Chris Nickson's Blog

Sheepscar Beck, said Ralph Thoresby, the first historian of Leeds, “is the nameless water, that Mr William Harrison, in his description of Britain, (published in the reign of Queen Elizabeth), mentions as running into the Aire, on the north side of Leeds, from Wettlewood (as it is misprinted for Weetwood), This beck proceeds from a small spring up on the moor, a little above Adel, and yet had some time ago [previous to1714], eight mills upon it, in its four miles’ course. The first is that of Adel near unto which is the Roman camp, and the vestigial of the town lately discovered; and the last before its conjunction with the Aire is this at Sheepscar, which above eighty years ago [before 1714] was employed for the grinding of red wood, and making rape oil, then first known in these parts. It was converted into a corn mill in the late times, but upon the Restoration, when the king’s mills recovered their ancient soke, it dwindled into a paper mill, not for imperial, but for that coarse paper called “emporetica”, useful only for chapmen to wrap wares in. It was afterwards made a rape mill again, as it now stands.”

            It’s worth pointing out that Thoresby made an unsuccessful investment in the Sheepscar rape oil mill and lost quite a chunk of his capital.

            Sheepscar Beck is actually one of two streams that meet near the bottom of the area (along the way it’s also known as Meanwood Beck on its trail across the area from its proper origin on Ilkley Moor). It comes in the from northwest, while Gipton Beck arrives from the north. It’s most clearly illustrated on the most ancient map of Leeds, created for a court case in the 1570s, where Gipton Beck is mysteriously called Newton Beck (the new New Town for part of the area didn’t appear until later).

            Together, they become Lady Beck, or Timble Beck, going down Mabgate, then through Leeds (Timble Bridge, covered over more than a century ago, crossed the water at the bottom of Kirkgate) to reach the River Aire close to Crown Point Bridge.

Sheepscar Beck on the left, meets Gipton Beck

            Early on it ran as free as if had been in the country, but as Leeds expanded, the beck was culverted and largely covered over. However, you can still see a few traces at the bottom of Sheepscar, where the two streams meet and the mill pond would have been, just below Bristol Street.

            It’s also easy to track here and there along Mabgate – a bridge crosses it on Hope Street – before one final glimpse as it vanishes underground, not too far from the Eastgate roundabout.

Going underground

The culverting and covering of Timble Beck was a massive undertaking, as this picture shows.

Where Timble Bridge once stood.

By several names, beck and bridge have featured in any number of my books. It was a totem throughout the Richard Nottingham series, and has played a large role in the Simon Westow books. For the most part, Leeds hasn’t been kind to its own history, treating it as something in the way instead of worth saving.

But the beck, or what few bits you can still see, is history right under your feet. It’s powered mills, it’s flowed through the history of this place. These days it’s greatly diminished, but the role it played in helping Leeds develop, especially Leeds industry, is huge.

Lady Beck/Timble Beck

Since you’ve read this far, can I put in a quick plug for my upcoming book, A Rage Of Souls, which will be published October 7. It’s the eighth and final Simon Westow, every bit as dark and explosive as you could wish. Please ask your library to buy a copy, and you can pre-order it for yourself right here. Thank you and keep Leedsing. If that’s’ not a word, it should be.

Two minutes, that’s all…two minutes out of your busy day to travel back 200 years and peer into the darkness and mystery with A Rage Of Souls. Go on…you know you want to. It’s the final Simon Westow novel.

Leeds, April 1826

Simon Westow looked up from the Leeds Intelligencer. The house was quiet, their twin sons Richard and Amos off at their lessons at the grammar school.

‘Do you remember Frederick Fox?’ he asked.

Rosie was stirring a pot on the range. ‘Of course I do. What’s happened? Have they finally hanged him?’

‘He’s been pardoned.’

 ‘What?’ She let the spoon clatter against the pan. ‘Why?’

He folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. ‘It doesn’t give the reason. All done at the last minute, apparently. He was standing on the scaffold in York when the message arrived.’ ‘That’s probably an exaggeration. You know they always try to make it sound dramatic.’

