Convalescence (2 page)

    
“Sounds like him,” Sedgwick answered after a while. “I went by Mrs. Lumley’s. He’d never gone there. Someone killed him by the river.”

    
“That pack was heavy when I saw him,” Nottingham said thoughtfully. “You think he was sleeping down there?”

    
The deputy shrugged.

    
“No sign of a fire, but it’s warm out.”

    
“I told him to try the Talbot if he wanted to sell things. Rob said he looked in but didn’t see anyone like Langton.”

    
“Doesn’t mean much. He must have met someone.” Sedgwick sighed. “I don’t need a murder on top of everything else.”

    
“I wish I could help you.”

    
The deputy ran a hand through his hair. “So do I, boss. More than you know.”

    
“How are Lizzie and the children?”

    
“Well enough, not that I have much time with them.” He sighed. “You are you going to come back, aren’t you, boss?”

    
“If I can.” Nottingham gestured at the stick. “In time.”

    
The deputy exhaled slowly and nodded. There were deep circles under his eyes, the flesh strained and tight across his face. “I’d better get back. At least I know who he is now.”

    
“I think there was something big in that pack.”

    
“Big?” Sedgwick frowned. “What do you mean?”

    
“I’m not sure. It’s just…when he was walking away I had the sense that there was just one thing taking up most of that pack. The way it bulged. I don’t know if that’s any use.”

    
“It might be.” The deputy pushed himself upright. “I mean it, boss. We need you back.”

    
Nottingham watched until Sedgwick had vanished from sight. We need you back. They were good words to hear. He pulled a note from his waistcoat pocket. He’d received it that morning from Tom Williamson, his merchant friend. At the cloth market, the mayor had been quietly canvassing the aldermen, suggesting that it might be time for a new constable. Go back? He wondered if he’d ever have the chance.

The deputy had to admit it; the boss didn’t look good. He’d lost weight, his hair was thinner and greyer, his face pinched. He looked
old
; more than that, he seemed weary to his soul. Maybe he’d never be fit enough to return.

    
At the jail he picked up Langton’s pack and spread it on the desk. It was a fair size. If that had been bulging, and the constable was right, it had held something big. There’d been no personal items, no spare clothing, no bedroll that he’d found. What could Langton have been carrying all the way from Durham that was worth his life?

    
He needed to begin asking questions, to discover who’d seen the man during his short time in Leeds.

The Talbot felt dry and dusty, the benches filled by men who’d finished their work for the day and wanted something to cool them. A fug of smoke hung below the ceiling and the smell of ale filled the air. Along the back wall, the door that led upstairs to the whores was open, inviting any with desire and money to spend.

    
Landlord Bell stood behind the trestle, pouring the drinks and watching the customers. He deliberately ignored the deputy, waiting until Sedgwick drew the cudgel from his pocket to turn his head.

    
“You want summat?”

    
“Did you have a stranger in last night? Someone from the north?”

    
Bell ran a tongue across his teeth.

    
“Happen,” he allowed finally.

    
The deputy lay the cudgel slowly on the trestle.

    
“Happen?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

    
“Aye, he was,” Bell admitted reluctantly. “That accent they have, can’t mek out what they’re saying half the time.”

    
“Who was he talking to?”

    
Bell shook his head and shrugged.

    
“Too busy to keep checking. I did see him with Joe Buck, though.”

    
Sedgwick nodded his acknowledgment.

    
“Owt else?” Bell asked. “If not, you can bugger off out of here.”

    
The deputy smiled, taking his time. But the name had come as no real surprise. Buck was the biggest fence in Leeds. Yet he was no murderer; he wasn’t a man of violence at all. It was something to think about as he crossed the bridge and strode into the small streets tucked behind the wealthy houses on Meadow Lane.

    
Henry, the black servant, saw him through to the parlour, the windows open on a surprisingly large garden. Buck was looking out at the grass and the orchard, sipping a glass of deep red wine.

    
“I hadn’t expected this.” He smiled, extending his hand. “It’s not a social call, from the look on your face. A drink, Mr. Sedgwick?”

    
“Ale?”

    
Buck poured from the jug.

    
“I hear Mr. Nottingham’s started walking out a little.”

    
The deputy smiled. If a mouse farted in Leeds, Buck heard about it. “Slow but sure.” He took a drink. “You were talking to someone in the Talbot last night.”

    
The fence dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I talked to quite a few people there.”

    
“Someone new, from the north.”

    
“Him?” Buck raised his eyebrows. “What’s his name, Will…”

    
“Langton. He’s dead. Someone killed him, Joe.”

    
“Is he now?” the man answered slowly, then raised his head to stare at the deputy. “Did he have a pack with him?”

    
“An empty one. What did he try to sell you?”

    
“An urn.”

    
“Urn?” Sedgwick asked in surprise.

    
“That’s what he said it was, anyway. He claimed it was silver. I didn’t see it.”

    
“You didn’t want to buy it?”

    
Buck chuckled.

    
“From someone I don’t know, someone who’s a stranger here? Give over, Mr. Sedgwick. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

    
“Did you suggest anyone else?”

    
He shook his head. “I heard him out, turned him down and left.”

