The Hocus Girl, page 1
Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Chris Nickson from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Afterword
A Selection of Recent Titles by Chris Nickson from Severn House
The Inspector Tom Harper mysteries
GODS OF GOLD
TWO BRONZE PENNIES
SKIN LIKE SILVER
THE IRON WATER
ON COPPER STREET
THE TIN GOD
THE LEADEN HEART
The Richard Nottingham mysteries
COLD CRUEL WINTER
THE CONSTANT LOVERS
COME THE FEAR
AT THE DYING OF THE YEAR
FAIR AND TENDER LADIES
FREE FROM ALL DANGER
The Simon Westow mysteries
THE HANGING PSALM
THE HOCUS GIRL
THE HOCUS GIRL
A Simon Westow mystery
Chris Nickson
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
First published in the USA 2020 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of
110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022
This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
Copyright © 2019 by Chris Nickson.
The right of Chris Nickson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8935-5 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-649-4 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0348-9 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
ONE
Leeds, May 1822
The man uncurled his fist to show the pocket watch. Candlelight reflected and shimmered on the gold.
‘Open it up,’ Simon Westow said.
Inside the cover, an inscription: From Martha to Walter, my loving husband.
‘See?’ the man said. ‘The real thing, that is. Proper gold. Keeps good time and—’
The knife at his throat silenced him.
‘And it was stolen three days ago,’ Simon said. He held the blade steady, stretching the man’s skin without breaking it. ‘Where’s the rest?’ With a gentle touch, he lifted the watch out of the man’s palm and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Well?’
‘Don’t know.’ The man gasped the words. His head was pushed back against the wall, neck exposed. ‘I bought this from Robby Barstow.’
‘When?’ A little more pressure, enough to bring a single drop of warm blood.
‘Last night.’
The man’s eyes were wide, pleading, the whites showing. It was the truth. He was too terrified to lie.
‘Then you’d best tell Robby I’m coming for him.’
‘What—’
‘About the watch?’
‘Yes.’ He breathed out the word, trying not to move at all.
‘Consider it a bad investment.’
Outside, he blinked in the light. A coach rumbled past on the Head Row, the driver trying to make good time on his way to Skipton.
Simon would hunt for Barstow later. The watch was the important item; Walter Haigh was desperate to have it returned, a gift from his late wife. He’d promised a fine reward.
That was what a thief-taker did. Find what had been stolen and return it for a fee.
Market day. Briggate was packed, trestles set up on either side of the street. People forced their way through the crowds. Carts were at a standstill below the Moot Hall, horses waiting patiently in their traces.
‘No taxes, no charge for the post, porter a ha’penny a gallon. That’s what we need.’ The voice rang out sharp and clear, keening high above the hubbub to make people stop and stare. ‘The kingdom of Shiloh is coming, and after it the Angel of the Lord will bring an earthquake to sink the world.’
Simon paused, amused. The country was full of fools with visions. This one was an old man in dusty, tattered clothes, with a white prophet’s beard hanging down to his chest. He drew in a breath, ready to bellow more. But before he could continue, two members of the watch pinned him by the arms and dragged him roughly away, kicking over the small pile of tracts by his feet. Simon picked one up, glanced at it briefly, then tossed it back with the others.
He spotted Rosie. The bright blue plume of her hat rose tall over all the heads around her. Reaching her took longer, squeezing and pushing, easing between the press of bodies. He saw a young girl deftly stealing two apples while the stall holder’s head was turned. A man cut a woman’s purse strings, sliding away before she could notice.
Leeds, Simon thought. Its greedy heart never changed.
‘All done?’ she said. She hadn’t turned her head; she simply seemed to know he was there. She wore a gown that reached to her ankles, a deep shade of indigo with a patterned bodice and puffed oversleeves. Dressed up in her finery, just like him in his black frock coat, close-fitting trousers and neatly striped waistcoat. And armed, always; Rosie carried a knife, hidden away in the pocket of her dress. Simon had three; one on his belt, another in his boot, the third in a sheath up his sleeve. He’d taught himself to use them well; the job was dangerous.
‘Yes. Simple enough.’
‘Take a look at this.’ Rosie’s fingers rubbed the worn velvet of a dress, russet and gold.
‘What about it?’
‘It used to belong to Katherine Wainwright. I remember her wearing it.’
She’d been Rosie’s closest friend, older, softer, then gone, dead for five years now. A sickness that arrived in the night, robbing her of breath and filling her lungs with liquid.
‘You can’t bring her back,’ Simon said gently.
