“A hat?” the Constable asked.
“Yes.” He rubbed some of the bread into pellets between his fingers. “I was thinking about it again this morning, and I remembered feeling the brim against my face.”
“That’s another thing we know about him, then.” The Constable let his features relax into a momentary grin. “Bit by bit, it’s all coming together.” He started to allow himself the hope that they were going to solve this.
Nottingham chewed on a fingernail as he worried around an idea. It had come to him as he delayed writing his daily report, knowing exactly how the Mayor would react to another pair of murders. Was it possible the killer had come to Leeds from somewhere else? He hadn’t fallen from the sky; he might have left bodies elsewhere before moving on. The Constable decided to send out letters to the surrounding areas; there was nothing to lose, and he might learn something useful. It had brought results before, helping to catch a murderer three years earlier. He gathered up paper and quill and began scribbling notes to other Constables in his rough, spidery scrawl.
He was sanding the fifth letter, drying the ink before applying his seal, when the door opened and Tom Williamson entered. The merchant’s jacket was freshly cleaned, metal buttons sparkling, his neck stock a sparkling white, and shoes shining although he’d walked through the mud of the streets for the Saturday cloth market.
“Richard,” he said, dipping his head. His face was grave, his voice dark.
“Morning, Tom,” Nottingham replied. “You’re just the man I need to see.”
“Oh?”
“Do you know anyone in authority in Chapel Allerton? Pamela lived there, and I thought someone might have some information.”
Williamson thought for a moment.
“Try Mr Bartlett,” he suggested. “I’ve met him once or twice. He’s the Justice of the Peace there, I believe.”
“Thank you, I shall.” He paused. “So what brings you here, Tom?”
The merchant looked embarrassed.
“I thought I’d better tell you — the Mayor’s called an urgent meeting of the aldermen. He sent out a message first thing. He wants to dismiss you.”
“Ah.”
Nottingham sat back in his chair and let out a long breath. He’d expected this, but he’d thought it would be done summarily, with Kenion taking the authority into his own hands.
“I’ve been talking to some of the others on the Corporation,” Williamson carried on, his voice still serious and intent. “We’ve decided to oppose him. I know you haven’t caught the murderer yet, but I — well, we — believe you will if you’re given time. You’ve always done an excellent job in the past.”
The Constable looked up in astonishment. He could scarcely credit what he’d just heard. He listened to the words still echoing in his head and blinked. For a moment he didn’t know what to say, then the words tumbled out. “You’re really going to speak for me? Even though I was wrong about Carver and we haven’t caught the killer?”
“Dear God, of course we are, Richard.” The merchant appeared amused at his friend’s confusion. “At least some of us know what you’ve done for this city. Kenion’s a buffoon. He’s champing at the bit to run roughshod over us, and we don’t intend to let him, certainly not over this.” He leant forward, his hands on the desk. “Look, I’m not saying we’ll win. You could be out of a job when the meeting’s over, but we’ll fight for you.”
Nottingham felt a glow of gratitude inside. He’d never expected support from the Corporation. But here were people who valued him, and who had faith he could find the answer to this.
“Thank you,” he said simply, uncertain what to add. “Thank you.”
Williamson smiled at him.
“I’ll come back when we’ve finished and let you know. But if I have anything to do with it, you’ll be Constable for years to come yet.”
21
Briggate bustled with Saturday market folk, buyers and sellers crowding the street. At the lower end the cloth sellers were dismantling their stalls, some spending tuppence of their takings on a Brig Shot End breakfast of porridge, boiled meat and ale from one of the taverns.
Outside the King’s Head, Tom Stookes was standing on his box auctioning off livestock the farmers had driven in from the surrounding villages. To Sedgwick, the man’s braying voice, reeling off bids so quickly they became a blur of sound, was all part of the fabric of the city.
He spotted Lizzie, the prostitute, a little farther up the street, leaning dispiritedly against a corner, the fan dangling from her fingers. She saw him approaching, head bobbing above the crowd, smiled slightly and tilted her head before disappearing. Sedgwick followed her into the court, spying her in a deep patch of shadow by a wall.
“Why the secrecy?” he asked her as a greeting. She moved up to him, grinned, and rubbed against him.
“You’ve been in the wars,” she said tenderly, stroking his bandaged arm in its sling lightly.
“I’ll survive,” he told her, enjoying the gentle touch of her fingertips. “Now, why do you need to see me out of the way like this?”
“Thought you might want to reward a girl for getting you some information,” she giggled lightly.
“Oh aye?” In spite of himself, he laughed. “No fee, eh? On the house, is it?”
The whore glanced back over her shoulder at the wall and winked.“More like against the house by the look of it. If you can manage with one arm, that is.” Her laugh was hoarse, and she pulled up her skirts before wrapping her arms around his neck. “You know I’ve always liked you, John Sedgwick.”
He knew it was stupid. He was working, he had a wife and bairn at home. But he was tired, his wife was a bloody shrew, and his pizzle was growing of his own accord. The girl’s breasts were pushing hard against his chest, and she was looking up at him with the first real desire anyone had shown him in months — since the last time he’d been with her, in fact.
He freed himself from his breeches, and with practised ease Lizzie moved herself on to him. Sedgwick pushed his weight on her, rubbing the flesh of her shoulders raw against the stone, but she didn’t care. Neither did he. He wasn’t thinking with his brain now, just thrusting deep into her, feeling the world grow out from his groin. With a grunt and a muttered “Fuck,” he came in her, faster than he’d wanted, but he couldn’t hold back.
Lizzie’s eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and fast. Finally she pushed him away gently and stood up.
“That’s more like it, John.” She laughed, the sound turning into a violent, liquid cough before it subsided, her face flushed. “You know how to pay a lass for talk, any road.”
“Better be worth it, then,” he said with a chuckle.
“That girl you wanted me to find out about?”
“Yes.”
“She were called Molly. Nice girl, by all accounts, liked a laugh. Hardly been here three month.”
“Who was pimping her?” Sedgwick asked her.
“Old Cedric, someone told me, but I don’t know if it’s true.” She ran a hand through his hair, trying vainly to pull out some of the matts, then adjusted her dress over her breasts. She regarded him tenderly. “You’re a good lad, John. Any time you decide to leave that wife of yours, come to me. I mean that.”
For once, he didn’t know what to say. He’d always liked Lizzie; she had a ready wit. They’d shared jokes, a few mugs of ale and a couple of tumbles, but he had no idea she felt that way about him. She’d said things, but he’d never taken them seriously. He tucked his prick, shrunk once more, back into his breeches, and kissed her on the forehead.
“Thank you, luv. I appreciate that. Now I’d better go and see a man about a girl.”
He was back on Briggate before she could say anything, a grin splitting his face. Cedric was lucky; he was going to be in a good mood when he arrived.
The rumour was that Cedric Winthrop had once been rich, controlling most of the prostitutes in Leeds. If it had ever been true, those days were long gone. Now he was a broken old man who hung on by the skin of his teeth,
