Chris Nickson's Blog, page 3

December – A Richard Nottingham Story

For those who don’t know my Richard Nottingham books, he really was the Constable of Leeds during the period the series covers. It was probably a ceremonial role, not so much the proto-copper I made him. A good man, straight as an arrow. this might be an old story, but I haven’t sat down with him in a while. His Leeds was almost 300 years ago, but if you know Simon Westow or Tom Harper, you’ll recognise the streets

The frost lay heavy on the grass and the branches as he walked towards Timble Bridge, his breath blooming wide in the air. The dirt was hard under his boots and the air bitter against his face. Richard Nottingham pulled the greatcoat more tightly around his body and walked up Kirkgate.

            It was still dark, dawn no more than a line of pale sky on the eastern horizon. In some houses the servants were already up and labouring, plumes of smoke rising from a few chimneys. At the jail he checked the cells, seeing a drunk who’d been pulled from the street and a pair brought in by the night men for fighting at an alehouse. Another quiet night.

            He pushed the poker into the banked fire and added more of the good Middleton coal kept in an old scuttle nearby. As warmth filled the room he removed the coat and settled to work. So far the winter had been gentle, he thought, but it was still only December. Come January and February, once the bitter weather arrived, the poor would freeze and die.

            It was the same every year, he thought sadly. He’d been Constable of the City of Leeds long enough to know that all too well. When the cold bit it was always those without money who paid the price.

            Down on Briggate the weavers would be setting up their trestles for the cloth market. They’d been laying out the lengths ready for the merchants, then eating their Brigg End Shot breakfast of hot beef and beer in the taverns, keeping a wary eye on their goods. He’d go down there before the bell rang to show the start of trading, walking around to watch for cutpurses and pickpockets, hearing the business of Leeds carried out in low whispers, thousands of pounds changing hands quietly in an hour.

            He fed a little more coal onto the fire and straightened as the door swung open, bringing in a blast of cold.

            “Morning, boss,” said John Sedgwick, edging closer and holding his hands out as if he was trying to scoop up the heat. He’d been the deputy constable for little more a year, still eager and hardworking, a lanky, pale lad with pock marks fading on his cheeks.

            “Looks like you had an easy time of it,” the Constable said.

            “Aye, not too bad,” he agreed, pouring himself a mug of ale. “You know what it’s like. As soon as the nights turn chilly they stay by their hearths.”

            “You wait. It’s Saturday, they’ll all be out drinking come evening,” Nottingham warned him. “You’ll have your hands full then.” He shook his head. “Get yourself home, John. Have some sleep.”

            The deputy downed the ale and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’ll be glad to see my bed, right enough. I might warm up for a few hours.”

            Alone, Nottingham wrote his daily report for the mayor, nothing more than a few lines. He delivered it to the Moot Hall, the imposing building that stood hard in the middle of Briggate. The city was run from there, from rooms with polished furnishings and deep Turkey carpets that hushed the dealings and the sound of coins being counted. He gave the paper to a sleepy clerk and made his way down the street just as the Parish Church bell rang the half hour to signal the start of the cloth trading.

            The merchants were out in their expensive clothes, the thick coats of good cloth, hose shining white as a sinless day and shoes with glittering silver buckles. They were moving around the stalls, making their bargains and settling them with a swift handshake before moving on to the next purchase. He saw Alderman Thompson softly berating a clothier, his face red, trying to beat the man down in price in his usual bullying manner.

            The alderman glanced around, noticed him and glared. There was bad blood between them and Thompson was loath to forget it, a man who kept grudges in his mind like a ledger. But the man had been a fool, trying to cheat a whore of the few pennies that would have been food and shelter for her. The girl had complained and the Constable had confronted the man in front of his friends, shaming him, forcing the money from his pocket and passing it on to the lass.

            He knew what he’d risked, the enmity of a man who was powerful on the Corporation. But the girl had earned her payment and deserved it; the man could afford it easily enough.

            The Constable walked up and down the road, alert for quick movements, but there was nothing. He settled by the bridge, leaning on the parapet and looking at the rushing black water of the Aire. How many bodies had they pulled out of the river this year? Twenty, perhaps? Enough to lose count, certainly. Those who couldn’t cope any more with life and had found refuge in the current, the ones who’d drunk too much and fallen in, unable to get out again. There was always death, always hopelessness.

