Constant Lovers (5 page)

He passed a small sign guiding travellers to Gibton's Well. He'd heard of the place, that the waters there were supposed to be beneficial. For a while it had been fashionable and some of the merchants and aldermen had come out with their wives, all hoping to be healed of their aches and pains by its waters. None of them had ever looked much better.

He continued up the gentle slope, the vista spreading out green before him, sheep grazing in large white flocks.

By the time he reached Roundhay village the sun was well risen, the warmth rounding on his shoulders and leaving his throat dry. He stopped at the alehouse, letting the horse drink from the stone trough while he went inside for a mug of small beer.

It was nothing more than a ramshackle cottage with a bench and two barrels of ale resting on trestles. The woman who served him was small and old, her back bent, lines cracking deep on her face.

‘Do you know Lord Gibton?' Nottingham asked.

The woman chuckled. He could see her gnarled knuckles as she poured his ale.

‘Oh aye, Lord,' she said mysteriously, took a clay pipe from her apron and lit it, blowing smoke up to the low ceiling. The Constable waited and she continued, her voice rough and gravelly. ‘Allus had their airs, they have, thought they were better than everyone, although the family's lived almost like the rest of us longer than anyone can remember.'

She made a half-hearted attempt to wipe the table, brushing a few stale crumbs on to the earth floor with her hand, happy to continue the gossip.

‘What happened to their money?'

‘All sorts of tales,' she said dismissively. She leaned forward, bringing the smell of ancient sweat and foul breath. ‘I'll tell you what most folk round here say, though. Long time ago, they owned all this land but lost it at cards.'

‘Do you believe that?'

She shrugged. ‘All I know is they got some money again and they're back living like royalty.' She spat towards the empty hearth.

‘How long ago did that happen?' Nottingham asked.

She stopped to consider, counting back in her head.

‘About eighteen month back, something like that,' she answered finally. ‘Not too long before that little lass of theirs got wed.'

‘Sarah?'

‘Aye, only one they had. They'd had some others, but they all died. Some of them as babbies, some older. Doted on that girl, they did, couldn't do enough for her. Married her into wealth, from the way she dresses when she comes back.'

‘Does she come back often?'

The woman paused and thought. ‘Every month or so, I suppose. Hard not to notice her, way she prances around the place on her horse.'

‘So where did this all new money come from?' he wondered.

‘They
said
they'd inherited it,' she said, rolling her eyes, every word oozing doubt. ‘I reckon it was that farmer paid for Sarah. Cost him enough if it was, mind.'

‘What?' He couldn't believe that. He knew well enough about the dowries many women brought to marriage, anything from land and coin to a small chest of sheets, but he'd never heard of a man paying to wed a girl. ‘Where did you hear that?'

‘Summat folks have said here and there,' the woman said with a small air of defiance. ‘Makes sense enough. There's no one to leave brass to the Gibtons.'

He considered the idea. Who'd sell their daughter that way? But the more the thought lingered, the more he had to admit that it could happen. With the rich, everything was wealth and power, however they could obtain it.

‘Where do they live now?'

‘Moved out the village.' She clicked her tongue at the idea. ‘They used to have a cottage close to the crossroads but they left that. It was a pretty enough place, too, bigger than most. If you want to find them, go along the old Roman road, the one that goes to Moortown. There's a house about half a mile down, set back behind some trees. That's what they bought with their fortune.'

He thanked her and set off, leaving an extra coin for the information she'd given him. The place was easy enough to spot, the only building on the horizon, but first he paused to glance at their old house. Perhaps the woman had been right and it had been pretty enough once, but neglect had very quickly eroded its beauty. Now the garden was overgrown, an unkempt tangle, slates hung loose on the roof, windows and door gone, salvaged by the other villagers.

A few minutes later, as he rode down the driveway, he could see that the house the Gibtons had moved to was neither new nor especially grand. It looked like the home of a moderately prosperous squire. But it had pleasing, even proportions, and was built of ruddy brick with neatly mullioned windows. The grounds were carefully tended, and it was certainly several steps up from where they'd lived before. He glanced back over his shoulder. The cottage stood in the far distance, its outline faintly visible through a thin copse. How far they'd come, but what a small distance. How long before they had it pulled down, he wondered, and rewrote their history?

