He trudged home, shoulders bowed under the weight only he could feel. If he hadn’t asked Jane to find out about Charlotte, she might still have been at the entrance to her passageway trying to earn the pennies and ha’pennies to last another day.
His mood was still sour and defeated when he entered the house on Marsh Lane. But the fire was warm and the candles gave a welcoming light. Someone was sitting in his place at the table as the others leaned forward, listening raptly. Even Lucy, a hand under her chin, was caught in the words, her eyes as wide as a child. They’d barely heard Nottingham arrive. He hung up his coat and stood close to the fire as Old Jem continued his tale.
It was one the constable had heard many times before, always a favourite with the girls whenever Jem had stayed here. Hearing it again, he felt he could conjure up his wife’s ghost, then Rose’s, to listen beside him.
Then it was over. Silence hung for a moment as the mood slowly dissolved, then Lucy hurried into the kitchen, returning with a plate.
‘I kept it warm for you,’ she said.
As he ate, Rob gave him a questioning look and Nottingham answered with a shake of his head. At the other end of the table, Emily and Jem were talking. When she raised her head she said, ‘I saw Jem in town and asked him to spend the night. It’ll be warmer than that stable. You don’t mind, do you, Papa?’
‘Of course not.’ He smiled at the storyteller. ‘We’ll always be glad to have you here.’
‘That’s right kind,’ the old man answered and pushed his mug towards Lucy. ‘If you’ll just wet my whistle, young lady, I might be able to think of another tale or two.’
The constable listened, as attentive as the rest, taken out of himself for an hour. That was what he needed tonight. Simply to forget, to be somewhere better.
In the morning Nottingham left while Jem still dozed in front of the fire. He could hear Rob moving around, but he was ready to go. To think. It was still full darkness as he opened the door and headed towards Timble Bridge. A dry, crisp morning, chilly enough to catch in his chest.
Jane was waiting in the cold cell, but he couldn’t face her again. He’d already given her his apologies; he’d attend her funeral. The constable glanced through the night report. No mention of any of the men finding information about Charlotte. But he knew there was a fair chance they hadn’t even asked.
He wrote his own report for the mayor, a note for the undertaker, and walked around the town. Leeds was waking slowly, men on their way to work. The butchers in the Shambles under the Moot Hall lowered their shutters and opened their shops, the hard, bloody smell spilling into the street.
Garroway’s had a brisk early trade of businessmen who used the time to make their deals here. Tom Finer was there, one of the first customers, sitting alone in the corner and sipping his bowl of coffee as he listened carefully to all the conversations around him.
‘You’re up with the lark,’ he said as Nottingham took the seat across the table. ‘Something to drink?’
‘Just questions. That’s all.’
Finer eyed him carefully. ‘Ask what you like. I won’t guarantee you answers, though.’ In a heavy greatcoat and muffler, gloves resting by his cup, Finer was dressed for deep winter. But he was an old man, he felt the cold all the way to his marrow.
‘How did you know a third pimp had gone?’
‘Someone told me.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t recall.’ Finer kept his gaze steady. He remembered full well, but he wasn’t about to say.
‘There’s something else,’ the constable said. ‘Why did you hint that the killings of the moneylenders and the disappearance of the pimps were connected?’
‘Because it makes sense.’ He sipped his coffee and ran his tongue across his lips. ‘Can’t you see it?’
‘Not when you said it.’
‘And now?’ the old man asked sharply.
‘I’m still not convinced. It’s too flimsy. But I’m beginning to wonder.’
Finer raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘A little bird told me that a prostitute was murdered last night.’
‘Your birds sing loud.’
‘They should.’ True enough, the constable thought; he probably paid them enough.
‘If there is a connection, who’s behind it?’
‘That I don’t know. And if it’s true …’ Finer picked his way carefully through the words, ‘these could be dangerous times for anyone to start asking questions.’
He was right. Four-Finger Jane was the proof.
‘Tell me anything you hear.’
