Jem was exactly where the landlord had promised, sitting atop his pack on the Moot Hall steps and entertaining a small audience with his tale. Market days always meant a good crowd of people to entertain.
He looked as old as Methuselah now, with his long beard wispy and pale as the first snow, hardly any hair left on his head. He still wore the same old coat, although it was little more than tatters on his back. The constable waited until he’d finished the story, one or two coins dropped into his hat, then approached.
‘It’s been a long time, Jem.’
The man looked up. His eyes were clouded and Nottingham noticed the stout hawthorn stick at his side.
‘I know you,’ he said. ‘I know your voice.’
‘Richard Nottingham.’
The man broke into a grin, showing a mouth that was more gums than teeth.
‘Aye, that’s it. With the wife and two girls and the warm fire.’
‘Only one girl now.’ He tried to keep the sorrow out of his voice. ‘My wife’s gone, and one of my daughters. The other’s all grown up.’
‘I’m right sorry. She was a kind woman, your missus.’ He moved his head around. ‘It’s grown, this place, hasn’t it?’
‘Bigger every single day. Where have you been?’
Jem struggled to his feet, reaching for the stick to steady himself.
‘I’ve mostly been on the coast these last few years. Scarborough, Whitby, all the way up to Newcastle.’ He wheezed a little as he stood. ‘Grand folk up there. But I had the urge to come back here again. You were constable, weren’t you,’ he said as if he’d suddenly recalled it.
‘I am. For the second time.’ He laughed. ‘It’s a long story and not worth the telling.’
He remembered the way Rose and Emily were always entranced by Jem’s stories, reluctant to go to their beds until they’d heard just one more, then another. Maybe the girls at Emily’s school would be, too. And maybe the tales would take his daughter back to a time when they were all together.
‘How would you like to make a little money?’ he asked. Mark Ferguson and Tom Warren could wait a few minutes. He’d need to talk to Rob, anyway; he didn’t know either of the men.
It had been a waste of a morning, Lister thought. First Smith, then working his way through the names of those who owed Stanbridge money. All he’d seen on their faces was relief to learn he was dead and their debts cancelled. A tradesman, a minor merchant, a mechanic with a house in Turk’s Head Yard. But not a sniff of a killer about any of them.
Nothing. All they had were wisps of smoke that vanished as soon as he reached for them.
He was striding over Leeds Bridge when he caught a glance of Nottingham escorting an old man who moved slowly and leaned on a stick. What was he doing? For the love of God, they were supposed to be working, finding a murderer, not aiding the infirm. He shook his head. The boss had been good once but bringing him back was a mistake.
Nottingham waved through the window to draw Emily outside. She had a distracted air, mouth twitching in annoyance at being interrupted, but to him that barely mattered; she’d always be his girl, smart, beautiful and brave.
‘What is it, Papa?’ Her voice was sharp as she stared at Jem, curious, not sure why he was here.
‘Don’t you remember him?’
‘No,’ she answered with irritation and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Papa, but I’m in the middle of a lesson.’ She wiped a strand of hair off her face. ‘I need to get back.’
‘When you were little he used to stay with us sometimes and he’d tell you stories.’
Emily looked at Jem again and Nottingham could see the memories start to flood back into her eyes.
‘Yes, of course.’ She reached out and took the old man’s hand. ‘I’m sorry. I should have known.’
‘Nowt to worry about, lass,’ Jem told her. ‘You weren’t no more than a bairn then. You da says you run this school and you’ve got a man of your own now.’
She blushed, the first time Nottingham had seen that in years.
‘I thought your girls might like to hear some of Jem’s stories,’ he said. ‘You too, perhaps.’
‘Oh, they’d love it.’ She laughed. ‘It’ll give them a break from all that learning. And from me.’
The constable took a few coins from his breeches and placed them in Jem’s hand.
‘Thank you, sir. Now, young, lady, if tha’ll just lead me in.’
Nottingham winked at Emily and walked away.
Lister was waiting at the jail, sipping on a mug of ale.
‘Any luck?’ Nottingham asked as he entered.
