Chris Nickson - Constant Lovers

He’d be back out to talk to Mr Godlove, and this time he’d be very much on his guard. He’d bring John along, too, and see what he thought. The problem was that they couldn’t arrest someone of that rank without very good cause, and finding evidence to convict might be nigh on impossible.

As he made his way slowly along the road back into Leeds, turning by Kirkstall Forge, the ruined tower of the abbey looming out to the west, Nottingham was forced to admit that it was quite possible he’d never know for certain who’d killed Sarah Godlove, or even the real reason why.

He hated failure. He hated to see a life taken and not being able to find the person responsible. It didn’t happen often. As he’d told Rob, most murders were simple to solve. But a few had eluded him and he remembered every single one of them, the faces, the dates, the way he’d been unable to bring them justice. He didn’t want to add this one to the list.

At the ostler’s he dismounted, thighs aching, knowing he’d have to do it again the next day. Still, at least he now had real questions to ask Godlove, and he’d need solid, believable answers.

The others were at the jail, the deputy wearing his frustration on his face and Lister sitting back thoughtfully, cradling a mug of ale in his hands, breadcrumbs scattered loosely across his waistcoat.

‘Doesn’t look like either of you has had a good morning,’ Nottingham said, perching on the corner of the desk. ‘John, I want you to come out to Horsforth with me tomorrow.’

‘Riding?’

‘Best way, unless you really prefer Shanks’s mare. Godlove wasn’t home. But the cook said he left the same day as Sarah. Went to Bradford and didn’t come back until late the following day.’

‘Still think he’s not guilty, boss?’

The Constable shrugged. ‘That’s why I want you there when I talk to him. You can tell me what you think.’

‘I will.’

‘What about you, Rob? You’re lost in thought.’

‘I’ve been going over Will’s papers again, boss. I can’t find anything else in his rooms.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing,’ he said with a long sigh. ‘There’s just nothing there that can help.’

‘So we’re stuck,’ Nottingham said. ‘Still, it was worth a try.’ He was about to say more when the door was pushed open hard. A young boy, maybe eight years old, wearing just a shirt and torn breeches, his feet bare, looked up at them with wide, terrified eyes.

‘Please sir, you’ve got to come now,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Some men are attacking a lady.’

Nottingham looked at the other two and reached into a desk drawer, taking out three heavy cudgels.

‘Ever used one?’ he asked Lister.

‘No.’

‘Sounds like you’ll get some practice,’ the deputy told him.

Moving at a run past the surprised people on the street, they followed the boy into the thicket of courts that ran off Lands Lane. The lad disappeared into the entrance of one, a space hardly wide enough to pass through in single file, to a yard where the broken-down houses stood around a small, bare patch of ground that hardly ever saw the sun.

‘In there. I heard them.’ The lad pointed at a building with its front door missing. Nottingham could hear grunts and shouts coming from inside. He turned and gestured at the others, took a deep breath and charged through the door with a shout, the other two close behind.

The two men trying to kick down the door turned together. They were both large, with battered, worn faces and thick hands, but they were unarmed, knowing their size and power could intimidate most people.

The Constable didn’t even need to think. He brought the cudgel down on one man’s forearm, hearing the hard wood break bone and the loud, agonized cry that followed. Sedgwick was already attacking the other man, then Lister started, flailing at the skull of the first. Nottingham moved aside to give them room.

It had only been the work of seconds, barely a skirmish, but he still found himself panting hard from it, energy and excitement jangling through his body. Sedgwick’s man was laid out on the dirty floorboards, while the other held his arm carefully, blood flowing freely from the wounds on his head.

‘Wake that one up,’ the Constable ordered, ‘and take them to the jail. See what you can get out of them.’

The deputy used his boot to rouse the unconscious man. He stirred slowly, moving gradually to his knees then vomiting loudly.

‘Get him out of here before he does that again,’ the Constable ordered. ‘The smell here’s bad enough as it is.’

There was no resistance in them. As hard men they had nothing to offer beyond their size. They were brutal enough against someone weak, but crumpled if anyone showed them some fight.

Once they’d gone and silence had returned to the stairwell, he knocked on the door. Two of the panels had been smashed, but the lock had held. Another good push or two and it would have given, though.

‘I’m the Constable of Leeds,’ he said, loud enough for whoever was inside to hear. ‘You’re safe now.’

There was no response. He tried the handle but it wouldn’t give.

‘Can you let me in? There’s no one here to hurt you.’

Again there was nothing and he waited. He needed to know who was beyond that door.

‘Please, let me in.’

When no one answered he knew he had no choice. Standing back he raised a leg and brought the sole of his boot down hard just below the lock. The door shuddered but held until he did it again and finally everything gave.

Gently, holding the cudgel loosely, he pushed the door open and walked in. A girl was crouched in the far corner, shivering uncontrollably and trying to make herself small, tears coursing down her face, small fingers attempting to hold the torn bodice of her dress together.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her softly, ‘I won’t hurt you. Those men have gone.’

She looked up at him. He squatted, looking into her eyes and giving an encouraging smile.

‘You’re Nan, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘A lot of people have been looking for you, love.’

He reached out to take her hand and she pulled fearfully away. Instead of grabbing her, he left his hand there, as he might with a beaten dog, patiently waiting for her to decide.

‘You’ve been hiding a few days, haven’t you?’

She nodded, eyes wide, as if she didn’t trust herself to open her mouth and speak. He had a chance to look at her properly, and saw dark unkempt hair hanging in loose rat tails, grimy skin, fingernails bitten all the way down.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her kindly, ‘Amos Worthy can’t get you now. You didn’t know about him when you took the job in his house, did you?’

‘No.’ Her voice was a bare croak, quavering even over one word.

Nottingham took off his coat and passed it to her. ‘Button that up and you’ll be decent. There are some clothes at the jail you can wear.’

She placed her small fingers in his and he pulled her upright. The skin on her palm was callused, and she wiped the tears from her eyes. He helped her up and she put on the coat, far too large on her tiny body; she looked like an absurd doll. The Constable smiled at her.

‘That’s better,’ he said encouragingly. He kept one hand lightly on the small of her back as they left the house. It helped steady her, although the shaking was growing less, but also ready to hold her in case she tried to run. After the darkness inside the daylight seemed unnaturally bright as they emerged back on to Lands Lane.

‘Tom was your brother?’

‘Yes.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘How did you know that?’

‘It’s my job,’ he told her.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she asked flatly, already knowing the answer.