The Hanging Psalm

by Chris Nickson

Overview

This dark tale features a strong and sympathetic hero as well as equally appealing supporting characters … Likely to draw in readers of Andrea Penrose, Charles Finch, and Anne Perry Library Journal

Introducing thief-taker Simon Westow in the first in a new historical mystery series set in Regency Leeds.

Leeds, 1820. Thief-taker Simon Westow knows all about lost property. A boy from the workhouse, he now has a comfortable business finding and returning his clients’ stolen possessions. But when John Milner, a successful Leeds businessman, seeks out Simon’s services to find his kidnapped daughter, Hannah, it’s clear he faces a challenge like no other.

Accompanied by his enigmatic and capable young assistant, Jane, Simon takes to the dark, shadowy streets of Leeds for information – streets he knows like the back of his hand. But his enquiries lead Simon and Jane into great danger. Could the answers lie in Simon’s own past, and an old enemy seeking revenge?

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781847519573
Publisher:	Severn House
Publication date:	11/24/2020
Series:	Simon Westow Series , #1
Pages:	224
Product dimensions:	5.55(w) x 8.74(h) x (d)

About the Author

Chris Nickson is a well-known music journalist with over thirty non-fiction books to his credit. He is also the author of the Tom Harper and Richard Nottingham mystery series. Having lived in the USA for 30 years, he has recently returned to his native Leeds.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

As he left the Moot Hall, Simon curled his hands into fists and pushed them into the pockets of his trousers. Briggate was thick with carts and people, and he moved between them without noticing. His head was filled with the faces from the past. The children who fainted after working for twelve hours without any break for food or water, because the overseer wanted the most from them. The boy who lost three fingers in a machine and just stood and stared at the stumps, not able to say a word.

And finally, the day he carried a girl back to the workhouse, the bloody patch steadily growing on her skirt after two men had their pleasure with her during their dinner break. Catherine was her name. She'd just turned eleven the week before; that was all he ever knew about her. She moaned in his arms, in too much pain to cry.

He was thirteen then, grown big and strong and defiant. He pushed the door of the matron's office wide, and gently laid Catherine on her desk. The woman protested, shouted, but he didn't want to hear anything she had to say. He'd heard enough, day after day: piety, duty, gratitude. Instead, Simon turned on his heel. He was never going back.

There was an early April chill in the air as he stood and gazed down on the river. The water moved slowly, putrid and dirty. Swirls of red and ochre and blue eddied on the surface, waste from the dyeworks. A dead dog bobbed lazily up and down in the current.

Simon took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. He needed to let his thoughts ebb away. He needed to forget. To let the fire burn down to embers again.

From the corner of his eye he noticed a movement, a shadow.

'It's only me.' The girl kept a wary distance, eyes on him. She was fourteen, older perhaps, maybe even younger. Sometimes she seemed old, ageless, silent and looking. And as invisible as any of the children who roamed the streets in Leeds. An old, patched dress that was too small for her. Stockings that were more holes than wool, battered clogs on her feet. A pale face and hands and a threadbare shawl over her blonde hair. 'Rosie sent me after you. I saw you leave the Moot Hall and followed you here. You're all dressed up today.'

Simon had worn his good suit, the short, double-breasted jacket in fine worsted with long swallowtails and tight, narrow trousers. A ruffle at the front of his shirt and a tall-crowned hat with a curled brim on his head. He'd wanted to make an impression, to show them that a boy from the workhouse could be a success. But by now he probably no longer even existed for them.

'What does she want?' He took a breath, tasting the soot that spewed from the factory chimneys. Slowly, he felt the anger recede.

'Someone's waiting to see you. I caught a glimpse before she sent me out. Looks like a servant.' She waited a moment. 'Are you coming?' 'Tell her I'll be there soon.'

He watched her move away, melting into the press of people. Who noticed a child? Who noticed a girl? That was what made Jane so useful. She could follow without being seen, she could overhear a conversation without anyone realizing she was close.

Simon gazed around. Grim faces everywhere. People who looked as if they were just clinging on to life. He began to walk. The anger started to fade. But it would never vanish.

