At least Rob had given him a few names. He went from one to the other, but they had nothing to tell. Maybe it was the truth; maybe they didn’t trust him.
He’d exhausted everything. There was nowhere else to turn. He walked, feeling the chill of the wind on his flesh. Wind had swirled the leaves into drifts and piles, oak and elm and ash. He kicked through them, hoping it might bring the same joy he’d loved as a boy. But there was no pleasure, not even for a moment. It was simply one more thing to slow him down.
Nottingham leaned on the parapet of the bridge, staring down as the river surged below. Small boats were lined up by the warehouses, and men moved back and forth to load them. Leeds was busy turning wool into money, cloth leaving for places all across Europe, the American colonies and who knew where else.
He’d done everything he could, followed every small nudge of hint. He’d talked until his throat was raw. And he still didn’t have the answer. He hadn’t failed yet, not with November the fifth still to come tomorrow, but this … it felt as if he had.
‘Don’t do it, Richard.’
He started at the voice by his shoulder. Joe Buck, grinning at his own joke. He hadn’t heard anyone approach, far from the world going on around him.
‘You don’t look like a happy man,’ Buck said. He was as elegant as ever, with a brilliant long silk waistcoat under his dark coat, the silver buckles shining on his shoes.
‘I’m thinking, that’s all.’
‘Dark thoughts. You were miles away.’
‘People seem to say that about me too often,’ he answered with a wan smile.
‘I heard about young Lister. Is it as bad as they’re saying?’
‘No.’ The constable could trust Joe to keep a confidence. ‘A blow to his knee. He should be back tomorrow.’
‘Let’s hope so, for your sake. It’ll be madness when they light the bonfires. Makes me glad I stay clear of it.’
‘We’ll manage. We always have,’ Nottingham said.
‘Will you?’ The question made him turn his head.
‘Why, have you heard something?’
‘Just the usual. The apprentices plotting their riots. They say they’re going to topple the statue from the Moot Hall.’
‘They say that every year and they’ve never come close yet.’
‘There are other rumours, too,’ Buck said.
‘Oh?’
‘That something’s going to happen.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘No. But folk are scared. They sense it. You know what it is, don’t you?’
‘Not enough of it,’ he admitted. ‘That’s the problem.’
‘Is it to do with those killings you were asking me about?’
‘Yes.’ He laid out what more he knew. It seemed like nothing as he told it, bare, baked bones with no meat on them.
‘Makes me glad my business isn’t violent,’ Buck said. ‘I’ll ask around, but folk would probably have told me if they knew anything.’
‘At the moment I’d be glad of crumbs.’
‘It all sounds like something Amos Worthy would have enjoyed.’
Nottingham gave a small, dry laugh. ‘You’re the second person to say that.’
‘Some of us remember. Have you made sure he hasn’t come back from the dead?’ Joe laughed. ‘I wouldn’t put that past him, either.’
The constable smiled. ‘Even he can’t manage that.’ Wearily, he pushed himself up. ‘If you come across anything …’
‘I’ll send word. I promise.’ Buck stood for a moment, staring. ‘Take care of yourself. We’re not as young as we’d like to believe we are.’
He knew that all too well, the constable thought as he walked back to the jail. He felt it in every ache and pain of life.
Rob stumped around the house, grateful for the stick. Every step still took effort, but it seemed a little easier. He was in the garden, hobbling up and down the path, when Lucy returned with her basket.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked.
‘Making sure I’m ready for tomorrow.’
‘And you’ll be no use at all if that knee swells up again, will you? I have ears, you know. I know what you and Mr Nottingham have been talking about. He’s going to need you.’
‘That’s why I’m doing this,’ Rob said.
‘You’ve done it,’ Lucy told him. ‘Now go and sit down and rest it.’
She watched as he limped by her and settled in the chair. It felt good, easier, to have the weight off his knee, but he wasn’t going to admit it to her.
‘He’s scared, you know,’ Lucy said.
