By ten the men were out on the street. As Nottingham circulated, keeping quietly to the shadows, he counted around fifteen. Nowhere near as many as he’d hoped, but he’d remember the names of all those who hadn’t come out, and deal with them later.
It was a good idea using men of dubious reputation, he decided. They knew how to be inconspicuous and quiet — at least the ones who hadn’t drunk too much did. Yet the loud clumsiness of the others could be effective too, acting as a deterrent, funnelling the killer into the darker courts and alleys.
He was worried, but he tried to keep his feelings hidden. Everything hinged on the killer being out tonight, looking for his next victims. The weather was cloudy, an early autumn chill helping the leaves tumble, the moon well hidden. A perfect night for murder, he thought grimly.
Around eleven he found Sedgwick completing a circuit on Lower Briggate. They conferred in a doorway, away from prying eyes, talking in hushed voices.
“Not a wonderful turnout,” the Constable said.
“Could have been better.” Sedgwick shrugged in agreement. “I’ve given them all small areas. If they spot anyone in a dark cloak and hat, they’re to challenge them loudly. Someone should always be close enough to help and raise the alarm.”
“Good,” Nottingham nodded. “We’ll keep walking round.”
“I’m surprised Worthy doesn’t have men out. He must have heard about this.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” the Constable warned. “He’s a sly old sod. If he’s got his best lads out, they could be a dozen paces from here and we’d never know it. But if anyone catches a murderer tonight, it’s going to be us. I want him sentenced in court, not left with his throat cut.”
“And if some of our men are working for him?” queried Sedgwick.
“Some of them probably are,” Nottingham admitted. “But if they fuck this up, they’ll be moving to another city tomorrow, I can guarantee you that.” There was a bitter iciness in his voice that made it a promise.
People were still out and about, visiting, walking, but the voices on the streets began to fade slowly. The slatterns and prostitutes were finishing their trade as men bade farewell to a day of rest and prepared for another week of drudgery. By midnight there’d been nothing to stir excitement and the Constable could tell the men were becoming bored and weary. He slipped between them warily, offering quiet words of encouragement, making sure their attention didn’t lapse. Only one had left, after a short argument, and he’d been warned he’d pay the price for desertion.
Nottingham was nervous, the tension running through his body. The next two hours would be crucial. He brushed back his fringe and ran a hand through his hair, trying to breathe calmly and evenly. So much depended on him being right about the killer prowling tonight. He could feel his heart in his chest, the thick rhythm beating uncomfortably fast. After being alert for every sound for so long, he’d be completely drained by night’s end.
He’d been parading the same streets for hours, until he felt he knew every crack and indentation of the paths. The night had quietened, broken only by the barking of stray dogs and the occasional blare of an argument or singing.
The minutes were passing too slowly, as if time itself was tired. He’d just completed another circuit, finishing at the top of Briggate near the Head Row, when he heard a confused bellow of cries from the yards behind the Shambles. Without thinking he began to run towards the sounds. The voices increased in number, shouting over each other in a babble of sound that grew more frenzied. Dear God, Nottingham prayed as he ran, let it be him. And let him be alive.
For a minute it seemed as if he could get no nearer; he was trapped in a maze of tiny streets. Then suddenly he was there, watching two men hold a struggling figure in the light of a pair of torches. A body lay on the edge of the shadows. Sedgwick was kneeling over it, then looked up and shook his head.
“What happened?” Nottingham asked breathlessly, and was immediately overwhelmed by several garbled accounts. “You!” He pointed into the crowd at a scrawny youth he didn’t recognise. “Tell me!”
The lad ducked his head briefly.
“We, er, heard him coming, sir.” He glanced around the other faces, seeing expressions ranging from agreement to anger. “We challenged him like you said, but he didn’t want to stop. So Adam, he, er, started to fight with him, to stop him. We were shouting, and then some of the others came.” He paused again. “Then he pulled a knife and started stabbing Adam. I didn’t know what to do. Some of the others grabbed him.”
Nottingham gazed around in horror. An innocent man was dead because of him. He walked up to the culprit, a man of about thirty, thin to the point of starvation, so cowed he didn’t even fight against the men restraining him. He was dressed in tattered old clothes, hose ragged and breeches torn. The Constable had to resist the overwhelming impulse to hit him.
“Why did you kill him?” he asked.
