“So you’ve murdered someone?” the Constable asked sceptically.
“Not someone.” Harwood relished the word, emphasising the last syllable. “Four people.”
“Oh?” Nottingham pushed himself off the sill, eyeing the man more closely. He was perhaps thirty, his face streaked with dirt and stubble. “Four people in Leeds?” he asked in slight disbelief.
“I think you know who I mean.” The man looked smug, even proud, the long fingers of his hands interlaced and pulling against each other.
“Maybe you’d better tell me.” It was impossible to keep a touch of amusement from his tone. Just yesterday morning they’d had no one for the crime, and now there were two killers, one who claimed not to remember, the other falling over himself to confess. Quite the pretty pair, the Constable thought wryly. But if this one was telling the truth… He looked at the man more closely. “So? Mr…?”
“Harwood,” the younger man reminded him with a defiant stare. “It was two men and two prostitutes.”
“And why did you do it?”
“Because they wouldn’t give me money,” Harwood explained simply. He swept a hand over his clothes. “I used to have plenty. But I’m a disinherited son. I live on the charity of others.”
“You could work,” the Constable pointed out tartly. “There are jobs for those who look. You’re not from around here.”
“I grew up in York,” Harwood answered with a casual, gentleman’s manner. “My father grew tired of my gambling debts and put me out three months ago.”
Nottingham sat in his chair and pushed the wet fringe back from his forehead.
“How long have you been in Leeds?”
“A week. I did come looking for work, or at least some Christian men who might help me.” There was a weariness in his voice that seemed almost plausible, the Constable admitted.
“And where have you been staying?”
“I had a room on the Calls for the first three nights. Since my money ran out I’ve been sleeping outside.” Harwood indicated the other chair. “Might I sit?”
Nottingham nodded and the other man eased himself gratefully on to the seat. Nottingham was willing to believe he’d told the truth about sleeping rough, and being from a good family. Beyond that…
“So you killed these people because they wouldn’t give you money?” he inquired.
The man hung his head slightly. “Yes.”
“But you didn’t rob them.” The Constable threw the words out carefully, like a fishing line, watching for a reaction.
“After I’d killed them, my conscience took hold of me.”
He was quick, Nottingham acknowledged, allowing himself to relax slightly. Harwood hadn’t been quite fast enough, though. There’d been a flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he answered, wondering what to say.
“On both occasions?” The Constable raised his eyebrows. “You obviously don’t learn your lessons easily.”
“Anger, sir… then remorse.”
“And the prostitutes?”
Harwood shrugged.
“They were witnesses. They could have identified me.” He shook his head. “And no one will count one or two more dead whores.”
Nottingham smiled grimly, tilted his chair back slightly and put his hands behind his head.
“One of those prostitutes used to be a servant of mine,” he said with slow relish. “So I’m a man who counts dead whores.”
Harwood had the grace to redden slightly.
“Describe the girls to me,” the Constable continued. “You killed them, you must remember what they looked like.”
“Like young girls. Brazen as whores always are.” He tried to emphasise the point by raising his voice.
“Blonde? Redhead? Brunette?” Nottingham kept his tone low and even.
“I didn’t notice. It was dark.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Nottingham bared his teeth slightly. “But it’s hard to notice what you don’t see, isn’t it?”
Harwood jerked his head up.
“You didn’t kill anyone.” Before there was a protest, the Constable pushed ahead. “I’m sure you’ve wanted to, but I doubt you’d actually do it. I’m willing to believe some of your story, but not murder. There’s no free bed and warmth for you.”
Harwood shrugged.
“And being found out now is better than swinging on the gallows for something you didn’t do,” Nottingham continued.
“You’d have discovered the truth in a day or two,” the man observed.
“I’d not deserve my job if it took me that long,” the Constable countered. “So what made you come here?”
“Some men were talking about the murders, down by the bridge. I thought I might find some shelter if I confessed,” Harwood admitted sheepishly.
Nottingham took a couple of coins from his pocket and tossed them at the other man, who caught them with a practised grab.
“No shelter here, but buy yourself something to eat,” the Constable instructed, with a dark gleam of anger in his eyes. “Then you can get out of my city. I don’t expect to see you in Leeds again. Wakefield isn’t far; I hear they believe most things there.”
Harwood settled the hat on his head and stood.
“Will you catch him?” he asked accusingly.
“Your news is behind the times, Mr Harwood,” Nottingham said with a wry smile. “We arrested him last night.”
The door closed loudly as Harwood left. Nottingham rubbed his hands over his face and let out a long, slow breath. He could feel a knot of rage inside. He needed a drink. Buttoning his heavy coat he ran next door to the White Swan. It was comfortably warm and smoky, the air thick with the powerful smells of wet wool and ale. He sat at the end of a bench, nodding at some of the faces he recognised and ordered some hot mulled wine from the girl. Her dress was cut low over the swell of her breasts, showing the darker curve of the top of her nipples, her smile inviting as she leaned forward to place the jug on the table. Another whore, he laughed to himself, tupping in her room or behind the building for a few extra pennies. As long as there were men there’d never be any shortage of them.
