The elaborate two-storey building stood like an island in the middle of Briggate, forcing traffic to flow around it. In the cellar lay a dank, secure jail for prisoners committed to the Quarter Sessions for serious crimes, a place to pass the days until sentence of transportation or the noose. The ground floor was given over to the Shambles, the city’s butchers’ shops. Around them the paving stones were permanently discoloured by blood, and a small pack of salivating dogs circled hungrily all day, fighting as they hunted for offal and scraps.
Upstairs, however, it was a different world. Everything was quiet and luxurious. The wood was polished to a deep, lustrous brown, and the rooms had thick Turkey carpets to hush the footfalls. The business of the city was carried out and the future of its citizens decided in meetings and unreported conversations. The windows, appropriately, looked down on the bustle of Leeds.
Kenion was waiting for him, not yet quite at home in the Mayor’s chamber. He’d hold the position until next September, then another alderman would take over for the following twelve months. Nottingham had seen them come and go, some venal, a few good, most just taking it as their reward for faithful service.
To his eyes Kenion appeared nondescript, a man of average height, with a pale, astonished face and hook nose, neither thin nor fat, a fellow who seemed to disappear into his wig and clothes. But that anonymity only made him all the more dangerous, the Constable decided. He’d want to make his mark if he could. What happened now would set the tone between them for the next year, and they both knew it.
“Sit down.” Kenion gestured at a chair, and Nottingham folded himself into it. The Mayor remained standing.
“I’ve had Alderman Rawlinson here,” he began slowly.
“About Mr Morton’s death, of course,” the Constable said smoothly, hoping he could put the Mayor on the back foot. “A terrible business.”
“Yes.” Kenion seemed a little nonplussed and Nottingham continued to take the initiative.
“I understand how devastated he must feel,” Nottingham glided on. “Mr Rawlinson was in shock when I broke the news to him this morning. After all, he invited the man here to perform good works. Then Morton was abused while preaching, and finally murdered.”
“What are you doing to find the culprit?” Kenion asked briskly, trying to retake control of the discussion.
“Everything we can.” Nottingham held out his hands, palms up. “We don’t know much yet. But I’ve got men searching for the place where the murders took place, before the bodies were moved to the yard. And I have people trying to trace Mr Morton’s movements last night.”
The Mayor nodded in approval.
“Good, good.”
Nottingham hesitated deliberately before continuing.
“I understand the vicar and some of the aldermen didn’t approve of Mr Morton, sir.”
Kenion looked up sharply, a blush rising from his neck.
“I believe there had been a few words,” he admitted in a quiet voice.
“I’ll need to find out more about that.” It was an opportunity to press, and he was going to take it.
“You don’t seriously think they could have had anything to do with it, do you?” Kenion sounded appalled at the mere idea.
“I don’t know. But if I don’t follow up all the possibilities I’m hardly doing my duty to the city,” Nottingham pointed out.
“Of course,” the Mayor agreed after a moment’s awkward consideration. “But you realise this is a crime that has to be solved. And I want it solved quickly.”
“I understand.” The Constable rose from his seat, bowed to the Mayor, and left. “I want it solved too.”
There’d been no mention of Pamela, he thought without surprise.
Outside, he breathed deeply. It had gone well, all things considered, and had been mercifully brief. Thank God Kenion was still new and uncertain of his power. That would pass soon enough, and he’d become as demanding as everyone else who’d ever worn the chain of office.
Nottingham wove his way across the road, between the carts clogging the street, negotiating a path among clumps of stinking horse and cow dung that hadn’t been cleaned up yet, then walked purposefully back down Kirkgate, past the graceful weight of the White Cloth Hall where the Tuesday afternoon buying and selling was already in session, to the parish church.
He’d known it all his life, but its size still gave him pause, a huge grandeur against the sky, the spire reaching towards heaven. When he was young he’d truly believed it was the house of God, that He lived there, unseen but all-knowing. It had been a good thing for a child to believe, but he’d grown out of it quickly enough. He still loved the building, though, its stone blackened by the city’s soot, and he hoped that the words and hymns there went directly to God’s ears.
The tall, thick oak doors stood open, but he didn’t enter. Instead he followed a small path around the side of the building and knocked on a smaller door beside the transept.
It was opened by a man about his own height in a cassock of richly-dyed black wool, a short wig perched squarely atop a head with deep-set, suspicious eyes and strong, handsome features. The new curate, Nottingham surmised. He’d heard one had been appointed, but not that he’d already arrived. He looked to be in his early twenties, and had a haughty scowl on his face. A younger son with money and connections, Nottingham thought, serving a brief apprenticeship here. Soon he’d probably be appointed to his own expansive living.
“I’d like to see Reverend Cookson.”
The curate cast a dismissive eye over Nottingham’s clothes, making a swift judgement.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said, failing to keep the sneer from his voice. Nottingham looked directly at the man.
“My name’s Richard Nottingham. I’m the Constable of Leeds.”
“Oh?” It was apparent that the curate didn’t believe him.
“I’m here on official business,” the Constable stated firmly. “A matter of murder.”
The man pursed his lips, weighing whether the visitor was telling the truth.
“The Reverend isn’t here,” he admitted finally, and Nottingham felt his fuse start to run short.
“And did he happen to confide in you where he was going?” he asked acidly, wanting to humiliate the curate for his assumptions. “Or when he’d be back?”
The other man lowered his eyes for a moment.
“No.” He barely concealed the anger in the word.
“No, I don’t imagine he did,” the Constable said with satisfaction. “Tell him I called, and that I’ll be back tomorrow. I need to see him.”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Crandall,” the curate replied haughtily. The door closed silently on well-oiled hinges and Nottingham was left with the empty quiet of the churchyard, broken only by the small twittering of sparrows in an oak tree.
There was little more he could do today. Sedgwick was unlikely to have anything to report before morning, and if he turned up anything important, he’d come to the house. The lad would be a good Constable some day.
He made his way across Timble Bridge; the beck below was not much more than a trickle after the long, dry days of summer. Away from the heart of the city there was stillness in the air, and he relished the absence of noise assaulting his ears. God willing, he’d have peace tonight. But first he had to tell Mary about Pamela, and that wouldn’t be easy.
She emerged from the kitchen, thick smudges of flour on her apron, hands and face, surprised and happy to see him so early, and guiltily Nottingham realised he was rarely home before dark.
He embraced her, closing his eyes to smell her hair and feel her cheek against his shoulder. Only when she started to pull away did he realise he’d been holding her longer than usual.
“You were off with the lark this morning. It must have been important,” Mary said finally, giving him a curious look.
“When isn’t it?” he laughed, trying to make light of the situation.
“They expect far too much of you,” she told him seriously as he followed her into the kitchen.
“Well, this time they were right.” He poured a cup of ale from the jug on the table. “A double murder,” he said solemnly.
“Oh God, Richard.”
