Fair and Tender Ladies (7 page)

The deputy smiled to himself. Luke would never change, forever gloomy and seeking out the bad in everything.

‘Were you at the market yesterday?'

‘Allus am.'

‘Did you have a stranger asking about his sister?'

‘Him?' Luke ran his tongue across his thin lips. ‘Aye, he was here. Tried to tell me my onions weren't no good.' He sounded affronted at the small memory.

‘What else did he say?'

‘Nowt, really.' He rubbed a finger along his nose. ‘I told him he'd do best to go looking for the whores. That's where half the lasses end up anyway.'

‘How did he take that?'

‘Walked off,' Luke replied flatly. ‘Daft bugger.' He looked up at the deputy with wide eyes. ‘And them onions were right good, too.'

He needed to ask in the brothels, Sedgwick decided; Jenny might have found work there. But two of them had heard nothing of her, shaking their heads when he asked about new girls. Finally he walked down to Vicar Lane and rapped lightly on the door of a well-tended house, as ordinary as all its neighbours. Only the shutters closed tight against the daylight marked it out as anything different.

He waited a while then tried again, knowing that anything before mid-afternoon was early here. Finally a bleary-eyed maid let him in and shuffled off for the mistress.

Fanny Hardcastle had dressed quickly, her face still puffed with sleep and her hair loose, hanging grey and drab to her shoulders. She saw him and her mouth turned down at the corners.

‘I hope you know what time it is, Mr Sedgwick. Some of us are not long to our beds.'

Her brothel was long-established, opened decades before by Fanny's mother. It was almost an institution on the city, catering to many of the merchants and aldermen in town, making them feel comfortable and cared-for in a house that was sometimes better than home, with good seats, warm fires and excellent company.

He gave her his best smile, trying to charm her into a good temper.

‘How's your mam?'

‘Not doing so well. She gets her attacks and whatever the apothecary gives her doesn't help.' The woman pulled a shawl tight around her shoulders. ‘You'd better not be here just to ask after her.'

‘It's to do with a murder.'

‘A murder?' Her eyes narrowed. ‘You mean that man they found yesterday?' She straightened her back and raised her head. ‘It's nothing to do with us, I'll tell you that right now.'

‘I know, love. Don't go fretting yourself.' He smiled again. ‘I'm looking for a girl who might have been here. Small, fair hair, name of Jenny.'

‘Country girl? Tiny little thing?'

‘The sounds like her.'

‘I know her, right enough,' Fanny told him with a curt nod. ‘She came by on Sunday, looking for work.' He was suddenly alert, staring at her. ‘But I told her, we're full of lasses. You know what it's like here. Mam and me treat them well and they don't leave. Except Sophie, of course, she went off to wed Mr Marcham back in January. Most of them stay for years. I had to send that one on her way.'

‘Do you know where she went?'

Fanny shook her head. ‘I've no idea, Mr Sedgwick. She looked that sad when I turned her down I thought she was going to burst into tears.'

‘You've not seen her since?'

‘Neither hide nor hair. I felt so sorry for her that I gave her sixpence.' He was impressed; Fanny Hardcastle was usually so tight with her money she could make a coin squeak. ‘To tell you the truth, I hoped she'd see sense. She'd have been better off going back home and marrying a farmer's lad. I can tell the ones who are cut out for this, they've got a brass front. Your Lizzie had it. Not this one, though.' She looked at him appraisingly. ‘So who was this man to her, then?'

‘Her brother.'

She grimaced. ‘That's a bad business, Mr Sedgwick.'

‘I know, love.'

‘I hope you find whoever did it.'

‘You and me both, Fanny.' He stood. ‘Give my best to your mam. I hope she feels better soon.'

The Constable had just finished his dinner, a pie bought from a seller down by the bridge. He brushed the crumbs from his old coat and looked at the river. Too many things were gnawing at him: Jem Carter's murder, the missing girl, the return of Tom Finer. Could Finer have killed? He still wasn't sure, even though something inside said no.

A voice next to him said, ‘Penny for them, Richard.'

