Chris Nickson - Constant Lovers

So Sarah had had a lover before she was wed, and he was as certain as he needed to be that it had been Will Jackson. And it hadn’t ended after her marriage. He understood why she’d played things so close and her maid had said nothing. Secrets always spread like a wild fire once they were out; a word, a whisper was all it took.

What really puzzled him, though, was what he’d learnt at the Gibton house. However strange the man was, he’d never heard of behaviour like that before. From all the tales, he hoped he’d never meet her Ladyship, but things must have been bad if he’d sent the servants away for a few days. The timing, too, was especially interesting.

It was no surprise, perhaps, that Lord Gibton hadn’t mentioned it during their interview. More secrets to keep quiet. A family with plenty of those, it seemed.

At the inn he settled the horse at the trough and bought a mug of ale, deliciously cold, with just enough edge of bitterness to satisf?y him. Two farmers were talking quietly in another corner of the room, but otherwise he had the place to himself.

The more he thought, the more he wondered at the curious coincidence of Lady Gibton’s dark mood happening just when her daughter was due to visit. He didn’t care for coincidences. He mulled it over, slowly and deliberately examining the idea, until eventually he was willing to concede that coincidence was all this might be. Sarah’s visit to her parents was a surprise. Godlove had told him that right at the start. So they wouldn’t have known she was coming.

The more he discovered about the family, the more it disturbed him. There was an ugly strain of madness in them. But there was more than that. He knew the gentry had their own ways, but to blatantly sell their daughter the way they had, that was cold, calculating, and beyond his understanding. At times a life with no social position to worry about was much easier.

He gulped down the remainder of the ale, and left. Time to reflect had only brought more confusion. While he’d been inside, clouds had thickened in the west until they were bearing down dark and thick from the Pennines and promising another storm to clean out the day.

Riding back down to Leeds the city was spread out before him, the spires of the churches standing out, with the sharp, warm colour of Red House visible on the Head Row. He felt a languor spreading through him, and for all the world he could have sprawled out and slept for an hour under a tree.

But he wasn’t going to have the chance. It was still only late morning and there was plenty to do before he could rest. He returned the horse and walked back to the jail, his joints aching from the ride. He was getting older, no doubt of it. In his forties now, he was still fit and fair, but the pains and rheums came more easily and lingered longer. The hair that had once been so blond and handsome, his pride when he was younger, was paler now, with streaks of silver to mark the time. At least, he thought vainly, he hadn’t gone bald the way so many did. There were a few small mercies.

The jail was empty save for one man in a cell. The deputy had left a note; the man was a pickpocket he’d caught in the act. Sedgwick and Lister were trying to find the missing servants. If Worthy reached them first they’d face the task of hunting for evidence against the pimp; that, he knew, would be close to impossible. None would peach on him. The vulnerable would keep quiet out of fear, the rich to seek favour.

He tried to write a report, but after two lines he put down the quill; he simply couldn’t settle to it. It was the weather; it made his skin prickle and concentration was impossible. He pulled on the coat and left, ambling down Briggate and letting his feet take him where they would.

By the time he paid real attention he was already south of the river and walking out along Meadow Lane. In the last few years it had begun to turn into a grand avenue; a few merchants had built their homes over here, looking haughtily over the river, the courts and yards of the poor hidden away in the spaces behind the clean, proud frontages and deep, lush gardens. In the distance lay the Quaker Meeting house and burial place, a small, simple structure of plain stone.

Nottingham knew a few Quakers, all of them honest, sober men. He didn’t understand their faith but he admired them for it. The last traces of his own belief had died in February with his older daughter. He still attended church, but the words he heard there had become nothing more than a familiar form that had lost all its meaning. Mary felt the same, he knew. How could anyone offer his soul to a God who’d rip his family apart for no reason?

He began to retrace his steps and had just reached Leeds Bridge when the first thunder came, its echo reverberating like doom along the valley. As if in answer, the first large drops of rain arrived, followed by the swift, startling crackle of lightning. The Constable stopped and raised his head, letting the water land on his face.

While others ran for shelter he stayed still, the coolness washing his skin, the comfort of the rain reaching his heart. He could feel the downpour soaking through his coat, but it didn’t matter. Already the air seemed fresher, the sultriness vanishing.

By the time he reached the jail the heavy shower had passed, the air clear, dust damped down on the streets. The sun was out again but the overbearing heat had broken. Lister and the deputy were already there, deep in discussion over a mug of ale.

‘Get caught in it again, did you, boss?’ Sedgwick asked with a grin.

‘Stayed out in it,’ he replied, pushing a hand through his hair. ‘It felt good after a morning in the saddle. Now, anything more on these thieves?’

‘They’re not staying at any of the inns,’ Lister told him. ‘But,’ he added, ‘a couple who could well be them have been seen drinking at a couple of alehouses and in the gin shop down on Call Lane.’

‘When did someone last think they saw them?’

‘Night before last,’ the deputy answered. ‘So it looks as if they’re still here. They’ve probably found a room in one of the courts.’

Nottingham rubbed his chin against the back of his hand, feeling the rasp of stubble against his skin.

‘Then it’s only a matter of time until Worthy finds them. He’s put the word out and there’ll be plenty eager to get into his good graces with a quiet word. This pair must be stupid. Either that or they still don’t know he’s looking. Or they’re planning something else here.’ He thought for a minute. ‘Is there any pattern to the places this couple might have been?’

‘Mostly down towards the river, the Calls, Call Lane, up by Currie Entry. All this side of Briggate, though.’

‘Right. John, take some of the men and start asking in the courts down there. Find the old women who sleep with their eyes open, they know everything that’s going on. See if you can track these two down. I want them before Worthy can get his hands on them.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘What about me?’ Lister asked.

‘I’ve got something else for you, Rob. I need to find out more about Baron Gibton’s wife. Do you know anyone in those social circles?’

‘Not really,’ he said doubtfully. ‘But I suppose my father would. Do you want me to ask him?’

‘Yes, as long as you tell him that none of this can appear in the Mercury.’

‘I will,’ Rob agreed readily. ‘What do you want me to ask these people?’

‘I’ve been hearing some interesting things.’ He recounted what he’d been told that morning. ‘I want to find out just how mad she really is. I’ve never heard of anyone dismissing the servants for a few days before.’

‘And if anyone’s reluctant to say?’

Nottingham cocked an eyebrow. ‘That says a lot in itself, don’t you think?’