“I don’t know…” Sedgwick began warily, but the Constable’s dark look silenced him.
“Worthy’s a pimp, he’s a criminal. If half the members of the Corporation didn’t use his whores, he’d have been hanged years ago.” Nottingham slammed his hand down. “He thinks he’s better than us, so let’s use him. And if he knows we’ve done it, that’s all to the good.”
Sedgwick had seen this mood before. It brooked no argument, at least not until it had passed and turned to a brooding silence. Then, perhaps, he could talk some sense into the Constable. This wasn’t going to bring them anything; the only thing it did was squander their precious resources, and all because Nottingham hated Worthy, and had for far too long. It had always been personal, as deep as the sailors said the oceans were, far beyond any desire to see the man simply pay for his crimes.
He left the jail to search for the two men he wanted. He couldn’t read the note, but it was easy enough to guess that Worthy had sent it, a taunt following the night’s failure. Nottingham had responded to the goad, of course. Sedgwick could have predicted it. Now his job was to make sure his men stayed out of danger.
Johnson and Portman, the two men he’d use, were exactly where he expected, sitting next door in the White Swan. Sedgwick bought a jug of ale and carried it to their table, pouring himself a cup on the way.
“Got a job for you, boys,” he said as he replenished their drinks. He explained the task, emphasising the fact that they should stay well back and report any contacts to him. They were good and honest, they’d do the job properly, but they weren’t always the smartest. If there was anyone to talk to, he’d prefer to do it himself. That way he’d be certain the right questions were asked and he received all the information.
They left when the beer was finished, and Sedgwick sat alone, in no hurry to drain his mug. If he had any sense he’d go home and get more sleep. He knew he was exhausted, and a couple of hours away wouldn’t matter. Annie would be home with James, and she’d probably have something cooking to warm his stomach. He left the tavern, striding purposefully back to his room.
The Constable sat back, fingers steepled in front of his face, and wondered if he’d done the right thing. The note had been the last straw. On top of having his family followed, it had been too much, and he’d let his anger boil over. He knew it was stupid. And yet… nothing else had worked. He’d let it go for a day and see what happened. As he’d told Sedgwick, at this point they had nothing to lose.
A messenger ducked in, bringing a letter. Nottingham saw the address, from Halifax, and as he opened the seal, his hopes rose. Surely such a quick reply to his request for information meant something? But as he read, he found nothing helpful; they’d had no similar crimes.
His longing for a link, a connection of any kind, had come to nothing.
The clock on the parish church struck ten. He stood reluctantly, weighed down by a mixture of weariness and frustration, and set off up Kirkgate towards Briggate. Servants and housewives clogged the street, trying to keeping out of the path of carters and drovers and Nottingham walked gingerly among them. From the corner of his eye he sensed a small, sharp movement; his arm reacted instinctively, moving out to grab whoever was there.
Looking down, he saw he had hold of a boy of about twelve who was struggling against his hand, a small knife clenched in one fist. Nottingham tightened his grip and pushed the youth against the rough stone of the wall as a crowd suddenly gathered.
“You might as well put the knife down, laddie,” he said. “It’s not a good idea to rob the city’s Constable.”
The boy wilted, but Nottingham didn’t let him fall.
“We’re going to take a walk to the jail and you can tell me what you were trying to do” he continued, keeping a tight grip. “What’s your name?”
“Joshua.”
Nottingham pushed him harder against the wall.
“Joshua Forester, sir,” he amended.
“Joshua Forester.” The Constable could hear the tremor in the lad’s voice. Glancing down, he saw wide, scared eyes and a pale, grimy face under unruly blond hair.
“I don’t like cutpurses, Joshua Forester,” he said grimly. “Especially not right now.”
25
At the jail he pushed the lad into a chair and leaned menacingly against the main door.
“How old are you, Joshua Forester?” Nottingham asked.
Forester pursed his lips and concentrated as if he’d never been asked the question before. And, the Constable considered, maybe he hadn’t. None of the other children would really care.
“Don’t know,” he answered eventually. “Me mam just always said I were her baby.”
“Where’s your mother now?”
He shrugged in a resigned gesture.
“I came home one day and she were gone. Me and me sister waited, but she never come back.”
“What happened to your sister?”
“She died,” the boy answered in a matter-of-fact tone.
“You’ve been making a living as a cutpurse?” Nottingham said.
Forester tried to keep a blank face, but even fear couldn’t control the small smile of pride that crept across his mouth.
“You’ve been a busy lad,” the Constable continued. “You’ve given us a lot of trouble. And you’ve taken a fair bit of money.” His tone hardened. “What have you done with it all, Joshua?”
“Gave some to my mates.” He cocked his head defiantly. “So we can eat and have somewhere to live.”
The Constable nodded slowly. Scrawny and shaggy, dressed in coat and waistcoat a few sizes too big for his body, the lad looked an unlikely leader of a group of children. But he had quick hands and a special skill; doubtless there were others, larger and stronger, who would protect him in return for what he could provide. By rights he should have Forester up before the magistrate in the morning to be tried and off to begin serving his sentence. He eyed the boy, remembering his own youth and the struggle to survive each day.
“How long have you been fending for yourself?” he asked curiously.
“Four year, more or less,” Forester replied in surprise. “Why?”
“Not easy to do,” Nottingham commented. “How many do you look after?”
“Depends,” the lad said warily, suspicious at the Constable’s interest. “Five or six. Why do you want to know?”
“No real reason. I was just curious.” He paused. “You’re good at not being seen. You must be fast.” When the boy didn’t respond, the Constable continued. “You like being on the wrong side of the law?”
Forester shrugged. “I never really thought about it.”
“You know a judge will probably transport you to America or the West Indies. That’s seven years’ hard labour in places so hot you’ll fry — and that’s if you even survive the journey there.” He looked sternly at the lad. “You won’t last.”
The boy rounded on him. “Why would you care?”
“Because I think you could be more useful here.” Nottingham paused to let the words sink in. “What would you say if I offered you a job?”
The lad raised his head, confused. “You what?”
“Work for me, be one of the Constable’s men,” Nottingham explained.
Forester stared, wide-eyed. “Are you having a joke before you lock me up?”
“No, I’m serious,” the Constable told him. “Do you know your letters?”
“What do you think?” Forester asked derisively. “Course I don’t. That mean I can’t do it?”
“Not at all.” Nottingham smiled. “But if you work for me, there’s no more stealing purses, or anything else. You’ll have a wage coming in every week. It’s not a lot,” he admitted, “but it’ll keep body and soul together.”
“What about what I’ve done?” the boy asked, unbelieving. The Constable studied him. He knew the lad was unsure what to make of the offer, whether it was genuine. “What you going to do about that?”
“The cutpurse will have left Leeds without being caught,” Nottingham said guilelessly, with a wave of his hand. “An unsolved crime. They happen.”
