Chris Nickson - Constant Lovers

‘I suppose so,’ Rob agreed.

‘There’s as much in what people don’t say as in the words that come out of their mouths,’ the Constable advised him. ‘Remember that. I told you that listening well is a big part of what we do. Listening for what they don’t say is just as important.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Lister grinned. ‘Can you tell me something?’

‘Go on.’

‘Why do you want me doing this? I could have been out with Mr Sedgwick, helping to chase down those thieves.’

Nottingham smiled and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Because you’re more useful to me this way. Being your father’s son will get you in to see the type of people who know the Gibtons, and they’ll be more likely to talk to you than to me. Does that make sense?’

Lister nodded, doubt still in his eyes.

‘Look, we all have our strengths,’ the Constable explained. ‘We just need to make the most of them. John can get more out of those women in the courts in five minutes than I could in a month. You’ll be better at this. It makes sense to do what we do best.’

Rob knew where he’d find his father. The man spent far more time at the Mercury office than he did in his own home. He was at his desk, scratching away quickly with his quill, hair unkempt, the cuffs of his old, mended shirt black from ink. He never so much as glanced up when the door opened.

Lister flopped down in a chair and waited. He wouldn’t receive any attention until his father had his thought written down satisfactorily. Finally the older man lifted his head. He started to smile then switched to a look of concern.

‘Don’t worry, they haven’t got rid of me yet,’ Rob grinned. ‘I’m here on business.’

‘Well, I’m pleased to hear that,’ James Lister said with relief. ‘You’ve bounced from job to job so much-’

‘I plan on staying with this one, father. It’s interesting. The Constable and Mr Sedgwick have a great deal to teach me.’

The older man raised his eyebrows. ‘If you want to know about crime, I suppose they do,’ he said archly. ‘Now why has Mr Nottingham sent you here?’

‘He wants me to talk to some people who know Lady Gibton, to see if she’s as mad as she seems. And that’s not for the paper,’ he added quickly.

His father pursed his lips in distaste. ‘Of all people, Robert, you should know I can keep a confidence as well as anyone.’

‘When it suits you,’ Rob laughed.

The older man shook his head in a sly grin. ‘You know Matthew Simpson, don’t you?’

‘You know I do.’ The pair were often in the inns together.

‘Talk to his parents. They’ve dined with the Gibtons quite a few times and they might be able to tell you a few things. And if you catch Lucy Simpson on her own and charm her a bit she’ll give you all the gossip you can stand.’

‘That’s a start,’ Rob said. ‘Is there anyone else?’

James Lister sat back, steepling his fingers over his ample belly.

‘Try old Mrs Mapperly, if you can get any sense out of her,’ he said finally. ‘She lives out past Town End in one of those small cottages. If I remember rightly she knew Catherine Gibton’s family; I can’t recall their name just now.’

Rob stood. ‘Thank you.’

‘So you really do like this work?’ his father asked doubtfully.

‘I do. It’s not like anything else. I think I’ve learned more about Leeds in the last few days than I ever knew before.’

‘Just be careful,’ his father warned. ‘There are things worth knowing and things best left alone.’

‘Don’t worry, father, I’ll be fine.’

The Simpsons lived on Kirkgate, between the jail and the church, just three doors from where Ralph Thoresby had kept his museum, empty now since his death but still famous in Leeds.

Matthew was off attending to his work as a lawyer, but his mother was happy to entertain one of his friends. Lucy Simpson was a smiling, guileless woman, one who didn’t have enough to occupy her time, Lister guessed. She dressed smartly in all the fashions fresh from London, doing everything she could to hide her age, pulling her stays a little tighter each year, attending all the assemblies and concerts, and dining in the houses of friends all across the area.

‘Catherine Gibton?’ she said in surprise. ‘Why would you want to know about her?’

‘You know I work for the Constable now?’ he asked her confidentially, and when she nodded he continued. ‘It has to be secret. That’s all I can tell you.’ He knew her well enough to be certain she’d take the bait and he was right. In less that half an hour he’d learned everything he might want to know about Lady Gibton, although he was certain much of it was wild gossip, slander and outright lies.

But it was enough to establish that Catherine Gibton was a woman of delicate nerves, given to deep, dark moods and violent outbursts. She took every slight, real or imagined, to heart and never let any of them fall away.

She could lock herself away for days at a time when the black dog came, refusing food and raging loud and long into the night. If Lucy Simpson was to be believed, she’d become even worse in recent years; her madness could strike with little warning. It had reached the point where the baron and his wife attended fewer and fewer affairs. The title meant that the invitations still arrived, but so often they were refused.

It was a curious portrait Matthew’s mother had painted, Rob thought as he walked up Briggate, the afternoon sun pleasingly warm on his back. The woman sounded like a terrible creature, shrill, fearsome and impossible to please, and in a strange way he felt sorry for the husband who had to live with it all.

He crossed the Head Row and passed St John’s church, strolling out into Town End. This was where many of the merchants had chosen to build their large new houses, the brash statements of wealth that showed they could afford the cleaner air outside the city. The grammar school stood apart from everything in a field, and the whole area was a curious mix of country and town.

Virginia Mapperly’s cottage was definitely part of the country. Old and run down, it must have stood there for generations, he decided, tucked away beyond the grandeur of the new mansions. He knocked politely on the door and waited, pulling down on his coat and waistcoat and checking that his stock was well tied. A good impression could count for a great deal.

The woman who eventually answered stood straight-backed, dressed in a silk gown that was long out of fashion but beautifully kept. Her right hand, mottled with the brown spots of age, rested on a polished stick and she regarded him with a long, inquisitive gaze.

‘I don’t know you,’ she said in a firm voice.

‘No, ma’am,’ he agreed. ‘I’m Robert, James Lister’s son. He suggested I come to you.’

‘I see,’ she replied slowly, and he felt she was assessing him. Her hair was carefully brushed, powder on her face; she was elegant, looking as if she might be about to leave for an important engagement. Finally she gave a sharp nod and said, ‘Don’t dawdle on the doorstep then, young man, you’d better come in.’

She still sat the way her governess must have taught her, rigid and upright on the polished wooden chair, her back rod straight. Across from her, taking the low stool she offered, he felt like a child.

‘I knew your grandmother well,’ she told him. ‘She died before your time, I think?’

‘Yes.’

‘A wonderful woman, and hard pressed to keep that hellion who’s your father in check,’ she told him with a secretive smile. ‘Did you know he was always in trouble? The masters at school would beat him, then his father would beat him because the masters had been forced to.’