Stanbridge’s body lay in the cold cell. Next door to him, Daniel Turner waited to be questioned, pulled from his lodging house in the middle of the night. He’d speak to the living in a few minutes; first Nottingham would see what the dead could tell him.
The river had taken one shoe. The other clung to Stanbridge’s foot, the leather lumpen and wet. But the buckle looked like real silver. Finely woven hose, breeches that fitted well against his thighs. A few coins in the pockets and a handkerchief of best linen.
No cuts or tears on the fingernails. No bruises under the jacket and shirt; it didn’t look as if he’d had chance to fight. The long gash across the front of his neck had probably been made from behind. The moneylender had been dead in an instant.
He found a notebook inside the coat pocket. The constable flipped through the pages but water had blurred the ink beyond reading.
Stanbridge’s scalp was all stubble, cut close to be comfortable under a wig.
He walked around the slab, staring, hoping for some inspiration, any clue that might prod him along. But there was nothing here to help him find the murderer.
Time to talk to the man’s enforcer.
Daniel Turner was a large man with dull eyes, a heavy body edging into fat. His belly bulged and there were jowls under his cheeks, although he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.
‘Why did you kill him?’
‘Kill?’ He squinted. ‘I en’t killed nobody.’
‘The man you work for is dead. Someone slit his throat,’ Nottingham said.
‘It wan’t me.’ He started to rise off the bunk in the cell then sat once more, eyes glinting. ‘I were with a lass last night, anyway.’
‘Who?’
‘At Mrs Wyndham’s.’ He had a thick, empty voice. The stink of beer wafted on his breath. ‘There until two. The clock were striking as I went home.’ He stared resentfully. ‘I’d just got to sleep when your men came.’
‘What was the girl’s name?’
‘Don’t remember.’
That didn’t matter; it would be easy enough to check.
‘Who saw you come back to your lodgings?’
‘No one. All asleep, weren’t they?’
They’d found no blood on his knife or his clothes, no evidence that he’d been the killer, and it was impossible to tell how long Stanbridge had been in the water before they found him. He took Turner back to his cell.
At the desk he scribbled a note to the brothel keeper:
Was someone called Turner there last night? Large, ugly fellow, quite young. If so, what time did he leave? He hesitated for a moment, then signed it Nottingham and folded the paper carefully.
Standing at the door, he called to a boy.
‘Do you know Mrs Wyndham’s on Vicar Lane?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He was ragged, hands and face filthy, legs bare and pimpled with cold below his breeches.
‘Take this and wait for an answer. There’s a farthing in it for you.’
The lad snatched the note and ran off. He’d know the truth soon enough. But that wasn’t any guarantee of Turner’s innocence. The murder would only have taken a second, then one more to tumble the body into the Aire.
He couldn’t feel his direction in this yet. He felt like a man fumbling his way around a maze in the darkness.
The door opened and Lister pushed a small man into the room before taking him by the collar and sitting him on the chair.
‘Toby Smith,’ he announced. ‘A moneylender and maybe a murderer. Who knows?’
The man turned and showed a set of sharp, discoloured teeth. He had a feral look, eyes wild, his hair unkempt and dark.
‘Why would I want to kill Stanbridge?’ Smith shouted. ‘He wasn’t even competition to me.’
‘He’s certainly not now, is he?’
Nottingham gave a small nod to Rob; he’d dealt with the man before, he could question him. Let the lad see he trusted his instincts. And there was someone who might be able to give him some helpful information …
Tom Finer was in his usual seat at the window of Garroway’s Coffee House, holding a bowl to his mouth. He looked shrunken now, an old man’s body growing more compact each year. But his eyes were clear, shining with a darting, sly intelligence.
‘Richard Nottingham.’ He smiled. ‘And the Constable of Leeds again, I hear. Congratulations to you.’
‘Thank you.’ He lowered himself on to the bench. Outside, the world went by, carts rumbling and the steady, even clop of horses’ hooves, men and women passing on foot. Inside, the window was covered in condensation and the heavy aroma of coffee cloyed in the air.
‘A dish of tea? Coffee?’
Nottingham shook his head. He’d never acquired the taste for either.
‘What do you know about moneylending here?’
