Fair and Tender Ladies (15 page)

Lucy set the bread dough for its second rise, covered the bowl with a piece of linen, and pushed one of last year's apples over to him.

‘If you're still hungry, eat that,' she said. ‘There'll be nothing hot until later.'

He smiled and took a bite. The sweetness of the fruit was long gone, but it was something to put in his belly after work. Finally he heard Emily rush down the stairs.

‘I thought you wanted to be early today.'

‘We will be,' she told him. ‘Don't worry, there's plenty of time.'

‘The hour rang ten minutes ago,' he reminded her. At this rate the girls and their mothers would be milling around outside the place again when they arrived.

They hurried into Leeds, almost running over Timble Bridge then cutting through the churchyard to the Calls. Some of the women were already gathered by the school. He saw them clutching their daughters tight, the stiff, wary way they all stood and the looks of concern on their face.

‘Wait here,' he said to Emily, and broke into a run. The women moved back as he approached.

‘What's happened?' he asked.

‘Someone's forced it,' one of them told him. He glanced and saw the broken lock, the wood splintered around it. ‘Stay back,' he ordered, drawing his knife.

With one swift movement he pushed the door back all the way to the wall, letting it bang against the plaster. He entered carefully, glancing around the room. There was no one inside. The floor was covered in paper, torn, cut, a sea of it around his boots.

The women flooded in behind him, ignoring his instructions. Emily pushed through them to stand next to him. He heard her wordless cry, then she was on her knees, scrabbling in a box in the corner. It had arrived the afternoon before, filled with new books for the girls. Now all that remained inside were the empty covers. She sat back and looked up at him hopelessly. ‘Why?' she asked. ‘Why is someone doing this to us?'

The women and girls were kneeling, too, starting to gather the pages. Rob bent, picked up a leaf and stared at it, not seeing the words. How had this happened? Ericson had been across the street at three o'clock when he'd come by here and checked the handle himself. An hour later folk would have been up, ready to be off to their work. Anyone trying to get in should have been spotted. There'd be no putting these books back together; all they were good for now was the fire.

Slowly, Emily roused herself, saying nothing as she worked with the others, trying to restore order to the room. But he kept staring at her face as despair quickly turned to sad defiance then fury.

Finally the floor was clear. He stood, reaching out to help her to her feet.

‘I'm not closing the school,' she announced to everyone, her face set, her voice firm. ‘If that's what someone wants, I'm not going to do it.'

The women murmured their approval.

‘We'll not let them, love, don't you worry,' a voice said from the back.

‘Thank you.' Emily smiled, breathed slowly and turned to Rob. ‘I'm going to send someone for the locksmith. I still have the money Mrs Williamson gave me, that'll pay for the repair.' She reached out and took his hand. ‘We'll be fine now.'

‘But they'll have their husbands out again,' he protested. ‘Whoever did this might not come back.'

‘Good,' she said, staring hard at him. ‘I don't want him back. I don't want any more of this. I'm a teacher. I'm not here to fight battles.'

He nodded. Perhaps the people here could keep a closer watch than his men.

‘In God's name, Rob, where was Ericson?' the Constable raged.

Lister looked down at the floor. ‘He said he went off to sleep after he'd seen me go round.'

‘Christ.' Nottingham banged his fist down on the desk.

‘I told him he doesn't have a job any more.'

‘If you hadn't I bloody well would have! What about the one on Call Brows? Was he sleeping, too?'

‘He didn't see or hear anything, boss.'

The Constable shook his head, beyond words. ‘How's Emily?' he asked finally.

‘She's angry,' Rob replied. ‘Scared, too, but you know what she's like: she's never going to admit that.'

‘It's all out in the open now,' Nottingham said with a sigh. ‘Everyone knows there's trouble at the school. We'll have to use that to find out who did this.'

‘How?' Sedgwick asked. He leaned against the wall, sipping at a mug of ale as he listened. ‘We've already been asking. What else can we do?'

‘Ask again,' Nottingham ordered, his voice tight with frustration. ‘Press them. Someone will know what's happened. Get them to peach every name they can. Spend the morning on it.'

