TWO

Nottingham turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door to the jail. The smell of the place – the fear, the old sweat, the dust that lay everywhere – brought memories flooding down through his mind. As he sat behind the desk, touching the old, worn wood, he felt as if the last two years had melted away and he’d never retired at all.

Piles of notes, documents, all needing attention. A battered quill tossed down, the sharpening knife beside it. The pot of ink with the top open so the liquid inside had dried. He breathed slowly, looking around the room, then walked through to the cells. He’d spent so much time in this place that it was part of his blood.

The sound of footsteps and a voice calling out brought him back. His heels rang out on the flagstones.

Rob stood, one hand ready on the hilt of his knife. He’d filled out from the lad Nottingham had first taken on as a constable’s man and his eyes had the wariness of experience. He was dressed in his working clothes, an old, stained coat, thick breeches, woollen socks that Lucy the servant had darned again and again, and heavy boots. There was a small scar on his cheek and more that were hidden, but he’d earned every one of them on the job. Nottingham understood that; he had enough of his own.

‘Richard. What are you doing here?’ His mouth was open, eyes wide with astonishment. ‘You’re all dressed up, too.’

‘The mayor wanted to see me.’ He hesitated. There was no easy way to break the news. ‘He’s asked me to return as constable until they find someone permanent.’ Nottingham opened his hand. ‘I told him you should have the job, but the corporation want someone older. He asked me. For now, at least.’

‘But—’ He could see the resentment, plain and bright on the young man’s face. God knew he deserved the position. And now it had been given to his lover’s father. ‘When you retired …’

‘I know. I swore I’d never come back,’ Nottingham agreed gently. ‘I remember. And I haven’t set foot in here since. This is John Brooke’s request.’

Lister’s body seemed to tighten, his face set so he’d give nothing away.

‘What about me?’

‘You’re still the deputy. No, you’re more than that,’ he added, as if it might make a difference. ‘I’m going to need your help.’ He’d realized just how true that was as he walked down from the Moot Hall. His skills had rusted to nothing. He was older, not the same man the mayor remembered as Constable of Leeds. He’d lost touch with the town. Every day the place grew more crowded. People arrived, hoping to find their fortune here. But prosperity only existed for the few. Most only managed to discover more desperation. So many of the faces he saw now belonged to strangers, people who’d arrived to hope, to live. He didn’t know them or their crimes. ‘I hope you can give it.’

Rob pushed a hand through his hair.

‘I have to go and meet someone,’ he said quickly and stalked out, slamming the door behind himself.

Nottingham sighed. It was going to be a difficult return.

Lister seethed as he walked away. His hands were bunched into fists, the knuckles white, his mouth clenched shut. He’d earned that job. For two years he carried Simon Kirkstall; the man had only been given the post because his wife was an alderman’s cousin. Rob had done the work, all the dark, dirty tasks that came along. But it was Kirkstall who courted the corporation, who boasted to the Mercury and the aldermen about the arrests he made. He testified in court about events he’d never seen, and walked in processions with the proper gravity and sober expression and grand clothes.

All the constable’s men knew the truth. Probably many others, too. The only ones to mourn Kirkstall would be his wife and children.

And now … now Richard Nottingham was back. He liked the man, loved him like a father. He lived in his house, Nottingham’s daughter was his wife in everything but name. And he’d been an excellent constable. But his day was over. Two years was a long time. Leeds had swirled and changed beyond anything he knew.

He strode out and kicked angrily at the leaves that had blown across from the churchyard, sending up a spray of red and green. The Calls was noisy with men working on the river barges, women hawking this and that while their grimy children played games in the gutter.

He ducked through a doorway and twenty young girls turned to stare at him.

‘Read your books for a minute,’ Emily Nottingham told them. ‘And do it quietly.’

She wore a plain brown woollen dress, old and frayed at the hem, the sleeves smudged white with chalk dust. Her hair was twisted up, out of the way, showing the curve of her neck. To him, she was the loveliest woman in the world.