He was still sitting there, sipping the wine and letting its heat warm his body, when Sedgwick walked in, his height letting him peer over the crowd that had grown with the end of the workday. Spotting the Constable, he pushed his way through the people and sat on to the bench.
“How did his Worship react when you told him we’d arrested Carver?” he asked with a grin.
“I didn’t have the chance. He was too busy to see me.”
The smile slowly faded from Sedgwick’s face.
“And I had someone else to confess to the murders.”
“What?” The deputy looked up, dumbfounded.
Nottingham waved his hand.
“Don’t worry yourself. It was just some con man looking for some free room and board for a day or two. Where were you, anyway?”
“I was trying to find a name for that second whore,” Sedgwick explained. “Someone must have known her.”
“Any luck?”
“Bugger all.” He scratched his head. “If anyone knows owt, they’re not saying.”
“Get yourself a cup,” the Constable said. “You’ve earned it.”
Nottingham knew he should have gone home long before. But he was still at the tavern three hours later, sitting across from Sedgwick. He’d lost track of how much they’d drunk, and he didn’t care. Usually he was temperate; tonight, though, he felt a need to lose himself. Mary would understand, he was certain.
Just before midnight Sedgwick pushed himself to his feet. His legs were a little unsteady, but his mind seemed clear enough.
“I’d better check the night men,” he told the Constable in a thick voice.
Nottingham nodded. It was better to stop now, before they were too far in their cups. He rose too, wrapping the thick coat around himself and taking a final sip of wine.
“Let them manage by themselves for once,” he said. “Go home.”
Sedgwick’s eyes shone bright and he shook his head briefly.
“Duty,” he laughed. “That’s what you taught me, boss.” And he left.
By the time the Constable emerged, Sedgwick had vanished. There was a raw, thin edge to the night air that made him shiver and pull up his collar. The cold sobered him slowly as he walked. The afternoon’s rain and rushing wind had brought plenty of leaves off the trees, leaving them slippery and treacherous along the streets, and he trod carefully. The sky had cleared, leaving a bright rash of stars bright in the sky.
Nottingham tried to allow himself a small glow of satisfaction. After all, it looked as if they’d caught the murderer. But underneath, worrying away like a burr, was another fact: if that was true, he’d been wrong about Carver. His judgement, his instinct, had been faulty, and Sedgwick had been right. And two people had died because of it. Maybe his time had passed. Maybe he should quit his post.
What else could he do, though? This work had been his life for so many years. He’d kept the city safe. The citizens of Leeds — the ones who led blameless lives, at least on the outside — feared that crime and murder might touch their houses at any time. No matter that many of them, especially the merchants, were involved in their own schemes that broke the law. Or, he laughed to himself as his thoughts wandered, maybe that was exactly why they feared things happening.
He’d been their Constable a long time, but few of them would miss him if he was replaced — as long as the next man kept them safe. Some might know his name, but most would be happily ignorant, recognising him only by face if they bothered to acknowledge him at all. Yet they’d still expect the Constable and his men to protect them from the sea of danger they imagined washing up against the walls of their impeccable houses and the driftwood of humanity that might touch them.
But at times it was all beyond his control. If a man spent his money on a prostitute, he took his risks. Sometimes it was a few minutes of satisfaction. Sometimes it meant a dose of mercury and a lot of prayer. And sometimes it meant robbery or death. Anyone who wanted to play a game with those odds couldn’t complain at the outcome — but they did anyway, if they had the money and power enough to believe themselves untouchable. They thought money bought all the privilege in the world. On a few occasions he’d wanted to haul them down to Amos Worthy so they could see real power, the control of bodies and souls, and meet someone who’d end a life without a second thought. That made all the gold in the vaults seem like tin, and the protection of brick and glass crumble like sand.
Yet he knew he could never do that. To let them see that they didn’t really run the city in the way they imagined, that the way they thought of themselves was an illusion, would be more than they could take. And more than his job was worth. So he’d bowed at the right times and to the right people and allowed it all to fall like rain off his back.
Nottingham was the first to admit he wasn’t an educated man. He could add and subtract, he could write and read, but he’d never really had the chance to study anything. He was methodical, he had good intuition, but he understood he wasn’t clever in the way most people used the word. He’d known and admired Ralph Thoresby, the local historian. Thoresby had been a truly clever man, his house full of artefacts and antiquities, the books he wrote about Leeds praised for their scholarship and erudition. He could never have done anything like that.
But what he did, he’d always done well. There’d been mistakes, of course, but never any that had cost lives — until now. With a heavy heart, he stopped on Timble Bridge and listened to Sheepscar Beck running loudly along its channel. His mind was drifting, dulled by the drink, so he didn’t hear the running footsteps until they were almost upon him, and turned, unsure what was happening.
“Mr Nottingham!” The man careened to a stop, panting, his face flushed red, and he made out Joe Ashworth, one of the night men. “You’d better come quick. It’s murder, sir. It’s Mr Sedgwick.”