The deputy nodded. ‘Yes, boss.' He put down the cup and left.

‘You go home and sleep,' the Constable told Rob.

‘I'm going to talk to some people first. This is my fault. Ericson.'

Nottingham softened a little. ‘I've hired worthless folk before, too. Don't blame yourself for someone else's failings. Now,' he said through clenched teeth, ‘let's find this bugger and make him pay.'

Before the Saturday cloth market Nottingham was on Briggate, moving among the weavers and the merchants. The sky was clear and pale, the sun already warm on his neck. He'd walked along the Calls, stopping to listen to Emily talking to her class, her voice tired and hoarse. The locksmith was already repairing the door, and gave him a quick nod as he passed.

He listened to the noise and laughter around him that ended abruptly with the ringing of the bell. Business began in earnest, the quick whispers and bargaining and the handshakes to finish each deal. He saw it but he paid no attention.

Who? Who had enough hate in them to do something like this? Nottingham glanced at the faces all around, each one absorbed in business. Someone in Leeds had done it, someone had taken his chances. And he had to catch them; he had to protect Emily and the girls in the school. She might have grown into a woman with a man of her own, but she'd always remain his daughter, whose tears he'd wiped away, who'd taken his hand to walk her first few, faltering steps. These days more than ever, he needed to watch over her. But so far he hadn't even managed that properly. Since Mary's death, it seemed, little had gone well for him.

The night before, after Rob left for work, Nottingham had climbed the stairs and tapped lightly on the door of Emily's room. She was sitting at the table, the tallow candle guttering and filling the air with its sour smell. The window was open and the shutters pulled back. In the distance, through the dusk, he could see lights from a few houses and farms. Emily turned and smiled at him. He sat on the bed, running his tongue around inside his mouth.

‘You know, Mama would have been so proud of you,' he said after a while.

‘I hope so.' Her fingers stroked the feather of the quill pen. ‘I think of her up in heaven looking down on us all.'

‘She liked Rob,' he continued. ‘She always felt you two were a good match.' He watched her blush slightly and took a breath. ‘We need to talk about the school.'

‘What about the school?' She looked at him quizzically. ‘I'm not going to close it.'

‘I don't want you to,' Nottingham said gently, reaching out and placing his hand over hers. ‘I'm proud of you, too.'

‘Thank you, Papa.'

‘But it's my job to make sure people are safe. Everyone in Leeds. You know that. But you especially. You're my family, I don't want anything to happen to you.'

‘I know.' She sighed. ‘At first, when they left the slate, I was scared. Now I'm angry.' She raised her head, then paused. ‘And it makes me sad. I can't understand why someone would want to do something like that.'

‘I don't either, love,' he said softly. ‘But something I learned a long time ago was that people are strange. You can never really know what's in their minds. I just don't want you or any of the girls hurt.'

She squeezed his hand. ‘He won't make me leave,' she said again.

‘I know that.' He squeezed back lightly. ‘And I'll look after you. Rob, too.'

‘Do you think he's mad, whoever's doing this?' Emily asked.

He shook his head. ‘We'll find out when we catch him.'

‘Do you have any idea …?'

‘Who's behind it?' He completed her question. ‘I wish I did.'

‘Papa,' she said slowly, as if the words had been weighing on her mind. ‘I know you meant to help when you sent down the glazier and the locksmith.'

‘I was being a father. And the Constable.'

‘I know.' She bit her lip for a moment. ‘But
I
need to be the one who looks after things at the school. People need to see it's
me
. Not my papa, not the Constable.' She smiled, trying to pull the sting from her words. ‘I'm glad you did it. Honestly, I am. But please, from now on will you let me send for workmen?'

‘Of course,' he promised.

She smiled her gratitude. ‘I know you'll find whoever's doing this.'

He tried to grin but it wouldn't reach his eyes. He closed the door, seeing her turn back to the books. In the bedroom he took off his boots and lay back, forcing his eyes to close. Her words had hurt, a pain around his heart. All he'd wanted to do was help, to see things done swiftly and honestly.