Rosie pressed her lips together. ‘Still, I wonder what happened. Maybe he knows someone important.

A man in dark, sober livery was standing on the step, a serious look on his face. Someone’s servant, Simon thought. He made a hasty bow and handed him a folded note.

‘Mr Barton said to bring you this, sir.’

‘Thank you.’ He fumbled in his pocket, found a halfpenny and pressed it into his hand. With a smile and a thank you, the man drifted away.

At the kitchen table, Simon broke the seal.

Mr Westow,

No doubt you saw the news that Fox was granted a reprieve from death. When that happened, I imagined he and his wife would go somewhere nobody knew them and find a new life. However, since last week, I believe I’ve seen him following me three times. At first, I decided it had to be my imagination. With the second instance, I was a little less sure. The third happened yesterday morning, and I’d swear an oath it was Fox. Always at a distance, with no attempt to speak to me or threaten me. I’m not a man easily given to fright, but this worries me, more for my wife than myself. I will gladly pay you to discover what’s happening and to keep us safe.

Your servant,

James Barton

He read it through once again and began to plan.

It’s out in under a month. You can pre-order it right here, but if you can, please buy from an independent bookshop. In the UK, this place has the best hardback price, plus free postage.

What are the critics saying?

“Nickson vividly evokes the atmosphere of nineteenth-century Leeds and keeps the plot tense and twisty throughout. A good pick for historical-mystery fans.” Booklist

“A first-rate, complex mystery that delves deeply into the many social injustices of the
time.” Kirkus Reviews

Ask your library system to order a copy. That way it’s there for everyone.

Go on, click those links…

Please, come and walk with me for a few minutes in Green Dragon Yard. I want to tell you a little story.

Another month and A Rage Of Souls will be published. It’s the eighth, and the final Simon Westow book.

A couple of people who’ve read it feel it’s the darkest in the series, going further into the shadows than The Scream of Sins. That surprised me; I hadn’t seen it that way. But maybe I’m too close to the book to have any objective view.

Yes, there is darkness, but it’s the creeping shade of death and loss – there’s plenty of that in the book – that forms the overall mood. Once again, it’s an exploration of privilege, wealth, greed and a sense of entitlement that money and position can bring.

The canvas is a little broader. Still resolutely Leeds, but ranging a little father, out to Kirkstall Abbey, Temple Newsam, with a passageway connecting the wings under the courtyard, and out to the lovely old church at Lead, close to the historic, deadly Towton battlefield. But all those places hold the past and dead…

The church at Lead

When I wrote the book I had no intention of the being the last one. I had another in mind for that, featuring Jane (who’s been the linchpin of the books) after the death of Mrs Shields. The old woman has left her the house behind Green Dragon Yard plus a surprising amount of money. But the old woman’s great-nephew feels it ought to belong to him and is determined to have it, whatever that takes.

The Old Green Dragon Inn

The possibility of an epic battle, but the words simply wouldn’t catch fire. And without combustion, there’s no book worth reading. I tried several times but couldn’t make it work in the way I wanted.

Whatever the reason, it was a tale determined not to be told.

Simon, Rosie, Jane, Sally, Richard and Amos, they’ve given us their stories. Not always easy ones for them to tell, but they’ve certainly been a part of my life for several years.

Is the book as dark as people have claimed?

More to the point, is it everything I hoped it would be when I finished it?

The only way to know is to read it.

If you’re on NetGalley, you can find it here – all my publisher asks is an honest review (and they’ve been cracking so far).

Or you can pre-order it here for Kindle. But if you’re in the UK and going for the hardback, you’ll find the best price here, with free shipping.

With times being tough, you can always request that your library gets it in. That way, I get a royalty from the sale, plus a small amount ever time someone borrows one of my books.

I hope you like it, and I hope you think I’ve given all the characters hope for the future. That’s all we can ask, really.

And yes, I’d be very grateful if you bought it.

If you’ve read any of my books, you’ll have come across the courts and yards that ran off Briggate. There were dozens of them; this 1847 map of Lower Briggate gives an indication.

Development over the years has done away with most of them, and in many cases, that’s no bad thing. They were cramped, awkward spaces, originally intended for workshops, counting houses and warehouses when Briggate was first laid out in 1208.