            He shook his head and started to make his way back to the jail. Atkinson was striding out, thirty yards ahead of him. A girl running headlong down the street crashed into the man, and he batted her away idly with his arm, sending her tumbling before uttering a loud curse moving on.

            The girl picked herself up and began to walk. As she passed, Nottingham took her by the arm.

            “You shouldn’t have done that,” he told her, his grip tight.

            “Done what?” she asked, the fright in her eyes as she raised her eyes to him and tried to pull away. She was young, no more than thirteen, thin as March sunlight, cheeks sunken from hunger, wearing an old, faded dress and shoes where the upper was coming away from the soles. Her flesh was cold under his touch.

            “You know exactly what you did. You cut his purse.”

            “I didn’t,” she protested and began to struggle.

            “Do you know who I am?” he asked gently. She shook her head, her mouth a tight, scared line. “I’m the Constable. I think you’d better come along with me.” She tried to wriggle away, but his hand was firm on her. After a few moments she gave up, hanging her head and shuffling beside him.

            The jail was warm, the fire burning bright and loud. He sat her down then held out his hand for the purse. Reluctantly, she brought it from a pocket in her dress and gave it to him.

            “What’s your name?” he asked.

            “Elizabeth, sir.” Now, with the cells so close she could see them, she was shivering in spite of the heat. “What’s going to happen to me?”

            “Nothing just yet,” he assured her. “But I can’t make you any promises, Elizabeth. Where do you live?”

            “Nowhere, sir.” He looked at him. “Me and my man and my sisters, we sleep where we can.” It was a familiar tale, one he’d heard so many times before, one he’d lived himself when he was young.

            “How many of you?”

            “Five, sir.”

            He nodded at the purse. “How long have you been doing that? And give me an honest answer,” he warned.

            “Two month, sir. But I’ve only managed to take three,” the girl pleaded.

            He sat back, pushing the fringe off his forehead then rubbing his chin. “When did you last eat?”

            “Thursday.”

            “How old are your sisters?”

            “Nine, seven and six, sir.”

            “What happened to you father?”

            “He died, sir. A horse kicked him in the summer.” He could see the beginning of tears in her eyes.

            “What was his name?” Nottingham wondered.

            “William Marsden, sir. He worked at the stables.”

            He remembered the name and the incident. The man was a farrier, experienced and good at his trade. He’d been about to put fresh shoes on a horse when it kicked him in the head. He’d died instantly. “Doesn’t your mam work?”

            “She has a bad leg, sir, she can’t walk proper.”

            “And what about you? You’re old enough.”

            “I’ve tried to find work, sir, but no one has anything.” The girl raised her chin defiantly. “I have, sir, honest.”

            He stared at her face, all the guile vanished from it now, leaving a terrified girl who knew she could be sentenced to hang for what she’d done. He hesitated for a long moment, then said, “When you leave here, go next door to the White Swan. Talk to Michael and tell him the Constable sent you. He needs a girl to help there. It won’t pay much, but it’s better than nothing.”

            Her eyes widened in astonishment and happiness as she understood he was letting her go. “Thank you, sir. Thank you. Do you really mean it, sir?”

            He nodded, weighing the purse in his hand. It was heavy enough. Atkinson hadn’t come hurrying to report the theft. With a small movement he tossed it to her. As she caught it, her mouth widened into a silent O.

            “Rent a room for all of you and buy some food. Now go.”

            He stood at the window, watching her in the street, looking back in disbelief before she vanished into the inn. Off to the west the clouds were heavy and pale as pearls. If they came in there’d be snow later.

Something Free For Christmas

We’re into December and the end of the year is coming up fast.

Why don’t we close it out with a competition to win a copy of the latest book of mine, Them Without Pain – unfortunately, postage costs mean it’s UK only.

All you have to do it tell me who had the hidden workshop discovered in the book.  Simply reply with your answer and an email address. I’ll select the winner on Thursday, December 12 and it should hopefully arrive in time for holiday reading.

Bonus points if you can tell me why Leeds is such a great city.

Meanwhile, be well, peaceful and happy. Thank you for reading this and my novels. Even if you don’t win, remember that books make great gifts. And they mean even more if they come from independent bookshops.

It’s That Time…Again

We’re leaping into that season again. Christmas lights switch-ones, Christmas fairs and markets, Thanksgiving in the US, the spectre of Black Friday that lasts for weeks…it all means it’s time to think of presents, and a period when artists of all types tout their works as ideal gifts.