He turned and saw Tom Williamson, one of the few wool merchants who treated him as an equal. He was dressed in a coat and breeches of pale yellow silk, his stock sparkling white, a full, dark periwig on his head: a peacock in his gaudy.

‘Not worth your money,' Nottingham told him. ‘You're looking prosperous.'

Williamson had inherited his company from his father. As soon as he'd taken charge he'd started to bring in new ideas, sought out fresh markets, and in just a few years it had paid off handsomely.

‘Not my idea,' he said, pulling at the coat as if he felt awkward in it. ‘Hannah thought the material would be in the London style. I told her it'd be filthy up here after half a day. Look at that.' He pointed to the marks on the sleeve and the knee. ‘You can't run a business and dress like the gentry.'

‘You can employ a factor and spend your days at leisure.'

‘Never,' Williamson laughed. ‘I enjoy it too much. Some people are called to the church, I was called to the wool trade. You know me, Richard.'

It was true enough. The merchant never seemed happier than when he was at the cloth market or working in his warehouse.

‘Mind you,' Williamson continued slowly, ‘they've asked me to become an alderman.'

Nottingham had heard the rumours for a few weeks. They'd been little more than whispers, but they'd had the ring of truth.

‘Congratulations,' he said warmly. Williamson sighed, but there was pride in his small smile.

‘Old Petty's retiring.' He glanced around and leaned closer. ‘They say it's because he's nearly dead, but the truth is he's such a contrary bugger the rest of them can't take it any more. I was going to say no but Hannah won't let me. She wants to be an alderman's wife.'

The Constable smiled. ‘You'll do well. They need some fresh blood.'

‘They do,' Williamson agreed, then added drily, ‘just not mine. I've little enough time as it is. But when a wife insists …' He shrugged helplessly. ‘By the way, your daughter came to see me this morning.'

‘That's my fault, I'm afraid,' Nottingham admitted. ‘I suggested she try you for funds.'

‘It was a good idea, Richard. She's passionate about that school, isn't she?'

‘Very,' the Constable said.

‘Persuasive, too,' he said with a chuckle. ‘I gave her money to pay for her books. I might even suggest Hannah becomes involved. Now our two are being schooled she's been looking for good works.' He paused. ‘Mind you, I'm not sure I'd fancy her chances against your Emily.'

Nottingham laughed. ‘She's always had her own mind. Once it's made up no one's going to change it.'

‘Is she still walking out with James Lister's boy?'

‘She is. They've been courting a while now.'

The two of them stood silently for a minute, watching the water flow.

‘Charles Waterson went to the opening of that new brothel the other night,' Williamson said. ‘He says it's quite the place.'

‘As long as there's no trouble there I wish them well.' The Constable stirred. ‘I'd best be on my way. Congratulations again.'

I
t was a pale, tender morning as the Constable walked down Marsh Lane and into Leeds. There was the scent of dog roses in the hedgerows, the air full of hope and promise for many. By the time he reached the jail on Kirkgate he was smiling; today might be a good day.

‘Morning, Rob. How was the night?'

‘You'd better look in the cold cell, boss,' Lister said, his expression pained.

Nottingham strode through. The body on the slab was covered with an old blanket. He drew it back and saw a girl's face, the blue eyes staring at nothing.

‘We pulled her from the river about an hour back. She was caught in some bushes downstream from the warehouses. No one saw her until first light.'

The Constable nodded, removing the covering from the girl. Twigs and moss were caught in her fair, wet hair. She was small, not even five feet tall, and her face was so young. He rubbed her hands, feeling rough calluses on the palms, and an old, worn ring with a design like a rose on her middle finger. The clothes clung to her thin body, the pattern of her dress so faded and blurred, the boots worn.

‘I think we've just found Jenny Carter,' he told Rob quietly. ‘Her brother said she had a ring like that.'

‘She can't have come too far. The river's not flowing fast.'

‘I'll take a good look at her. Maybe that'll tell us something.' He paused.

By the time the deputy arrived he'd had time to examine her. There were no wounds he could see, and the only bruises looked to have come from the water. He stood back and sighed softly. She looked as though she'd drowned. But why, when she'd come looking for her fortune? Why would she end up in the Aire after just a few days?

