The smell of coffee was too rich, too strong. As soon as he entered Garroway’s it surrounded him. Nottingham sat on the bench across from Tom Finer.
‘You won. The news is all over Leeds.’
‘I suppose we did.’ He was still too numb to think of it as a victory. He’d been awake all night, helping to control the apprentices, then talking to Marjorie Meadows and her daughter until his throat felt raw. He had a bruise on his arm from a club and some of Harry Meadows’s blood on his coat. ‘You were right about Amos.’
Finer looked at him, trying to understand. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Meadows was Worthy’s son. His bastard.’
‘He probably sired dozens of those in his life.’
‘Maybe he did.’ The constable tried to rub away the ache at the back of his neck. ‘But this one came back.’
‘Worthy threw the woman out as soon as she told him,’ Mrs Meadows said. ‘Gave her a little money and told her to get out of Leeds or he’d kill her and the bairn.’
He could hear her husband’s anger and resentment in the words. He’d brought her and the girl from the cell to the office, given them ale and let them warm themselves by the fire before he started his questions. But there was really only one thing he needed to know: why?
‘Where did they go?’
‘Here and there, the way he told it. Richmond, Malton. They ended up in Settle. When he was old enough, she told him all about his father. Every bad thing she knew, until Harry hated him.’
‘Was Mr Meadows a publican? Was that true?’
‘He was.’ She raised her heard proudly. ‘And we did keep a good inn. But Harry, he couldn’t keep away from the thieving. Just small things. Nobody ever found him out.’
‘If you were doing so well, why did you come to Leeds?’ Nottingham asked.
The woman pulled the shawl more closely around her shoulders, though the room was warm.
‘That was Harry. He always had it in his mind that he was going to show his father. He was going to be bigger and better than him. That was going to be his revenge.’
‘But Amos Worthy is dead.’
‘Harry came here five years ago,’ she continued. ‘He brought our boys. He wanted to see his father, see what he’d done. They even had a drink with him, but Harry never told him who he was. When he came home, he was angry. He told me he was going to topple his father, to take everything away from him. But he’d do it when he was ready. Once our boys were big enough to help him.’
‘Then he must have been disappointed to arrive and find Amos in the ground.’
‘He was.’ She gave a curt, single nod. ‘But he wasn’t going back. He said he’d build something bigger than his father ever had. He’d make sure people remembered Harry Meadows, not Amos Worthy.’
‘What about you? What did you do?’
She lifted her head and stared at him. ‘He was my husband.’
As if that was explanation enough. And perhaps it was, he thought.
‘What’s going to happen to us?’ Mrs Meadows asked.
‘You helped him,’ the constable told her. ‘Both of you. You’ll be tried. I don’t know what the court will decide.’
The girl began to cry and her mother folded her close. How many dead – seven? eight? nine? – and they’d done nothing to stop him. As he locked them in the cell it was hard to feel any sympathy.
He ordered Waterhouse and Dyer to take the revellers over to the petty sessions. They’d have their minute before the magistrate, to be fined and turned out with sore heads and wounds. Good riddance to them.
Nottingham sat at the desk and sipped from a mug of ale. It was light outside. He could hear men starting to sweep up the ashes from the bonfires. Another hour and there’d hardly be a reminder that they’d ever burned. The days moved on, and soon enough the cloth market would begin on Briggate.
With a sigh, he put on the old bicorn hat and went to make sure everything was well.
‘That was it?’ Finer asked in disbelief. ‘He wanted to show he was a better man than Amos?’
‘That was all.’ He understood. Somehow, it didn’t seem to be enough of an explanation for all the killing. It was such a small thing. There should have been more. But at least he finally had the truth.
‘What about my ledgers?’
‘Once we find them, I’ll see they’re returned to you.’ But not before he’d examined them closely to discover exactly what the man was doing.
‘A little bird said you were willing to face three of them by yourself.’
Nottingham raised an eyebrow. ‘You have some very observant birds. But it’s wrong. Rob Lister was there, too. And he wasn’t the only one.’
‘Oh?’ Finer asked. His curiosity was piqued.
‘There was someone else, someone who fired a pistol at Meadows. I don’t suppose your little bird would know anything about that?’
‘Now, what would make you think that?’ He stared blandly at the constable.
‘Because I know you.’
‘Then you have your answer.’ Finer stood, buttoned his coat, and tied the muffler around his neck. ‘My ledgers,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget.’
‘I told you.’
‘Amos.’ Finer shook his head. ‘The past never dies quickly here, does it?’
John Brooke was in his office, poring over papers, as Nottingham entered.
‘I heard what happened at St John’s last night.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘You did a good job.’
He’d done what was needful, nothing more. If he could have stopped it earlier, he’d have done it gladly.
‘No,’ the constable answered. ‘Too many died. Far too many.’
And Con among them. Pointless deaths, every one of them, simply to satisfy one man’s ambition to prove he was better than his father.
‘But it shows we were right to appoint you as constable again.’ The mayor smiled. ‘With this and the cutpurse, you’ve shown yourself well.’
‘Maybe.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m tired. I haven’t been home since yesterday morning.’
‘Then go and sleep, Richard. You’ve earned it.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed dully. ‘I’ll do that.’
Nottingham stopped at the Parish Church. He glanced at Worthy’s grave, wondering if the man was laughing himself hoarse somewhere. He’d have appreciated the joke of a bastard come to usurp his father, only to find him dead.
But Nottingham spent his time at the two headstones standing side by side. Rose and Mary. He talked to his wife, letting it all spill out, the sorrow, the regrets, the failings. In his mind she still looked exactly the way she had on her last morning alive. She didn’t age, she was fixed in time, she had a beginning and an end. He was the one moving forward, slowly and reluctantly.
He stayed until the chill pulled at his face. Then he turned, walked back to Kirkgate and over Timble Bridge.