The house stood on Swinegate, right on the curve of the street. He could hear his wife in the kitchen, talking to the twins as she worked. She raised her head as he entered, pushing a lock of hair away from her cheek. An apron covered her muslin dress. She brought the knife down sharply on a piece of meat.

'Jane found you, then?' Rosie asked.

He nodded. 'Where is he?'

'I gave him a cup of ale and left him in the front room. He arrived about half an hour ago.' She raised an eyebrow. 'He seems to have a high opinion of himself. Didn't want to talk to a mere woman.'

Simon nodded. Too many men like that.

'How was it?' she asked.

'What you'd expect. Give them three lifetimes and they'd never understand. All it did was drag up the past.'

She offered him a tender smile. 'It'll go again. It always does, Simon.'

'I suppose it will.' She was right; it always had before. His sons peered at him around the corner of the table, two small, identical heads. He stuck out his tongue and they began to laugh. They were the best medicine he knew.

His smile vanished as he opened the door and walked into the front room. The man in the chair jerked his head up at the sound as if he'd been sleeping.

'I'm Simon Westow. You wanted to see me?'

'My master does.'

Jane was right. He was a servant. But a trusted one, if someone was sending him here. Older, with sparse grey hair and a stiff, formal manner to match his dark clothes. Haughty; Rosie had pegged him well.

People didn't normally seek Simon out. They placed a notice in the Mercury or Intelligencer for their stolen property. He found it, returned it, and gave them the name of the thief. In exchange, he received the reward. If they chose to prosecute, they could take their chances in court.

That was how a thief-taker worked. Only a few came here to buy his services. When they did, it meant the job needed discretion.

'Who's your master?'

'He'd rather not say just yet.' The man gave a forbidding smile. 'But he'd like to meet you today.'

'Why?'

'It's a delicate matter. He'd prefer to tell you himself.' The man reached into his waistcoat pocket with two long fingers and drew out a sovereign. 'He believed this might convince you.'

The gold felt heavy in Simon's palm. Solid. Real.

'Where and when?'

'Three o'clock. Do you know Drony Laith?'

'Yes.' Out beyond Gott's big mill at Bean Ing. Just woods and fields, where the town ended and the countryside began.

The man stood and gave a small bow.

'What would you have done if I'd refused?' Simon asked.

'My master gave me a second sovereign. He'll see you at three.'

He tossed the coin and watched it skitter across the kitchen table. Rosie's hand moved swiftly and it vanished into the pocket of her skirt.

'Handsome money,' she said and grinned. 'Who does he want you to kill?'

'I'll find out this afternoon.' He poured a mug of ale and drained half of it in a gulp.

She kneaded the bread dough, fingers spread as she pushed it down. She'd given the boys a small scrap; they sat, stretching it between them until it snapped, then starting over again.

This was where he felt complete. This was home.

Rosie began to shape the loaves, concentrating on her work. She'd blossomed, he thought, so different from the girl he'd seen sitting at the side of the road all those years before, staring helplessly at a mile marker.

'I hope you can read, mister,' she'd said. 'Which way is it to London? The words are all a jumble to me.'

He'd told her, but she didn't pick up her bundle and start walking. Instead, he sat next to her. They talked. An hour later they were heading back into Leeds. He had four shillings in his pocket, all his money in the world. Enough to rent them a room and buy food. He'd earn more tomorrow. He had a reason now.

After the workhouse, he'd starved for twelve months, taking any work he could find, stealing food when there was nothing. He slept in old buildings until he had the money to share a bed in a doss house. An old soldier taught him the alphabet, and to read a few words. From there, he learned on his own. A newspaper someone had thrown away lasted a week, struggling through it in the night by the light from candle stubs until he could read properly. Then he noticed the advertisements for missing property and the rewards for their return. Simon had met plenty of criminals. He listened well, he was large and strong.

And he discovered he had a talent for the work. He'd been doing it for two years when he met Rosie.

Fourteen years later, she was still here. He'd taught her her letters and her numbers, and she learned quickly. She balanced his anger with her humour.

'Who sent him, do you know?' Deftly, she slid the loaves into the oven.

