It was a full half-hour before the brothers burst into the room. Peter was the older, the taller, the leader. Paul trailed just behind, his pale eyes not yet fully awake. Peter Henderson drew himself up, his face haughty and lazy.
He was as tall as Nottingham and broad, in his early twenties but already running to fat, the buttons straining on an expensively stitched brocade waistcoat. Thick thighs filled a pair of well-cut breeches. His eyes were sharp, wary. Paul’s face had the same shape, the same blond hair, the features so similar that the brotherhood was obvious. But he was docile, empty, the willing sheep to his brother’s shepherd.
‘The meaning of this, Constable?’ Peter asked.
Nottingham took his time answering. He looked at them, unshaven, pale bristles on their cheeks. They smelt of old beer and stale sweat. He waited, his eyes travelling up and down their clothes, looking for any sign of blood.
‘You’re coming to the jail with us,’ he told them.
Peter stuck his hands into the pockets of his breeches and tilted his head back. ‘For what?’
‘The murder of Isaac the Jew.’ He spoke calmly, watching. Peter’s face was fixed, hard, but Paul’s eyes flickered with fear, and he knew he had them.
‘I suppose you have proof?’
‘Suppose what you like, Master Henderson. For now we’re taking you to the jail to ask you some questions.’
Peter didn’t turn his head, but bellowed, ‘Watkins!’
The servant scurried in. Henderson didn’t even turn towards the man but kept his gaze fixed on Nottingham.
‘Send word to our father that the Constable has arrested us. And have lawyer Ames come down to the jail.’
As the parlour door closed softly, he said,‘You won’t have us long.’
Nottingham smiled. ‘We’ll only need you long enough to hang you. Shall we go, then?’
The Constable gave Sedgwick quiet instructions, then followed the brothers down the street. They walked in silence, but he knew people saw them, that the word would spread that the Henderson brothers had been arrested again. He kept a good pace, forcing them to walk faster than they wanted.
For a moment he felt something, like small pinpricks on his neck, and he turned sharply. But there was no one there.
Josh was waiting at the jail, standing by the desk. Nottingham put Peter and Paul into a cell together, letting the sound of the key turning in the lock resound. Then he spoke soft words into the boy’s ear and watched him hurry off at a run.
The two of them sat silent on the bed, so close their bodies almost touched. Was it to give each other strength, he wondered? He closed the door behind himself and leaned against it. Peter looked up at him, but Paul didn’t move his head.
‘Do you know Chapeltown Moor?’ Nottingham began.
Peter leaned back against the wall. ‘The races.’ He paused and turned to the Constable. ‘And the hangings. We like a good hanging. I laugh when they piss themselves.’
‘Then we’ll have to see that the pair of you make a good hanging. My guess is you’ll piss yourselves even before you get on the scaffold.’
‘Who was it we’re supposed to have murdered?’ Peter asked.
‘Isaac the Jew.’
‘That’s the one who buys old clothes?’
‘Bought,’ Nottingham corrected him.
Peter shrugged. ‘Bought, then.’
‘Why did you kill him? The rumour that he had gold in his room?’
Peter looked at him with contempt, as he might a servant. ‘We didn’t kill anyone. Why do you think we did?’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘Last night?’ Peter stretched and turned to his brother. ‘The Talbot, wasn’t it? We lost some money on the cockfighting.’
‘That’s right,’ Paul agreed. Nottingham could see he looked uncomfortable, his fingers twisting together. He’ll be the one to collapse, the Constable thought. All it would take would be the right thrust. ‘Then you vanished with that whore for a while.’
‘Money badly spent,’ Peter said sorely.
‘What time did you get home?’ Nottingham asked.
‘No idea,’ Peter replied blandly. ‘You’d have to ask the servants. They’re the ones who got up to let us in.’
‘I will.’ He paused. ‘And are those the clothes you were wearing last night?’ He stared at Paul, who nodded in response.
Peter stood up and approached the Constable. The planes of his face, hard and sharp, burned with anger.
‘I’ll make sure my father destroys you for this.’
‘I won’t let anyone get away with murder,’ Nottingham replied evenly. ‘I don’t care what his surname is.’
With slow, precise care, Henderson spat into the Constable’s face. ‘That’s my opinion of you and your law.’
Nottingham brought his knee up sharply, feeling it connect hard against the younger man’s balls. Almost as if time had slowed, Henderson’s eyes widened in shock then he collapsed with a groan, tossed down carelessly to the floor, hands cradling his crotch as he curled up. He was gasping for air, skin suddenly pale. Paul started to rise to help him but the Constable gestured him back.
‘That,’ he told Peter, ‘was very stupid.’
He locked the door behind them and sat at his desk, wiping the spittle from his face. He’d probably done the wrong thing, he knew that, but it had been a reaction. He’d taken a chance with the arrest. Now he needed evidence. If he couldn’t find it, then Henderson would be right; the alderman would destroy him.
But he was certain the evidence was there. The sound of money, the woman had said. That was this pair. They’d be too cocksure to get rid of whatever they’d found. Now he had to wait for Josh and Sedgwick to return, and pray they’d discovered what he needed.
It was the best part of half an hour before the deputy arrived. He was carrying a pack that the Constable recognized as Isaac’s, and two suits of bloody clothes that he laid out on the desk. He grinned and shook his head
‘Right on display by their beds,’ he said. ‘They couldn’t even be bothered to hide anything.’
Nottingham nodded his approval. Got you, he thought triumphantly. No lawyer will be able to talk them out of this.
‘Right, bring those along and let’s see what they have to say. Peter might be feeling a little fragile.’
‘Oh?’ The deputy raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘He had a little accident. Very unfortunate.’
‘Aye, it happens sometimes,’ Sedgwick agreed sympathetically.
‘It does.’
He knew he only had a few minutes before the alderman and his lawyer arrived, before there was another angry note from the Mayor. He needed to make the most of them.
The pair of them were sitting together. Paul had a protective arm round his brother’s shoulders. Peter had been sick on the floor, and the cell was filled with the harsh smell. Traces of vomit flecked the bright peacock colours of his waistcoat and jacket.
Light, dull as lead, came through the barred window.
‘So you didn’t murder Isaac the Jew,’ Nottingham said.
‘I told you that,’ Peter said. His voice was thick and he shifted his weight very carefully on the bed.
‘I thought you might want more time to remember and reconsider.’
Peter’s eyes hardened.‘We can’t remember what we didn’t do. Constable.’
Nottingham nodded sagely. ‘I just wondered, since you had his pack in your room and some clothes stained with blood.’
Sedgwick came forward, holding the pack, the clothes draped over his arm.
Peter started to rise, only his brother’s arms fast around him holding him back.
Nottingham leaned against the wall and folded his arms. ‘That’s ample evidence for me. It will be for the Assizes, too. You’re both for the noose.’ The satisfaction he felt as he said it almost worried him. ‘Why did you do it?’
‘They say the Jews always have money,’ Paul answered.
‘Be quiet,’ his brother ordered him loudly.