The door opened and Emily swept in, dragging off her bonnet and shaking out the damp from her cape. Rob entered behind her, the pair of them talking loudly, and the house suddenly felt full and livelier.
‘Staying to eat, then, lad?’ the Constable asked.
‘Yes, boss.’
‘We’ll give you first bite.’ His eyes twinkled and he squeezed Mary’s arm lightly. ‘Especially as you liked that pottage so much the other night.’
By the time Lucy carried the pot to the table, careful not to spill a drop, they were seated and ready. The girl started to return to the kitchen but Mary said, ‘Pull up a stool. Sit down.’
‘Ma’am?’ Lucy looked at her in confusion.
‘You’re one of us, you live here. Come and eat with us.’
The girl flashed a look at Nottingham. He gave her a quick nod.
‘Thank you.’
She stayed quiet during the meal, watching the others as they talked. The Constable saw her staring hungrily at the pot and said, ‘Help yourself to more if you want. There’s still some left.’
She still ate greedily, keeping her face close to the plate, scarcely tasting the food. He remembered the first good meal he’d had after living rough. The old Constable had taken him home and put a bowl of stew in front of him. At first he’d thought it was a joke of some kind, that it would be snatched away from him. Then he’d gobbled it all down, not even chewing the meat and gristle, before wiping up every drop of the juice with a piece of bread. It still seemed like the best thing he’d ever tasted.
As the light waned outside the window, he sat back, hearing the bright laughter between Rob and Emily, seeing the tenderness on Mary’s face at having her family around her, and he felt glad he was still alive. When the pain of his wound had been its worst, back at the start of the summer, he’d believed death might be better. Now he was grateful to have survived, to enjoy moments like this and see his daughter happy. She might be contrary at times, unwilling to marry her young man, but his love for her was as big as heaven.
Eventually Rob stood. Nottingham knew the lad was reluctant to leave, but Saturday was always the busiest night of the week. Men had been paid and wanted to drink away all the miseries of the week. There’d be arguments and fights, in a bad week even murder.
‘Just watch yourself,’ he advised.
‘Yes, boss.’
Lucy disappeared with the dishes, and the brief moments of joy passed. He sat in front of the fire with Mary. She had a book open, her yearly reading of Pilgrim’s Progress, and he had the Leeds Mercury draped over his knees.
‘They’re right together, aren’t they?’ he asked.
‘They are,’ Mary agreed. ‘I suppose we looked like that once. Young and in love.’
‘Once.’ He chuckled, then sighed. ‘Do you think she’ll ever give in and marry him?’
‘Only if she really wants to, when she’s good and ready. I don’t even try and talk to her about it any more. She can be as stubborn as you when she wants.’
‘Stubborn?’
‘You are and you know it,’ she said with a gentle smile. ‘It’s one of your attractions.’
‘One of many?’
‘Don’t fish for compliments, Richard.’
Monday had dawned clear, the stars still bright in the sky as he walked to work. Tomorrow, he thought, he’d leave the stick at home; he felt he’d be fine without it, and would look less of an invalid.
‘How was Saturday night?’ he asked Rob.
‘Busy.’ The lad rubbed at his eyes. His face looked drawn, the red hair even wilder than usual. ‘We’d no sooner stopped one fight then we’d be called to another. The cells were packed yesterday morning. Mr Sedgwick kicked most of them out when they’d sobered up.’
‘Anything serious?’
Rob shrugged. ‘A pair of woundings. Nothing fatal. There’s two back there for the Petty Sessions later.’ He passed over the report.
‘You go and get some sleep.’
‘I will, boss.’
At the Moot Hall he’d half-expected again to be called into the mayor’s office. He was surprised Fenton wasn’t putting more pressure on him to find Gabriel. Then again, he thought, the man could always claim that the Corporation had done its part, put up the reward, and any failing was from the Constable and his men.
The day passed quietly enough. He spent the time in thought, trying to find a way to use the evidence from Howard’s house which sat in his drawer. The knife. Even more, eleven locks of hair.
It made sense that Howard was in it with Darden. It gave meaning to the blood on the merchant’s coat and the changed testimony about him attending the cockfight at the Talbot. But try as he might he could find nothing to help him put them in court.
The next day he walked down Briggate to the cloth market before the bell rang. At home he’d picked up the stick, then replaced it against the wall, feeling stronger.
Howard and Darden were standing in the middle of the street, talking to some of the other merchants. The factor gave him a killing look, fists clenched, before turning back and trying to concentrate on the conversation. His face was pale, with dark smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes.
He knows, Nottingham thought. He’d looked in the chest and now he was filled with fear. Perhaps it was time to make him panic a little. He returned to the jail, emptied the pouch of its contents and slid it into his pocket.
The market had started; Darden and Howard were making their way from trestle to trestle, fingers feeling the cloth and talking in soft whispers. There was a reverent hush over the street as business was conducted.
He strode up to the pair. In a voice that carried well, he said, ‘Mr Howard, might I have a word, please.’
The factor turned quickly, a scowl on his face. Darden didn’t look around.
‘What do you want, Constable?’ Howard hissed. ‘More accusations and innuendo? You’ve been warned about that.’
‘Nothing like that, sir,’ Nottingham said with a genial smile. ‘Someone found something close to your house. I was just wondering if you recognized it, that’s all.’
‘What is it?’ he asked brusquely.
The Constable held the packet out on the palm of his hand, the pale light playing on the silk. He kept his eyes on Howard. ‘Does this belong to you?’
The factor shook his head quickly. But not before desperation had flashed across his face. ‘I’ve never seen it. Why would you imagine it’s anything to do with me?’
‘Then I thank you. I’m just trying to find the owner. This is costly material, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ He watched the man’s face, a few beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
‘Isn’t there anything in it to tell you?’
Nottingham opened the pouch and heard Howard draw in a sharp breath. ‘It’s empty.’
‘I can’t help you,’ Howard said. ‘I have work to do here.’
‘Of course. I apologize for dragging you from it.’
‘You damned well should.’ There was menace in the factor’s voice.
The Constable walked away, resisting the impulse to glance over his shoulder and see what was happening. He’d done what he could. Something would happen now, he was certain.
By the middle of the morning he knew he’d made a mistake in not using the stick. His wound hurt, a low, nagging pain, and his leg ached more than it had in weeks. If he tried to continue, by the end of the day he might not be able to walk at all.
He limped slowly down Kirkgate, the cold air pulling at his face. By the time he reached Timble Bridge he was exhausted, stopping to lean on the parapet and catch his breath. He’d been foolish, too optimistic and hopeful.
The last few yards to the house passed slowly. It didn’t matter; at home he could rest a few minutes before returning to work.
The front door was unlocked. That seemed strange until he recalled that Mary had planned to send Lucy to market; the girl didn’t have a key to the house. He’d argued against it, but she’d said that cleaned up, in a better dress and cap no one would recognize the lass, and in the end he’d given in.