‘Jeremiah Darden came to see me yesterday afternoon,’ he began. ‘He said you paid him a visit.’
‘I told you I planned on it.’
‘And I told you to tread very carefully.’ The mayor had iron in his voice. ‘He told me you as near as dammit accused him of being Gabriel.’
‘But I didn’t,’ the Constable countered. He was standing, hands gripped tight on the back of the chair.
‘And you’d bloody well better not.’
‘Why?’ Nottingham asked simply.
Fury flooded through the mayor’s face. ‘I’ve known Jeremiah Darden most of my life, I’ve done business with him.’ He brought his palm down sharply on the desk. ‘He’s no more capable of something like that than I am.’
The Constable eyed him steadily, saying nothing for a long time. Even if Darden was Gabriel and the truth came screaming at the door, Fenton and the others who ran Leeds would shut their ears. ‘What are you ordering me to do, your Worship?’ he asked finally.
‘I’m not giving you any orders, Nottingham.’ Fenton paused, choosing his words with great care. ‘But I’ll tell you something for nothing. There are some folk on the Corporation who thought you should have retired after you were hurt. They believe Leeds needs a new Constable. Going after Mr Darden won’t do anything to change their minds.’ He gave a curt nod of dismissal.
Briggate was lively, servants out and gossiping, the apprentices laughing with each other, shops with shutters wide, welcoming trade, an exotic mix of spices as he passed the grocer, leather displayed invitingly at the glover, the slop of bloody guts and innards at the Shambles, stray dogs fighting over the scraps.
So all the good aldermen were gathering around one of their own, Nottingham thought as he walked down the street. But the aldermen hadn’t seen the pain and the helplessness on the faces of the dead children. They hadn’t stroked the bruises, wiped away the coal dust where the corpses had been thrown away. And however much they offered as a reward, they didn’t care.
He turned on his heel and walked back to the Head Row. The first drops of rain hit his face as he opened the door to Garroway’s Coffee House. The smell was so thick it caught at the back of his throat, the air steamy and damp, windows misted over with condensation.
There were only a few men in the place, cups and crumbs scattered across the tables in front of them. Tom Williamson sat in his usual place close to the banked fire, two of last week’s London papers on the bench in front of him, the pages of the Mercury strewn lazily on the floor at this side.
‘You must be wanting something if you’ve come here, Richard,’ he said with a smile. ‘Come and sit down.’
The merchant was wearing another new coat and breeches, dark green velvet this time, cut to the height of London fashion, and a waistcoat whose design was shot through with silver thread. The clothes of a rich man, Nottingham thought as he settled, one growing richer by the day. Working hard and using his brain he’d taken his father’s merchant business and made it into something bigger and more prosperous.
‘Were you looking for me?’
‘I was,’ the Constable admitted. ‘You got your way with the reward, I see.’
Williamson had the grace to look shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry, Richard. It had gone too far, too many people believed it was a good idea. Has it been any help?’
‘Bugger all.’ He laughed.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘You could tell me about Solomon Howard, Darden’s factor.’
‘Solomon?’ The request took him by surprise. ‘You don’t think he’s-’
‘I don’t think anything, Tom,’ he replied quietly. ‘I just need to know about him.’
Williamson breathed in deeply, gathering his thoughts.
‘Well, he’s been Jeremiah’s factor for as long as I can remember.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘He’s good at his job, always seems to know what the markets abroad are going to want. And he’s vain, he looks more like a merchant than most merchants. Jeremiah pays him well, I know that. He’s more or less one of us, even if he doesn’t have his own business. And Jeremiah’s promised him the business when he dies.’
‘It won’t go to his daughters?’
‘No. Their husbands aren’t interested. They’d only sell it, anyway, and they all have money. So Solomon is very loyal.’ He gave a short bark of laughter. ‘As you can imagine.’
‘What’s he like as a man?’
‘Very dry,’ Williamson replied after a moment. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh. Never married, I do know that.’ He chuckled. ‘I doubt he could find a woman who’d put up with him, even for what he earns. I think the man spends most of his waking hours working.’
‘Most of us do,’ the Constable observed wryly.
‘You know what I mean. Solomon doesn’t have anything else in his life.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ the merchant replied. ‘I see him at the market and I’ve had dealings with him, but that’s as far as it goes. I’m not sure he has any friends besides Jeremiah. I’m not certain you’d exactly call them friends, either.’
‘There was some cloud over Mr Darden becoming mayor, wasn’t there?’ Nottingham decided to edge the question into the conversation.
Williamson shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea, Richard. My father was still running the business then. All anyone told me was that he’d decided to resign from the Corporation. Why all the interest, anyway?’
‘It’s just something I’m looking into.’
‘How are you managing at your job?’ He nodded at the walking stick. ‘Does that help?’
‘It’s there when I need it.’ He smiled and stood. ‘Like my job, I’m better off with it. Thank you, Tom; don’t work too hard.’
‘Hannah’s doing her best to make sure I don’t. Now she wants me to take her to London.’
‘You’ll look the part of a society man down there, I’m sure.’
ELEVEN
It had been another bad night, one when sleep came reluctantly, coaxed and persuaded and then only staying for the briefest times. Nottingham rose early, dressed and washed, found bread in the kitchen and ale in the jug to break his fast.
The evening before Mary had watched as he undressed, the candle flickering on the small table by the bed. She’d pointed out the scars on his body, all the batterings and bruisings of his life working to uphold the law. She’d counted seventeen, some so old he only had faint memories of how he’d acquired them, the most recent still livid and painful.
‘How many more, Richard?’ she asked sadly, running his fingers lightly over an ancient knife wound on his arm. She looked up at him, eyes filled with love and gentleness. ‘How many? And how bad will the next one be?’
He didn’t even try to answer. Each one of them had come with his job, each had its story, forgotten or not. He understood what she was asking, but he couldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear and they both knew it.
It had rained during the night, leaving the roads muddy before turning into a misting drizzle which lightly dampened his face as he walked to the jail. It was still dark, just the birds in the trees, their songs answering each other, the music loud and beautiful in his ears.
Lister was sitting at the desk, completing the night report.
‘What do we have?’ He held his hands out to the fire, letting the warmth soak into him. He seemed to feel the chill and damp more easily these days.
‘Three in the cells, boss. Two of them were drunk and fighting on Briggate, so we used the cudgels on them. They’ll be off to the Petty Sessions later. And another one that the men pulled out of the Aire before he drowned. He didn’t smell of drink.’
‘Trying to kill himself?’
Lister shrugged. ‘He was fast asleep last time I looked.’
‘You get off home, lad. Catch up on your rest.’