‘I know.’ She laid it on the trestle and stroked the fabric once more. ‘I just wondered how many others have worn it since.’
She put her arm through his and they began to move. Past farmers selling butter and cheeses brought from the country. Last autumn’s fruit. Sacks bulging with onions and potatoes. A tinker offering mended pans. And everywhere, talk and more talk. A constant, roaring ocean of sound to fill the town.
Simon watched, noticing every face as his wife chattered. People, information; they were his stock in trade. Down near the Old King’s Arms, she nudged him.
‘Isn’t that George Ericsson?’
The man strode up the other side of Briggate, eyes fixed straight ahead. Tall, with wide shoulders and a grave, solemn face.
‘It is. I’d heard he was back,’ Simon said.
Ericsson was a timber merchant, a Swede, with a warehouse down on the river. For the last five years he’d been in Stockholm, leaving his oldest son Jonas to handle business here. The lad had done well; with so many factories and houses rising these days, the demand for wood was high.
‘He looks a lot older,’ Rosie said, staring.
True enough, Simon thought. Time hadn’t been kind to the man. It had worn down the planes of his face and turned the pale blond hair a sharp, brilliant white.
‘His wife’s returned with him, too,’ he said. ‘Rounder than ever, someone told me.’
‘Hardly surprising. She used to eat everything in sight.’
‘I didn’t think you knew her.’
Rosie shook her head, hair rippling under the broad hat. ‘I used to see her in the shops. She always expected a special price, as if she was doing them a favour by gracing them with her custom.
‘Did they give it to her?’
Rosie gave him a withering look. ‘Don’t you know better than that, Simon? They’d quote something higher, then make a show of taking that off.’
He laughed.
It was rare for them to have time together, the two of them alone, a luxury worth more than money. Just the chance to stroll, to observe, and to enjoy the May sunshine. Their boys, Richard and Amos, were in Kirkstall for a few days, staying with Mrs Burton and her husband to enjoy the early days of good weather.
Jane, the girl who worked with him, was off somewhere. He’d heard her leave the house first thing that morning, sliding away into the dawn.
They turned the corner on to Swinegate as Rosie talked. She had a sharp eye and a wicked tongue, and she relished taking aim at the great and good ladies of the town. Simon let the words flow over him. Then she halted in mid-sentence, standing still on the pavement.
‘That’s Emily Ashton at our door.’
He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the figure by the step. In her early forties, wearing an old calico dress, a shawl across her shoulders, turned away from them. Only the dark red hair gave her away, coiled up on her head.
‘You’re right.’
TWO
The Ashtons had looked after him. He’d walked away from the workhouse, aged thirteen, a boy filled with anger, trying to pull together a life he could call his own. Too often he’d gone hungry or slept out in the bitter cold. But when Simon could take no more, desperate for warmth or a meal in his belly, he could go to see Emily Ashton and her brother Davey at their house on Mabgate. They gave him sanctuary.
Emily would feed him and put down a blanket by the hearth. Her brother would fill his head with words. Ideas. Equality, brotherhood, dignity, hope.
They saved him. They shaped him.
‘Emily,’ he called.
She turned and began to run towards them, the panic plain on her face. Simon wrapped his arms around her. Emily shook, tears running down her cheeks.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Davey.’ The words were a helpless sob, choking in her mouth. For a moment he thought the man was dead. ‘They’ve taken him.’
‘Taken him?’ He didn’t understand. ‘Who?’
‘The government.’ Her hands gripped him tight, holding on to him like an anchor. ‘They said they’re going to charge him with sedition.’
Jane stood in the shadow of a building on Vicar Lane, watching the people pass. Back in the gloom, the shawl pulled over her hair, she knew she was invisible. The night before, she’d heard a rumour that Stephen Bullock was back in Leeds and staying with Isaac Palmer.
Bullock was a servant who’d thieved from his employer, vanishing three months before with five pounds in coins and two pieces of silver plate. All the money would be long spent by now, but his master hadn’t forgotten. He wanted to prosecute. Catch him, and she and Simon would receive their fee.
She tensed as the door opened. But it was only Palmer, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. No matter. She had plenty of patience.
‘Let’s go inside,’ Rosie said quietly. She put an arm around Emily, guiding her down the hall and into the kitchen, sitting her on one of the chairs then pouring a glass of French brandy. ‘Drink that.’
She swallowed, coughed. But a little colour came back to her face and the wildness began to fade from her eyes.
