The Goldsmith – A Simon Westow Story

The note was short: Meet me outside the Moot Hall tomorrow at seven in the morning.

            Jane read it twice and set it aside.

            But she was there, wrapped in her heavy green cloak with the hood pulled over her hair. She stamped her feet against the February cold and waited for Simon.

            He arrived with the final toll of the church bell for the hour, a smile on his face as he said, ‘Come with me.’

            Why? What did he want? He knew something. She followed quickly, curious to find out.

            No more than a few yards. He stopped by one of the stone buildings of Middle Row, a tailing of workshops behind the Moot Hall, leading up Briggate. They’d been empty for a few years. Another week or two and all this would be pulled down, along with the hall, making space to erect a new Corn Exchange.

The Moot Hall with Middle Row behind

            Simon produced a key and unlocked the heavy old wooden door of one of the workshops. No telling how long these had stood here. As Simon pushed the door open, she could smell the mustiness and the age of the place.

            ‘What is it?’ she asked.

            ‘It used to belong to a man named Arthur Mangey.’

            ‘Who was he? Nobody’s been in there for a long time. Years.’

            ‘This was a long, long time ago. Let me light the lantern.’ It flared; he trimmed the wick and lowered the glass shade. ‘Come in and close the door. We don’t want the whole town knowing. Not yet.’

            She gazed around. A small, barred window high in one wall, all the glass gone. Cobwebs pale and thick in the corners and draped across the walls. Dried leaves like a rug on the floor. A heavy wooden bench was the only furniture.

            ‘Constable Porter and I came in here yesterday. A chance to look around before it’s rubble.’

            She didn’t understand. It was nothing more than an empty, derelict room. Stone on three walls, old wooden panelling on the fourth. No mystery, nothing to see. What was going to interest Leeds about that?

            ‘Watch,’ Simon said. He reached into the corner, moved something, and with a click, some of the panelling moved out like a draw. She drew in her breath with a gasp. ‘We found it by accident. Sheer luck.’ He held up the lantern and grinned. ‘Take a look.’

            A dark, airless room that felt heavy with history. The lantern gave the only light. Another bench.

            ‘See?’ he asked.

            Two pairs of shears on the wood, as if someone had put them down a few minutes earlier. Some small, tarnished chips of metal in a shallow tin bowl, black with age.

            ‘What are they?’ She kept her hands by her side, scared that someone might reach from the past and grab her if she tried to touch anything.

            ‘Silver. There was a coin. Porter took it and showed it to old Wilf Harrison. You know him, the jeweller on Vicar Lane. He says it dates back to Queen Elizabeth. More than two hundred years. Someone was clipping the edges from coins in here. A little bit of silver from quite a few, melt them down and you’ve made some money.’

            Jane stared. Two hundred years. Beyond her comprehension.

            ‘Mangey was a goldsmith and silversmith. He was used to working with precious metals.’

‘It was true, then,’ Mrs Shields sighed as Jane told her what she’d seen.

            ‘What was?’

            ‘The story about the secret room. My grandmother heard it from her mother when she was a girl. She told me when…I suppose I was 10 or 11. We were walking down Briggate and passed Middle Row.’

            ‘Tell me. Please.’ She knew she sounded like an eager child, but she didn’t care.

            ‘This all happened over a hundred years ago-’

            ‘Simon said the coin is over two centuries old.’

            Catherine Shields smiled. ‘Maybe it is, child, but I can only tell you what Grandmama said to me. Have you heard of the Leeds Mace?’

The Leeds Mace

            Jane frowned. ‘No, what is it?’

            ‘It’s big, made from silver. Very beautiful. They bring it out for ceremonial occasions. It was made by Alfred Mangey. He worked in gold and silver, and he had that workshop on Middle Row. The one you were in this morning.’

‘If he worked in silver, why would he clip coins? He was already rich, wasn’t he?’

            ‘I don’t know, child.’ She reached out and stroked Jane’s arm. ‘People are greedy or maybe they want to do things for other reasons.’

            ‘How did anyone find out he was doing it?’

            ‘They did. At least, that’s what I was told. He was accused of forgery by someone and tried in York. There wasn’t any evidence, but they found him guilty.’

            ‘What happened then?’

            Mrs Shields’ mouth tightened. ‘They hung him. Forgery was treason. He died a traitor. Evidently plenty of people thought he was innocent.’

            ‘But the room…’ Jane began.

            ‘Yes. That seems to end it all, doesn’t it?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘It won’t, though. You can guarantee that. People will always wonder if those things were planted by the man who accused him.’ She exhaled slowly ‘We’ll never know, will we?’

The story of Arthur Mangey is real. He was hung in 1696 after being accused of forgery by a shoemaker named George Norcross. But it was only during demolition of Middle Row in 1825 that the secret workshop was discovered.

The Moot Hall and Middle Row in the middle of Briggate

Had Norcross planted the evidence? He’d never have been able to tell people about the secret room without giving himself away. We will simply never have a proper answer.

Forgive the small ad, but A Dark Steel Death has been out for a month now and I would be very grateful if you would buy a copy – if you can afford it – or ask your library to stock it. Once you’ve read it, please leave a review, good or bad, somewhere. Honestly, they all help. Thanks.