town.”
“And so you let her room.” He let the words fall out like an accusation.
“I’m a landlord.” King answered earnestly. “Empty rooms don’t bring in money, Mr Nottingham, surely you understand that.”
The Constable moved a pace closer. His voice stayed even.“You own a few places, Mr King?”
“Two in this court, two in another,” the man replied with a smile.
“Queen Charlotte’s Court?” Nottingham asked, suddenly curious.
King shook his head seriously. “I like a place where a man can make a living from his rents. There’s nothing for an honest landlord over there.”
There was very little honesty here, either, Nottingham thought. The place felt like a house of the dead. He shivered slightly.
“What about Pamela’s belongings, Mr King? Might I ask what you did with them?”
“I had the girl bring them up here, of course.” He glanced up slyly and lowered his voice. “Mind you, I had to make sure she hadn’t taken anything for herself, thieving little bitch. She’d leave me with nothing if she could.”
“I’d like them, if I may.”
“Of course,” King agreed readily, but the disappointment was apparent in his face. Nottingham knew the man had expected to keep everything for himself, just as he probably stole from most of his tenants. “I’ll have her bring them.” Opening the door, he yelled, “Cissy! Bring that girl’s things from last night.”
They were wrapped in a small parcel, just a few items. He doubted it was everything she’d owned; King would have picked it through and kept anything of the merest value. He tucked it under his arm and the landlord looked on, eyes anxious now. It would be pointless asking him about Pamela. She’d been nothing more than a few coppers each week to him.
“Thank you, Mr King. I’ll leave you in peace now.” Just before he reached the door, Nottingham turned. “I’m surprised we’ve never met before,” he added.
“But I’m an honest man, sir,” King replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “Honesty and the law rarely need each other.”
The Constable nodded for a moment.
“Maybe you’re right,” he agreed. “But I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again. I’ll bid you good day.”
At the jail he unwrapped the ancient, musty cloth that held Pamela’s possessions. There was a wooden comb with several of its teeth missing, a crude, smudged drawing of a man Nottingham thought might have been her husband, a clay candle holder and a small doll made of rags that he recalled her bringing when she’d arrived as a servant. It was so little to speak of a life, these things that defined her, that she’d carried around and held dear.
But there was no token, and he was certain now it must have been torn from the ribbon around her neck, although he couldn’t see why. It had no value, and its only significance was to his family. Pamela had sworn to treasure it and keep it safe forever. And maybe she had; it was impossible to know now. Her forever had ended too soon. Whoever killed her had taken the broken token. It was one more thing Nottingham would make him pay for.
Next door to the jail, the White Swan offered good ale and a decent stew for his dinner. He was sopping up the gravy with a piece of bread when Sedgwick flopped noisily on to the bench opposite him and poured a mug of ale.
“Anything?” Nottingham asked.
“Looks like we’ve found where they were killed,” the deputy said, sounding satisfied. “The other side of the workhouse. It’s overgrown there. The weeds have been trampled down and there’s a dark patch that could well be blood.”
But Nottingham found himself troubled by the questions that raised.
“So why move them?” he asked. “If he’d left them, it could have been a while before they were discovered.”
“I was thinking that myself,” Sedgwick answered, and put forward an idea. “He wanted them found, boss. Why else would he go to the trouble of putting them like that? I walked it, and it’d take a fair effort to get two bodies there. He had a reason.”
“And why in Queen Charlotte’s Court?”
Sedgwick offer a straightforward explanation.
“Well, coming from the other side, it’s the first place you get to. And no one there’s going to pay much attention to noise in the middle of the night. They’re used to it. So he wouldn’t be disturbed.”
Nottingham drank, pushed the fringe off his forehead and nodded. It made as much sense as anything in this.
“You’re probably right. Good work, John.”
Sedgwick smiled at the praise.
“What did you find on the preacher?” the Constable asked.
“Bugger all. I tell you, it’s like the man vanished after he left Rawlinson’s house until he ended up dead.” He shook his head. “I’ve asked everywhere, but no one remembers seeing him.”
“We need to find out where he was. People like him don’t just disappear in the city.” Nottingham felt frustrated, as if every turn led to a dead end. “I found where Pamela lived. Her room’s already been rented, so there was nothing there to help. Have you heard of a landlord named King?”
“Oh aye, old Ezekiel King. She had one of his places, did she? Poor lass. We had a room from him when I was a lad. Never pays for owt because he has light fingers when it comes to his tenants. I doubt he’s bought a piece of clothing in thirty years. That bastard’s so tight he can make a farthing scream for mercy. If there’s a bigger miser in the city, I don’t want to meet him.”
“Just keep an eye on him from time to time, will you? Let him know I haven’t forgotten our little chat this morning.”
Sedgwick grinned.
“My pleasure, boss. You never know, I might even find my dad’s old hose on his legs.”
12
The bodies had been taken from the jail, and a note from Cookson curtly announced that Pamela’s funeral would take place the following morning at nine. Nottingham sent a boy up to inform Meg and tell her that he’d call in ample time.
By nightfall they’d learned nothing more. Sedgwick was going around the inns once again, still trying to find someone who might have seen Morton on the night he died. As he walked home, the streets quieter now the working day was long over, Nottingham reflected on his deputy’s eagerness. He was ready to do anything; all he lacked was the education. Nottingham remembered having that energy himself, in the days when he’d started working for the Constable, and when he was courting Mary. But thinking back it was as if he was looking at another man, a good man, maybe a better man than he was now.
Sometimes he could barely remember himself at twenty. At other times he didn’t feel a day older, youthful and vital inside. That only lasted until he saw his reflection in a glass or looked at the girls. Even sullen Emily could spark with daunting energy at times.
He opened the door, expecting to hear Mary moving around in the kitchen and the girls in the room they shared. Instead the house was silent except for Emily, turning the page in a book, her face half-illuminated by the light on the table.
“Hello,” Nottingham said gently.
She looked up, startled, obviously absorbed in the words she’d been reading. He glanced at the title on the spine —
“Mama and Rose are visiting Mrs Middleton.” She was an elderly widow who lived alone down the street.
