With the discovery of a young woman’s charred and blackened body, Richard Nottingham tackles his most disturbing case yet     March, 1733 . Fire rages through an empty house in a rundown area of Leeds, but the investigation takes a disturbing turn with the discovery of the charred remains of a young woman and her baby amidst the smouldering ruins. Was the fire deliberately started to conceal the woman’s murder? Richard Nottingham’s enquiries into the victim’s identity will lead him from squalid alehouses, prostitutes’ haunts and thieves’ dens to the home of a wealthy wool merchant.  “Nickson's outstanding fourth mystery featuring constable Richard Nottingham, delivers an intriguing puzzle, Nickson does a fine job depicting Leeds's underclass” ***Publishers Weekly "" Nickson’s fourth title in his superb 18th century-set series lives up to expectations. Clearly written so that the titles can be read out of order, this historical police procedural ends with a cliffhanger, guaranteeing your patrons will demand number five"" Library Jounal on Come the Fear Come the Fear A Richard Nottingham Novel By Chris Nickson Severn House Publishers Limited Copyright © 2012 Chris Nickson All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-78029-030-0 CHAPTER 1 It was the last day of March and the sun had risen bright and pale. There was a crispness in the early morning air; Richard Nottingham felt it cold against his face as he walked and it cut sharply through the old wool of his breeches, a reminder that spring hadn't fully arrived yet. Last night there'd been a large full moon that hung low over Leeds. He'd stood at the window and watched its light spread across the fields. It had been a damp, chill winter, a time of aches and pains, agues and rheums. He'd felt enough of them himself with sniffles and coughs that hadn't wanted to leave. Now, though, there was new life in the air, and not before time. In the city the last of the season's understanding and compassion had been scraped dry. Tempers frayed quickly and violence fired all too readily in words and fists. He crossed Timble Bridge, seeing the light shining like sparks on the water and feeling the strange clarity of the air, his boots clattering flatly over the old wood, before walking slowly up Kirkgate towards the jail. He glanced at the churchyard as he passed, and his eye rested on the headstone for his older daughter, Rose, buried a year before. Loved in death as she was cherished in life, it read. Last month, once the earth had finally settled enough, it had finally been put in place. He'd knelt at the graveside and traced each single letter, feeling the clear marks of the chisel and thinking of the girl who'd grown so fast, and had been barely married when the fever took her away. In time the inscription would wear and weather to nothing and the stone might split or crack. But by then he'd be long dead, along with Mary and Emily and all who might have held the girl in their heads and hearts. By then she'd just be another fading, forgotten entry in the parish register. He shook his head to clear the memories and strode on. It was still early enough for the air to smell fresh, before the night soil was thrown out and the ripe press of humanity filled the streets. All around him Leeds was coming alive, servants chattering quietly in the yards, and behind the closed shutters of big houses, the smoke of kitchen fires pillowing up into the blue sky, the soft sounds of grumbling and laughter. The poor were coming from their tenement yards for another day of work. On Briggate the weavers would be starting to set up their trestles for the cloth market, laying out their finished lengths of wool and warming their bones with a hot Brigg End Shot breakfast of roasted beef and ale. Nottingham opened the door and walked into the jail. Rob Lister was sitting at the desk completing the last of the night report. He looked weary, and his red hair stood out wildly from his scalp where he'd run a hand through it. 'Anything?' 'Nothing much, boss.' So far 1733 had been an uneventful year, and as Constable of the City of Leeds, Richard Nottingham was grateful. There had been the usual robberies and killings, rapes and fights. The poor suffered while the wealth of the rich grew until all that anchored some of them to earth was the weight of their purses. But that was how the world had always been, the way it would remain until the end. The crimes had been easily resolved, the product of drink, rage or desperation that would leave men to hang or spend years transported across the ocean. It had been normal business. 'Go home and sleep,' he said, though Lister seemed in no hurry to stir. He knew the boy would wait, glancing eagerly out of the window, his eyes searching for Nottingham's younger daughter Emily, as she walked to her position as an assistant teacher at the dame school. They'd been courting for half a year, and Nottingham approved of the match. He liked the lad, he w