‘Mr Lister,’ he said.
‘Evening, Simon.’
Rob joined the others in the circle around the blaze. He saw some eye him suspiciously, wary of any authority. But Simon Gordonson was the one who seemed to speak for them all, a smiling man who persisted through a life that had done him no favours.
He’d made his way as a clerk for a shoemaker until the sleeping sickness had taken his wife and children at the tail of the previous summer, just as the nights grew chill. In his grief he’d given up his home, the things that no longer had meaning to him, and taken to wandering. He’d come back to Leeds a few weeks before, bringing the others who’d joined him, a strange, dispossessed band.
The men passed a jug of ale around and Rob took a short swig before handing it on. A pan of something bubbled over the fire. The women sat further away, almost in the shadows, babes and small children asleep on their laps, their bodies warmed with coats or threadbare blankets. Dogs rested nearby, raising their heads occasionally to sniff something on the breeze.
‘Crime keeping you busy, Mr Lister?’ Gordonson asked. He was an affable soul with a ready smile. Only rarely did it slip, but Rob could see the bottomless sorrow beneath the mask.
‘There’s no danger of ever being out of work,’ he answered.
Gordonson laughed softly. ‘God’s kingdom’s never so peaceful as he’d like it to be. I thought I saw you out with a lass the other day. Courting, are you?’
‘I suppose I am,’ he answered with a small laugh.
‘Pretty girl,’ Gordonson said quietly.
‘She is,’ Lister agreed. ‘But my father’s warned me I’d better not marry her.’
‘Not marry?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Why wouldn’t he want that? A man needs a wife and bairns to complete him.’
‘You tell him that.’ Rob couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘He doesn’t want me to marry her because her father’s the Constable.’ He saw the other man’s confusion. ‘She’s not good enough for me, evidently.’
‘Good enough is what rich folks can afford.’ Gordonson stared at the ground then looked up. ‘Are you rich, Mr Lister?’
‘No,’ Rob replied slowly, then said, ‘Middling, maybe.’
Gordonson leaned forward. ‘In that case I’ll tell you something for free. Nothing’s better than love.’
‘It won’t fill your belly, though, will it?’ Lister asked.
‘Maybe not, but food won’t fill your heart, either.’
Rob looked at Gordonson carefully. ‘And what about if the love goes? What then?’
Simon tapped his head. ‘Memories, Mr Lister. Memories. They can keep a man warm for many a long night.’
Rob sat and considered the words. A wind soughed lightly through the reeds and the tall grass by the water. Finally he stood.
‘I should get back to my work,’ he said. ‘Tell me, did you have a girl down here with a harelip? It would be a few weeks ago now.’
‘You mean that Lucy?’ Gordonson asked.
‘Yes, that’s her name.’
‘She stayed with us for a few days. You’d need to talk to Susan, she was the one who looked after her.’
Rob scanned the faces almost lost in the darkness. ‘Where is she?’
Gordonson shook his head. ‘Not tonight, Mr Lister. She’s off working. You come back tomorrow and I’ll see she’s here for you.’
Rob nodded. ‘Do you remember when Lucy was here?’ he wondered.
‘Not really,’ Gordonson told him with a gentle smile. ‘Time’s the one thing we have plenty of here. Maybe that’s why we don’t pay it much heed. Ask Susan tomorrow, she might know.’
Eight
‘So we know she whored for one night after Cates dismissed her,’ the Constable said. He sat behind the desk, hands playing with the quill pen as he talked. ‘And she was down with these folk by the river.’
Rob nodded. He stood close to the door, breeches and hose still dripping from wading into the water to pull out a body below Leeds Bridge. The corpse sat in the cold cell they used as a mortuary.
‘That’s the start of a picture,’ Nottingham continued, pushing a hand through his hair. ‘We need more. You find out what this woman knows, Rob. John, I want you to talk to the servants up at the Cates house. Lucy was there a few months, she must have become friendly with one of them.’
‘Yes, boss.’ The deputy sat on the other chair, longs legs stretched out in front of him.
‘Either of you have any idea where else she could have gone?’
Neither of them spoke. This was a story they’d need to piece together, a puzzle they’d need good fortune to complete. But the Constable was determined that they’d continue until the picture was finished.
‘According to Davidson and his girls, Lucy said she couldn’t go home because he’d find her there. See if you can discover who the he is.’
They nodded.
‘And there’s one other thing,’ he announced. ‘Yesterday evening I had a note from our Alderman whose house was robbed. It seems that his property has been returned.’
Sedgwick sat up straight. ‘What? What do you mean, boss?’
‘If I had to guess, I’d say our thief taker has a hand in this,’ Nottingham said ‘For a fee he arranges the return of the property.’
‘What about the thief?’ the deputy asked.
‘He’s paid for his efforts and probably makes more than he might if he sold the items to someone like Joe Buck. And with everything returned and the householder satisfied, no one will testify to a crime.’ He threw down the quill. ‘I’ll be talking to Mr Walton later. It looks as if his advertisement might have paid for itself already.’
‘It’s wrong,’ Rob said.
‘Of course it’s wrong,’ the Constable agreed angrily. ‘But the law of the land says it’s legal, as long as Walton didn’t arrange the burglary himself.’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘Right, you go home, Rob. John, see if you can give our drowner a name.’
Sedgwick was the one to talk to servants. The Constable knew that. He had the touch, the mixture of charm and easy banter that gained their trust and opened them up to say things they might never utter otherwise. They seemed to understand he was one of them.
Today, though, all he felt was a brittle weariness in his bones, as if he might snap into pieces at the lightest touch. Isabell had had another bad night, Lizzie up every hour to tend to her, feeding and soothing. And he’d lain awake, wondering what to do about James. He could take his belt to the boy, the way his own father had done often enough. But he knew it would do no more good now than it had then. The lad might be young but he was already like his father, bull-headed. As soon as the pain wore off and the tears dried James would be more determined than ever.
What sleep he’d managed had come in brief snatches, and now the skin on his face felt tight and his eyeballs gritty. He’d identified the dead man quickly enough as Jacob Miller; the deputy had known his face for years. There were no signs of violence, so he’d likely tumbled in the Aire when he was drunk. God knew that enough managed it as a way to die, by accident or design.
The Cates house was up at Town End, just beyond the Head Row. It was barely a few years old, its genteel, plain front as broad a notice of money as any. But that entrance was for the gentlemen and ladies who’d come to call on the family. He looked around until he saw his way to the back, where the servants and those in trade could come and go without the master having to notice them.
The kitchen door was open, the room steamy with the smell of cooking and the heat from the fire. A young girl was chopping onions, stopping to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand, her apron ill-fitting and stained. He could hear the cook yelling her orders. He knocked and walked in. The room went silent.
‘Who are you?’ the cook asked finally. She was a heavy-boned woman, short and squat, hair pushed awkwardly under a cap, face red and flushed with sweat.