Williamson crumpled the newspaper, letting it drop to the floor. His open, honest face could hide nothing — something Nottingham had always imagined a disadvantage in a merchant, although it never seemed to hamper his trade.
‘Fair, apart from the weather, of course. Business is down, but that’s to be expected in the winter, of course.’ He shrugged and paused. ‘But you want to talk about Sam Graves, don’t you?’
The Constable nodded. ‘A good guess,’ he said with a faint smile.
‘Hardly,’ Williamson responded. ‘The murder’s on everyone’s lips, and you’re not the type to just pass the time of day.’
‘I gather he and your father didn’t get along.’
Williamson laughed, shook his head and rolled his eyes. ‘That’s an understatement, Richard. They hated each other. Sam beat my father on a big contract — this was years ago, you have to understand that. You didn’t know what my father was like, but he held his grudges close, especially when he believed Graves had bribed people to get the contract. I don’t think they ever spoke again.’
A man brought the dishes of tea and the Constable waited until he’d gone.
‘What was Graves like?’
Williamson considered his answer as Nottingham raised the cup, blowing across the surface of the dark liquid before sipping. As always, it tasted bitter to him, not worth the money people paid for it.
‘I liked Sam, although I’d never have dared tell my father that. He was good at what he did and he made money. He knew wool and he knew the market. He cut corners at times, but most people do, that’s how business works.’
‘How about other people? Did they like him?’
‘He was as popular as anyone,’ Williamson replied guardedly.
Nottingham raised his eyebrows and Williamson grinned, suddenly looking ten years younger. ‘Show me a merchant everyone likes and I’ll show you a bankrupt.’ He cupped his hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘The thing you have to realize, Richard, is that business is competition. It’s all well and good being liked, but being respected is better. We’re looking for profits, and those don’t come with pleasantries. But Sam was respected, there’s no doubt about that. He’d been in business a long time, he’d served on the Corporation. About the only thing he hadn’t done was be mayor.’ He paused. ‘Do you have any idea who killed him?’
‘None,’ the Constable answered briefly.
‘That’s not going to stand too well with Mr Kenion,’ Williamson suggested wryly. ‘Sam helped him a lot back in the old days.’
‘It doesn’t stand well with me, either,’ Nottingham said bitterly. ‘Do you know anything about a new contract he was discussing in London?’
The merchant furrowed his brow. ‘I’d heard something about it — well, rumours of it, nothing more than that. I know Sam kept going down there, but that’s all. He was tight-lipped about the whole affair, but that’s the way he was about most things in business. That was his generation, never let a word slip or someone will be there before you; my father was the same.’
‘Nothing more than that?’
Williamson shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. Some people thought it was the government, some people thought it might be with the Spaniards. Sam was the only one who really knew. He’d smile about it, but that was all.’
Nottingham took another small sip of the tea, swallowing it quickly to avoid the harsh taste. He leaned forward, confiding quickly and softly. ‘I’m baffled, Tom. I don’t have any idea who might have wanted to kill him, where he was killed, and certainly not why. That worries me. I feel like a blind man in a crowd. I don’t know where to turn.’
Williamson sat back in his chair, considering.
‘What do you know about him beyond business?’ Nottingham wondered.
‘Not a great deal,’ the merchant answered eventually. ‘If he did anything bad, he hid it well. Truth to tell, Richard, he probably really was all probity and rectitude, just as he seemed. I know he went to church every Sunday, he seemed to love his wife, and his daughters married well, if I recall. There was never a word of mistresses, but he might just have been very discreet. And if he was ever seen with a whore, well, no one would ever hold that against him.’
Nottingham sighed.
‘I’m sorry,’ Williamson said again. ‘Sam wasn’t a man for scandal. I know it makes your job harder.’
‘It makes it bloody impossible,’ Nottingham replied with a sour laugh.
‘You’ll find him, Richard. You always have.’ Williamson stood up. ‘I need to go.’ He tried to lighten the tone. ‘If I’m not there, the business will surely fall apart by noon. I’ll try asking a few questions for you, but I honestly don’t think there’s much to learn.’
‘Thank you.’
Joshua Forester was doing what he did well, what he’d come to love. He was listening. In the inns and stableyards, all people were talking about was the murder. It was all speculation — not one of them had known Samuel Graves — but that didn’t matter.
They all had plenty to say; gossip was the common currency of everyday life, a relief from numbing work. At times Josh felt as if they couldn’t see him, that he wasn’t really there, as they carried on around him as if he didn’t quite exist.
But his whole life had been like that. It had saved him, allowed him to steal food and cut purses to survive, and helped him become a good Constable’s man. He pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of the coat that was four sizes too big for him and belted with a piece of rope.
At least he had good boots. He’d taken them from the corpse of a merchant’s son the month before; his old ones were worn through at the sole and leaked. But why would the rich need boots after death, anyway? For them it was just a short walk to heaven.
The boss had noticed, of course, giving him a short, hard look, but saying nothing. He protected his men. Josh had been astonished to learn that Richard Nottingham had once lived like him, out on the streets, scrabbling, fighting, hungry. Even now, with the pain of grieving written on his face, he seemed in control of everything.
Nottingham could move among the wealthy, converse with the powerful men of the city, and also those who had nothing. But his life had covered both sides of the coin. At times Josh had to wonder if that was why he’d been appointed Constable: because the Corporation were embarrassed to see a merchant’s son, even one that had been cast out, among the poor.
But he knew the truth was much more than that: that Nottingham was good at his job. He kept order in the city, and he was a strong leader. He knew how to get the best from his men. He’d encouraged Mr Sedgwick to learn how to read and write, grooming him for the future. He saw things in people that others didn’t.
Josh didn’t know his letters or numbers, and he didn’t care. He was happy as he was. Thirteen or maybe fourteen now, he relished the steadiness of his work, and the sense that for the first time in his life he had a future that went beyond the night. The companions he’d had when he was a thief had mostly drifted off. He saw a few in the city, and the rest, well, the winter would have taken its toll on those who’d stayed in Leeds. He shared his room with Frances, a girl he’d known for four years. She was, he supposed, around his own age; he’d never asked and she’d never volunteered the information, if she even knew. In the old days he’d protected her, fed her, and she’d clung to him. When the others slowly melted away, she’d stayed; by then it seemed perfectly natural for them to be together without even discussing it. Not that they ever talked about much, words weren’t their way. She had food ready for him when he returned from working, and held him close in the cold nights. She’d said she thought she might be having a bairn, but her belly was still flat, so he wasn’t sure what to make of that. Time would tell, he imagined.
He liked his job, knowing there would be work tomorrow, the day after and next week, and the regular pay. It was more than he’d ever known before. So Richard Nottingham had his loyalty. And Frances, in an odd way, had his love.
Today, though, he was going to disappoint the boss. People were out, in spite of the cold — they were always out, it seemed, no matter the weather — but they had nothing worthwhile to say, just rumours and idle thoughts. Throughout the day he shifted from place to place, from stable to draper, but there was nothing useful. The only consolation was that they didn’t know about the skinning. They would, sooner or later. Someone would talk.
