Constant Lovers (30 page)

‘Let's hope it stays this way.'

She turned and nuzzled against him. ‘I think it might. That business in Headingley affected her more than she's said, you know, especially coming after Rose's death. She needs something like this, something safe.'

He closed his eyes, relishing the familiar scent of his wife, feeling as if he could stay this way forever until she tapped him playfully on the arm.

‘You're falling asleep on your feet, Richard. Go to bed.'

She was right, and he knew it; she was always right. He was as drained as an empty barrel, hollow and useless. Rest was the best thing for him now. He kissed Mary tenderly, hugged Emily and started up the stairs.

‘Papa?' his daughter asked quietly.

‘What is it, love?'

‘That young man at the jail this morning? Who was he?'

Nottingham had to force himself to think back. It seemed too far in the past.

‘You mean the one with the bandage on his head?'

‘Yes.'

‘He's just started working for me.'

‘What happened to him?'

‘He was cracked on the head when he tried to break up a fight,' he explained, then added darkly, ‘but he had his revenge for it this afternoon.'

‘What's his name?'

‘Rob Lister.'

She nodded and he was laughing silently to himself as he entered the bedroom. So she had eyes for Rob, did she? Well, he thought, if she did the poor lad wouldn't stand a chance. And she could do a lot worse. He stripped, folding his clothes, and finally settled himself, the sheet thrown loosely over his body.

But for all his exhaustion, he couldn't fall asleep. His mind was like a spring pushed too tight, unable to wind down, and he knew he'd have to suffer it, forced to let the thoughts run and run through his head until they were finally ready to fade away.

Mary came to bed, and he heard her breathing change as she quickly fell asleep. Finally, perhaps an hour later, he started to doze.

Twenty-Three

He woke as usual before first light. A thin band of pale blue just touched the eastern horizon, and there was a hint of dawn through the open window. He splashed water on his face to rouse himself, dressed and let himself out as quietly as possible.

In front of him the city was still asleep. It would stir soon enough, with the bustle of kitchens and laundry, the carters on their early deliveries, then the weavers arriving for the Tuesday market.

At the jail he checked the cells. Hughes's men had been moved to the Moot Hall prison to await their trials and death sentences. Everything was quiet as he sat and began to write his report for the mayor. He recounted the swift attack on the jail and his reprisal, trimming carefully to make each statement as bald and matter of fact as possible.

He accounted for the deaths and wounds, taking time to praise his own men, Sedgwick and Lister in particular. That was only fair; they'd been fearless.

By the time he'd finished, the sun was well up. He sealed the paper, then walked down Briggate, stopping at the Old King's Arms for the Brig-End shot breakfast they served on market days. The beef was dry, but it made no never mind, he was hungry. The pottage was fresh for once, and the ale tasty, ample to renew him for the day. It was always tuppence well spent, the same price it had been as far back as he could recall.

The trestles were set up, just one row on each side today; most of the weavers already stood behind them, displaying the lengths of cloth they'd brought in to sell. In the middle of the street the merchants chatted quietly, waiting for the chimes of the Parish Church to call seven so trading could begin.

The Constable exchanged brief greetings and nuggets of gossip until the first peal of the bell took the men's attention, then he strode off down the middle of the road, leaving them to make their deals in the whispers that had always been part of the cloth business.

He turned on to Swinegate, sliding between the men and women barking wares from their shop fronts, around maids exchanging their tittle-tattle in moments of freedom from the houses, and avoided the piles and puddles emptied earlier from upstairs windows.

He walked through the door where the paint had peeled and the wood faded, footsteps firm on the flagstones in the hallway. The parlour door was closed tight, a key in the lock, but the entry to the kitchen was open as ever, no towering guard in front of it this time.

Worthy was standing by the table, a full mug of ale in front of him. He faced the window, luxuriating like a cat in the patch of sun. Without turning, he said, ‘You must think this is your home away from home, laddie.'

‘Why's that, Amos?' Nottingham leant against the table and poured himself a drink from the jug.

‘You seem to come in here anytime you please without a by your leave. You'd ask any honest man for permission to enter.'

