He went from merchant to merchant, from home to warehouse. The news had passed already, the way it did in Leeds, and they all received him with serious faces and words of condolence. Without question they agreed to attend the funeral, but none had an idea who could have been responsible. And when he started his questions about Darden and the factor, their mouths shut and their eyes began to look elsewhere.
He found Tom Williamson at the new warehouse by the river. Men were preparing a shipment of cloth to leave for Hull the next morning. A small, fussy clerk checked against his list and pettishly directed Rob to the office.
The merchant was there, a brazier burning to give some heat to the room. His head was down, concentrating on a column of figures.
‘Mr Williamson?’
He looked up, taking a moment to place Lister. ‘Did Mr Nottingham send you?’
‘You haven’t heard the news?’ He seemed to be the first who didn’t know.
‘What news? What’s happened?’
‘Someone killed the Constable’s wife this morning. Stabbed her in her house.’
Williamson sat back, looking stunned. He ran his hands down his face. ‘Richard . . .?’
‘He found her,’ Rob said.
‘What can I do?’
‘The funeral’s tomorrow at two.’
‘I’ll be there, of course. I met her a few times. She always seemed a lovely woman.’
‘She was,’ he said with quiet feeling.
‘You’re James Lister’s lad, aren’t you?’ the merchant asked thoughtfully. ‘The one who’s courting the Constable’s daughter?’
Rob raised his head. ‘I am.’
‘How is she?’
Lister just stared at him.
‘Please, tell them both how sorry I am for them.’ He stayed silent for a short while, then asked, ‘Do you know who did it?’
‘Not yet,’ Lister lied. ‘Can you think of anyone?’
Williamson shook his head.
‘What do you know about Mr Darden and his factor?’
‘What?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘You think they’re behind it?’
‘No, nothing like that. We’re just gathering information on them.’
‘Richard had asked me about them, too. I told him what I knew.’ He rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘There’s something going on, isn’t there?’
‘I’m just doing what I’m told,’ Rob answered blandly, trying to keep all the expression off his face. Williamson stared at him, then sighed. ‘There was something I was going to tell Mr Nottingham when I saw him. I’d forgotten all about it before; I was only a boy when it happened, but my father fumed about it for years.’
‘What was it?’
‘It must have been, what, twenty-five years ago now?’ He counted off the years in his head. ‘Close enough to that, anyway. Mr Darden lent the Corporation some money. I don’t know how much it was and I’m sure it’s long since been paid. But my father always said Darden received preferential treatment because of it.’
‘What did he mean?’
‘I don’t know. It’s probably nothing. I’ve never heard any more about it.’
‘Thank you.’ Rob stood.
‘I’ll be there tomorrow,’ Williamson promised.
It was the only new thing he’d learned, an incident that happened a lifetime before. Still, he wondered why no one else had mentioned it. Memories were long, especially for anything that gave one merchant an advantage over the others.
He was walking back up Briggate, wrapped in his thoughts, wondering what he could do next, when a hand took his sleeve.
‘I heard,’ James Lister said. ‘It’s terrible. Do you have anyone yet?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Please, tell Mr Nottingham how saddened and shocked
I am.’
‘You can tell him yourself. The funeral’s tomorrow at two.’ He pulled away and continued up the street.
The deputy was waiting on the corner. The church bell had struck six and it was full dark when the three clerks emerged. They wore shabby clothes, the seats of their breeches shiny from being perched on stools all day.
‘Evening, lads,’ he said. They were all well into middle age, with grey hair and the worn-down look of men worked too hard for too little. ‘I’m the deputy constable. I’d like a word.’ He smiled. ‘Can I buy you all a drink?’
The first jug of ale went quickly and he ordered a second. He listened to them complain, wittering like old women, ears pricked for any loose talk. As their words wound down, he asked, ‘What did Mr Darden and Mr Howard do this morning?’
Ashton, the head clerk, the quietest and gravest of them, answered warily, ‘Why do you need to know?’
‘Knowing things is my business.’
‘It’s Tuesday. Mr Howard was at the cloth market. Mr Darden went with him.’
