Cold Cruel Winter (5 page)

‘No,' he admitted, ‘but it might bring him justice.'

She returned to her lost silence. He tried again, kneeling by her chair so his face was level with hers.

‘You said he didn't have any enemies, Mrs Graves. But someone killed him, something happened to cause that. Is there anything you can think of, anything at all? It doesn't matter how long ago.' He realized he sounded as if he was pleading, but it didn't matter. He needed information, the tiny scraps from the table of Graves's life.

‘I know he was a good man, but I'm sure my husband wasn't always a saint in his work.' She spoke slowly, sadly. ‘He never really talked about his business at home, but I know there were times he must have cheated and stolen a little. He didn't tell me, of course, but it was obvious. That was years ago, though.' She glanced at him, her eyes suddenly focused, her voice sharper as the words began to rush from her mouth.

‘I know he had some sort of feud with George Williamson for a while. Do you remember him, Tom Williamson's father? He died a couple of years ago. And I'm sure that from time to time Samuel had to dismiss men who worked for him, but he never talked about that with me, and it wasn't my place to know. He didn't play cards often, he rarely gambled, as far as I know he didn't have any debts, and he wasn't interested enough in women to keep a mistress.'

‘I see,' was the only way he could respond to her candour.

‘What I mean, Mr Nottingham, is that I really don't know of any reason someone would kill my husband.' She paused, letting her thoughts collect. ‘If he'd been worried about anything, I'd have known it; after so many years, you can tell without words. He seemed hopeful. He'd been going to London regularly for a few months. All I know is that he was negotiating for a contract of some sort.' Her eyes opened wider. ‘I suppose if we'd had a son, he'd have followed Samuel into his business, but we only had girls. He'd talked about taking on an apprentice or a partner for years, but he'd never done it.'

The Constable nodded. Girls, he thought. Just like himself.
Girl
now.

‘Is there anything else?' she asked, her mood suddenly imperious.

‘No,' he told her. ‘No, there's nothing.'

She didn't attempt a courteous smile. ‘Then, please, leave me now. I really don't think there's anything more I can do to help you.'

Four

He'd trimmed the paper to the right size, carefully tearing the sheets. He'd prepared his words, a rough draft written on fragments that he'd gathered in a pile and were now ready for a fair copy.

The rough table was uneven and he steadied it with a shim of wood under one leg. As he sat he tested it, nodding approvingly when it barely moved. He inspected the quill, pleased with its sharpness, then dipped it into the pot of ink. He breathed deeply before making the first mark on the paper.

He sat back, looking at his work. The copperplate script was beautiful, a delight to the eye. But after so many years of clerking, it should have been. He put down the quill, flexing his fingers.

In Christ's name, it was bitter here. Even with a fire, there was a chill deep in his soul, one that felt as if it would never leave. He'd spent too many years away from English winters, down in the heat and the sweat, and it had lightened his blood.

Still, the cold weather had brought something good. It had been easier to keep Graves's corpse without the smell of rot filling the air. And then, when he was ready to let it be discovered, there were so few people on the streets that moving it to the riverbank had been a simple task.

Yes, there was luck involved, but also planning and preparation. He'd spent years readying himself for this, filling his days and dreams with the triumphs. Now it was becoming real, the first stage almost complete.

But it wouldn't be finished until he'd celebrated it, written it all down, and sent it on to be read. His only regret was that he wouldn't see the looks when he revealed his secret, and allowed them to understand what had mystified them.

Still, a man couldn't have everything in this life. But he'd get much of what he wanted. Enough, certainly enough.

Five

Leaving Graves's house, Nottingham turned back towards the jail, then changed his mind and walked briskly up Briggate before turning at the Head Row towards the fuggy warmth of Garroway's Coffee House.

As always, the exotic smells of coffee, tea and tobacco overwhelmed him. Steam plumed from a kettle, and low, murmured conversation filled the air, a mix of business and gossip from the merchants who frequented the place, smoking their pipes as they talked and drank.

It was one of them he was seeking. Tom Williamson was sitting by himself, grimacing as he read the
Mercury
, an empty cup pushed away on the table. Standing over him, the Constable said quietly, ‘Tom.'

Williamson raised his eyes and began to grin until he remembered.

‘Richard. I heard about your daughter. I'm so sorry . . .'

Nottingham set his mouth in a grim line and nodded. There was so much he could say to this man, as close as he had to a friend among the merchants, but it was better to keep his peace. If he began to talk about the things on his mind he might never stop.

‘Sit down. Do you want something to drink?'

Before Nottingham could reply, he was signalling for two dishes of tea to be brought. In his thirties, Williamson had taken over the family business on his father's death. He'd been groomed for it all his life, apprenticed to a merchant in his teens, then spending time abroad to understand the markets before coming back to Leeds. In the two years he'd been running Williamsons, so Nottingham understood, business had boomed. He was a symbol of the success of Leeds, the rise of the city, the dominance of the wool trade.

‘How are you, Tom?'

