One Month to Markham

On December 8, 2014 By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

It’s four weeks until the publication of Dark Briggate Blues, set in Leeds in 1954 and featuring enquiry agent Dan Markham. It’s 50s English provincial noir, Northern noir if you like, and very full of Leeds at the time, including the jazz club Studio 20, which was downstairs at 20, New Briggate (where Sela Bar now stands).

It is, I hope, a very dark book. That was my intention. And to whet your appetite, here’s another little extract. You can pre-order it here. And it’s in paperback, people, paperback!

Although it’s not out until the New Year, I would like to point out that I have several other Leeds books out there – the Richard Nottingham series and the first in my new Tom Harper Victorian series, God of Gold. They (ahem) make wonderful Christmas presents, whether in hard copy or ebook. Thank you, and back to your regularly scheduled broadcast.

The ‘phone rang before he had a chance to sit down, the bell ringing loud and urgent.
He answered with the number and heard the clunk of coins dropping in a telephone box.
‘Mr Markham?’ a man’s voice said.
‘That’s right.’
‘I understand that you’re missing something.’ The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he drew in a breath without thinking. The Webley stolen from his desk. ‘Well, Mr Markham? Do you know what I mean?’
‘I do,’ he answered quietly. ‘Who are you?’
‘Tell me,’ said the caller, ignoring the question, ‘would you like the return of the … item? Or perhaps I should see it ends up in official hands?’
He didn’t know the voice. Not local. From the South. Long vowels.
‘What do you want?’
‘Many things, Mr Markham.’ The man sounded amused, in control and taking his time. ‘But for the moment I’ll settle for your attention.’
‘You have it,’ he said.
‘Do you know the Adelphi?’
‘Yes.’ It was a grubby old Victorian pub at the top of Hunslet Lane, just over the river.
‘Be in there at, oh, let’s say one o’clock. I’ll tell you more then.’
‘How will I know you?’
The voice turned to a chuckle.
‘You won’t need to, Mr Markham. After all, I know you.’
The line went dead. Markham replaced the receiver and looked at the clock. A little after noon. Soon enough he’d know exactly who was so keen to set him up. Someone had known he was back in the office. Why, he wondered? What the hell was going on?
In the service, as part of his military intelligence training, they’d taught him how to shadow someone and how to throw off a tail. Everything hammered into him in drill after drill. He’d never been as good as some of the others. His friend, Ged Jones, seemed able to disappear in a crowd. But Markham could get by. He walked out purposefully, taking a quick note of the faces on the street as he crossed Briggate, slipped through County Arcade and Cross Arcade, then along Fish Street, ending up staring at the reflections in a window on Kirkgate to see who was behind him.
The man was an amateur. By the time he came out into Kirkgate he was almost running, staring around nervously until he spotted Markham. Older, NHS specs, his overcoat buttoned up and belted with a scarf at the neck and a hat was pulled down on a ruddy, jowly face. It was no one he recognised, no one he could remember ever seeing. But the face was imprinted on his memory now.
He set off again, ambling back to Briggate and stopping often, then down to the bridge over the river Aire. The buildings were old, decayed and black from a hundred or more years of dirt that had built up layer on layer.
The Adelphi probably hadn’t changed since the turn of the century. An old gas lamp still hung over the front door. Inside, the pub was dark wood, dull brass and bevelled etched glass, all neglected and in need of a thorough cleaning. At the bar he ordered an orange squash.
A table and two chairs sat in the middle of the snug. This room was different; freshly scrubbed, the hearth black-leaded, tiles gleaming and windows shining.
‘Have a seat, Mr Markham,’ the man by the window said. The voice on the telephone. He checked his wristwatch. ‘You’re right on time.’ He smiled. ‘Punctuality is a good sign.’
‘Of what?’
‘An organised man.’ He was probably in his late forties but well-kept, broadly built, neat dark hair shot through with grey. His nose had been broken in the past and there were small scars across his knuckles. But he didn’t have the look of a bruiser. His eyes shone with intelligence. The dark suit was costly, a subdued pinstripe, cut smartly enough to hide the start of a belly. The tie was real silk. He sat and gestured at the chair opposite. ‘We have things to talk about.’

A Christmas Story

On December 6, 2014 By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

For the last several years, each Christmas I’ve written a story for the incredibly supportive Leeds Book Club. 2014 is no exception. This time it features Annabelle Harper, who some of you might already know from Gods of Gold. This is set between that book and the sequel, Two Bronze Pennies, which will be published in the UK in April 2015. Want to read it? Go here.

Five Stone Crosses – 946 AD

On December 1, 2014 By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

I’d expected a mean little place, like the other Saxon villages in the kingdom. But as we approached, with the horses whinnying at some smell or other, it took me by surprise.
It was neat, cleaner than I’d imagined. The people looked well-fed, eyeing us with quiet suspicion as we arrived. Five of us, myself and four warriors. They were frightening, intelligent men with piercing eyes and dark glances. They’d proved themselves in battle often enough. A good escort for a holy man.
Loidis had a church, that was something I hadn’t seen too often. It was wood, rough-hewn but carefully built. Their God might not be ours, but they worshipped him well. And outside stood five tall stone crosses, heavily carved and decorated with ornaments, scrolls and figures. I could pick out Weyland the Smith in one, from the story they love to tell at night. On others, there were angels, men, who knew what.
I dismounted, looking around. A man approached me hesitantly, bowing his head a little.
‘You’re welcome here, my Lord,’ he said. ‘I’m Hereward. The thane here.’
‘Gunderic.’ I nodded at him. ‘Where are they?’
‘Not here yet. One of my men spotted them a few minutes ago, still two miles away. Would you like something to drink after your ride?’
A girl came with a jug of ale and mugs. Out here we were on the edge of the kingdom. Our land, the Norse land, ended at the river a few yards away and on the hills to the west. It was autumn weather, most of the leaves already fallen, the branches as barren as crows. A grey sky and always the promise of rain on this damned island.
‘King Erik, is he well?’ Hereward asked. Inside, I smiled. Erik’s name was one to make any Saxon nervous. The Bloodaxe, they called him. It was true that he’d used the weapon often enough, but not for a few years now. These were the days of ruling, of words and diplomacy. Instead of the longships, we made marriage with the locals. I had, and Erik, too. His wife was the daughter of a nobleman from Strathclyde.
‘He’s in good health. Still strong as an ox.’ Keep them wary of the man I’d served for twenty years, in Denmark and now here. We’d started as raiders and now people fawned in front of us. We were starting out own dynasties in Jorvik, a kingdom that might include all of England one day.
But not yet. That was why I was in this village of Loidis, standing close to the river, waiting to conduct a favoured guest back to meet my master.
‘This church of yours,’ I said, walking towards it. ‘What are these crosses for?’ I’d been all over the area in the last few years, but I’d never seen anything quite like this.’
‘To commemorate men who’ve died, Lord,’ Hereward answered. ‘Their sons have them carved as memorials.’
‘Why here?’ I wondered.
‘There’s a ford at the river.’ He pointed to a shallow area of the water. ‘Plenty of people cross here. Some stay.’
Not many, from the look of the place. Houses spread in a line away from the church. Clean enough, yes, but hardly busy. I doubted there could be more than two hundred people in the whole of Loidis. But it had the church, more than most of these places. And it had these strange crosses.
A man ran up and spoke to Hereward.
‘Cadroe will be here in a minute. King Domnall’s come with him.’
I straightened my back. Royalty to escort the holy man? This journey was taking strange turns. They obviously treated this Cadroe with honour, so we had to do the same. But I was an important man in this kingdom. Not a king, perhaps, but certainly a lord, with lands of my own. Fit to meet him and take him to Erik.
Ten of them. Domnall, his housecarls, heavily armed and glanced around constantly. They eyed my warriors with suspicion. And on a small mare, a thin man, simply dressed, his wild hair going grey. Cadroe. The holy man.
At first he didn’t seem so remarkable. Then he turned to gaze at me and I saw his eyes. There was something in them, some fire, some certainty and passion. I’d never seen a look like it before.
But I knew my graces. First a bow to greet the king.
‘Your Majesty.’ My voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘I’m Gunderic, sent by King Erik to make sure his guest reaches Jorvik safely. He welcomes you all to his kingdom.’
No answer, other than a short nod of acknowledgment. I turned to Cadroe.
‘My master looks forward to meeting and talking with you, sir.’
‘And I look forward to seeing my dear Æthelberta again.’ His eyes twinkled.
‘My Lord?’
‘Not Lord, not Sir. I don’t have a title and don’t want one,’ he said.
‘You’re related to the king’s wife?’ I’d never heard this.
‘Distantly, but yes. I’m related to Domnall, too.’ He tilted his head towards the king who was talking to the thane. ‘And we’re all God’s children, too.’ For a moment I thought he was teasing. But the smile on his lips wasn’t mocking me.
‘King Erik is expecting us in Jorvik,’ I told him, looking up at the sky. We’d spent the night in Sherburn and set out early to meet Cadroe; we’d be expected before nightfall.
‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘But first, please, I’d like to preach for the people here. They rarely see a priest.’ He looked at me. ‘For their souls.’
Who was I to disagree? Treat him with respect; those had been my orders. As long as he didn’t take too long, we’d have time.
A work with Hereward, the sharp ringing of the bell that seemed to fill the sky. Another few minutes and the villagers came. A rag-tag bunch, the children as filthy as boys and girls anywhere. The women scared, full of tales about the Northmen. The men all farmers, with rough hands and weatherbeaten skin.
Once they’d gathered, Cadroe stood in front of the crosses and began to speak swiftly in his Saxon tongue. I spoke it passingly well – I had a Saxon wife myself, and my children switched between Norse and Saxon as if they were one language – but it always seemed ugly and guttural to my ears.
But a strange thing happened. As Cadroe spoke, it seemed to make on a musicality, a beauty I’d never noticed before. His words came quickly, too fast for me to follow them all. I glanced at the man quickly, then again. Before, he’d seemed small, someone not to be noticed in a crowd. Now he seemed taller, broader, and it seemed there was a light around him. I closed my eyes then looked again. But it was still there.
He spoke for five minutes, standing in front of those carved memories to man. I could understand how people thought him holy. There was some quality about him, something larger than any of us there, bigger than flesh, deeper than blood.
Cadroe finished with the sign of the cross and the words, ‘May God go with you and protect you.’
And then, as his mouth closed and he began to walk towards me, he became an ordinary man again, with his grey hair, the lines on his face and thin body.
I didn’t understand it. I couldn’t explain it. But I’d ask him on the journey. We had ample time in the saddle ahead of us.
In less than five minutes we were ready to leave. Before I could mount my horse, though, Domnall beckoned me over.
‘My Lord?’ I asked.
‘You saw, didn’t you?’ I opened my mouth to lie, but he continued, ‘I watched your face. He has the message of God on his tongue for all who’ll listen. Please, make sure your king listens to him.’
‘That’s my Lord’s choice,’ I reminded him.
‘Of course.’ Domnall smiled easily. ‘But give your Lord one message from me, please. Tell him that men prosper more in peace than in war.’
‘I will, your Majesty.’
I climbed into my horse and we began to ride away.

