Chris Nickson's Blog, page 6

A Stone For The Dead Who Didn’t Exist

Here’s an oddity: a stone erected in 1812 to commemorate an event that might have happened early in 1643, during the Civil War.

Confused yet?

Let me give you some brief background. Sir William Savile occupied Leeds. He was a Royalist, loyal to Charles. Meanwhile, the Parliamentarians, commanded by Sir Thomas Fairfax were approach, determined to take the town. Savile had thrown up defences: to the west, a trench that ran from St. John’s Church down to the river, another trench to the north, and one on the Leeds side of the bridge across the Aire.

The attack was coming…

The tale goes that the night before, a Parliamentary patrol on Woodhouse Ridge saw some Royalist troops down by Meanwood Beck – where Meanwood Road is now, close to Batty’s Wood.

They attacked, and Charles’ men scattered, running as far as Carr Manor fields, about half a mile. There at least one of them died.

The next day, in a snowstorm, the Roundheads began their attack on Leeds, from the west and the south. A preacher, shouting out Psalm 68, led the men across Leeds Bridge. They captured the cannon shooting at them, and fought house by house up Briggate until they met the forces that had advance from the west. Savile (who himself had taken Leeds a few months earlier) escaped, along with the Vicar of Leeds.

Back to Carr Manor fields.

There is no documentary evidence of the Battle of Meanwood/Battle of Stainbeck/Battle of Batty’s Wood. It’s legend. Myth. However, musket balls have been found in the dirt by the beck, giving some truth to it all.

There’s absolutely no evidence of any bodies on the field. But in 1812, the Oates family had the stone erected on their land – they owned much of the area, including what is now Meanwood Park.

The Latin inscription translates as Neither do the lands know themselves in the turning of the year. Very enigmatic. But perhaps that’s apt for a commemoration of someone who probably never existed, and an event that may or may not have happened.

Forgive finishuing with an ad, but The Dead Will Rise was published in March, and I’d love for you to read. It dages for just a few years after this stone was erected.

From Fortress To Manor House To Music Hall To Pub

The Scarbrought Hotel (please note the spelling), or Scarbrough Taps as it’s long been known, is one of those public houses with a beautiful tile frontage. Right by the station, it seems to do good business.

All very pleasant. But the site has a longer history than most places it Leeds. It began not long after the Norman Conquest, when the garrison stationed here built their fortress right here, with the sire aptly known as Castyle Hill. It commanded a good view, rised up from the river, easy access to the water, and enough distance from the locals – whose village was on Kirkgate.

Go forward, and it became the Leeds manor house, built by Ralph Paynel after any danger of insurrection had faded. Over the centures it underwent a few rebuilds, and became a very genteel residence in the 1500s, then completely redone in the 1700s. During work around the area, evidence of the moast that had once sat around the old manor house was found.

By the 1820s it was an inn known as the King’s Arms, with Henry Scarbrough as its landlord. Later in the century it was acquired by the man who owned City Varieites Music Hall, and who gave it its new name. He held talent shows upstairs and it became a music hall until the bottom fell out of the business and it reverted to being simply a public house.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Scarbrough Hotel.

I hope you won’t forget that a new book of mine came out in March. None of it is set in the old inn, but it’s good, nonetheless!

Jenny White: A Leeds Tale

Another video for you this week. But it’s not a piece of Leeds history. Intead, it’s my retelling of a Leeds folktale. For some reason, there are very few that are associated with Leeds, so it’s important to keep telling them and keep them alive.

A warning, though: it’s a story filled with sorrow.

Jenny White

While I’ve got you here…please remember that The Dead Will Rise isn’t even two months old yet, and I’d love for you to buy a copy, or have your local library order it in for you. Then, in September, the final Tom Harper book, Rusted Souls, is coming. It’s not too early to pre-order a copy. But please, at the moment, not from Amazon UK. My publisher is trying to get Amazon to resolve a glitch which has them charging way over the last price for the book. Order it, yes, but from someone else. Independent bookshops are always best!

