Caroline had gone by the time the deputy returned to Briggate. She could have been off with a man, or maybe she’d gone to the dram shop to drink down some strength for the rest of the day. But he couldn’t wait for her. There were other girls who might have seen Lucy, who might have the answers he needed.
A couple of them remembered her, the timid, ugly creature who seemed to make no money yet came back the next night with her face bruised button-bright and her eyes full of fear, then didn’t return again. But none of them had spoken to her and no one knew who’d been running her. All he could hope was that Caroline had been able to find a name for him; if anyone here was likely to manage it, she’d be the one.
There’d be no point questioning the pimps. These days there were too many of them and the denials would fall too easily from their lips. Instead he went on to other business, the theft of some lace from a shop near the top of Briggate, the report of a pocket picked and two florins stolen. That worried him; it was the third instance inside a week. But without a description of some kind, or the good fortune to catch the thief in the act, they stood little chance: he knew that all too clearly.
Finally he returned to the jail. Nottingham was there, working on another report, sharpening the nib on a quill.
‘She was a whore right enough,’ the deputy said, folding his long body on to a chair. ‘Just not a good one.’
The Constable sat back. ‘How do you mean?’
‘She only worked two nights. Took nothing the first, according to other girls, came back all bruised the next, and that was it. Never returned after that.’
‘Who was pimping her?’ Nottingham ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the fringe.
‘I don’t know yet, boss. Old Caroline’s asking round.’
Nottingham thought for a moment. ‘How long ago was this?’
Sedgwick shrugged. ‘Before the fire on the Calls, that’s all she can really remember.’
The Constable gave a long, deep sigh. ‘That doesn’t help us much.’
‘It’s a start. I’ll keep asking. I suppose the pimp could have killed her.’
‘It’s possible,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘If he beat her once he could do it again. That makes him the best we have.’
‘What about the baby, though, boss? Why would he want to tear the child out of her like that?’
‘I wish I understood that, John. I really do.’
After the deputy had left for the evening the Constable pushed his reports aside. They’d still be there in the morning when he’d be ready to deal with them. He needed to talk to Alice Wendell again.
He locked the door of the jail and walked slowly to the Calls. Leeds was growing quiet, people in their homes, the noises around muted. There was a deep, comforting silence within the sounds of the city, and he reached for the stillness there. Already workmen were busy on the house where they’d found Lucy, he noticed. They’d knocked out much of the bones of the place and put up a new framework, the fresh-cut timber almost golden in the early evening light. The Constable lingered for a minute, amazed as always by the skill of the joiners and builders, then moved on.
He only had to knock once before she answered the door to the cellar room. It didn’t surprise him. As soon as she saw him, for just the briefest moment her face fell. Then she gathered herself, mouth firm and back straight.
‘Tha’d better come in,’ she said.
Inside, the door closed, she kept her gaze direct.
‘I’m sorry,’ he began but she shook her head.
‘Nay,’ she told him. ‘It’s not your fault. I thought you’d be back.’
‘I need to ask you some questions.’
‘Aye. Go on, then.’ Her voice was steady, her gaze firm, but he saw her fingers pressing tightly on the wood of the table. She kept her grief inside, a private thing, not to be shared. The face she showed the world had to be strong.
‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked.
‘Six month, near as spitting. Used to be up in the Leylands. But once it were just me, after our Lucy found her position, I wanted somewhere cheaper.’
‘So the folk around here don’t know her?’
‘Nay.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘It were different when we were up there,’ she continued, as if it had been another town and not just a quarter of a mile away. ‘They all knew us there. Everyone looked out for everyone else. Even more when I had my man.’
‘How did he die?’ the Constable asked quietly.
‘He went mad.’ She lifted her eyes. ‘Couldn’t work, couldn’t do owt. Finally it seemed like all he had left was words. He’d never been much for talking, but he began to speak and speak. All day, even into the night when he should have been asleep. Then it was like he’d said everything, used it all up, and he was silent. And then he died.’ She gave a small, wan smile. ‘It were a long time ago now.’
But no less raw for all the years, he thought.
‘What about your son?’
‘He were a good lad,’ she answered, and he noticed the past tense. ‘Looked after things, brought his money home every week. He had a good trade at the smithy. Then he met some wild lads and he fell in with them.’
She shrugged helplessly. He knew the story, he’d heard it more times than he could recall. Drinking, whoring, fighting. . there was nothing new in the world.
‘Our Lucy, she’s buried over there with the paupers?’ Alice Wendell asked.
‘Yes. We didn’t know who she was.’
After a short silence she asked, ‘Can I bring my lass home? Bury her proper?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll find out.’
‘Thank you,’ she said with a short nod of her head. It was both gratitude and dismissal.
‘Is there anything else I can do?’
‘I’ll be reet.’
He left her, saddened and heartsore. She’d survive because she’d always survived, no matter how much life might have thrown at her. She’d outlived her daughter and that was always a difficult thing to accept.
At the Parish Church he made his way among the graves until he reached Rose’s headstone. He bowed his head and let memories of her fill his mind, allowed the joy of remembering her alive overcome the pain he’d felt when she’d died. She’d been gone more than a year now but the scar still felt tender.
Quietly he made his way home, thoughts tumbling in his head. Mary was in the garden, carefully picking weeds from between the plants as the light faded. He lifted her up, held her close, smelling her, kissing her.
‘What’s that for?’ she asked in happy astonishment.
He shrugged and smiled.
Seven
The second of the burglaries came that night, at the home of Alderman Ridgely close to the Red House at the top of the Head Row. The job had been neatly and daringly done, the Constable saw after he’d been called out in the small hours, the lock on the window sash quietly worked open with a knife blade.
The thief had made away with some plate, worth almost ten pounds if the blustering owner was telling the truth. It was a good sum, a fortune to many men. Nottingham sighed and tried to rub the weariness of a broken night from his face. He knew exactly what would happen. The Alderman would have a quiet word with the mayor. Then John Douglas would have to put pressure on him to find the goods and the man who’d stolen them.
Tuesday morning brought rain to blight the early cloth market. He walked down Briggate in his greatcoat and tricorn hat, surrounded by the scent of wet wool, the rich smell of Leeds’s prosperity. Wind gusted up from the river, leaving the weavers soaked at the trestles, covering their cloth as best they could. The merchants huddled together, clustering in doorways, the quiet confidence of money in their talk. Once the bell rang they’d forget the weather to look and buy and calculate the profits in their coffers.