He could never look at her without seeing all the people she'd been, the little one who used to charge around the house laughing, the lass who could lose all time in a book, the wilful and the silent. But the world had changed. She'd grown into a woman. A woman who'd always refuse to rely on anyone else. He had to learn that afresh each day, to remember it.

And now there was this.

The hour of the market seemed to pass in a few heartbeats and the bell tolled again. Voices rose, weavers heaving lengths of cloth on to their shoulders to take to the warehouses while workers dismantled the trestles to carry them to the other market at the top of the street.

‘Thinking, Richard?' Tom Williamson said.

‘I am,' he answered with a frown. ‘A good profit this morning?'

‘If I'm lucky I might make a little money,' he answered cautiously. It was an understatement; Nottingham knew full well that the merchant had become one of the most successful in Leeds, forward-thinking and starting to bring in good money from the American colonies.

‘Someone broke into the school last night,' the Constable told him.

Shock spread over Williamson's face. ‘Good God. Was there much damage?'

‘Enough. All those books you paid for were all destroyed.'

‘What?' he asked in horror, and the only reply Nottingham could offer was a shake of his head. ‘I'll send Hannah a note; maybe she can help. Do you have any idea at all who's doing it?'

‘I've been asking. Have you heard anyone saying anything against the place?'

‘The school? No one.'

‘How about people objecting to educating the poor?'

‘It's not something they really talk about.' Williamson said, and the Constable knew he was right. ‘Mind you, I did hear Walter Mitchell, you know him, Larkin's factor, say something,' the merchant continued. ‘He didn't think there was any need, all they'd ever do was work as drudges, anyway.' He shrugged. ‘But a few of us had shared some bottles of wine. I doubt he meant anything.'

‘Mitchell?' Nottingham was struggling to bring the man's face to mind. ‘Is he young, brawny?'

‘That's the one. He's always loud after a few drinks. But I know him, Richard,' the merchant protested. ‘There's no real harm in the man. He wouldn't do anything.'

‘Someone did,' the Constable pointed out. ‘I think I'll talk to Mr Mitchell.'

Williamson raised his hands. ‘It's your business. But you'll be wasting your time.'

‘We'll see,' Nottingham said. ‘Any more word on the workhouse?'

‘I'm still going through the figures Mr Finer gave me.' He hesitated for a moment. ‘It's exactly as I told you, so far everything he's proposing makes sense.'

‘Keep looking. You have to keep looking.'

‘I will, I promise,' the merchant agreed. ‘But I have to keep my mind open.'

The Constable nodded. ‘Of course. Thank you.'

‘And Richard, please don't tell Walter Mitchell you heard anything from me.'

Larkin's warehouse was behind his house on Briggate, a large, old stone building. The heat hit the Constable as he walked in, the heavy smell of wool tickling his throat.

Mitchell had rolled out a length of cloth he'd bought at the market to inspect it closely for flaws. He'd thrown his coat over a table and unbuttoned his elaborate waistcoat. His breeches were covered with dust from the fabric. He glanced up and waved Nottingham over to a desk to wait.

The factor took his time, picking here and there at the wool until he was satisfied and nodded to the workers to roll it up again. He rubbed at his clothes, poured himself a mug of ale and came over to the Constable.

‘You chose a bad time,' he said bluntly. ‘You ought to know Tuesdays and Saturdays are always busy.'

‘My apologies.' Nottingham kept his voice genial. Mitchell was an imposing figure, fully six feet tall with broad shoulders and heavy arms. He'd taken off his periwig to show hair cropped close against the skull. A thin scar ran from his mouth to his chin, leaving his face with a twisted, sinister look.

‘What do you need, Constable? I've got too much to do here.'

‘Where were you last night, Mr Mitchell?'

The factor's eyed narrowed. ‘Last night? I was at home, in my bed. Where the hell do you think I'd be?'

‘Can anyone attest to that?' Nottingham asked calmly.

‘Of course they can. My wife was right there next to me and the servant saw me out this morning,' he replied brusquely. ‘What's this about, anyway?'