“I thought he were trying to rob me,” the man answered defensively, his eyes full of fear. “Then when t’others started coming, I thought it were a gang going to kill me.”
Nottingham said nothing more. He turned and walked over to the body.
“Who was it?” he asked Sedgwick.
“Adam Suttler.” The deputy sounded sombre. “I only asked him because I saw him going to church this morning.” He kicked at a stone and heard it tumble away. “Who’s that bugger?” He inclined his head at the man who stood with his head bowed.
“Just some poor man who got caught in the middle,” Nottingham told him in sad blankness.
“He’ll hang.” There was satisfaction in his tone.
“Yes.” He would. There was nothing more to say.
“Meanwhile our man’s still out there,” Sedgwick said passionately.
Nottingham shook his head.
“He’s not a fool, John. He’ll have heard all the noise and gone to his bed. Get Brogden here and the killer down to the jail. He won’t give you any trouble.”
“No, he won’t.” Sedgwick bunched his fist and Nottingham placed a hand lightly on his good arm.
“Don’t take it out on him. He didn’t know what was going on. Look at his face. That’s not someone who killed for pleasure. He knows he’s just waved farewell to his own life.”
“So long as he doesn’t expect any bloody sympathy from me.” He began to issue orders as the Constable wandered away.
It was on his head, and Nottingham knew it. Another little piece of guilt to carry around piled up on all the others he’d accumulated over the years. It would worry at him for a while, itch like a wound, then fade to a scar he’d only notice in certain lights.
But at the moment it was digging deep, clawing raw at his mind and he needed to be alone. It was a mess, a deadly mess. If… that was a word he was going to be thinking often over the next few days.
Sedgwick would go and tell Suttler’s wife. The city would pay for the funeral, he’d make sure of that. And he’d take responsibility for the death. At least the Mayor wouldn’t worry too much about one poor man killing a forger.
He would, though. It was one more death to chalk up to this murderer. Yet he knew in his heart that he’d done the right thing in having so many men out. He had to be the hunter, to act and pursue. Inside, he truly believed the man had been out tonight. If it hadn’t been for an accident…
Nottingham pulled the coat closer around himself and shivered in the air. It wasn’t long until dawn; the sky was just beginning to lighten on the eastern horizon. He’d been walking for too long, his legs ached and his mind was reeling. There was a vicious thirst in his mouth, his head pounding along with his footsteps. He wanted to go home, but he couldn’t face his house or the jail yet. He needed to be outside in the quiet, away from people. It wouldn’t erase the horror he was feeling, but at least he’d have the time to push it down deep and keep his mind where it needed to be.
Down by the warehouses on the Aire the first workers were arriving to start loading cloth on to barges for Hull and the Continent. He stood and watched as the great doors above the river opened, ropes moving up and down over the pulleys, and the day straggled into its rhythm.
Early light spilled on to the water and Nottingham sighed, knowing he had to go back. He stopped at the Old King’s Head for ale and bread; swirling the liquid around his mouth took away the taste of the night.
Finally, when he could put it off no longer, he returned to the jail. Sedgwick was sitting at his desk, his long face ashen, half moons of shadow under his eyes.
“I’m sorry, John,” Nottingham said gently. Sedgwick looked up without expression and shook his head.
“Not your fault, boss. I should never have asked him. Adam wasn’t made for anything physical.”
“Where’s the body?”
“I had it sent home to his widow.”
The Constable gave an inward sigh of relief; he hadn’t wanted to view the corpse and confront his own failure.
“What about his killer?”
Sedgwick jerked his head towards a cell.
“Fast asleep.” His tone softened a little. “I think it’s the closest thing to a bed he’s had in weeks.” He sighed. “We’ve messed it up, and no mistake.” He paused and handed Nottingham a piece of paper. “This came for you.”
The Constable opened the plain seal. The note was terse, written in Worthy’s surprisingly elegant hand: A poor job, Mr Nottingham. Baiting him like a chained bear on market day. He crumpled the paper slowly and tossed it on to the desk.
“Let’s work out how to find our killer,” he said darkly.
“We can’t try the same thing again,” Sedgwick pointed out. “After this, no one would come even if we threatened them with the Assizes.”
“It was still a good idea.” He thought for a moment. “Take two of the men off their usual duties.”
The deputy looked at him quizzically. “What for, boss?”
“Amos Worthy’s top men,” Nottingham began. “You know them?”