He guided her outside, letting the carters and the porters make their way around them.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked quickly as she saw his expression. ‘Has something happened?’

‘They’ve asked your father to come back as constable,’ Lister said, and he couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

‘What?’ Her voice rose, eyes widened in disbelief. ‘But why?’ She glanced through the window into the class room and made a sharp gesture as a girl stared at them.

‘Just until they find someone else. That’s what he told me. They say he has the age and experience.’ He snorted.

‘I didn’t know they’d even talked to him. He never said a word to me.’ She reached for his hand and stroked it lightly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It sounds as if it just happened. He’s never shown any sign of wanting to come back.’ He needed to talk, to get it out. But she was torn, he could see it. She loved him. But she loved her father, too, and now here she was, caught between them. ‘He seemed happy enough doing nothing.’

‘Papa was withering away.’ She rapped once on the glass and the murmur from the girls inside dropped to silence. ‘You know that’s true.’

It was; Richard had started to exist, not to live. He’d lost interest in things, as if he was withdrawing from life.

‘He’s going to need your help,’ Emily said.

‘That’s exactly what he said.’ He let out a slow breath. ‘I’m sorry. I just needed to tell someone.’

She nodded, her mouth in a soft, sad smile.

‘Papa’s a good man. You know he is.’ Emily looked at him pleadingly. ‘Give him a chance, Rob. Please. He gave you one when he took you on, remember? You always admired him before.’

‘Yes.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘You’d better go before there’s a riot in there.’

A few yards down the street, he glanced over his shoulder. Emily had already vanished, but he felt heartened. It helped to tell someone who understood, who could see. The anger inside him had already shrunk. An old woman selling apples from a basket shouted her wares. He bought one, crunched down on the crisp sweetness and felt the fires subside.

Nottingham locked the door of the jail. The ring of keys weighed heavy in his pocket as he walked down Briggate towards the river.

Rob … he couldn’t really blame the lad. He’d always been outstanding at his work, he’d earned his chance to shine, and now it had been pulled away from him. But there was nothing he could do about that. He was going to need Lister at his side. Pray God Rob would let his rage burn out and then come around. He didn’t want work and home poisoned with an atmosphere of resentment.

He was close to the bridge when a voice hailed him and he turned to see Tom Williamson hurrying along the path from his warehouse on the river.

The rich chestnut periwig fell to his shoulders, and he was dressed in a black coat of fine wool with an embroidered yellow silk waistcoat as bright as a summer flower. The merchant had the grace to seem faintly embarrassed by his peacock appearance. He was growing portly, Nottingham decided, face flushed from moving quickly. But underneath the fancy clothing there was a very sharp mind.

‘Brooke made you the offer, then?’

The constable smiled. Of course, Tom Williamson would know; he was an alderman.

‘He did, and I accepted. But I told him Rob Lister should have the job.’

‘No.’ Williamson shook his head firmly. ‘He’s good, but he’s not ready yet. We need some stability, Richard. You’re the perfect man for that. I told them you were the best we’ve ever had in the post.’

Nottingham reddened a little at the praise. ‘You look as if you’re doing well yourself.’

The merchant brushed a hand over his coat. ‘The business keeps growing, and my wife insists I dress the part.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, I feel like a fool dressed this way. How can a man work in these clothes?’ He pulled a watch from the waistcoat. ‘I’m sorry, I have an appointment. We’re thinking of a venture to export to more of those American colonies. Times change, eh?’ He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. ‘Good luck with the job. I’m glad to have you back.’

He bustled away up Briggate.

Nottingham placed his elbows on the bench.

‘Tell me what’s been going on. The things I ought to know.’

