‘Can we keep a man on them, boss?’ the deputy asked.

  ‘Lawyer Benson’s made it very clear there’ll be a lawsuit if we do.’ He gestured at the knife and hair. ‘We can’t use this. We don’t even have it.’

  ‘So what can we do now?’ Lister asked.

  ‘We wait and hope.’

  By the end of the day he felt drained. He’d tried to imagine some way to bring the men to justice and he’d come up with nothing. Unless they did something stupid, he was impotent. An icy drizzle had begun during the afternoon and he clattered across Timble Bridge with his head bowed, kicking at a stone and watching it roll into the beck.

  A fire was burning in the grate and he stood gratefully before it, the warmth seeping slowly into his bones. He could hear Mary and Lucy chattering in the kitchen. The girl was smiling more, so proud of the dress cut down for her that she kept stopping to glance at herself in the looking glass.

  Eleven children dead – twelve with Caleb – and he could name only half of them. They’d never find the other bodies, never learn who they were. And the men who’d killed them could carry on with their business, making money, still alive and flaunting their wealth.

  He wanted them to pay. He wanted to be in court when the judge sentenced them. He wanted to see the mayor’s face as the two men jounced at the end of a rope on Chapeltown Moor. But he didn’t see any road he could follow to make that happen.

  ‘You’re miles away, Richard,’ Mary said.

  He’d never even heard her approach. ‘Just thinking,’ he answered with a smile.

  ‘You don’t look happy.’

  ‘It’ll pass. Who’s cooking today?’

  ‘Lucy.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘Don’t worry, I showed her what to do.’

  ‘As long as it tastes better than the pottage she made.’

  ‘It will,’ she laughed. ‘She’s coming along quickly. I’ll let her go to the market for me on Tuesday.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ he said. ‘One of the reasons she’s here is to keep her out of sight.’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled sadly. ‘She’s just so alive that I keep forgetting about that.’

  ‘Glad she’s here?’

  She nodded and held him. He laid his arms around her, smelling her hair, her face against his shoulder.

  ‘Emily and Rob will be here soon, she’s bringing him for his supper,’ she said.

  ‘They’ve been out walking?’

  ‘They’re young and in love,’ she reminded him. ‘They won’t even have noticed the weather. We went out in worse than this.’

  ‘Only because your father wouldn’t trust us alone in a room.’

  She slapped his arm playfully. ‘And you know he was right on that.’

  ‘Maybe he was,’ he conceded with a grin.

  The door opened and Emily swept in, dragging off her bonnet and shaking out the damp from her cape. Rob entered behind her, the pair of them talking loudly, and the house suddenly felt full and livelier.

  ‘Staying to eat, then, lad?’ the Constable asked.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘We’ll give you first bite.’ His eyes twinkled and he squeezed Mary’s arm lightly. ‘Especially as you liked that pottage so much the other night.’

  By the time Lucy carried the pot to the table, careful not to spill a drop, they were seated and ready. The girl started to return to the kitchen but Mary said, ‘Pull up a stool. Sit down.’

  ‘Ma’am?’ Lucy looked at her in confusion.

  ‘You’re one of us, you live here. Come and eat with us.’

  The girl flashed a look at Nottingham. He gave her a quick nod.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She stayed quiet during the meal, watching the others as they talked. The Constable saw her staring hungrily at the pot and said, ‘Help yourself to more if you want. There’s still some left.’

  She still ate greedily, keeping her face close to the plate, scarcely tasting the food. He remembered the first good meal he’d had after living rough. The old Constable had taken him home and put a bowl of stew in front of him. At first he’d thought it was a joke of some kind, that it would be snatched away from him. Then he’d gobbled it all down, not even chewing the meat and gristle, before wiping up every drop of the juice with a piece of bread. It still seemed like the best thing he’d ever tasted.