“Of course I do.” The deputy was astonished he even needed to ask.
“I want two of our lads on them. Have them try and stay out of sight. If Worthy’s lot talk to someone, find out what they wanted and what the answers were. We know they’re looking for this murderer, too. Maybe they can lead us to something.” And it’ll give Worthy a taste of being followed, he thought.
Sedgwick looked unhappy.
“Are you sure it’s worthwhile?” he asked.
Nottingham pushed his fringe back wearily.
“No,” he admitted with a slow shake of his head. “But what do we have to lose? The rest of us will still be looking. And it’ll annoy Amos to be doing our work for us.”
“I don’t know…” Sedgwick began warily, but the Constable’s dark look silenced him.
“Worthy’s a pimp, he’s a criminal. If half the members of the Corporation didn’t use his whores, he’d have been hanged years ago.” Nottingham slammed his hand down. “He thinks he’s better than us, so let’s use him. And if he knows we’ve done it, that’s all to the good.”
Sedgwick had seen this mood before. It brooked no argument, at least not until it had passed and turned to a brooding silence. Then, perhaps, he could talk some sense into the Constable. This wasn’t going to bring them anything; the only thing it did was squander their precious resources, and all because Nottingham hated Worthy, and had for far too long. It had always been personal, as deep as the sailors said the oceans were, far beyond any desire to see the man simply pay for his crimes.
He left the jail to search for the two men he wanted. He couldn’t read the note, but it was easy enough to guess that Worthy had sent it, a taunt following the night’s failure. Nottingham had responded to the goad, of course. Sedgwick could have predicted it. Now his job was to make sure his men stayed out of danger.
Johnson and Portman, the two men he’d use, were exactly where he expected, sitting next door in the White Swan. Sedgwick bought a jug of ale and carried it to their table, pouring himself a cup on the way.
“Got a job for you, boys,” he said as he replenished their drinks. He explained the task, emphasising the fact that they should stay well back and report any contacts to him. They were good and honest, they’d do the job properly, but they weren’t always the smartest. If there was anyone to talk to, he’d prefer to do it himself. That way he’d be certain the right questions were asked and he received all the information.
They left when the beer was finished, and Sedgwick sat alone, in no hurry to drain his mug. If he had any sense he’d go home and get more sleep. He knew he was exhausted, and a couple of hours away wouldn’t matter. Annie would be home with James, and she’d probably have something cooking to warm his stomach. He left the tavern, striding purposefully back to his room.
The Constable sat back, fingers steepled in front of his face, and wondered if he’d done the right thing. The note had been the last straw. On top of having his family followed, it had been too much, and he’d let his anger boil over. He knew it was stupid. And yet… nothing else had worked. He’d let it go for a day and see what happened. As he’d told Sedgwick, at this point they had nothing to lose.
A messenger ducked in, bringing a letter. Nottingham saw the address, from Halifax, and as he opened the seal, his hopes rose. Surely such a quick reply to his request for information meant something? But as he read, he found nothing helpful; they’d had no similar crimes.
His longing for a link, a connection of any kind, had come to nothing.
The clock on the parish church struck ten. He stood reluctantly, weighed down by a mixture of weariness and frustration, and set off up Kirkgate towards Briggate. Servants and housewives clogged the street, trying to keeping out of the path of carters and drovers and Nottingham walked gingerly among them. From the corner of his eye he sensed a small, sharp movement; his arm reacted instinctively, moving out to grab whoever was there.
Looking down, he saw he had hold of a boy of about twelve who was struggling against his hand, a small knife clenched in one fist. Nottingham tightened his grip and pushed the youth against the rough stone of the wall as a crowd suddenly gathered.
“You might as well put the knife down, laddie,” he said. “It’s not a good idea to rob the city’s Constable.”
The boy wilted, but Nottingham didn’t let him fall.
“We’re going to take a walk to the jail and you can tell me what you were trying to do” he continued, keeping a tight grip. “What’s your name?”
“Joshua.”
Nottingham pushed him harder against the wall.
“Joshua Forester, sir,” he amended.
“Joshua Forester.” The Constable could hear the tremor in the lad’s voice. Glancing down, he saw wide, scared eyes and a pale, grimy face under unruly blond hair.
“I don’t like cutpurses, Joshua Forester,” he said grimly. “Especially not right now.”