Finer raised a bushy eyebrow. He’d started out as a crook in Leeds before running off to London a few decades earlier. He’d made himself rich there and returned a little more than two years ago. Since then he’d earned himself another small fortune in property as the town boomed.
‘Straight to the point.’ He sat back. ‘But I’m curious – why would you think I’d know anything about that?’
‘Do you?’ Nottingham countered with a smile.
Finer raised the bowl of coffee again and drank, hiding his face.
‘I suppose I might have heard a few things,’ he admitted after a while. ‘One of the moneylenders is dead.’
‘I already know that. I was just examining his body. That’s hardly news.’
‘The rumour is that three pimps have vanished, too.’
‘Three?’ He couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘I knew about two.’
‘Three,’ Finer said with certainty.
‘What are you trying to say? They’re connected?’
The old man shrugged his bony shoulders and spread his hands on the table.
‘I’m not saying anything, Mr Nottingham. That’s your job. I’m just observing. But perhaps it’s a thought worth considering.’
Three pimps? Was that true? And why would Finer know, but not Rob? He frowned.
‘It’s an idea, I suppose.’ He didn’t believe it. One of the man’s misdirections, perhaps. That had always been his way. ‘Who’d be behind something like that?’
Finer stared down at his fingers. The knuckles were knotted, twisted with time.
‘Maybe nobody. I suppose it could all be coincidence,’ he said slowly, and smiled. ‘But tell me: when have you ever believed in coincidence?’
Nottingham shook his head. ‘No. I don’t see why they’d be connected.’ Pimps stuck to their trade, moneylenders to theirs. The only man he could recall in Leeds who’d done both was Amos Worthy, and he’d been under the sod for four years. ‘I can’t see it.’
Finer smiled and shrugged again. ‘That’s your choice. You asked for ideas; I gave you one.’
‘True.’ But it was one that went nowhere. ‘How’s business?’ he asked.
Rob was sitting behind the desk when he returned to the jail. There was no sign of Smith.
‘You let him go?’ Nottingham asked.
‘He was at the Old King’s Arms till late,’ Lister replied with a sigh. ‘The landlord remembers him. Then he was playing hazard until daybreak. Two of those with him were merchants,’ he added.
‘He could have paid someone to kill.’
Rob shook his head. ‘Not him. He enjoys doing the rough work himself.’ He pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘A boy brought this. Said you promised him a farthing.’
Nottingham unfolded the note.
I made him leave. The clock struck two as I closed the door. He was so drunk he could hardly walk. Does that help, sir?
Mrs W.
‘Turner,’ he said, handing Rob the letter.
‘That leaves us with nobody.’
‘For the moment.’ He paced around the room. ‘Didn’t you mention other moneylenders?’
‘There’s only one more and he’s been in York since Friday. I checked. He lends to businesses, anyway. All above board and very respectable. Sorry, boss.’
‘Stanbridge had a notebook in his pocket. Most of the ink had run but we might find something when the pages dry. In the meantime, let’s find out where he went last night. Was he married?’
‘Him?’ Rob laughed. ‘No woman’s that daft. He lodged on the Head Row, just up from Rockley Court.’
‘Any servants?’
‘A man, I think.’
‘I’ll start there, have a look around and see where it takes me. What about the people who owed him money? Any of them could have done it.’
‘I’ll talk to Turner before I let him go. He’ll give me some names,’ Lister said with a thin smile.
‘Get some of the men on it. How many are worthwhile?’
‘There are three I’d trust.’
‘That’s better than it used to be,’ Nottingham told him with a chuckle. ‘I remember when it was just you and John Sedgwick who were worth your salt.’
People greeted him as he walked through the market. A few familiar faces, some he believed he knew, others he could swear he’d never seen before. At the house by Rockley Court he introduced himself to the landlady.
‘Upstairs,’ she told him. ‘He has the top floor. Paid until the end of the year, too.’
‘Did he have many visitors?’
‘One or two.’ She pursed her mouth. She was a respectable woman, plainly dressed in a muslin gown with a patterned shawl draped over her shoulders. He could read her story on her drawn face. A husband who’d died and left her the house but little else, forcing her to let out rooms to make ends meet.
The wooden stairs glowed with polish, and as soon as he knocked on the door a man opened it as if he’d been standing there, waiting.