  As the light waned outside the window, he sat back, hearing the bright laughter between Rob and Emily, seeing the tenderness on Mary’s face at having her family around her, and he felt glad he was still alive. When the pain of his wound had been its worst, back at the start of the summer, he’d believed death might be better. Now he was grateful to have survived, to enjoy moments like this and see his daughter happy. She might be contrary at times, unwilling to marry her young man, but his love for her was as big as heaven.

  Eventually Rob stood. Nottingham knew the lad was reluctant to leave, but Saturday was always the busiest night of the week. Men had been paid and wanted to drink away all the miseries of the week. There’d be arguments and fights, in a bad week even murder.

  ‘Just watch yourself,’ he advised.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Lucy disappeared with the dishes, and the brief moments of joy passed. He sat in front of the fire with Mary. She had a book open, her yearly reading of Pilgrim’s Progress, and he had the Leeds Mercury draped over his knees.

  ‘They’re right together, aren’t they?’ he asked.

  ‘They are,’ Mary agreed. ‘I suppose we looked like that once. Young and in love.’

  ‘Once.’ He chuckled, then sighed. ‘Do you think she’ll ever give in and marry him?’

  ‘Only if she really wants to, when she’s good and ready. I don’t even try and talk to her about it any more. She can be as stubborn as you when she wants.’

  ‘Stubborn?’

  ‘You are and you know it,’ she said with a gentle smile. ‘It’s one of your attractions.’

  ‘One of many?’

  ‘Don’t fish for compliments, Richard.’

  Monday had dawned clear, the stars still bright in the sky as he walked to work. Tomorrow, he thought, he’d leave the stick at home; he felt he’d be fine without it, and would look less of an invalid.

  ‘How was Saturday night?’ he asked Rob.

  ‘Busy.’ The lad rubbed at his eyes. His face looked drawn, the red hair even wilder than usual. ‘We’d no sooner stopped one fight then we’d be called to another. The cells were packed yesterday morning. Mr Sedgwick kicked most of them out when they’d sobered up.’

  ‘Anything serious?’

  Rob shrugged. ‘A pair of woundings. Nothing fatal. There’s two back there for the Petty Sessions later.’ He passed over the report.

  ‘You go and get some sleep.’

  ‘I will, boss.’

  At the Moot Hall he’d half-expected again to be called into the mayor’s office. He was surprised Fenton wasn’t putting more pressure on him to find Gabriel. Then again, he thought, the man could always claim that the Corporation had done its part, put up the reward, and any failing was from the Constable and his men.

  The day passed quietly enough. He spent the time in thought, trying to find a way to use the evidence from Howard’s house which sat in his drawer. The knife. Even more, eleven locks of hair.

  It made sense that Howard was in it with Darden. It gave meaning to the blood on the merchant’s coat and the changed testimony about him attending the cockfight at the Talbot. But try as he might he could find nothing to help him put them in court.

  The next day he walked down Briggate to the cloth market before the bell rang. At home he’d picked up the stick, then replaced it against the wall, feeling stronger.

  Howard and Darden were standing in the middle of the street, talking to some of the other merchants. The factor gave him a killing look, fists clenched, before turning back and trying to concentrate on the conversation. His face was pale, with dark smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes.

  He knows, Nottingham thought. He’d looked in the chest and now he was filled with fear. Perhaps it was time to make him panic a little. He returned to the jail, emptied the pouch of its contents and slid it into his pocket.

  The market had started; Darden and Howard were making their way from trestle to trestle, fingers feeling the cloth and talking in soft whispers. There was a reverent hush over the street as business was conducted.

  He strode up to the pair. In a voice that carried well, he said, ‘Mr Howard, might I have a word, please.’

  The factor turned quickly, a scowl on his face. Darden didn’t look around.

  ‘What do you want, Constable?’ Howard hissed. ‘More accusations and innuendo? You’ve been warned about that.’

  ‘Nothing like that, sir,’ Nottingham said with a genial smile. ‘Someone found something close to your house. I was just wondering if you recognized it, that’s all.’

