He could feel his heart beating faster. Bartlett’s address was in Chapel Allerton, some three miles to the northeast, home of the horse and footraces, and the gallows where the hangman plied his trade. But far more importantly, where Pamela had moved when she married.
Nottingham put on his greatcoat and left immediately. His body was tense and his throat was dry. There had to be a connection. He walked swiftly along Swine Gate to the stables. He was going to find answers, find a murderer.
Nottingham couldn’t afford to keep a horse of his own, and the city wasn’t about to pay for him to have a nag. Instead he hired one on the few occasions he needed to travel. To his relief, the ostler selected a gentle mare which was happiest at a canter, and that suited him; he’d never been much of a rider, uncomfortable and wary so high off the ground.
From Vicar Lane he headed north on the Newcastle Road, a rutted, pitted thing that needed attention like all the roads around Leeds. It ran parallel to Sheep Scar Beck, the fields running down to the water lush and green, with sheep cropping the grass. Around here the fleeces were more valuable than the meat; the demand for wool was insatiable as the cloth trade grew and grew. Cottages stood in small clumps at the roadside, and he could hear the insistent clack of looms from within as farming families worked to supplement their incomes by weaving. The children would card the wool, the wife and older girls would spin, and the husband wove. Come market day the man would weigh down a pack animal with the cloth and bring it into Leeds to sell. It had been the way throughout the West Riding for centuries, the only way for small tenants to survive the year. And the ones who couldn’t earn enough here flocked into the city, hoping for jobs and money that all too often didn’t exist. It was a bitter scrape along the knife-edge of existence.
The road began to rise on the long, slow climb and the horse slowed to an easy, manageable trot. Looking back, Nottingham could make out the city, the roofs and spires under a dark haze of smoke from thousands of chimneys burning Middleton coal. You’re in there, he thought determinedly, and I’m going to find you. Soon.
The first sign of the village of Chapel Allerton was the Bowling Green Inn at the base of Chapeltown moor, a roughly tamed wasteland that spread out to his left. He kept riding, past the gallows hole where the frame was erected for public hangings, following the road beyond the blast of heat and noise from the smithy, then taking a track at the top of the moor to the elegant facing of Clough House.
It was a new brick building in a lovingly symmetrical design, with the quiet taste only money could buy. The glass in the windows sparkled, and the garden was carefully tended. Nottingham tethered the horse and knocked on the door, to be greeted by a grave male servant in his late forties who escorted him into a small receiving room, its walls a duck-egg blue, with portraits and landscapes hanging from the walls above the dark wood wainscoting.
“I’ve come to see Mr Bartlett,” the Constable explained. “He answered a note of mine.”
“I’ll fetch Sir Robert.” The servant emphasised the title, chiding him gently.
Bartlett proved to be a large, rounded man who strode briskly into the room. There was an air of the country squire about him in his plain, tight-fitting clothes and thick hands. He wore a short periwig that seemed awkwardly settled on top of a large, rounded head with reddened cheeks.
“Constable,” he said in a booming welcome. “I hadn’t expected you to arrive so quickly. Thought you’d have too much to do.” He seemed to fill the room with his bluff energy, pacing over to the window and looking out across the moor.
“Your information sounded important, Sir Robert,” Nottingham said with careful deference.
Bartlett ducked his head a couple of times. “It may be. It’s complicated, you see. Sit down, man,” he offered, gesturing at the chairs that faced the empty fireplace.
“I’ll stand if I may… I’m not used to riding.”
Sir Robert chuckled lightly and shook his head. “Never mind, eh? We can get out and stretch our legs a bit if you prefer.”
“I’d rather just hear your information, if you don’t mind.” Nottingham urgently needed to know what the man had to say, then return to the city to finish this business. Time was too important now.
“Of course, of course,” Bartlett agreed readily. “You’ve seen Chapel Allerton, Constable. We’re a small place, except when everyone comes up for the races or a hanging, of course. We have a few thefts, but never anything much.” He glanced briefly at Nottingham who nodded his understanding. “About eighteen months ago a courting couple was attacked by a man.” He gestured vaguely into the distance. “They were walking in the woods beyond the Black Swan, and someone tried to stab them. He wounded the man, then he ran off when the girl began screaming.”
“Did you find him?”
Bartlett shook his head forcefully. “No, not a trace. But it happened twice more over the next six months. No one seriously injured, but it left everyone scared.”
“And after that?” Nottingham wondered. “Were there any more attacks?”
“No, they just stopped. It was strange. We never did find out who did it. A few men were suspected, but it never came to anything.”
“No one moved from the village?”
“Just one of the women who’d been attacked. She went back to Leeds, from what I heard.” He dismissed her with a casual shrug.
The Constable’s scalp tingled. “Do you remember her name?” he asked with urgency.
“No, I’m sorry,” Sir Robert replied after a moment’s deliberation. “Is it important?”
“The first of the girls to die in Leeds had moved back from this area,” Nottingham explained. “She’d also been a servant in my house before she came out here.”
“I see.” Bartlett focused his attention. “It could be a coincidence, I suppose.”
“It’s possible,” Nottingham agreed cautiously, doubting it, “but I’d prefer to find out.”
Sir Robert was already walking to the door. “Come on, man,” he said, “let’s go, then.”
His broad pace soon carried him across the beautifully cut lawn in front of the house, through the gates and on to the moor. Nottingham, his thigh muscles already stiffening from being on the horse, had to walk fast to keep pace as they crossed the road and followed a track that led between houses and past hedged fields.
“Where are we going?” he asked, a little breathless.
Bartlett stopped suddenly, looking confused by the question. “You said you wanted to know the name of the girl who returned to Leeds.”
“I do,” Nottingham agreed.
“We’re going to see the man who was her landlord,” Bartlett explained. “We could have ridden over, but you looked as if you didn’t want to spend more time in the saddle than necessary.”
“Thank you,” the Constable said, the sentiment heartfelt.
“It’s not far,” Sir Robert told him as they walked on. “Just over there.”
“Hello, Martha,” Bartlett said warmly. “I haven’t seen you in months. How are you?”
The woman perked at the sound of the voice, smiling and running fingers like a comb through her straggly grey hair.
“Getting by, Sir Robert,” she nodded, “up and down. It’s t’way o’t world.”
“Indeed, indeed.” He sounded genuinely interested in her wellbeing, and in a small place like this, maybe he was, Nottingham thought.
“Is the master at home?” Bartlett asked.
“Gone off to York,” the servant told him with a short chuckle. “Looking for a new wife, I shouldn’t wonder, after the last one died in June.”
“A man wants a woman around, Martha,” Bartlett said seriously. “And he still needs an heir for the estate.”
“Aye, although that weren’t for lack of trying on his part,” she observed with a cackle.
“Actually, we’ve come about a woman,” Bartlett said, lowering his voice a little.
“Oh?” She cocked her head.