‘Aye, I know that. And this morning someone killed the Constable’s wife. Stabbed her five times.’ He glanced around the faces. ‘So you’ll see why I’m asking.’
‘They came to the warehouse after the market,’ Ashton told him. ‘They allus do that. Got to check the cloth the weavers bring and make sure they don’t cheat us.’
‘What about when that was done?’
‘Looked at the orders we were sending out.’
‘How long did that take?’ Sedgwick asked.
‘I wasn’t listening to the church clock. Then they went out.’
‘Where did they go?’
The clerk shrugged. ‘They don’t tell us, they just go.’
‘When did they return?’
‘Mr Howard came back about dinner time. Mr Darden didn’t come back at all. Nowt strange in that. He’s retired.’
‘How did Howard seem?’
‘Mr Howard was the same as ever.’ The man emphasized the title. ‘Wanted everything done yesterday. He must have been home, though.’
‘Why’s that?’ the deputy asked sharply.
‘He’d changed into an old coat and breeches. Spent part of the afternoon looking through cloth on the shelves.’
‘Is that usual?’
‘Mr Howard isn’t a man to ruin a good suit.’
‘Does he look through the cloth regularly?’
Ashton shrugged again. ‘A few times a year.’
‘Was he different in any way?’
‘Not that I saw. But we were working.’
‘He had a right short temper,’ one of the other clerks said.
‘What did he do?’
‘Clouted one of the lads who moves the bales around. Not just once, quite a few times until the boy was crying.’
‘Is he often like that?’ Sedgwick watched them carefully, seeing the small, uncomfortable glances they exchanged.
‘It happens,’ Ashton said flatly.
‘What else do you know?’ the deputy pressed them.
‘Nowt, really. I’ve worked for them for years and they’ve been good to me.’ He paused. ‘If you want them guilty of summat, I’ll tell you now – they’re not.’
Sedgwick stood and nodded his thanks. Outside the night felt raw; the chill clawed at his face as he made his way back to the jail. Rob was there, giving instructions to one of the night men. As soon as he’d gone, the deputy poured some ale and stood by the fire, feeling its heat.
‘Well?’ he asked.
Lister told him what he’d learned and Sedgwick recounted what the clerks had told him.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘They were gone part of the morning. They had the time, there’s no doubt about that,’ Rob answered. ‘But there’s nothing to show their guilt, is there?’
‘Aye. We need to find out where they’re supposed to have gone. I’d like to take a look at those clothes Howard wore during the morning, too.’
‘What do we do next?’
‘Nothing tonight, lad. I’m going home to rest. There’ll be plenty of time for more tomorrow. And the funeral.’
‘Will you tell Emily . . .?’
‘Of course I will. Don’t worry, we’ll look after her.’
‘What about the boss?’
‘He’ll do what he needs to do.’
He opened the door softly. Lizzie was sitting close to the hearth. She put a finger to her lips to hush him. He settled on the other chair, looking down to see Isabell sleeping peacefully in her crib, her illness now nothing more than a memory.
‘I put Emily in our bed. I think the poor lass has cried herself to sleep for a while. That boy of hers didn’t want to leave her.’
‘I’ll take her home in the morning. The funeral’s at two.’
‘Have you found anything yet?’
‘Not any proof.’ He was tired, the anger and frustration burning inside him.
‘Find it, John,’ she urged him.
‘I will. Don’t worry about that. If it’s there we’ll find it.’
‘Have you seen Mr Nottingham?’
He shook his head. ‘Better to let him be for now.’
‘Mebbe.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I’ll tell you something, that girl could have done with her father tonight. I did what I could but she needed more than me.’
‘She’ll have him tomorrow. And all the days after that, too. It’ll just be the two of them now.’
‘Not the same, though, is it?’ He had no reply. She reached out and took his hand. ‘I’ll put out the candle. You look like you need your rest.’
He’d just woken when she came down the stairs. It was still dark and he heard her groping her way.
‘Miss Emily,’ he said quietly.
‘I’m going home.’ Her voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.
‘I’ll walk with you.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘I need to see your father.’
Outside, in the half-light on the horizon, her face looked ravaged. If she really had slept it had been for no more than a few minutes. As they passed the jail she glanced through the window, looking for Rob.