Historical note: In the Life of St. Cadroe, he’s remembered as crossing between the kingdom of Strathclyde (ruled by Domnall) and the Norse kingdom (ruled by Eric Bloodaxe) at Loidis – the Saxon name for Leeds. It was a village on the border, used for crossings, and that gave it stature, even if it was still very small. When Leeds Parish Church was being rebuilt in 1838 workmen discovered pieces from five stone crosses that were dated back to the ninth and 10th centuries. The fragments have been put together to make the Leeds Cross, which now stands in Leeds Minster.
These could have been preaching crosses, which predated churches. But those would generally have come from an earlier period. It’s far more likely that they were memorials erected to commemorate important people. Why would that be in Leeds? We’ll never really know, but it’s an indication that the village had real value importance, certainly to the wealthy individuals who commissioned the crosses.

Home – An Older Richard Nottingham Story

On November 28, 2014 By chrisnickson2In shelterLeave a comment

Home was one of the first Richard Nottingham stories I wrote, not long after I’d completed The Broken Token, and it was the first piece with him to see print, in the anthology Criminal Tendencies. It’s also been in another collection to raise funds for the charity Shelter. But it’s Friday, it’s been a while since I dusted this off, so sit back and enjoy. Even though Richard’s hardly in it, another old favourite is featured…

Revenge.
He savoured the word on his tongue, letting it run like an infection through his veins, thinking it remarkable what a fire burning in a man could do. It could keep him alive all these lonmg years away and then bring him back home.
“Nicholas Andrews, I sentence you to seven years’ transportation,” the judge had intoned, allowing himself a merciful smile at keeping another felon from the gallows dance, and all for the crime of cutting a few purses. He could still hear the words with their sumg inflection and feel his hands gripping the polished wood of the dock.
He’d expect things to be bad, but the truth proved far more cruel than anything he could have imagined. Puking his empty guts out in the hold of the ship, fettered hard and helpless as the guards and sailors taunted him. Then, in Jamaica, a heat so harsh and hellish he thought it might burn the skin from his back, so intense the thought the devil was pricking his lungs. They’d set him to work cutting the sugar cane, day after day out in the steaming, stinking fields, wounds from the machete festering on his hands and arms, healing slowly and painfully as he prayed with quiet fury for his preservation. For the chance of revenge.
He survived two bouts of fever, raving off his head and swearing murder, so they told him later as he lay in bed, thin as a pauper’s dog and so weak he couldn’t even raise his hand to take they drink they offered.
It was education that saved him, those brief years he’d hated of sums and making his letters. After the clerk died, the plantation owner had needed someone who could read and write and Nick had pushed himself forward, grovelling and despising himself for his arse-licking words, but knowing it was better – that anything was better – then serving the rest of his sentence in the cane.
The job became his life, and he was good at it, quickly trusted for his accurate accounting and good hand. The master never suspected the occasional coins he filched and buried in the dirt beneath a tree.
Every single morning he formed his lips to spit the name of the man he hated – Richard Nottingham, Constable of Leeds, the man who’d caught him, put him in gaol and landed him here. He’d have his blood for that. Seven deep cuts from the knife, one for each year he’d been gone, the last gentle and loving across the throat so he could watch the man’s life bubble away in hopeless breaths. And tell him just why before he died.
When his freedom finally came, the days ticking slow like a clock running down, the ticket of leave in the pocket of his threadbare coat, the owner asked him to stay. Nick looked at him as if the words made no sense. All he knew now was home and the flame buring strong and hot in his heart.

The ship landed in Liverpool in January 1732. The money he’d stolen at the plantation had paid for his passage and food, hard tack riddled with weevils and small beer turned sour before the gale-ridden crossing was halfway complete.
He arrived penniless to an England that seemed like a foreign land, in the grip of a bitter, bruising winter which had no mercy. It was no work at all for him to cut the purses of a pair of drunken sailors, the skills of his old life still sharp. He ignored the port whores, all pox-ridden, rowdy and consumptive, and bought a hot meal and a bed from the night instead. In the mirror he caught a glimpse of himself, his shoulders stooped, face burned dark and lined, hair matted and hanging to his shoulders, thin and grey though he wasn’t yet thirty. He pulled the worn blanket over his body. There were fleas in the sheets, but at least the bed didn’t rock and shiver in the waves. The next morning, without a second thought, he turned his back on the coast and began walking east.
By the time he reached Winnat’s Pass the pain from the cold weather had seared to his bones and his old boots were ribbons of leather, feet flayed and bloody from the stones and ice on the roadway. But he was lucky, finding a stranger for company whose corpse at least provided new shoes, even if it added nothing to his small supply of coins; when the snow melted in the spring they’d find the body and never know what happened.
From Sheffield he made his way north, face set tight against the snow and the chill, the ragged coat held tight around his body as the gusts tore at his cheeks more brutally than any overseer’s whip.
He passed Wakefield in the early dusk. His money was running precious thin and he was looking at a hungry, freezing night burrowed in a copse when he saw the farmer, a florid man with ugly, fat thighs jiggling in his breeches as he walked briskly home through the fields.
It took little to slice him, pull the body into the trees and take the rich, warm coat. There were coins in the waistcoat, enough to see him to Leeds.
Back to his home.
Back to Richard Nottingham.
Back to kill.

He crossed Leeds Bridge in the late morning, blending with the market crowds, and heard the traders shilling their wares up on Briggate. The snow piled against the houses and walls and soot-blackened, the slush icy and treacherous in the streets. He could smell the tannery on Swine Gate and the rich earthiness and piss of the dye works down by the river. For a small moment he stopped to stare up at the bulk of the new, graceful Holy Trinity Church. Soon he was at the top of Kirkgate, watching silently as people lurched and slid around him.
He’d been standing there for nigh on two hours, his feet feeling as though he was still shackled and his hands numb from the wind’s frigid tongue, when the Constable emerged. Slowly he followed, unnoticed and invisible in the throng, beyond the Moot Hall with it’s bloody, etallic tang of butchers on the ground floor, up to the Head Row. He watched through the window as Nottingham entered Garroway’s Coffee house, hailed some men and sat with them. Steam blurred his view through the glass and he walked on.
He’d seen what he needed, and closed his eyes as a smile creased his lips. The man was still alive, still here.
He could do it tonight, he could watch in the darkness as the blood stained the snow, then he could breathe out and live again.
His fingers twitched.
No, not tonight.
He wanted the act to last, for each moment to fill him so the memories could tumble over him in all the evenings to come.
Slowly, almost carelessly, he strolled back down Briggate. He passed the Ship, once his haunt, and walked on to the Talbot.
Inside the door the noise overwhelmed him like a wave and he stood still, eyes flickering with suspicion across a press of faces. Fire leapt in the large hearth, the heat inviting and irresistible. He pushed his way onto the corner of a bench near the blaze. As one of the serving girls swept by he ordered ale and stew, the cracked, awkward sound of his own voice surprising him.
Tomorrow he’d done it. The debt would be paid, he could leave Leeds and reallt feel like a free man.
The warmth of the food and the sharp crackle of the logs left him weary. He needed as bed, he needed sleep; in this city that would pose no problem. First, though, he needed a woman.
The last time had been two years before. As a present to celebrate Christmas the master had presented him with a slave for one night. She lay, brown eyes wide and empty, silent as he forced himself on her. When he woke the next morning he was alone, and only the heady smell of her in the thick dawn assured him that it hadn’t been a dream.
Outside, the air was cold and the sky had stilled with early darkness. His breath clouded the air and his soles crunched over ice as a few flakes of snow fluttered half-heartedly.
She stood half on Briggate, at the corner of a yard whose name he didn’t recall. Her face was in shadow, a pathetic, patched shawl drawn across her shoulders, moonlight picking out the pale skin of her bony arms. He moved closer, astonished to find his heart pumping fast.
“Looking to warm yoursen up a bit, are you?” She tried to sound cheery but her voice quavered with the chill.
He nodded.
“Down here then love.”
He followed her into the tight entrance to the yard, still in sight of the street. As she turned towards him, a sense of relief in her smile, her hands already hoisting her skirts, he rested his blade lightly against her throat so that a paint line of red drops bloomed on her skin.
He didn’t need words; she understood. He pushed her back against the wall, tore at her clothes and entered her. Her eyes opened wider, the blank, hopeless stare an echo of the girl in Jamaica. It was only seconds later that his backhanded blow sent her to the floor, still mute, and he dashed back into Briggate, tying his breeches.

It was God’s joke, he decided, that he’d end up in a rooming house in the same yard where he’d been a boy, before his parents had died of the vomiting sickness and he’d made his way on the streets. He glanced at the old door as he passed, but any memories were held like secrets behind the wood. It was just one night then he’d be finished here, on his way to York or London, to anywhere a man could disappear and start life anew. There was only one tie here and he’d loosen it soon enough.
The dank room already held two men with ale heavy on their breath, their sleeping farts sweetening the air. He lay on the straw pallet fully clothed, the wretched rag of a blanket over him, and drifted away.

