Chris Nickson - Constant Lovers

‘I think she’ll probably be self-important and insufferable for a while,’ Mary answered with a sardonic smile. ‘But it’ll be good for her. And she’ll be here with us.’

‘You’ve missed having her here, haven’t you?’ He reached across and stroked the back of her hand.

‘I liked it with just the two of us,’ she said with a low, thoughtful sigh. ‘But somehow it feels more complete with her here again.’

‘She’ll go in time, you know. She’ll meet someone and be wed.’

Mary looked up at him, her eyes wide. He knew she was thinking of Rose, married and so soon dead.

‘That’s for the future, Richard. She has plenty of time for that.’

He took a mouthful of cheese and drank from the mug.

‘We could take a walk later if you like,’ he suggested. ‘Just the two of us. Emily has her reading to keep her busy.’

‘And I’ll have my sewing if I’m going to finish her dress by next week. I need to measure her, cut out the fabric.’ She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I can’t, Richard, I’m sorry. I’m going to be up until all hours every night.’

‘It’s fine,’ he told her softly and dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead.

His coat hung on the hook and he delved in the pocket for the folded and crumpled copy of the Mercury before sitting down. As usual there was little in it he wanted to know. Reports copied from the London papers that had circulated a week or two before, a short item each on Sarah Godlove and Will Jackson that offered nothing new. There were marriages in Mirfield, and someone was offering Dr Daff?y’s pills, proven to be efficacious for gout and too many other things to count. He dropped the newspaper on the floor and closed his eyes.

The banging on the door woke him. He started up, blinking and disorientated for a second. He was alone in the room. Somewhere upstairs he could hear Mary and Emily talking. Light was still coming through the window, but lower now — he must have slept a couple of hours.

‘Wait,’ he shouted in a thick voice, shaking his head to clear it. He lifted the latch. Sedgwick was waiting outside. This wouldn’t be good news, he could see from the deep frown on the deputy’s face.

‘Someone found a body, boss. I think it might be Sarah’s maid.’

He took his coat from the hook and pulled it on as they walked quickly into the city.

‘Where was the body?’

‘In some woods out along the river, going towards Kirkstall.’

‘Who found it?’

‘Someone out snaring coneys,’ the deputy said. ‘It’s private land,’ he added pointedly.

‘I don’t care if it’s the King’s bloody court,’ Nottingham said, ‘not if there’s a corpse. Is someone bringing it in?’

‘Aye, I’ve got two of the men on it.’

‘Have you seen her?’

‘Yes,’ Sedgwick answered, his face sombre, the pock marks on his cheeks standing out in the dying light.

‘How bad is it?’

‘Bad, boss.’ He grimaced. ‘Been there a while and the animals have been at it.’

‘So what made you think it was Anne Taylor?’

They were heading up Kirkgate at a crisp pace. As they passed the Parish Church the Constable cast a glace at the churchyard; even in the twilight his eyes immediately picked out Rose’s grave.

‘Well, it’s a girl, I can tell that much, and what’s left of her hair is dark. Slender.’

‘Was she clothed?’

‘Not much of it left, but she had been. I don’t think we’ll ever be able to find out what killed her. I told the coroner. The men will bring her in after he’s seen her.’

They settled in the jail to await the body.

‘We need to see if there’s any way to identif?y her and tell the family,’ Nottingham said. ‘They’ll want to bury her.’

Sedgwick slipped next door for a mug of ale and the Constable pushed at his cheeks with his palms, rubbing away the last of the sleep. If the corpse was Anne it would simply confirm what he suspected. But it didn’t help them find the killer.

He was still sitting with his thoughts about it when the door opened and two of the night men struggled in with a bundle on a willow hurdle, covered with a wretched, stained old blanket. They knew what to do, and carried it through to the cell the city kept as a morgue. On their way out he gave them a few coins for ale; if the remains were as far gone as the deputy had said, they’d need a drink.

He went through and pulled off the cover. But after a single glance he had to turn away, breathing slowly and shallowly to keep down the bile rising in his chest. Sedgwick hadn’t said enough. This was far beyond bad.

Nottingham took a kerchief from his breeches pocket and tied it around his face, trying vainly to keep the stench of death away. The putrefaction was so strong it made his eyes water and he had to keep stopping to wipe them with his sleeve.

The corpse had been a young woman, he could make out that much, but God only knew what she’d looked like. Her eyes were gone, pecked away, the skin all over her body chewed by beasts. One arm had been gnawed off, the teeth marks still sharp on the bone, maggots and flies crowding around the thick dried blood of the stump.

He did what he could to try and find anything recognisable in the decomposed flesh, stopping often to clear his mouth with a swig of ale, carefully examining what was left of the body. With what little remained there was no possibility of discovering what had killed her; John had been right on that. He did manage to find a birthmark, a small patch of darker skin on the skin around her hip, but nothing more. It might be enough to identif?y her.

He came out shaking his head and downed a deep cup, not tasting the beer but feeling it swill through his mouth, cleansing it.

‘Better get her out of here as soon as possible,’ he said, sitting down gratefully. ‘Find someone to take her tonight. And have the undertaker put her in a coffin with the lid nailed down.’

‘Right, boss.’

‘This man who found her, what did he have to say for himself??’

‘He hadn’t been around there for a couple of weeks, or so he claimed. He’d gone down to set up some snares, found her and sent word into town. When I got there he was shaking and pale. Couldn’t tell me much, just what he’d found. You think it’s the maid?’

‘Probably,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘There haven’t been any other reports of missing girls. Was she well off the path?’

‘Aye, in among some trees. She’d been covered with branches before the animals got to her. I looked around but I couldn’t see anything else.’

‘Probably nothing else to find,’ the Constable said in an empty voice. ‘There is something more, though. When Rob looked through Jackson’s letters it looked as if he was going to sell his share in the company and leave Leeds.’

‘So the pair of them would go together?’

‘In the end it makes sense, doesn’t it?’ The Constable poured himself another mug of ale. The taste of death had gone from his mouth now and he could finally savour the drink. ‘If they went off to London or somewhere no one would know them. They could live as man and wife.’

‘What about Anne?’

‘Most likely she’d have gone with them. Think about all the questions if she went back to her family.’

Sedgwick stretched in the chair and yawned. ‘All of which makes Godlove the most likely to kill her.’

‘I know.’ Nottingham ran a hand through his hair. ‘But I can’t see it. If he did, the man’s a fine actor. Why, John? That’s what I really can’t understand. Why would anyone want Sarah dead? The way I see it, we only have Godlove, or Jackson if she’d decided to stay with her husband. Am I wrong? Have I missed something?’