I’m no different standing here like I have a stall in the market and barking out my bargains. But yes, I do feel they’d make good presents for anyone who likes to read, has an interest in history and likes crime novels.

My latest is on sale with Amazon (I know, but…cost of living). At least, it is in the UK. The hardback is £13.61 and the ebook £12.93. That’s a good deal and I still get a full royalty. I’d love to sell more copies of it. I believe it’s a hell of a good story, with great characters, and a foundation in Leeds history (a Leeds goldsmith hanged for treason in 1696) that resonates through the years. You can find it right here – just click the link.

KODAK Digital Still Camera

If you could find your way to buying a copy, even for yourself, I’d be very grateful. And if you don’t have the money, please request it from your local library. They may not have it, but they can order it in.

Above all, though, please enjoy the holidays, be healthy and be well. And thank you for reading.

Leeds Changes, But It Stays The Same, too

It’s been quite a week for a discombobulated, terrifying world. I’ve done something that grounds me: walking in Leeds and finding some joy and hope in its past and present.

It came as someone in Madison, Wisconsin wrote a blog post about my love of Leeds that says “what makes Nickson’s series stand out is the portrait of the city itself—a place largely off the beaten path for many crime readers—as it progresses from a regional center of the wool and agricultural trade to sprawling industrial boom town bursting with late Victorian optimism. They’re a unique option to read the life of a city through one of its native sons, through the imagined stories of its crimes.”

It came as a surprise, but a gratifying one. You can read it all here.

Sunday took me around what’s left of the Leylands, the area where so many of the Jewish immigrants settled when they first arrived here. Walking along Nile Street, it was easy to imagine the place as it would have been 120 years ago, alive with chatter in Yiddish, the constant buzz of sewing machines making suits in the sweat shops. The smell of baked goods, the unfamiliar foods, adverts in Yiddish. A world alive with ideas and things that people had brought with them. All gone now.

From there, to Sheepscar, another place that’s been mostly gutted. A few things remain, the old Victoria public house, of course, now something completely different. The Pointers in, now a restaurant. The old Newtown cinema on Cross Stamford St., which could hold over 700 people, Next to it, union premises.

Walking by there, I smelled baking on a Sunday morning and found a Middle Eastern supermarket, quite busy (although no houses are close). All kinds of halva in the bakery, plus so much more. I bought a U-shaped tune of meat (lamb?) baked in philo dough. Around me, everyone was speaking Arabic.

It was wonderful, a continuation, a renewal of a scene that would have happened half a mile and 120 years away. In some small way, it reaffirmed my faith in Leeds. Things so change, but underneath, so much stays the name in my city of immigrants.

Running through it all, the constancy of Sheepscar Beck.

Finally, Amazon has the ebook and hardback of Them Without Pain on a very good sale right now. UK only, I’m sorry to say. But if you’ve been thinkinig of buying it, or want to make it a Christmas gift for someone, this is the time. You can find it here.

Them Without Pain On Sale

Right now, and I don’t know how long it will last, Amazon has Them Without Pain on sale in the UK only. It’s £12.93 for the Kindle edition and a very low £13.61 for the hardback. Find it here.

Christmas is coming and books make good gifts – and I could use the sales. I have no idea how long this will last.

Thank you.

Bargains, Get ‘Em

A very quick not to say that while No Precious Truth isn’t out until April 1 next year, if you pre-order it on Kindle, the price is £10.39, as cheap as I’ve seen Amazon go an on unpublished book – they’re running it for $14.99 in the US. The link is here. I know, it’s Amazon, but Kindle is the big format. I have one.

If you’re catching up on the Simon Westow series, The Scream of Sins is currently £12.99 ($11.49). Buy it here. The first two in the series are just £2.99 – quite a deal.

For Tom Harper fans, Rusted Souls, the final book in the series is £10.39 on Kindle ($11.49). Grab it here. The first eight books in the series are all low priced for Kindle.

Look, I’m from Yorkshire. Our wallets squeak when we have to open them. We all need to save money.

I hope you’ll buy. Thank you.

Who Is Cathy Marsden of No Precious Truth?

Next April sees the publication of No Precious Truth, the first in a series featuring Woman Police Sergeant Cathy Marsden, who’s part of the Special Investigation Branch’s squad in Leeds.