Something cold and metallic was pushing against his mouth. Confused, still sleep-drunk, he thought it was a dream and struggled to open his eyes, pawing at his face with one hand.
“Sit up.”
The words came as a command, colder than the bitter air in the room. Without even thinking, he sat up. Thin, early light came through a window covered by years of grime.
The man towered over him, seeming to fill the space, his presence full of menace. He was tall, with unkempt grey hair, his face lined, but his back was straight and his chest wide under dirty clothes. One large fist held a silver-topped walking stick lightly.
He knew who this was; it was impossible to have lived on the edge of the law in Leeds and not know. Amos Worthy.
“I hear you were with one of my girls last night.” The man’s eyes were dark, his voice slow, as deep and resonant as any preacher. “You didn’t pay here. I can’t allow that.” He paused, letting the words hang ominously in the air. “But then you had to cut her, didn’t you? So now I have to make an example of you.”
Nick started to reach for the knife in his pocket. The man simply shook his head once and gestured over his shoulder. A pair of thickset youths, their faces hard and scarred, arms folded, stood inside the door. The two other beds were empty.
“I know who you are, the man said, speaking softly and conversationally. “Oh aye, you’ve got the Indies burned on your face, Nick Andrews. Seven years is a long time away from home.”
All he could do was nod. Whatever words he’d once possessed had deserted him. Worthy was offhand, easy in his certainty and Nick felt the piss burn hot down his leg as his bladder emptied. He was going to die here, in this room, in this bed, before he could finish his work. And all for a few short seconds with a whore.
“All that time doesn’t seem to have made you any wiser, laddie. Just back, are you?”
Nick nodded again.
“A short homecoming, then.” He raised his thick eyebrows. “You crossed me. You can’t do that here.”
He brought his stick down hard. Nick saw it fall, quick, effortless, but it burst his nose, the shock of pain hard and sudden, blood gushing chokingly into his mouth.
“You can kill him now, boys. You know what to do with the body.”

The Murderer of Calverley Old Hall

On November 26, 2014 By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

‘He won’t plead, my Lord.’
‘Have you pressed him?’ Baron Cobham asked the gaoler.
‘We have, my Lord. See for yourself.’ He opened the door to the room. Walter Calverley lay there on the stone floor, wrists and ankles chained so his body made an X. A door had been placed on top of him, piled with rocks.
‘You know the law,’ Cobham said as he studied Calverley’s face. There must have been a hundredweight on top of him, but he didn’t show any pain. Just the fire of fury in his eyes. ‘He’s a lunatic. Press him until he says he’s guilty or not. He’s killed two of his children and came damn close to murdering his wife, too. He’d have had the last boy if the villagers hadn’t caught him. Press him.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ the gaoler said as the Baron walked away along the corridor of York Castle.

It hadn’t always been this way, Walter Calverley thought. He hadn’t always been a madman, had he? He could remember times when he’d been happy. Back when he’d been young, and the grounds of the Old Hall in Calverley seemed to stretch forever. But then, back in ’72, his father had died and the world seemed to slow as it span around the sun.
Walter had titles now: the squire of six manors, in Fagley, Farsley, Bolton, Burley-in Wharfedale, Eccleshill, and Seacroft. He’d learned them like a rhyme. They were his, but he was too young to understand what that meant. He had money, his mother said. But he’d always had money, never wanted for anything. He had responsibilities, but what were they? He didn’t know, and when they tried to tell him, he no longer cared. A cup or two of wine, maybe more, a good game of cards, that was the life.
It stayed that way when he went to Cambridge in May of ’79. He met good fellows there, carousers all of them. The days for sleeping, the nights for pleasure. Exactly how it should be for a young man.
But it palled quickly enough, and by October he was back in Calverley, much to the displeasure of his guardian, Baron Cobham.
And it was there he met Catherine. The same name as his mother. A sweet, pretty girl. How had he never seen her before? Her father’s farm back on to the grounds of the hall. She was a girl with a winsome face and a gentle manner, the kind for love, not sport. And in her, he believed he saw someone who could change him for the better. He asked her to marry him and she agreed.
It all changed with Cobham’s summons to London. The note was curt, but Walter knew he had to obey. Cobham held the purse strings and decided how much money he could receive until he came of age.
Nigh on a week’s journey until he was in the house on Thames Street, the capital a bustle of noise and sounds and smells around him. The garden ran down to the river, masts ranged like a forest on the water.
‘Write to her,’ Cobham ordered him. ‘She does read, doesn’t she?’
‘Of course.’
‘Tell her it’s over, that on reflection she’s not suitable.’
‘I love her.’
Cobham’s stare was cold.
‘What does that matter? If you love her, take her on the side once you’re properly wed. Marriage is for gain and bringing heirs into the world. If you want passion, find it in the arms of a whore. You’re here because you have a duty to do. Or would you rather starve until you’re twenty-one?’
He had him by the ballocks, and Walter knew it. He was weak. He sent the letter that night.
‘Here’s the girl you’re going to marry.’ He nodded and the servant opened the door and ushered in a girl with an eager, curdled gaze.
‘Philippa.’ Cobham smiled. ‘Meet the man who’ll be your husband.’ Walter stood and bowed. ‘Walter, this is my granddaughter, Philippa Brooke. I’ve considered it all, and this will be a good match for you both. And when you marry, boy, control of all the estates will become yours.’

All his. All gone now.
They’d read the banns that first Sunday in London, and the two that came after, and then the wedding. A dazzling affair. But the problems began as soon as they came north, to the Old Hall. It was uncivilised up here, she complained.
Her tongue was as sharp as any knife and it never ceased. Every little thing had to be picked apart, until he stormed out, down to the inn, to dice and drink. Sometimes into Leeds for company. Once, out hawking, he saw Catherine riding with a man. She had a new suitor, he’d heard. Rage rose in him like water in a vessel. He could have been happy with her. If he’d stood his ground, but he didn’t have any courage. He spurred the horse and galloped to the inn, drinking himself insensible.
He did his duty and produced heirs, bawling, puking boys to take his place in time: William, Walter, and Henry. The nursemaid cared for them. Dutifully she presented them for his inspection. Walter was four, polite and fearful to the point of annoyance. Walter not old enough to speak yet, just a year and a half, and Henry out with the wet nurse in the village.
And the money? That was all gone, not that there ever was as much as he’d imagined. Cobham had had his hands in the fortune, he was sure of that. It was the man’s way. But with a wife and three brats, as well as his own pleasure and the expenses of the estates, the coffers were bare.
He lived on credit, and soon enough there’d be no more of that.
There were days he’d walk out of the Old Hall, climb to the top of the moor, where none could see or hear him, and scream until his voice was hoarse. It was the only way to take the pressure from his mind, to stop feeling as if his head would explode as his problems crowded around him.
Then, once he was home, Philippa would ask where he’d been. Questions, accusations. She loved him no more than he loved her. But where he wanted none of her, she used every word as a dagger to slit his skin.

St George’s Day. The village taking the holiday and celebrating. Walter had been up an hour, his head pounding from the drink of the night before, when the servant showed in the messenger. Three letters, two of them from creditors to toss on the fire.
The last from his cousin, Mark. He’d been at Cambridge with Mark’s brother, Richard. As good a man as ever lived, a drinker, a man to wager and whore with at night.

News, cousin, and bad tidings at that: Richard has been taken by the law and put in prison for a debt at Cambridge. Six pounds. Our father won’t pay it, saying Richard can rot in gaol for a year. I have no money, save what my father gives me. So I have to look to his friends on his behalf…
Walter tore it up and threw it into the flames. He could no more help Richard than he could help himself. And he knew the debt. He knew it well. It was his. Signing for food and drink and new suits of clothes in Richard’s name. A joke. It had seemed a good one at the time, with no thought of consequence.
He couldn’t raise that amount, not now. His life was broken and others were paying the price.

He drank steadily, all through the day. The only person he’d allow in the room was his servant, bringing more wine, ale, brandy, whatever was in the house. When Philippa tried to enter he threw a piece of plate at her head, ranting and raging.
It was all her fault. If he could have married Catherine, she could have saved him. He’d have known the happiness he’d experienced when he was young and life was just innocence and simple fun.
By evening he had his plan. He’d sweep away this life, destroy it. Make himself clean again. He’d go to Catherine and beg her. Ask for his salvation.
With his dagger in his hand, Walter climbed the stair. He threw the door of the nursery open. Walter and William asleep in their beds, so easy to kill. Five thrusts each, his tears coming as he did it. Tears of joy. Tears of freedom.
He was striding back along the corridor when Philippa came out of her room, hair down, wearing her nightgown, a shawl gathered around her shoulders. He struck at her, seeing her blood run, hearing her cry out.
Outside, in the stable, he saddled his favourite mare. One more thing to do until he was clean again, until he could make his fresh start with Catherine. He rode out of the gate, spirits soaring for the first time since he’d put the ring on the woman’s finger.
The word passed faster than he could ride. In the darkness he lost his path twice, tracking back. The village with Henry and his wet nurse was no more than a mile, but he was damned if he could find it in the night. And when he did come to the right track, the village men were waiting, dragging him off the horse and taking him to the magistrate.
Murder, they called it, and carried him off to gaol. Not even to Leeds, but all the way to Wakefield.

And now it was August, hot even in the depths of York Castle. He lay, listening and the gaoler asked him one more how he wanted to plead, before he added another stone. But when the man didn’t understand was that every weight on his chest took the load from his heart. And once his chest was crushed and all the life was gone, well, then he’d find his freedom. At last.

Historical Note: The facts of this tale are true, and Walter Calverley was pressed to death on the orders of the Star Chamber after he refused to plead on the killings of two of his sons and the wounding of his wife. By then he was in debt, and the letter saying an old friend was in jail for a debt of Walter’s, dating back to his student days, seems to have finally turned his mind. He died in York on August 5, 1605. There are claims that his ghost can be seen at night, riding a black horse and waving a bloodstained dagger, on the lanes around St. Wilfrid’s Church in Calverley, where he’s buried.