  ‘What is it?’ he asked brusquely.

  The Constable held the packet out on the palm of his hand, the pale light playing on the silk. He kept his eyes on Howard. ‘Does this belong to you?’

  The factor shook his head quickly. But not before desperation had flashed across his face. ‘I’ve never seen it. Why would you imagine it’s anything to do with me?’

  ‘Then I thank you. I’m just trying to find the owner. This is costly material, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ He watched the man’s face, a few beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

  ‘Isn’t there anything in it to tell you?’

  Nottingham opened the pouch and heard Howard draw in a sharp breath. ‘It’s empty.’

  ‘I can’t help you,’ Howard said. ‘I have work to do here.’

  ‘Of course. I apologize for dragging you from it.’

  ‘You damned well should.’ There was menace in the factor’s voice.

  The Constable walked away, resisting the impulse to glance over his shoulder and see what was happening. He’d done what he could. Something would happen now, he was certain.

  By the middle of the morning he knew he’d made a mistake in not using the stick. His wound hurt, a low, nagging pain, and his leg ached more than it had in weeks. If he tried to continue, by the end of the day he might not be able to walk at all.

  He limped slowly down Kirkgate, the cold air pulling at his face. By the time he reached Timble Bridge he was exhausted, stopping to lean on the parapet and catch his breath. He’d been foolish, too optimistic and hopeful.

  The last few yards to the house passed slowly. It didn’t matter; at home he could rest a few minutes before returning to work.

  The front door was unlocked. That seemed strange until he recalled that Mary had planned to send Lucy to market; the girl didn’t have a key to the house. He’d argued against it, but she’d said that cleaned up, in a better dress and cap no one would recognize the lass, and in the end he’d given in.

  He pushed the door open and entered, reached for the stick and rested his weight on it. Immediately he felt better.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. There was no reply and he went through to the kitchen. In the doorway he had to stop, grab the jamb and steady himself.

  NINETEEN

  She lay on the floor in all her shattered beauty. A stream of blood on the flagstones glistened in the firelight. He knelt on the floor beside her, fingertips urgently touching her neck, seeking a pulse, or anything at all.

  He stroked her hand and kissed her hair. Time passed. Moments or minutes, they didn’t matter any more. She was dead. Murdered.

  Silence seemed to fill the room, to press down on him. He wanted to speak, to scream, but there was no sound worth a thing now. His face was wet. At first he didn’t understand why. Then he reached up to touch his skin and realized he was crying.

  He looked around for something to cover her, so no one else would see her in the indignity of death. The tears wouldn’t stop and he tried to wipe them away, pushing roughly at his face.

  He stood, climbed the stairs, his heart so heavy he believed it would burst from his chest. He pulled the sheet off the bed, took it downstairs and draped it lovingly over her. The memories tumbled through his brain. Her face, the sound of her voice, the way she moved and laughed. Young and older.

  Finally he heard the front door and the sharp, awkward sound of shoes on the floor.

  ‘Don’t come in here,’ he said, his voice as raw as if he’d been shouting.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ Lucy asked. ‘What’s happened?’

  He swallowed, trying to find something in himself. ‘Go to the jail and fetch Mr Sedgwick. If he’s not there, ask people, someone will know where to find him. Tell him to come here as soon as he can.’

  ‘What’s in there? Tell me.’ She stood in the doorway.

  He turned to look at her, the pain clear on his face. The girl understood. She’d seen death often enough.

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘just go now. Get him.’

  She put down the basket and ran. He could hear the small echo of her footsteps down Marsh Lane and he turned back to Mary, taking her hand and trying to pray her back to life.

  Suddenly, so quickly it seemed, the deputy was there, out of breath, Lucy just behind him.

  ‘What’s wrong, boss?’ he asked. Then he saw the sheet, the shape of the body underneath. ‘Oh Christ. No.’ He looked at Nottingham in confusion. ‘Who?’