‘No.’ He slammed down the mug on the desk.
‘Stanbridge had dinner with Mark Ferguson and Tom Warren last night. Do you know them?’
‘We’ve met,’ he said shortly and snorted. ‘They’re quite a pair. Ferguson likes to try and talk widows out of their savings when he’s in bed with them and Warren’s very clever with figures. Too clever for his own good; he almost ended up transported to the Indies last year.’
‘They dined together at the Rose and Crown.’ Nottingham hesitated. ‘Didn’t you tell me yesterday that two pimps have left Leeds?’
‘That’s right,’ Lister replied. ‘Why?’
‘Someone said it was three, that’s all.’
‘No. Only two that I know of.’ He cocked his head. ‘Who was the old man I saw you with?’
‘Him?’ He laughed. ‘That’s Jem. He used to come through here quite often, years back. I thought the girls at school might enjoy his stories. Emily always did.’
‘We need to attend to this murder,’ Lister reminded him.
‘We will,’ Nottingham said calmly. He heard the rebuke in Rob’s tone and ignored it. ‘Which of the pair do you want?’
‘I’ll take Ferguson. I’d like to wipe the smirk off his face. He’s too slippery and charming. About time he got his comeuppance.’
‘Where will I find Warren?’
‘Try the Talbot, he usually has his dinner there. You can’t miss him, the man must have the longest nose in England.’
‘Tell me what you know about him.’
Lister thought for a moment. ‘If I remember rightly, he must have come here just after you retired. Doesn’t speak much. A very dour face, thin lips, always looks like he disapproves of everything. He’s a bookkeeper. From some of the talk, he might do a little forging, but I’ve never had cause to look. I think he takes care of the accounts for that old man you know, the one who keeps buying land.’
‘Tom Finer?’
‘That’s the one. And a few more who keep right on the edge of the law. We had him in court June of last year for altering some ledgers. Swore he didn’t do it and managed to get off.’
Interesting that Finer’s name would crop up, Nottingham thought as he strolled up Briggate, hardly sensing the clamour and call of voices that surrounded him.
The Talbot was busy with the market crowd. The floor was swept and windows sparkled to let in the light. They were only small changes but they made the place much brighter and airier than he’d ever seen it. It felt welcoming. A tall man stood behind the bar, heavy belly hidden behind a leather apron, a piece of linen thrown over his shoulder and a broad, honest smile on his face.
‘Good day to you, sir.’
A serving girl brushed by, cheery-faced, in a clean gown. He recalled the way the inn had been during all the years Matthew Bell owned it. Grimy and greasy, with everyone surly and on the border of anger.
‘I’m Richard Nottingham, the Constable here. You must be Mr Meadows.’
‘At your service, sir.’ He ducked his head slightly. ‘I heard they’d asked you back to replace poor Simon Kirkstall. Terrible thing, terrible.’ He waved his hand around. ‘Do you think the place has improved?’
‘It has. Beyond belief.’ As he glanced around he couldn’t see any of the old, familiar faces. But he did spot Warren in the corner, a bowl pushed away across the bench. He held a mug, head down as he read the Mercury. Rob had been right; the man’s nose was something anyone would remember, long, thin, and straight. ‘Definitely much better.’
‘You’ll have a drink on me, I hope, sir,’ Meadows continued, as he filled a mug from the barrel. ‘I’m trying to run a good house here. It’s building slow but steady.’
‘Thank you. What made you come to Leeds?’
‘Opportunity. Pure and simple.’ His smile was open and infectious. He looked to be a little past thirty, a full head of curly hair and warm eyes. ‘I had a place up in Settle, but there’s only so much a man can do there.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘It’s too small, you see. I have ambitions.’
‘And what might they be, Mr Meadows?’
‘Call me Harry, everyone does. I want to own the best inn in England. So I came down here with my wife and daughter and two sons. Brought my staff with me.’ He laughed.
‘And you think this place could be it?’ Nottingham asked doubtfully. He knew the reputation the Talbot had enjoyed for far too many years.