‘I’m Richard Nottingham, Constable of Leeds.’ The words felt unfamiliar and awkward in his mouth. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about your employer by now.’
‘I have.’ The man looked him directly in the eye. He was young, probably not even twenty yet, with thick, fair hair and a curiously grave bearing, as if he was trying to appear older.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Joshua.’
‘How long have you worked for Mr Stanbridge?’
‘Three months.’ His answers were brisk and crisp. Polite enough, but no respect behind the words.
‘You know what he did?’
‘I do.’
‘I need to see his desk.’
No more than a moment’s hesitation before he led the way to a large drawing room that looked out over the street. Well-furnished, with a desk pushed against the wall. Nottingham began to glance through the papers.
‘Where did he go last night?’
‘He had dinner at the Rose and Crown,’ Joshua said. ‘Mr Stanbridge left here just after six.’
‘Did he return?’
‘No, sir.’
There was nothing about Stanbridge’s business in the desk. Nothing he could spot elsewhere as he searched through the rooms. Maybe everything was in his notebook. Or perhaps he kept the details in his head. At the door he turned to face the young man. There was something in the set of his mouth that stirred a faint memory.
‘Was your father named Michael?’
‘Yes.’ Surprise filled the lad’s eyes.
Michael Lawton. A thief, a fighter, a drunk, an unhappy, violent man. Someone who believed the world owed him a living and tried to claim it with his fists. He’d tumbled into the river during a flood, drunk. His body was never found.
‘And you’re working for a criminal. It seems you didn’t learn much growing up.’
The young man straightened his back. ‘I’m not my father. I do honest work.’
‘I hope that’s true,’ the constable said, then added, ‘and if you have any ideas about taking over Stanbridge’s business, Mr Lawton, you’d do well to forget them.’
‘Oh aye, he was here,’ John Reynolds said at the Rose and Crown. ‘Dinner for three in a private parlour.’
‘Who were the other guests?’ He sipped at a mug of small beer the landlord had filled for him.
‘We were that busy, I didn’t see. You’ll need to ask the serving girl.’ He vanished through a door for a moment and called a name. ‘She’ll only be a moment.’ He grinned. ‘Here, I’ll tell you what, Mr Nottingham. We have someone you might recall bedding down in the stable.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Old Jem. Remember him? He showed up yesterday.’
Jem had always seemed old, with his long white beard and stringy grey hair. Nottingham had been a boy when he’d first seen him and he’d looked ancient even then. Jem walked around the county, telling his stories in the marketplace for coins, finding bed and a hot meal with folk who’d take him in for a night or two. He’d stayed at the house on Marsh Lane a few times when the girls were small, rolling out his blanket near the hearth, exchanging a tale or two for warmth and a bowl of stew. But he’d heard nothing of the man in ten years or more.
‘It’s been so long I thought he must be dead.’
‘Aye, well, he doesn’t look as if he’ll last another winter if he stays on the tramp,’ Reynolds said with a sigh. ‘I told him he was welcome to the room where Hercules used to live. Stay as long as he likes, until spring if he wants. You know how he is, though. Itchy feet.’
He’d just finished speaking when a young woman appeared, tucking her dark hair under a cap.
‘I was just cleaning that pantry,’ she said with an impish grin. ‘What have they been doing in there? It’s a tip.’
Reynolds smiled indulgently.
‘My daughter,’ he explained. ‘You were working in the top parlour last night, Molly. Who was up there with Mr Stanbridge?’
‘Let’s see.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘There was Mark Ferguson, getting himself drunk and spilling his food all over himself, same as ever. And Tom Warren. You know what he’s like, he looked down his nose the whole time.’
‘No one else came? How long were they here?’ Nottingham asked.
‘It was just them. They must have stayed about three hours, I suppose.’ Her face cleared. ‘Yes, it must have been. Lily was just finishing as I cleared the plates and she leaves at nine.’
‘Did you hear where they were going?’
She shook her head. ‘I never pay attention to what customers say unless they’re talking to me.’ She gave a quick smile. ‘Better that way. And I bat their hands away, of course.’
‘Thank you.’ He turned to leave and Reynolds said, ‘If you want to see Jem he’s probably down by the Moot Hall now.’