Rob rubbed his chin as he thought, sipping at a mug of ale. The White Swan was busy, men talking loudly and laughing, but they had the table to themselves; people always gave the law a berth. Lister had returned from wherever he’d gone half an hour before. To see Emily, the constable supposed; at least he’d come back calmer and ready to talk.

‘It’s been quiet lately. There’s not much more than I’ve told you most evenings over supper.’ He shrugged.

‘That’s for home,’ Nottingham told him and Lister dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘I need to know for the job.’

‘There’s still very little to say. We haven’t had any real trouble since early summer and that killing up by Woodhouse.’ He took another drink. ‘Two pimps have disappeared in the last few weeks. But you know how it is. They come and go.’

‘What about the girls who worked for them?’

‘Still here with new protectors, I suppose.’ He gave a bleak smile. ‘I haven’t looked. Cutpurses, of course. Fights and drownings. All the usual things. Oh,’ he added, ‘Matthew Bell sold the Talbot six months ago. But everyone knows about that.’

Nottingham had heard the news and forgotten it again. The Talbot Inn had been where half the criminals in town congregated. A cockpit in the back room, whores upstairs. And Bell himself, surly, quick with his fists. He was no loss to Leeds.

‘What’s the place like now?’

‘The new owner still has the cock fighting on a Saturday night. It’s popular. But he’s spruced the place up. It’s a pleasure to go there now.’

‘Who bought it?’

‘Someone named Harry Meadows. Not local, from up north, I think. Amiable enough.’ Lister smiled and raised his mug. ‘And he doesn’t charge us for ale.’

Nottingham was listening carefully. He needed to learn so many things about his own town. But if there was little crime he’d have time to ease himself back into the job. And the Talbot becoming respectable after all these years? He’d have to see that for himself.

‘I told you, I’m going to need to rely on you. We both understand that I don’t know Leeds too well any more.’ Lister opened his mouth to speak but Nottingham stopped him. ‘I know you think you should have had the job. So do I. But Brooke made it clear they wouldn’t have appointed you, anyway. They think you’re still too young. Perhaps we can change their minds.’

He watched the young man’s face. Rob hadn’t learned to control it yet; it was like reading a book. His expression gave away his thoughts, all the anger he’d tamped down.

‘I’m with you,’ he said after a moment. ‘Boss.’

‘Thank you.’ The constable smiled. ‘Now, tell me the rest.’

It was late; Nottingham knew that as the banging stirred him from a deep, dreamless sleep. By the time he reached the stairs, Rob was already at the door, listening as one of the men spoke quickly.

‘What is it?’ he called out.

‘Body in the river, sir,’ the man answered. He didn’t recognize the face.

‘A drunk?’

‘That’s what we thought at first, sir.’ The man shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘We got a hook and pulled him to the bank. Someone had cut his throat.’

‘Where’s the body?’ Nottingham asked.

‘Just past the bridge, sir.’

‘We’ll be there. Have you sent for Mr Brogden?’

‘Who?’ The man looked confused.

‘Brogden. The coroner.’

‘It’s Hoggart now,’ Lister corrected him softly. ‘Brogden retired last year.’

Of course. Without thinking, he’d issued the order he’d given so often in the past.

‘Then get Mr Hoggart there, please.’

‘I already sent someone for him, sir.’

Leeds slept. No lights through the shutters, still far too early for smoke to start rising from the chimneys. Shadowed gables all along Kirkgate. The only sound was their boots on the cobbles, matching each other stride for stride. Nottingham glanced across as they passed the churchyard, the way he always did, then huddled deeper into his old greatcoat as a chill wind pawed at his face. They passed places so familiar that he didn’t even need to see them: the old tithe barn, the mansions built by Pawson and Cookson and Barstow, Widow Clifton’s house, Mr Dodshon’s shop, the White Cloth Hall. Across from Vicar’s Croft they turned down Call Lane, footsteps echoing sharply off the high stone wall that shielded the Dissenters’ Meeting House and Mr Atkinson’s large home with its grand Italian cupola.