‘He’ll be out doing his last rounds,’ the deputy told her. She tried to smile but it left as soon as it came, no heart behind it. He coughed and said, ‘I talked to the undertaker and the church. They’re going to have the funeral this afternoon.’
She looked at him sharply.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be one thing less for you and the boss to have to think about.’
‘I suppose it doesn’t matter when we bury Mama,’ she said emptily. She stayed quiet until they crossed Timble Bridge. ‘Thank you. And thank Lizzie, too.’ She looked up Marsh Lane at the house. ‘Is Papa there?’
She picked up her pace, moving so briskly that the deputy had to rush to keep up with her. He followed as she burst through the door, seeing the Constable sitting and staring at the dead fire. As Nottingham turned his head, Emily began to hit him with her small fists, crying and howling out all her pain.
He sat there and took it all, the tears trickling down his cheeks. Once she’d exhausted herself he stood, leaning heavily on the stick at his side and wrapped his arms around her.
‘I know, love, I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’
The deputy stayed by the door, feeling awkward, an intruder on this private grief.
The Constable kept whispering, words too low for anyone but her to hear. Emily cried against his coat, her arms tight around his neck, hair tumbling from her cap. Finally she nodded, wiping her face, and went upstairs.
‘Boss . . .’
‘Don’t, John. Please.’ His eyes were full of the dead, looking but not really seeing. ‘Just tell me what’s happening.’
Sedgwick summarized it all. Nottingham bowed his head and listened quietly.
‘It’s my fault,’ he said finally. ‘I had to brag to Howard. I emptied that pouch and asked if it was his. I said someone had found it near his house. He had his revenge.’
‘Christ, boss.’
‘If I hadn’t . . .’ He halted, searching for the words to flay himself. ‘If I hadn’t been so fucking arrogant, if I hadn’t wanted to rub his nose in it, she’d still be alive.’
‘You don’t know that.’
The Constable looked at him. ‘Of course I do,’ he said dismissively. ‘So do you, I can see it on your face. He knows I’m going to live with this every day from now on, that I’m going to feel it every time I walk through that door or sleep in my bed or wake in the morning.’
‘We’ll get him, boss.’
‘I know. We will. But it’s too late. He’s killed Mary. He’s killed me, he’s killed Emily. He’s killed all those children.’ He slammed his hand against the wall.
‘We’ll find a way to hang him.’
‘Thank you. And thank Lizzie for . . .’ He raised his eyes.
He bought a pie from a seller at the bottom of Kirkgate and ate it as he walked. There were more people to see, questions to ask. The deputy knew that Hugh would never let him back into Howard’s house now, no matter how much he threatened. That way was blocked.
At the Rose and Crown he strode through the yard to the stables, finding Hercules gently brushing dirt from a mare until her coat shone.
‘Bad news about the Constable’s wife,’ the old man said without turning. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Anything that can help me find her killer. You know Mr Darden and Mr Howard?’
Hercules bobbed his head, keeping a slow rhythm with the brush. ‘Always a private parlour when they meet someone here. Or if they want to talk.’
‘What do they talk about?’
The man frowned. ‘They go quiet when anyone comes in. Are you sure it was them?’
‘I believe it was Solomon Howard,’ the deputy told him. ‘And that he murdered the children, too. I just need to be able to prove it.’
‘I’ll keep my ears open.’ The old man turned to face him. The hair was matted around his face, his beard long and uncombed. ‘I’ll promise thee that. When’s the funeral?’
‘Two o’clock.’
‘Aye, that’s what I heard. There’ll be plenty of folk there. People have a high regard for Mr Nottingham in this city.’
Rob arrived at the house on Marsh Lane as the clock struck the half hour. Lucy answered the door, her face serious, a dark shawl around her thin shoulders. Emily sat in the chair that had been her mother’s, small and slumped, her eyes red and her face pale. He took her hand, the flesh chilly against his, and he tried to smile for her.
The Constable said nothing, the pain buried deep behind his expression. Five minutes passed, then he stood and said, ‘We’d best be going.’
