He loved this time of day, the soft minutes between waking and sleep when his mind could wander freely. Mary’s head rested on his chest, her hair loose and tickling his cheek as she slept. The window was open wide and from the woods in the distance he could hear the restless hoot of an owl.
Earlier they’d walked out past Burmantofts, taking a stroll in the quiet evening. It was a good way to put the cares of the day behind him, a chance for restful conversation. He understood that their new situation, just the two of them, was hard on Mary. She was alone all day, tending the house and the garden, feeling the emptiness and the silence of the place. When he came home she drank in his company, eager for words, a touch, a soft smile, the pleasure of talking.
He stroked Mary’s shoulder through her shift and felt her stir slightly. Years before, he recalled, they’d discussed all the wonderful things they’d do once the girls had gone. Now that time was here and they were groping their way into it. Yet Mary was already gazing ahead to the day he’d retire.
‘Richard,’ she’d said as they passed the old burgage plots, heavy now with fruit and flowers and herbs, ‘we’ll be able to spend all our time together. We can do things.’
He smiled at her, happy to hear the eagerness that seemed so girlish. After Rose’s death in the winter he’d watched helplessly as some of the light leave her. Now it seemed to have returned, her eyes twinkling as she dreamed of the future.
‘We’ll have precious little money,’ he’d pointed out. It was true; the city would grant him the house and a tiny pension — if he lived that long. He took her hand and tried to stop her thoughts. ‘Besides, that’s a long time off yet. Let’s just enjoy what we have now, shall we?’
She laughed, pulling him down the lane towards home.
He gazed at her later as she let down her hair then untied the mantua dress he’d bought her in May. It was second-hand, the blue faded to the colour of dawn sky, but she loved wearing it. She slipped into bed, curling around him with a kiss. Thoughts of the young man he’d once been touched him, his curious, cautious shyness, the sense that the world could fall at any time. And he realized he loved her more now than he had back then. A different love, less ardent maybe, but stronger than youth.
Nottingham set off early for Roundhay, taking the gentle horse from the ostler and following the road that ran out by Sheepscar Beck. He could see people already hard at work in the fields but there were precious few travellers at this hour; all he encountered was a pair of riders and they were going into Leeds.
He passed a small sign guiding travellers to Gibton’s Well. He’d heard of the place, that the waters there were supposed to be beneficial. For a while it had been fashionable and some of the merchants and aldermen had come out with their wives, all hoping to be healed of their aches and pains by its waters. None of them had ever looked much better.
He continued up the gentle slope, the vista spreading out green before him, sheep grazing in large white flocks.
By the time he reached Roundhay village the sun was well risen, the warmth rounding on his shoulders and leaving his throat dry. He stopped at the alehouse, letting the horse drink from the stone trough while he went inside for a mug of small beer.
It was nothing more than a ramshackle cottage with a bench and two barrels of ale resting on trestles. The woman who served him was small and old, her back bent, lines cracking deep on her face.
‘Do you know Lord Gibton?’ Nottingham asked.
The woman chuckled. He could see her gnarled knuckles as she poured his ale.
‘Oh aye, Lord,’ she said mysteriously, took a clay pipe from her apron and lit it, blowing smoke up to the low ceiling. The Constable waited and she continued, her voice rough and gravelly. ‘Allus had their airs, they have, thought they were better than everyone, although the family’s lived almost like the rest of us longer than anyone can remember.’
She made a half-hearted attempt to wipe the table, brushing a few stale crumbs on to the earth floor with her hand, happy to continue the gossip.
‘What happened to their money?’
‘All sorts of tales,’ she said dismissively. She leaned forward, bringing the smell of ancient sweat and foul breath. ‘I’ll tell you what most folk round here say, though. Long time ago, they owned all this land but lost it at cards.’
‘Do you believe that?’
She shrugged. ‘All I know is they got some money again and they’re back living like royalty.’ She spat towards the empty hearth.
‘How long ago did that happen?’ Nottingham asked.
She stopped to consider, counting back in her head.
‘About eighteen month back, something like that,’ she answered finally. ‘Not too long before that little lass of theirs got wed.’
‘Sarah?’
‘Aye, only one they had. They’d had some others, but they all died. Some of them as babbies, some older. Doted on that girl, they did, couldn’t do enough for her. Married her into wealth, from the way she dresses when she comes back.’
‘Does she come back often?’
The woman paused and thought. ‘Every month or so, I suppose. Hard not to notice her, way she prances around the place on her horse.’
‘So where did this all new money come from?’ he wondered.
‘They said they’d inherited it,’ she said, rolling her eyes, every word oozing doubt. ‘I reckon it was that farmer paid for Sarah. Cost him enough if it was, mind.’
‘What?’ He couldn’t believe that. He knew well enough about the dowries many women brought to marriage, anything from land and coin to a small chest of sheets, but he’d never heard of a man paying to wed a girl. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Summat folks have said here and there,’ the woman said with a small air of defiance. ‘Makes sense enough. There’s no one to leave brass to the Gibtons.’
He considered the idea. Who’d sell their daughter that way? But the more the thought lingered, the more he had to admit that it could happen. With the rich, everything was wealth and power, however they could obtain it.
‘Where do they live now?’
‘Moved out the village.’ She clicked her tongue at the idea. ‘They used to have a cottage close to the crossroads but they left that. It was a pretty enough place, too, bigger than most. If you want to find them, go along the old Roman road, the one that goes to Moortown. There’s a house about half a mile down, set back behind some trees. That’s what they bought with their fortune.’
