‘Show willing, eh?’
Bell said nothing, ready to turn back to his work.
‘I want a word.’
‘What about?’ The landlord bunched his fists then opened them again.
‘In the back,’ Sedgwick told him.
‘I need to keep an eye on that lot.’ He gestured at the customers. ‘They’ll drink me dry otherwise.’
‘Call one of the girls to do it.’
Bell stared at him for a moment, then yelled, ‘Essie!’ He pulled at a ring of keys on the belt under his leather apron and unlocked the door to the cock pit. Faint light came through the high windows. The room smelt strongly of blood and death. The landlord settled himself on a bench, crossing his arms over his belly.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re alone now, Mr Sedgwick. What did you want to talk about?’
‘Truth and lies.’
‘Oh aye?’ Bell smirked. ‘And what about them?’
‘As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been very good at the lies.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Funny how you remembered that Mr Darden had been at the cockfight not long after you said he hadn’t.’
‘I’d forgotten he was here,’ the landlord answered blandly.
‘The jingle of money’s always good for the memory, eh?’ The deputy smiled.
‘You think what you like.’
‘Oh, I will. And would you like to know what I think, Mr Bell?’
‘If you like.’
‘I think I’ve had enough lies from you.’
The landlord shook his head slowly. ‘I’ve been threatened by better men than you.’
‘Happen you have,’ the deputy told him. ‘But I daresay it won’t be too good for trade to have a Constable’s man standing outside all the time, will it, or if we keep taking in your girls for whoring?’ Bell sat quietly, sucking on his teeth. ‘You ought to know by now that I don’t threaten,’ Sedgwick continued. ‘Consider that a promise, Mr Bell.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And it’ll be the first of many.’ He slapped his palm against the wood surround of the pit. ‘I’d give it three months before you’re out of business. Maybe you want to think on that.’ He began to walk away. ‘I’ll be back to see about some truth.’
Nottingham opened the desk drawer and took out the silk pouch, feeling it slide between his fingers. He closed his fist around it, the sorrow rising in his chest. If he hadn’t been so arrogant. .
He breathed deeply and put the pouch away. The design, the texture, were fixed in his mind. He stood, took hold of the stick and left the jail, walking down Briggate towards the bridge. People stopped him to offer their condolences. They were kindly meant, but each time it only brought Mary’s face into his head and he had to turn away in case they saw his tears ready to fall.
Tom Williamson’s warehouse lay on the riverbank, downstream from the bridge. It was still new, the stonework clean and sharp, not yet worn down by weather and winters. In the clerks’ office the brazier burned and beyond men worked busily, preparing a shipment for somewhere.
The Constable spotted Williamson, an apron over his coat and breeches, pulling at a heavy cloth on the shelf. The man next to him said something and the merchant turned, then came forward, his hand extended.
‘Richard,’ he said, his voice filled with sadness. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you.’ Nottingham shook his hand. ‘And for yesterday, too, for coming forward to carry the coffin.’
‘I was honoured,’ Williamson said, and the Constable believed him. ‘Come on, let’s go outside. I need some fresh air after all the dust in this place.’
The cold wind swept down along the river and the men walked with their backs to it.
‘You didn’t come here just to thank me.’
‘No,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘You told one of my men something interesting.’
‘Lister’s boy, you mean? He seems sharp enough.’
‘He is. You talked about Mr Darden lending money to the city.’
Williamson sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I said it was a long time ago. I was just a boy then. All I really know is that it angered my father.’
‘He thought it put Darden in a special position.’
The merchant nodded then gave a wry grin. ‘He believed a lot of strange things. To be honest, I think he just wished he’d had the money himself, so he could have lent it.’
‘Who’d know more about it?’
Williamson stopped and looked at the Constable. ‘You’d better tell me what’s going on, Richard. I heard that the mayor had warned you away from Darden. Then your man was asking about him and his factor.’
‘Fenton did warn me, yes. And Howard brought his lawyer to see me.’
‘Then why?’ His eyes were curious.
‘I’m as sure as I can be that Solomon Howard murdered Mary, and that Darden has been in it with him. I believe they killed those children. Eleven of them.’
Williamson stayed silent for a long time.
‘If you know all that. .’
‘My proof won’t stand in court,’ Nottingham said flatly. ‘I’m looking for something that will. That’s the reason I’m looking at everything. It doesn’t matter how small it is or how long ago it happened. I want anything I might be able to use.’
‘Charles Trueman,’ the merchant said. ‘Go and talk to him. He was privy to things for decades. If anyone knows the full story, he will.’
The Constable nodded. He’d never met Trueman but he’d heard the name often enough over the years. He had to be eighty if he was a day, but he worked all his life for the city, rising until he became head clerk of the corporation. ‘Where does he live, do you know?’
‘A little way along the Newcastle road, I think. It should be easy enough to find his direction.’
‘Thank you again.’
‘Richard.’ There was a note of warning in the man’s voice. ‘If they’re guilty I want them to hang as much as anyone. Please, take care trying to prove it.’
‘Part of me’s well beyond care now,’ he answered.
TWENTY-TWO
It was the work of a minute to discover exactly where Trueman lived, close enough to stay in touch with the city, but still enough distance away to be separate from it. The Constable crossed over the Head Row, passing the grand houses and the grammar school at Town End before Leeds vanished into countryside.
The fields were dark and moist where they’d been pulled over by the plough. Sheep grazed on the hillsides. They were what gave Leeds its wealth, a fortune in their fleeces. He strode out, hands pushed into the pockets of his greatcoat, the stick clicking out a rhythm on the road.
The house was out beyond Sheepscar, past the few houses there that were barely a hamlet. The garden was small but well-tended, the building itself in good repair, more than a cottage but certainly nothing grand. He knocked at the door and waited until the servant answered.
She was a young girl, modest, but with lively blue eyes and an intelligent face.
‘I’m Richard Nottingham, the Constable of Leeds,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see Mr Trueman.’
She bobbed a quick curtsey and invited him into the hallway. ‘It’s right parky out there,’ she said. ‘Come in and get yourself warm.’ She vanished through another door. He heard a quiet exchange of voices, then she came and led him through.
Trueman still had a full head of white hair, side whiskers extending almost to his chin. He was seated in front of a roaring fire, neatly dressed in an expensive coat and breeches, the stock tied at his throat. He looked at the Constable with perceptive eyes covered by a cloud of rheum.
‘Mr Nottingham. I’ve heard plenty about you, but we’ve never met.’ He had the voice of a younger man, sonorous and regal.
‘No. Thank you for seeing me.’
The man gave a short nod. ‘My condolences to you, sir. I lost my wife ten years back. I know what it’s like to find yourself alone.’ He steepled his hands under his chin, the spots of age all across his flesh. ‘But I do wonder what brings you all the way out here.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Something from the past, perhaps? I can’t imagine why else you’d need to talk to me.’