Free Fair and Tender Ladies by Chris Nickson Page B

but …’
    â€˜Aye, boss, of course. I’ll find out what I can.’
    The Constable paced the room, wanting to do something yet knowing there was nothing more he could do; Sedgwick and Rob would look after everything. But Emily was his daughter. He needed to look after her, to protect her.
    After the clock struck seven he took the report to the Moot Hall and left it on the clerk’s desk, then strode back down Briggate for the cloth market. The weavers already had their cloth laid out, talking to each other as they enjoyed their Brigg End Shot breakfasts of beef and beer. At the top of the streets the merchants gathered in small knots, gossiping, heads nodding quietly.
    He waited impatiently until the bell rang the half hour and the market began, then walked up and down a few times, alert for cutpurses, nodding to the whores who stood entranced by the business, the bargains made in whispers.
    For once he couldn’t settle to watch it all happen. Instead he stalked off, turning along the Calls to stand where he could see the school and the sharp glass of the broken windows waiting for the glazier. There were other things, more urgent things he needed to think about – Jem Carter’s murder, Jenny, even Tom Finer – but this pushed them all out of his head. It was probably nothing more than drunks looking for destruction and noise, but what if there was more? What if someone hated the idea of poor girls being educated? What if someone wanted to hurt Emily?
    Finally he tore himself away, his mind still blazing, and strode to the Saturday market at the top of Briggate. He wandered around, squeezing his way through the press of people. Vendors shouted out their wares, voices competing against each other, trying to draw people in to buy. He’d come out of habit; two of his men would be here, ready to respond if someone yelled that they’d been robbed. He just needed to be somewhere familiar, a place to give him some order. His gaze moved across the faces, barely noticing them until one on the far side of the street made him stop. It was Simon Johnson, the brother of the man killed by the mob, bargaining for something from one of the stalls. The sight came as a shock; from the way he’d cursed Leeds and its people he’d have expected the man to be long gone. He was about to go over to the man when a voice cut into his thoughts.
    â€˜Constable, we meet again.’ He turned and found Tom Finer at his shoulder. In spite of the weather, the man was dressed warmly in a coat and breeches of heavy wool, a tricorn hat pulled down on his head. Outside his rooms he looked smaller, almost frail, his hand resting on a polished stick. The Constable looked across the street again; Johnson had gone. Yet one more thing to add to the turmoil.
    â€˜Enjoying the market?’ Nottingham asked and tried to smile.
    â€˜They say the sun’s good for old bones.’ Finer gazed around the crowd with a broad grin. ‘But this is good for the soul.’
    â€˜I’m sure there were markets in London.’ He began to move away but Finer wasn’t ready to let him leave yet.
    â€˜More than you could imagine. It’s all different down there.’
    â€˜Even the crime?’
    â€˜Even that, laddie, even that,’ the man agreed with a grin. ‘You have to be ruthless to succeed down there.’
    The Constable gave up; Finer wanted to talk.
    â€˜And were you a success?’ Nottingham asked.
    â€˜I got by. I made money if that’s what you mean.’ He paused, considering his words. ‘But I’ll tell you something. Up here, when a competitor … left, shall we say, there’d be one or two more eager to take his place. Down in London it was forty or fifty, each one ready to prove he was harder than the last.’ He sighed. ‘I’m glad to be away from it, laddie, and that’s the truth. It wears a man down.’
    â€˜Leeds has changed since