Walking home at dusk, Nottingham’s steps faltered as he reached the Parish Church. He slipped quietly through the lych gate and crossed the ground to Rose’s grave. A little slush remained, but most of the snow had melted into the earth leaving it boggy and clinging, sucking softly at his boots. He hadn’t been here for a week; his time had been taken up with the murder. He felt ashamed for ignoring his daughter.
In time, once the earth had fully settled, he’d pay for a headstone. For now, there was only a sinking mound and memories to show that she’d ever lived. He stood, head bowed, scenes from the past twenty years slipping through his mind. Rose as a baby, as an infant toddling on unsteady legs, as a girl with the sun on her hair, playing by the river. Rose on her wedding day, eyes turned in adoration to her husband. . Rose in her final illness, face wan, eyes lost to the world in her fever.
He hadn’t been able to save her, and that guilt bit painfully into his soul. He could catch murderers, but he couldn’t keep death from his own daughter, his little girl. He’d failed her, and he’d failed Mary and Emily, too. It was a pact, unspoken, unwritten, but always understood — he was the man, he’d keep them all safe. But he hadn’t managed in his duty.
He wanted to believe in God and the life eternal, that Rose was in heaven. But belief was near impossible when you were empty. He silently mouthed prayers for her that came from years of church services. . shelter her soul in the shadow of Thy wings, make known to her the path of life. He hoped they’d bring him a little peace, a communion with her. Instead all he could feel was a thin tear burning down his cheek. Slowly he wiped it away, then stood for a few more minutes until the damp chill roused him.
At the gate he turned right, heading for Timble Bridge and home. He wasn’t sure he felt comforted by his visit, but it was something he’d needed to do. Not for Rose, but for himself.
After a few yards he paused.
‘Are you going to show yourself?’ he asked loudly before turning.
‘I was wondering how long it would take you, laddie.’ A bulky man detached himself from the shadows to stand beside the Constable.
‘So what brings you here, Amos?’
Nottingham had an uneasy relationship with Amos Worthy. The older man was a procurer and pimp, the most successful in Leeds, though he didn’t display it in dressy finery. For years the Constable had loathed him and tried to prosecute him, always without success, for Worthy had powerful friends on the Corporation.
Then, the previous year, in the wake of a murder, Nottingham had learned that Worthy had once been his mother’s lover. It had come as a disturbing revelation, one that left him even more wary of the man.
‘I was sorry to hear about your lass.’
The Constable gave a small grunt, unsure how to reply. He knew the man hadn’t followed him just to give his condolences. He said nothing, waiting for more.
‘There’s a lot of talk going round about old Sam Graves,’ Worthy continued. Even speaking softly, his voice filled the street.
‘There’s always talk,’ Nottingham replied blandly.
‘You’ve not caught the killer.’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But that’s common knowledge.’
‘Someone told me summat interesting,’ Worthy said slowly. ‘He said there was a patch of skin missing from Graves’s back.’
Nottingham kept his face impassive. He’d known that much would leak out sooner or later; the only surprise was that it had taken so long.
‘You always listen to idle gossip, Amos?’
He could sense Worthy smiling.
‘I paid good money for that, so it’d better be true.’
Men didn’t cross the pimp, or lie to him, at least never more than once. Anyone who tried ended up beaten or dead, an example to others.
‘Why did you want to know?’ Nottingham asked. He knew Worthy liked to stay abreast of the happenings in the city, but usually the dead only concerned him if the corpse was one of his whores.
‘Knowledge is power, laddie. You should know that by now,’ Worthy snorted.
The Constable gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘If that was true, Amos, I’d be running Leeds by now.’
‘You’ve too much honour, laddie. The folk who run things here would never be scared of you. You wouldn’t use what you knew.’
‘Unlike you.’
‘Aye,’ the pimp agreed. ‘Unlike me. So was I told the truth?’
‘Yes, you were.’ He could admit that much, he decided. If Worthy knew, others would too. They’d reached Timble Bridge, and Worthy stopped, hand on the parapet, staring down into Sheepscar Beck running fast below. The night was drawing in deeply around them, the air filled with the kind of damp chill that penetrated right through to the bones.
