A chill mist laced the dawn, leaving everything hazy and blurred. No wind, a clear sky, and dark smoke slowly spiralling up from the chimneys. Nottingham pulled the greatcoat closer around his neck.
It was cold enough to keep most people off the streets. But he was hoping that two children who’d found the taste for theft and wounding would be out. He’d primed the men, spreading them around the town. Rob had brought in two new recruits from somewhere, a pair he swore could think and who’d do the job soberly; he’d see how they liked a day of being out in this.
The constable tried to stay out of sight. They knew his face, and he had the wound to prove it. It was healing now, the skin on his palm itching, a reminder to stay alert and keep his own knife close to hand.
By dinner his feet were numb with cold. A pale sun shone but it offered no warmth. He had to keep walking, to keep watching, but he’d seen not the slightest trace of the pair. He felt as if his body knew every inch of Briggate and the Head Row. Too cold for Con to play his fiddle or for Jem to sit and tell his tales. Even the butchers in the Shambles only shouted their wares listlessly, wrapped in their heavy coats and mufflers.
He was close to the Talbot and his belly was rumbling. He’d see if Harry Meadows’s improvements extended to the food.
‘Mr Nottingham.’ The man had the same broad smile, rubbing his hands together. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Ale and some stew, Mr Meadows.’ He began to reach for some coins, but Meadows stopped him.
‘You and your men never pay here. You have a hard enough job as it is.’
The food was good, a far cry from the spiced, rancid beef Matthew Bell used to serve. Warmed inside, he sat by the fire, letting the heat fill him as he ate and drank. The place was doing a fair trade; word must have spread.
Then it was back to the cold, until he returned to the jail as dusk fell. Rob was already there, poking the fire to stir the blaze. He shook his head.
‘I checked with the men. No one’s seen them. No reports of cutpurses, though. Maybe we’ve scared them away.’
Nottingham shook his head. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘No.’ He exhaled slowly. ‘But we can hope.’
‘Go home. You look perished.’
‘What about you?’
‘I still have things to do.’ When Rob looked at him curiously, he simply smiled. ‘Go and spend some time with that daughter of mine.’
Lister walked by Emily’s school; the shutters were closed and the door locked. But she wasn’t at Marsh Lane.
‘Not seen her since this morning,’ Lucy told him. ‘You two haven’t been rowing, have you?’
‘You’d have heard if we had.’
‘True enough.’ She put her hands on her hips and stared at him. ‘Then I daresay she’ll be back when she’s ready, unless she’s run off with a tinker.’ Lucy grinned.
Once Emily arrived, she hung her long, heavy cloak on a nail and hurried up the stairs without even glancing at him.
‘What is it?’ he asked. She was sitting on their bed, hands over her face. He put his arms around her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I went to see that baby.’ She sniffled and tried to smile as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘She’s just so helpless.’
He didn’t know how to reply; he’d never seen her like this. Emily was always so certain about things, ploughing ahead and expecting everyone else to follow. This was a side of her he didn’t know, fragile and unsure. He held her close.
‘We could take her,’ she said tentatively after a long silence.
‘Us?’ Rob couldn’t believe it. She had her school, he worked all hours … he didn’t even know how long before the baby would be weaned.
‘In time. When she’s ready.’ She moved, resting her head against his chest. ‘I’ve thought about it. Lucy’s here all the time. Papa’s only going to be constable until they find someone else; you said that yourself.’
‘I know, but—’
‘And we don’t seem to be able to have our own children.’ That was the nub.
‘Maybe we will.’
‘We need to face the truth. There’s no point in hoping, is there? She’s going to need a home. We could call her Mary, after Mama.’
He’d been wrong. Emily wasn’t unsure at all. She’d already come to her decision and made her plans.
‘Are you certain?’ It was the only thing he could ask.
‘Yes,’ she replied after the slightest hesitation. ‘I am.’
‘Perhaps I suppose I should start calling you Mama, then.’
Suddenly she had her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply.
‘Don’t tell anyone yet,’ Emily warned. ‘Nobody. Not until I have everything arranged.’ She hesitated. ‘And we know she’ll live.’
At least he was out of the weather. With darkness, a light rain had begun to fall, quickly turning to sleet so sharp that it seemed to burn his cheeks. Nottingham moved from one inn to the next. Con was playing in one corner of the Pack Horse, his old hat set out for coins, a cup of ale on the table next to him.
The constable searched for all the faces he’d once relied on once for information. Only a few were still around, two in the New King’s Arms, one in the Rose and Crown. What had happened to them all, he wondered? But none of them had anything to offer him on the killings.
‘Nowt,’ Ned Carr said. ‘I haven’t been asking, but there’s no one saying a word, and that’s not like folk. Nobody knows what’s going on.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Ee, don’t ask me.’ He lit a taper from the fire and put it to his pipe. ‘I listen, and there’s nothing to hear.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll tell you summat odd, though. Do you remember Walter Dunkley?’
