Chris Nickson - Constant Lovers

After he’d gone the Constable turned to Sedgwick. ‘What do you think of Rob?’

‘He could be good,’ the deputy said warily. ‘It’s early days yet.’

‘True,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘But I have the sense he’ll be here a while.’

Sedgwick raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘Maybe. His family has money, why would he keep doing this?’

‘Because he seems to like it.’

‘I’ll wait and see.’

The Constable stared at him. ‘Give him a chance, John. He’s not after your job.’

‘Maybe he’ll want yours in time, though,’ the deputy said.

Nottingham smiled slowly. ‘I’ve told you, you’re the one I’d always recommend.’

‘But you don’t make the decision, boss.’

‘No,’ he agreed with a nod. ‘I’ve always said, they’ll listen to what I say. Don’t worry about it. There’s no need, not for a long time yet.’

Nottingham walked down to Jackson’s lodgings. He needed to see the place himself, to gain a sense of the man and try to understand him. He wandered between the two rooms, standing at the window and looking down on the people moving along Briggate, taking in the smells and atmosphere of Jackson’s life, everything overlaid with the staleness of a life ended and closed.

He’d probably inherited the furniture from his parents, the Constable thought, running his fingertips lightly across the dust on the dark wood. It was old, battered here and there, but serviceable enough for a young man who didn’t spend much time at home.

The rooms were clean and uncluttered. He took the remainder of the dead man’s papers from the desk and folded them into the large pocket of his coat. In the bedroom he pawed through Jackson’s clothes, hunting for notes and scraps.

The man owned three suits, plus the one he’d been wearing when he died. That was an extravagance for most men, and from the feel of them, he hadn’t spared money on the cloth. Two were made from fine worsted, fashionably cut with deep cuffs on the sleeves, the breeches intended to be tight and flattering. There were five waistcoats, two of brocade in colourful patterns, the others more sober, for business most like. One pair of shoes with silver buckles and a pair of boots, lovingly cleaned to a high shine. A drawer held clean linen, and he ran his hand under the clothes for any pieces of paper that might be hidden.

He found a knife, but it was nothing like the one that had killed Sarah. Other than clothes and papers, the two rooms held little that gave any sign of who Jackson really was. This was a place where he existed, not where he lived. And there was certainly nothing of Sarah. No keepsakes, no love tokens, no memories. After half an hour he gave up.

At the jail he passed everything to Lister.

‘Go through it all,’ he instructed. ‘Business as well as personal. I know Tunstall said everything was fine, but let’s check. You never know what you’ll find.’

‘Yes, boss.’ He raised his head from the papers.

‘It’s slow, but it has to be done, Rob.’

‘I don’t mind,’ he answered with a smile. ‘It sounds strange, but I’m enjoying it.’

He needed to know more about Jackson, Nottingham thought as he walked down to the river and out along Low Holland. Just up the bank the cloth was being stretched out in the sun. A mild breeze came off the water, a gentle coolness that felt pleasant on the hot afternoon.

He knew the building he wanted, although he’d never been inside it before. Tom Williamson had just moved into his new warehouse down by the Aire the month before. Built for him, it offered more space than the tumbledown place in the yard behind his old, cramped house on Briggate, and made loading cloth on to the barges much easier.

The Constable pushed open the door and entered. Already everything had the unmistakable smell of cloth. The office, its battered desks looking out of place in this new setting, stood to one side, empty as all the men worked together to store the lengths the merchant had purchased at the afternoon’s coloured cloth market.

Williamson himself was supervising, stripped to his breeches and shirt, sleeves pushed up to show pale, scrawny arms. Nottingham waited, watching as the men worked in concert with pulleys and brute strength to put the cloth away on the shelves. The high windows, glass still clear and clean, were open to pull in fresh air, but everyone was sweating and cursing.

He waited quietly until they’d finished and Williamson walked towards him, towelling off his face and neck with an old scrap of linen. He was in his middle thirties, a slight man, full of energy, drive, and the kind of honesty all too rare in a merchant. He smiled as he noticed the Constable leaning against a wall.

‘Richard,’ he said pleasantly. ‘What do you think of it?’

‘Impressive,’ he answered truthfully. The large new place, its stonework bright, was an indication of the ambition Williamson had as a merchant, and of the fortunes of the wool trade in Leeds. Across the city, business was growing fast, with orders coming in constantly, and all because of the quality. No one in the country could match it. Profits were good and going to become even better. Tom Williamson had grown up in the business, his father a merchant, his own apprenticeship served in the city and abroad, and he’d taken over the firm when his father had died two years before. Now it was on the cusp of being one of the largest in Leeds.

The merchant poured himself a mug of ale and drank quickly before offering one to Nottingham.

‘It’s a big investment,’ Williamson said with pride. ‘But give it two or three years and it’ll be paying for itself. Come on, let’s go outside, I need some air after all that.’

Nottingham followed him and they sat together on the riverbank.

‘So what brings you here, Richard? You’re not one for social calls.’

‘Will Jackson.’

The merchant frowned. ‘I heard. That was terrible,’ he said with a long sigh.

‘Did you know him?’

Williamson took another drink. ‘Not especially well. We’d say good day when we met, that type of thing. But from what everyone said, he was up and coming, making a name for himself.’

‘Did you do business with him?’

‘I’ve used Tunstall’s a couple of times, mostly when there were orders I had to fill quickly.’ He wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. ‘You know how it is, you develop a relationship with companies. There’s a cloth finisher we’ve used for years. They’re fine, so I don’t have any reason to change.’

‘What do you know about Tunstall’s?’

Williamson eyed him curiously. ‘Trying to find the reason he killed himself??’

‘More or less,’ Nottingham answered evasively. In part, at least, it was the truth. The merchant considered his answer.

‘As far as I know, they’re going well. Jackson really built the business up. He came to see me a few times, trying for my custom. I imagine Elias is worried now.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

A suicide left a long, stained shadow, one that people were eager to avoid. Trade at Tunstall’s would suffer as long as people remembered what Jackson had done.

‘It’s not like you to investigate suicides, Richard, even if they’re in a place like that. Is there something more?’

‘Possibly,’ was as far as he’d go in response. Tom was a friend, one of the few merchants who didn’t look down on him or his office. But something stopped him saying more and he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he felt too unsure about everything at the moment, still trying to tie down the tenuous connections between peoples’ lives.

‘I don’t envy you your job,’ Williamson said, shaking his head.