‘Did he now?’ he asked. ‘And did he say how much?’
‘He said you should give me a penny.’
The Constable laughed and dug into his breeches pocket for a coin.
‘Who was this man?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ the boy answered, his eyes still moving around the room, full of curiosity. ‘But his skin was black. Was it paint?’
‘No. He was born like that. Some people are.’
The boy nodded sagely. Nottingham passed over the coin and took the note.
‘Thank you,’ the boy said. ‘The man told me I should thank you.’ He left quietly, and Nottingham opened the paper. It was from Joe Buck, in his thin scrawclass="underline" Another house last night. Mr Collins.
He knew Collins, a merchant who never seemed to find great success, still living in the old house on Briggate that his father had left him. The Constable rubbed his chin. It could be worth a visit to shake the man a little and see what happened. If it helped to catch the thief taker it would be worthwhile.
The house was down towards the river, almost opposite the office of the Mercury. Glancing across the street he saw Rob’s father bent over his desk, stopping only to put more ink on his quill. A sour taste filled his mouth and he swallowed it away, turning his attention to the merchant.
The house needed a new coat of limewash. The mullioned windows were warped in their frames, the glass thick, a few small panes missing and never replaced, rags stuffed in their stead by a man who couldn’t afford the repairs. It wasn’t the home of someone rich, but rather someone who had little to lose.
He knocked and was shown in by a serving girl, the skin on her hands red and raw. She showed him into a parlour where the fire was laid but not lit, the room chilly and unwelcoming. Dust on the mantle showed a couple of objects missing since it had last been cleaned.
Collins arrived quickly. He was a small, thin man, barely reaching to Nottingham’s shoulder, with startled eyes and a questioning mouth. His clothes were middling, the breeches of fair cut and style, the jacket older but clean, the material made to last.
‘Constable!’ he said. ‘Milly said it was you, but I can’t think why you’d come here. What can I do for you?’ His voice sounded strained, the skin tight on his face.
‘I heard that someone had stolen some items from you.’
‘Really?’ The surprise was so forced it wouldn’t have fooled an infant. Nottingham raised his eyebrows.
‘I hear quite a few things, Mr Collins. Your father was on the Corporation, if I remember.’
‘He was.’ The merchant eagerly nodded his agreement, happy to move on.
‘It was the Corporation that created the post of Constable,’ Nottingham continued. ‘They needed someone to take care of the crime in Leeds. That’s what I do. But if I don’t know a crime’s happened, I can’t help, can I?’
‘No.’ Collins started to blush.
‘I believe some people have been looking to this thief taker, the one who’s new here, to help them. Everything returned for a small fee, I believe, and everything kept quiet. But I’d like to think that good people in Leeds would rather have the thief caught and tried.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Collins agreed quickly, staring intently at the ground.
‘I’ll leave you to think on it,’ Nottingham told him mildly. ‘You might discover some items missing that you want to report to me.’ He moved to the door. ‘I’ll bid you good day.’
Collins would be at the jail later in the day, red-faced and tongue-tied, the Constable was certain of it. He left the house, glanced across the street to the Mercury again and walked away, bunching his fists.
It was a short stroll to the Talbot. He sent word up to Walton and sat in the corner with a beaker of musty ale that had sat too long in the cask. The thief taker came down the stairs yawning, his clothes dishevelled, raking a hand through his hair.
‘You wanted to see me, Constable? I hope this is important. I was still asleep.’
‘There have been four burglaries in Leeds within a week, Mr Walton.’
The man raised his eyebrows. ‘In London that’s no number at all.’
‘I’ve told you before, this isn’t London. And four is too many for this city. But there’s an odd thing.’
‘Oh?’ Walton asked without interest.
‘Two of them haven’t even been reported and the third withdrew his complaint.’ He glanced up at the thief taker. ‘You won’t mind if I look at your room?’
‘And why would you want to do that?’ Walton asked with a small grin.
‘Just to be certain that everything there belongs to you,’ Nottingham said.
‘What if I refuse?’
The Constable stood.
‘You don’t believe I’m an honest man, do you, Constable?’
‘I don’t trust you, Mr Walton.’
The thief taker’s smile was like an adder’s. ‘And if you find nothing in my room?’
‘We’ll see,’ Nottingham said warily.
‘Then shall we go?’ the thief taker suggested. ‘You can see for yourself.’
Following the man up the stairs, the Constable felt dismayed. He’d hoped Walton would have been careless, too proud of his little tricks, and left things openly around. But he must have been wrong; the man wouldn’t have let the law in otherwise. Still, it had been a gamble, something worth doing in the moment.
Walton made a performance of unlocking his door, turning the large, heavy key and ushering Nottingham inside. It was a sparse, small space, the shutters thrown wide, the window open to the yard behind the inn. A small chest stood in the corner, its lid up, empty inside. There was a candle, holder and tinder on the shelf, and an old bed. Nottingham rummaged over the straw mattress and through the blankets and pillow, but it was just for the sake of appearance. There was nothing to be found here and they both knew it. Walton leaned against the wall, looking smug.
‘I told you,’ he said. ‘Everything that’s here belongs to me. There’s precious little of it.’
‘You asked if I thought you were an honest man, Mr Walton. I’ll give you your answer. I don’t believe you are.’
‘Be careful what you say,’ the thief taker warned. ‘Slander’s a crime even in these parts.’
Nottingham smiled. ‘But the truth isn’t. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again, Mr Walton.’
He frowned as he walked back to the jail. The thief taker had made him look foolish, but he wasn’t the first and he wouldn’t be the last. For all that, it had been worthwhile; he’d learned something from the room.
At his desk he scribbled quick notes to Sedgwick and Lister with new instructions for the men. With God’s good grace they’d have Walton soon enough. He steepled his hands over his mouth, feeling the roughness of bristles against his fingertips. Sometime soon he’d need a shave.
He sat back, wondering what he could do to ease Emily’s pain and realized there was nothing. What happened depended on Rob, and he felt sorry for the lad. Whatever he chose he’d lose something. If he followed his father, he might well believe he had to leave the job, just when he’d learned how to do it well. Nottingham sighed. No good would come of any of this.
He was still thinking when the door opened and Alice Wendell entered. Her back was straight, her clothes clean, hair neatly hidden by an old cap washed pure white. But her face had aged over the days; sorrow haunted her eyes, the lines so deep in her flesh they might have been put there with a chisel.
‘Sit down,’ he offered, pulling out a chair and pouring her a mug of ale from the jug. She drank politely, then set the beaker on the edge of the desk.
‘I need to find out what you’ve learned about my Lucy’s death,’ she said, and he knew it had been the only thing in her mind since he’d given her the news, stealing her sleep and tearing at her waking hours.
‘We’ve been trying, but we haven’t managed to find much yet,’ he admitted, knowing he was really saying nothing at all.