so.”
“That’s going take a long time,” Sedgwick demurred.
“For Christ’s sake, John, I know that.” Nottingham had expected enthusiasm, not reluctance, and a note of exasperation crept into his voice. “Why do you think I want all the men on it immediately? I need the information as fast as you can.”
“I’ll get them working.” Sedgwick stood slowly, pushing himself out of the chair with his good arm. As he opened the door of the jail, the Constable asked, “How’s the boy working out?”
“Josh’ll be fine. He’s smart and he doesn’t mind grafting.”
“Push people hard,” Nottingham instructed. “Leeds isn’t that big. Follow up on the names you find. Come back later and tell me how you’re getting on.”
The deputy gave a curt nod and left, and Nottingham stared after him for a few seconds. Maybe the injury had left Sedgwick exhausted. Normally he was so eager to work, willing to put in every hour God made if need be. Here they finally had something definite to pursue and he seemed like he’d rather sit on his arse and do nothing. But at least he knew that Sedgwick would follow orders, and once he started he’d do his best.
Now he could only wait and hope they discovered something. They needed some luck on their side, and a fast result. For the moment they had the edge on Worthy’s men, but he knew that couldn’t last. It wouldn’t be long before people began talking, so they had to make use of their advantage.
He paced the floor, feeling a terrible mixture of fear and anticipation. They were getting closer, almost breathing over the killer’s shoulder. He could feel it now. Nottingham rarely used one, but it was an occasion when he wished he had a pipe and some tobacco to calm his nerves. He wouldn’t be going home for a few hours yet, until it was certain they’d have no name tonight.
Instead he decided to write the reports for the Mayor that he’d deliberately neglected, and work on the other papers that littered his desk. He’d begun reading desultorily when the door opened and Williamson walked in.
“Am I disturbing your work, Richard?” he asked with a friendly smile.
“Nothing I wouldn’t rather put off until later,” Nottingham admitted with a rueful grin.
“I was wondering about your progress,” Williamson said, sitting cautiously on the hard wooden chair.
“Did your friends ask you to find out?” He held up his hands to stop the merchant’s protest. “It’s fine, Tom, I don’t mind. They supported me, so they have a right to ask.”
Williamson reddened with embarrassment. “It’s not that we don’t trust you, Richard, it’s just that…”
“You want to check on your investment.”
“That’s a very crude way of putting it,” Williamson said.
“But true,” Nottingham told him with a smile. “And I have a little good news.” He recounted his visit to Bartlett. As he finished, the merchant sat with pursed lips. “What’s wrong, Tom? You’re not convinced.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” Williamson replied slowly. “It seems to me I remember hearing about someone coming from there recently. I was trying to think who it might be.” He shook his head. “For the life of me I can’t bring it to mind.”
“Try, please,” the Constable said desperately. He was clenching his fists, nails digging into his palms. He’d sent his men out into the taverns and inns, believing the criminal was probably a labourer. But what if it was someone of a higher class? “Can you ask? It’s vital.”
“Of course,” Williamson agreed and stood up. “I’ll go to Garroway’s. Someone’s bound to remember. I’ll send a boy down with a note as soon as I know.”
“Thank you,” Nottingham said gratefully.
What if it was a gentleman or a merchant of some sort, he wondered when he was alone? It made sense, the pieces fell into place. A man like that would probably have learned to fence; he’d know how to handle a knife. He might even have been a soldier. And his station in life could put him above immediate suspicion. But to charge someone like that he’d need very strong proof.
He rubbed the rough bristles on his chin. And what proof did he have? He could search a man’s rooms and pray to find a bloody knife, just as he had at Carver’s, and maybe a cloak and hat. But no man who could afford a good lawyer would worry about things as trivial as that. They could be convincingly explained away in the blink of an eye and at the cost of a large purse.
Think, he told himself, think.
The truth was, there was nothing. With vigorous denials, a well-connected killer could walk away from his crimes. But he’d face that possibility after an arrest; at least he’d have that satisfaction first. He sat, drumming his fingers anxiously, hoping that Williamson might send word soon. Outside, evening had come, the long twilight of autumn when the city began to close its doors.
He listened as the sound of traffic slowed and the voices outside lowered to a muted buzz. The colour of the sky deepened, casting thick shadows in the room. And he waited.
But when it arrived, the note wasn’t one he’d expected.
28
The boy wasn’t one of the town lads who earned money delivering messages. Nottingham recognised him as one from his own street, clutching the paper tightly in his fist as he entered nervously. The jail always had that effect on them.
He snatched at the offered coin, and the door had closed behind him before the Constable could unfold the paper.
He could hear the desperation and fear in Mary’s words. Fuck, he thought. The stupid bloody girl. She’d done it yet again, run off to be with the boy and damn the consequences. This time he really would give her a leathering she’d never forget. But first he had to find her. And he knew he couldn’t. Not now. There wasn’t a single person he could spare to search for her.
He pressed the back of his knuckles against his eyes. His throat was dry and his heart was knocking hard inside his chest. God damn the girl and her imagination.
Nottingham stood looking out of the window, but saw nothing of the street and people beyond the filthy glass. Instead, the images in his head were of Emily, when she was young and fragile, still needing his care. Now she thought she was too old for that, old enough to blithely go her own way while her parents grew frantic. He could feel the anger and the fear welling up inside him, filling his mind and pounding in his blood. He wanted to go and search for his little girl, but he couldn’t move. The name he was waiting to learn was too important. He was as trapped and helpless as if he’d been locked in a cell. He could serve the city or he could help his family. And he knew what he’d chosen damned him.
Nottingham walked out into Kirkgate, and signalled for one of the urchins lurking outside the White Swan.
“Do you know Mr Worthy on Swinegate?” he asked, and gave quick directions when the boy shook his head. “Tell him the Constable asks if he could come to the jail as soon as possible.”
He hated himself for doing it. It was an admission that he couldn’t control his own daughter and couldn’t find her in his own city. But it was necessary — and for Emily he’d even dance with the devil to his own tune. The Constable went back into the jail to sit and brood. He didn’t have long to wait. Within twenty minutes Worthy had thrown open the door, his back straight, eyes glowing, to stand menacingly by the desk.
“You asked to see me, Constable?” His voice was deep, resonating from his chest.
“Thank you for coming.”
Worthy’s two bodyguards stayed unmoving in the doorway, their faces deliberately impassive.
“Something must be urgent.”
“Do you still have men following my family?” Nottingham asked quietly, feeling defeated inside.
“What makes you think I ever did?” he wondered with a sly smirk. “You mean when my man brought your lass home?”
“Yes.” He knew Worthy was toying with him, relishing his advantage, and that he’d press it for all he