Someone had thrown a cloth over the corpse, a ragged piece of old sailcloth that stank of tar. Three men stood close by, one holding up a lantern to light the scene. He didn’t know a single one of them.

‘Mr Hoggart,’ Lister said, and the tallest of the men turned. He had the type of face that would always need a shave, stubble dark on his cheeks, a weak chin, and watery eyes.

‘He’s dead, no doubt about that.’ A dark chuckle. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a finely-woven coat and the gleaming leather of his boots caught the light.

‘This is Richard Nottingham, the new constable.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, sir. I just hope we don’t see each other too often.’ With that, he gave a nod, turned, and walked off into the darkness.

Nottingham pushed back his old bicorn hat and knelt slowly, feeling the ache in his knees and the dampness of the earth through his breeches.

In the lamplight the man’s hair seemed to glisten long and black, slicked down against his skull, a few weeds clinging to his skin. The river had washed his wound clean, but the slash across his neck gaped like a smile. He heard the sharp intake of breath.

‘Do you know him?’

‘Robert Stanbridge,’ Lister said coldly. ‘He’s a moneylender. I can’t say I’m sorry to see him dead.’

‘Who were his enforcers?’ Slowly, Nottingham pushed himself upright. He needed to examine the corpse properly, somewhere with light, not out here in the wind and the chill.

‘He only had one. Daniel Turner.’

‘I want him at the jail.’ He turned to the two waiting men. ‘Bring the body, I’ll look at him later.’

He set the fire with chips of wood under the coals and a few hanks of wool, lit it with sparks from the tinder box, and waited for some warmth to fill the room.

‘Who’d want this Stanbridge dead, do you think?’

‘It could be almost anyone.’ Rob chewed his lip as he thought. ‘He’s only been in town for a year or so. Moneylending’s become quite an industry here.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Maybe a competitor or someone who couldn’t repay him and thought he’d cancel the debt forever.’

‘Who would you go after first?’

‘Toby Smith. He’s the other one who lends money to the poor.’

‘Why him?’ Nottingham asked.

‘Because I’m certain he’s responsible for two killings, but I’ve never been able to prove it. People were too scared even to talk about it, let alone testify.’

‘Drag him down here.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Leave it until later, when everyone can see. No one’s going to be above the law here.’

Lister smiled. ‘Yes, boss.’

By seven he’d marched home for his breakfast. Emily had already left for her school, and Lucy was pounding down the bread dough in the kitchen.

‘Was it urgent?’ she asked as she brought a bowl of porridge for him.

‘Urgent enough,’ he allowed. She’d grown into a stout, open-faced young woman, very different from the fearful little orphan he’d brought into the house. Now she ruled the home so thoroughly that it was impossible to imagine her not here.

She’d been delighted by the news that he was constable again, sponging down his old work coat and carefully brushing it, ready for him to wear. Emily had hugged him, eyes bright. And Rob seemed to have come to terms with it all well enough; in the evening they’d sat by the fire and talked.

Two years and he hadn’t realized quite how much Leeds had altered. The surface looked the same, but underneath the currents had all shifted. He needed to master them or drown.

At eight he was back on Briggate, watching the progress of the cloth market. That remained a constant, there long before he was born, its business conducted in whispers, thousands of pounds changing hands in just an hour. But it had grown, too, just like everything else; these days the trestles were tightly packed along both sides of the street from Leeds Bridge all the way up to Boar Lane, filled with merchants strutting in their grandeur and the hopeful weavers with heavy eyes and bent backs who’d made their way in from the surrounding villages.

Further up the street, men and women were setting up their stalls for the Tuesday market. All manner of things were for sale, from fruit and vegetables to chickens and butter, the tinkers with their mended pots and pans and the bustling trade in old clothes.

Nottingham walked from the bridge all the way to the market cross by the Head Row and slowly back. He’d done his duty. Now it was time for some real work.