it as quickly as possible.
‘Mr Godlove,’ he said. ‘How was she travelling? Did anyone go with her?’
The farmer roused himself slowly, as if he’d only heard the words from a far distance. It took him a few moments to collect his thoughts.
‘I’m sorry.’ He gave a weak, polite smile that did nothing to cover his torment. ‘She decided to ride. I have a carriage, but the weather was good and she had a horse she loved. It wasn’t that far.’
‘Who went with her?’
‘Her maid.’
‘Was she on horseback, too?’
‘No,’ Godlove said after a short while, ‘she wouldn’t get on one. She was scared of them.’
‘What’s the maid’s name?’ Nottingham persisted. So now there was someone else to hunt.
‘Anne.’
‘What does Anne look like? How long has she been with you?’
‘She came with Sarah when I married her.’ He was unfocused, drifting away. ‘She’s just a girl, plump, ordinary. Not especially pretty, but not ugly. I-’ He started to speak, then stopped. The Constable waited but he didn’t continue.
‘And what are your wife’s parents called?’
‘Lord and Lady Gibton,’ the man answered.
Nottingham’s heart sank; it was all he could do not to grimace. The death of someone wealthy was one thing, the murder of an aristocrat was another altogether.
‘I want to take her home. I want to bury her properly,’ Godlove announced with surprising decision.
‘Of course,’ the Constable agreed quickly. ‘I’ll have the parish arrange it.’
‘She was stabbed, you said?’
‘Yes.’ He opened the desk drawer and took out the knife. ‘Have you ever seen this before?’
Godlove shook his head. He was pale, looking wearied and far older than his years.
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No.’ The man stood, head hanging down, and the Constable knew he’d have no more information today. ‘I’ll. . Can you. .?’
‘I’ll see she’s brought out to you.’
‘Thank you.’
Godlove left slowly, going out into a day the Constable knew he would never be able to forget.
Nottingham sat back and sighed loudly. With nobility involved he needed to inform the mayor. He waited a few minutes, trying to imagine how he might phrase things, then walked to the Moot Hall. The building dominated Briggate, sitting two storeys tall, square in the middle of the street, the stocks outside the arched front, the road flowing on each side of it like a river. On the ground floor the butchers’ shops were a stink of meat spoiling in the heat, the thick buzzing of flies like a curtain around them that reminded him of the insects heavy around the girl’s body. Nottingham entered through the heavy doors, leaving most of the sound outside, then walked up the polished steps and along a corridor where a thick Turkey carpet muffled his footsteps.
He knocked on the wooden door and waited for the command to enter. Edward Kenion was behind his desk, as the Constable knew he would be. In less than two months he’d pass the chain of office to his successor, and he already looked as if he’d be glad to be relieved of its grievous weight.
Kenion’s clothes might have been crisp, the cut and the material of his coat a subtle sign of his wealth, but the dark shading under his eyes showed the toll of long hours and responsibility, and his belly bulged further than before against the rich brocade of his waistcoat. It was a thankless job, Nottingham knew that, an ill reward for service to the Corporation. Some men paid a fine rather than take the post.
‘What is it, Nottingham?’ he asked sharply, barely glancing up from his papers.
‘I sent you a report about the girl out in Kirkstall.’
‘Aye, I remember. You didn’t know who she was.’
‘I do now. Her husband was just at the jail. He has a farm out towards Horsforth. Probably an estate, from the look of him.’
Kenion looked at him wearily from under bushy eyebrows. ‘Is that it?’
‘No. He said the girl’s father is Lord Gibton.’
The mayor threw down his quill. ‘Bugger. Do you know who he is?’
Nottingham shook his head. He’d never heard the name until a few minutes before.
‘God knows how long ago or why, but one of our kings made Gibton’s ancestor a baron,’ Kenion explained. ‘Along the way one of them lost all the estate and most of the money. About all they had left was the title and a little bit of land. They scraped by, from what I heard, poor by the standards they’d known before.’ He waved his hand. ‘A year or so back they got some money from somewhere. Now you’d think they always owned half the county from the way they act. He’s bad enough but his wife is even worse, a shrew. This means I’ll be hearing from them soon.’ He sighed. ‘I hope you can bloody well find his killer fast, Constable.’
It was half wish, half command.
‘Sarah Godlove,’ he told Sedgwick when he returned to the jail. The deputy was there, practising his writing with a small piece of chalk and some slate. Nottingham had taught him his letters, preparing him for the role of Constable some day in the future.
Sedgwick cocked his head.
‘That’s the name of the dead girl. Her husband came in.’
‘Rich?’
‘He is,’ Nottingham answered. ‘But it’s worse than that. Her father’s a baron. I’ve just been to tell the mayor.’
‘Fuck,’ the deputy muttered.
‘Except they haven’t had much wealth for a long time. They’ve just come into money, evidently.’
‘Poor nobility?’ Sedgwick snorted. ‘Pigs fly too, do they?’
The Constable smiled briefly. ‘That’s the story, anyway. You’d better have her exhumed and take her out to the husband tomorrow. He’s out at Horsforth. See what you can find out from him.’
‘What did he tell you, boss?’
‘She left on Thursday, going over to see her parents in Roundhay. It was meant to be a surprise visit. She was on horseback, had a maid with her. She never arrived.’
‘So where’s the maid?’
‘I wondered that, too. Gone, apparently.’
The deputy looked thoughtful.
‘What is it?’ Nottingham asked.
‘Nothing, really. Had the maid been with them long? It could be the service lay gone wrong.’
Nottingham shook his head firmly.
‘According to the husband, the maid had been with the girl a long time. I’m going out to Roundhay tomorrow to see the Gibtons. We should know more after that.’
‘How did the mayor take the news?’
‘I think he’d have been happier at his own funeral. He doesn’t seem to care much for Lord Gibton or his wife.’
It was brushing twilight when Sedgwick returned to his room. There was dirt on his hose from where they’d opened the grave, and he could still feel death cloying in his mouth.
It had been hard to watch the coffin pulled up from the earth, the sense of eternity disturbed. And harder still to hoist it up on to the cart, then cover it, ready for the morning and the journey out to Horsforth.
Lizzie was waiting, a warm smile from her his welcome. She set the mending aside, pushing the needle into the fabric, and came over to kiss him. Down on the pallet bed, James turned over and burrowed back into sleep.
‘How’s he been?’
‘Up and down,’ she said. The boy had a summer cold, but they both knew it took so little for things to become worse. To live without money was to always walk on a knife edge. ‘He’s slept a few times today.’ She reached down and ran her fingers lightly across James’s forehead. ‘I think he’s over the worst of it, he seems cool enough