They walked along, their steps slow and solemn. Nottingham used the stick, Emily holding on to his other arm, and Rob followed, Lucy at his side. Along the road one door opened, then another, and a third. Families emerged, dressed in their best, all crossing Timble Bridge to the Parish Church.
The Constable removed his hat as he entered, seeing the deputy standing near the font, James on one side and Lizzie on the other with Isabell in her arms, the baby’s eyes wide to be in such a big building. He made his way down to a bench at the front and sat, his daughter beside him, Rob on her other side, then the servant girl.
The merchants and aldermen were alone in their private pews, looking uncomfortable, there under duty and sufferance. The mayor’s pew stayed empty. But the back of the church was filled, folk standing, men, women, children.
Rob turned and saw faces he knew: Joe Buck and his servant, landlords from the White Swan, the Ship, the Turk’s Head, even Mr Bell from the Talbot. All the Constable’s men stood in a line, and behind them Morrison the chandler, Kirshaw the apothecary and too many others to see.
The coffin sat on trestles, plain, simple oak without decoration or polish. The congregation rose as the vicar emerged to face them, the Book of Common Prayer in one large hand.
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, yea, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall not die forever.’
When all the priest’s words were done and the bell began to toll, Rob moved forward, along with the deputy, Tom Williamson and the Constable himself to carry the coffin out to the grave.
It was next to Rose’s, the soil piled to one side, dark and moist. The diggers stood apart, a jug of ale by their feet, hats off, heads bowed in respect.
Once they’d lowered the body into the earth, Nottingham knelt, picked up a clod of earth and crumbled it between his fingers. He held out his hand, letting the dirt drop, the sound of it hollow on the wood.
‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed,’ the vicar began. Nottingham stepped back and Emily took his place, tears coursing down her cheeks, and Rob stood by her side as she let the soil fall. ‘We therefore commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body that it might he like to His glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby He is able to subdue all things to Himself.’
Emily took hold of her father’s hand and slowly led him away as the bell sounded its last dull note. Sedgwick put his arm around Lizzie’s shoulders, holding her close, feeling her with him, alive, Isabell sucking on a damp rag soaked in sugar water.
He watched the Constable and his daughter go through the lych gate and then turn for home.
‘I’d not want to be looking through their eyes today,’ Lizzie said quietly.
‘No.’ The wind blew up and he pulled his coat closer.
‘I’m going home. I still need to cook. Come on, James.’
He kissed her forehead. ‘I love you, you know,’ he whispered.
‘Don’t be so daft,’ she told him, but she was smiling and her eyes were wet.
‘What do we do now?’ Rob was next to him, watching the man and girl cross Timble Bridge.
‘You’d better go to her, lad. She’s going to need you.’ He looked over his shoulder, spotting Lucy standing by the church, lost and hopeless. ‘Take that lass with you. Stay there as long as you need. The night men can look after things until tomorrow.’
The crowd of mourners thinned. Some would go up to the White Swan to drink and talk, others back to their work and homes. It was over; Mary Nottingham was buried. The grave-diggers were at work, bending their backs and filling the hole, the bell had gone silent, and all that remained were the sounds of the city.
He walked slowly back up Kirkgate to the jail, put more coal on the fire and waited for the heat to warm his bones. He sat at the desk, thinking how he could prove Howard’s guilt.
Today was for grieving. Tomorrow he’d go out to Marsh Lane and question the people there, ask if they’d seen anything. Many worked in their cottages, the families all together in the weaving trade, the children combing and carding, the mother spinning and the father at the loom, trying to make a living between that work and a few animals grazing on what was left of the common land and food growing in the garden behind the kitchen. Maybe he’d be lucky and someone noticed a stranger.
He hadn’t expected so many to turn out for the funeral. Not the rich, who had to be there from obligation, but all the others, the press of people who stood crowded together for the length of the service and in the churchyard. He knew them all and heard them mutter their anger at the killing, even men who’d rarely think twice about knifing another soul.
While they were still full of goodwill and their memories sharp he’d start to go round them, to see what they might know, what they might have spotted, anything that could be of use. He needed something that would help hang the bastards.