‘Do you know a prostitute called Charlotte?’ Nottingham asked.
Lister gave him a sharp look. Cold weather had moved in overnight, leaving the grass rimed with frost, the leaves snapping under their boots as they walked into Leeds.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘Should I?’
‘No reason. Maybe it doesn’t matter.’
Nottingham had gone out again in the late evening, wandering quietly up and down Briggate and talking to the whores. One or two of the older women remembered him, but most were younger faces that were ageing quickly and growing hard. If he wasn’t a customer they didn’t have the time for him; they could be earning money. A few were happy to be called Charlotte if that was what he wanted. He smiled and walked on.
Finally he found Four-Finger Jane. Once she’d been the queen of Briggate, spending her evenings at the top of the street, up by the market cross where trade was brisk. But that had been years before. Now she had a spot down by the river, scratching for business. She always wore a glove to hide the missing finger a pimp had cut off in anger. The rumour was she’d killed him in revenge. No body was ever recovered. She’d never been charged.
‘Hello, Jane.’ He stood close to her. Across the road, the door opened at the tavern and in the brief wedge of light spilled out he could see the ravages of the French pox on her face.
‘I heard you were back, Mr Nottingham.’ She smiled, showing a mouth with half the teeth missing.
‘I’m looking for someone. A girl named Charlotte.’
‘Never for poor Jane, though.’
He took a coin from his breeches and placed it in her hand, watching as it vanished into the pocket of her dress.
‘I’ll take it but you’re wasting your money,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen more Charlottes and Emilys and Emmas than I can count over the years.’
‘I’m interested in the last few weeks.’
She shook her head. ‘They come and go so quickly, they might as well not bother with names. And none of them talk to me the way they once did.’
‘Someone told me to look for Charlotte.’
‘I can ask, if you like, but I don’t know any.’ She began to cough; it lasted fully half a minute before she could speak again. ‘Winter again. It always comes around too soon. Why do you want her, anyway?’
‘I’m looking into those pimps that have vanished. Three of them.’
‘If there’s a God they’ll all be rotting in hell.’ There was fire behind her voice.
‘Do you know anything about that?’
‘No. I mind my own business. They let me be, I’m not going to make them money.’
‘If you hear anything … especially about Charlotte …’
‘I’ll send word,’ she promised.
‘Where do we look today, boss?’ Lister asked.
‘Let’s start turning over rocks and see what’s underneath. I want you to talk to that other moneylender. I know—’ he raised a hand to stop the protest ‘—he’s a proper businessman. But they have their secrets, too. And if someone’s trying to force their way in, they’ll have their eye on him, too. When is he due back from York?’
‘He should have returned last night.’
‘Then go and see him this morning.’ Nottingham began to look through the papers on the desk, tearing away the wax seal of a note. ‘It looks as if I’m going to have to spend some time with the mayor.’
‘Two killings, Richard. Two.’ Brooke didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Instead he drew quietly on the clay pipe. ‘It’s not the best way to start, is it?’
Beyond the window the day was grey, with thick, heavy clouds and a bleak, sober light. A fire burned in the grate and he was grateful for the warmth.
‘We’ve been looking into it since the first body was pulled from the river,’ Nottingham answered.
‘Any idea who’s behind it?’ The mayor’s sharp eyes were watching him.
‘Not yet.’ He wasn’t going to dissemble. ‘If you want my guess, someone is looking to take over that business. He’ll show his hand soon enough and then we’ll have him.’
‘Soon isn’t now,’ Brooke reminded him quietly. ‘Some of the members of the Corporation have been muttering.’
Already? he thought. So much for having their confidence. ‘They always will.’
‘I fought hard to convince them to have you back.’
‘You’re the one who said they all wanted me,’ he reminded Brooke.
‘They did – after I persuaded them. And you really were the best we’ve had. But they’re after results. They want to know there’s law here.’ His gaze hardened. ‘So do I.’