The First Recorded Murder In Leeds – 1318

On November 25, 2014 By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

Sunday, with only the prospect of piety until bed. Robert de Ledes was bored and it wasn’t yet eight in the morning. He’d washed and broken his fast, just waiting until it was time to leave for service. A purse dangled by its strings from his belt. He reached into it and toyed with the pair of dice.
What use was a bloody Sunday? He could have been hunting or gambling instead of listening to the priest and bowing his head with the others in Leeds. So many of them stank, their clothes as filthy as the hovels where they lived.
With a sigh Robert strapped on his sword. It was a good weapon, a gift from his father, with silver on the pommel and brass worked into the scabbard. A rich man’s weapon, and why not? The family was had money, more than most in the ville. North Hall stood near the top of Briggate, built just twenty years earlier, before the bad weather had started turning the crops foul, year after year.
Some starved, but his father made sure the family wasn’t among them. Money meant power, and his father used it well.
Down by Kirkgate he spotted William de Wayte. An idiot who believed himself a thinker. Ungainly, with no charm beyond his ability to lose at dice. More money than brains. He was with his page and John de Manston, a cousin visiting from somewhere – William had told him, but he’d forgotten.
‘Well met,’ Robert cried, and soon the pair of them were throwing the dice against the wall of a house while de Manston and the page strolled on to the church. The bell was just beginning to peal for service when Robert give a final flick of his wrist. A six and a one.
‘Seven,’ he told William. ‘I win.’ He began to rise, scooping up the dice and putting them into his purse. ‘You can settle with me later.’
‘I won’t pay a cheat. I didn’t see what came up on that last throw.’
‘Be careful with that tongue,’ Robert warned. ‘You saw it as well as I did: six and one. Or are you calling me a liar.’
‘I’m calling you a cheat.’
Without even thinking, Robert drew his dagger, blade glinting in the summer light, and advanced on William.
‘Do you think you’re man enough?’ he asked with relish. He knew William; they’d grown up together. Brave enough with some friends behind him, a coward on his enough.
‘Enough!’
Robert turned and saw the reeve coming towards him, a look like fury on his face. His assistant came behind, a burly mean with a rough face, the miller alongside, always ready for a scrap. Robert lowered the dagger.
‘No fighting on the Sabbath,’ the reeve said. Robert nodded. Eyes turned to William, who agreed reluctantly. ‘Now get to church and say your penance.’
He snored through the service, the Latin that no one but the priest understood. The summer’s day was warm, the smell from the bodies around him rank. Robert only stirred for the final blessing, staying to talk to the priest and explain why his father hadn’t attended. He’d needed to see to his manor out by Harrogate, staying there a few days.
Finished, he strolled out into the sun, blinking and squinting. The door banged shut behind him and he heard the sexton lower the bar. The man couldn’t wait to see him gone and be done with his duties.
He’d taken a step when he saw them. William, de Manston, and the page, the three of them coming closer with their weapons drawn. Robert rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘Does it take three of you to argue with me?
‘I won’t be called a liar by you,’ William said.
Robert’s face curled into a smile.
‘What would you have me call you, then? Blind? A coward?’
The fight was quick. No more than a few seconds. Three on one was no battle. But Robert had trained with the sword. His fencing master had fought with the king and had taught him to spot an opening and strike at his enemy’s weakness.
It was over as soon as William fell to the ground, hands trying to staunch the blood spurting from his stomach.
He’d never killed a man before, but he knew, he knew, as he saw the life leave William’s eyes.
‘Christ’s blood,’ De Manston said slowly, raising his eyes to look into Robert’s face. ‘That’s murder.’ And with a yell he came on.

The air in the Marshalsea prison was foul. The vapours of the dying and the damned everywhere. At least his father’s money bought Robert a cell to himself and food from the cookshops outside the walls.
He’d wanted to see London, but not this way. On trial for his life, for the murder of William de Wayte. A matter too grave for the manor court, a capital crime that could only be judged in the capital.
And he’d been here for three months now. He lived from his father’s purse, money to pay the toothless jailer who kept him here. He are roast beef, roast chicken, the straw and the rushes in his cell changed each month.
He had visits from his lawyer, an oily, nervous man from the Inns of Court who assured him the case was progressing quickly. Another month, or two or three, and it would be heard. But no certainty about the verdict.
However he lived here, nothing could block out the screams and shouts from the prison. Those who had little, begging for something. Some relief, some end. He’d seen them taken out to be hanged, men and women with their heads bowed. Some walking, others dragged to the gallows as hundreds cheered at the spectacle.
He’d been brought here in chains that rubbed his flesh raw as he rode the King’s highway. Still had the scars on his legs and his face from when de Manston and the page fell on him. They’d beaten him bloody, the chaplain joining them. Beaten him until he passed out and then beaten him more before they rolled him into the ditch that separated the church from the graveyard. Then they’d walked away and left him for dead. If one of the North Hall servants hadn’t found him he’d have been a corpse.
As it was, he was eight weeks recovering. For three days his mother prayed over him. A physician came with his unguents and potions. And eventually he came back to life, with all the marks of what he’d endured. Then William’s father had him arrested for murder. A criminal. A killer.
Robert had given his testimony at the manor court, how he was attacked first. Now he’d have to give it again, and his life depended on that and the witnesses his father could gather.

The London jury had listened all day, first to Robert, how he’d just defended himself when he was attacked, then to the witnesses de Wayte produced. De Manston, the page, the chaplain, others who claimed to have seen things that Robert knew had never occurred. Then those for his defence. And over each testimony was the spectre of the hangman. And finally it was done, the last oath sworn, his life in the hands of the grim-faced men who shifted on their seats.
‘Robert de Ledes, the jury finds you innocent in the murder of William de Wayte. You can go from this court a free man.’
Cheers, shouts of outrage, but he barely noticed them. It was done.

Historical Note: The killing of William de Wayte by Robert de Ledes is the first recorded murder in Leeds, but in all likelihood there’d been a number that had happened in the years before. It did occur at the Parish Church, and de Ledes was beaten and left for dead after. On his recovery, charged with murder, he was taken to London to be tried. In an age where more depended on how believable and credible the witnesses seemed, he found some who carried more weight. He was found innocent of murder.

The Factory Lad’s Testimony

On November 18, 2014 By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

In 1833 the Factories Inquiry Commission investigated the employment of children and found some shocking things. But still years would pass before legislation would give kids a full childhood and the chance to learn and grow fully; their labour was too cheap for factory owners to give up easily.
One person who gave sworn testimony to the Commission was John Dawson from Leeds. This is a paraphrase of what he told them:
Yes sir, my name is John Dawson and I make my living as a tailor when I’m well enough to work. You can see, sir, that my eyesight is bad. That’s why I wear these glasses. If you ask me, it’s from the flax mills I worked in as a lad. There’s always a powerful lot of dust in the air and it does affect the eyes of some folk. I daresay as I’d be blind now if I still worked there.
I started in the mills when I was six, a doffer at Shaw and Tennant’s. The work wasn’t too hard, we had to take the full bobbins off the machines and put on empty ones. But the hours were long, six in the morning to seven at night, six days a week. I was lucky, my da was the overlooker in the room. He beat me, same way he beat the other doffers, but not too bad, not as hard as some. It was the standing all the time that was worst. Every day my knees ached.
I always wanted to learn to read and write. I went to Sunday school whenever I could, unless my ma wanted me at him with the younger bairns or I had no decent clothes or shoes. My da taught me to read, and I was middling good with the Testament.
My da left Tennant’s when I was ten, and I went with him to Garside’s Mill. They put me to work bobbin-hugging, and that was terrible hard work, sir. I had to carry around a basket full of bobbins, some of them still wet. The basket was on my bag, and big it was, held in place by a strap. I often had to carry full baskets up the stairs to the reelers. My knees were so bad that I had to stop after two or three years. You could see them, all bent, but we had no money for a doctor.
When my da and I left there we went to Clayton’s, and I was a doffer again. But the hours were bad. Sometimes five in the morning to half-past nine at night, with forty minutes for us dinner and nothing for breakfast or drinking. Wasn’t always six days, sometimes there was only enough for five or four, and we didn’t bring home enough money then. It was dangerous, too. I knew one lad whose clothes caught in an upright shaft and he closed, and there were other bad accidents I can recall, too. My da died after I’d been there a few years, and when my ma was taken ill we had to go into the workhouse. By then my knees were bent so bad I couldn’t walk more than thirty yards without a rest.
At the workhouse they taught me my trade, sir, made a tailor out of me. And I did see someone about my knees, Mr. Chorley at the infirmary. He gave me strengthening plasters and bandages and they did me some good. You can see it’s still difficult for me to walk, sir, and I need a stick to help me. But it’s better than it was, and for that I’m grateful.

November 1914

On November 6, 2014 By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

This is the third part of Jimmy Morgan’s story, to be updated month by month, until 1918, if Jimmy survives that long.

While you’re here, I’d be very grateful if you’d glance through the site and take a look at my books, too – right now all the Richard Nottingham ebooks are on sale. After all, writing is what I do (that was the ad segment).

If you’ve just arrived at this serial, the last part is here. The first part is here.

It had been a sombre Bonfire Night. No one had been in the mood, not with so many lads already away. There’d always been a big fire at the end of Jimmy’s street, boys out chumping for weeks before, stuffing straw into old clothes and begging for a farthing for the guy.
Not this time. Not when the country was at war. His mam had made parkin, Mrs. Wilson at number 36 had her special cinder toffee, but it was only the kids who were eating as the stood around the small blaze.
‘You’re eighteen tomorrow,’ Teddy Wilson said. He’d joined the month before, now he was just waiting for his notice to report.
‘Aye,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’ll be down at the depot first thing.’
Teddy glanced over at Jimmy’s parents.
‘Do they know yet?’
He didn’t answer. They must have guessed. In the last two months they’d been over it a dozen times. And from tomorrow they couldn’t stop him.
‘What about that lass you’re walking out with?’
Mary. They’d met on the second Sunday in October. The weather had been balmy, even some sun, and Jimmy had taken the tram out to Roundhay Park. They’d met in the queue for an ice cream and he’d ended up buying her a cup of tea. The next Sunday he took her to the pictures at the Hyde Park. She was a maid in one of the big houses past Headingley, but no side on her for all that. A cheeky smile and dark hair. She made him laugh, then more when she gave him a kiss.
‘I talked to her,’ Jimmy told him. ‘She’s dead proud.’
She wouldn’t be a maid much longer, she’d told him that. Soon enough they’d want women for war work, that was what she believed, and she’d be off like a shot. No more yes sir, no sir and working all hours for next to nothing. She was ambitious, was Mary, and she didn’t mind anyone knowing.

