‘What are you going to say?’
Nottingham rubbed his eyes. What could anyone say? God knew he’d seen enough murders in his time, but nothing that came close to this. Why, he wondered. Why would one man do this to another? What kind of hatred could be in him?
‘I won’t say too much,’ he replied with a grim smile. ‘I think we’d better keep very quiet about the details here, don’t you?’
Two
He wrote a note to the Mayor, a brief description, knowing full well it would bring a peremptory summons in the morning. Then he gathered his greatcoat around his exhausted body, ready for the cold.
As he left the goal, Nottingham longed to keep going down Kirkgate, to cross Timble Bridge and go home. He needed to see Mary and Emily, to have the comfort of his own fire and his family close. But he couldn’t, not yet. Duty had to come first. At Vicar Lane he turned, setting one foot leadenly in front of the other on the hard ground, feeling the thin whip of the weather in his flesh.
Lights were burning in the windows of the Graves house, a new, plain three-storey building standing behind a small garden at Town End, close to St John’s Church, across from the Ley Lands. The path had been carefully swept clean of snow and ice, and the night had the thick feel of velvet sliding against his face as he raised the knocker to let it fall heavily against the wooden door.
A minute passed, and then two. He was about to knock once more when he heard the sharp click of a servant’s shoes in the hall. The man was in his twenties, with muscled arms and a direct stare that bordered on insolence. A guttering candle cast deep shadows across his face.
‘I’m the Constable of Leeds,’ Nottingham announced without preamble. ‘I need to see your mistress.’
The servant considered for a moment, taking in the travel dirt on Nottingham’s coat and the lines cut deep on his face.
‘Yes, sir. Come in,’ he said grudgingly, leading the way down a hallway panelled to waist height in dark, polished wood that reflected the candle flame.
Mrs Graves was in a sitting room where coal was piled high on the fire to burn hot. A candelabrum on a side table gave her ample light to read the book in her lap. She looked to be about sixty, the Constable judged, perhaps a little older, her arms thin with mottled, wrinkled flesh, her silk gown from the time of Queen Anne, a pair of shawls gathered tightly around her shoulders to give more warmth. Nottingham ducked his head briefly and waited until the door closed softly and they were alone. She lowered the book.
‘I’m Richard Nottingham,’ he began. ‘I’m-’
‘I know who you are,’ she croaked impatiently, assessing him with shrewd, sharp eyes. A few strands of grey hair stuck out awkwardly from her mop cap. A walking stick, its handle worn by frequent use, leaned against the side of the chair. ‘I’ve lived here all my life, I know who’s who. Now, what is it?’
How did he begin, he wondered. How could he give her the heartbreak?
‘It’s about your husband,’ he started.
She waved her hand dismissively. ‘If you’ve come to see him, he left for London on Friday. I told him he should wait until the roads were better. But he’s never listened to me before, so why would he now?’ She sighed, and he could hear a lifetime of closeness and affection hidden behind her words.
The Constable’s face showed nothing, but he absorbed the information she gave him. Graves could well have been dead for four days already.
‘I’m afraid he’s dead, ma’am,’ Nottingham said quietly.
She shook her head in disbelief, eyebrows furrowing. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Nottingham,’ she scolded him brusquely. ‘I just told you, he took the coach for London on Friday.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Graves, but it seems he didn’t,’ he told her. ‘Your husband is dead.’
For a moment he thought she hadn’t heard him. Then the words hit her and he saw her face collapse in quiet anguish. Her hand scrabbled to the pocket of her dress for a handkerchief and she buried her face in the white linen. He felt powerless. He couldn’t approach her, couldn’t offer any comfort; all he could do was wait awkwardly.
‘How?’ she managed eventually, her voice suddenly a girl’s small, weak sob.
He had no choice. He had to give her some of the truth; she might know something to help him, but still he hesitated.
‘He was murdered,’ Nottingham said finally. Her face remained hidden behind the scrap of cloth. ‘Would you like me to call a servant?’
She gave a short, tight shake of her head. Her shoulders heaved, but he heard no weeping in the deep silence.
When she finally raised her eyes again, she looked as ancient as the night outside.
‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked.
Her eyes flickered over the room.
‘A glass of that cordial,’ she said, then added, ‘Please.’
He walked to the sideboard, removed the stopper from the expensive glass decanter, poured some of the liquid — good French brandy, by the smell of it — and took it to her. She drained half the glass in a single swallow. Nottingham expected her to cough, but she simply closed her eyes for a moment and gave a deep, painful sigh.
‘Why?’ she asked him. ‘Who would want to kill him?’ Her voice rustled, as thin as paper. ‘Do you know?’
‘No, we don’t,’ he admitted bluntly. ‘Not yet. We only found him a few hours ago. Do you know of anyone. .?’
She stared directly at the Constable, weighing the question he’d left hanging, and slowly gathered her strength to answer.
‘No, Mr Nottingham, I don’t. He was a good man in thought and in deed.’ For a moment she drifted into contemplation, then wiped at a tear leaking from the corner of her eye, the first of many she’d shed in the coming days, he guessed. ‘He was my husband for forty years, and he loved me every one of them. There wasn’t an ounce of malice in him. He made friends, not enemies.’
He’d heard words like this so often before, and he knew that many times they were no more than a facade, covering complicated webs of deceit, lies and anger. There were few truly good men in this life. Graves could have been the exception, but he doubted it.
‘So he’s probably been dead since Friday?’ she asked. Even in grief she was astute.
‘Yes,’ Nottingham admitted reluctantly. ‘He might well have been.’
‘Then you’d better find whoever killed him,’ she told him.
‘I’ll do everything I can,’ he answered, offering her honesty rather than certainty.
Her fingertips absently traced the rim of the glass, the skin of her cheeks pale and bloodless. ‘I can believe that far more than any promise,’ she told him with a short nod. ‘Thank you. You have a good reputation, Mr Nottingham.’
He raised his eyebrows for a moment, surprised not just that she knew of him, but more that she knew what he’d done. To most of her class he was an invisible man.
For now he could sense her holding desperately on to an inner reserve. Tonight was no time for more questions, but there was one he needed to ask now.
‘Why was your husband going to London?’
‘He had business there.’
‘I thought he’d retired?’
‘Retirement didn’t suit Samuel well,’ she explained. ‘He was a man who needed to be doing things, and business was what he did best.’
He noticed that she was already using the past tense. She drained the rest of the brandy, and he could sense her slipping away from him.
‘I’ll get one of the servants for you,’ he said, leaving softly to find a maid in the kitchen. He let himself out. The chill of the darkness was harsh and stinging after the overheated room; the wind lashed his eyes and made