Leeds Outdoor Market, 1870

I’ve always loved the outdoor market. It seems to be the closest we’ll get to the days when people set up on either side of Briggate and peddled their wares, centuries ago. There’s been an outdoor market in pretty much the same place for a long time, and I can take you back to experience it thanks to a description of the place and the characters in 1870.

Come out, hear tghe cries, meet the people. Enjoy a savoury trundle, hear about Jack the Giant-Killer and meet the Monster of the Deep. Bring your pennies.

Leeds outdoor market

While you’re here, the date for the launch of the final Tom Harper book, Rusted Souls, has been set. No tickets yet, but very limited seating. If you’re anywhere near Leeds, I hope you’ll come. It’s on the events page.

And The Dead Will Rise is still only a month old. I honestly hope you’ll buy it, and not just because my royalties for the last six months of 2022 were very low. I think it’s a fine, fine book. But no hardback from Amazon UK please. Go to an independent bookshop or here to Speedy Hen. Cheapest price and free UK postage.

Coming Soon, Rusted Souls – The Cover

On September 5, and era will end. The 11th and final Tom Harper book will be published.

I thought you might like the first look at the cover (I think it’s a spectacular cover; they’ve done Tom proud) and a blurb of what’s going to happen in the book….

Leeds, 1920. Chief Constable Tom Harper of Leeds City Police has just six weeks left in the role before his well-earned retirement. But even though his distinguished 40-year career is ending, the crime and mayhem on the city’s streets continues.

Council leader Alderman Thompson is being blackmailed. He wants Harper to find the love letters he sent to a young woman called Charlotte Radcliffe and return them discreetly, while elsewhere, masked, armed robbers are targeting jewellery shops in the city, and an organized gang of shoplifters is set to descend on Leeds. As events threaten to spiral out of control, Harper battles to restore justice and order to the streets of Leeds one last time.

A Walk Through Briggate’s History

I know that many, probably most, of you don’t like in Leeds. I do my best to describe my city in different period. But nothing is better that seeing it for yourself. That’s why I’ve been making a few videos in town. Just short ones, to try and offer a taste of some areas.

Why not come take take a walk through time with me on Briggate and Leeds Bridge. And we’ll finish off in a graveyard. Ready? We won’t be long, no need to pack a lunch…

Briggate in its glory.Lower BriggateOn Leeds BridgeA visit to the graveyard.

Publication Day And A Video Bonus

Here we are, finally, and The Dead Will Rise is officially released into the wild. I’m hugely proud it it, I feel it’s the best Simon Westow book so far, and there’s a lot of Jane in there – she really comes into her own in this one, and not before time. I do hope youi’ll buy it, or borrow from a library. But however, I’d love it if you read it, and even more of you left a review somewhere. Those honestly do all help, believe me.

I did promise a video bonus, and I’m not going to let you down. All those little courts and yards feature in my books, whether it’s Richard Nottingham, Simon Westow, or Tom Harper. I know many of your have never experienced them, so come with me and talk a little walk along one. I think you’ll see why I love them.

Guinea Graves And The Victoria Public House

What was a guinea grave? They’re mentioned a time of two in the Tom Harper books. Take a little trip with me to Beckett Street cemetery and I’ll tell you. It’s one of those things that manages to be uplifting and heartbreaking at the same time.

Guinea graves

And here’s a little bonus for you, as I was out doing some filming. Come and see what was once the Victoria public house at the bottom of Roundhay Road, where Tom and Annabelle used to live.

The Victoria, 8 Roundhay Road.

Please remember, The Deal Will Rise is published everywhere next week, and I’d be very, very grateful if you’d order a copy. However, if you’re in the UK, don’t order the hardback from Amazon – Kindle is fine – becasue they’ve screwed up and are currently charing far more than the list price. UK is fine.

Psst, Got A Minute?

Just over two-and-a-half minutes, actually. I want to take you on a walk up Leeds’ oldest street, Kirkgate. I’ve written about it so many times, but there are many of you who don’t know Leeds, so this gives you a chance to really see it.

I might well do more of these short walks. After all, this is my city, and I’m proud of it. I wriote about it, and this is another way to share it, but really, give you a little of its history.

The oldest part of Leeds – it all began here.Some more of Kirkgate, the oldest street here – and once the richest.