There was drizzle in the air the next morning. Jimmy washed and dressed, ready to be out of the house early. Sod work, he had something better planned. Serve the King and see a little glory while he could. If they were right he’d be home in the New Year, anyway. He’d just made a pot of tea and was scraping dripping over a slice of bread when his father came into the scullery.
‘Eighteen, then?’
‘That’s right,’ Jimmy answered.
‘Are you going to do it?’ his father asked.
‘I am.’
Terry Morgan gave a small nod.
‘I think you’re daft. But if you’re sure, cut me a piece of that loaf and I’ll come down with you.’
‘You won’t change my mind.’
‘I know that, lad,’ Terry said quietly. ‘It’s your right. But I’ll testify that you’re old enough. If I were them I’d not believe you otherwise.’

It was easily done, quick enough. In as Jimmy Morgan, out as Private Jimmy Morgan. They measured his height and his chest and gave him the nod.
‘Go home and back to work,’ the NCO told him. ‘We’ll send you a letter saying when and where to report.’ The man sounded bored, the words spoken too many times.
‘Yes, Corporal.’ Jimmy stood at attention, back straight. ‘Thank you, Corporal.’
‘Next,’ the man called, already looking down the line.
The Scarborough Taps was close by.
‘Fancy a drink?’ Terry asked. ‘Celebrate your birthday.’
‘Aye, all right,’ Jimmy said. He’d never had a drink with his father before. If they called him to fight soon, who knew when he would again?

By The Law – A New Richard Nottingham Story

On November 4, 2014November 6, 2014 By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized7 Comments

It’s been a while since I sat down with Richard to hear about his life. It might have been longer if it hadn’t been for the Friends of Stank Hall Barn. They invited me out to take a look at the building they’re trying to renovated in Beeston. It’s a remarkable place, one of the oldest secular buildings in Leeds, dating from around 1450. While I was there, one of the members suggested it might be a good setting for a Richard Nottingham story. And it is, in part, at least.

Originally I’d planned to publish this as a standalone short story on Amazon. In the end, for many reasons, I decided against that. Instead, it’s here, for everyone, not just those with a Kindle or Kindle app. And it’s free. But I’d like to ask one thing. It’s your choice, but if you can, please donate a little money to the Friends of Stank Hall Barn. Your choice of how much, how little, or nothing. No names, no pack drill. You can read about the Bran, the work that’s going on, and give your money here. Whatever you do, here’s the story, and I hope you like Richard’s return…

And, of course, you can follow the links on the site here to buy the Richard Nottingham books (I’m told that Gods of Gold, the start of a series Victorian series, isn’t bad, either!).

One

Richard Nottingham stood close enough to the bonfire to feel its heat. It was comforting on bones that chilled too quickly these days. Something sparked, and a tangle of flares spiralled up into the darkness.
‘Did you see that?’ Mary asked, and he saw the wonder on her face, caught in the light. He squeezed his granddaughter’s hand lightly.
‘I did.’
Farther up Briggate, by the Headrow, there was another fire burning, one more on the far side of Leeds Bridge. Every year the same celebration of Gunpowder Treason Day. Remember, remember, the fifth of November…the rhyme caught in his mind.
The Town Waits had paraded up and down, playing their music with a raucous scrape of fiddle and bellow of horns. The members of the Corporation had followed, the mayor nodding grandly, the others looking embarrassed at being on display. He’d seen Tom Williamson, the merchant, marching among them and given a small wave. Then, close to the back, the Constable of Leeds, his son-in-law, Rob Lister, face grim as he took his place in the parade.
Men had been loud and full of ale, firing off their guns, the way they did at every holiday. But he could detect the fear behind it all, so strong he could almost smell it. Prince Charlie had gathered his army in Scotland and soon he’d be crossing the border to make his claim for the throne. When that happened, the gunfire would be in earnest.
Rob would have to fight. Everyone would. 1745 was a dangerous year to be alive.
‘Grandpapa?’ Mary asked, staring up at him. ‘What happens now?’
‘Now I take you both home,’ he said with a smile. ‘You should have been in your bed long ago. Where’s your brother?’
She pointed with a small, chubby fist at a boy running round the blaze with all the others.
‘Richard,’ he called. ‘Come on now.’
The lad stopped suddenly, a crestfallen expression on his face. He was eight, a wild mop of hair on his head that refused to be tamed by a comb, with his father’s rangy body and his mother’s soft features. His sister, three years younger, looked completely different. Every time Nottingham looked at her he saw Rose, the daughter who’d died so soon after she was married. She had the same gentle manner, but underneath it all the steel of her mother, Emily. A few more years, he felt sure, and the tussle of wills would begin.
Before they moved away down Kirkgate he glanced back towards the Moot Hall, only the white statue of Queen Anne visible in the firelight. Two horsemen were dismounting, people crowding around them, too far away to make out anything but heavily bundled shapes.
Richard kept running ahead then dashing back, making a game of it, the way he did with everything. But why not? He had all the joy in the world. Well-fed, a family to care for him. Let him enjoy it while he could.
Mary clung to his hand as he walked. He was leaning a little on the stick. Some days he needed it, others he felt as if it was more for show. But better to have it with him when his legs grew tired.
The Parish Church sounded the hour as they passed. Eight o’clock. As he breathed out he could see his breath bloom in the crisp air. He wished his own Mary could be with him, to walk at his side instead of lying in the graveyard, here to see her grandchildren grow and tumble and laugh and cry. The little girl named for her and the boy after him. At Timble Bridge he paused for a moment to stare down at the beck. The water seemed so loud in the silence all around.
‘What do you see, Grandpapa?’
‘Just memories,’ he told her softly and hoisted her in his arms so her face was next to his. ‘Do you see them?
He felt her nod, her hair tickling his face.
‘They makes me feel sleepy,’ she said, settling against him. ‘Can you carry me home?’

The door was open wide. The boy had run ahead, bursting into the house, full of words and excitement. By the time Nottingham arrived, still carrying Mary, he’d almost finished, taking a deep breath before the last sentence.
‘Then they lit the bonfires and everyone looked happy and we ran round and round. There were people firing guns and Papa looked very important when he went by.’
Emily smiled. The books for tomorrow’s lessons were open on the table. She still taught at the charity school she’d founded. Not as often these days; running it and raising money took time. Lucy, the girl who’d once been their servant, took most of the classes these days.
‘If you were just running, how did you get so dirty?’ she asked. ‘Go and wash before bed.’
Mary wriggled out of his arms and ran to her mother to be cuddled.
‘How was it?’ Emily asked him. She looked tired as she brushed a strand of hair off her face. But with all the work she did, the weariness seemed to have seeped into her skin.
‘The same as ever.’ He shrugged. ‘The children love it.’
‘Any news from the north?’
‘Not yet. But I saw two men riding in as we left. Maybe they know something.’
Rob and Emily had married shortly before Nottingham had retired as Constable of Leeds, eleven years before. The corporation demanded it, in order to give Lister the position; any other arrangement was sinful and abhorrent. Emily had never wanted marriage. To her, it seemed like putting chains on love. But in the end, practicality won over principle.
The house on Marsh Lane came with the job. Nottingham had been prepared to move out, to find lodgings somewhere and leave the place to them. But they’d insisted he stay, adding a room large enough for a bed, a chair and a cupboard. He needed no more than that.
He ate with them, then spent his evenings alone, thinking or walking. Sometimes he’d call at the White Swan for a mug or two of ale. But these days, when he strolled around Leeds, he saw too many ghosts. The people who should still be alive but weren’t. Mary for one, and John Sedgwick, his deputy, his shade still lanky and grinning as he loped around town.
‘You,’ Emily told her daughter as she tickled the girl under her arms, ‘I want you in bed.’
‘Yes, mama.’ She strode off into the kitchen. Charlotte, the servant who’d been with them since Lucy left to marry her young man, would look after her.
‘Do you think they’ll come, Papa?’ Emily asked. He didn’t need to ask who. It was all anyone had talked about since the summer. Unless General Wade and his troops managed to stop them, they’d come.
‘Let’s hope not,’ he said quietly, placed a hand on her shoulder, then went through to his room and settled in the chair.
He must have fallen into a doze. Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes and saw Rob standing there, his face serious and grim.
‘They’ve crossed the border at Carlisle,’ he said.

Two

He was instantly awake and alert.
‘How long ago?’
‘Two days. Wesley rode in this evening with the word.’
‘The preacher?’ Nottingham asked. The last time he’d been here, two months before, a crowd had heckled and stoned him when he stood in front of them.
‘Yes. He’s staying in Leeds tonight then going south.’ Lister rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’ve spent the last few hours with the magistrates, making plans. By the time I came out, town was deserted. Just a handful of children left by the fires.’
‘They’re scared.’
‘Can you blame them?’ Rob asked.
He’d grown into a lean man, but the ready smile he’d possessed when he was younger had never vanished. And he’d become a good constable, handling his men fairly, a just, responsible man, a fine husband and father. But this would test him. It would test them all.
‘What can I do to help?’
‘I do have something, boss.’ It was still the word he used, as if he took pleasure in saying it, although the days when Nottingham was constable were only wispy memories. ‘There’s someone I need to bring to the jail from Beeston tomorrow. I’m going to be busy until…’ He didn’t finish the sentence. No one knew yet how it might end.
‘You want me to collect him?’
‘I’d be grateful. I’ll make sure you’re paid.’
He didn’t need the money. There was a small pension from the job, enough for his wants.
‘Just tell me what you need.’
‘It’s a man called Ned Taylor. I had a murder three months ago, and two of the witnesses swear he did it. A farmer out there’s holding him. All you need to do is bring him back here. It’s nothing you didn’t do a hundred times when you were working. There’ll be a horse at the ostler for you.’ He unbuckled the sword from his belt and put it on the bed. ‘Take it. Better to be armed than not.’
‘Are you sure you want me for this?’
Lister grinned.
‘I think I can still trust you with the small jobs, boss.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘I’m going to need all my men. God only knows what’s going to happen. Will you do it?’
‘Of course.’