'Not yet. Has Jane come back?'

'I heard her go upstairs.'

He knocked quietly, waiting for her reply. The attic was almost bare, just a bed, a basin and jug on a small table, and a haze of ragged curtain covering the window.

She'd been here for two years, yet there was nothing of her in the room. No trace; as soon as she walked out, she might never have been there. But he understood. Own nothing you couldn't carry. A portable life, always ready to move, to run. Until he met Rosie, he'd felt the same way.

'I saw him leave.'

'I need you to go out to Drony Laith,' Simon said. 'I'm meeting his master there at three.'

He didn't have to tell her to keep out of sight. It was habit; she'd learned it on the streets. Don't let anyone see you steal. Keep clear of authority. Get caught and you'd end up in chains, waiting for Botany Bay. Maybe the noose if you drew a hanging judge.

'I saw his face this time. I know him. He works for John Milner.'

That was interesting, he thought. Milner owned property all over Leeds. He had investments in two of the new manufactories that had sprung up since Napoleon's defeat. They'd never spoken, but Simon had seen him in town, a sour prig of a man with a miserly face.

But what property had he lost that needed to remain such a secret?

'Let me know if anyone comes along with him or if anyone's following.'

The girl nodded.

'Dinner will be ready soon.'

The tenter poles stood on Drony Laith, but no cloth was stretching on the hooks today. It was nothing more than a barren field that ran down to the water, past the rubble of the demolished dye works, a copse of oak and ash rising on the far side. Simon stood and waited. Behind him, the brute, ugly mass of Bean Ing Mill rose like a monster from a tale, swallowing people in the morning and spewing them back out at night. Above the building, the sky was blurred with smoke rising from the chimneys.

He wasn't old enough to remember Leeds before the factories. Even when he was young a few had already been there. Now more and more were rising every single year. They drew the hopeful and the poor from all over Yorkshire. Simon saw them arrive, looking around in wonder as they imagined good work and steady wages ahead. Then he'd spot them again a few months later, broken and ragged and wondering why they'd exchanged the field for the factory.

Jane would be somewhere close, concealed from sight, watching and ready. Simon idled, letting the minutes pass. He'd changed into his working clothes, an old jacket, heavy trousers that clung to his legs, a felt hat, and boots with thick, sturdy soles. Milner would see exactly the kind of man he expected to find.

The man was late; the echo of the bell tolling the hour at the parish church had long since faded when he came strolling along. He had an easy gait, shoulders back, a walking cane giving rhythm to his step. Even from a distance, his clothes were well cut, expensive, a thick coat with a waist-length cape, stock tied into a soft bow, his hair a bristly grey burr over his skull.

But it was his face that told the real tale. It was tight, his lips pressed together as if he was desperately trying to hold something inside. Pale eyes, the skin around them dark and smudged. A man having sleepless nights, he thought.

'You're Westow?'

'I am.' He nodded. 'Simon Westow.'

For a moment Milner said nothing, examining him. He could look till the cows come home, but he'd find nothing beyond a blank stare.

'You're the thief-taker.'

'Yes.'

'What do you charge?'

Only the venal ones asked that question first. Weighing whether it was worth the fee.

'It depends what's been stolen.'

Another silence, longer than the first. It seemed to grow until it overwhelmed the space between them.

'My daughter,' Milner said finally.

Westow had retrieved silver plate, cloth, bonds, too many things to count. But never a woman. Yet a woman was property; that was the law. She belonged to her father, then to her husband. She was his possession. A daughter had value for the marriage she might make. Or the worth she could so easily lose.

'When did it happen?' he asked.

'Yesterday. In the afternoon.' Milner's jaw tightened. 'The stupid girl wanted another gown. She and two of her friends went to the dressmaker to select the fabric. And when she finished there, she had to go to the milliner for a new hat and God knows where else.' He raised his head. 'She didn't come home.'

'You didn't send a servant with her?'

'No. Why would I? She had the other girls to chaperone her. This is Leeds. There's never been a problem.' Milner's face was strained. He reached into his pocket and brought out a folded sheet of paper. 'This was delivered this morning.' His hand shook a little as he passed it over.

