’

  ‘What’s happening between Amos Worthy and Edward Hughes?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’ she asked in astonishment. ‘I thought it was all over everywhere by now.’

  ‘If I knew I wouldn’t be asking, would I?’ the deputy asked patiently. ‘They’ve been at it a bit, but I mean in the last couple of days.’