Chris Nickson - Constant Lovers

They walked on in a comfortable, companionable silence born from years together. Occasionally Mary would point something out, a flower or a bird, and they’d exchange a few words before returning to the quiet and the warmth of the time together.

Nottingham felt contentment seep through him, all the nagging cares and annoyances of the day vanishing. He’d needed this as much as Mary had, some small time away that they could share where none of life’s realities could intrude. Even the ache in his thighs from riding was fading, although God knew it would return tomorrow after another trip to Horsforth.

An hour or more later they slowly made their way home. He put his arm around her as they walked, a small gesture of his feelings, the way he’d always relished the contact, the texture of her skin, and valued it now all the more.

He was awake with the earliest light, when the sky was hollow with dawn and the stars were still bright above. He moved quietly, dressing in yesterday’s clothes. He’d save his good suit and shirt for church tomorrow.

There was a small chill in the dawn air, the stir of a breeze, welcome and refreshing after so many days of heat, and he breathed it in deeply as he walked towards Timble Bridge. He’d show Rob what to do at the morning cloth market then leave with Sedgwick to see Godlove.

It was going to be another long day, that was almost certain, but he felt rested and ready to tackle it. As he crossed the bridge a boy careered towards him down Kirkgate, small legs pumping and kicking up plumes of dust behind him.

He stopped and waited, one hand on the railing, knowing inside that the lad was carrying a message for him.

‘You’re looking for the Constable?’ he called when the boy was a few yards away. Panting hard, the boy stopped and tried to catch his breath.

‘There’s a girl dead at the Moot Hall,’ he said.

Nottingham was running himself before the sentence was over.

Sedgwick was waiting at the jail, pacing fretfully, his mouth set hard, hair wild and uncombed.

‘It’s Nan?’ Nottingham asked and the deputy nodded slowly. ‘How?’

‘Hung with her own dress. It was torn into strips. Looks like she killed herself but I’m damned sure she didn’t.’ His voice was flat, his eyes showing nothing. ‘Weatherspoon found her when he arrived this morning. The night man had vanished.’

The Constable ran the back of his hand across his mouth, his mind working furiously.

‘Is she still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you told the coroner?’

‘Not yet. I wanted you to know first.’

‘Good. Let’s go and see her. Send someone for Mr Brogden,’ he said with distaste. ‘I’m sure he’ll call it suicide.’

On the street the deputy gave a coin to a small lad who was up and curious, sending him scarpering off down Briggate. Then he joined Nottingham and the pair walked without speaking up to the Moot Hall.

Weatherspoon was at his desk, his face full of anguish, standing as soon as they entered.

‘When did you find her?’ Nottingham asked.

‘About an hour ago.’ The man’s voice was anxious and cracking. It wasn’t the first death here and wouldn’t be the last, but he knew it shouldn’t have happened. ‘As soon as I saw the night man wasn’t here, I checked on her straight away.’

‘Let’s take a look at her,’ the Constable said and the turnkey led them down the shadowy passage to the cell and pushed the door open.

‘Was it locked when you arrived?’ the Constable asked.

‘Yes,’ Weatherspoon said.

She was hanging from a thick beam that supported the floor above. The old dress he’d given her at the jail had been ripped into ragged strips, knotted one to the other. As they entered, the draught caused her body to turn slightly so she was facing them.

There was a puddle beneath her where she’d pissed herself and a joint stool kicked over on the flagstones. Nottingham reached out and touched her hand. The skin was cooling, but there was still the faint warmth of a lost life there. The tongue lolled from her mouth, and there was a heavy, livid bruise on her cheek. One more fragile soul lost to the noose, he thought sadly.

‘The coroner will be here soon. Leave her up until he’s seen her,’ Nottingham ordered.

Without a word they moved back to Weatherspoon’s desk. At the other end of the building the prisoners were raising a clamour, demanding their breakfast.

‘Who’s your night man?’

‘His name’s Wilkie. Came about two months ago,’ the turnkey answered. ‘He seemed fine. It’s hard to find someone who’s willing to be here all night. .’ He pulled out a piece of paper with the man’s address scrawled on it.

‘Go and see if you can find him, John. If he’s around, take him to the jail.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Sedgwick ran up the stairs and into the growing day.

‘She was very quiet after you left yesterday. You must have given her plenty to think on.’

‘Yes,’ the Constable agreed slowly. ‘But nothing to make her kill herself.’

Weatherspoon stared at him.‘Are you sure it was murder? In my prison?’

‘It probably was,’ Nottingham replied. ‘I’ll tell you that she stole from Amos Worthy, and we stopped a couple of men from attacking her.’

‘So you think he’s behind it?’

Nottingham brushed the fringe off his forehead. ‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘But proving it’s going to be another matter altogether.’

Before he could say more, he heard the rasp of sharp heels on the stone of the steps and turned. It was Edward Brogden, the coroner. He held a withered orange studded with cloves inside his handkerchief, and pressed it close to his nose to fight the smell. With his eyes, the Constable indicated that the jailer should show him the body.

Brogden was in the cell less than a minute before hurrying back out in quick strides, confirming suicide in a single word then climbing back to the clearer air of Leeds.

‘He disagrees with your verdict, Mr Nottingham,’ Weatherspoon said.

‘Let him,’ the Constable said. ‘This night man, has he ever left early before?’

The turnkey shook his head.‘He’s always been very responsible up to now. Hasn’t missed a day, respectful, good with the prisoners.’

‘He didn’t leave any kind of message? Not taken ill?’

‘Nothing,’ the jailer said.

Nottingham studied the layout of the prison.

‘That door that goes to the main cells, was it locked when you came this morning?’

‘Yes,’ Weatherspoon confirmed. ‘Always locked at nine, every night when the church bell sounds. It’s good and solid.’

In other words, the Constable thought, the prisoners wouldn’t have heard anything useful, and they’d have seen nothing.

‘You can cut her down now,’ he said. ‘I’ll send some men over to move her.’

He walked down Briggate, his steps fast. As he’d told Weatherspoon, he knew Worthy was behind all this, but he’d never prove it. Nothing would stick to that bastard. He’d lay a penny to a pound that the night man had already vanished, taking his possessions with him, a richer man than when he’d begun work the evening before.

There was nothing he could do. He could feel the rage building. The pimp had won again. He wanted to do something, hit a wall, anything to relieve the fury and frustration, but instead he balled his fists and pushed them hard into the pockets of his coat.

Lister was at the jail, waiting. Nottingham had forgotten he was supposed to show him how to watch the cloth market this morning.

‘I’m sorry, Rob. That girl, Nan, died in the Moot Hall cells.’

‘What?’ He began to stand up.

‘She was hung. The coroner’s said suicide, but you can guess for yourself what happened. The night man’s gone missing.’