‘Perhaps I will,’ the man promised as he stared out of the window. ‘It’s funny, but I’ve developed an affection for this town since I returned.’
There was one more place to go: Jane’s room. He’d taken the key from her possessions and now he turned it in the lock. The house, hidden away from the sun in one of the courts that ran off Vicar Lane, seemed filled with the foetid stench of overcooked cabbage, piss and hopelessness. Night soil turned hard as rocks on the ground outside.
The window was cracked but clean, the bed tidily made, a blanket draped over it. There was a single hard-backed chair and a table with a bowl and pitcher of water. Jane must have salvaged an old rag rug from somewhere, faded reds and yellows on the floor trying to brighten the place.
A broken comb sat by the bowl, with a small shard of mirror propped against the wall next to it. A dress of good wool hung from a nail, probably the only thing of any value Jane owned. He held it up. It was made for a woman smaller than she had been. A keepsake, a memory from when she was young? He’d never know now; all Jane’s truth was lost.
No books, no paper, but he knew she’d never learned to read or write. Nothing hidden in the bed. A stub of a candle in a holder on the floor.
He searched more, finding a leather purse hidden under a loose floorboard. She’d saved almost two pounds in coins. It was no fortune, not for all her years of work, but there would be no more hard times for her now. He slid it into his pocket and locked the door as he left. Soon enough someone else would be living there; an empty room was like gold.
Nottingham was lost in his thoughts. At first he didn’t notice the fair-haired girl trying to keep pace with him. Then she darted in front, turned and stopped.
‘Please sir,’ she began. Before she could say another word, he’d grabbed her wrist and moved so his back was against the wall.
The boy with long black hair was taken by surprise. He had his penknife out, ready to cut purse strings. For a moment he stood still, unsure what to do. The girl began to scream and lash out with her hand and feet and the boy slid forward.
Nottingham held up his arm. The blade sliced into his palm. He let go of the girl and she pulled away from him.
‘Bastard!’ she shouted and spat in his face. A heartbeat and she was running after the boy.
The constable took out his handkerchief and pressed it into his hand to try and staunch the bleeding. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it stung like the devil.
He was breathing as if he’d run a mile. The pair were nowhere to be seen, vanished into the network of courts and ginnels; it was pointless to even start searching. They’d show up again, he was certain of that.
They’d taken him for a defenceless old man. Not quite, he thought. Not yet. But a few years before he’d have been quick enough to take the pair of them.
The apothecary poured something on the wound that made him wince and bound it with a clean bandage. He felt chastened; a constable who couldn’t even catch a couple of young thieves.
Lister was at the jail, raising an eyebrow when he saw Nottingham’s hand.
‘I met our cutpurses.’
He’d seen them long enough to give a good description, but he kept one thing to himself: the look of pure viciousness and satisfaction on the boy’s face as his small knife cut into the constable’s skin.
‘Anything more on the moneylenders?’ he asked.
‘If anybody knows, they’re keeping very quiet.’
‘Stay on it. You seem to know the right people to talk to. And I want all the men alert for that boy and girl. We need to arrest them before someone is seriously hurt.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘I told you I was going to rely on you,’ the constable said. ‘I’m going to find whoever murdered Jane.’ But all he had was the faint outline of a man, half-hidden in the mist.
Keep working on the deaths of the moneylenders. Easier said than done, Lister thought. Every way he turned he found himself staring at nothing. No whispers, not even a rumour tossed about on the breeze. Only silence.
Usually there was someone ready to talk, eager to trade information for money or a favour. But this time they might as well have all been mute. He hadn’t even been able to pick up a hint. The murderer was keeping his mouth closed. That had to mean one man, working alone. Any more than that and some secret was bound to spill. Someone would drink and his tongue would loosen.
Maybe the boss was right and they’d have to wait for the arrival of a new moneylender. Still, that shouldn’t take too long, not when business was there. He sighed and finished the dregs of his ale. Time to go out and make himself hoarse by asking the same questions over and over.
