Fair and Tender Ladies (6 page)

The night passed quietly. The sky was light in the east, and the prospect of another sunny day lay ahead. Rob finished his last round not long after five. Servants were stirring in the grand houses, making everything ready and comfortable for when their masters woke.

By the time he reached the jail the Constable was already there, glancing through the papers on the desk.

‘Did you find anything on our man?'

‘He was talking with Tom Finer at the Talbot.'

‘Tom Finer?' He said the name in disbelief. ‘You're sure that was the name?'

‘I'm certain, boss. Why, who is he?'

Nottingham sighed, surprise still on his face, ‘Someone I haven't heard of in years. He vanished when I wasn't much older than you.' He paused and ran a hand over his chin. ‘Who gave you the name?'

‘Landlord Bell.'

‘Really? You got something out of him? I'm impressed.'

‘He said he'd send you the bill for the mugs I smashed,' Rob told him with a smile.

Nottingham grinned. ‘You're learning to speak his language, eh? Tom Finer,' he repeated quietly. ‘I can see I'm going to have to find him later.'

‘I went down to see Bessie, too. The girl hasn't been there.'

‘You go on home, lad. If you're lucky you'll catch Emily before she leaves for school.'

Tom Finer. It had to be almost twenty years since he'd gone, so long that he'd slipped out of mind. If he was back it couldn't be good news. Especially if he'd been talking to a man who was dead a few hours later. When Nottingham had just been a Constable's man Finer had been around, a power with his finger in half the crime in Leeds. Then he'd vanished, no word and no trace. There were rumours that Amos Worthy had murdered him but they'd never managed to find proof. The man had simply disappeared.

He was still considering the news when the deputy loped through the door and poured himself some ale.

‘Morning, boss.'

‘Tom Finer. Does the name mean anything?'

‘No.' He shook his head. ‘Should it?'

Nottingham leaned back, hands laced behind his head. ‘Some history that seems to have returned, that's all. Seems he was talking to Jem Carter in the Talbot last night. I'll ask around and see if I can find out where he's living. You keep looking to see if anyone remembers talking to Carter yesterday.'

W
ho would remember Tom Finer, the Constable thought? Most of those around now had come since his time. If they knew his name at all it would only be from tales. He sat at his desk and thought for a while then walked out into the spring air.

On Briggate folk were smiling. Even the carters who normally cursed everyone had been caught up by the good weather. He passed the Moot Hall and ducked into the Talbot. Sunlight strained through the grimy windows and picked out the dirt on the tables. The place was almost empty, just two old men huddled around the dead hearth and landlord Bell leaning on the trestle smoking a clay pipe, mugs lined up in front of him.

‘I wondered how long it'd be before you came in.'

‘You know why I'm here, Mr Bell.'

‘You owe me for eight mugs.' The landlord stood up slowly, facing the Constable.

‘Send a bill to the aldermen.'

‘Aye, and wait a year for me money, if I ever get it.'

‘Tom Finer,' Nottingham said.

‘I thought that name would catch your ear if the boy remembered it,' Bell answered with a slow, mocking smile.

‘How long's he been back?'

Bell raised an eyebrow. ‘Why should I tell you? What's in it for me?'

The Constable said calmly, ‘Fighting, murder, selling stolen goods.' He counted them off on his fingers. ‘Half the bad things in this city come out of here, Mr Bell. Maybe it's time I saw about having this inn closed. There are a few on the Corporation who'd listen if I planted the idea, too.' He stopped. ‘You know me by now, I don't make idle threats. Is that clear enough for you?'

‘He's been in Leeds a fortnight or so,' the landlord answered grudgingly.

‘And where's he staying?'

‘He has rooms on the Head Row, next to Garraway's Coffee House.' He stared at Nottingham. ‘And that's all I've got to tell you.'

‘It's enough for now. I'll bid you good day, Mr Bell.'

It was no more than a few yards to the top of Briggate, then he turned up the Head Row and followed the road along the hill. For decades this had been as far as Leeds extended, but now many of the rich folk were moving and building their new mansions farther out, away from the smoke and dirt and people. Already Town End was filling with grand houses, and some were appearing on the road out to Woodhouse. Another few years and the Leeds he knew would be hard to find for all the stone walls and gardens.

