Chris Nickson - Constant Lovers

‘Take a look at that,’ he said and waited as she unfolded it and skimmed the words once, then again, her mouth widening as she read.

‘Papa.’ The word was part question, part squeal of joy. She ran to him, arms wide, and hugged him. ‘But how did you. .?’

‘Never you mind,’ he said, happy to see her mood so suddenly lifted. ‘Don’t worry, Hartington won’t say a word, and you should be able to find another position quite easily with a recommendation like that.’

‘With something like this I could be governess to the king.’ Her pleasure filled the room. ‘Thank you, papa.’

He left her reading the paper again, feeling that perhaps today had been worthwhile.

‘For my money Sarah Godlove came into Leeds every week and met Jackson,’ the deputy said firmly. It was still early and the morning light shone with the promise of another warm day as the three of them sat in the jail. ‘I know we don’t have proof yet, but. .’

Nottingham sat forward thoughtfully in his chair, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled under his chin.

‘We can find that,’ he said slowly, ‘or as close to it as we’re likely to get. You said Jackson was seen with a girl. They must have gone somewhere and they couldn’t have been alone in his rooms. After all, they had her honour to protect.’

‘Aye, that’s true enough,’ Sedgwick agreed.

‘Go and talk to his landlady. If anyone visited him there you can wager she’ll know and can probably give us a description.’ He turned his eyes to Lister. ‘We know Sarah liked to ride. Go and talk to the stables. If she was coming here she’d have wanted her horse somewhere safe.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Rob frowned. ‘And if we find out that it is her, what do we do then?’

‘Then we have a place to start digging. Think about it. She’s married and seeing another man. That gives Samuel Godlove a reason to kill her if he knows about it. Or Jackson, for that matter.’

‘What about the baby?’ the deputy wondered.

‘If she was carrying a baby,’ Nottingham warned heavily. ‘All we have is a servant’s take for that. And if there is a baby it might easily be Jackson’s.’

‘What about Anne Taylor?’

‘Who’s she?’ Lister asked.

‘Sarah’s maid. Vanished after his mistress died.’

‘Do you think she might have done it?’

‘No,’ the Constable told him. ‘She’s dead, like as not. She hasn’t been in touch with her family. Where else would she go?’

The others left, and Nottingham picked up the pile of love letters Sarah had sent Jackson. Her writing was rounded, girlish, large on the page.

My heart aches for you , she’d written. How can I wait until we meet again? You’re the blood in my veins, every thought in my head. The minutes pass like lifetimes, but my love for you grows with each one. S.

He took up another page.

My love, today was so wonderful. I feel blessed by your love. I can taste you, smell you, but I’m saddened that I have days before I see you again. Life would be so perfect if we were always together. I love you. S.

On the third he read, How I wish we could always be together so my joy could be complete. Without you there would be nothing to live for.

Her eagerness, her passion, leapt out at him. They were the words of a girl, but he had no doubt about the depth of her feelings. She’d loved Jackson completely. And his love for her must have been as absolute as hers — why else would he have killed himself once he learned she was dead? He felt saddened and sickened by the sad waste of life.

He settled to finish his report, surprised but grateful that the mayor hadn’t demanded an arrest yet. Still, he thought as he walked up Briggate towards the Moot Hall, by the end of the day they might know a great deal more.

On both sides of the street the traders were setting up for the Saturday market, their stalls spilling into the road. Men were shouting and boasting, servants flirting and gossiping, full of anticipation as they waited.

He heard someone chuckle and turned to find Thaddeus Harris at his shoulder, a broad smile showing off a set of broken, rotted teeth, watching as his apprentice finished setting up the stall.

‘Seen Amos Worthy, Constable?’

‘No,’ he answered, surprised at the question. ‘What’s he done?’

‘Thought he might have come in to see thee. Someone robbed him last night.’

He left his report with a clerk at the Moot Hall and walked swiftly down Briggate. Anything involving Amos Worthy was grim news. Nottingham was more than ready to believe it had been his men who’d cut the whore as a warning; it was his style. But Worthy was also a man of strange honour, and he and Nottingham shared a tangled history that reached back through the decades.

The old, unpainted door on Swinegate was unlocked, the passage running straight through to the kitchen, and the Constable walked in without knocking. Worthy would be there in the tottering old addition to the already ancient house, enjoying the warmth of the fire in the hearth even in the midsummer heat.

In his sixties, the man had aged since the winter. His hair had thinned, his face was a little more gaunt, and he’d taken to walking with a silver-topped stick since he’d been stabbed in the thigh. He was a rich man but he still dressed in the same old dirty clothes every day, hoarding the money he made from his girls and all the rest, a man with his finger in many of the city’s pies, some legal, most not.

Even now, older and looking a little smaller, he wasn’t a man to be crossed. He had power and a violent temper. His justice was quick and his justice was bloody.

He had a pair of men in the room who stirred and pulled their blades as Nottingham entered, but the pimp waved them away.

‘I thought you’d be here sooner or later, Constable,’ he said. ‘Little birds been singing, have they?’

‘A few words,’ Nottingham conceded, settling on a stool by the table and pouring a mug of small beer.

‘Help yourself, why don’t you, laddie?’ he said wryly. ‘Come to gloat?’

‘Come to warn you,’ the Constable corrected him. ‘What happened, Amos?’

Worthy shook his head slightly. ‘Save your breath, laddie. I’m going to find who did this.’

‘And then?’

‘Make them pay,’ he answered matter-of-factly.

‘Kill them, you mean.’

‘Aye.’ He reached across, tore off part of a loaf and began to eat, ignoring the crumbs that fell on to his old waistcoat, a patchwork of stains and dirt.

‘No,’ Nottingham said.

Worthy raised his eyebrows.‘No?’

‘How much did she take?’

‘Ten guineas.’

It was a sizeable sum, the Constable had to admit.

‘If anyone dies, it’s after a trial.’

The pimp snorted. ‘That’s if you catch them.’

Nottingham said nothing, but kept his gaze on the man. ‘I hear you have some competition, too.’

‘Oh aye? Who would that be, then?’

‘Someone called Hughes. Arrived recently with his girls.’

‘I’ve heard the name,’ Worthy said absently. ‘You know how it happens, Constable. They come and go.’

Forced out or dead, Nottingham thought.

‘One of his lasses was cut the other night.’

‘Shame,’ the pimp said flatly, his eyes blank.

‘I won’t ask if it was your doing.’

There was no response.

‘Whoever did it needs to hear what I’m saying, though,’ the Constable continued. ‘It stops here.’

Worthy raised his eyebrows.

‘Oh aye?’

‘And if you think Hughes is behind this theft, don’t. There’s been a service lay in the city. How did it happen?’

Worthy at least had the grace to lower his head. ‘I took on a new lass last week after the last one left to get wed. There’s a whole house upstairs needs looking after.’