He had a faint memory of the man. Big, rowdy, liked to drink.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s been slinking around the last few weeks. Not been out taking a drink. Hardly seen him anywhere,’ he added. ‘Not like him at all.’
The constable laid two coins on the table. ‘Where does he live?’
A cellar room, and pitch black on the stairs. Nottingham felt his way down carefully, one hand against the wall, testing each of the wooden steps before he put his weight on it. At the bottom he groped his way to a door and knocked hard.
He remembered Walter as soon as he saw him, illuminated by the weak glow from a lantern. But the man had changed. His cheeks were hollow and the clothes sagged on his body. This wasn’t a killer; this was someone who barely had a hold on life. Come spring he’d be no more than a husk, if he was still here.
‘What do you want?’ There was no menace in his voice.
‘People are wondering where you’ve been.’
‘None of their business.’
The constable could see past him. There was no fire in the room, only a brown patch of slow, trickling damp on the wall.
‘Maybe it’s not,’ he agreed. ‘But they worry.’
Dunkley snorted and spat on the ground.
‘You know who I am, don’t you?’ Nottingham asked.
‘Right enough.’
‘What do you know about the recent murders?’
The man started to laugh. Before he could catch his breath it turned into a bout of coughing that doubled him over. Dunkley groped for a small bottle on the table and managed to take a swig.
‘Me? Know anything?’ He wiped his eyes and gulped down air. ‘What would I know about killings? Got me work cut out trying to last till evening. I don’t have time for any of that now.’
‘Then who might?’ Nottingham asked. The man was dying, but there was nothing he could do about that. Nothing anyone could do; Dunkley wouldn’t let them.
‘Have you tried John Wood?’ The cough began again. Another nip from the bottle stopped it.
John Wood. Interesting that his name should come up again.
‘He claims he’s working for Mr Warren these days. A bookkeeper.’
‘If you believe that, happen you should have stayed retired.’ Dunkley turned his head and spat. ‘Now go on, get out of here.’
John Wood. It would be a good place to start in the morning.
Ogle’s bookshop was no more than a hundred yards along Kirkgate from the jail. He’d rarely been inside, but the manager knew him, wishing him a pleasant good morning. The musty smell of mildew and old paper followed him up the stairs.
Warren’s office was a jumble of papers, but there was no sign of the man himself. Wood was alone, bent over his desk, a quill in his hand. He looked up with a start as Nottingham entered, trying to pull papers over his work.
Too late, though. The constable picked up the document and the one beside it.
‘I thought you said you had a talent for numbers.’
‘I do,’ Wood answered. His face was red and his hand began to shake. ‘I’m just copying that for a gentleman. We do it if they ask.’
‘Copying?’ He read through one paper, then the other. ‘You’re not doing a good job of it, then. Look, you’ve changed a few words. Here and here and here. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that Mr Joseph Middleton owned a certain property in Holbeck instead of Mr Martin.’ The constable shook his head. ‘That’s very poor work. Should I tell your employer?’
‘Don’t, please. He dun’t know.’ His eyes were pleading. ‘The gentleman offered me a guinea to do it and mek it look official. I’ve got a woman now, Mr Nottingham.’ He reached out a hand for the papers but the constable rolled them and put them in his jacket pocket.
‘What else am I going to find in here, John?’ He leaned forward, hands on the desk, his face close enough to Wood’s to smell the sour, frightened breath. ‘Something like that could see you transported for seven years. Not too many last long enough to come home from there.’
‘What do you want?’ He lowered his head.
‘I want to know about the killings that have been going on. Moneylenders. A pimp. Two whores. I need to find out who’s behind it.’
‘I can’t—’
Nottingham cut him off. ‘I don’t think you heard me properly.’ His voice was cold. ‘I’m not offering you a choice. I don’t care how you find out. And if you try to lie to me, you’ll be up before a judge before you know it. Maybe that woman of yours will even miss you.’
Back on Kirkgate he smiled to himself. He knew he could have searched the office and found plenty to damn Warren. But he didn’t care about that for now. It could wait for another day. He wanted the killer.
Something was growing. He could feel it, as certain as the fact that day would break tomorrow. Something was festering under the surface. And he needed to lance it before it took over.
Lister slid on to the bench beside the constable. All around them, the White Swan was filled with people. A group of merchants huddled in one corner discussing business. Working men warmed themselves by the fire before an afternoon in the cold.
‘Dyer caught a glimpse of the cutpurses this morning,’ he said. ‘He went after them but they’d already gone. Into thin air, he said.’
Nottingham put the pie back on the plate.
‘Where did it happen?’
‘Mill Hill. Out near the tenter fields. He said the Parish Church had just rung eight o’clock.’
Nottingham gulped down the last of his ale and stood. ‘Let’s take a look.’
