Fair and Tender Ladies (14 page)

Finer smiled. ‘I doubt that's too often.'

Nottingham shrugged. ‘Once is more than enough.'

‘Has it been quieter since Amos died?'

The Constable smiled at the question. ‘Not so as you'd notice. Why, Mr Finer, do you intend on keeping me busier with your workhouse plans?'

The older man smiled, but it was strained. ‘Everything I do is legal these days, Constable. I told you that.'

Nottingham raised his mug in a toast. ‘I'll hope that's true.'

Finer took a drink of his ale and made a face. ‘Not the best in Leeds here, is it?'

‘Better than the Talbot.'

The man nodded slowly. ‘True enough, Mr Nottingham. But the gossip's more interesting there.'

‘If it's so good, what brings you down here?'

Finer stroked a chin covered in thin white bristles. ‘Old haunts. I remember getting roaring drunk in here one night with Arkwright, back when he was the Constable. He challenged me to a bare knuckle fight out on Kirkgate.'

‘I never heard about that. Who won?'

‘We'd had so much ale that neither of us landed a punch,' he laughed. ‘Amos stood and cheered us on. He won ten pounds that night by betting there wouldn't be a winner.'

‘I might have put money on that myself.'

‘You'd just be a young 'un then, you'd probably not even started working as a Constable's man yet. A long time ago. I remember when you started out with him. You looked like you'd nothing about you. I'd seen more fat on a worm than you had back then.'

In spite of himself, Nottingham grinned. ‘A lifetime,' he agreed.

‘Two or three, perhaps. For me, anyway.' He drank a little more and pushed the cup away. ‘I remember the ale as better than that.' He paused. ‘I know you think I've come back to Leeds to cause trouble, but I haven't.'

‘So you keep saying. Time will tell.'

‘It will,' Finer agreed. ‘You'll see.' He eased himself to his feet. ‘I think I'll go to the Talbot and hear what's been happening. And then home for my supper.'

‘I wish you well.'

‘I doubt you do, Mr Nottingham, but thank you anyway.' He nodded and left.

The Constable drained his ale. Was he wrong about Finer? Lately it was so hard to be certain, but deep inside a small knot told him he was right. He remembered something Amos Worthy had told him once – repeat a lie often enough and it'll become the truth. The more that Tom Finer said he'd put crime behind him, the more folk would believe it. Being doubtful might be no bad thing.

‘M
r Sedgwick.'

The deputy heard the small voice and felt a hand tugging at his sleeve. Looking down, he saw Ezekiel Fadden's oldest boy staring up at him.

‘What is it?' he asked, trying to remember the lad's name. He looked to be about the same age as James, his own son, with a grubby face and hands, and shoes far too big for his small feet.

‘Me ma said to tell you me da's back if you want to talk to him.'

‘Aye, thank you. Will,' he added as it came to him.' He pulled a farthing from the pocket of his breeches and placed it between the small fingers. ‘Is he at home?'

‘He's wetting his whistle at the Old King's Head,' the boy said carefully. ‘That's what she said to tell you.'

Sedgwick laughed and tousled the boy's hair. ‘Right, off you go, then. You've done your job.' He watched the boy run.

The doors of the Old King's Head were wedged open to let in the fresh air and the light. A man swept the floor, and the serving girl leaned against the trestle talking idly to the landlord.

Fadden was standing by the window, gazing out at Briggate. The deputy bought himself a mug of the cold ale and joined him.

‘Maggie said you'd been looking for me,' the carter said warily. ‘Have I done anything wrong?'

‘Not that I know of,' Sedgwick answered and saw the man ease a little. Faddon had done something, he thought, and wondered if he'd been found out. Sometime he'd discover exactly what. Information was always useful. ‘You go to Whitby.'

‘Not that often any more,' he shrugged. ‘It's mostly York or Hull these days, that's where the business is. Gives me chance to stop over in Sherburn. There's a little lass there who's sweet on me.' He winked. ‘As long as Maggie doesn't find out I'll be fine.' He drained the mug and gave it a long glance.

‘Another?' the deputy asked.

‘Aye, go on. You need a good wet, driving a team all day.'

Sedgwick held up a pair of fingers for the serving girl.