‘You’ll have it.’ Inside, he could feel the anger beginning to bubble. ‘Once we have someone to arrest.’
‘Make it soon, Richard. Please. I know you can do that.’
Edward Thompson’s house on Briggate was modest, two doors away from the office of the Leeds Mercury. As Lister passed the newspaper’s building, he glanced through the window. His father was already at work inside, head bent over the desk, quill scratching rapidly. Good luck to him, he thought.
A servant showed him through to Thompson’s parlour, everything neat, the furniture all the best quality. But the man could easily afford it. He hadn’t been in Leeds too long, but he’d done well for himself. He loaned to merchants to see them through the times when cash was short. And as the wool trade kept growing, his business increased.
Rob had met him a few times. Thompson was a family man, with a wife and three daughters. Somewhere near forty by the look of him, flesh beginning to turn jowly from expansive living, but always well turned-out.
He bustled through the door five minutes later, wearing a dark, heavy jacket and a white silk waistcoat.
‘I’m sorry you had to wait,’ he said. ‘It’s about these deaths, I suppose? Sophie told me about them when I came back last night. My wife,’ he explained with a quick smile.
‘Has anyone threatened you?’ Lister asked.
‘Me?’ Thompson said in disbelief. ‘Why would they do that?’
‘Because you’re a moneylender. There were three of you in Leeds. Now there’s only one.’
‘No. They haven’t.’ He pursed his lips, eyes hard. ‘And if there’s another sense to your question, I don’t like it.’
‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask, Mr Thompson.’
‘If you did your job properly you’d know I’m not like Smith and Stanbridge.’ He glared. ‘They were leeches. I conduct business. We don’t have a bank up here. I’m as close to it as you’ll find in Leeds.’
‘And it’s paid you handsomely.’
‘Why shouldn’t it?’ He had an edge to his voice. ‘I just told you, this is business. I provide a service the merchants need and they use it. Now, if you’ve finished, I think this is over, don’t you?’
‘As you wish.’ Lister picked his tricorn hat off the table. ‘But watch out for yourself, please. Keep on guard.’
Thompson looked as if he was about to speak, then gave a quick nod and left the room. The servant let Rob out into the cold.
Maybe Brooke made a mistake in persuading the Corporation, Nottingham thought. Perhaps he wasn’t the right man to do this job now. He’d spent two years away from crime and murder, living in the small world he’d allowed himself. Coming back to this was like plunging into icy water, so cold he could barely breathe, let alone swim.
But he’d accepted the offer, he’d made the bargain. He had to find his way. And underneath it all, he was angry that the mayor had doubted him so quickly. If he deserved the man’s trust, he deserved all of it.
‘No luck with Thompson?’
‘He more or less threw me out of his house,’ Rob answered with a smile. ‘He’s respectable. His clients are merchants. That’s true. I warned him to keep looking over his shoulder.’
‘Probably best,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘And I told the mayor we’re not going to find the murderer today or tomorrow.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He wasn’t happy, probably best to leave it at that. But I can’t remember when it was any different. With me, and old Arkwright before that. They expect us to work miracles for them, and when we can’t, we’re not worth what they pay us.’
‘Where do we go from here, boss?’
‘We keep asking questions,’ the constable told him. ‘And we keep our eyes and ears open. I don’t see much else we can do.’
Lister had gone off somewhere. Nottingham was banking the fire for the night when he heard the timid knock on the door.
It was a small boy shuffling around in men’s shoes that were far too big for his feet, his breeches holed at the knees, thin shirt through at the elbows. His face was ruddy from the cold.
‘Are you Mr Nottingham, sir?’ The lad looked up at him. Dirt was ingrained in his cheeks and his hair was matted.
‘I am.’
‘Jane says can you come and see her, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ He started to take out a farthing, then selected a penny. At least the boy could put something warm in his belly against the bitter night.
The lad looked at the coin wonderingly then darted off, scared the constable might change his mind.
The same entrance to the same court, with the sound of the river a few yards away and the creak of boats moored for loading. A mist was rising, softening the edges of the world.