‘Scared? The boss?’ He’d never said anything, there hadn’t been a sign of it. Just Richard Nottingham with his impassive face and long silences. The man he knew.
‘He’d never let anyone see it. And you can wager he’d never tell anyone, especially you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he respects you, what do you think? He doesn’t want to show any fear, because it might make him look weak. You’re just the same. You keep it all behind your eyes.’
‘Me?’ He didn’t believe her.
‘The two of you are peas in a pod. Sometimes I think that’s why Miss Emily loves you, because you’re like her father.’ She was quiet for a moment, as if she’d said too much, then quickly smoothed down her apron. ‘That’s what I think, anyway. You take care of that leg. So you’re ready for tomorrow night.’ She bustled away into the kitchen.
At first he didn’t know what to think. He was completely different from the boss. He admired him, he had since he first became a constable’s man, but they were nothing alike.
Rob sat, thinking, trying to understand why Lucy believed that. She was sharp, she had a good eye for things. But she was wrong on this. She had to be.
The day was fading and still he knew nothing more. He felt as if he’d wasted it, rushing around like one of those chickens after the farmer had cut off its head. Going nowhere at all. But he couldn’t give up. This evening he’d go round the inns once more, hoping that someone might have even one small drop of information.
With darkness, the cold seemed to creep back in from the west, the skies clearing. There’d be a frost tonight, Nottingham thought as he strode up Briggate. No men with a pocket missing from their coats. Who knew if Henry Meecham had even really seen that? It could have been the drink addling his brain.
Men had gathered round the fire in the New King’s Arms and the Turk’s Head, but no one he recognized. The same at the Talbot when he stopped there, only Meadows giving a cheery wave.
The Rose and Crown was busy, conversation coming from all the small parlours. He saw Molly Reynolds carrying a tray full of mugs up the stairs, her father John busy as he filled more from the barrel.
‘You’re making money tonight,’ the constable said.
‘Earning it,’ Reynolds replied. ‘No idea why they’re all in here. Some days it’s just that way.’ He grinned. ‘Not that I’m complaining. And we’ll do good business tomorrow. The bonfires always make people thirsty.’
‘I hear the apprentices are planning their rampage, same as ever.’
‘And they’ll get as far as usual. They’ll either end up falling down drunk or fighting each other, or your lot will crack their heads.’
‘Have you had any word about anything else?’
Reynolds finished filling the mug and set it down.
‘Should I have?’ he asked.
‘A few people seem to be talking.’
‘Some folk are never happy unless they hear the sound of their own voices. I suppose one or two seem worried.’
‘What are they saying?’
‘Nothing, same as it ever is. It’s all blether, anyway. They don’t know, so they have to conjure something out of nowt.’
If only that was true, Nottingham thought. But he’d know what it was soon enough.
He stayed alert on the way home. If they felt they could go after Rob, he was a target for them too. But no footsteps trailed behind him, and the only figures moving were in his imagination.
The streets were empty, just the echo of his boots for company as he went through the lych gate at the Parish Church. The day had already been long; a few moments more would make little difference.
He stood by Mary’s grave, and for once he felt himself without words. The peace of her company would be enough. And Rose. He pictured her with her own child, then with Emily’s Mary.
He didn’t need daylight to find his way around the churchyard. A few steps and he was standing where John Sedgwick lay.
I could have used you tomorrow, he thought. Rob won’t be able to do much. That was always the way, wasn’t it, you and me together? Then we’d laugh about it later over a drink and count our wounds.
He’d stopped to see Lizzie early in the evening. But she’d been all apologies. No one knew anything, or they were too scared of something to open their mouths. He’d thanked her, given Isabell and James a farthing each, and left.
Worthy was buried on the other side of the church, not far from the wall by High Court. A small, simple stone. Sacred to the memory …
Why do they keep mentioning you, he thought? You’re dead. I saw your corpse, I was here when they put you in the ground and I shovelled the sod on to your coffin. Wasn’t that enough to be rid of you? Why do you keep coming back?