He thanked her and set off, leaving an extra coin for the information she’d given him. The place was easy enough to spot, the only building on the horizon, but first he paused to glance at their old house. Perhaps the woman had been right and it had been pretty enough once, but neglect had very quickly eroded its beauty. Now the garden was overgrown, an unkempt tangle, slates hung loose on the roof, windows and door gone, salvaged by the other villagers.
A few minutes later, as he rode down the driveway, he could see that the house the Gibtons had moved to was neither new nor especially grand. It looked like the home of a moderately prosperous squire. But it had pleasing, even proportions, and was built of ruddy brick with neatly mullioned windows. The grounds were carefully tended, and it was certainly several steps up from where they’d lived before. He glanced back over his shoulder. The cottage stood in the far distance, its outline faintly visible through a thin copse. How far they’d come, but what a small distance. How long before they had it pulled down, he wondered, and rewrote their history?
A breathless young serving girl dashed out to meet him, bobbing a quick curtsey even as her eyes took in his old clothes.
‘I’d like to speak to Lord Gibton,’ Nottingham announced. She ducked her head swiftly and ran back in the house. He tied the horse’s reins to a tree and waited.
He’d met people with titles before. At first he’d been nervous, unsure how to address them, how to act around them. Some had quickly put him at ease, pleasant fellows with easy, open manners. Most, however, took their superiority for granted, as if the world had been created solely for their ease.
Baron Gibton was going to be one of the latter, the Constable thought as the man came down the steps. He was a scrawny man, hardly any meat on his bones, with a deeply lined, careworn face under a glossy auburn peruke. He was dressed in a suit of deep burgundy velvet, the tails of his draped canary waistcoat hanging close to his knees, his stock and hose an unblemished white. In London he’d have fitted in perfectly; out here, surrounded by countryside, he just looked affected and ridiculous.
‘The girl says you want to see me,’ he said briskly, eyes appraising Nottingham’s appearance. ‘Who are you, anyway?’
‘I’m the Constable of Leeds, my Lord.’ Nottingham didn’t bow or look down deferentially at the ground. ‘I’m here about your daughter.’
Gibton stared for a few moments and then pursed his mouth, showing sharp teeth behind thin lips.
‘Come in. I don’t want everyone knowing my business.’
He turned quickly on his heel and strode inside.
The withdrawing room smelt heavily of wax polish. It was sparsely furnished with just a few pieces artfully placed, and looked strangely incomplete. The upholstered settle appeared recently purchased, its fabric still bright and unworn. A portrait of the baron and his wife, the paint barely dry, hung over the fireplace. Gibton sat down without offering any refreshment or comfort.
‘A Constable doesn’t come with good news,’ he said gravely.
‘No, your Lordship,’ he admitted. ‘Do you want your wife here?’
The man waved his hand dismissively. ‘I’ll tell her everything myself later. Is Sarah dead?’
‘I’m sorry, she is.’
Lord Gibton looked into the empty hearth, not showing any emotion, and the Constable was astonished and baffled by the man’s attitude. It wasn’t the way a father should act. If it had been Emily he’d have railed and needed to know every detail.
‘I believed she must be when her husband came here two days ago.’ His voice was low and even. ‘A girl like Sarah doesn’t simply vanish.’
‘She was found on Saturday,’ Nottingham began to explain. ‘We didn’t know who she was.’
Gibton waved away his words. ‘I don’t want to know,’ he said. ‘Not now.’ His hands rubbed over his knees, a gesture without thought, just something to do.
‘Yes, my Lord,’ the Constable agreed reluctantly, amazed at the man’s lack of interest. ‘There’s one thing I have to tell you, though.’
‘What’s that?’ Gibton didn’t even turn his head.
‘She’d been murdered.’
‘I’d surmised that much, Mister. . Nottingham, was that it?’ There was flintiness in his voice. ‘You’d hardly ride out here for a simple death.’
‘When she left to come here, her maid was with her. That’s what her husband said.’
‘Yes. Anne had been her maid for years. Sarah never went anywhere without her.’
‘No one’s seen the maid.’
Gibton looked up at him, engaged and curious for the first time. ‘Are you implying Anne might have had something to do with this?’
‘I’m not implying anything. I’m just trying to establish facts, my Lord.’
He considered that and nodded finally.
‘Where did Anne come from?’ Nottingham asked.
Gibton sighed. ‘She was a village girl, the same as the girl we have now. Tell me, did you stop in the village, Constable?’
‘Yes,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘I needed directions here.’
‘And what did they tell you? That we were above ourselves?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘My family used to own all this land. All of it. Then my sot of a great-grandfather gambled almost all of it away. There was a small amount left, enough to live but not in any kind of comfort or style. Still, my wife insisted that Sarah should have a maid. A girl needs that. None of them around here liked it. And they think even worse of us now we’ve inherited a little money.’
The Constable made no response. He didn’t like this man, apparently so unconcerned about the killing of his daughter but taken over and eaten through with money and position. He wanted to be away from here, out in the clean air. He’d done what he needed to do and broken the news. He’d be back, he knew that, but only once he knew what questions to ask. Quietly he took his leave of the baron and let the horse make its own slow way back into Leeds as he thought.
Everything felt wrong in the Gibtons’ house. He didn’t know what to make of it, but there was a darkness, a chill there that disturbed him.