But how did a woman serving in Leeds City Police end up there?

Here’s Cathy’s story. It’s the first in a series of posts about Leeds in World War Two to prepare you for next year. A little taste, if you will.

September, 1940

‘Sorry if I’m late, ma’am. I came as soon as I knew you were looking for me.’

            ‘I thought someone would find you soon enough.’ Inspector Harding sat behind her desk, all her papers carefully squared and ordered. After fifteen years of steady work on the force, she’d risen to be in charge of the women police constables.

            From Flickr

‘Have I done something wrong, ma’am?’ The question had gnawed at her as she hurried up Briggate and the Headrow. She couldn’t imagine what, but…

            Harding couldn’t help herself; she had to laugh. ‘No, Sergeant. It’s nothing like that. Sit down.’

‘Ma’am?’ Harding was always friendly, but one for order and boundaries.

‘Please, take a seat, Sergeant.’

Once Cathy was perched on the edge of her chair, the inspector began.

‘I’ve been watching you these last few months. I don’t know what’s changed, but you don’t look happy in the job.’

‘Ma’am?’ she said again. Had it been that obvious? And what was so urgent about a heart-to-heart? Something like this could wait until the end of shift.

‘Please, Marsden. I wasn’t born last week. It’s been obvious.’

‘If my work isn’t up to snuff-’

‘You work is as good as it’s always been. You been on the force for six years?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Where was the woman going with this?

‘Something’s shifted. It seemed as if it happened when we received those men who’d survived Dunkirk.’

That was all it took. She hadn’t intended to say much, but once she began, it all flooded out.

‘Well,’ Harding said in an easy voice when Cathy finished, ‘I think what we do is important. But I can understand how you feel.’ She took a cigarette case from her breast pocket and offer one to Cathy before lighting her own and blowing a think plume of smoke to the ceiling. ‘Tell me, if I can offer you something different, some far from your routine that might change things in the country a little, what would you say?’

‘I don’t know.’ Her mind was racing. She didn’t understand what the inspector meant. ‘What is it, ma’am?’

‘How would you fancy working in plain clothes for a little while?’

            ‘Me?’ she asked in disbelief. There were only eight women police officers in Leeds, and not a single one of them was in CID. Never had been, and never would be, if the top brass had their way. That was strictly male territory. A few forces had women detectives, but it would be a cold day in hell before it happened here. As it was, twenty years after the first policewoman was appointed in Leeds, they were still barely tolerated in uniform. ‘How?’

             ‘Have you ever heard of an outfit called the SIB? The Special Investigation Branch?’

            ‘No, ma’am.’ All her thoughts was spinning. After the way CID had treated her yesterday, she was suspicious. What would these SIB people expect her to be, the tea girl?

            ‘I’m not surprised. They only started up in the spring. They’re more or less the military police version of CID.’ She paused and gave a short, reassuring smile. ‘Different, though. They investigate crimes involving soldiers.’ Harding held up her finger before Cathy could open her mouth. ‘They have a big operation that’s just begun here. The head of their squad, Sergeant Faulkner, came to see me first thing about seconding a WPC to them for it. They need someone who knows Leeds very well. It might be exactly what you need.’

            ‘Why a policewoman, ma’am?’

            ‘Someone who’s used to disciplined thinking and can obey orders. Well trained.’

            That made a curious kind of sense. But: ‘Why me?’

            Harding gave a kindly smile. ‘Eighteen months ago you were promoted to sergeant. I fought for that because you’re the best I have. You’re a natural leader. The others ask you questions, they listen to you. They look up to you.’ Cathy blushed, feeling the heat rise on her face. ‘You’re very observant. You have a real way with people, too. You put them at ease. They open up when you talk to them. I don’t want you to leave the police. If I second you to SIB for their operation, I believe you’ll come back refreshed and raring to go. If not, then leave the police and find something else. Does that sound fair?’

            Cathy stayed silent for a long time as fears and hopes chased each other around her head.

‘Do you honestly think I can do it, Ma’am?’

            Another smile, this one glowing with satisfaction. ‘My reputation is one the line, Marsden. If I wasn’t certain, I’d never have put you forward for it.’

            She scribbled an address on a scrap of paper and pushed it across the desk. ‘Go here and talk to Sergeant Faulkner. He’s expecting you. The SIB have their own office, separate from the army and us.’

