And less than a week ago that preacher was close to causing a riot with his bloody words. You wouldn’t have loved him then, Nottingham thought, but kept his words inside.
“Things happen in every city.”
“Well, I’ll not tolerate them here.” The Mayor’s bluster left his face flushed.
“We’re doing everything we can to find the culprit.” Even as he said it the Constable knew the words sounded weak.
Kenion stood and leaned across the desk, his voice tight.
“Then your
“No, I don’t,” Nottingham let the lie slip off his tongue without guilt.
“So what are you going to do about it?” the Mayor exploded.
The Constable looked up calmly.
“Exactly the same as we’ve been doing,” he responded evenly. “And I’d defy anyone else to be able to do better.” As an attempt to muster his dignity it was hardly convincing, even to his own ears.
“Happen we’ll see about that very soon,” Kenion replied coldly.
“That’s your decision, of course,” the Constable acknowledged.
“It is, Mr Nottingham, and it’s one I’ll not be afraid to make if I don’t see some progress very soon. I suggest you remember that.”
This was where he paid for their last meeting, Nottingham understood. He’d leave with no doubt as to who was in charge. But as long as Kenion restricted himself to words, not actions, the Constable had time. For now the new Mayor had no one who could replace him. Or so he hoped.
“I shall, sir.”
The Constable stood and gave a short nod of his head as a bow before leaving. The Mayor had already returned to his paperwork as an attempt to show how important and busy he was. Busier than he expected to be, Nottingham warranted, and already beginning to wonder if the position was worth the time it took. But there was plenty of truth in his words. They needed progress and they needed it quickly. And right now George Carver was the key.
16
Sedgwick was always amazed at the way the pimps hid their wealth. If he had even half their money he’d own a good house with four or five hearths and live like a gentleman. Maybe they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves, he thought, although what they did was no worse than the way some merchants and businessmen acted.
They all ran strings of girls. Sometimes one of the lasses would leave without a word, but there was never a shortage of new blood arriving from the country, thinking they might make their fortune in Leeds. But no girl was going to make money on her back for anyone but the man who ran her. Most of them would be lucky to survive to twenty-five.
After years in his job he knew all the pimps and procurers in the city. A few even seemed like decent folk, most treated their girls like objects, and some of the worst ones he could have happily killed — and would have, once or twice, if the Constable hadn’t stopped him.
Whores were a fact of life. There was no more getting rid of them than fleas. But he could try to stop men openly murdering them.
Sedgwick walked down Briggate, beyond Boar Lane, following the gentle slope down to the Aire and across the stone bridge that spanned the river, its parapets old and wide. Someone had told him that at one time they used to hold the cloth market here, long before the Cloth Hall was built, and it had been designed for displaying the wares, bales of cloth spread out over the stone.
Around him carters were urging on their teams, the clack of horseshoes and wheel rims sharp and loud on the cobbles. Men bowed by heavy packs on their backs negotiated the traffic with stoic looks on their faces, coming to sell or going home disappointed. A few smiled, hands jammed in their pockets to keep thieves from their profits.
That set him thinking. They’d heard nothing more about their cutpurse for a day or so now. Could he have moved on, deciding he’d tried his luck as far as it would go in Leeds? It was possible, but unlikely. Every thief he’d met liked to push it to the limit, and most ended up caught and hanged. It happened so often it almost seemed like a natural law.
At the south end of the bridge he turned into a warren of streets. Much of the area to the west, on Meadow Lane, was given over to grand houses built by the merchants as symbols of their success, with expensive brick fronts to illustrate their wealth. But back in these yards was someone who could give them a run, guinea for guinea.
Without even needing to find his bearings, he made his way through the tiny streets. Few people were around; they were mostly off at their work, or in their rooms, sleeping off labour or drink. It was a place without joy, without hope, like so many others he saw every day, where most people existed rather than lived.
Not Jane Farnham, though, Sedgwick thought as he stopped and knocked on a door. She was a woman who broke all the rules. She relished her life as a bawd and she’d made a small fortune pandering to the needs of others. No Amos Worthy, perhaps, but with plenty of money just the same.
A grille in the wood opened and a pair of eyes looked out. Sedgwick didn’t bother to say anything. Whoever was looking would know his face. A thickset man let him in, a fearsome scar on a face that had been battered several times, the nose broken and awkwardly set.
“Henry.” Sedgwick nodded. The servant wasn’t wearing a waistcoat or jacket, and the muscles of his arms and chest bulged against the old linen of his shirt. He’d been a soldier once, at least that was the tale, and had killed his sergeant with his bare hands before deserting. Not that anyone, except perhaps Henry himself, knew the truth. And after all this time perhaps he’d chosen to believe the legend.
“What dost tha want?” The man’s voice always sounded hoarse.
“Is she around? I need to talk to her.”
Henry eyed him impassively before leaving him inside the door and going into another room, emerging a few seconds later and tilting his ugly head as invitation. Sedgwick followed. He’d been here a number of times, but on each occasion it took his breath away. Jane Farnham’s morning room was the equal of any fine lady’s residence, the furnishings expensive and exquisite, with a thick carpet of Oriental design like a cushion under his feet. From the outside of the building no one would have guessed at this interior.
But Sedgwick also knew that decorating her rooms in such a manner was as close as Mrs Farnham would ever come to society, for no procurer could ever be received by polite people. So she created her own rich world that would have intimidated most of the people she’d never be likely to entertain, and established her own superiority.
Farnham herself, wearing a fine jade silk gown of a fashionable London cut, her hair elegantly pinned up in an elaborate coif, looked up from the delicate chair where she sat. No one had ever seen Mr Farnham, if he even existed.
“Yes?” she drawled. She was a small woman, her head barely reaching Sedgwick’s chest, and nearly as thin as a consumptive. There was a fine, moneyed air about her. She was used to her comforts. No one who didn’t know would ever have guessed that she was a madam with a bawdy house and girls on the street. She strove to seem cultivated, always with a book open on the table. At times she seemed too genteel and tiny to be an effective pimp. But Sedgwick had seen her lose her temper with a whore. She’d beaten the lass so hard and long that the girl had to be carried away. The refined behaviour, he reflected later, was a very thin mask.
“We’ve got a dead prostitute in the jail,” Segwick blurted. “Have you had a girl gone missing lately?”
Farnham exchanged a glance with Henry, who shook his head briefly.
“No, we haven’t,” Farnham informed him in a soft voice. “If we had, of course we’d have told the Constable’s office.”