The Constable drank slowly. ‘If you were an honest man I'd treat you honestly, Amos.'

The pimp turned to face him. He'd seemed thinner since the winter, but now, with dust motes in the air and the bright morning light harsh on his face, Nottingham felt he could have been seeing a different person. Worthy's skin had taken on the hard, polished texture of vellum, and his ancient clothes no longer bulged against his flesh. He looked old.

‘I heard what happened yesterday.'

‘All of it?'

‘Aye,' Worthy nodded. ‘That Hughes is no loss. If that boy of yours hadn't stopped me I'd have saved the trouble.'

‘And then you'd have been the one in jail.'

‘Not me, laddie,' he answered with an enigmatic grin.

‘You've been there before.'

‘Only for an hour or two. And I won't be there again.'

‘Don't tempt fate.'

Worthy stared hard at the Constable. ‘Nowt like that,' he said firmly. ‘Look at me. Go on, take a long look.'

Nottingham did as he was bid, fixing the picture in his mind.

‘Now, tell me what you see.'

‘Someone who's starting to show his years.'

The pimp chuckled softly. ‘At least your mam brought you up to be polite. But save it for the Corporation. You don't beat around the bush with me.' He waited. ‘Well? What do you see?'

‘You look old, Amos,' Nottingham told him.

‘I'm dying, laddie.' It was a simple statement and the Constable didn't know how to respond. He watched the other man's eyes and saw it was the truth; the time for dissembling and deception had passed.

‘I'm sorry,' he said finally, and meant it.

‘Don't be. You're not immortal yourself. It catches us all in the end.' His voice was matter-of-fact, as if he was talking about someone else. ‘It's cancer, that's what they say. Been growing inside me for a while now, and there's bugger all anyone can do about it.'

‘Who knows?'

‘Just the doctor in York who told me. And you.' He raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘You didn't think I'd be stupid enough to tell anyone in Leeds, did you?'

‘You've told me.'

Worthy shrugged. ‘That's different. I know you, you'll keep it to yourself. You won't even tell that tall drink of water who works for you.' He grinned, and for a passing moment the ghost of a younger man sparked in his face. ‘And telling you keeps you off my back.'

‘You think I won't arrest you?' Nottingham asked.

‘I know you won't, laddie. What's the worst you can charge me with? Fighting in the street?' He turned his head and spat on the floor. ‘Not worth your time, not for the ten minutes I'd be there.'

‘I suppose you're right,' the Constable conceded.

‘If you really believed you could have had me for something, you'd have had me in a cell. We both know it.'

‘I would,' Nottingham agreed. ‘Did the doctor say how long you'd live?'

‘Why, want to be rid of me? Aye, I suppose you do, really.' He shrugged. ‘I don't know, laddie, I'll go when I go.' He lifted an arm to show a wrist, the skin loose on the bone. ‘Probably not long, by the look of it.'

‘Do you have much pain?'

‘Sometimes,' he admitted. ‘That doctor sold me summat, but I can't be doing with it, all it does is make me fall asleep. That's just what I want, isn't it, to sleep my way into death.'

‘So what do you do?'

‘Bear it, of course,' he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘What else are you going to do? A few drinks help. So does a girl here and there, or breaking a few heads.' He paused. ‘Anyway, my problems will be over soon enough. Yours are going to start after I've gone.'

That was true, Nottingham realized. Worthy had controlled most of the prostitution and much of the other crime in Leeds for years. He was a known quantity, smart in his own twisted way, with the Corporation neatly folded and tucked into his pocket.

With his death there'd be a space, and a hundred men all eager to battle each other to assume his crown. All the skirmish with Hughes had done was give them a very small taste of the future.

‘You see it now?'

‘I do.'

‘You're going to be a busy man, Constable.'

Nottingham nodded sadly.

‘Happen you'll end up thinking I was the lesser of two evils.' He started to laugh, which turned into a wet cough, stopping only when he drew in a deep breath and spat again. ‘Better,' he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve then taking a deep drink.

