Now he was alone with his pride, and all its gold was tarnished.
He’d make them pay. But it would be a fleeting satisfaction. They’d taken something far greater from him. And from Emily. He knew he should be with her, comforting her, but he didn’t have the strength right now. All he could do was feel the grief tighten all around him.
Tonight he needed her to himself, to gather the memories around himself and try to gain some warmth and solace from them. He had to breathe her in alone, to hear her voice in his ear from every corner of the house.
He knew no one would understand, least of all Emily. She’d want to be here, to have his arms around her, to share her tears with him. Tomorrow he’d do that, hold her and cherish her. Her mother was dead and she needed her father in a way she never had before. Part of him wanted to go and bring her home, but he couldn’t. She’d hate him for it, he hated it in himself, but in his heart he knew he had no choice. One last time he wanted Mary with him.
If only. The words filled his mind. If only he hadn’t shown Howard the pouch. If only. . He knew the hours would trail and spin in front of him and the guilt would weigh heavier and heavier in his head. It would last a lifetime.
The afternoon had passed in a blur. The deputy had spoken to the undertaker. He’d pushed and bullied the curate at the Parish Church to arrange the burial for the next day. As twilight began, he turned from Kirkgate on to Briggate and climbed the stairs in the Moot Hall, the sound of his boots muted by the thick carpet.
Martin Cobb scribbled away at his papers, a circle of candlelight on his desk, glancing up as he heard someone approach.
‘Mr Sedgwick. I haven’t seen you since Mr Nottingham came back. How are you?’
‘I want you to give the mayor a message.’
Cobb looked up at him curiously. ‘What is it?’
‘Tell him to be at the church at two tomorrow. In his robes.’
The clerk sat back and rubbed his chin. ‘Why would Mr Fenton need to do that? He’s a busy man.’
‘Because someone murdered the Constable’s wife this morning and we’re going to bury her.’
‘What?’ Cobb asked, shocked.
But the deputy was already walking away.
He spent another two hours passing the word. He finished on the other side of the river, sitting in Joe Buck’s parlour, feeling awkward in the dainty chair, sipping at a glass of ale. He wanted to be moving, to be doing something more.
Buck studied his face. ‘You know who did it, don’t you?’
‘Gabriel,’ Sedgwick answered. ‘Solomon Howard. He’s Jeremiah Darden’s factor.’
‘Powerful men,’ Buck mused. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Prove it. And then I’ll kill them.’
The fence nodded. ‘I’ll be there tomorrow. And I’ll have people start asking. Anything they find, it’s yours. Mr Nottingham’s always been fair with me.’
Back at the jail Mary’s body was in the cold cell. He lit a candle and slowly unwrapped the sheet. It seem so strange to see her in death, her face still, her eyes empty. Alive, she’d been so gentle. At first he was reluctant to remove her clothes, to see her naked. She’s was the boss’s wife, a woman who’d shown his family kindness, whose voice he could hear in his head. He started then stopped. Finally he took a deep breath and tried to think of her as just another corpse.
She’d been knifed five times; all the cuts were the same size. There were the beginnings of bruises on her sides and legs, as if someone had kicked her. He ran his fingers lightly over her scalp and found a lump under her hair. Had that happened before or after she died, he wondered?
Tenderly, he covered her once more. Soon enough they’d come to remove her corpse. He knew he’d taken things into his own hands by arranging the funeral, but it was the right thing. The boss didn’t need that on top of everything else.
He was sitting at the desk, thinking, when Rob arrived. He was wearing his good suit rather than his work clothes, his face closed and anxious.
‘How is she?’ the deputy asked.
‘How do you think?’ He poured a glass of ale and drank it down. ‘She was crying and screaming. She wanted to go home.’
‘You didn’t let her?’
Rob shook his head.
‘Lizzie’ll look after her. The funeral’s tomorrow at two.’
‘Did the boss arrange it?’ Lister asked in surprise.
‘I did. It’s one thing less for him to think about at the moment.’ The deputy looked up. ‘Right, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to talk to the clerks at Darden’s when they finish work. You’re going to see as many of the merchants as you can. You’ll do better at that than I would. That’s why I wanted you dressed up.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
He’d thought about that during the afternoon. ‘Tell them that someone murdered Mrs Nottingham and persuade them to come to the funeral. When you’ve done that, ask a few questions — can they think of anyone who might have done it. Then drop in something about Darden and Howard.’
‘I will.’
‘Leave everything else to the night men, I don’t give a bugger what it is. You and I are going to work on this until we have them.’
‘She was good to me,’ Rob said emptily.
‘Aye, and she cared about Lizzie, and James and Isabell. The world’s lost a grand woman. The boss knows that more than anyone. But now she’s in the cold cell. Someone stabbed her five times. Just keep thinking about that.’
TWENTY
He went from merchant to merchant, from home to warehouse. The news had passed already, the way it did in Leeds, and they all received him with serious faces and words of condolence. Without question they agreed to attend the funeral, but none had an idea who could have been responsible. And when he started his questions about Darden and the factor, their mouths shut and their eyes began to look elsewhere.
He found Tom Williamson at the new warehouse by the river. Men were preparing a shipment of cloth to leave for Hull the next morning. A small, fussy clerk checked against his list and pettishly directed Rob to the office.
The merchant was there, a brazier burning to give some heat to the room. His head was down, concentrating on a column of figures.
‘Mr Williamson?’
He looked up, taking a moment to place Lister. ‘Did Mr Nottingham send you?’
‘You haven’t heard the news?’ He seemed to be the first who didn’t know.
‘What news? What’s happened?’
‘Someone killed the Constable’s wife this morning. Stabbed her in her house.’
Williamson sat back, looking stunned. He ran his hands down his face. ‘Richard. .?’
‘He found her,’ Rob said.
‘What can I do?’
‘The funeral’s tomorrow at two.’
‘I’ll be there, of course. I met her a few times. She always seemed a lovely woman.’
‘She was,’ he said with quiet feeling.
‘You’re James Lister’s lad, aren’t you?’ the merchant asked thoughtfully. ‘The one who’s courting the Constable’s daughter?’
Rob raised his head. ‘I am.’
‘How is she?’
Lister just stared at him.
‘Please, tell them both how sorry I am for them.’ He stayed silent for a short while, then asked, ‘Do you know who did it?’
‘Not yet,’ Lister lied. ‘Can you think of anyone?’
Williamson shook his head.
‘What do you know about Mr Darden and his factor?’
‘What?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘You think they’re behind it?’
‘No, nothing like that. We’re just gathering information on them.’
‘Richard had asked me about them, too. I told him what I knew.’ He rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘There’s something going on, isn’t there?’
‘I’m just doing what I’m told,’ Rob answered blandly, trying to keep all the expression off his face. Williamson stared at him, then sighed. ‘There was something I was going to tell Mr Nottingham when I saw him. I’d forgotten all about it before; I was only a boy when it happened, but my father fumed about it for years.’