Chris Nickson - Constant Lovers

‘What?’

The Constable let out a long, slow breath and made a decision.

‘Look, enough people have seen you around by now for them to know you’re a Constable’s man. Go and walk up and down where they’re selling cloth. The word’ll spread quick enough, don’t worry.’

‘And if I see something?’

Nottingham smiled. ‘Just do your job. Bring them here, put them in a cell and we’ll deal with them later.’

‘Yes, boss.’

He’d barely left when Sedgwick arrived, giving a quick shake of his head.

‘Room’s unlocked, just the furniture left in it. Neighbours said it sounded like he left in the middle of the night. They thought he must have owed on his rent and was doing a flit.’

‘He did that, right enough. Bought and paid for,’ Nottingham said.

‘Sounds like it.’

‘I’m going down there,’ the Constable announced, ‘and then we’ll go to Horsforth.’

‘Boss,’ the deputy warned, and Nottingham raised his hand placatingly.

‘I’ll let him have his moment of gloating. And then I’ll warn him. Nothing more, John, I promise.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No. We’ve a history, Amos and me. Better just the two of us. If you want something to do, go and keep an eye on Rob, he’s looking after the cloth market. I won’t be long.’

He strode along Boar Lane, the fury like a lump in his gut. He made his way down Swinegate and pushed open the anonymous door of the house. But the way to the kitchen was blocked by a big young man. The Constable had seen him before, tall and blocky, always dressed in a jacket and breeches that appeared too small for his huge frame. Today he wore new clothes and a short wig that looked ridiculous on such a large head. He didn’t move, but stood filling the passage.

‘I’m the Constable.’

‘No one goes in until they hand over their weapons. Mr Worthy’s orders.’

Nottingham took the knife from its sheath on his belt as if to hand it over. As the guard’s eyes followed the movement, the Constable shoved his knee hard into the man’s cods and he dropped on the floor, clutching himself.

‘You don’t make demands of the law,’ Nottingham told him and opened the door.

There were two more of Worthy’s men in the kitchen, lounging against the far wall, but he didn’t dismiss them. Instead they stood by the back door, hands resting idly on the hilts of their daggers, eyes fixed on their employer. He was sitting at the table, a mug of ale by his hand.

‘What’s wrong, Amos? Looks like something’s got you scared.’

The procurer tilted his head and calmly pursed his lips. ‘Just looking after things, Constable. A little protection never goes amiss.’

Nottingham raised his eyebrows.

‘So what brings you here?’ Worthy asked. ‘Checking on my well-being?’

‘The girl who robbed you killed herself at the Moot Hall last night.’

The pimp shrugged.‘Saves the cost of a trial and a hanging, anyway. You should be pleased, laddie.’

‘The night jailer’s disappeared, too. Left in the middle of his shift. Gone from his room, too.’

‘Nowt so queer as folk. You ought to know that by now.’

‘You must have paid him plenty.’

‘Nothing to do with me.’ He grinned. ‘Nice idea, though.’

‘I don’t believe that.’ Nottingham’s voice turned hard and the two men by the door stood straighter.

Worthy waved the suggestion away. ‘Believe what you like, Constable. There’s nothing you can prove, is there?’

‘You know the answer to that.’

The pimp pushed his face forward, his features set like flint. ‘Aye, laddie, I do. If you knew it was me, you’d be hauling me off to your jail now.’

‘Oh, I know well enough,’ Nottingham told him. ‘I just can’t prove it, that’s all.’

‘Then don’t come bothering me with it until you can.’ He turned back to the ale. ‘You’ve said your piece and salved your conscience. Now you can bugger off.’

He returned to the jail deep in thought. Sedgwick was there, ready to leave, his face showing how much he was dreading the ride.

‘You’re safe from horseback today,’ the Constable told him. ‘There’s something going on and I want you to get to the bottom of it.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Worthy’s keeping his men close and he’s hired a new one. You remember that lad who used to haul carcasses around for one of the butchers at the Shambles?’

‘The one who looks like a walking mountain? Aye, I remember him. He could stop a cart.’

‘Well, he’s working for Worthy now. It looks to me like Amos is worried. I want to know what’s going on so we can stop it.’

‘You think it’s Hughes?’

‘Very likely.’

Sedgwick picked at a fingernail. ‘We could just let them kill each other and get rid of them all.’

‘I doubt the mayor would like that too much,’ he answered with a dark smile. ‘He wants us to try and keep the bodies off the streets, remember? You know who to talk to. Find out what’s happening.’

‘What did he say about Nan?’

The Constable screwed his face up in disgust. ‘What do you think? He doesn’t know a thing about it, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m going to see Godlove. Get on it, John. Take Rob with you, he can see what makes the city tick. It’ll open his eyes a bit.’

The deputy was relieved that he didn’t have to ride. He always felt awkward and fearful on horseback, scared that he might fall off at any minute. He was much more comfortable on his own two feet, surrounded by the familiarity of Leeds, the faces, the streets that had been his life.

He found Lister at the bottom of Briggate, watching as the weavers took down the trestles and packed up. Some were already hauling the cloth they’d sold over to the warehouses.

‘No problems?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘There never are, really,’ Sedgwick told him. ‘They’re an orderly lot. They’re just cut-throats on prices, most like. Come on, we’ve work to do.’

He led the younger man over Leeds Bridge and into the streets south of the river. They had a different flavour, a little more spacious, closer to the country, the smell sweeter. The deputy ignored the wealth of Meadow Lane and moved instead into the hovels huddled tight against each other along Hunslet Lane and Bowman Lane.

The house he wanted was cleaner than its neighbours, windows shining, soot proudly scrubbed off the brickwork so it glistened as if it was new. The deputy knocked on the door.

‘We’re going to be talking to Joe Buck. He’s one of the biggest crooks you’ll ever meet,’ he explained. ‘And one of the richest. He looks mild enough, but don’t let that fox you. Let me do the talking.’

‘He’s got money?’ Lister asked.

‘Plenty of it.’

‘So why does he live in this place?’

‘Some people don’t need to flaunt it. He’s a man of surprises, is our Joe. You’ll see.’

The servant who opened the door was as tall as the deputy and more muscular, in a shirt so white it seemed to glow in the sunlight, tailored black breeches and a waistcoat the same shade of bright blue as the sky. A pale powdered periwig sat on top of a head as dark as Middleton coal.

‘Master in?’ Sedgwick asked casually, as if this was a conversation the two men had experienced often in the past.

‘In’t back,’ the servant answered, the accent local but underlaid by something else that gave the words a rich musicality. ‘Tha knows where.’

Sedgwick winked at Rob and they made their way down the small passage that opened into a well-decorated parlour, light beaming through the windows, the furniture all in good taste and polished to a sheen, a thick Turkey carpet covering gleaming floorboards.