‘Picking pockets. That’s still a long way from what you’ve been doing.’
She paced around the floor, measuring out the space.
‘That all started with me,’ she explained with a brief smile. ‘I just wanted to live somewhere I wasn’t cold all the time.’
‘What happened?’
‘Money, plate, lace. .’ She smiled wanly. ‘I saw all that and thought I could live well from it.’
‘So you took it and left.’
‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I gave it to Tom to sell. Bought us three months off the street, that did.’
‘And you thought you could do it again.’
‘We did. Again and again. I persuaded Tom to do some servant work, too. It was worth it for a few days, especially if we kept moving around and didn’t get too greedy.’
‘You should have moved on from here sooner,’ the Constable told her.
‘Too late for should haves,’ she answered with resignation.
‘Maybe not. You might not get your neck stretched.’
She stood still. ‘Can you promise that?’ she asked finally.
‘No,’ he told her truthfully, ‘I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll put it all in a report. That will help. You’ll still be transported. Seven years, maybe more. But you’ll be alive.’
Nan smiled grimly. ‘I’ll think about it.’
She turned to walk back to her cell, and Weatherspoon rose from his chair to escort her. When he returned, the Constable had a soft word with the man. He wanted the girl kept alone. Worthy’s reach could go below stairs as well as above in the Moot Hall. Better safe than sorry.
‘You’ve got a strange look on your face,’ Mary said cautiously as he sat down in his chair with a mug of ale. ‘I’m not sure if you’re pleased or not.’
He smiled at her and gave a soft laugh. ‘I’m not sure myself, really.’ He watched her hands move rapidly and gracefully with the needle and thread. ‘How’s the dress coming along?’
‘It’ll be finished in time,’ she assured him. ‘Emily’s upstairs practising how to be a teacher.’
‘What?’ he asked in surprise. ‘How do you practise that?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Mary said tiredly. ‘But our daughter seems certain she can. From what I’ve seen it mostly seems to be how to stand and look at people.’
He chuckled. ‘The only teacher I remember seemed to enjoy beating people.’
‘I don’t see her doing that,’ she said and he grinned.
‘No,’ he agreed, ‘not unless all that power turns her head.’
‘Better watch out — give her a month and it might. She might turn into a right little miss.’
‘She’ll learn fast enough.’ He finished the drink. ‘Do you want to go for a walk?’
‘I’ve-’ she began, then stopped and pushed the needle into the fabric. ‘Yes,’ she said decisively. ‘I need a change from this; I feel like I’ve been sewing all day.’
‘Knowing you, you probably have been,’ he teased as she flexed her fingers slowly. The knuckles were swollen, the skin red. Tenderly he took her hand and kissed it, watching her blush like a girl, the colour rising up her throat and face.
‘I love you.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, but her grin was wide and happy. Laughing, they left the house together, hand in hand up Marsh Lane and into the country.
‘The fresh air feels good,’ Mary said, breathing deeply. ‘Do you know, I haven’t even been outside today?’
‘Then it’s time you were. We were walking out most evenings until Emily came home,’ he reminded her.
‘I know, but everything’s been a whirl since then. And you’re as much to blame, you’ve been working until late, too.’
‘I know.’ He frowned. ‘It’s not been easy.’ Nottingham wasn’t going to say more that that; he’d always kept his work distant from home, as much as he could.
‘That job’ll be the death of you.’ She pulled at him, bringing him close, and gave him a quick kiss. ‘They work you too hard. You’re not twenty any more.’
‘I’m not thirty, either.’
‘I know, Richard, it shows,’ she told him teasingly, then put out her tongue, and for a second he saw the young girl he’d married in her face.
He watched her as they walked, thinking how good it was to have this Mary back, playful and full of spirit. After the winter he’d wondered if there could ever be lightness in their lives again, or if the ghost of Rose would always drift too close by them.
But she was right, he wasn’t a young man any more. All too often he felt every single day of his forty-one years. He couldn’t be like Arkwright, the old Constable, and do this job for another two decades. The hours were too long, the demands on his body too high. He could see the day, not too far ahead, when he’d let Sedgwick take over and find something else to do. A job to eke out the small pension the city would grant when he left.
They walked on in a comfortable, companionable silence born from years together. Occasionally Mary would point something out, a flower or a bird, and they’d exchange a few words before returning to the quiet and the warmth of the time together.
Nottingham felt contentment seep through him, all the nagging cares and annoyances of the day vanishing. He’d needed this as much as Mary had, some small time away that they could share where none of life’s realities could intrude. Even the ache in his thighs from riding was fading, although God knew it would return tomorrow after another trip to Horsforth.
An hour or more later they slowly made their way home. He put his arm around her as they walked, a small gesture of his feelings, the way he’d always relished the contact, the texture of her skin, and valued it now all the more.
He was awake with the earliest light, when the sky was hollow with dawn and the stars were still bright above. He moved quietly, dressing in yesterday’s clothes. He’d save his good suit and shirt for church tomorrow.
There was a small chill in the dawn air, the stir of a breeze, welcome and refreshing after so many days of heat, and he breathed it in deeply as he walked towards Timble Bridge. He’d show Rob what to do at the morning cloth market then leave with Sedgwick to see Godlove.
It was going to be another long day, that was almost certain, but he felt rested and ready to tackle it. As he crossed the bridge a boy careered towards him down Kirkgate, small legs pumping and kicking up plumes of dust behind him.
He stopped and waited, one hand on the railing, knowing inside that the lad was carrying a message for him.
‘You’re looking for the Constable?’ he called when the boy was a few yards away. Panting hard, the boy stopped and tried to catch his breath.
‘There’s a girl dead at the Moot Hall,’ he said.
Nottingham was running himself before the sentence was over.
Nineteen
Sedgwick was waiting at the jail, pacing fretfully, his mouth set hard, hair wild and uncombed.
‘It’s Nan?’ Nottingham asked and the deputy nodded slowly. ‘How?’
‘Hung with her own dress. It was torn into strips. Looks like she killed herself but I’m damned sure she didn’t.’ His voice was flat, his eyes showing nothing. ‘Weatherspoon found her when he arrived this morning. The night man had vanished.’
The Constable ran the back of his hand across his mouth, his mind working furiously.
‘Is she still there?’
‘Yes.’