A breathless young serving girl dashed out to meet him, bobbing a quick curtsey even as her eyes took in his old clothes.

‘I'd like to speak to Lord Gibton,' Nottingham announced. She ducked her head swiftly and ran back in the house. He tied the horse's reins to a tree and waited.

He'd met people with titles before. At first he'd been nervous, unsure how to address them, how to act around them. Some had quickly put him at ease, pleasant fellows with easy, open manners. Most, however, took their superiority for granted, as if the world had been created solely for their ease.

Baron Gibton was going to be one of the latter, the Constable thought as the man came down the steps. He was a scrawny man, hardly any meat on his bones, with a deeply lined, careworn face under a glossy auburn peruke. He was dressed in a suit of deep burgundy velvet, the tails of his draped canary waistcoat hanging close to his knees, his stock and hose an unblemished white. In London he'd have fitted in perfectly; out here, surrounded by countryside, he just looked affected and ridiculous.

‘The girl says you want to see me,' he said briskly, eyes appraising Nottingham's appearance. ‘Who are you, anyway?'

‘I'm the Constable of Leeds, my Lord.' Nottingham didn't bow or look down deferentially at the ground. ‘I'm here about your daughter.'

Gibton stared for a few moments and then pursed his mouth, showing sharp teeth behind thin lips.

‘Come in. I don't want everyone knowing my business.'

He turned quickly on his heel and strode inside.

The withdrawing room smelt heavily of wax polish. It was sparsely furnished with just a few pieces artfully placed, and looked strangely incomplete. The upholstered settle appeared recently purchased, its fabric still bright and unworn. A portrait of the baron and his wife, the paint barely dry, hung over the fireplace. Gibton sat down without offering any refreshment or comfort.

‘A Constable doesn't come with good news,' he said gravely.

‘No, your Lordship,' he admitted. ‘Do you want your wife here?'

The man waved his hand dismissively. ‘I'll tell her everything myself later. Is Sarah dead?'

‘I'm sorry, she is.'

Lord Gibton looked into the empty hearth, not showing any emotion, and the Constable was astonished and baffled by the man's attitude. It wasn't the way a father should act. If it had been Emily he'd have railed and needed to know every detail.

‘I believed she must be when her husband came here two days ago.' His voice was low and even. ‘A girl like Sarah doesn't simply vanish.'

‘She was found on Saturday,' Nottingham began to explain. ‘We didn't know who she was.'

Gibton waved away his words. ‘I don't want to know,' he said. ‘Not now.' His hands rubbed over his knees, a gesture without thought, just something to do.

‘Yes, my Lord,' the Constable agreed reluctantly, amazed at the man's lack of interest. ‘There's one thing I have to tell you, though.'

‘What's that?' Gibton didn't even turn his head.

‘She'd been murdered.'

‘I'd surmised that much, Mister  . . . Nottingham, was that it?' There was flintiness in his voice. ‘You'd hardly ride out here for a simple death.'

‘When she left to come here, her maid was with her. That's what her husband said.'

‘Yes. Anne had been her maid for years. Sarah never went anywhere without her.'

‘No one's seen the maid.'

Gibton looked up at him, engaged and curious for the first time. ‘Are you implying Anne might have had something to do with this?'

‘I'm not implying anything. I'm just trying to establish facts, my Lord.'

He considered that and nodded finally.

‘Where did Anne come from?' Nottingham asked.

Gibton sighed. ‘She was a village girl, the same as the girl we have now. Tell me, did you stop in the village, Constable?'

‘Yes,' Nottingham admitted. ‘I needed directions here.'

‘And what did they tell you? That we were above ourselves?' He didn't wait for an answer. ‘My family used to own all this land. All of it. Then my sot of a great-grandfather gambled almost all of it away. There was a small amount left, enough to live but not in any kind of comfort or style. Still, my wife insisted that Sarah should have a maid. A girl needs that. None of them around here liked it. And they think even worse of us now we've inherited a little money.'