‘How long have you known, Amos?'

‘Since the start of spring. And for God's sake, get rid of that long face. I'm only telling you because you need to know. I don't want sympathy. If you start acting like a lass I'll knock you into next week.'

‘I should be happy. God knows I've wished you dead often enough.'

‘So now your prayers have been answered.'

‘Are you ready for it?'

‘What, shriven and penitent, you mean?' He snorted in annoyance. ‘What sort of bloody stupid question is that, laddie? You die, it's all over. It happens when it happens.'

‘No heaven or hell?'

Worthy shook his head with conviction. ‘If you're going to have those you need to believe, and I haven't done that in a long time.' He poured more of the ale. ‘There's plenty I've stopped believing in over the years.'

‘You'll die a rich man.'

‘Aye,' Worthy agreed with a sigh. ‘Not as rich as everyone thinks, though. Still, better than begging on the streets.' He paused. ‘I've made my will, and it'll prove without a problem. There's something for you in it.'

‘No,' Nottingham said quickly, but the pimp held up his hand to stop him.

‘Hear me out. It's not meant for you, I've got more sense than that. It's for that daughter of yours. It'll bring her an income so she won't ever have to depend on anyone. I heard she's just started teaching at the Dame School.'

‘Yes,' Nottingham answered tightly, angry that the man should follow his family so closely.

‘There's no money in that. She'll only earn pennies.'

‘Honest pennies.'

‘Like a Constable's pay?' Worthy taunted.

‘It's more than you can say for your money.'

Worthy sat back. ‘I earn my money then I invest it in London. Did you know that? It grows down there, and that's quite legal. So how do you know which bit's honest and which isn't, Mr Nottingham?'

‘I'm not going to let Emily take money from you.' He stated it as a fact, not a challenge.

‘The money's there,' Worthy said calmly. ‘Why don't you let her decide when she reaches her majority? She's a clever girl, isn't she? Must be, to be a teacher.'

‘Yes.' The Constable curled his fingers tightly around the mug.

‘Then let her make up her own mind. You tell her your tale and let the money speak for itself. See what she wants to do.'

‘No, Amos.'

Worthy smiled. ‘It's too late, laddie. The will's made and I'm not paying any more to a bloody lawyer to change it now.'

Even in death the man would vex him, the Constable thought. He'd have thought it through and done it deliberately; it was his way. He finished his drink.

‘Don't worry, I won't be causing you any more trouble, unless some other mad bugger starts to think he's better than me.'

Nottingham stared at him.

‘Just do me one favour, will you, laddie?' Worthy asked, his voice suddenly serious.

‘What's that?'

‘Come to my funeral. I don't think it'll be a crowded do.'

‘I wouldn't miss it, Amos. If only to make sure you're really dead.'

‘Better,' Worthy said with a small grin. ‘But what you don't realize yet is how much you'll miss me.'

Nottingham stood up and looked at the other man again. He wasn't frail yet but he'd be close to it, much of his hair gone, the rest wispy, lank and grey. Quickly he turned away and walked out of the house, closing the door quietly behind him.

Twenty-Four

Wednesday passed quietly, just the petty routines of crime, a purse cut here, a fight there, a few stolen coins. The Constable sent Lister out patrolling the streets with Sedgwick to learn his craft. He was waiting, knowing he'd hear from Gibton soon. The man might be arrogant, but he wasn't a fool.

The note arrived on a cloudy Thursday when the air was close and the heat pressed down. The animals felt it, carters' horses unwilling to move, and the people were ill-tempered, parading sluggishly in the streets.

A farmer from Roundhay, in Leeds to purchase a few items, delivered it, his eyes casting nervously around the jail. He thrust it into Nottingham's hand then left abruptly.

The Constable weighed it in his hand before tearing open the heavy red seal. The paper was elegant, thick and heavy, but the words were a hurried, awkward scrawl:
Friday at nine, Gibton's Well
.

It wasn't so much a request as a command, he thought drily. That certainly fitted with the man. But he didn't really care what it was as long as the couple admitted their guilt and made their atonement.