Nottingham woke early, the way he’d done all his life. Still full night beyond the window, the first hushed songs from the birds outside in the trees. He’d dreamed he was young again, that there weren’t enough hours in the day for all he wanted to do, and that his love was new. Then he opened his eyes.
He dressed for the weather, the ancient greatcoat on top of everything else; these days it almost seemed too large for his body. In the kitchen Charlotte had the cooking fire lit and dough rising in the bowl. He took the heel of a loaf and a piece of cheese, winking at the girl, and stole out of the house before the children could come clattering downstairs with their endless questions.
He paused by the church, standing for a moment by the graves of his older daughter and his wife. They lay side by side, the grass long since grown over them. A few yards away, John Sedgwick. A small bunch of withered flowers was propped against the headstone; his widow, Elizabeth, must have visited a few weeks before.
At the top of Kirkgate he passed the jail. Lamps were burning inside, and he saw Rob’s silhouette as he bent over his desk.
Saturday morning, and down Briggate men were setting up the trestles for the cloth market. It was still two hours before the bell would ring, but they were already working steadily. The inns were open, the smells of roasting beef and ale floating out on the air.
Nottingham turned on to Swinegate, past the mill and into the ostler’s yard. A lad was shovelling dung, adding it to a pile against the wall. How many years since he’d been here, he wondered? Not since his retirement, that was certain.
But there was a gentle mare for him, and the stable boy adjusted the stirrups. He’d forgotten how strange it felt to be up so high, easing the animal into a walk along the road, through all the night soil tossed from the windows, then over Leeds Bridge, the river flowing dark and dangerous beneath.
He passed men on the road, on their way into Leeds, travelling in ones or twos and leading packhorses laden with cloth, the hope of a good price bright in their eyes.
There was no hurry, he decided as he turned and set out along the road to Dewsbury; he had all day. Dawn was just rising in the east, a band of blue glowing across the horizon. Clear skies and a chill in the air. But soon enough there’d been a pale November sun with its faint hint of warmth to last him through the day.
Out here, away from the town, it was all farms and fields. A few buildings and an inn at a crossroads. A man came out carrying a bucket and slopped the contents on the ground.
‘Stank Hall?’ Nottingham asked.
The man pointed along the road, eyes carefully assessing the stranger. There’d be much more of that soon, he thought. People would suspect anyone out on the road.
‘About two mile,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Off to your left, up a rise. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you.’ He smiled as he spoke. ‘How’s the ale?’
‘Good enough,’ the man conceded with a nod. ‘Brewed last Sunday.’
‘I’ll try a cup.’
He climbed down off the horse, tying the reins to a branch, then stretching. He’d covered little more than a mile, but his legs and back ached already. The only horse he’d known in the last few years was Shank’s pony. Nottingham smiled ruefully; after this, he’d be sore for days.
The landlord appeared with a mug and he took a drink. None too bad; there was some taste and bite to it.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Just Leeds.’
‘What are they saying there?’ the man asked, as if it was on the other side of the county.
‘The Scots have crossed at Carlisle.’
He saw the man’s eyes widen with fear.
‘Where are they now?’
‘They can’t have come too far. It only happened on Wednesday. And the Pennines should keep them away from us.’
‘Mebbe,’ the landlord answered warily. ‘And mebbe not. If they come we’re all dead.’
‘Then let’s hope they don’t,’ Nottingham said.
‘Where’s Wade and his army, anyway?’
‘I don’t know.’ He turned his head and gazed off to the northwest. Somewhere up there things were happening. People would be leaving, carrying what they could, making sure they were gone before the Young Pretender and his army arrived.
The man spat on the ground.
‘God help us all if he comes, friend.’
Nottingham drained the ale and wiped his mouth.
‘Indeed,’ he said as he remounted. ‘Look after yourself.’
He felt like the devil’s messenger, carrying bad tidings. Twice as he rode, men stopped him and asked for any news. He told them, seeing the way their faces darkened. No thanks, but that was no astonishment. Who could be grateful for words like those?
By the time he reached the small path up to Stank Hall, the sun was up, a fragile thing with no real heart. But better than a gale from the west. He reined in, stopping to gaze at the place. An old stone house built for the centuries, and next to it, in the low corner of a meadow, a barn of timber and limewash, slates missing from the roof.
Nottingham led the horse to a trough and let the animal drink as he gazed around. It was quiet out here. He’d become so used to the noise of Leeds, the voices, the carts and feet on the streets that the silence seemed as empty as the sky. Off in the distance a hawk circled, its wings spread wide, watching its prey before swooping down in a sudden dive to the ground. He followed it with his eyes, turning only as he heard a door open.
‘Who art thee?’ The woman stood with her arms folded and a knife in her fist.
‘Richard Nottingham.’ He took off his hat and gave a brief bow. ‘You have someone here to go back to Leeds.’
‘Tha’ll need to talk to mi husband first.’ She had a pinched face with hard, unforgiving eyes, half her teeth missing when she opened her mouth. Still, her clothes were clean, darned and mended often, and she wore heavy men’s boots over thick woollen hose.
‘Where is he?’
‘In t’fields.’ She put two fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Two short blasts. ‘That’ll bring ‘im.’
‘Where’s the man I’ve come to collect?’
‘In t’barn.’ The woman gave a cruel smile. ‘Tha’s welcome to him, too. Let someone else feed him.’ She closed the door and he was alone again.
The doors to the barn were open wide, the ground outside heavy with mud and cow dung. Nottingham picked his way through the worst of it, trying to keep his balance, one foot sliding into a puddle.
Inside, it was dark. He stood, letting his gaze adjust to the gloom. An earth floor, scattered with straw. Plinths for the thick tree trunks that held up the roof. Paths of grey flagstones leading here and there. But he couldn’t see a man.
Finally he heard it. A small groan coming from the far corner. He strode across the room. There, hidden in the shadows behind a pale of hay, he saw him.
He was lying on the ground. The flesh all over his face was raw, his hair thick and matted. All he had was a shirt and a pair of filthy, torn breeches. No stockings or boots, no coat. His arms and calves covered with heavy bruises.
The man’s wrist were bound with rope that had cut through his flesh. A chain had been wound around his waist and fastened to one of the supports.
‘Are you Ned?’ The man stared fearfully, trying to push himself away. But there was nowhere to go once he backed up against the stones of the wall. ‘There’s no need to be scared,’ he continued softly. ‘I’m Richard Nottingham. I’ve come to take you away from here.’
He glanced around. Three yards away stood a jug. It was a taunt, just too far for Taylor to stretch. Nottingham knelt, feeling the ache in his legs, and picked it up. He sniffed the liquid. Brackish water. But it was all there was and better than nothing
‘Have a drink of this.’ He tipped a little into the man’s mouth. Only a few drops at first, barely enough to moisten his lips. Then a little more as Taylor gulped at the water gratefully. Somewhere beneath the grime he had a young face. Twenty or less at a guess. Not old enough to remember Nottingham as constable.
What in the name of God had happened here?
‘You’re Ned?’ he asked again. ‘Ned Taylor?’
The man gave a wary nod. Then his gaze moved to the side and Nottingham saw his fists clench.
He turned to see a man standing in the doorway. Slowly, he pushed himself up.
‘Thee from Leeds?’ the man asked.
‘That’s right. I’ve come to take him back.’
‘About time, an’ all.’ He took a ring of keys from the pocket of his coat.
‘What have you done to him?’
The man shrugged.
‘He tried to steal two of my chickens about a week back. Caught him and put him in here.’
Nottingham came closer. The farmer was a squat man, arms and chest heavily muscled from years of work.
‘How did you find out anyone was looking for him?’
The man gave a dark smile and shrugged
‘Nowt difficult about making a man talk if you do it right. I told them in Beeston he were here. I suppose they sent word to thee.’
‘I suppose they did.’ He glanced down at Taylor. The man was cowering, trying to make himself small. His bruises were fresh, the dark colours bright. ‘You caught him a week ago?’
‘Close enough. Don’t keep close track of the days out here.’
‘Someone’s beaten him more recently than that.’
‘My lads like a little sport when they finish work. Makes a change from taking the dogs out to course hares. Trying to thieve from us, he had it coming.’
‘Where are your sons now?’
‘Off hunting. Not much to do this time of year. They might as well find some meat for the table afore we have to kill the pigs.’
‘How was Taylor dressed when you found him?’ Nottingham asked.
‘Way thee sees him.’
‘Really? I don’t believe you.’ He put his hand on the hilt of the sword and stared at the farmer. ‘I’ll ask you again: how was he dressed?’
He saw the man’s gaze slide down to his boots for a moment. They weren’t new, but they were solid enough. The stockings were worn, but they were wool; they’d help a man on the road.
‘Tha can have him as tha finds him.’
‘No,’ Nottingham told him. ‘I’ll have him as he arrived.’
‘Tha reckon, dost tha?’ The farmer chuckled.
He didn’t bother to answer. He began to pull the sword from its scabbard, drawing it halfway out before the man held up his hands.
‘He’s the bloody thief, not me.’ But he bent and unlaced the boots, then removed the socks, standing barefoot on the dirt floor.
‘Unlock him,’ Nottingham ordered.
The key scraped as it turned, then the chains fell away from Taylor.
‘Thee can have ‘im, for all the good it’ll do you,’ the man said. ‘But I’ll give tha fair warning. Tha’d best be gone before my lads come back, and don’t show thisen around here again.’
He strode away.
‘Hold your hands out,’ Nottingham said, and sawed at the bonds around Taylor’s wrists with his knife. As the rope fell away he could see the wounds, already festering, scabbed flesh meeting blood and pus. Taylor flexed his fingers and winced. ‘Have another drink and put on your boots. Then we’ll get you back to Leeds.’
How, though? He watched Taylor struggling to stand, weak, bruised. He wouldn’t be able to walk all the way to town and the mare wasn’t strong enough to seat two. He sighed and shook his head.
It took ten full minutes before Taylor was ready and pushed up into the saddle. His fingers were so tight around the pommel that his knuckles were white. Nottingham looped the reins in his fist and began to walk back down the hill to the Dewsbury Road.