The Constable made no response. He didn't like this man, apparently so unconcerned about the killing of his daughter but taken over and eaten through with money and position. He wanted to be away from here, out in the clean air. He'd done what he needed to do and broken the news. He'd be back, he knew that, but only once he knew what questions to ask. Quietly he took his leave of the baron and let the horse make its own slow way back into Leeds as he thought.

Everything felt wrong in the Gibtons' house. He didn't know what to make of it, but there was a darkness, a chill there that disturbed him.

Six

Sedgwick eased himself slowly down on the bed and sighed with exhaustion.

‘That feels better.'

Lizzie grinned at the pained look on his face and the way he stretched out his long legs.

‘I thought you'd said you'd been sitting down all day.'

‘Aye, on a bloody cart.' He shifted position carefully. ‘My arse feels like someone's spent the last few hours kicking it. I don't suppose we have any ale, do we?'

‘Aye, I bought some today, fresh brewed from old Mrs Simpson.'

‘Would you be a love and pour me some?'

She raised her eyebrows. ‘What did your last slave die of, then?' she asked, but a smile played gently across her face as she moved towards his mug.

As she passed it over, he took her hand. ‘I do love you, you know,' he told her.

‘You'd better,' she answered, eyes twinkling. ‘That's your baby I'm carrying inside me.'

He drank deep, almost emptying the mug, then asked, ‘So when  . . .?'

‘When's it due, you mean?'

‘Yes.'

‘Late February or early March, close as I can tell. But don't you be telling anyone yet, John Sedgwick. There's still a long way to go.'

‘I know,' he agreed, standing up gingerly to take her in his arms. The truth was that he was eager to tell everyone, to let them all share his joy. Lizzie was right though, he knew that. He sounded out the months in his head. She was barely two months gone, and there was too much that could happen before the baby arrived.

The door crashed wide and James bustled in, running straight for his father and grasping him firmly round the legs. He'd become a solid little lad with a strong grip and a ready smile. At four he kept growing out of the clothes the deputy scrounged for him, and the knees of his breeches were always ripped from playing; Lizzie seemed to spend most evenings working with a needle and thread.

‘And what have you been doing?'

‘Me and Mark and Andrew went down to the bridge and we threw sticks.' The words came out in a breathless, eager stream, almost tumbling over each other. ‘And we ran over to watch them come out the other side.'

‘Did you? Who won?'

‘Mark, because he had the best sticks, he said.'

‘Maybe you'll win next time.' Sedgwick's face turned serious. ‘You watch yourself on the bridge, though. I've told you before. The carts and horses always go too fast there.' He waited until the boy gave him a grin then tousled his thick hair. ‘Now go on, your mam's got something for you to eat.'

And she'd become the lad's mother, he thought as he watched Lizzie cut bread and cheese and pour a cracked cup of small beer for James. More of one than Annie, his wife, had ever been. She wiped away his tears, cleaned his grazes and cuts, and loved him fiercely.

He felt lucky she'd come along, and he still wasn't completely sure what she saw in him. At first, once she'd moved in, he'd been scared, fearful of how fragile things could be, that she'd just up and leave. After the first three months he began to understand that she was here to stay, that they'd made a family of sorts, one where there was love and joy. Now he couldn't think of coming home to not find her here, welcoming, funny, warm. And the idea of being a father again, of her giving birth to his child, sent a surge of pleasure through him.

‘What are you smiling at, John?' she asked.

‘I'm just happy.'

She looked at him tenderly. ‘I am too, love.'

Nottingham arrived at the jail early. He threw out the pair of grumbling drunks who'd been brought in the night before, then went to summon a baker to the Petty Sessions for selling adulterated bread.

A few faint, high clouds trailed across the towering sky as he ambled back down Kirkgate from the bakery on Lands Lane. It was going to be another hot day. He ran a finger under his collar to loosen it from his skin, the flesh already damp against his fingers.