Steam filled the windows at Garraway's but he could make out the merchants seated at the tables inside, discussing business or reading the London papers that had come north. He passed the place and stopped at the building beyond it, close to Burley Bar at the edge of the city, a neatly-kept house with three storeys, the wood of the front door carefully polished to a deep shine.

A maid answered his knock, offering a small curtsey.

‘I believe Mr Finer lives here.'

‘Yes, sir. He has the top floor, sir,' she said with a bob of her head.

‘Would you tell him Constable Richard Nottingham would like to see him, please?'

‘Yes, sir.' She gave one more nervous curtsey and scurried up the stairs. He waited in the hallway, the only sounds the muted passing of people and carts outside.

‘He says to go up, sir,' the girl told him when she returned. ‘It's right at the top, you can't miss it.'

‘Thank you,' he told her with a small bow that made her blush.

The door was open. He tapped on it lightly.

‘Come in,' a voice said.

The Constable entered a well-appointed parlour, the paper on the walls a design of pale stripes, a pair of chairs gathered by the hearth, a table under a window that looked north to the moor where sheep grazed in the sun.

The man standing before him wasn't the Tom Finer that he recalled. The one in his memory had thick, dark hair that curled down to the nape of his neck and a heavy, powerful body. This one was still big, but most of the hair had gone; what remained above the ears was wispy and white.

‘Not what you expected, am I, Mr Nottingham?' he said with a smile. At least the voice was still the same, an easy warmth that he knew could turn to ice in a moment. ‘They made you Constable after Arkwright went, did they?'

‘Yes.'

‘Sit down,' Finer said, gesturing at one of the chairs. ‘Some wine? Ale?'

‘Not for me,' Nottingham said, settling on to the seat.

‘How did you hear I was back?'

‘Landlord Bell. He said you were talking to a young man there two nights ago.'

‘Two nights ago?' The man frowned, then placed it in his mind. ‘You mean the one looking for his sister?'

‘He was dead before morning. Someone slit his throat.'

Finer raised his eyebrows. ‘I'm sorry to hear that. I knew someone had been killed; I'd no idea it was him. And you wondered if I had something to do with it?'

‘You can understand why. I know your past.'

Finer put his hands in his lap. The flesh was pale as parchment and mottled with brown spots. An old man's hands, the Constable thought.

‘I bought him a few drinks and we talked for a while. That's all.' He smiled. ‘He talked, mostly. I listened. But I did suggest he could look for his sister at that new brothel everyone was talking about.' He shrugged. ‘I thought it might be worth a minute or two of his time.'

‘Did he go?'

‘I don't know.' He reached for the decanter on the small table and poured himself a glass of wine, drinking deeply then setting it aside. ‘But I can tell you I had nothing to do with his death.'

‘Did he mention anyone he'd met?'

‘I think I was probably the first soul he'd had a real conversation with in Leeds. He seemed a pleasant enough lad. None too sharp but devoted to his sister.' He took another drink, finishing the wine, and sat back.

‘What happened to you all those years ago?' Nottingham asked. The question had been preying on him since he'd heard the name.

‘Seventeen years, Constable, if you want to be exact.' He glanced at the decanter and poured himself another glass, sipped and sighed slowly. ‘Amos Worthy wanted to kill me and it wasn't just an idle threat.' He shrugged. ‘I had plenty of money so I left while I still could. Not a word to anyone. And now Amos is dead.'

‘Cancer.'

‘I went down to the churchyard and walked on his grave.' He laughed, a small, hollow bark. ‘I know, it's childish, but it gave me some satisfaction to outlive the bastard. Did he ever tell you …?'

‘That he and my mother were lovers?'

Finer nodded. ‘Obviously he did. I was sorry to hear about your wife, by the way.'

‘Thank you.' He paused, not wanting to pursue that subject. Not with this man. Not with anyone. ‘What's made you come back after all this time?'