            Cathy tucked it in her uniform pocket, stood and saluted. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

            ‘There’s one condition, and I made this very clear to Sergeant Faulkner: if I need you back for something, the police take precedence. You understand?’

            ‘Yes, ma’am. And thank you.’

            ‘Go and show them what you’re made of, Sergeant.’

Meet Cathy Marsden

Coming next May – months away, I know, but it’ll be here before we know it – you’ll be able to meet Woman Police Sergeant Cathy Marsden, seconded to the Leeds squad of the Special Investigation Branch for the duration of the war.

The SIB was real, and still exists, broadly investigating that area where military and civil crime meet, and there was a fair bit of it back then. But that’s not their focus this time…

It’s 1941, with things looking bleak. When Cathy’s older brother Dan arrives, an intelligent youung man who’d disappeared down to London as soon as he could to become a civil servant, he has a new job for them. It turns out he’s not quite the civil servant he claimed on his annual visits home; he ended up in MI5 and was the recruited to work for the XX Committee, a brand-new unit charged with turning German spies caught trying to enter the country into double agents. But one in his charge has escaped and is heading for Leeds to sabotage the war effort.

They have to catch him before he can act. Failure is not an option.

The cover copy: As the war rages across Europe, Police Sergeant Cathy Marsden’s life since she was seconded to the Special Investigation Branch has remained focused on deserters and home-front crimes. Until now.

Things take a chilling turn when Cathy’s civil servant brother, Dan, arrives from London with a dark secret: he is working for the XX Committee – a special MI5 unit set up to turn German spies into double agents. But one of these agents has escaped and is heading for Leeds, sent to destroy targets key to the war effort. Suddenly Cathy and the squad are plunged into an unfamiliar world of espionage and subterfuge.

With the fate of the country and the war in the balance, failure is not an option, and Cathy must risk everything, including her own life, to stop a spy.

And the very wonderful cover:

Meanwhile, please don’t forget that Them Without Pain is still brand-new and itching for you to read it. One reviewer called it my “best Westow yet” and who am I to disagree. All your favourite outlets and libraries will have it…

The Best Yet?

This is a wonderful review to receive. Booklist, a publication that’s influential with librarians (and bookseller) in the US, praised the Simon Westow series as “a real find for historical-mystery fans.” That’s sumptuous enough paise, but the reviewer concludes: “Brimming with Nickson’s trademark period details, memorable characters, and realistic portrayal of life in nineteenth-century England—but also filled with frightening twists, bloody violence, suspense, and danger—this may just be Nickson’s best Simon Westow book yet.”

Best Simon Westow yet? I’ll gladly take that! A reader who’s read it – maybe through NetGalley where it’s available, hint hint – also thought it was the best yet.

Maybe I’m doing something right. Well, there has to be a first time.

If you’re not on NetGalley, you can pre-order the book, which comes out September 3, or ask your library to order in a copy. Believe me, it would all be gratefully received.

If I may, one final request. If you’d care to leave a review somewhere, that would be wonderful.

Thank you.

Welcome To Pitfall

I’ve no idea why, but Pitfall Street, a few yards downstream from Leeds Bridge, has long been my favourite street in Leeds. No reason for it. It’s only a few yards long, blink and you miss it as you pass on the Calls.

But I’ve used it in many books – I think it’s there in every Simon Westow – and it has much more history than anyone would imagine today.

Look at it from Leeds Bridge and it’s a gap between building. But look down towards the waterline and you’ll see the openings in the stonework. They let in water for the Leeds Water Engine, designed and built by engineer George Sorocold.

The engine powered the water through lead pipes up to a reservoir in a relatively high point in Leeds, up neat St John’s Church on the far side of the Headrow. From there, pipes made of elm went to the houses of those who paid for it. Piped water was a revelation for the time.

However, Pitfall had been in use long before that – there’s no record of its origin-  with a pair of cloth fulling mills powered by water flowing along the Aire; it might originally have been a path leading to the mills; that makes as much sense as anything. The fulling mills were replaced by a rape seed mill, one of several around town. That in its turn, became the housing for the water engine.

How did Pitfall acquire its name? I wish I knew. It certainly has a sinister aspect. For many years it was simply Pitfall; the Street is much more recent.

But it still holds some kind of magic for me.

And just to remind you, Them Without Pain is published in hardback on September 3. Nod’s as good as a wink, right?