‘I was going to eat.’
The constable grinned. ‘Then you should have arrived earlier. Come on.’
The thin wind down by the river seemed to slice at his skin. Rob pulled the high collar closer around his ears. His legs felt heavy with the cold, like moving lead. Not a soul to be seen on the grass. No cloth hung out to stretch on the tenter posts in this weather.
Where was the boss going? He was striding out ahead, never pausing or glancing around until Leeds lay half a mile behind them, only grass and woods ahead. The air might be fresh here, but it was bitter.
Near the top of a rise, Nottingham stopped and pointed.
‘Do you see that? Smoke.’
He was right; a wispy spiral rose through the trees, almost invisible in the pale light.
‘What now, boss?’ Rob asked.
‘We go in as quietly as we can. We’ll do it together. No one’s going to be watching in this weather. They’ll all be huddled round the fire.’
Lister followed. Once they were in the trees, the constable stopped for a moment, finding his bearings, then eased through the tall grass, trying to be silent. Soon enough Rob could smell the fire and the scent of cooking. Nottingham halted again and whispered ‘We’ll just walk straight in. You’re faster than me, you go after the boy if he’s there. I’ll point him out.’
Without another word he plunged into the small clearing. Rob barely had chance to take in the rough shelters made of branches before the children were up and scattering like a flock of birds, darting off hither and yon through the trees.
‘There!’ He pointed towards a scrawny lad with black hair, already vanishing deeper into the woods. Lister followed, running hard. He had surprise on his side, quickly gaining on the boy. He passed the other children, barely noticing them, intent on the figure ahead.
He was no more than ten yards away when the boy suddenly swerved and grabbed a girl who was trying to hide between a tree. The penknife was in his fist, the blade at the child’s throat.
‘You don’t want to do that.’ Rob was panting hard, keeping his distance. He put his hands out, showing they were empty. The little girl looked terrified, too frightened to move. But the boy’s face showed nothing. No emotion of any kind. Just dark, calculating eyes.
‘Let her go. You can run. I won’t follow if you don’t harm her.’ He moved a step closer. The boy pulled the girl’s hair, exposing her throat and pushing the blade against the skin.
‘I promise,’ Rob said, a desperate edge in his voice. ‘Just go, leave her.’
The boy stayed silent. Then, in one swift move, he slid the knife across the girl’s neck and let her drop. Without a backward glance, he skittered away, jumping over a fallen log and disappearing.
Lister was on his knees, cradling the girl’s head. She’d fainted. He took off his greatcoat, wrapping it around her. The wound was bleeding, but it wasn’t deep or dangerous. And definitely not fatal.
The boy was already out of sight. Sweet Christ, he thought, how could anyone do that? The girl was beginning to stir, crying, screaming. Rob stroked her hair and tried to soothe her. The blood was already starting to dry on her neck. He pulled out a dirty handkerchief, spat on it and tried to wipe the wound clean.
‘You’re going to be fine,’ he told her softly, repeating it until she looked at him with wide eyes and began to nod. The tears still came, trailing down her cheeks, and she was shivering hard.
Carefully, he picked her up and began to walk to the camp, talking softly. She was no weight at all in his arms, nothing more than skin and bone.
The constable was already there. ‘What happened?’
It only took three quick sentences to recount the tale. Nottingham looked down at the girl.
‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘We’ll look after you now.’
There was something in his tone: she believed him and gave a timid smile. Rob could imagine how Nottingham had been as a father. He’d shown it just now, and with the baby in the church porch. The tenderness, the gentleness.
‘What are we going to do with her, boss?’
‘Take her home to Lucy. She’ll know what to do.’
‘But—’
‘Look at her. She needs a good meal, some clean clothes, and somewhere warm. We’ll think about the rest after that. Would you like to sleep inside, by the fire?’ he asked the girl, and she nodded her reply. ‘What’s your name?’
She hesitated for a moment, as if she needed to remember it. ‘Annie.’
‘That’s a pretty name. There’s a lady called Lucy who’ll take care of you. Mr Lister will take you there.’
‘What happened with the girl?’ Rob asked.
He grimaced. ‘She was too quick for me. Gone before I even started.’ He rubbed the bristles on his chin. ‘I want that lad.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘You look after Annie here, then come back to the jail.’
Lucy examined the girl while he recounted it all. From the moment he came through the door she’d taken charge, carefully shepherding Annie into the kitchen and settling her down on a stool.
‘Don’t you worry, we’ll have you warm and clean in no time,’ she said as she ladled soup into a bowl. ‘Go on, get that inside you. Your skin’s like ice.’ He watched, knowing there was no more he could do. ‘You did right, bringing her here,’ Lucy said as he turned to leave.
‘It was the boss’s idea.’
‘Doesn’t matter whose it was,’ she said. ‘It was still good.’