As he approached, a man came up to Jane. A few words and they vanished down the passageway. The woman had a living to earn, after all. He could wait. The constable walked to the bridge and stood with his elbows resting on the stone parapet.
Shreds of fog drifted in the night air. There was no breeze, only the clinging dampness he could feel deep in his chest. He was growing old, noticing his aches and pains more and more each day and relishing the heat of a good fire to warm his bones.
A man shouted from somewhere and a voice answered before the pair of them began to laugh. A lone cart rumbled over the bridge, irons wheels rattling over the cobbles. Finally Nottingham moved. He’d given her enough time.
Jane wasn’t waiting at the entrance to the court. Another customer already? From her appearance the night before she needed all she could get. He was about to go to the White Swan for a drink and try later when he heard a groan. Not pleasure; this was pure pain. He called out her name but there was no answer.
The passage was black. No light reached this far. He had to feel his way along, heart thumping, eyes trying to pick out something, anything.
His feet found her first, touching the soft lump on the ground. He knelt, fingertips searching until he found her head, then feeling for a pulse in the neck. Jane’s flesh was still warm, but her life had gone. The man he saw must have been her killer.
There was blood on the front of her dress, wet and sticky under his fingertips. Barely dead.
He had to leave her. He needed some of the men to help. As fast as he could, he ran up to the jail, legs hurting with every stride. The night watch was just arriving. He sent one for the coroner, two more with the old door to transport the body, and another with a light to guard the scene.
His mouth was dry. Nottingham gulped at a drink of ale and saw he’d left a bloody print on the mug. It was all over him – his greatcoat, his hands. He began to clean himself but stopped – what was the point? The blood would be back as soon as he began to examine her.
‘Find Mr Lister and have him meet me there,’ he ordered as he left.
The men were waiting for him. They stood, silently watching him, all of them with dour, brutal faces. But that was who you needed to keep law in the darkness. The lantern flame flickered, enough for him to see Jane lying there. She’d drawn up her knees and thrown out her arms before she died. He must have heard her final sound.
Whores were killed. There were men who considered them fair sport. But this, just after she’d sent him her message? This wasn’t anger. This was deliberate. He could feel it.
In his mind, Nottingham tried to picture the figure he’d seen disappear down this passageway with Jane. Tall, perhaps? A hat of some kind. But it was no more than a suggestion, a faint outline in the night and the mist.
There was no peace on the woman’s dead face. Nothing more than agony, lips back in a rictus smile, eyes wide. He reached down and lowered the lids; it was the one thing he could do for her at this moment.
Hoggart came bustling through, wearing a heavy coat that reached down to his calves, the gold buckles of his shoes glittering in the light. He sighed, told the man to hold the lantern higher and squatted by the body.
‘She hasn’t been dead long, Mr Nottingham.’
‘I know. Only a few minutes.’
‘Well, there’s nothing anyone on this earth can do for her now.’ He stood, looked down at the corpse and shook her head. ‘You might as well take her away.’
She was on the slab of the cold room in the jail when Lister arrived. The candles burning in each corner of the room made it nearly as bright as day.
He had her naked, the tattered old gown cut away so he could examine the wound. In the stomach. It must have taken her a few minutes to die, and she’d done so in horrible pain. If he’d come back sooner … but what could he have done? He couldn’t have saved her. Nobody could, the knife had gone too deep. But he might have caught her killer.
‘Boss?’
The word pulled him back from his thoughts.
‘I saw the man who did it.’ He explained it all, from the message to the finding.
Rob was looking at the body.
‘I used to see her sometimes when I was doing my rounds,’ Lister said. ‘What did the man look like?’
Like everyone and nobody, Nottingham thought.
‘Just a shape,’ he said and raised his head. ‘She had some information for me and then someone murdered her.’ He breathed for a moment or two. ‘There’s something going on here, I’m certain of it.’
‘Boss, you remember what it’s like. We have four or five whores murdered every year. Often more.’
