Chris Nickson - Constant Lovers

‘Yes.’ The Constable curled his fingers tightly around the mug.

‘Then let her make up her own mind. You tell her your tale and let the money speak for itself. See what she wants to do.’

‘No, Amos.’

Worthy smiled. ‘It’s too late, laddie. The will’s made and I’m not paying any more to a bloody lawyer to change it now.’

Even in death the man would vex him, the Constable thought. He’d have thought it through and done it deliberately; it was his way. He finished his drink.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t be causing you any more trouble, unless some other mad bugger starts to think he’s better than me.’

Nottingham stared at him.

‘Just do me one favour, will you, laddie?’ Worthy asked, his voice suddenly serious.

‘What’s that?’

‘Come to my funeral. I don’t think it’ll be a crowded do.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it, Amos. If only to make sure you’re really dead.’

‘Better,’ Worthy said with a small grin. ‘But what you don’t realize yet is how much you’ll miss me.’

Nottingham stood up and looked at the other man again. He wasn’t frail yet but he’d be close to it, much of his hair gone, the rest wispy, lank and grey. Quickly he turned away and walked out of the house, closing the door quietly behind him.

Wednesday passed quietly, just the petty routines of crime, a purse cut here, a fight there, a few stolen coins. The Constable sent Lister out patrolling the streets with Sedgwick to learn his craft. He was waiting, knowing he’d hear from Gibton soon. The man might be arrogant, but he wasn’t a fool.

The note arrived on a cloudy Thursday when the air was close and the heat pressed down. The animals felt it, carters’ horses unwilling to move, and the people were ill-tempered, parading sluggishly in the streets.

A farmer from Roundhay, in Leeds to purchase a few items, delivered it, his eyes casting nervously around the jail. He thrust it into Nottingham’s hand then left abruptly.

The Constable weighed it in his hand before tearing open the heavy red seal. The paper was elegant, thick and heavy, but the words were a hurried, awkward scrawl: Friday at nine, Gibton’s Well .

It wasn’t so much a request as a command, he thought drily. That certainly fitted with the man. But he didn’t really care what it was as long as the couple admitted their guilt and made their atonement.

The storm came early in the afternoon; thunder roiled briefly overhead, rain pelted for a few minutes, turning the dirt to clinging mud, then it passed on, leaving the air fresher and cooler again.

He watched it all through the window, saw people dashing into houses and shops, heard two girls scream at the loudness of the thunderclap. Once it had all gone he walked outside, drawing in deep breaths. Tomorrow the Godlove business finished. It had taken too long. He should have discovered the truth more quickly, but who could have imagined parents doing such a thing?

Yet he knew there was more to it than that. It had taken place on unfamiliar ground, outside the city he knew so well, among people with wealth and titles. The merchants in Leeds didn’t worry him, no matter how rich they might be. They were people he saw every day, ordinary because they were so familiar. But Samuel Godlove, with his countless acres, or Gibton, the man who would have gleefully pawned his soul if it brought a good price; these were people he could never understand. They lived in a manner far beyond his ken. He’d fumbled in the dark all through the business.

In the end he decided to go alone.

‘Don’t, boss,’ Sedgwick said. ‘What if he wants to kill you out there?’

‘Then he’ll have a fight on his hands. Come on, John, you’ve seen the man. Do you really think he’d be a danger?’

‘You don’t know the place,’ the deputy objected.

‘I’m not discussing it,’ Nottingham told him flatly. ‘Everything will be fine.’ He pulled the pistol from his pocket and showed the knife in its sheath on his belt. He left, amused at the old woman the deputy was becoming.

The horse was waiting at the stable. Gentle as it was, he hoped he wouldn’t need to mount it again for a long time. He rode out past Sheepscar, taking the path to Harehills before finally turning on to a cart track along the valley where a sign indicated the well.

It was only a short distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile, before he saw the stone building standing back in the woods, a small area in front of it roughly cleared.

A horse was tethered there and he rubbed its flanks. The flesh was already cool; whoever it was had arrived some time before. He glanced at the well, just a small square carved out of the woods around a spring. The stone wall surrounding it was taller than a man, offering privacy for bathing. A wooden door stood ajar, leading into a tiny building at the side.

Cautiously, he came close, then drew the pistol and used it to push at the wood. It swung open slowly with a loud squeak. Nottingham waited, listening closely, but the only sounds he could hear came from the trees, the soft rustling of leaves and the cries of birds.

As quietly as possible, he walked in. There was a single high window, leaving just a faint light, the corners full of deep shadows. He stood still, letting his eyes adjust, gradually making out the shapes of benches and pegs hammered into the wall to hold clothes. One set hung there, peacock proud, a pair of polished boots neatly below them on the floor.

There was another door, closed tight. He lifted the latch as quietly as possible, barely daring to breathe, careful to stay out of sight as he pulled the handle back.

Nothing. He strode out into the bright shock of morning light. Flagstones formed a walkway, and rough steps led down to the small, square pool where Gibton lay naked, face down. His arms were splayed, his body a pale, ugly colour.

Nottingham squatted and reached out to touch the dead wet flesh, his fingertips rocking the corpse in the water, small ripples sparkling in the sun.

The Constable returned to the changing room and riffled through the pockets of the man’s clothes. Gibton was certain to have left a letter; the man couldn’t kill himself and not mark it in some way.

He found it in the inside pocket of the jacket, a roughly folded sheaf of papers. He took it outside, into the woods, found a stump a few yards from the horses, and sat to read.

By now you will have seen my body and have your proof that I am dead. If you go to my house you will see that my wife is also dead. I gave her poison last night after the servants had gone to their beds.

I shall explain what happened. It is true that Sarah arrived with her maid, as she did on occasion. She was going to leave Leeds with that man she loved. She was carrying his child. She enjoyed every word she told us.

It is also quite true that my wife had been ill, the worst I had seen her, with her ranting and raving. By the time Sarah arrived she had begun to recover. I was tending her, and had taken the knife and cut the bindings I had used to tie her to the bed.

The words put my wife in a red rage once more, not to be contained. If she left, Godlove would want all the money he had given us, and we would be paupers again. Had the girl thought of that? As Sarah walked away, she stabbed her.

With her dead, I needed to kill the maid. Early the next morning I put their bodies in the cart. I found a quiet spot for Anne, for no one would care if she was ever seen again.

For Sarah, though, I had to think. Kirkstall Abbey would be close enough to her home to bring questions. But I rushed the business and botched it. If I had taken the knife you would never have known with certainty.