‘Three, maybe?’ Sedgwick shrugged. ‘Four? I’ve no idea.’
‘You go on home, John. You’ve done a good job. Tell the men that, too. I’ll take a look for damage when it’s light. You can leave, too, Josh.’
It wasn’t worthwhile walking home to his own bed, his own wife. His mind was working now, there’d be no more sleep. He noted the silent glance between the other two as he wished them good night.
The dawn came in stages of grey that slowly swept night off into corners and crevices. He heard the bell of the Parish Church strike seven and glanced through the window. Smoke was rising from the chimneys, Leeds was alive but staying behind closed doors where possible. Stragglers hurried down the streets, their heads bowed in protection.
He put on the coat, grateful it had had a few hours to warm. He’d deal with the apprentices later, once he’d tallied their damages.
It was more than he’d hoped but less than he’d feared. A total of twelve windows broken and four signs torn down. The shopkeepers were out, attempting to clear up the mess, seeking glass in the snow and boarding up the holes. He made note of their complaints and tried to mollify their anger, softly reminding a few of them that they’d once been apprentices themselves and wild as the night.
At least they’d had the sense not to do anything to the Moot Hall. That would have seen the Corporation come down on them hard. But they hadn’t even managed the wit to throw things at the statue of old Queen Anne above the doorway.
He was up at the Head Row, about to cross over and see if there had been any problems on New Street when someone called his name. He turned, one hand sliding into his pocket for the knife, only to see Kearney the butcher.
‘Thank God I’ve found you,’ he said, his voice urgent and afraid, his eyes wide. ‘I think you’d better take a look. There’s a body at the top of Lands Lane.’
Fifteen
Rushworth, he thought anxiously. It had to be Rushworth.
He dispatched a boy to find some of his men and rouse Brogden the coroner, then he walked up Lands Lane, following it from Briggate, around the corner, up to where it met the orchards of the old manor house.
He could see the body from a hundred yards away, its shape dark and rounded against the glittering white of the snow. Nottingham slowed his pace, eyes on the ground, seeing how many had left footfalls.
Ten yards from the corpse he stopped completely. This wasn’t Rushworth. He recognized the small cap pinned to the hair and the tumble of rags that served as clothing. It was Isaac the Jew.
He edged closer, eyes examining everything. A runnel of blood under Isaac’s head had left a wide stain. He reached down and dipped his finger in it. It was cold now, but it had been warm enough to melt the snow a little.
The corpse lay on its side, head tilted back, old empty eyes gazing to heaven, hands clenched into small, gnarled fists.
Isaac had told him once where he was born, but he’d forgotten the name of the country. It had sounded like poetry in the man’s faltering English.
‘Here you hunt animals,’ he’d said, his accent guttural and heavy. ‘There they killed us for their sport.’ And the mist of tears would cover his eyes as the memories came, to stay unspoken.
He’d tried to explain, too, about the skullcap and what it meant, but Nottingham had never understood its significance. Now it was just a circle, another scrap of old cloth.
The Constable walked very slowly around the body, kneeling, examining. Someone had hit Isaac hard on the back of his thin old man’s skull. Nottingham gradually widened the circle of his search, looking for Isaac’s pack, for a bloodied branch, for anything that might help.
By the time Brodgen arrived, heavily bundled, face flushed by the cold air, he’d found the murder weapon. A dead branch ripped from one of the apple trees in the orchard, just yards away. It was heavy enough to need two hands, but easy to swing hard, and deadly. Fragments of bone clotted with hair and brains were stuck to one end.
There was no sign of the man’s pack.
‘Constable,’ was all Brodgen offered as a greeting. Nottingham dipped his head in reply. The coroner seemed determined to make everything as simple as possible and return to the warmth of his hearth.
‘Murder?’ he asked.
‘No question,’ the Constable said.
Brogden nodded, not even pausing to look closely at the body. It was just another poor man of no interest, someone beyond his horizon and past his concern.
‘Murder it is, then,’ he agreed and walked away. The judgement had been given; the corpse could be moved. He waited until the men arrived with the old door and the winding sheet stained with the blood of so many. They’d take Isaac to the jail where he could lie until he filled a pauper’s grave.
He had no idea what the Jews did for their dead, how they shrived them. He didn’t even know what had brought Isaac to Leeds, why he’d stayed or how lonely he’d been for his own kind.
Josh arrived as the Constable was writing his daily report detailing the riot. The apprentices were already at the Petty Sessions to wait on their fines and their masters’ wrath. The boy’s eyes were red-rimmed, his face tight.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’ Nottingham asked, and Josh shook his head.
‘It’s like my head won’t empty. The thoughts won’t go away.’
‘That’s what happens,’ the Constable sympathized. He’d experienced so many nights like that since Rose’s death. ‘They build up and gnaw at you.’ He paused. ‘Someone killed Isaac the Jew last night.’
He watched as Josh’s face sharpened and his mind focused. ‘Where?’
‘Lands Lane, by the orchard. Hit him on the head with a branch and cracked his skull open.’
‘He gave me and Frances clothes.’
Nottingham waited.
‘Back when I started working for you. He told me I was doing a good thing, so he was going to do a good thing. He had some strange word for it.’
‘Do you know where he lived?’ Nottingham ran a hand through his hair.
‘The last I knew he had a room in that old court off Vicar Lane, you know, the one everyone says is haunted.’
Nottingham knew it well. The story had circulated for years, probably even generations. A woman who’d starved to death in the days of Queen Bess was supposed to appear screaming out for God’s mercy on herself and her child. It was a good tale, and there were plenty of those who’d sworn they’d seen her. When he was young he’d waited there for her himself, still and silent through a pair of long autumn nights. But cold bones were all he’d received for his pains.
‘I’ll go and see what he had.’
‘I can come with you,’ Josh offered quickly.
‘If you like.’
So that was the plan, he thought. Keep the lad close to him to help hold Wyatt at bay. Josh was willing enough, but he was too young, too slight. Wyatt was ruthless; the boy wouldn’t stand a chance.
On Vicar Lane the ample richness of the Vicar’s Croft gave way to smaller dwellings, the entrances to the courts like knife openings between houses. He let Josh lead the way, sliding down a small passage with snow hard underfoot, the walls of the buildings rough and dark against his shoulders.
‘Over there,’ Josh pointed. ‘Top floor.’
‘Are you coming in with me?’
‘I’ll wait out here.’
Nottingham nodded. The boy was taking his duty seriously, and he was glad about that. Josh was dedicated; he’d proved to be a good find.