Three

He watched Taylor breathe deep, savouring the freshness of the air and looking around.
‘First time on horseback?’
‘Yes.’ His voice was still a croak, but at least the look of terror had vanished from his face. Going so slowly, the man was safe enough up there. And he wasn’t likely to escape; Nottingham doubted Taylor would be able to run twenty yards and he’d be too scared to try riding off. Safe enough.
‘When did they feed you last?’
‘Yesterday morning,’ he answered after some thought. ‘Stale bread and some meat that had turned.’
‘They’ll find you something to eat at the jail. An apothecary to look at those wounds, too.’ He glanced over his shoulder.
‘They won’t come after us,’ Taylor told him. ‘Too cowardly for that.’ He was quiet for a minute. ‘You don’t look like a constable’s man.’
Nottingham chuckled.
‘I’m not. You might say they’re all busy in Leeds. The Pretender crossed the border three days ago.’
‘Christ,’ Taylor said softly. ‘Where?’
‘Carlisle. If they come, it won’t be soon.’
‘They’ll want to butcher everyone.’
‘If they can. It won’t be that easy.’ Fifty yards passed before he spoke again. ‘The constable wants to talk to you about a murder.’
Taylor snorted.
‘I know that. Why do you think I ran?’
‘Did you do it?’
‘Kill him?’ He stared ahead. ‘Does it matter?’
‘It matters.’
Taylor pursed his lips and gave a hollow laugh.
‘All they want is someone to hang.’
‘Is that what you believe?’
‘It’s true enough.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Folk say I was there, so I must be guilty. The noose will fit me as well as anyone else.’
‘Did you do it?’
‘No,’ Taylor answered simply. ‘Do you know who died?’
Nottingham shook his head.
‘My brother,’ the man continued. ‘My own brother. Who’d kill his own kin?’
‘Plenty,’ he answered. He’d seen it often enough. Brother, sisters, parents, children. No one was safe in this world. ‘Don’t you know your Bible?’
‘Just words in church.’
‘The first murder’s in there. One brother killed another.’
He remembered learning it, word for word. The tutor had beaten it into him, wanting the words written deep in his soul. The creation, Adam and Eve, Abraham and Isaac, Cain and Abel…back when he was a merchant’s son, before his father threw him out along with his mother and he became a whore’s brat.
‘I didn’t kill Paul. Why would I?’
‘I don’t know,’ Nottingham told him. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘You want the tale?’ Ned asked. Why not, he thought, it was better than silence. ‘Pass me that jug of water.’ He drank, spitting it out at first, then swallowing. ‘You know the Talbot?’
‘I do.’ There’d been a time when he knew it all too well, back when Landlord Bell ran the place. Cock fighting, whores, and half the criminals in Leeds. He’d had to spend more time there than he’d ever wanted.
‘We were in there, drinking, playing dice with two men we’d met. I went off to the jakes. Came back and one of them was holding Paul. He moved back and Paul just reached out for me.’ He paused, remembering. ‘I’ve never seen a look like that on anyone’s face.’
‘He’d been stabbed,’ Nottingham guessed.
‘Aye, that’s right,’ Taylor said slowly. ‘It was Saturday night, the place was full. I pulled the knife out and started shouting for someone to help.’
‘The other two had vanished?’
‘Gone. But I only cared about Paul right then.’ He shifted his grip on the pommel and stared up at the sky. ‘By the time someone came, he was dead. Bloody deputy started asking questions and people told him I’d been holding Paul. They saw me pull the knife out of him.’ He shook his head. ‘What would you have done? I ran. Kept running until that fucking farmer and his lads caught me.’
‘No one mentioned those other men?’
‘I tried to tell him. He didn’t want to listen.’ He turned his head. ‘Has anyone ever killed anyone you loved? Someone close.’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t want to say more. All these years and it was still raw. The guilt still rubbed against his heart.
‘What did you do?’
‘Less than I should.’
‘No revenge?’
‘In a way,’ Nottingham said after a few moments.
But he hadn’t done it himself. He’d been too upright, he still believed in the power of the law then. It had fallen to Sedgwick and Rob to do what he didn’t have the guts to do himself. And that was the guilt that pressed down on him every night when he closed his eyes.
It had changed him. When the deputy was beaten to death, he’d gone after his killer, knowing he’d show no mercy. He let the anger boil and relished the shot that killed the man. It seemed like penance. But it wasn’t. When it was done all the old feelings still remained, roiling and painful.
‘You’re quiet, constable’s man.’
‘Just thinking. Remembering.’
‘Going to come and watch when they string me up? See me do Jack Ketch’s dance?’
‘No.’ He’d seen too many of them. He hadn’t attended a hanging since he retired. He didn’t need to see more death. But if the Pretender came, he’d have no choice. It was all in God’s hands.
‘What happened to that man?’ Taylor asked. ‘The killer.’
‘There were two of them. They disappeared.’
He’d never known the details; he’d never dared to ask, too afraid of a truthful answer.
‘Your friends take care of it?’
‘Yes.’
Taylor laughed.
‘I could use some friends like that.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ Nottingham said. But all too often it felt like it had happened yesterday. There were still nights when he turned and could swear she was beside him. He’d reach out and feel her skin under his fingertips. But it wasn’t real. When his eyes opened, it vanished like smoke.
He could see the inn in the distance, two carts outside, a horse standing, ears pricked. The sun had lifted enough to blunt the edge of the cold. Autumn falling gently into winter. If a man didn’t know what was happening out in the world it might almost be peaceful.
A stone had worked its way into his boot, digging against his sole as he walked. Time to stop. Something to eat and drink, be ready for the final part of the journey.
Nottingham tethered the horse, knotting the reins to the branch.
‘Don’t try to leave,’ he warned, hand resting on the sword hilt. ‘I’ll find you.’
Inside, he ordered bread, cheese and a jug of ale, glancing back to make sure Taylor hadn’t tried to escape. But he simply sat there, staring around. As if he’d given up on life already.
‘Here, this will help.’ The bread was fresh and soft, the cheese still white, no mould clinging to the edges. Taylor took a long drink of the ale, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I think I needed that more than anything.’ He dipped his head for a moment in thanks, then took a bite of the bread, a satisfied smile crossing his face. ‘That tastes right.’
Nottingham chewed slowly, washing the food down with sips of the ale. Taylor wolfed down his meal, reaching for the jug to refill his cup. Finally they were done, and Nottingham eased off his boot, shaking it to remove the stone, keeping a close watch on the prisoner for any sudden movement.
‘I thought you might try to run,’ he said as they moved slowly down the road. His legs were stiff, even after the rest, and he wished he’d brought his stick. But Leeds wasn’t too far. He would see it in the distance, beyond Hunslet. The towers of the churches, St Peter’s, St John’s, Holy Trinity, the smoke from the chimneys. They’d be there soon enough, back among the crowds and the stink.
‘Why bother? You’d find me, or someone else, or I’d end up on a Scotsman’s knife.’ Taylor sounded weary. He sat in the saddle with his shoulders slumped, letting his body move with the horse’s rhythm.
‘When you were playing dice that night, whose dice did you use?’ Nottingham wondered.
‘My brother’s. Same as always.’
‘Clean dice?’
‘Yes. If you don’t believe me, try them yourself when we get to the jail. They’ll still have them.’
‘Did you play the others for money?’
‘What do you think?’ Taylor asked, as if it was a stupid question.
‘Who was winning?’
‘Paul. Five pennies up when I went to the jakes. When I came back, the money had gone.’
Five pennies. Hardly worth a life. But he’d seen blood shed for far less. Careless words when men were deep in their cups. A look. He’d come close enough to being killed himself before. His body was a map of scars. Wrinkled these days, growing flabby in some places, thin and weaker in others. Once he’d been so proud of his hair, wearing it long and tied back by a ribbon. Now what remained was straggly, coarse and grey. All that vanity worth nothing.
‘Did you see the other men leave? Could you describe them?’
‘They weren’t local,’ Taylor said. ‘Acted as if they’d been on the road a while. I was looking after Paul, trying to get him some help. He died right there with my hand under his head.’ He pointed to a dark patch on his shirt, lost among the dirt of the last weeks. ‘You see that? That’s his.’
‘What work did you do?’
‘This and that,’ Taylor said quietly. ‘Nothing steady. Nothing that pays on offer these days.’
He knew what that meant. Work for a little while, then let it go when he’d had enough. Drift. Thieve, gamble.
‘What was your last job?’
‘Setting up the trestles on market day. Cloth market in the morning, move them up Briggate for the ordinary market when it was over. Clear everything away when it was done.’ Honest work, hard work, but only two days a week. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Taylor told him. ‘I can see it on your face.’
‘And what’s that?’ Nottingham asked.
‘That you reckon you know me. My sort.’ He stared, eyes dark and angry.
‘You’ve stolen before.’
‘I have,’ Taylor admitted. ‘And what about you? Are you so bloody pure, constable’s man? You don’t look it.’
Of course he wasn’t. After his mother died and he was on his own, with no money, no one, he’d done whatever he needed to survive. He worked. He stole, and prayed he wouldn’t be caught.
‘No,’ he answered.
‘Then don’t judge me. Isn’t that what you Christians say? Judge not?’
‘Maybe they do. But it’s the law that judges.’
‘Aye, and the law’s fine if you have money. Show me a poor man who can find some justice.’
Nottingham stopped, tugging on the reins so the horse halted its pacing.
‘I’ll ask you once more: did you kill your brother?’
‘And I’ll tell you again. No, I didn’t. You can keep asking for the rest of the year and it’ll be the same answer.’
‘Right.’ He began to walk again. Each step brought a nag of pain moving down from his hip. Even limping, trying to ease the weight to his other leg, didn’t help.

