‘Right, let’s get her back. Rob, you go and get a sheet so we can cover her. We’ll find something to put her on.’
They were careful moving her, the body fragile as ash, so light she might have been made of smoke. But lifting her from the cellar was difficult, slow work that brought the taste of vomit hard into their mouths.
Finally they had her on a door that hadn’t been damaged too badly, just scorched on its edges, and carried her up Kirkgate to the jail where they put her in the cell they used as a mortuary. The Constable lit two lamps; even on the brightest day the light in the room was dim.
He set up a mug of ale, a bowl of clean water and a cloth, tied a kerchief around his face and took a deep breath. Slowly, gently he eased the cover from the corpse. Then he soaked the cloth and tenderly began to wash away the ash and grime from her belly.
He worked silently, stopping only to spit and rinse the taste from his mouth with small sips of beer. Finally, with the water in the bowl death-dark and thick, he stood back.
The foetus rested on the girl’s stomach. It was tiny, hardly any longer than his hand, but there was no mistaking the babe. Its head was large, almost too big for the fragile body; he could discern the features, the eyes and mouth, the fingers and toes, the chest now empty of all life, legs bent and stopped as if the boy had been trying to push his way up to her breast.
He saw the black line where the girl’s belly had been slashed open and the child torn out. The cord had been raggedly cut and they’d both been left to vanish in the blaze, to become no more than cinders. He gazed at them again with a deep, overwhelming sorrow.
Finally he covered the bodies again and walked silently back out to the office where Sedgwick and Lister waited.
‘Well?’ the deputy asked.
The Constable hesitated a long time before answering, running a hand through his hair, not sure he could even speak.
‘That’s definitely a baby on her belly,’ he said finally. ‘Not even born yet. The killer sliced her open and took it out of her.’
‘Christ.’ Sedgwick turned away quickly.
Nottingham looked over at Lister. The lad was too young to understand the full horror on the slab. He’d never been a parent, never lost a child. He couldn’t know the pain, couldn’t feel it in his gut, aching and gnawing.
‘Whoever did it set the fire to burn them up,’ he continued bleakly. ‘We were just lucky the bodies survived or we’d never have known anything. I want you two out talking to people along the Calls. Don’t mention the corpses but find out everything you can. See if you can discover who owns the place, who used to live there, who’d have known it was empty. You talk to that woman again, John, and then see if anyone else saw anything odd. We need to find out who the dead girl was. Someone’s got to know her and miss her.’ He paused and his voice turned hard. ‘I want the bastard who did this.’
The men left. Alone, the Constable sat to write his daily report for the mayor, uncertain how he could begin to describe what he’d seen. He eventually settled for the barest sketch. He was sanding the paper dry when the door of the jail opened and a man walked in.
‘I’m Hezekiah Walton,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for the Constable.’
Three
Nottingham glanced up at the man and smiled genially.
‘I’m Richard Nottingham, I’m the Constable of Leeds,’ he replied. ‘How can I help you, Mr Walton?’
The man bowed slightly
‘Do you know a family named Cooper?’ he asked.
‘There are plenty of people named Cooper in Leeds.’ He gestured the man to a seat.
‘These won’t have been here too long, a month or two at most,’ Walton said. ‘Up from London, parents and two boys about ten and twelve.’
The Constable stared at the man.
‘And what’s your interest in them?’
‘I’m a thief taker,’ he explained. ‘The father stole twelve guineas, some plate and lace from the people who’ve employed me to find them.’
Nottingham leaned forward with interest, steepled his arms under his chin and studied Walton carefully. He looked to be in his late thirties, with thick streaks of grey in his long hair. He was unshaven, the bristles dark against his skin, his clothes coloured with dust from the roads. His coat and breeches were charcoal grey, well cut but old and worn, the long waistcoat once good ivory silk. A sword and scabbard hung from the waist, the leather of the blade handle shiny with use.
‘They could live handsomely on that for a few months,’ the Constable said. ‘What makes you think they’ve come up here?’
‘Someone told my employer they’d left for Leeds. So I’m here to find them.’ Walton smiled, showing gaps in his teeth.
‘I suppose they could have come,’ the Constable conceded slowly. ‘People arrive every day, Mr Walton. But I haven’t heard of any family like that named Cooper.’
‘I’ll need to search for them.’
‘Of course,’ he agreed. He’d expected that; he knew how thief takers worked, though there had been none in Leeds; they were mostly a London breed. They existed on the edge of the law, hired by victims to find those who’d robbed them, or for a fee to act as go-betweens for the return of property. Some even stole the goods themselves, he’d heard, and sold them back for a reward. But it surprised him to find one so far from home. ‘What will you do if you find them?’
‘Take them back with me,’ Walton answered with a grin. ‘Let them face justice. And I’ll collect my money.’
‘They must be paying you well for you to come up here.’
‘The money’s good if I find them,’ the thief taker answered impassively.
Nottingham sat, rubbing his chin slowly.
‘You’re quite welcome to look for these people in Leeds,’ he said finally. ‘But I’ll expect the same of you as anyone else. You obey the laws while you’re here. You understand that?’
‘I do,’ the man replied with a nod.
The Constable cocked his head.
‘Then you’re free to do your work, Mr Walton. I hope you find the people you’re looking for.’
The man bowed again and left. Nottingham let out a long, soft sigh and shook his head. The last thing he needed was a thief taker. From all he’d heard, most of them were ungodly rogues, willing to go one way or another for some ready silver. But this one. . his manner seemed too certain, and something in his tale about the Coopers rang false. Two hundred miles was a long way to give pursuit. Either he really was being very well paid or there was a truth he wasn’t telling. Probably he imagined everyone outside London to be a bumpkin. It would be worth keeping an eye on Mr Walton.
For now, though, a different business needed his attention. He walked down Briggate, gazing around at the houses, some put up just the previous year, others dating back to Queen Bess, their fronts low, bowed and sagging, wood blackened with age. He stopped where the entrance to a court of tenements snaked back from the street between two buildings. The passageway was barely wider than a man, and disappeared quickly into deep shadow. He leaned against the stone wall and waited, the image of the burnt girl and her baby all too sharp in his mind.
Just a few minutes later a man scurried out and past him, his wig and hat pulled low, but Nottingham paid him no mind. In a few more moments she was there, stepping out into the light and blinking, her hand still adjusting her dress, tugging up the bodice and smoothing the hem.
‘Hello, Jane, love.’
‘Mr Nottingham.’ She was small, barely reaching to his shoulders, her dark hair falling out of its pins and all a-tumble on her neck. From a distance she looked young, with soft eyes like velvet; seen close, the lines around her mouth gave the lie to that tale.