‘We’re just trying to find out about Mr Jackson,’ Lister said mildly.
‘He killed himself, that’s what happened. You know that.’ He threw his arms in the air in exasperation.
‘You’ve taken him off the sign fast enough.’
Tunstall fixed him with a fierce gaze. ‘Well, wouldn’t you? Who wants to deal with a firm where one of the owners killed himself?? Who wants to be reminded of that? Our orders are already down. The sooner he’s forgotten the better, if you ask me.’
He pushed his hands into his coat pockets defiantly, rocking on the heels of an expensive pair of buckled shoes. There was money here, Rob thought and smiled pleasantly at him.
‘Then it’s best we find out everything as soon as we can, isn’t it?’
Tunstall sneered. ‘Go on, then. But I hope it’s the last time.’
‘The week before Mr Jackson killed himself, was he here all week?’
‘Most if it, aye.’
‘When?’ Lister asked. ‘Do you remember?’
‘I know he was here on the Monday because we had to sort out some problems with one of the pressing irons and that put us behind. Tuesday, let me see. . aye, we had to keep on those lazy sods in there to finish an order. Wednesday we were looking over the accounts and talking about whether we needed a bigger place.’
‘Business was good, then?’
Tunstall gave a bitter laugh. ‘Business was bloody wonderful until he went and killed hisself. This week I can hardly get any bugger to talk to me.’
‘What about the rest of that week?’ Rob prompted.
‘He was gone Thursday, I remember that. Said he had people to see.’ He paused and thought. ‘He popped in after dinner. Checked a couple of things and left again.’
‘What was he looking for?’
Tunstall shrugged. ‘No idea. He was only here a minute or two. He looked poorly, and he didn’t come in Friday, either, I remember now. Sent a message that he wasn’t well.’
‘And when he came back?’
‘He was fine. Whatever he’d had, he was over it, working hard like he allus did. First I knew of anything wrong was when someone said he was dead at the Cloth Hall, and I didn’t believe it.’
‘No signs at all?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then I’ll leave you,’ Lister said.
‘Just make sure you don’t come back. I’ve a business to try and run here.’
He found Sedgwick and the Constable in the White Swan. There was a plate of bread and cheese between them and a mug of ale on the table.
‘Sit down and help yourself,’ Nottingham told him. ‘What did you find out?’
As they ate and drank Lister passed on what he’d learned. The Constable studied him thoughtfully.
‘So now we know that Jackson had the time to kill Sarah. But if they were lovers, why would he want to do that?’ He glanced at the others. ‘Any ideas?’
‘What if she’d told him it was over?’ Sedgwick suggested. ‘That could do it.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, if she was pregnant, maybe she was going to be faithful to her husband and she broke things off.’
‘But Will told his friend that things might change,’ Lister pointed out.
‘He didn’t say what kind of change, though, did he?’ the deputy countered.
‘No, true, but. .’
‘What it means is that we need to look more deeply into the idea that he murdered her,’ Nottingham interrupted firmly. ‘Right now we have two people with the time to do it, him and Samuel Godlove, and I really don’t believe Godlove was behind it.’
‘So what do we do?’ Lister wondered.
‘Dig,’ Sedgwick told him.
‘He’s right,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘Rob, I need you to go through Jackson’s papers again. I’ll go to his lodgings and see if there’s anything more. And I’ll see if he has any knives that match the murder weapon.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘But,’ the Constable warned, ‘we need to be careful. Keep your mind open. Just because Jackson seems the likeliest killer, it doesn’t mean he did it. We need to keep looking for others, too.’
‘And try to find the maid,’ the deputy added, but Nottingham sighed.
‘She’s dead somewhere, John. She knew too much. She probably saw too much. No one would kill Sarah and leave Anne alive.’
Lister slid out of the bench. ‘I’ll go and make a start.’
After he’d gone the Constable turned to Sedgwick. ‘What do you think of Rob?’
‘He could be good,’ the deputy said warily. ‘It’s early days yet.’
‘True,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘But I have the sense he’ll be here a while.’
Sedgwick raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘Maybe. His family has money, why would he keep doing this?’
‘Because he seems to like it.’
‘I’ll wait and see.’
The Constable stared at him. ‘Give him a chance, John. He’s not after your job.’
‘Maybe he’ll want yours in time, though,’ the deputy said.
Nottingham smiled slowly. ‘I’ve told you, you’re the one I’d always recommend.’
‘But you don’t make the decision, boss.’
‘No,’ he agreed with a nod. ‘I’ve always said, they’ll listen to what I say. Don’t worry about it. There’s no need, not for a long time yet.’
Fourteen
Nottingham walked down to Jackson’s lodgings. He needed to see the place himself, to gain a sense of the man and try to understand him. He wandered between the two rooms, standing at the window and looking down on the people moving along Briggate, taking in the smells and atmosphere of Jackson’s life, everything overlaid with the staleness of a life ended and closed.
He’d probably inherited the furniture from his parents, the Constable thought, running his fingertips lightly across the dust on the dark wood. It was old, battered here and there, but serviceable enough for a young man who didn’t spend much time at home.
The rooms were clean and uncluttered. He took the remainder of the dead man’s papers from the desk and folded them into the large pocket of his coat. In the bedroom he pawed through Jackson’s clothes, hunting for notes and scraps.
The man owned three suits, plus the one he’d been wearing when he died. That was an extravagance for most men, and from the feel of them, he hadn’t spared money on the cloth. Two were made from fine worsted, fashionably cut with deep cuffs on the sleeves, the breeches intended to be tight and flattering. There were five waistcoats, two of brocade in colourful patterns, the others more sober, for business most like. One pair of shoes with silver buckles and a pair of boots, lovingly cleaned to a high shine. A drawer held clean linen, and he ran his hand under the clothes for any pieces of paper that might be hidden.
He found a knife, but it was nothing like the one that had killed Sarah. Other than clothes and papers, the two rooms held little that gave any sign of who Jackson really was. This was a place where he existed, not where he lived. And there was certainly nothing of Sarah. No keepsakes, no love tokens, no memories. After half an hour he gave up.
At the jail he passed everything to Lister.
‘Go through it all,’ he instructed. ‘Business as well as personal. I know Tunstall said everything was fine, but let’s check. You never know what you’ll find.’
‘Yes, boss.’ He raised his head from the papers.
