‘Have you told the coroner?’
‘Not yet. I wanted you to know first.’
‘Good. Let’s go and see her. Send someone for Mr Brogden,’ he said with distaste. ‘I’m sure he’ll call it suicide.’
On the street the deputy gave a coin to a small lad who was up and curious, sending him scarpering off down Briggate. Then he joined Nottingham and the pair walked without speaking up to the Moot Hall.
Weatherspoon was at his desk, his face full of anguish, standing as soon as they entered.
‘When did you find her?’ Nottingham asked.
‘About an hour ago.’ The man’s voice was anxious and cracking. It wasn’t the first death here and wouldn’t be the last, but he knew it shouldn’t have happened. ‘As soon as I saw the night man wasn’t here, I checked on her straight away.’
‘Let’s take a look at her,’ the Constable said and the turnkey led them down the shadowy passage to the cell and pushed the door open.
‘Was it locked when you arrived?’ the Constable asked.
‘Yes,’ Weatherspoon said.
She was hanging from a thick beam that supported the floor above. The old dress he’d given her at the jail had been ripped into ragged strips, knotted one to the other. As they entered, the draught caused her body to turn slightly so she was facing them.
There was a puddle beneath her where she’d pissed herself and a joint stool kicked over on the flagstones. Nottingham reached out and touched her hand. The skin was cooling, but there was still the faint warmth of a lost life there. The tongue lolled from her mouth, and there was a heavy, livid bruise on her cheek. One more fragile soul lost to the noose, he thought sadly.
‘The coroner will be here soon. Leave her up until he’s seen her,’ Nottingham ordered.
Without a word they moved back to Weatherspoon’s desk. At the other end of the building the prisoners were raising a clamour, demanding their breakfast.
‘Who’s your night man?’
‘His name’s Wilkie. Came about two months ago,’ the turnkey answered. ‘He seemed fine. It’s hard to find someone who’s willing to be here all night. .’ He pulled out a piece of paper with the man’s address scrawled on it.
‘Go and see if you can find him, John. If he’s around, take him to the jail.’
‘Yes, boss.’ Sedgwick ran up the stairs and into the growing day.
‘She was very quiet after you left yesterday. You must have given her plenty to think on.’
‘Yes,’ the Constable agreed slowly. ‘But nothing to make her kill herself.’
Weatherspoon stared at him.‘Are you sure it was murder? In my prison?’
‘It probably was,’ Nottingham replied. ‘I’ll tell you that she stole from Amos Worthy, and we stopped a couple of men from attacking her.’
‘So you think he’s behind it?’
Nottingham brushed the fringe off his forehead. ‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘But proving it’s going to be another matter altogether.’
Before he could say more, he heard the rasp of sharp heels on the stone of the steps and turned. It was Edward Brogden, the coroner. He held a withered orange studded with cloves inside his handkerchief, and pressed it close to his nose to fight the smell. With his eyes, the Constable indicated that the jailer should show him the body.
Brogden was in the cell less than a minute before hurrying back out in quick strides, confirming suicide in a single word then climbing back to the clearer air of Leeds.
‘He disagrees with your verdict, Mr Nottingham,’ Weatherspoon said.
‘Let him,’ the Constable said. ‘This night man, has he ever left early before?’
The turnkey shook his head.‘He’s always been very responsible up to now. Hasn’t missed a day, respectful, good with the prisoners.’
‘He didn’t leave any kind of message? Not taken ill?’
‘Nothing,’ the jailer said.
Nottingham studied the layout of the prison.
‘That door that goes to the main cells, was it locked when you came this morning?’
‘Yes,’ Weatherspoon confirmed. ‘Always locked at nine, every night when the church bell sounds. It’s good and solid.’
In other words, the Constable thought, the prisoners wouldn’t have heard anything useful, and they’d have seen nothing.
‘You can cut her down now,’ he said. ‘I’ll send some men over to move her.’
He walked down Briggate, his steps fast. As he’d told Weatherspoon, he knew Worthy was behind all this, but he’d never prove it. Nothing would stick to that bastard. He’d lay a penny to a pound that the night man had already vanished, taking his possessions with him, a richer man than when he’d begun work the evening before.
There was nothing he could do. He could feel the rage building. The pimp had won again. He wanted to do something, hit a wall, anything to relieve the fury and frustration, but instead he balled his fists and pushed them hard into the pockets of his coat.
Lister was at the jail, waiting. Nottingham had forgotten he was supposed to show him how to watch the cloth market this morning.
‘I’m sorry, Rob. That girl, Nan, died in the Moot Hall cells.’
‘What?’ He began to stand up.
‘She was hung. The coroner’s said suicide, but you can guess for yourself what happened. The night man’s gone missing.’
‘What?’
The Constable let out a long, slow breath and made a decision.
‘Look, enough people have seen you around by now for them to know you’re a Constable’s man. Go and walk up and down where they’re selling cloth. The word’ll spread quick enough, don’t worry.’
‘And if I see something?’
Nottingham smiled. ‘Just do your job. Bring them here, put them in a cell and we’ll deal with them later.’
‘Yes, boss.’
He’d barely left when Sedgwick arrived, giving a quick shake of his head.
‘Room’s unlocked, just the furniture left in it. Neighbours said it sounded like he left in the middle of the night. They thought he must have owed on his rent and was doing a flit.’
‘He did that, right enough. Bought and paid for,’ Nottingham said.
‘Sounds like it.’
‘I’m going down there,’ the Constable announced, ‘and then we’ll go to Horsforth.’
‘Boss,’ the deputy warned, and Nottingham raised his hand placatingly.
‘I’ll let him have his moment of gloating. And then I’ll warn him. Nothing more, John, I promise.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No. We’ve a history, Amos and me. Better just the two of us. If you want something to do, go and keep an eye on Rob, he’s looking after the cloth market. I won’t be long.’
He strode along Boar Lane, the fury like a lump in his gut. He made his way down Swinegate and pushed open the anonymous door of the house. But the way to the kitchen was blocked by a big young man. The Constable had seen him before, tall and blocky, always dressed in a jacket and breeches that appeared too small for his huge frame. Today he wore new clothes and a short wig that looked ridiculous on such a large head. He didn’t move, but stood filling the passage.
‘I’m the Constable.’
‘No one goes in until they hand over their weapons. Mr Worthy’s orders.’
Nottingham took the knife from its sheath on his belt as if to hand it over. As the guard’s eyes followed the movement, the Constable shoved his knee hard into the man’s cods and he dropped on the floor, clutching himself.