    
“What did he tell you about the urn?”

    
“Just that it had come from some rich man’s house in Durham. I didn’t want to know any more. Sounds like it caught someone’s interest, though.”

    
“If you hear anything…” There was a good chance he might. Whoever had the urn would want to sell it.

    
“I’ll let you know,” Buck agreed. “And give my best to Mr. Nottingham. I miss him.”

    
“We all do, Joe.” He drained the cup. “Thank you.”

The first shades of evening, pale lengthening shadows, had appeared by the time Rob arrived at the jail to take his shift. The deputy stood, ready to be home with Lizzie and the children, to have a few hours of sleep before returning in the morning.

    
“Anything more on the dead man?” Lister asked, and Sedgwick told him what little he’d learned.

    
“Keep asking around. Someone’s going to want to be rid of that urn.”

    
“Are we sure it was silver?”

    
“Maybe.” He shook his head. Who knew the truth? Langton could easily have been lying, he thought, hoping for quick money from a gullible soul. Not that there were many of those in crime.

    
“If it’s solid silver, it’ll be worth a fortune.” Rob paused, thinking. “Anybody who had that stolen from them might have sent someone after it.”

    
“I suppose so,” the deputy agreed after a little while.

    
“If he found it, he’ll be long gone now.”

    
“And left Langton here, dead for his sins. Just ask in the beer shops tonight,” Sedgwick told him in frustration.

“No one seems to have seen him, boss. I asked in the dram shops, the beer shops, the inns.” He stopped and took a bite of the bread. Lister and the constable stood in the kitchen of the house on Marsh Lane, the door open to catch the faint breeze, the early light clear and sharp.

    
“Your idea’s good,” Nottingham told him and Rob smiled at the praise. “If the urn’s really that valuable, I can believe someone being sent after it. But whoever came would need a man who knows Leeds to help.” That made sense, Lister thought. A man who knew where to look, to pass the word. “I’d keep your eyes open for someone who suddenly has a bit of money.”

    
“I will.”

    
“Don’t ignore everything else, though,” the constable warned.

    
“We won’t, boss.”

“George Richmond,” Sedgwick said without hesitation. “He’d be the man for something like that.”

    
“George? The one who’s on the bridge most days?”

    
“That’s him.”

    
Lister had always thought of Richmond as someone solitary, a poor soul whose mind had left him. Hardly someone to guide a killer. “Are you sure?” He found the idea difficult to swallow.

    
The deputy finished a mug of ale and placed it on the desk. Outside the clouds were tinged with pink and purple. The day had passed in a welter of tasks: reports, evidence at the Petty Sessions, talking to a man who’d been robbed outside Holy Trinity Church. There weren’t enough hours to do everything, even with the day men to help.

    
“There was something, three, maybe four years back,” he explained.” A man was murdered here. We never found out who did it, but the talk was the killer came from Hull and I still think it was George who showed him where to find the victim. Never found the proof, that’s all. I’ll go and talk to him in the morning.”

    
“What do you think happened with Langton?” Rob asked.

    
“I don’t know, besides the fact he’s in a pauper’s grave now.”

    
“Where does George live, anyway?”

    
“He used to have a room in one of the courts off Vicar Lane. See if you can find out tonight.”

    
Lister nodded. It was the middle of the week, the time when men had no money to be out drinking away their pains and sorrow. He’d have time to ask questions and discover where George lived. But he’d keep his mind open to other things, too. Just the way the boss suggested.

    
By ten he had the information he needed. Old Hercules, who looked after the horses and cleaned tables at the Rose and Crown, knew George Richmond. In a strange way it made sense, Rob thought. The pair of them seemed to live outside the world everyone else understood.

Cloud had built up during the night. By the middle of the morning the constable could feel the closeness in the air, the storm that was building, like a physical pressure tight against his chest. There’d be no walk to Timble Bridge today. Once the rain started it would be a deluge to leave the road thick with mud. Even with a stick it would be too easy to slip and reopen the wound. He’d seen Mary watching him as he stared out of the window. She didn’t have any cause for fear; he wouldn’t be setting foot out of the house today.

    
He’d talked to Rob when the lad came home, the name George Richmond quick off his lips. Sedgwick had always thought the man was guilty back when Joseph Latham has been killed. He’d never been as convinced. There’d been nothing but a rumour and a whisper or two, Richmond seen with a stranger that night.

    
After Rob had escorted Emily to school and gone off to his bed, Nottingham sat at the table, a piece of paper and a quill in front of him. He needed to send a message to the deputy, something to push him onto the right path.

John –

Don’t waste your time on George Richmond. I know you believe he was behind that business in ’30, but it was never him. I told you that at the time, but you didn’t want to believe me. He’s no more than he seems, lonely and addled.

You’d do better to look to Walter Archer. I had my doubts about him three years ago
. He has relatives in Hull. His wife’s from somewhere in the north east, I think. We both know he’s a man who’ll do anything for a few coins. It might be worth talking to him.

    
He sanded the paper and folded it. Would he do better to let things be and give the deputy his head? No, he decided. Outside the rain began, hammers of noise battering against the windows and the ground. Once it passed he’d have next door’s boy take the note to the jail.