Williamson crumpled the newspaper, letting it drop to the floor. His open, honest face could hide nothing – something Nottingham had always imagined a disadvantage in a merchant, although it never seemed to hamper his trade.

‘Fair, apart from the weather, of course. Business is down, but that's to be expected in the winter, of course.' He shrugged and paused. ‘But you want to talk about Sam Graves, don't you?'

The Constable nodded. ‘A good guess,' he said with a faint smile.

‘Hardly,' Williamson responded. ‘The murder's on everyone's lips, and you're not the type to just pass the time of day.'

‘I gather he and your father didn't get along.'

Williamson laughed, shook his head and rolled his eyes. ‘That's an understatement, Richard. They hated each other. Sam beat my father on a big contract – this was years ago, you have to understand that. You didn't know what my father was like, but he held his grudges close, especially when he believed Graves had bribed people to get the contract. I don't think they ever spoke again.'

A man brought the dishes of tea and the Constable waited until he'd gone.

‘What was Graves like?'

Williamson considered his answer as Nottingham raised the cup, blowing across the surface of the dark liquid before sipping. As always, it tasted bitter to him, not worth the money people paid for it.

‘I liked Sam, although I'd never have dared tell my father that. He was good at what he did and he made money. He knew wool and he knew the market. He cut corners at times, but most people do, that's how business works.'

‘How about other people? Did they like him?'

‘He was as popular as anyone,' Williamson replied guardedly.

Nottingham raised his eyebrows and Williamson grinned, suddenly looking ten years younger. ‘Show me a merchant everyone likes and I'll show you a bankrupt.' He cupped his hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘The thing you have to realize, Richard, is that business is competition. It's all well and good being liked, but being respected is better. We're looking for profits, and those don't come with pleasantries. But Sam was respected, there's no doubt about that. He'd been in business a long time, he'd served on the Corporation. About the only thing he hadn't done was be mayor.' He paused. ‘Do you have any idea who killed him?'

‘None,' the Constable answered briefly.

‘That's not going to stand too well with Mr Kenion,' Williamson suggested wryly. ‘Sam helped him a lot back in the old days.'

‘It doesn't stand well with me, either,' Nottingham said bitterly. ‘Do you know anything about a new contract he was discussing in London?'

The merchant furrowed his brow. ‘I'd heard something about it – well, rumours of it, nothing more than that. I know Sam kept going down there, but that's all. He was tight-lipped about the whole affair, but that's the way he was about most things in business. That was his generation, never let a word slip or someone will be there before you; my father was the same.'

‘Nothing more than that?'

Williamson shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. Some people thought it was the government, some people thought it might be with the Spaniards. Sam was the only one who really knew. He'd smile about it, but that was all.'

Nottingham took another small sip of the tea, swallowing it quickly to avoid the harsh taste. He leaned forward, confiding quickly and softly. ‘I'm baffled, Tom. I don't have any idea who might have wanted to kill him, where he was killed, and certainly not why. That worries me. I feel like a blind man in a crowd. I don't know where to turn.'

Williamson sat back in his chair, considering.

‘What do you know about him beyond business?' Nottingham wondered.

‘Not a great deal,' the merchant answered eventually. ‘If he did anything bad, he hid it well. Truth to tell, Richard, he probably really was all probity and rectitude, just as he seemed. I know he went to church every Sunday, he seemed to love his wife, and his daughters married well, if I recall. There was never a word of mistresses, but he might just have been very discreet. And if he was ever seen with a whore, well, no one would ever hold that against him.'

Nottingham sighed.

‘I'm sorry,' Williamson said again. ‘Sam wasn't a man for scandal. I know it makes your job harder.'

‘It makes it bloody impossible,' Nottingham replied with a sour laugh.

‘You'll find him, Richard. You always have.' Williamson stood up. ‘I need to go.' He tried to lighten the tone. ‘If I'm not there, the business will surely fall apart by noon. I'll try asking a few questions for you, but I honestly don't think there's much to learn.'

‘Thank you.'

Joshua Forester was doing what he did well, what he'd come to love. He was listening. In the inns and stableyards, all people were talking about was the murder. It was all speculation – not one of them had known Samuel Graves – but that didn't matter.

They all had plenty to say; gossip was the common currency of everyday life, a relief from numbing work. At times Josh felt as if they couldn't see him, that he wasn't really there, as they carried on around him as if he didn't quite exist.

But his whole life had been like that. It had saved him, allowed him to steal food and cut purses to survive, and helped him become a good Constable's man. He pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of the coat that was four sizes too big for him and belted with a piece of rope.

At least he had good boots. He'd taken them from the corpse of a merchant's son the month before; his old ones were worn through at the sole and leaked. But why would the rich need boots after death, anyway? For them it was just a short walk to heaven.

The boss had noticed, of course, giving him a short, hard look, but saying nothing. He protected his men. Josh had been astonished to learn that Richard Nottingham had once lived like him, out on the streets, scrabbling, fighting, hungry. Even now, with the pain of grieving written on his face, he seemed in control of everything.