‘When were you in Whitby last?' he asked.

‘Must be close to three months ago,' Fadden answered after a while. ‘Once the road over the moors was clear after winter.'

‘Did you hear of anything out there?'

‘Like what?' The man picked up the fresh ale and drank.

‘Any crime folk might be talking about?'

‘Nowt as I recall,' Fadden answered with a thoughtful frown. He hesitated. ‘Well, there was summat odd. Some shopkeeper who'd died. He'd given his servant the night off. When he came back the master was dead in his chair with a rug tucked all around him. That what you mean?'

‘It could be. Any word of people leaving the town suddenly?'

The carter laughed. ‘Nay, who cares about that? There are always people flitting, you should know that, Mr Sedgwick.'

The deputy nodded. He hadn't expected much, but it was worth asking. ‘The merchant, was there much stolen?'

‘Like as not. I didn't pay too much attention. Why, summat to do with Leeds, is it?'

‘Probably not.' He saw the interest die in the man's eyes. Another hour and a few more drinks and he'd have forgotten the conversation. Sedgwick drained his mug.

‘Enjoy your ale.'

‘I'll do that,' Fadden said with a broad grin.

‘And that Sherburn lass? Don't be too sure your wife doesn't know.' He left the carter looking worried.

Back at the jail, Sedgwick sat at the desk and slowly wrote out a note, taking his time over the shape of each letter and thinking how to phrase what he needed. Finally he sat back and read it through. It wasn't as elegant as Rob or the boss could manage, perhaps, but it would serve.

He sealed and addressed the note then carried it to the Moot Hall, leaving it on Cobb's desk to be sent.

Sedgwick strolled back down Briggate, his eyes alert for anything and everything. There was still time to ask a few more questions. Sooner or later there'd be a word, a hint, something to pry it all open, he felt sure of that; it had happened often enough before.

He started to grin. It was his lucky day. Twenty yards ahead of him, parading as if he owned the street, was King Davy. The deputy lengthened his stride. Just as they reached the entrance to Queen's Court, he caught up with Davy and pushed him hard into the opening, catching the man off balance and pinning him against the wall with a forearm against his throat.

He reached down to pull King's knife from its sheath and tossed it away. Davy was struggling, trying to free himself. Sedgwick raised his knee and began to grind it into the man's bollocks, taking pleasure as his face began to turn red with pain.

‘Still got something to say about whores, have you, Davy?'

King's eyes were beginning to bulge and he tried to claw the arm off his neck. The deputy pressed harder, lowered his knee and brought it back up sharply.

‘Well,' he asked again. ‘Have you? Still got words to say about my Lizzie?' King had his eyes closed, trying to shake his head. ‘You're going to be very polite to all the girls in future, Davy.' He waited. ‘Understand?' The man gave a tiny nod and Sedgwick stood back, watching as Davy collapsed on the ground, gasping for air, hands clutched around the agony between his legs. ‘I'm going to be asking. If I hear anything bad I'm going to come looking for you. And next time it'll be a lot worse than this.'

He strode off, leaving the man in the dirt. Smiling, he continued on his way.

The sun was as hot as full summer, blazing down and leaving spring no more than a memory. The Constable was sweating in his coat, the shirt damp against his back. He marched out along the riverbank to Williamson's warehouse, still weighing whether to tell the man about the threats at the school. Best not; after all, they'd given Emily money and promised more. He didn't want their hearts turning faint now.

A clerk motioned him through. The merchant was in his office, stripped to his shirt with the windows wide to catch the thin breeze that lifted off the Aire.

‘You look drawn, Richard,' the merchant said. ‘Sit yourself down and have something to drink.'

He downed a cup of ale gratefully. ‘It's nothing more than usual,' he explained. ‘Too many questions to ask and too few answers. I thought I'd ask what progress there's been on the workhouse.'

‘Straight to business?' Williamson smiled. ‘There's not much to tell you. The Corporation's received Mr Finer's proposal and they've asked me to look at the figures. I have to tell you, everything I've seen in it makes sense.'

‘He's out to make money somehow. I'm certain of that.'