Meadows laughed. ‘A new broom, sir. It’s not easy, but in time, people will flock here. You mark my words.’ He turned to serve another customer and the constable wandered away. Harry Meadows was jovial, everything a landlord should be, and he’d certainly done this place the power of good. But with the heavy weight of the past it carried, he’d need plenty of luck.
Warren scarcely raised his head as Nottingham sat on the other side of the bench. His long fingers were heavily stained with ink and his shoulders were stooped; too long spent bent over a desk.
‘I believe you’re a bookkeeper.’
That made the man pay attention. He looked up, eyes widening a little but showing nothing.
‘What if I am?’ He had a deep bass voice that seemed to rise from somewhere deep in his chest. ‘What does it matter to you?’
‘You ate with Robert Stanbridge last night.’
Warren put down the newspaper and leaned back against the wall.
‘And if I did?’
‘I’m the Constable of Leeds. I’m looking into his murder.’
The word didn’t bring a tremor to the man’s face.
‘It’s a sad business. But it’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Where did you go after you left the Rose and Crown?’
‘Home,’ Warren replied. ‘On my own.’
He was offering nothing but miserly answers, as if every word cost him money.
‘And where might that be?’
‘I have a room on Water Lane.’
‘What about Mr Stanbridge? Where did he and Mr Ferguson go?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘He didn’t talk about his plans?’
‘Not to me. Maybe to Mr Ferguson.’
‘Was there anywhere he went regularly at night?’
‘I wouldn’t know, Mr …’
‘Nottingham.’
‘I dined with the man occasionally. That’s all. I know nothing about the rest of his life. Or his death,’ he added pointedly.
‘Where do you have your office?’
‘Above Ogle’s bookshop on Kirkgate.’ Warren allowed himself a thin smile. ‘Quite close to your jail.’
‘I believe Tom Finer is one of your clients.’
‘That would be for him to say.’
‘What about Mark Ferguson? How well do you know him?’
‘I don’t,’ the man answered. ‘He was one of Stanbridge’s friends.’
Nottingham drained the mug and stood. ‘Then I thank you for the information.’ He left with a wave for Meadows.
He had no doubt Warren was a bookkeeper of sorts, maybe even a good one. But there were other things that he was keeping hidden; he could feel it. He was someone to watch and see again. But next time it would be where he had his office.
Ferguson sat uncomfortably on the hard chair. He was fashionably dressed, fastidious in his gleaming white hose, breeches as tight as decency allowed, and the stock tied just so at his neck. But his good clothes looked too elegant and out of place in the dirt of the jail. Lister watched him quietly, letting the man stew and sweat a little before he began with his questions.
A snore came from one of the cells, a weaver who’d celebrated too much after the cloth market, dead drunk and stung for half his money by a whore. They knew her name; she’d be behind bars soon enough.
Lister knew he’d had good teachers in this job. John Sedgwick, so natural in his post as deputy until he was killed. He could charm anyone and have them opening up before they even realized it. And the boss, back when he was sharp. His questions circled slowly around the heart of the matter until the time was right to pounce.
But Rob could never be like them. He didn’t have that skill. He could listen but he never quite heard the way they had. Instead, he’d developed his own method. Not as subtle, not as flowing. Not always as successful. But it was what he had.
He paced around behind Ferguson, watching as the man kept shifting on the chair. Finally he leaned forward until his mouth was close to the man’s ear and said, ‘Tell me about Robert Stanbridge.’
Ferguson seemed relieved to talk and break the awkward, pressing silence. The story spilled out in a torrent. He liked women and they liked him. Widows in particular; they were grateful for some attention and happy to lavish him with gifts. He’d come to know Stanbridge not long after a woman near York had been very generous to him. The man had suggested investing a little money with him to use in his business, and he promised a good return.
‘Did you receive it?’
‘At first,’ Ferguson replied, craning his head to try and see Lister. ‘But lately it’s been less and less. He said that business was in a bad patch, that’s all.’
‘But you still had dinner with him last night.’