I have your daughter with me. She has undergone no harm. She is unsullied and perfectly content for the present.

But this situation cannot last, as I'm certain you will appreciate. After all, sir, it costs money to keep a girl.

With that in mind, I propose a bargain between gentlemen. In return for a fair payment I will ensure that she's returned to you entirely unharmed. Given who she is and who she might become, I believe £1000 is a reasonable figure.

Should you not comply, of course, her fate will be a little different. I will take pains to let it be known what has happened to her. After that, you will understand, no decent man will be willing to take her for a wife.

The choice lies with you. I shall send another letter with more instructions.

A thousand pounds. It was an outrageous sum. More than half a dozen working men might hope to see in their working lives. A ransom for one girl. Simon took a deep breath.

'That's a fortune.'

'I know exactly how much it is, Westow. To the penny.'

'Do you have that much?'

'That's my business.' Milner glared at him. 'But yes, I do. And whoever sent this seems to know what I'm worth.'

Simon tried to clear his head. Talking about money wasn't going to find her. 'Who brought this?'

'A boy. He handed it to one of the servants and ran off.'

'Do you have any idea who sent it?'

'No.' A curt, angry reply. 'If I did, I'd kill him myself.'

'Are you negotiating a marriage for your daughter?'

'Not yet. But there are some prospects.'

'What's her name?' She was a person, not an item.

'Hannah.'

'What does she look like?'

Milner considered for a moment. He seemed to have difficulty conjuring her into his mind.

'Fair hair. A pretty enough face, I suppose. Small; she doesn't stand to my shoulder.'

About five feet tall, Simon judged.

'What was she wearing?'

The man shook his head. 'I don't know. I was at work.'

'It would be helpful to find out. Nobody's courting her?'

'I told you, no. She attends the dances at the Assembly Rooms. But her mother always accompanies her when she goes. That's as much as I'll allow.'

The man believed he was as hard as iron. Yet someone had quickly found the point where he'd break. He'd been forced to see that he had weaknesses. A man like Milner wouldn't enjoy that.

He wanted his daughter back. For the girl herself, but even more for what she could bring to his family's future. How a good marriage could burnish him.

'I'll need the names of the friends she was with.'

Milner banged the tip of his cane against the ground. 'You don't talk to them. Not a word of this gets out.'

Any rumour could ruin Hannah Milner's marriage chances. Even suspicion would be enough to tarnish her reputation. She'd be soiled goods, unsaleable to any respectable bidder.

'That's fine.' He kept his voice even. The job would be harder, but he'd have to manage. 'It would help if I could speak to your wife.' Mothers knew more about their daughters than any father might suspect.

'No.' It was an answer that brooked no argument. 'She's taken to her bed. You don't come anywhere near my house. The next I want to hear from you is that you've found her, untouched. And not even a hint about what's happened. Not now, not ever. You understand? Milner's mouth curled a little and he licked his lips. 'They tell me you're good at what you do. Bring her back before the money's due and I'll pay you two hundred guineas.'

That was far more than Simon had made in his very best year. But if he could afford to pay out a thousand pounds, the man could afford it.

'All right,' he agreed.

'And I want it done fast. Before people get it in their minds to talk.' The man started to turn away, then stopped. 'And before I have to pay this damned ransom. I expect success. Ask anyone – I don't take to people who fail me.'

Simon stood and watched until the man was no more than a smudged figure in the distance.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "The Hanging Psalm"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Chris Nickson.
Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Editorial Reviews

"This dark tale features a strong and sympathetic hero as well as equally appealing supporting characters... Likely to draw in readers of Andrea Penrose, Charles Finch, and Anne Perry"

Library Journal

"This gripping read offers authentic period ambience, vivid characters, crisp dialogue, and plenty of twists"

Booklist

"A solid series launch... Simon's humble background makes him a welcome contrast to such aristocratic Regency sleuths as C.S. Harris's Sebastian St. Cyr"

Publishers Weekly

"This gripping read offers authentic period ambience, vivid characters, crisp dialogue, and plenty of twists"

Booklist