‘For a start, we need to find the maid,’ Nottingham said. ‘Do we even know her surname?’
‘Taylor.’
‘We have to try and find her. She’s the one who was closest to Sarah Godlove. She might well be the key to all this.’ He marked the item on one finger. ‘We also need to know where Sarah went every week. That’s a mystery and it might well be important.’ He pushed a second finger back, then a third. ‘And we should try and find out the truth about this marriage.’
‘How?’ Sedgwick asked.
‘We ask questions. It’s the only thing we can do. You go out to Roundhay and talk to the maid’s family. Who knows, they might have had word from her-’
‘If she’s still alive.’
The Constable acknowledged the words. He knew full well she could easily be as dead as her mistress, the body hidden away somewhere.
‘-or she might have told them things.’ He sighed. ‘Any information is better than we have right now. Anything you can find at all. Ask round the village. Sarah grew up there, people will have known her. You know what to do. Take the knife with you, too. See if anyone recognizes it.’
‘Yes, boss.’ He stood up and stretched, grabbing the weapon from the drawer.
‘Do you want to ride up there?’
Sedgwick made a face. ‘After being in that cart yesterday, I’ll walk.’
The problem, Nottingham decided, was that he was dealing with so many unknowns. The people were just names, he didn’t understand their lives. Neither Godlove nor the Gibtons had any association with Leeds, and Leeds was what was familiar to him, what he understood in his heart and his soul. Outside the city he was just another stranger. What he needed was someone who might know something about these folk, someone to guide him a little.
He retied his stock and set off down Briggate. Carters filled the road, cursing their horses and each other, while a farmer tried to drive a few cattle between the wagons, heading to sell them to the butchers in the Shambles.
A short way up from the bridge he stopped by a house, its shutters spread wide and the sashes raised. Glancing through the window he could see the printing press, its brass gleaming, and beyond it a man at a desk. His head was lowered, the quill in his hand scratching rapidly at a piece of paper. The Constable opened the door and walked in.
‘Mr Nottingham.’ The man stood, extending a hand whose skin was discoloured by dark stains. James Lister was small and round, all beaming eyes and bulging belly, with an open, jovial face. He’d only taken over the Leeds Mercury in January after the terrible winter had claimed the life of his employer, John Hirst. But in his life he’d forgotten more about Leeds and the area around it than most people had ever known. Where the merchants dealt in cloth, fact and rumour were his stock-in-trade. ‘What can I do for you?’
The room smelt of ink, a deep, exotic scent that seemed to permeate the walls and the floor. Bundles of paper were stacked in a corner, ready for the next edition, and stained wooden boxes of type lined the wall. The Constable had been here before, and the mechanics of making a newspaper always amazed him.
‘I’m hoping you might have some information.’
Lister raised his bushy eyebrows and smiled slyly. ‘And here I thought you were the one who knew everything, Constable. Sit down.’ He gestured at the extra seat beside the desk.
‘You heard about the body found at Kirkstall Abbey on Saturday?’ Nottingham began.
‘Of course.’
‘And you know who she was?’
‘Not yet. Do you know?’ Lister asked eagerly, reaching for his quill.
‘Her name was Sarah Godlove. Her maiden name was Gibton.’
Lister sat back and let out a long breath. ‘I remember when they married last year. I wrote something about it, I’m sure. I couldn’t have ignored that.’
‘What do you know about Godlove and Baron Gibton?’
The man rubbed his chin. ‘Where do you want me to start? Godlove’s a rich man. His family owned a little land for generations. They did quite well as farmers, but it was his father who really made the difference.’
‘What do you mean?’ the Constable asked him.
Lister smiled widely. ‘He started buying up small farms that weren’t doing well. Judicious purchases, too. He must have been a clever man. By the time anyone realized what he was doing, he must have owned most of the area between Horsforth and Bradford.’
‘What about the present Mr Godlove?’
‘He’s not the man his father was; at least, that’s what everyone says,’ Lister reported gleefully. ‘He runs everything smoothly enough, but there’s no fire about him. His ambition, or so I was told,’ he confided, ‘is to be part of the gentry. He wanted to be rich and respectable.’
‘And the marriage brought him that?’
‘In name, at least.’ He held up a warning finger, relishing the chance to gossip. ‘The Gibtons aren’t exactly the front rank of nobility.’
‘He’s a baron.’
‘Ah, but a baron is very low on the scale, Mr Nottingham,’ Lister said dismissively. ‘Even a viscount is higher, and they’re almost three a penny. But the Gibtons committed a cardinal sin in the eyes of the gentry — they lost most of their money.’
‘The great-grandfather lost it. At least, that’s what Gibton told me.’
Lister raised his eyebrows. ‘Very candid of him. It’s true enough, though. From what I’ve heard, the man should never have been let out anywhere at all. He’d wager on anything and everything and usually lose. Of course, he was drunk most of the time, which probably accounts for it. I suppose the family’s cursed him ever since. There they were, couldn’t even afford to live with the best society and all because of him. There was a little money, of course, they were hardly on the parish, but it wasn’t the luxury they’d once enjoyed.’
‘And now they seem to have money again.’
‘I was getting to that. Patience, Constable, please,’ he teased. He held out his hands, palms up, and raised the right one. ‘So here we have a man with plenty of money who truly wants to be part of the aristocracy. He’s not going to manage that himself, so he needs to marry into it. The only trouble is that, apart from his wealth, there’s not much about him. You’ve met him?’
‘Yes,’ Nottingham said.
‘He’s not a man who leaves a lasting impression, is he? Let’s be kind and leave it at that.’ Lister winked playfully and raised the other palm. ‘On the other hand there’s a family with a title that’s desperate — and I do mean desperate — for money. They have one real asset, which is a pretty daughter of marriageable age, and they’ve been preparing her since she was a baby. If they’d had more girls they’d probably have been rubbing their hands in glee. The only thing missing is a dowry. That means no one with a title is ever going to come near her, and they know it.’
Slowly he brought his hands together. ‘A perfect match, at least for Godlove and the baron.’
‘So he paid for her?’
‘Yes, he did. A bride price, if you like, although no one’s going to call it that, of course. It’s far too crude a term, but it’s what it amounts to. Young Sarah was sold off like good stock — good breeding stock. Godlove is suddenly part of the nobility, even if it’s just by association, and the Gibtons have real money for the first time in God knows how long.’
‘What about Sarah?’
‘She certainly wouldn’t want for anything with Godlove, of course. An easy life, although a dull one, I’m sure, stuck out in Horsforth with the sheep for your best friends. Not that anyone would have consulted her, of course.’ He shrugged. ‘You know how these things work. She’s just an asset, a piece of property to be traded.’
‘Her parents have done well out of it.’
‘My understanding is that it was all Lady Gibton’s work. She drove a bargain that would impress a horse trader. Did you meet her?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Count yourself lucky.’ He shivered theatrically. ‘Awful doesn’t even begin to describe her. Just make sure