Hopefully, that helps bring it alive for you. I hope you enjoy

And just a reminder that my new book The Dead Will Rise, comes out in a couple of weeks. Currently, Amazon UK and Bol both seem to have messed up the pricing and are charging way over the proper price. Hopefully that will be resolved very soon, but please buy it – just from someone else. Ideally an independent, and if you can’t, Speedy Hen has the cheapest price and UK postage (£17.63 as I write this) and Book Depository has free worldwide postage (£19.50 as I write).

Thank you.

The Dead Will Rise – A Teaser

Here we are at the beginning of February, and just five weeks until The Dead Will Rise is published. So…here’s a little bit from the book to whet your appetites. At least, I hope it will. You can pre-order. I’d be very grateful. So far the book has received a starred review from Publishers Weekly and raves from Kirkus and Booklist, the big three of the US trade magazines. I’ll glad take that.

Now, go ahead and jump in…

Joseph Clark was one of the new breed of men. He was an engineer, his life wrapped in numbers and measurements. Clark’s world was machines, everything powered by steam and turbines. All of it exact, calculated to the tiniest fraction of an inch.

He’d started just five years earlier with a small wooden workshop on Mabgate. Now the Clark Foundry was solid stone, sprawling along the street, eating up everything with a giant’s appetite. The new buildings were permanent and commanding, shifts of men running all day and all night.

            He stood in the kitchen of Simon’s house on a Monday morning, looking awkward as he worked the brim of his hat through his fingers. Clark was barely thirty, but already his knowledge and patents had made him rich, a man with a fortune that grew larger each day. More wealth than many landowners. Yet money couldn’t disguise his discomfort around people, Simon thought. They weren’t as solid or reliable as numbers.

            ‘Please, take a seat,’ he said, but Clark gave a quick shake of his head. His suit was of the costliest wool, the linen of his shirt and stock starched pure white. But they might as well have come straight off the back of a beggar from the way he wore them. He carried the distracted air of a man who spent his life in another world.

            Clark cleared his throat then began to speak, pausing often as he searched for the words he wanted.

            ‘One of my assistants is named Harmony Jordan. He’s been with me since I began the business. A fortnight ago, his daughter died . . . she was just ten years old. The family lives in Headingley . . . she was buried in St Michael’s churchyard.’ He took a breath and Simon studied the man’s face. He was concentrating, marshalling the precise facts of what he needed to say. ‘A week later, the family went to lay flowers on the grave. It looked as if it had been . . . disturbed. Jordan called the sexton. When the gravediggers opened up the ground, they discovered that his daughter’s body had been removed from the coffin.’

            Simon heard Rosie gasp in horror. He knew what she was thinking: Richard and Amos. On the other side of him, Jane sat silent, staring straight ahead.

            ‘How long ago is it since they found the body was gone?’

            ‘It happened on Friday. But they don’t know when it was taken. Harmony told me on Saturday. That’s why I’m here, Mr Westow. I want to hire you.’

            Simon pursed his lips. ‘I’m a thief-taker. You know that. I find items that have been stolen.’

            ‘I do.’ Clark looked directly into his face. ‘Gwendolyn Jordan was stolen.’

            ‘I understand. But I don’t think I’m the person to help you.’

            The man cocked his head, taken aback. ‘Why not? It’s your work, isn’t it? Surely, taking bodies must be one of the worst things you can imagine.’

            ‘I don’t believe there could be anything worse,’ Simon agreed. He sighed. ‘You have to realize, Mr Clark: all I know about bodysnatching is what I’ve read in the newspapers. I’ve never even heard of it happening before in Leeds. You said Mr Jordan doesn’t know exactly when it happened?’

            ‘No. Just somewhere in the seven days between burial and discovery.’

            Simon chewed the inside of his lip as he thought. ‘The corpse could be anywhere by now. My understanding is that the surgeons and medical schools buy them to dissect for anatomy lessons. There are places in Edinburgh and London. Very likely a few other cities, too.’

            ‘That doesn’t help Harmony and his wife,’ Clark said.