‘An odd thing to do to a man,’ the pimp speculated. ‘He must have had a reason.’
Nottingham shrugged.
‘Maybe. Maybe it was just madness. We’ll know when we catch him.’
‘You haven’t managed that yet, laddie. No one in mind?’
Nottingham turned to stare at Worthy, who was still gazing at the water. ‘This isn’t like you, Amos. You’ve a lot of questions tonight.’
Worthy turned to face the Constable. He must have been in his late sixties, but he was still a large, solid man, sturdy as the forest, face weathered and battered by violence and time.
‘I knew Sam Graves long, long ago, back when I had another life. He was a good friend to me then, and he stayed one. He’d still talk to me if we met on Briggate, not like all the others. And before you ask, he never used my girls. Or any others, as far as I know.’
Nottingham nodded. Years before, Worthy had owned a shop. After discovering that his own wife and Worthy were lovers, Nottingham’s father had thrown out his wife and son then done all he could to destroy Worthy.
‘I don’t like the idea of someone killing him then doing that,’ the procurer continued.
‘Neither do I.’
‘Aye, laddie, I know that. I’m offering you help if you want it.’
Nottingham raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘And what’s the price?’
With Worthy there was always a payment. Not money, but a debt to be paid sometime.
The pimp shook his head. ‘No price, Mr Nottingham.’ He emphasized the word and spat.
The Constable sighed. ‘I don’t believe you, Amos. I’ve known you too long.’
‘I’m offering you my men to help you. Simple as that. And I’ll pass on anything my whores hear.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘I respected Sam Graves, and I’ll not say that about many, in this city or elsewhere.’
The Constable weighed the options. He could use more help, it was true, no matter where it came from. That was especially true if his men had to follow and protect two people. No one on the Corporation would condone him bringing in Worthy and his men, but the Mayor was pressing for a quick arrest. Finally he smiled.
‘I’m not going to say no, Amos. I’ll sleep on it tonight. I’ll come and see you tomorrow, unless you want to visit me at the jail.’
Worthy grinned.
‘You already know the answer to that, laddie. And keeping things as quiet as possible is best — for both of us.’
He doffed his hat, half in friendship, half in insolence, turned and began walking back into the city, his silver-topped stick pushing into the mud. Nottingham watched him go. He was unsure what to make of Worthy’s offer. It was generous, but that was the problem: Worthy wasn’t a man known for his generosity.
Slowly, deep in thought, the Constable walked up Marsh Lane to his house. It was a small place, provided by the city as part of his job, but even though it needed repairs it was so much better than the rooms and garrets where he and Mary had lived before. It felt warm. Even now, in these days of loss and heartbreak, it felt like home.
The fire was burning bright, coal crackling in the hearth. Emily was seated, staring lost into the blaze with a book closed on her lap, scarcely noticing as he entered and said hello. As she did so often these days, she’d withdrawn into her own safe little world where life couldn’t touch her.
Nottingham took off the damp greatcoat, hung it from a sturdy nail in the wall, and walked through to the kitchen. Mary was kneading the dough for tomorrow’s bread, hands pushed deep into the mass. She glanced up and smiled at him, the gesture more comforting to him than any fire.
‘I hadn’t expected you yet, Richard. I’ve made a pie, but it won’t be ready for a little while.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he answered, reaching out and stroking her cheek with his fingertips to brush off a small smudge of flour. She didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch at his touch, and he felt his heart lighten. Could the scars have begun to harden, could they begin to move out of the morass?
Her hands continued to work the bread, her eyes focused on her labours. Slowly his hand dropped from her skin.
‘You should go and sit with Emily,’ Mary suggested.
‘Is she still quiet?’
Mary sighed and nodded, turning her gaze to her husband. ‘She barely says a word these days. She does everything I tell her without question or demur. You know what she was like. .’
Relations had soured between father and daughter in the autumn. Emily had been full of ideas, wanting to become a writer, wayward, secretly seeing a man who’d turned out to be a killer, and she’d been so faithful to him that Nottingham had been forced to hurt her to find his name and stop more death.