  The Constable never took his eyes off Mary. ‘You know who, John. You know who it was as well as I do.’ He was surprised that he sounded so ordinary, so matter-of-fact, that the pain inside didn’t turn the words into shrieks.

  ‘Boss, I . . .’

  Nottingham shook his head slightly. He didn’t need that. Not now. ‘You know what to do. Get Brogden here, and a couple of men to take her to the jail.’

  ‘I will.’ He paused for a long moment. ‘Emily can stay with us. You don’t want her around this. I’ll wake Rob and have him meet her.’

  He hadn’t even thought about Emily yet. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘What about you?’ Sedgwick asked. ‘You can’t stay here, either.’

  ‘I’m going to, John.’

  ‘I’ll stay with him,’ Lucy offered.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the Constable asked her.

  ‘Yes.’

  He pounded on the door until Rob answered, yawning and running a hand through his hair.

  ‘Get yourself dressed,’ the deputy ordered.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Someone’s killed Mary Nottingham.’

  ‘What?’ He looked as if he hadn’t believed what he’d heard.

  ‘Someone came in their house and murdered her. The coroner’s on his way over there now. I need you. Go and meet Emily. Tell her gently and take her to my house. Lizzie’ll look after her. Don’t let her go home, you understand? Then I want you at the jail. Wear your good suit.’

  ‘Who’d do that?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but the boss said it was Gabriel. And you know what that means.’ His eyes were hard and his voice low with anger. ‘Whoever it was, you and me are going to find them. Come on, get a move on, we have work to do.’

  Sedgwick’s next stop was the house on Lands Lane. Lizzie’s face filled with sorrow as he told her.

  ‘Bring the lass here,’ she said, her eyes glistening. ‘I like Mary. You remember how she came down here when James went missing. She never had any side on her. Bring Mr Nottingham, too. He’s going to need someone around him who cares.’

  ‘That new servant is going to stay with him.’

  She sighed deeply. ‘Well, if anyone knows about death, that girl will. You go and find who did it.’

  ‘I’m going to,’ he promised.

  ‘You know who it is, don’t you?’

  ‘I have a very good idea.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Then do one thing, John Sedgwick. When you’re sure and you find him, don’t wait for him to swing on the gallows.’

  ‘I hadn’t planned on it.’

  The coroner came and went, in the house less than a minute, lifting the sheet and seeing the eyes set in the fixed, stunned gaze of death. On his way out he said, ‘I’m sorry,’ but Nottingham barely heard the sound of his voice.

  Lucy directed the men who came to remove the body, making them enter and leave through the back garden. The Constable sat in the parlour, staring at the hearth where the fire had died. After they’d gone he heard the girl working, scrubbing away at the stains on the stone. The blood would never go completely, he knew that. He’d see it every day. Worse than anything, he understood that one morning he’d see it and it would be nothing more than a mark on the flagstones.

  ‘I’ll start another fire,’ the girl said as she raked out the ashes. ‘It’s perishing in here.’

  In a few minutes the room was warmed, the flames licking at the air. He hadn’t moved. Whatever was happening, it all seemed unimportant now.

  ‘Do you want something to drink? To eat?’

  He raised his eyes to her. Hers were red with crying, too, but she was doing her best. Nottingham shook his head slightly. He didn’t have any appetite, any thirst. Outside, the day was ending, and she bustled around, closing the shutters and lighting candles. He heard her moving around upstairs and all he could think of was the way Mary walked, how familiar everything about her had been to him.

  Lucy returned and sat on the small tied rug in front of the hearth. Its colours had faded and it was covered with small burns from jumping coals. He recalled Mary making it in the fifth year of their marriage, using scraps of fabric and part of an old sack.

  ‘Do you remember when you were young and you lived out there?’ the girl asked quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered after a long silence.

  ‘What did you do when someone died?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. In truth he couldn’t recall.

  ‘We used to tell stories about them. No one else was ever going to remember them.’