He strode down Briggate and along the path by the Aire. Bessie was helping a girl feed her small child when he found her, spooning something into the infant’s mouth, encouraging and cajoling her to eat more. He waited silently until she’d finished and
wiped her hand on her dress, gathering a shawl tight around her shoulders.
‘Babies making babies,’ she said with a slow shake of her head. ‘They don’t know.’
‘How are you, Bessie?’
‘I’ll live. More than some of these will if it gets any colder. We could use more food,’ she said pointedly.
‘I’ll talk to the baker. He should have some old loaves.’
‘It’ll all help, love.’ She nodded her approval. ‘I’ve asked around about those children.’
‘Anything?’ Rob asked hopefully.
‘They tend to keep to themselves. They don’t trust anyone else. I’m sorry, Mr Lister.’
‘What about Gabriel?’
‘I don’t think people have talked about owt else since the posters went up.’ She snorted. ‘Truth is, no one here’s seen him. They might think they have, but it’s just hoping for the money.’
‘Thank you, Bessie.’
‘Nay, lad. I just wish I could do more. You find him, though.’
‘We will.’
‘And kill him. It’s no more than he deserves.’
NINE
John Sedgwick woke with a start, sitting up with his eyes wide and heart racing as the dream dissolved in his head.
‘What is it?’ Lizzie asked, her voice full of sleep.
He breathed slowly and wiped the night sweat off his face. ‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it, love.’ He stroked her hair and neck until he felt her drift away. It was still full dark but there would be no more rest, not after the images he’d seen, of James and Isabell tortured, used and bloody, and left for dead at the side of the road. He could hear them both sleeping, the baby in her crib, the boy on his small bed.
Quietly, he rose and dressed, took some bread from the kitchen and slipped out of the door. He knew that moving, doing something, was the only way to make the pictures go away.
Still an hour to dawn, he judged, the time when the blackness was blackest and the thoughts were always bleak. The air had turned even colder and a low fog clung tight to the ground, creeping like an army over the land.
Rob was at the jail, the scrape of his nib on paper loud as he wrote out the night report. The deputy settled close by the fire, took the bread from his pocket and began to eat.
‘Many come in for the reward?’ he asked.
Lister frowned. ‘Ten of them last night, and that’s just the ones who found me here.’
‘Anything likely?’
‘What do you think? Some of them would peach on their dog if it would bring in sixpence. Anyway, someone came and gave the boss a name yesterday.’
‘Oh?’ Sedgwick asked with interest.
‘You’re going to love this. It’s Jeremiah Darden.’
The deputy laughed. ‘That old bastard? You can’t be serious.’
‘I am. The boss asked me to find out about him from my father.’
‘And did you?’ he asked slowly. ‘You went to see him?’
Rob nodded. ‘Last night.’
‘What did he have to say?’
‘About Darden?’
‘Aye.’
‘Seems there was a rumour about him and a very young girl. He was supposed to become mayor but instead he resigned from the Corporation. No one who mattered believed it, but. .’
‘You told the boss yet?’
‘No.’
‘And what else did your father say to you?’
‘Invited me for Sunday dinner.’ He paused. ‘With Emily.’
The deputy raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘What are you going to do?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to her.’
The door opened and the Constable walked in. ‘That fog’s getting thicker,’ he said, shrugging off his coat. ‘If it keeps up you won’t be able to see the Moot Hall soon.’
‘I’d not call that a bad thing,’ Sedgwick laughed.
‘You might be right there.’ He gave a small smile and sat in the chair. ‘Right, what do we have?’ He listened closely as Rob related what he’d learned and the deputy aired his frustration. ‘We’ll have more people giving us names today. Look into them, John. We need to follow up on everything. I’m going to talk to the mayor and then see Mr Darden.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Go back to everyone you’ve talked to, see if they’ve remembered anything.’ He glanced at Rob. ‘And the same for you tonight.’
Martin Cobb sat behind his desk, the scrape of his quill the only noise in the corridor. Nottingham placed the report on the desk.
‘I need to see the mayor.’
‘Constable. .’ the clerk began but Nottingham cut him off, his tone brooking no protest.
‘Now.’
Cobb looked down for a moment, then back up. ‘If it’s important you’d better go in.’
Fenton was standing at the window, looking out at a city lost in the fog. He turned as the door opened.
‘Any results from the poster?’
‘Someone came to see me yesterday with a name.’
‘And?’ the mayor asked brusquely.
‘The name was Jeremiah Darden.’
‘You believe it?’ Fenton almost shouted the words, his face reddening. ‘Are you a fool? Has being off work addled your brains?’
‘He lied about how some blood ended up on his grey coat,’ the Constable told him flatly. ‘The same colour Gabriel wears. That’s enough to warrant talking to him.’
‘If you accuse him you’ll end up looking ridiculous,’ the mayor warned.
‘I haven’t accused anyone yet. I just want to ask him some questions.’
‘Then make sure you keep it to that. Even if you should find something to properly incriminate Mr Darden, you will not arrest him without my authority.’ He paused. ‘Do you understand that, Nottingham?’
The Constable stared at him. ‘I’ll do my job, your Worship. The one the city pays me to do.’ He gave a small bow and left.
He needed to calm his temper before seeing Darden. After seeing the mayor his blood was hot, and it needed to be cold as January for the encounter. He let the fog swallow him, drifting down Briggate to Leeds Bridge. Sounds were muffled, even the creak of carts as they approached, and people came and vanished like ghosts in a dream.
The water rushed by, a few yards below him, with a noise as deep as the devil’s laughter. He leaned on the parapet and watched it, roiling and curling around the stanchions, until the anger had passed. Then he cut through to Vicar Lane to the house that had been in Darden’s family for generations.
The limewash had been renewed recently, still a bright, glowing white against the dark timbers. The windows were small and old, the door heavy, worn oak. At the side of the building a cobbled path led to the warehouse where Darden had his business.
He’d had few dealings with the man over the years; he’d maybe met him three or four times, and they’d never spoken long enough for him to gain a solid impression beyond the sense of wealth and power that surrounded him like perfume.
Nottingham let his fist fall on the door three times and waited. Soon he could hear a rush of footsteps and then he was looking at the harried face of the servant who’d appeared at the jail.
‘Yes, sir?’ the man asked as if they’d never seen each other before.
Nottingham smiled. ‘I’m the Constable of Leeds. I’d like to see Mr Darden.’
He entered the hall and waited while the servant went into a room, hearing the small murmur of voices. Then he was shown into a parlour where Jeremiah Darden sat in his chair, a copy of the Mercury spread over his lap. He took off his spectacles, a quizzical look on his face. There was an air of cleanliness about him, but the rich always looked clean and smelt of sanctity, Nottingham thought. Dirt never clung to them.