‘That's Jenny Carter, John. Her brother told me about the ring she was wearing.' He stroked the dead hand. ‘Both of them dead within a day of each other. Strange, isn't it?'

‘What are you thinking, boss?'

Nottingham shook his head. ‘I don't know, John. But it's a coincidence. You know I don't like those.'

‘They happen,' Sedgwick countered.

‘Maybe.' He shook his head and blew out a long breath. ‘Maybe you're right.'

‘She tried for work at Fanny Hardcastle's. I asked this morning. Fanny turned her away.'

‘What about the other places?' the Constable asked. ‘Did you go there?'

‘I did. She hadn't tried any of them.' He hesitated. ‘There's something else, boss. I heard when I was asking about Jenny. You remember that man the mob killed?'

‘I do. Andrew Johnson.' He recalled his brother's face and his words. ‘What about him?'

‘One of the young whores down near the bridge told me she saw something.'

The Constable looked up with interest. ‘Go on.'

‘She said two men attacked him. He was trying to sleep in a doorway down on Briggate. All he did was defend himself.'

‘Christ.' He let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his hair. ‘So he put a knife into one of them. What happened to the other man?'

‘He ran off. She'd been scared to say anything.'

‘It was Wilcock Simms who died, wasn't it?'

‘That's right. A real troublemaker. Loved to drink. I don't even know how many times we had him in for fighting.'

‘I remember him. Worked at the tannery.'

‘That's the one.'

‘Did the girl recognize the other man?'

‘King Davy.' The deputy gave a dark smile. They both knew the man's reputation. David King was a man who lived on the knife edge of temper. A few drinks could tip him over, and he'd start a brawl for no reason. He liked to call himself King Davy and there were few brave enough to gainsay him.

‘Did he see her?'

‘She says not. And she hasn't told anyone else. You know what they say, you don't peach on the King.'

If Davy knew or found out, the girl would be risking a hard beating, probably worse. ‘Let's have Mr King in.'

‘Yes, boss.'

‘You'd better take two of the men with you, just in case.'

‘I can handle him.'

‘Take them, John,' he ordered. ‘No chances. You know what he's like.'

The deputy left, and Nottingham wrote up the daily report and carried it over to the Moot Hall. He handed it to Cobb the clerk, who looked up at him shamefacedly.

‘Mr Nottingham,' he said nervously as the Constable started to turn away.

‘Yes?'

‘You wanted … to know things that were happening.'

‘I'm listening, Mr Cobb.'

‘Mr Williamson's going to be an alderman.'

Nottingham smiled. ‘I thought you had news. He told me himself yesterday. You'll need to do better than that.' He stared at the man until the clerk began to blush.

‘I'm sorry, sir.'

King sat back in the chair, long legs extended, looking around as if he owned the place. The Constable watched him carefully. He was young, no more than twenty-five, dark hair hanging lank to his shoulders, with a cocky glint in his eyes, mouth curled in a mocking smile. It was the type of face women might enjoy, Nottingham thought, at least until they came close; the man carried the stench of the tannery with him, and the mix of raw leather, piss and shit filled the jail. A long knife in its old sheath hung down his leg.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr King,' he said.

‘Our King Davy's a good Leeds man. He's happy to help,' the deputy observed dryly. He was leaning against the wall, ready to move in case the man's temper took hold. ‘No trouble at all,' he said pointedly. Davy grinned and bobbed his head in a bow.

‘You were a friend of Wilcock Simms,' the Constable began.

‘Aye,' King replied slowly. ‘He were a good man. Worked wi' 'im three year. I went to his funeral, an' all. Plenty of us did.'

‘What happened to him was unfortunate.' He'd chosen the word carefully, watching for any change or anger on Davy's face. King clenched his fists.

‘I'd have killed the bastard who did it meself,' he said coldly. ‘He were lucky that mob got him or he'd have had to deal with me.'

‘Were you with Mr Simms the night he died?'

‘Aye,' Davy admitted. ‘We were in a few places.'

‘What did you do later?'

He shrugged. ‘Walked. Found some little whore on Briggate.' King laughed. ‘Stupid bitch thought there were just one of us.'