‘Business good?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘I’m not starving yet.’ She looked up at him, holding a battered fan to cover the hint of a smile on her face. ‘It’s not often I see you these days. You must want something.’
He laughed, knowing it was true.
‘Have you heard of Joshua Davidson?’
‘No,’ she said with tired certainty. ‘Who’s he, anyway?’
‘He’s new here. I’ve heard he’s doing some pimping.’
She shrugged again.
‘I want a word with him’ he went on. ‘There’s a few coins in it if I can get his address.’ He reached into the pocket of his breeches and jangled the silver. Jane sighed.
‘How soon?’
‘A quarter of an hour? I’ll be at the Old King’s Head.’
‘Go on, then, seeing it’s you,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll ask around. But I’ll still want paying even if I can’t find owt.’
He nodded his agreement and strolled away. The inn stood at the corner of Currie Entry, an old building of dark panelled corridors and tiny private parlours, the window mullions stained by years of smoke, the wood of the tables so scored and rough a careless man could cut a hand on it. He bought a mug of ale and sat by himself in the corner. A few of the customers cast awkward glances at him but he just stared back, slowly enjoying the drink and letting the time dissolve.
He thought once more about the girl lying in the cold cell with her dead babe and the taste of ashes filled his throat like dirt. Whoever could kill them that way and set that blaze was someone who’d given up his soul. Once they had him, the Constable would relish seeing him gasp and choke at the end of a noose on Chapeltown Moor.
First, though, they had to find him. With any luck, Sedgwick and Rob would learn something useful. But somehow he feared this would be no easy trail. Nottingham drained the rest of cup in a long swallow and pushed it away. He was just about to stand when Jane entered, eyes glancing around until she spotted him.
‘I hope you’re grateful,’ she scolded breathlessly. ‘I’ve been all over the bloody place, I had to ask four different girls. Whoever this Joshua Davidson might be, most people have never heard of him and they don’t care. But he’s over on Mill Hill, right across from Shaw’s Well.’
‘Thank you,’ he told her, putting two coins down on the bench. Her hand darted out from under the fan to retrieve them, so quick that if he hadn’t known he’d never have noticed she only had four fingers. Two years before, her pimp had imagined she’d been cheating him and had exacted his price. A fortnight later he’d been pulled from the Aire, a knife forced to the hilt in his chest before he’d been tumbled in the water.
The Constable walked down towards the Bridge then turned on to Swinegate, as he had so often before, threading through the press of people in front of the shops. Hammering echoed from the smithy, the reek of horse dung hung about the ostler’s yard. There were puddles of piss in the road where night soil had been thoughtlessly tossed. Up in one of the houses a child was crying loudly, even as its mother tried to calm it. Amos Worthy had lived along here, six months dead now and already forgotten by most. Even his money and power couldn’t halt the cancer that whittled away at his large body until all that remained was withered and useless. Now the door to his house was closed tight and Nottingham wondered if someone else was living there, or if the place held only memories in the cobwebs and the dust on the floor. In a curious way he missed the man, the devil he’d come to know all too well.
The was no real slope to Mill Hill, just a name and tumble of houses across from Shaw’s Well, ramshackle old buildings whose timbers were strained and cracking, barely standing and held together by habit and the sheer grace of God. He pushed the fringe off his forehead, knocked on the door, heard the sound echo inside, and waited.
Finally a man answered, his fair hair tousled. From the way he wore his clothes he’d just dressed, an old, mended shirt hanging down outside a pair of faded breeches and the waistcoat inside out. He was perhaps twenty-five, pasty-faced and thin.
‘Are you Joshua Davidson?’ Nottingham asked. The man straightened his back and waited a moment before answering, as if wondering whether to admit the fact.
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘that’s me. What can I do for tha?’
‘I’m Richard Nottingham. I’m the Constable of the city. I’d like to have a talk with you.’
Davidson looked at him, eyes wary and curious. ‘I’ve done nowt wrong.’
‘I didn’t say you had, Mr Davidson. But we’d do better not standing on your doorstep.’
‘I suppose tha’d best come in, then.’
The man turned and limped down the hallway, heavily favouring his right leg, moving with awkward, unequal grace. In a parlour furnished with only an old, chipped settle he leaned against the wall and waited.
‘I hear you have some girls, Mr Davidson.’
The man weighed the statement and then bobbed his head quickly.
‘Aye,’ he admitted. ‘There’s just the pair of them. Me sisters. I look after them.’
‘Where did you come from?’
‘Wakefield. Not that there was ever owt there for us, mind,’ he said sadly. ‘’Appen we can make a bit of brass up here.’
‘And have you?’
The man shrugged noncommittally. ‘Early days yet. We’ve barely been here a month.’ Davidson sounded cautious. ‘I’d not have thought the Constable would have bothered with us, mind.’
Nottingham smiled. ‘I’ll just tell you what I say to all the other whoremasters. I know men are going to pay to have girls. They always have, I’m not a fool. You stick with that and you’ll have no trouble from me. Get into anything else or cause any trouble and you’ll be out of here in a day. Understood?’
‘Aye.’ Davidson agreed readily. ‘I’d find some work myself if I could, and we’d have none of this. It’s not summat I like but we need to eat.’
‘Your leg?’ the Constable asked.
‘Run over by a cart about ten year back,’ he explained. ‘It never did set reet. I were a messenger lad before that. Can’t run so fast now.’ He gave a small, wry grin. ‘Don’t worry, sir, you’ll not have a problem with us.’
‘Good. Then I wish you well in Leeds, Mr Davidson.’
John Sedgwick sat on the bench in the dram shop, Lister at his side. It was the main room of a shabby cottage made over to sell gin, the trappings cheap and gaudy, their poor shine long since worn away.
The woman across the table from him had been worn to the nub by time. The hair under her cap was sparse and metal-grey, only a few discoloured teeth remained in her mouth and her clothes were fifth-hand rags from market trestles, but there was still a small, glittering spark of intelligence in her eyes. Her hand clutched the glass tightly. The deputy signalled for another taste and waited until it arrived.
‘Let’s go over it again, love,’ he said, filling her cup as she watched greedily. ‘What time did you think you saw someone coming out of the empty house?’
She took a drink and let it swirl in her mouth before answering.
‘I told you, I don’t know, do I?’ She paused, then said, ‘I think the Church might have rung seven.’ Her voice was rough and metallic. ‘It were coming nigh on light, I know that. Had to be to make him out.’
The deputy nodded. It was the third time through the tale and he was ready to press her for details.
‘What were you doing?’
‘Emptying t’ pots. All the piss has to go somewhere, doesn’t it?’
‘Did you see where he came from?’
She shook her head quickly and took another small nip of the gin, looking fondly at the remaining liquid. ‘He were just there, so it must have been somewhere close, I know that.’
‘Could he have come through the ginnel?’
‘Mebbe,’ she said eventually, with a grudging shrug. ‘I looked up and he were crossing the street.’
‘Did you see his face?’
‘Just his back.’