while the horse was watered and brushed. With the oven going the room was sweltering, the door wide open to try and release some of the heat, the cook red-faced and sweaty.
‘Mr Godlove’s gone, they said.’
‘Aye, away at the crack of dawn to Bradford. Didn’t even take time to eat owt first.’ She wiped her brow with a forearm and eyed him carefully. ‘I’ve seen you here before. Summat to do with the mistress,’ she said suspiciously.
‘I’m the Constable of Leeds,’ he told her, keeping close to the fresh air by the door.
‘Wasted your time coming out here today, then. I suppose you want some ale.’
‘I’d love some,’ he said with a grateful smile.
She gestured at the table. ‘It’s on there, help yourself. Have you found out who killed her, then?’
‘No,’ he admitted, pouring a tall mug and taking a long, welcome drink. ‘Not yet.’
‘The master’s been all inside himself and upside down since it happened. He doted on that lass, you know.’
‘What was she like?’
The cook crossed her arms, the pink flesh on her upper arms jiggling.
‘Not going to say ill of the dead,’ was all she offered.
‘Do you remember the day she left?’
‘Easier to remember the times she was here,’ the woman snorted. ‘Off out every week, then to see those parents of hers, sometimes out with the master. Couldn’t keep track of her. Didn’t think much of it when she left. Until she didn’t come back, of course,’ she added hastily.
He took another sip. They brewed well here, with a rich, deep taste. Better than he’d had in many inns.
‘Was Mr Godlove here that day?’
She shook her head.‘After the mistress left he decided to go off to Bradford. Don’t blame him, really. Saddled up his horse about an hour after she went, saw him through the window there. Stayed away overnight, and all. Dinner I made would have gone to nought if I hadn’t ended up giving it to the men. Not that they minded, of course.’
‘When did he come back on Friday?’ Nottingham tried to make the question one of friendly interest, a simple way of making conversation. She stopped for a moment, casting her mind back.
‘Late,’ she answered finally. ‘Gone dark, I remember that, because the stable lad had to get up to look after his horse.’
He drained the mug and decided not to press the cook further. She’d probably been here for years, with a strong sense of loyalty to Godlove. Better to let it rest. But it was interesting news and worth storing for later.
‘Do you know when he’ll be back today?’
She laughed. ‘He doesn’t tell me, love. He’ll be here when he’s here. But he didn’t say not to cook, so he’ll probably come back this afternoon.’
‘Could you tell him I was here looking for him and I’ll come back tomorrow?’
‘Aye, I’ll do that. You’re the Constable, you said?’
‘That’s right.’
She nodded sagely. ‘Important job, is it?’ she asked.
‘I suppose so. The title’s worth more than the pay.’
She looked him up and down. ‘Aye, love, I can tell.’
He was still smiling as he rode back down the hill. She’d put him in his place right enough. He glanced at his old coat, shiny at the elbows and collar, his white stock discoloured to ivory, the brilliant yellow of his long waistcoat faded with age. It was a tatterdemalion appearance, he understood that. It might be all well and good in the city, where people recognized his face and knew his position, but out here it just marked him as a poor man.
Still, the things she’d told him had been revealing. Sarah Godlove hadn’t managed to win the affection of the servants, it seemed, and she apparently hadn’t cared too much for being stuck on Godlove’s estate.
But it was the man’s absence when his wife vanished that was the most disturbing point. It meant that he could have killed her; he had the time and the chance. And if he knew about Jackson, he had a reason. Things seemed to be starting to point to Godlove and that worried him. He’d been so convinced of the man’s innocence, that he was a sincere, grieving widower. Was he losing his instinct? Or was the man really that good an actor? If so, he was even fooling his servants. Whichever it was, it gave the Constable pause. He prided himself on being able to pick out a falsehood quite easily. If he couldn’t he was worthless at his job.
He’d be back out to talk to Mr Godlove, and this time he’d be very much on his guard. He’d bring John along, too, and see what he thought. The problem was that they couldn’t arrest someone of that rank without very good cause, and finding evidence to convict might be nigh on impossible.
As he made his way slowly along the road back into Leeds, turning by Kirkstall Forge, the ruined tower of the abbey looming out to the west, Nottingham was forced to admit that it was quite possible he’d never know for certain who’d killed Sarah Godlove, or even the real reason why.
He hated failure. He hated to see a life taken and not being able to find the person responsible. It didn’t happen often. As he’d told Rob, most murders were simple to solve. But a few had eluded him and he remembered every single one of them, the faces, the dates, the way he’d been unable to bring them justice. He didn’t want to add this one to the list.
At the ostler’s he dismounted, thighs aching, knowing he’d have to do it again the next day. Still, at least he now had real questions to ask Godlove, and he’d need solid, believable answers.
The others were at the jail, the deputy wearing his frustration on his face and Lister sitting back thoughtfully, cradling a mug of ale in his hands, breadcrumbs scattered loosely across his waistcoat.
‘Doesn’t look like either of you has had a good morning,’ Nottingham said, perching on the corner of the desk. ‘John, I want you to come out to Horsforth with me tomorrow.’
‘Riding?’
‘Best way, unless you really prefer Shanks’s mare. Godlove wasn’t home. But the cook said he left the same day as Sarah. Went to Bradford and didn’t come back until late the following day.’
‘Still think he’s not guilty, boss?’
The Constable shrugged. ‘That’s why I want you there when I talk to him. You can tell me what you think.’
‘I will.’
‘What about you, Rob? You’re lost in thought.’
‘I’ve been going over Will’s papers again, boss. I can’t find anything else in his rooms.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing,’ he said with a long sigh. ‘There’s just nothing there that can help.’
‘So we’re stuck,’ Nottingham said. ‘Still, it was worth a try.’ He was about to say more when the door was pushed open hard. A young boy, maybe eight years old, wearing just a shirt and torn breeches, his feet bare, looked up at them with wide, terrified eyes.
‘Please sir, you’ve got to come now,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Some men are attacking a lady.’
Nottingham looked at the other two and reached into a desk drawer, taking out three heavy cudgels.
‘Ever used one?’ he asked Lister.
‘No.’
‘Sounds like you’ll get some practice,’ the deputy told him.
Moving at a run past the surprised people on the street, they followed the boy into the thicket of courts that ran off Lands Lane. The lad disappeared into the entrance of one, a space hardly wide enough to pass through in single file, to a yard where the broken-down houses stood around a small, bare patch of ground that hardly ever saw the sun.
‘In there. I heard them.’ The lad pointed at a building with its front door missing. Nottingham could hear grunts and shouts coming from inside. He turned and gestured at the others, took a deep breath and charged through the door with a shout, the other two close behind.
The two men trying to kick down the door turned together. They were both large, with battered, worn faces and thick hands, but they were unarmed, knowing their size and power could intimidate most people.
The Constable didn’t even need to think. He brought the cudgel down on one man’s forearm, hearing the hard