After that, the house had become a place of brooding, simmering silences. Until Rose’s death; then life itself had become fringed with black. Emily’s quietness had turned inward; the girl had barely wanted to leave the house.
‘She liked to think for herself,’ he answered.
‘She thought she knew everything,’ Mary corrected him. ‘Now she’s so meek, it’s as if she’s a different person. She needs to get some heart back in herself.’
‘Maybe she’s not the only one,’ he said.
She looked questioningly into his face.
‘All of us,’ he explained.
After long moments, she nodded sharply, gathered her breath and began to speak. ‘Most of the time I feel like my heart’s going to break. I see something and it makes me think of Rose. It’s everything. You, Emily, this house. And I don’t know what I can do about it. I don’t even have the words to tell you about the things I’ve been feeling.’
‘You think I don’t feel all that too?’ His voice was soft, a little stung by what she’d said.
‘I don’t know.’ She wiped her hands on her apron, pausing, pulling together her words. ‘I mean it, Richard, I really don’t know. You go on to work each day. You come home. You exist, and all we do is talk about all the little things as if nothing had changed, as if Rose hadn’t died.’
‘I. .’ he began, but couldn’t go further. She was right.
‘As long as I’ve known you, you’ve rarely discussed your work.’ The emotions started to rush out of her, as if she’d kept them in a bottle and now she was uncorking it. Mary placed her hands firmly on the table, trying to anchor herself in place. ‘I know you’ve done it to protect us. I’ve always loved that about you. But now, when you don’t talk about work, and we daren’t talk about family, what do we have left to discuss safely?’
He reached out, covering her hand with his own, rubbing it slowly, feeling her rough skin under his. ‘I stopped at Rose’s grave on my way home,’ he told her. ‘I go there when I can. Sometimes I pray for her, sometimes I just speak to her in my head.’
‘Does it help?’ Mary asked.
‘I think so,’ he answered after a moment. ‘Sometimes I feel closer to her.’
‘I’ve been there, too,’ she said. ‘I’ve stood for hours. I’ve tried to pray. But all I’ve seen is some earth and no God around it. Rose isn’t there. Not to me.’
‘Where is she, then?’
Mary tapped her head, leaving a smudge of flour on her cap.
‘I talk to her, too,’ she said. ‘I tell her things, the little things I’m thinking or doing. And she talks to me. She answers me.’
Nottingham listened.
‘She should still be here. A child shouldn’t die before her parents.’
‘It happens all the time,’ he said softly.
‘I know that, Richard.’ Her voice flared with bitterness and injustice. ‘That doesn’t make it any better.’
‘No,’ he agreed.
‘I cry a lot. I’ll be doing something, anything, and I’ll start crying. Sometimes it feels like I’ll never stop. Sometimes I don’t want to.’
‘We both miss her, you know that.’
‘I’ve watched you,’ she continued, her gaze fixed on him. ‘After Rose died, you seemed lost, but it was as if you wanted to be that way. You wanted it to hurt. You didn’t want anyone too close to you, you wouldn’t have let me near if I’d tried.’ She paused. ‘Now you have this murder the city’s talking about, and suddenly you’re you again. You’re Richard Nottingham, the Constable. You have a purpose.’ Her eyes were large and moist. ‘You have all that. And I’m Mary Nottingham, I’m still here. I’m still surrounded by the same things, the same memories, every single day.’
Slowly, with tenderness born from years together, from happiness and grief, he gathered her to him. She cried softly as he held her close. Silently, he thanked God. She felt so familiar in his arms, so much a part of him, a part he’d missed in these last weeks.
She pulled back suddenly, not hiding the tears, and wiping them away with the back of her hands.
‘Let me finish here.’
He smiled then unfolded her from his arms. They’d begun again. Together.
He’d barely taken three bites of the pie before there was a hurried pounding on the door. Glancing apologetically at Mary and Emily, he rose from the table to answer it. Josh was there, his legs muddy, breath coming fast and steaming on the air so he was hardly able to push the words out.
‘Mr Sedgwick asked if you’d come, boss. Right now.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Nottingham asked.
‘It’s that man from Graves’s warehouse.’
‘Rushworth?’ The Constable felt the pit of his stomach fall.
‘Yes. He’s vanished.’