Nottingham walked up and down Briggate, searching for the prostitute who’d whispered that he should look for Charlotte. But there was no sign of her. He talked to the few who were out, about Jane, adding the other name almost casually. All he received were blank looks or shakes of the head. Either they didn’t know or they were too frightened to talk.
A new whore had already taken Jane’s old post in the passageway close to the river. She was young and scared, smiling nervously at all the men who passed. She’d probably only been in Leeds for a few days, still dressed in her country clothes, the rough homespun dress, with a cap over her hair and worn clogs on her feet.
‘Who told you to try this spot?’ he asked kindly.
She blushed before she answered. ‘A man, sir. He said the girl who worked here had gone.’
‘What man was this?’
‘He helped me find a room, sir, and bought me some food.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘I haven’t been able to find a job here, you see.’
He’d heard the story so often over the years he could have recited it to her. Now here she was, desperate, selling her body to repay someone. Yet there was something about her, some hint in the dark hair and wide eyes, that reminded him of Rose, his dead daughter.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Peter, sir. Peter Kidd. He said he’d take me out to eat in one of the inns tonight if I do well.’
Nottingham took two pennies from his pocket. ‘Where can I find him?’
‘He has a room, sir. On Lady Lane.’
‘Which house?’
‘It has a black door, sir. That’s all I know.’
That was enough; he’d be able to find the man. The constable pressed the coins into her palm.
Two more girls had appeared on Briggate. One looked baffled at the mention of Charlotte. The other shook her head hard, but in her eyes he wondered if she knew something but was too terrified to ever say.
Lady Lane had changed in the last two years. One side was filled with new houses. Nothing grand, hardly the merchants’ mansions of Town End. These had gone up hastily, never intended to last. Built by Tom Finer, and all of them money in his pocket.
The other side remained old and battered, a jumbled collection of buildings that looked as if it had been tossed together and stayed upright in some strange reprieve of ruin. The house with the peeling black door was easy to find. This visit was stupid, he knew. It was pointless. But he had the urge to try to protect that girl.
Kidd’s room stood at the top of the place, a cold garret under the eaves. As he climbed the stairs, the constable eased his old cudgel from his coat, wrapping the leather thong around his wrist. Kidd appeared, a self-satisfied expression on his face, after Nottingham hammered on the wood.
‘Peter Kidd?’
‘Yes.’ His eyes narrowed ‘What—’
He didn’t have the chance to finish. The constable pushed him back into the room and slammed the door.
‘What?’ Kidd began again, eyes shifting round, searching for a weapon.
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘No. Should I?’ Kidd gave a small, nervous laugh.
‘I’m the Constable of Leeds. You have a girl where Four-Finger Jane used to be.’
‘Yes. But—’
Nottingham took a step closer and let the cudgel swing. ‘Someone murdered Jane. That wouldn’t have been you, would it?’
He already knew the answer. Kidd was short and round, nothing like the faint figure he’d seen enter the passageway. But he felt the need to put the fear of God into the man.
‘No! I just heard she was dead and I had this girl …’
‘That’s right. You had a girl. You don’t any more.’
‘Wait—’ The man’s eyes were wide.
‘There’s nothing to wait for. I’m offering you a choice. Either you leave Leeds immediately, on your own, or I arrest you for pandering.’
Kidd stared for a moment, then nodded in defeat.
‘What about the girl?’ he asked.
‘She’s old enough to make her own choices. You don’t speak to her before you go, and if you hurt her, believe me I’ll make sure you pay.’ His voice was steady and controlled. He knew the irony: three pimps vanished and now he was sending another one packing. But he’d get rid of every last one of them if he could.
‘Where do I go?’ Kidd asked helplessly.
‘That’s up to you. But don’t come back here.’
It didn’t feel like a victory; it didn’t feel like anything. Nottingham knew it didn’t help solve Jane’s murder. There was still a killer and a pair of cutpurses out there. But perhaps he’d improved the town a little.