Four

‘We’ll be there very soon.’
He could see people moving about on the streets. Light glinting off windows. He could smell the place, so familiar, so welcoming, so full of his past.
‘There’s no rush,’ Taylor said. ‘They’re only going to hang me.’
‘That’s for a jury to decide,’ Nottingham reminded him.
‘We might as well just carry on to Chapeltown Moor.’ He gave a weak laugh. ‘The jail’s just another bloody stop on the way.’
‘At least you’ll have a bed and food.’
‘For a while.’
‘Rob Lister’s a good man. He’s fair.’
‘He’s like everyone else. He only sees what’s in front of him.’
Had he done that, too? Seven years the Constable of Leeds. Had he hung innocent men? He’d never believed he had. When he’d been uncertain, he’d given the accused man the benefit of the doubt. It was too final, too brutal to risk being wrong. Was Rob that way, too? He’d taught the lad, but those lessons had ended eleven years before. Who was to say what he’d become since then? He’d watched when Lister came home with a wound or a beating from trying to capture someone. It could harden the heart; he knew that.
‘He’s fair,’ Nottingham repeated. It was the evidence of his own eyes, seeing Rob with Emily and his children.
A few folk stopped to stare as they crossed Leeds Bridge. Not so many around, too worried to be outside unless it was vital. What caught their curiosity, he wondered? A ragged man riding, or did they remember his face, surprised to see him working again?
He’d been happy to leave office. It was time. Time to let go of all that weight. It had simply grown too heavy for him. And since then he’d kept his distance. Rob asked his advice on this and that, and he gave it freely. But he never asked after the trials he read about in the Mercury. He’d bid all that farewell, gratefully. And now he was back. Once more. The final time, he hoped, although God alone knew they’d all be needed if the Scots came.
‘What are you thinking, old man?’ Taylor’s voice was almost a taunt.
‘About the past,’ Nottingham replied easily. ‘Like every other old man.’
‘But you still have a future,’ Taylor said. ‘I don’t.’

At the jail he waited as the man dismounted and led him inside. The building still smelled the same, feat, sweat, piss. Everything but hope. As if it was part of the stone and the wood. Hopkinson, the deputy, took Taylor through to a cell.
‘Simple enough?’ Rob asked. His face was drawn and his fingers were stained with ink from the quill pen.
‘The farmer who caught him mistreated him.’
‘Nothing I can do about that.’ He shrugged and stood. ‘Come on, let’s go next door. I’ll buy you a drink.’
At the White Swan they settled on the bench and Lister signalled for a jug of ale and two cups.
‘Thank you for doing that. I’ve been run off my feet all day. We’re looking at positions for defences.’ He ran a hand through his hair; there were already ample flecks of grey. ‘The problem is, we don’t know which way they’ll come.’
‘Or if they’ll come.’
‘They will,’ Rob said with certainty. ‘We just have to make sure we’re ready.’ He took a long drink and sat back. ‘Did Taylor give you any problems, boss?’
‘None.’ He smiled. ‘You should stop calling me that. You’re in charge now.’
‘Habit,’ Rob replied. ‘And you still deserve it. What did you make of Taylor?’
‘Honestly?’ Nottingham moved the mug in small circles on the table. ‘I’m not sure he’s guilty.’
‘He convinced you?’
‘No,’ he answered after a long pause. ‘But I’d want to ask some questions.’
‘What if I told you he was one of the best liars I’ve ever met and that I have two witnesses who saw him put the knife in his brother?’
‘The men they were playing dice with?’
Rob shook his head.
‘At the next table. I know one of them, he’s as honest as anyone who goes in the Talbot.’
‘That’s not saying a lot.’
Rob grinned.
‘I believe him, though. And as soon as Hopkinson arrived and began asking questions, Taylor ran. I was starting to think we’d never find him.’
‘So he’s guilty,’ Nottingham said bleakly.
‘He is, boss,’ Rob said quietly.
In one long swallow, Nottingham downed the rest of the ale.
‘Just as well I’m not in the job any longer.’ He stood. ‘I’m going home. It feels like it’s been a long day.’
‘I’ll still need you when the Scots come.’
‘There’s time enough for that.’
Slowly, painfully, he walked down Kirkgate and back towards Marsh Lane. To Emily and Richard and Mary. To the past, a sweeter country.

Friday Leeds Fun

On October 24, 2014 By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized1 Comment

It’s Friday, the week’s over, and you want something light and fun for the weekend, right. How about the beginning of a book I’ve just finished writing? Well, why not…set in Leeds in the 1930s, think of it as Golden Age meets Elmore Leonard. Or something.

CHAPTER ONE

He parked the Austin Seven Swallow outside the Eagle on North Street. There’d been hardly any traffic on the drive up from London, just a few lorries, the cars bucketing along as fast as they could, the drivers’ faces fierce with concentration.
He buttoned his suit jacket and put on the hat, checking the brim in the wing mirror to see it was just so. A late May evening, some warmth still left in the air, and that feeling of dusk, with daylight starting to seep away and casting long shadows. 1934. The world might be poor, but there was still some beauty in it.
Only a few customers sat in the pub. An old husband and wife, holding hands and chattering away easily, halves of stout on the table in front of them, a dotting of ancient fellows, leftovers from Victorian times, gathered to play dominoes, a young couple out to do their courting, and a group of four middle-aged men, eyes like flints, standing in earnest discussion.
The landlord was cleaning the polished wood shelves, his back turned.
He saw her at the end of the bar, a glass of gin and tonic in front of her, a cigarette between her fingers. She was wearing a nubby tweed skirt and an ochre sweater, the sleeves rolled up on her red cardigan. There was a wedding ring on her finger, but she was on her own.
She’d glanced up when he walked in, then turned away again.
‘Can I buy you another?’ he asked as he stood beside her. She looked at him, eyes carefully appraising. Her hair was neatly set in waves, her lipstick bold red. In her early thirties and definitely pretty.
‘My mother always said I shouldn’t take drinks from strange men.’
‘We’re safe them. I’m not strange.’
She tightened her mouth as she arched her brows.
‘Who told you that? Your wife?’
He grinned. One of his front teeth was slightly chipped. Someone had told him once that it made him look irresistible. Dashing. Wolfish. A little like Ronald Colman.
‘Someone much more reliable.’ He cocked his head. ‘I have to ask, are those eyes of yours eyes blue or grey?’
She was staring at him now, and smiling.
‘Take a guess. If you’re right, you can take me home.’
‘Violet?’
She waited a moment, then started to gather her handbag off the bar.
‘Eyes and name,’ she told him, then asked, ‘Where should we go? Your house or mine?’
‘Oh, yours, I think,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘My wife’s a terrible housekeeper.’
Her elbow dug sharply into his ribs.
‘You’d best be careful, Johnny Williams, or you’ll be sleeping on the settee tonight. What kept you? I thought you’d be home this afternoon.’

CHAPTER TWO

He reported to the police station in his best double-breasted suit, navy blue with a pale pinstripe, his black brogues shining, the hat brim tipped just enough to put his eyes in shadow.
After a fortnight working with the Met in London it felt good to be home again. The capital had its charms, but Johnny Williams knew Leeds. He understood how the city worked with even having to consider it.
He wasn’t even sure why they’d wanted him down there. All he’d done was read the case file, go and talk to four people, then sit back and wait, time enough to tie up a couple of loose ends. Eight days later, they’d started making arrests and he was on his way back up the Great North Road.
Williams slapped the desk. There were files waiting for him. One thing about being a copper, he’d never be short of a job. Count your blessings, he thought, as he took a folder from the pile.
But he hadn’t even finished the first page before Superintendent Randall called his name. Detective Sergeant Williams straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket and walked through to the office.
‘Everything fine down South?’ Randall asked as he sat.
‘Went well, sir.’ He shrugged. They’d made the arrests easily.
‘Head not turned by the glamour?’
‘Well, the King invited me over, but I told him I needed to be back here by teatime…’ Williams grinned.
Randall picked up a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. ‘Something to get your teeth into.’
He read it through quickly. While he was been gone there’d been two bank jobs, one in Horsforth, the other in Morley. Three men, one of them armed with a sawed-off shotgun. Quick, efficient, no violence, just threats and menace. In both cases, the getaway vehicles had been stolen and recovered about a mile away. There were descriptions, for whatever they were worth; none of the witnesses could agree on much. Violet had told him all about it last night. Lying on the bed after his welcome home, smoking cigarettes with the windows open, she’d brought him up to date on the happenings in Leeds. Working as a reporter on the Yorkshire Evening Post, she heard them all.
‘No clues?’ he asked, his arm around her bare shoulders. The slip and brassiere were long gone, tossed somewhere on the floor, and sweat was drying on her skin.
‘If they have, they’re not saying. The rumour is that they’ve nabbed over a thousand pounds.’
That was impressive. Carry on with that and they’d have a good little earner. He moved his hand a little. He needed to feel more welcome.

‘Nasty,’ Williams said.
‘They’ve taken over twelve hundred so far. But keep that to yourself.’ Randall pulled a packet of Black Cats from his pocket and lit one.
‘What’s CID turned up?’
‘Not enough. None of the narks seem to know anything.’
‘I was hoping for a few days’ leave,’ Johnny said.
‘You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself.’
But he would. He’d seen the sun shining through the curtains that morning, smelt spring warmth in the air and thought about Sandsend. He and Violet, a few days away, a decent hotel, Whitby just a stroll away along the beach at low tide. Some walking, some fishing, plenty of fresh air.
‘Well…’ he began, but Randall shook his head.
‘I want you on this. If they get away with it, other people are going to get the same idea. Times are bad, Johnny, you know that. We don’t need folk thinking they can be Dillinger or Bonnie and Clyde. Not round here.’
Williams picked up the report as he stood. Before he could even take a pace the door flew open and the desk sergeant, old red-faced Murphy, announced,
‘There’s been another one, sir. The Midland Bank on City Square.’
Randall raised an eyebrow.
‘Looks like you know where to start, Johnny.’

Chris Nickson

Tag: leeds