He knew. Sometimes they found the killer; usually there was nothing to set them on the trail. Nottingham held up Jane’s hand with its little finger missing.
‘She lasted out there for more than twenty years. This happened when she was young and she had her revenge on the man who did it. She was careful. She made sure she was never caught out.’ He picked her knife from the shelf where it sat with the few other things she’d carried. The edge was sharp as a razor. ‘She had something to defend herself.’
‘Maybe she let down her guard. He might have taken her by surprise. I don’t know.’
But Nottingham had no doubts. The man had come to kill her. And he’d given him the chance, thinking Jane could earn a few pennies before they talked.
Charlotte. What had Jane discovered about her?
‘I want the night men asking the prostitutes about someone called Charlotte.’
‘Boss …’
‘Give them the order.’
‘It’s terrible that she’s dead,’ Lister said patiently. ‘But I think you’re reading too much into it.’
‘Then we disagree,’ the constable answered calmly. ‘Have them ask and then you might as well go home. We’ll see what happens.’
‘Yes, boss.’
He lingered for a few minutes, making his quiet farewells to her, then pulled a sheet over the body. He’d never known Jane well, but she’d seemed like a fixture in the town. Always a pleasant word, few complaints about her life.
He locked the door of the jail, but instead of turning down Kirkgate, the constable made his way through the streets to Lands Lane and knocked on a door. He could hear the voices inside, a woman hushing her children. A bolt was pulled back, the click of a latch and light spilling out, an eye staring.
‘Mr Nottingham,’ she said in astonishment.
‘May I come in, Lizzie?’
A warm fire was burning and a young girl peered out shyly from her mother’s skirts. At the table a boy looked up from his books.
Lizzie had been John Sedgwick’s woman. She’d moved in, looked after his son James after Sedgwick’s wife ran off with a soldier, and she was the mother of the other child left behind when he was killed. Before any of that, though, she’d been a prostitute, one who’d been a friend to Jane.
It must be six months since he’d visited, Nottingham thought, glancing around the room. All that had changed here were the children. They were growing so quickly. Isabell was three, already tall for her age, with the unkempt, open look of her father. James was still at the bluecoat school. He’d become a serious boy in the last two years, not speaking much, keeping his thoughts locked in his head. The town paid his fees. The constable had insisted on it, one of the things they could do for Sedgwick, along with the rent on this house and a pension for Lizzie.
She put a cup of ale in his hand. ‘You’ve been a stranger.’
‘I didn’t think I had much to say.’
‘Why would that matter?’ she asked him. ‘You know you’re always welcome here. From everything I hear, I ought to congratulate you.’
‘You might not think so in a minute. I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
But Lizzie had survived a life filled with that. One more thing might hurt, but it wouldn’t crush her.
‘What is it?’ she asked with a steady gaze.
‘Four-Finger Jane. Someone killed her tonight.’ He saw Lizzie tighten her mouth. She’d cry, but later, when the children couldn’t see her. ‘I asked her to look for someone. She sent me a message. When I found her …’
‘Poor lass.’
‘I thought it might be better if you heard from me.’
‘Thank you.’ She gave a small nod. ‘John always had a soft spot for her, too.’
They shared the pain of loss, her man, his wife, grief still hard as splintered glass. But while he’d chosen to disappear into himself, she had to carry on, to look after the children.
‘I’ll make sure you know about the funeral.’
‘You said you’d asked her to look for someone. Who?’
‘A woman named Charlotte.’ To explain, he had to tell her the whole story. Lizzie listened attentively, saying nothing until he finished.
‘I still know one or two of them. I could ask,’ she said.
He weighed the offer and looked at her children. He needed help, he knew that. But she had too much to lose.
‘It’s kind, but safer if you didn’t. I didn’t come here for that. Just to let you know.’
‘Of course.’ She had a calm smile. ‘Thank you. But visit more often, please.’
‘I promise.’ But they both knew he wouldn’t.