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.He jerked his head around until he spotted Rob.‘I’m going to kill you,’ he said, spittle on his lips.‘Let me go.’‘Give me a hand to get him upright,’ Rob asked the men.‘He’s a reet big bugger,’ one said.‘They’s none of ’em so large when they’re on t’ ground,’ the other laughed.But together, hands under his arms, they pulled him up.‘What’s your name?’ Lister asked.‘Why?’‘I’m the deputy constable and I want to know.That good enough for you?’ It felt strange to use the title, as if it didn’t fit yet.The man glared.‘Jackson,’ he replied grudgingly.‘Ralph Jackson.’‘Why were you running, Mr Jackson?’‘I was late,’ he smirked.‘Then I’ll make sure your appointment can find you at the jail.’‘And if I don’t want to go?’Rob nodded at the labourers.They took hold of the man’s arms and started to march him towards Leeds.In the cell he made the man stand with his back towards him before he’d untie the rope and Jackson massaged his wrists slowly.He was a good two yards high, with a wide chest, but his hands weren’t especially large.‘The Constable will talk to you when he’s back.’‘And what am I supposed to do until then?’ the man asked.Rob smiled.‘I’d suggest you sit and gather your wits, Mr Jackson.You might need them.’Let the man stew a while, he thought.The weather was close and the cells were hot.It might put him in a more talkative mood later.He poured himself some ale and drank deep.An hour passed before Nottingham returned.He hung his coat on the nail and sat behind the desk.‘You must have caught him, you look pleased with yourself.’‘In the cells.’‘Why was he running?’‘Late for an appointment.’ Rob said, raising his eyebrows.‘That’s all he’s said.’‘Does he have a name?’‘Ralph Jackson.’‘What do you think?’ the Constable wondered.‘He’s hiding something, I’m sure of that.But his hands aren’t that big.’‘I believe I’ll have a talk with Mr Jackson, anyway.Have you given him something to drink?’‘Not yet.’Nottingham nodded, poured two mugs of ale and carried them through to the cells.‘Mr Jackson, I’m Richard Nottingham, the Constable in Leeds.Some ale for you, perhaps?’ The man took it gratefully and drained the cup in a single swallow as Nottingham stood by the door.‘You were running at a fair pace earlier.’‘I told your lad, I was late.’‘Who were you meeting?’The man looked directly at him.‘I can’t tell you,’ he answered.‘So it’s a mystery,’ the Constable mused.‘Turn out your pockets, if you will.’There wasn’t much, a purse with a guinea and some smaller coins, a square of linen and a comb.‘That lad took my knife when he tied me up.’‘I should hope he did,’ Nottingham said with amusement.‘You have some money, your clothes are cut well.They’ll have cost you a penny or two.But I don’t know you, Mr Jackson.I don’t believe you’re a Leeds man.’‘I’m from York,’ he answered after a hesitation.‘And do people in York always run to their appointments? I’ve never noticed it when I’ve been there.Or perhaps you were running from something.’‘Did you see anyone coming after me?’‘That doesn’t mean much.What’s your business in Leeds?’‘I’m here to see someone.’The Constable sighed.‘That seems to bring us in a circle.Who were you here to see?’Jackson pushed his tongue around his cheek and stared straight ahead.‘I can’t tell you.’‘Admirable discretion, Mr Jackson, but not helpful.We’ve been searching for someone who looks like you.We think he committed a murder.’The man began to rise, then sat on the bench again.‘I haven’t killed anyone,’ he said quietly.‘That’s an easy claim to make, Mr Jackson.But I’ll need some more proof.How long have you been in Leeds?’‘A fortnight.’‘A long visit,’ Nottingham mused.‘Where have you been staying?’‘The King’s Arms.’ The Constable knew it well, on the corner of Briggate and Currie Entry.Close to Megson’s Court, where Carter’s body had been dumped, and the man had been in town the night of the murder.‘Ask the landlord, he’ll vouch for me.’‘I plan on it, Mr Jackson.In the meantime I’ll leave you here to think about what else you want to tell me.’The building had once been the home of John Harrison, the rich wool merchant who’d built St John’s and the grammar school and given Leeds its market cross; that was what Thoresby had told him years ago, anyway.If it was true it must have been a grand place when Harrison was alive, bigger than any of the new mansions at Town End, a rival to the brick Red House on the Upper Head Row.But Harrison was long dead and the place had been the King’s Arms as long as the Constable had been alive.He found Benjamin Barton, the landlord, inside, watching as a serving girl waited on a pair of drovers still dusty from the road.He was a small man with a harried, hunted face, as if the world was too much for him [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]