Williamson exhaled slowly and answered with care, ‘I've only had time to examine things quickly so far. But if he does what he says, the workhouse will pay for itself. He'll get his investment back and that's all he'll receive. It's very fair for the city. I'm sorry, Richard, but it all seems honest.'

‘Look closer, please,' Nottingham said. ‘There'll be something hidden away in there, I'm sure of it. I remember what he was like.'

‘I will. It's my responsibility, after all. But I have to tell you, if I can't see any fault I'm going to recommend that the Corporation accepts his offer. You understand that, don't you?'

‘Of course,' he said tightly, and stood up. ‘I'll leave you to your work.'

The Constable walked along the Calls, feeling the heat trapped between the buildings and hearing his daughter's voice loud through the open windows, then the smaller, hesitant sound of the girls haltingly repeating the words back to her. For a minute he stood silently to listen. Mary would have been proud of her, he thought, and the idea made him smile.

He moved on, finding himself crossing Timble Bridge before he even realized it. The house on Marsh Lane was in sight and he felt suddenly weary. All work had served to do was bring the same answers over and over. He wanted to rest.

He closed the door quietly and turned to find himself facing Lucy, her knife in her hand.

‘I didn't know who it was,' she told him, returning the blade to the pocket of her dress.

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

‘Why are you home so early, anyway?' Lucy asked suspiciously. ‘Mr Rob's still asleep upstairs.'

‘I'd had enough,' was all he said, going through to the kitchen and pouring ale.

She followed him, and stood with her thin arms folded. ‘Have you found out who did all that at the school yet?'

‘No.' The word came out clipped, abrupt, showing his frustration. He looked at her apologetically but her gaze was stony.

‘When I was in town this morning for some errands, people were talking about the workhouse opening,' Lucy continued.

‘It might,' he allowed.

‘What's going to happen to all those children?' she asked angrily. She'd been one of them, with no home, scavenging for food where she could, staying hidden from sight to keep alive another day. Then he'd taken her on as a servant and she'd blossomed. But part of her would never quite leave the past behind.

‘The city will want them in there,' he said. ‘The same with the folk by the river.'

‘It's not right.' She was on the edge of tears.

‘I know that.' He rubbed his face and shook his head. ‘Believe me. But it's not my decision.'

‘You're the Constable,' she accused him. ‘Can't you do something about it?'

‘It's up to the Corporation,' he explained. He knew how weak his reply sounded.

‘You can try!' she blazed and went out into the garden, letting the door slam behind her. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Over his head he heard footsteps on the floorboards; Rob was awake and dressing. A few minutes later he appeared, yawning as he tore off some bread and cut a piece of cheese.

‘You're back early, boss.'

‘We're not getting anywhere. No one knows anything.'

‘Something will break soon,' Rob said confidently. ‘It has to.'

‘Maybe.' He didn't feel so certain.

‘I'm going to meet Emily.'

Rob pushed the last of the cheese into his mouth and left. The Constable stood for a few moments, then went into the garden. Lucy was on her knees, pulling furiously at weeds around the onions.

‘I'm doing what I can to stop the workhouse,' he told her.

‘Will you win?' she asked bluntly and he couldn't give her an answer, certainly not the one she wanted. She stood, brushing the dirt from the front of her dress. She'd grown in the months since she'd arrived at the house but she was still a head and a half smaller than him. ‘Back when you were young and lived out there, would you have gone into the workhouse?'

‘No,' he replied without hesitation. However hard it was, he'd loved his freedom then. He'd seen people starve, lost to violence and desperation, but he couldn't have imagined it otherwise. ‘Would you?'

‘Maybe during that bad winter,' she allowed. ‘But I'd have hated it. Please,' she urged, ‘do what you can, Mr Nottingham.'

R
ob stood in the kitchen, draining a mug of ale and wiping up the remaining crumbs of yesterday's bread with his finger. The night had seemed to drag on and on, with little trouble beyond a pair of drunks pulled from the river before they could drown. He'd walked by the school every hour, checking the place and the men he'd set to watch it now the husbands had stopped spending their nights out there. Now, back in the house on Marsh Lane, he was waiting for Emily, hearing the sound of her footsteps on the floorboards above. Late again, she was dashing around.