            ‘No, of course not,’ Simon agreed. ‘Believe me, Mr Clark, I know that very well. I’m a parent too. What they’re going through must be unendurable. But do you realize that even if I found the people who did it and they were convicted, they’d only go to prison for a few weeks? Months at the most. The law is very clear: taking a body is only a misdemeanour. It’s not deemed to be property.’

            He saw Clark’s face harden. ‘What? Why, in God’s name?’

‘I wish I knew the answer to that.’

‘They also took the dress her parents had made for the burial.’

            ‘Did they?’ Simon pounced on the words. ‘That could make all the difference.’ A dress was property. If it cost enough, stealing it was a felony. The thieves could be transported, maybe even hanged.

            ‘I imagine they’ll have sold it in Leeds,’ Clark said. ‘I want you to find the men who did it.’

            Simon glanced at Jane. Her face showed nothing, hands pressed flat on the table. He’d wanted a short break from work, but this was a job they could do. No, more than that. This was one he had to do.

            ‘All right.’

            ‘I’ll pay you well beyond the value of the dress, don’t worry about that,’ the man continued. ‘And believe me, I will definitely fund the prosecution of the men behind all this.’

‘That’s your choice.’

‘I also want you to find out what happened to the body. Where it went, who bought it.’

            ‘I can try,’ Simon told him. ‘I can’t guarantee anything on that.’

            ‘Just give me a name,’ Clark said. ‘That’s all I need. I know people all over the country. Give me that and I’ll be able to discover where she is and bring her home.’ His expression softened. ‘Harmony has been with me from the start. He’s important to me.’

            Loyalty, friendship. Maybe there was more to the man than numbers.

As she walked home, Jane kept reading words. Anything at all, everything she saw. She was eager for them. All the signs above shops, the advertisements pasted to walls and fences. Her lips moved silently, forming the words, hearing them in her mind.

            When she was eight years old, after her father raped her, her mother had thrown her on to the streets. Survival became the only thing that mattered. Reading and writing couldn’t help her find food or somewhere to sleep. Now, her life had changed. She was settled. She had her work with Simon, and she’d found contentment living with Mrs Shields, the old woman with a gentle soul who owned the cottage hidden away behind Green Dragon Yard.

            The desire for change had arrived during the autumn. It had been growing through the year. An urge for something more in her life, something new. She’d asked Catherine Shields to teach her to read. As soon as she began to learn, she discovered she was hungry for it all, pushing herself, angry at her failure whenever she stumbled over a phrase or a spelling.

            ‘There’s no rush, child,’ Mrs Shields told her with a soft smile. ‘It’s not a race.’

            Jane drank it down, wanting more and more, to master everything. Rosie showed her numbers, how to add and subtract. One more thing she’d never had the chance to understand. A few times, when she was alone, she’d even scratched on some paper with a nib, trying to make her hand form letters and words.

            Then, just three weeks before, as she strolled along Commercial Street, Jane spotted a bolt of muslin in a seamstress’s window. She’d never paid attention to cloth or patterns. What was the need? Her clothes were old, they were garments for work, for wear and tear and dirt. She had money to afford better but she’d simply never had the urge. It was pointless, it was vanity.

But from nowhere the desire began to nag at her, imagining herself in a dress made from this material. For a week she denied it, telling herself it was frivolous and vain. She had no need of a new frock. Where did she ever go that demanded one? Yet finally she gave in, thrilled by the soft ring of the bell as she entered the shop.

            When the dress was finished and she tried it on, she didn’t recognize the young woman in the mirror. This wasn’t the person she imagined; it was nobody she knew. Long dark hair and a heart-shaped face that led down to the point of her chin.

            She ran her hands over the fabric. It was soft to the touch, rippling under her fingertips. A rich chocolate brown colour, with small designs the shade of ripe raspberries. Modestly cut, high over the bosom, nothing to draw attention. The first new garment she’d ever owned. Jane clutched the package under her arm as she walked up the Head Row.

            As soon as she reached the house, she tucked it away in a chest, unopened, still tied in its brown paper. Suddenly she felt ashamed that she’d bought it. It was too good to wear for work. An indulgence. Money wasted on a pointless whim.