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‘Good. Then I’ll have my man here before the sun sets. And,’ he warned them again, ‘no word to Walton. You’ll be watched all day.’

Out on Currie Entry, the air heavy around them, Rob asked,

‘Who’s going to watch them?’

‘No one,’ the Constable told him with a grin. ‘They’re scared enough, they won’t do anything. I just wanted to keep them fearful.’

‘What about tonight?’ Sedgwick asked.

‘You’ll be in the house with them, John. Keep yourself hidden. Rob and I will be out here. We’ll let Walton do his business and leave. You follow him out and we’ll take him in the yard. He won’t be able to escape from there and if he has any sense he won’t try to take on three men.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Lucy Wendell,’ he said, changing to the topic that kept worrying at his mind. ‘She was somewhere for two weeks and we haven’t found where yet.’ Nottingham looked at the others. ‘What do you think? Rob?’

Lister spoke slowly, putting into words what he’d been wondering.

‘From what the other girl, Susan, told me, she seemed happy enough down by the river. I think someone found her, the man she was scared of.’

The Constable nodded slowly. ‘That’s possible. John?’

‘I agree,’ the deputy said. ‘There must have been some reason she never went back there. Something happened.’

‘I believe the man she feared was the one who made her pregnant,’ Nottingham said. ‘He’s the one we need to find. We need to start asking around again. Someone will remember her. Go hard on them.’ He paused. ‘You get started on that, John. Rob, we’ll meet at the jail just before sunset. I’ll go and see everything’s well at the cloth market.’

The bell for the start of the market sounded as he arrived on Briggate, conversation turning to whispers as the merchants moved with purpose through the crowds. The cloth was laid out on the wood to show length and the quality of the colour. The weavers stood with coats off against the heat, deep circles of sweat showing under their armpits.

By habit the merchants always dressed well for the markets, displaying their wealth and finery, no matter how uncomfortable the weather. It was a matter of pride, it kept them apart, a reminder of the wealth to be made in wool for the right people.

He exchanged nodded greetings with a few of the men and watched bargains made and sealed with a quick shake of the hands. The cloth was folded, ready to be moved later to the warehouses. This was the real business of Leeds, fast and certain, where fortunes were founded and added to. Nottingham knew that full twenty thousand pounds could change hands over the next hour. And there would be more in the afternoon at the White Cloth Hall, where the only sounds would be the echo of heels on flagstones, the voices as hushed as if they were in church.

He remembered the Hall being built, the stone clean and golden, the large area inside, the pillars as impressive and grand as any cathedral, where commerce stood as a god equal to any in heaven.

Nottingham turned and caught Ben Cates glaring at him. The man stood with his sons, giving quick, whispered instructions. Robert was concentrating, nodding furiously, while Will glanced around, bemused, standing apart.

By the time the bell sounded again to finish trading most of the cloth had gone. Only a few sad lengths remained, material of poor quality, weeks of work wasted and families going hungry.

He stopped at the White Swan and drank a mug of small beer. The closeness was still pressing down on the city. If it remained, violence would abound tonight. Tempers would quickly shred, fists would become knives, men would bleed and die and women would weep.

By the Moot Hall the traders were setting up for the Saturday market, chickens already squawking loudly in their wicker baskets, fearful as the tang of blood rose from the Shambles to fill the air, sweet and sickening, mixing with the stench of shit and piss along the street.

Wives and servant girls crowded round the stall selling old clothes, small purses clutched tightly in their fists as they pulled and rummaged, drawing out dresses and shifts to hold against their bodies.

Girls had come in from the farms carrying butter, fresh that morning, and churns full of milk. The street was bustling, voices raised to be heard, a clamour of people moving, pressing to one side as carts tried to pass. A woman wandered through the throng shouting herself raw as she tried to sell bunches of lucky heather.

The Constable moved among the sellers he knew, asking if any of them recalled Lucy. Some thought they recollected a girl with a harelip but none could remember when they might have seen her. Too much time had passed, too many faces seen at markets in the towns all around.

He was wondering what to do next, who to ask, when a hand tugged at his arm. The woman’s face was tight and frantic.

‘You’re the Constable, aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘Can you help me? My son’s gone missing.’

Thirteen

He straightened, immediately alert and attentive.

‘How old is he?’

‘Just six,’ she said, the tears beginning to stream. She wiped at them with a hand that had seen plenty of work, her knuckles raw and red. ‘He wandered off a few minutes ago. The clock had just struck.’

He placed her now, the wife of Morrison the chandler down on Swinegate.

‘What’s your son’s name?’ he asked.

‘Mark.’ She fumbled in the pocket of her old dress for a kerchief and blew her nose. She was perhaps thirty and she’d been pretty once, the faint traces of beauty still around her eyes and mouth. But time and children had taken their toll, and now her skin sagged and her hair was limp.

‘Where did you see him last?’ He tried to keep the urgency from his voice.

‘Up by the cross. I was going to buy a chicken, I turned round and reached for him and he’d gone. .’ Panic filled her and her face crumpled again.

‘What was Mark wearing?’

For a moment she looked as if she couldn’t recall, then said, ‘His blue coat and breeches. They’re too big for him, they belonged to his brother and he hasn’t grown into them yet.’

‘How tall is he? What colour is his hair?’

She held her hand at her waist. ‘About this high. He’s very fair.’

Already Nottingham was looking around, but any boy that size would be almost invisible in the press of people.

‘You stay up by the cross,’ he told her. ‘I’ll start looking.’

He squeezed his way through the crowds, moving down to the Moot Hall, searching rapidly. Children were lost at the market every week. A woman would let go of a small hand to pay for something and the young one would be pulled away, as if out to sea. They’d be found a few minutes later, crying and terrified.

He gave the boy’s description to one of the stallholders, knowing it would quickly pass among them all, more eyes looking for the lad; it was what they did. He pushed between people, watching closely for small movements at the edge of his sight. Slowly he worked his way back up to the Market Cross, crossing and re-crossing every inch.

Mrs Morrison was there, standing as tall as she could, shouting out the boy’s name, the words lost in the tumult of the market.

‘I haven’t found him yet,’ he told her, seeing the terror grow in her eyes. ‘Don’t worry. All the sellers know by now, they’ll be watching for him.’ She reached for his hand and he took it, patting it gently. ‘We’ll find him. You stay here.’

He plunged back into the crowd, glancing at the stallholders who all shook their heads. Nothing. He could feel the first twinge of fear, the sense that something was wrong, creeping up his spine.

Someone should have spotted the boy by now. He kept looking, checking all the nooks and hidden areas he knew so well, hoping against hope that he’d see the flash of a blue coat or the wail of a tiny voice.