‘That sounds very close to the edge of the law, Mr Walton,’ the Constable said slowly.
The thief taker shook his head and glanced down at the water. ‘Quite legal, Constable. It’s a good trade in London.’
‘We’re not London.’
‘You’re like any other provincial city,’ he said with contempt. ‘You look to London and wish.’
Nottingham turned and looked at him. ‘Do we?’
Walton smiled, showing the dark gaps in his teeth. ‘You do. And people here have their secrets, too.’
‘I’d be very careful if I were you, Mr Walton. You don’t know us here.’
‘Not yet, perhaps,’ he conceded. ‘But I’ve been watching and learning. I have an advertisement in next week’s newspaper. We’ll see if there’s a demand for what I do.’
‘And if there’s not?’
The thief taker gave a confident grin. ‘There will be. People are people, it doesn’t matter where you go.’
‘I’ll be watching you,’ the Constable told him.
‘Of course.’ Walton raised his hands. ‘What do I have to hide, Mr Nottingham? I’ve told you my plans.’
‘I’ll wait and see what happens.’
The man ducked his head. ‘I’ll bid you good day, Constable.’
He watched the man walk away with his sure stride, looking around as he went. Nottingham didn’t trust him. Beneath the words he could make out the stink of evil, strong and sulphurous. He’d paid Walton little mind before; now that would have to change. Rob’s father published the Mercury; they’d be able to see the advertisement before it appeared. Then he could keep an eye on the man.
He made his way back up Briggate, past the shit and piss that clogged the runnels in the street, hearing the Saturday market in full cry beyond the Moot Hall, the vendors yelling, ‘What do you need? What do you lack?’ and the sounds of voices shouting and haggling furiously.
He turned the corner on to Kirkgate and saw the woman waiting by the door of the jail. Her hands were clasped in front of her and she glanced patiently at all the faces that passed, her face expressionless.
‘Mistress?’ he asked. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m waiting for t’ Constable,’ she said.
‘I’m Richard Nottingham,’ he told her. ‘I’m the Constable.’
He waited until she was seated. Her features had the sharpness of someone who’d never eaten her fill, the skin drawn and wrinkled. She was no older than him, he judged, but time weighed her down. Work had gnarled the knuckles of her hands into awkward shapes, the skin raw and red. Her dress was dowdy and ill-fitting on her thin body, the material worn thin.
‘How can I help you?’
She held his gaze with her clear blue eyes.
‘I’m Alice Wendell. It’s about my lass,’ she said. ‘Mebbe it’s summat and nowt, but I don’t know where she is.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Lucy. Lucy Wendell. She turned sixteen last month.’
He said nothing. At sixteen the girl could have gone off anywhere, with anyone.
‘How long’s she been missing?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered and he looked up sharply. ‘She were working as a servant but she never came home on her day off. And when I went to ask about her all they’d say was that she’d been dismissed. Wouldn’t even tell me when she’d gone.’
‘What do you want me to do, Mrs Wendell?’ Nottingham wondered.
‘Go and ask,’ she said bluntly. ‘They’ll tell you when they let her go. You’re the Constable.’
‘I’ll do that if you want,’ he offered, ‘but it might not help you find her.’
‘Aye,’ she agreed. ‘I know that. It’s somewhere to start, though. She were never the brightest lass, you see. It was always better when there was someone to look after her.’ Her face softened as she talked about the girl. ‘Me, her brother, the people where she worked.’ When she lifted her face he could see her anguish. ‘I don’t know what she’d do on her own.’
‘Who was she working for?’ Nottingham asked.
‘Cates. You know him, the merchant? She was a maid up with him and his family.’
He knew them. They owned one of the new houses up at Town End, out where Leeds was pushing out into the countryside and the air was cleaner. Ben Cates had done very well from the wool trade over the years. He’d served on the Corporation, an alderman who’d used his connection to gather even more riches to himself.
These days, though, he left most of the work to his sons, Robert and William. But from the fragments of gossip the Constable had heard, he wasn’t ready to give them their heads completely yet; he still kept a wary eye on the business.
‘I’ll go and have a word with them and find out what I can for you,’ he said. ‘And how will I find you, Mrs Wendell?’
‘Down on the Calls. They know me there.’
‘Where they had the fire.’ He thought of the body they’d found. Could she have been the girl?
‘Aye,’ she agreed sadly, ‘it were a bad business, that. Only t’ other end of the street from me an’ all. Just as well those Grants had done a flit the week before, they had three little ones.’
‘I’ll go and talk to Mr Cates this afternoon,’ the Constable promised.
‘Thank you.’ She stood, back carefully straight, head high.
‘I have a daughter myself. I understand.’
She gave him a short nod and left. He sat back and sighed. He’d heard the pain behind her request and understood just how much it had cost her to come and ask this favour from him. She was like so many women he knew in Leeds, strong because she had to be, relying on no one to get through life, trying desperately to keep the edges of her family from fraying apart. But there were few happy endings for the poor in this world.
He’d go and ask his questions and find the answers. They wouldn’t give her any comfort, and she knew that as well as anyone, but she needed them anyway. Cates had seemed reasonable enough whenever they’d met. By all accounts he was a hard man but at least he wasn’t a bad one.
The merchant was at home, working at the polished desk in his library. An expensive, full-bottomed wig had been casually thrown aside on a table, a thin dusting of powder on the wood around it. The windows were open on the garden, drawing a light breeze into the room. Nottingham saw the books packed tight on shelves along one wall, and thought how much Emily would love something like this one day.
‘Constable.’ Cates rose and extended his hand. The man had grown portly in the last few years, Nottingham thought, chins fleshy and sagging into his collar and over his stock. His coat was good wool, flatteringly cut, the breeches tight around a pair of heavy thighs, his long waistcoat gaudy yellow and blue silk. ‘Sit down. What brings you here? Nothing wrong, is there?’
‘No,’ the Constable answered, settling carefully on a delicate chair of fine wood, its legs thin as spindles. ‘Just a question about someone who used to be a servant here.’
Cates snorted. ‘Lucy Wendell?’
Nottingham nodded.
‘Her mother was round here yesterday, wanting to know about the girl,’ he said brusquely. ‘I told her I’d had to dismiss her.’
‘She was hoping for more. The girl seems to have vanished.’
‘No surprise,’ the merchant said dismissively. ‘I’ve had dogs with more brains than her. Someone had to watch her the whole time or she’d be off in a daydream.’
‘I see.’
‘That wasn’t the reason I got rid of her. I could have lived with idleness, you can whip it out of them. But she was pregnant. I hadn’t noticed, what with her apron, but my wife saw it. I had her in and asked her.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure she even understood what I meant. But I had to turn her out. Didn’t want the girl whelping here.’
‘What did she say?’
Cates waved his hand. ‘Cried, the way they do. But she was out that afternoon.’