Chris Nickson - Constant Lovers

He was sure as he could be that Anne hadn’t murdered her mistress; there could be no reason for it. And he didn’t see Godlove as the killer. The man was a genuine grieving widower. Beyond those names there was no one to suspect.

Nottingham was astonished that the mayor hadn’t demanded an arrest, or at least a report every day. But there would be a terse note requesting his presence before the week was out and they were no further along.

He ran a hand through his hair and walked out into the late afternoon sun. The heat clung to the ground, pressing down like a pall, thick and stifling. Men were wiping their necks and brows with their kerchiefs, and the women looked warm and flustered as they shopped for late bargains, scurrying between patches of shade like insects.

At Timble Bridge he sat on the bank, deep in the shadow of a willow tree. Sheepscar Beck ran by his feet, the sound of the water over the rocks almost like music. After ten minutes he stood, dusted off his breeches and finished the short journey home up Marsh Lane.

‘Richard? Is that you?’ Mary came through from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a piece of cloth. Strands of hair had stuck to the sweat on her face. She looked at him with concern. ‘You’re back early. Is anything wrong?’

‘No.’ He smiled gently and embraced her. ‘There was just nothing more I could do today.’

She pulled back, holding him at arm’s length, not believing his words. After so many years she knew full well that he was married to his work as much as he was to her. And there was always work to be done.

‘Nothing more to do?’ she asked, her voice suspicious. ‘I think that’s the first time in twenty years I’ve heard that from you. What’s the real reason?’

‘I needed to get away,’ he admitted.

She tucked her head against his shoulder, reaching up to stroke the stubble of his cheek. ‘Is it going badly?’

‘It’s this business in Kirkstall,’ he explained. ‘We just don’t know enough and we can’t seem to find out more.’ He sighed. ‘The real problem is that none of the people live in Leeds. They’re all out in the country. I don’t know them, I don’t understand their lives. I don’t even know what questions to ask.’

‘You’ll find your answers,’ she assured him.

He wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t be so sure. He hadn’t solved every crime put before him. He hadn’t even caught every killer. Those were the ones he remembered, the ones that gnawed and burrowed into his mind. He dreaded that this killing might join that list.

‘Come on,’ he said, the idea coming to him from nowhere. ‘Let’s go up Cavalier Hill.’

‘Richard!’ she complained. ‘I’ve got my old dress on. I don’t want to go out looking like this.’

She was wearing her old brown muslin, darned and mended over the years, the sleeves pushed up over her elbows.

‘You’ll look just like a Constable’s wife,’ he told her. ‘Is that such a bad thing?’

‘Let me change into the mantua. It’ll only take me a minute.’

He surrendered with good grace, even though one minute quickly turned to five. When she came down the stairs her hair was under a cap, the blue dress adjusted just so, and the smile on her face made the wait worthwhile.

It was only a short walk, following a path across a few fields over Steander. At one time these had all been farming strips, so he’d been told, where people planted the crops to feed themselves. Now sheep grazed here, snuffling softly as they cropped at the grass. An empty tenter frame on the grass stood waiting for cloth to be tied and stretched.

At the base of the hill Nottingham took Mary’s hand, feeling her grip tighten as the slope steepened. He slowed his pace, relishing the fresh air and the small, cool breeze blowing from the west.

By the time they reached the crown Mary was ready to stop and catch her breath. She sat in the long grass while he stood and gazed down at Leeds. By the river, looking so close he could almost reach out his hand to touch them, stood the dye houses, the smoke from their chimneys hazing in the clear sky. Closer, in a meadow, a group of men were beating a fleece pulled over some wood, the rhythmic sound of their work the only noise on the air.

He could easily pick out the landmarks — St Peter’s, the New Church, the spire of St John’s, the bright brick of the Red Hall. Across the valley on the far hills lay Armley and Farnley Wood, with Holbeck nestling south of the Aire.

Every year the city was growing, pushing out in every direction. The merchants were building their grand houses past Town End, and on the other side of the river dwellings were crowding into the secret places where he’d played as a young boy.

But it was all Leeds and he loved every inch of it. For his first eight years he’d lived a privileged life here, the child of a rich man, until his father had discovered his wife had a lover and thrown her and his son from the house. After that he’d grown up quickly, surviving, stealing, learning to live from one day to the next, his mother whoring and starving until there was nothing left of her.

Then the old Constable had taken him on. He’d seen something different, something good, in the feral boy that Nottingham had been then. And now he was the Constable of the city himself. He’d never lived anywhere else and never would.

Slowly he settled next to Mary. ‘We used to come up here when we were courting,’ she recalled. ‘Do you remember that?’

‘We did a lot of things when we were courting.’ He grinned, eyes flashing, and she tapped him playfully on the arm.

‘Sunday afternoons,’ she continued. ‘You’d call for me and if the weather was good we’d go for a walk.’

‘Once your father trusted us to be alone together,’ he reminded her.

‘Well, he was right about that.’ She blushed. ‘He’d have beaten us both if he knew what we got up to. Sometimes I think it was a miracle that Rose wasn’t conceived before we were wed.’

At the mention of the name the spell broke. Rose, whose death was still a large shadow on the horizon. He squeezed her hand lightly and she gave a brief, tight smile in return.

Names, he thought. What a strange, awful power they had. The nerve was still raw and painful to the touch.

They lingered for another half-hour, conversation muted and neutral, then ambled home. The sun was lower, still pleasantly warm on his face. The workmen had gone and the fields were quiet save for an occasional bleat. As they emerged on to the road he glanced ahead.

‘Isn’t that someone at our door?’ he wondered.

‘Emily,’ Mary shouted. She gathered up her skirts and began to run.

By the time he reached them Mary had folded her daughter into a tight embrace. Emily was sobbing on to her mother’s shoulders, the tears pouring. Her bag, bulging with all she owned, sat on the ground outside the house.

With a tiny shake of her head Mary indicated he should leave them. He unlocked the door, took in the bag and poured himself a mug of ale in the kitchen. Whatever had happened, it couldn’t be good, that much was obvious. And just the day before the girl had seemed so happy. .

His attention shifted as Mary led Emily in and sat her in the chair.

‘Richard, can you bring her something to drink?’

He poured another mug of ale and took it in. Emily reached for it, her hand shaking slightly, eyes red and cheeks blotched as she looked up.

‘Here you go, love.’ He forced a smile. ‘Long walk on a hot day.’

She drained the cup quickly and he took it from her. There was dust from the roads all over her dress, and hair spilled untidily from the bonnet. Mary knelt by her, a gentle hand on her shoulder, and asked, ‘Now, what’s this all about?’