‘We dined together once a month. He invited someone else last night. I didn’t know him. Never met him before. A bookkeeper,’ he added with distaste.
‘Where did you go afterwards?’
‘I went to my rooms.’ He tried to turn his head again, but Lister moved to the other side.
‘What about the others?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did Stanbridge say anything about his plans?’
‘No. I was shocked when I heard about him this morning.’
‘If you weren’t getting a return on your investment, you had good reason to want him dead.’
‘What?’ He began to rise. ‘No!’
‘Sit down, Mr Ferguson,’ Lister ordered quietly, waiting as the man settled back on the chair. ‘Right now you’re the best person I have for this murder. You said it yourself, you had a reason.’
‘But—’ the man began.
Lister rode over his words. ‘Cutting a man’s throat and dropping him in the river is easy enough to do. Even for someone like you.’
‘I was with a lady last night,’ Ferguson said reluctantly.
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Hardisty. Her coach brought her at ten and collected her at two.’
He gave her up readily enough, Rob thought. Not an ounce of gallantry when it came to saving his neck.
‘And what did you do together?’
‘We … sported.’ He blushed a little.
‘Will the lady confirm all this if I ask her?’
‘You can’t.’
‘I can. This is murder, Mr Ferguson. Do you really believe I’m going to take your word for it? Where does she live? Or should I start shouting her name around town until I find her?’
The man slumped a little, defeated. ‘She lives at Town End. Her husband died last year.’
Rob knew her now. The widow of Hardisty the merchant. About thirty, wealthy, attended all the balls and concerts. Every eligible man in Leeds paid court to her. Why in God’s name would she choose someone like Ferguson?
He had a fair build, and his black hair and sallow skin gave him the look of a changeling. Maybe that appealed to her. But he had no money of his own, very little of anything to attract women of substance. His prowess must lie elsewhere.
‘I’ll ask her,’ Lister warned. ‘And if she says she was never with you, I’ll have you in the cells. Do you understand?’
The man was innocent; he was convinced of that by the time he watched Ferguson leave. He could happily strip widows of their fortunes but he’d never be able to kill a man. There wasn’t enough will about him. Still, he’d send Mrs Hardisty a note and ask her discreetly. At least it would mark the end of that association, he thought with satisfaction.
As they walked home in the evening gloom they were no further along in the case. A breeze shimmered the leaves and a few floated down into the water of Timble Beck, carried along to the river.
Nottingham felt weary to his bones. He hadn’t missed all those times of being woken in the middle of the night and then working all day. But he felt something beginning to stir in his core. A sense of returning, of desire.
‘How did the girls like Jem?’ he asked Emily as they ate.
‘It was the only thing they could talk about for the rest of the day.’ Her face glowed in the light from the hearth. ‘I’d forgotten half the stories he told them. It was a wonderful idea, Papa.’
‘I wish I’d known,’ Lucy said as she carried through a loaf of bread from the kitchen. ‘Most of the tellers I’ve heard couldn’t hold a tale in a sack.’
‘He’s coming back next week,’ Emily told her. ‘You can sit with us.’
‘Is he really going to stay in Leeds?’ Nottingham asked in surprise. He knew the offer was there, but Jem had always moved on after a few days.
‘All winter, he says. He claims he’s too old for the snow on the roads now.’
‘Then you’ll have plenty of chances to hear him,’ Nottingham told Lucy.
Full, he sat by the fire for a few minutes. Emily was busy correcting exercises and preparing lessons. In the kitchen, Lucy was scouring the pots. Rob was reading the Mercury.
He felt his eyes beginning to close. Time to sleep, he told himself. It had been a long day. But every day would be like this until the job ended and a new constable was appointed. Before he could leave the room, Lister coughed and said, ‘I meant to tell you earlier. One of the men said this afternoon that Brandon the pimp hasn’t been seen for two days.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s three of them. It looks as if the information you had was right. Your man couldn’t have had anything to do with it, could he?’
The constable shook his head. In the old days it wouldn’t have been beyond Finer; he’d revelled in deceit and destruction. But not now; he’d become a respectable businessman.