‘What’s he supposed to have done?’ Simon asked. It was strange; people should have been talking about it at the market, the gossip moving from mouth to mouth. But he’d heard nothing.
‘They wouldn’t tell me.’ She began to cry again. ‘Just pushed me out of the way and marched him off. A magistrate and soldiers with bayonets.’
Davey Ashton read books. He went to meetings and talked into the night with other men about a better world. About reform. Words and hope.
Sedition …
The government had passed their Six Acts just two years before, after the Peterloo massacre in Manchester, a way to muffle all criticism and rebellion. But it hadn’t worked. Fury still simmered constantly, boiling over as demonstrations flared and faded across the North.
Sedition.
Guilty, and Davey could be sentenced to spend the rest of his life as a convict in Australia.
‘They went through the house,’ Emily continued. ‘Took some of his papers and his books.’ She started to rise, eyes wide with panic. ‘I need to go home and clean it all up. You know how he likes everything in order.’
Rosie put her arms around Emily’s shoulders and eased her back down.
‘Stay here tonight. You’ll be safe with us. Tomorrow,’ her voice was soothing, ‘we’ll go over there in the morning. Together.’
He watched them, but this was a place where he wasn’t needed. His wife would look after Emily. Quietly, Simon left, back into the street with its noise and stink.
Why in God’s name would they arrest Davey? He wrote, he spoke, but only words and thoughts were his world. He was harmless, a gentle soul who believed in justice. Nothing more. Or perhaps that was enough these days, with a government so scared of its own people.
Someone would have seen, must have heard. Were they all so terrified that they were keeping silent? What had happened to this town?
The market had ended, but Briggate was still bustling. The crack of a whip as a coach turned out of the Rose and Crown and headed up the street, forcing people aside. A woman tried to sell old bunches of heather from a tray, crying out, ‘Luck! Good lucky heather! Be sweet for the day, be sweet for your love!’
A haze lay over Leeds, thin smoke from the factory chimneys, growing thicker and thicker year on year. Simon looked up at the sky as he walked. A few still hoped for clean air, but money would always win out. Profit and business paid the piper. They called the tune.
Near the top of Kirkgate, Simon pushed open the heavy door of the gaol. The place was old now, mortar crumbling between the stones, cold even in the spring sun. The clerk at the desk raised his head.
‘Mr Westow,’ he said in surprise. ‘Have you brought someone for us?’
‘Davey Ashton. Do you have him in the cells?’
‘No, sir.’ The man frowned and pushed the spectacles up his nose. He put down his pen and rubbed the fingers of his right hand. ‘There’s no one by that name. When was he arrested?’
‘This morning.’
The clerk’s expression cleared and his mouth turned down. ‘Is this the sedition case?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’re questioning him at the Moot Hall. I’ll warn you now, though, they won’t let you in. It’s supposed to be secret, but I’ve heard there have been arrests all over the West Riding. Breaking up a rebellion, that’s what they’re saying.’
Simon felt a chill rise through his body. Rebellion was a capital crime. The death penalty. Hanging. In God’s name, what was going on?
‘Who’s the magistrate?’
‘Mr Curzon.’
He knew all about Curzon. A mill owner, a rich man who paid his workers as little as he dared and worked them as hard as he could. A man who’d honed away his compassion and conscience and replaced them with gold.
He’d be putting his questions, damning Davey to hell and threatening him with transportation for life or the noose. Simon felt the desperation clawing in his belly. He had to do something. But he wouldn’t even be able to see Davey until Curzon was done. And he didn’t know how he could save his friend.
‘I see. Thank you.’ A nod and he left. At least he knew his enemy now.
He could have found his way out here without looking. Across Sheepscar Beck at Lady Lodge, then follow the road past Quarry Hill and Mabgate.
The house had belonged to Davey and Emily’s parents. Along with a small annuity that barely saw them through each year, it had been all their father had to leave. A cottage with a plot of land, every room crammed with pamphlets and books and an air that smelled of freedom. It stood alone, silent in its garden, close to where the old dyeworks had once been.
The key was still tucked away under a stone by the gate. He’d used it often enough when he was young. Sometimes he’d arrive after dark, long after the lamps had all been doused behind the windows, let himself in and curl up on the rug, warm and safe for another night. In the morning, Emily would feed him thick, sweetened porridge and bread smeared with butter. Davey would talk, educate him. Simon had taught himself to read. He’d thought that was enough. But Davey showed him that it was just the beginning. He fed Simon ideas, showed him how to think, to weigh arguments, to understand.
