learn.
Even in the slush and the grey grime of late winter, he could feel the city beginning to blossom again. The dead would go in the ground soon, their memories alive, and spring would come soon.
He was shown straight through to the Mayor’s chamber. With each month since he’d taken office, Kenion’s room had become more crowded with documents and books. Pristine last September, now there were clutters and piles in the corners and on small tables.
Edward Kenion was seated behind his desk, eyes close to the paper he was reading. He needs spectacles, Nottingham thought, but he’s too vain to wear them. The Mayor looked up.
‘Do you have anything new on the murderer?’ he asked without preamble. There was a husky bark to his voice.
‘We know what he looks like now.’ The Constable was carefully vague in his admission.
‘But you don’t have him, do you?’
‘No,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘Not yet.’
‘Then do something about it, Constable.’ He sounded frustrated. ‘Find him.’ He fluttered his hand to wave the matter away. ‘Anyway, that’s not why I wanted you here. Alderman Henderson’s sons.’
‘Peter and Paul.’
Kenion nodded briefly. ‘We’ve decided not to put them on trial.’
‘What?’ Nottingham stood up sharply, the outrage flaring on his face. ‘They’re guilty of murder. They killed a completely harmless man.’
‘How much proof do you have?’ the Mayor asked, his voice calm. He didn’t meet the Constable’s stare.
‘We found his pack at their house. Both of them had bloody suits. Someone else identified them as being in the dead man’s room. How much do you want?’
‘From what I’m told, your witness never saw them. She can’t see, I believe?’
‘She can hear well enough, though.’ He breathed deeply, trying to stop his temper from blazing through. ‘And what about the pack?’
‘They claim to have found it on their way home.’
‘The clothes?’
‘They were in a fight.’
The Constable began to pace, his boots sinking into the thick rug. ‘You don’t believe that. You can’t.’
‘The Corporation has discussed the matter,’ Kenion announced flatly. ‘We had a judge set, but we’ve decided not to proceed. They’ve been released.’ He sat back, daring Nottingham to speak.
The Constable knew he should say nothing, that he should accept the announcement and leave. He couldn’t change things. But the thought of Isaac the Jew, lying broken and alone on the frozen ground filled his head.
‘If they get away with this, those two will kill again,’ he warned. ‘They’ll believe they’re immune from anything.’
‘The Corporation believes they’re innocent of the charges, Mr Nottingham,’ the Mayor told him coldly.
The Constable brushed the fringe off his forehead, running his hand back through his hair. ‘One day they’ll go too far and someone will kill them.’
‘That won’t happen, Constable. We pay you to keep this city peaceful. Make sure you remember that.’ It was an order, pure and simple.
He wanted to punch the wall in frustration, to shout through gritted teeth. As it was, he had no choice but to bow his head, to take the blow and leave. Outside, in the bustle of Briggate, he let the street swallow him.
The air was filled with the iron smell of blood from the Shambles and the heady dark richness of shit from the horses pulling carts up and down the street. Leeds was returning quickly from the winter, battered and with fearful memories.
He stepped out, his face angry, fists clenched in his pockets. He passed the market cross, then turned at the Head Row, walking past Burley Bar, where the houses petered out into scrubby countryside. The road had turned to deep mud, churned by hooves and wheels.
His shoulder ached viciously, leaving him sweating in the chill air, but the pain was good; without it, the fury would be boiling over in his head.
As ever, the Corporation was protecting its own. He wanted to release all the frustrations of the last months in one long scream of rage. This was his city. It didn’t just belong to the rich. It was as much the home of Isaac the Jew, of Rose, of all those who’d died during the winter. Leeds was bigger than all of them. His job was to keep them safe, every one of them, and to arrest them when they flouted the law. The justice he upheld was meant to work for them all, not only for those with the jingle of coins in their pockets.
He knew how stupid it was to come out here alone to this place, beyond the houses, where the land offered plenty of cover. He was prey to Wyatt again, a bird flapping with a single wing. But the pistols were ready, and he needed this.
He turned to look back up the hill. There was the Red House, its bricks like a bloody stain against the sky. The smoke from the city’s chimneys hung like a dark cloud in the air. But it didn’t matter how much he hated the place sometimes, his life was there.
Very slowly, Nottingham drew deep breaths in and out until he was ready to go back. A few minutes, a chance to exorcize the fury, that was what he’d needed. He stayed alert to movements, hand in his pocket, as Leeds embraced him again, its streets like arms around him.
Nottingham arranged the coffin for Frances. The undertaker did work for the city, and made enough from it to furnish his grand house across the river on Meadow Lane. After a few spare words he agreed to supply something, just cheap deal boards hammered together. His apprentice, solemn and shiny in his new coat and hat, arranged to collect the body that afternoon.
At least Frances would go into the ground with dignity. Josh deserved that. She deserved that, she’d been loved in life, and she should be cared for in her death.
Sedgwick had gone from the jail. He’d left a note in his awkward, uneven scrawl, explaining he’d gone to investigate a theft by a servant. The usual business of life. The Constable settled in his chair.
The Henderson decision had been made, and he had to accept it. Nothing he could say would alter it now. It would eat at him, he knew that, one more humiliation, but it served as another reminder of the limits of his power. Like a man secured by a chain, he could only roam so far, no matter how ambitious his reach.
He’d see the brothers again on the streets, watch them strutting with the invulnerability of privilege. They’d commit more mayhem and crime, and taunt him with the knowledge that there would be nothing he could do to stop them.
His face was still set hard when Josh came in. The boy’s shoulders were slumped, his eyes staring without seeing, stunned.
‘I’m sorry, lad,’ Nottingham said quietly. Josh turned towards him, flesh pale except for the deep smudges under his eyes. ‘I know what it’s like.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction that never came. ‘What was her full name?’ he asked. ‘For the funeral.’
‘Frances. Frances Amelia Ormroyd.’ The words came out painfully, like bone breaking skin.
‘Come on, sit down. Have something to drink, you’ll feel a little better.’
Josh did as he was told, hardly noticing as he gulped from the cup of small ale Nottingham placed in his hand.
‘Josh,’ the Constable said, waiting for the boy’s attention. ‘We’re going to bury her tomorrow. If you like, you can spend tonight at my house, or with Mr Sedgwick.’
Josh shook his head.
‘It’s up to you. But you know where we both live, if you change your mind later. You know you’ll be welcome at either place.’
‘I can’t,’ Josh said in an empty tone, swallowing more of the liquid. ‘The room’s so empty, but I can still smell her everywhere.’ He glanced up. ‘It’s why I came here. I didn’t know where else to go.’
‘It’s going to be that way for a long time,’ Nottingham warned him sadly. ‘You’ll see her. Hear her, too.’ His voice softened. ‘For a while, it’s comforting, like they haven’t really left.’
‘But it’s so strong.’ The boy sounded confused. ‘It’s. .’ He shook his head, lowering it so the Constable couldn’t see him crying.
‘It’ll get better eventually.’ Nottingham knew the words wouldn’t sound comforting now. They wouldn’t even