‘Seventeen years in London and I still missed Leeds.' He smiled wryly. ‘You wouldn't credit it, would you? It's true, though. I made plenty down there, but I'd had enough of the place.' Nottingham could hear the capital in his voice with its veneer of sophistication and drawn-out vowels. ‘Always noisy, people everywhere. It was time. Look at me. I'm an old man now, Mr Nottingham. I decided to spend the last of my days here.'

‘Quietly?' the Constable asked pointedly.

‘Very quietly,' Finer agreed. ‘These rooms are comfortable, they'll serve me well.'

He had no doubt that the man was paying handsomely for somewhere like this. But he was equally certain that Finer had prospered down in London; he was ruthless enough to do well anywhere. His coat and breeches showed expensive tailoring, and the buckles on his shoes shone like real gold.

Nottingham stood. ‘I'd best move on,' he said.

‘I wish you well in finding the murderer, Constable.'

‘No doubt we'll be running into each other, Mr Finer.'

‘Perhaps we will, laddie, perhaps we will.' He raised his glass in a toast as Nottingham left the room.

Walking back to jail, he considered what Finer had told him. He didn't believe that the man had really returned to Leeds simply to wither and die. The person he recalled was subtle, and never did anything without a host of reasons, each one nesting inside another to hide the truth. There was more going on, that was Finer's way. He didn't know what yet, but he'd need to stay alert to find out. But did he believe what the man had said about Jem Carter? There didn't seem to be any reason for him to kill the lad, but the Tom Finer he recalled had always seemed so plausible that he could explain away the devil.

The problem was that it was hard for him to be sure of anything any more. Since his decision, his risk, had cost Mary her life, every decision, every step, every breath had become fragile. He'd become cautious, wary, a man without certainty or compass.

S
tanding on Briggate, the deputy paused to think. Where would Jem Carter have gone? Tuesday had been a market day; he'd have looked around there in the hope of spotting his sister. But most of the traders wouldn't be back until the next market on Saturday, and by then their memories would be dim.

One or two were local, though, selling their goods most days of the week up by the market cross. Martha Whittaker and her daughters baked their pies every night, then she carried them from her home on the other side of the river each morning. She'd been doing it for years; he could remember his da buying him one when he was a nipper. By nine she'd be done, everything sold to the customers who loved the food that was heavy on the meat and fair on price, and she'd go back to her bed for a few hours' rest before starting again.

She was sitting on a small old stool at the side of Briggate, the few remaining pies laid out on a tattered cloth in front of her. She looked up as his shadow fell over her, her eyes rheumy and squinting, her hair close to silver in the sunlight.

‘Mr Sedgwick, isn't it?'

‘Aye, Martha, it is. Business good?'

‘Fair to middling, fair to middling. If you're looking, the beef's tasty today, it cooked up a treat.' She leant forward and whispered, ‘The lamb's a bit stringy.'

He dug out some coins, paid her and put a beef pie into the deep pocket of his coat. She slid the money away carefully and sat back, looking at him. Although she dressed plainly enough in an old gown that had seen many better years, he knew she made good money from her business, enough to support three daughters and a son, her man long since gone.

‘Were you busy during the market?'

‘Always busy then,' she replied. ‘Always.'

‘Did you have someone around asking questions, looking for a girl?'

She thought for a long time and then shook her head slowly. ‘No one like that, love. I'm sure of it.'

He thanked her and moved on, seeing Sad Luke sitting on the steps of the cross. He lived somewhere beyond Cavalier Hill, and went out early in the morning to gather the wild onions, garlic and herbs that grew out there, collecting berries and fruit into summer and autumn. He was no older than the deputy, but no one had ever seen a shred of happiness on his face. No matter how good the weather or how much money he made, Luke's mouth was always set in a quizzical frown.

‘Mr Sedgwick,' he said with a small bob of his head.

‘Morning, Luke.' He took off the battered tricorn hat and wiped his forehead. ‘Grand day.'

‘Aye, fair.' The man squinted disappointedly at the sky. ‘Too hot later, mebbe. And too dry this summer if it stays this way.'