But times and needs changed. Leeds began to grow rich off just as the fields that had sustained small farmers were enclosed by landlords who could graze sheep and make more money from their estates. People arrived in town hoping for streets paved with gold, and that trickle became a torrent with the Industrial Revolution.

They all needed somewhere to live. The first back-to-back houses appeared around the start of the 19th century. But long before that, these courts and yards of Leeds had become places for people to live. For artisans and labourers, they offered a home. For the prostitutes, the bottleneck openings were a place to stand and ply their trade.

Some led to inns and taverns. But even so, along the yard you’d find small businesses with their offices and many living in rooms.

They became an inimitable part of Leeds, an accidental growth that came to typify Leeds. They were just off Briggate; plenty ran of Kirkgate and the Upper and Lowerhead Row. Each had its character, its citizens, its grievances and joys.

Few remain now, and those are home to bars and clubs. A handful from what was once part of everyday life. Given the way Leeds has carelessly laid waste to much of its past, I’m grateful these remain.

Take a look at a few. My characters have walked down most of these. Simon Westow, Jane and Sally have. Did I mention they’ll be doing it for one last time in October, when A Rage Of Souls is published. Come along and walk with them. Don’t forget a stroll down Green Dragon Yard, too. Pre-order it right here.

October will bring the publication of A Rage Of Souls, the eighth Simon Westow novel. A couple of people who’ve read it feel it’s the darkest yet in the series – which surprised me; it never struck me that way when I was writing it. Shadowed and sorrowful, yes. But the series had always had shaded undercurrents and that sense that violence might explode.

Yes (I think) there’s always been hope in there too, some light amongst everything else.

She sat outside the cottage, quietly reading her book and relishing the warmth of the afternoon sun. Even through the fine layer of haze and smoke that always hung over the town, the heat was comforting.

When the bell at the parish church pealed half past five, Jane set the book aside and brought a knife from her pocket, spending five minutes honing its sharpness. She knew this blade. It had saved her life and served her well. Readiness could mark the distance between life and death. Her attention had slipped once, and she’d paid for it with her little finger. Simon had let down his guard for a single moment and now he walked with the consequences.

As she approached Barton’s house, she paused to study Sally. When they met, the girl had been a child of anger. It was fury that had kept her alive on the streets. But living with Simon and Rosie and their boys, she’d found a family who cared for her, and much of that hardness had blunted, tempered with compassion. She was growing, taller every month it seemed, and starting to fill out. How old was she? Thirteen, Jane decided. That, or perhaps a year older.

Still a strange one, a child of two families, one with the Westows and the other with the homeless children who relied on each other. God help her if she was ever forced to choose between them, Jane thought.

‘Barton left about an hour after you,’ Sally said. ‘The servant brought a gig from the coach house. He and a woman went off in it. I decided to stay in case Fox came sniffing.’

‘Any sign of him?’ Her gaze slid around, but there was little to see. The house was quiet, nobody visible through the windows. She shook her head.

‘Nothing at all.’ ‘I’ll stay for a few hours and come back again in the morning.’

When she turned her head again, Sally had vanished.

But I should probably announce something – this will be the last book in the series. I hadn’t originally planned it that way, but the one I had in my head as the final novel refused to come together, and, reading it again, this seems to make a good conclusion. I’m not going to force things

Perhaps I’m right. You’ll have to be the judge.

It’s available for pre-order, as hardback and ebook. I’ll give the Amazon UK links here, although Speedy Hen is cheaper for the hardback and has free postage. Find it here.

And while you’re at it, Cathy Marsden in No Precious Truth will appear in paperback in November for £9.99 ($16.99 US). Very easy to carry around and also makes a great extra Christmas present. You can pre-order that, too. Do it right here.

On October 7, Jane is coming back…

The scream sliced through the sky. Loud, clear, a cry of pure terror that crashed into her thoughts. Everyone near Seaton’s old mill turned to look. Carts halted, their drivers searching for the sound. Men and women walking together clutched each other’s arms.
All of them stopped except the couple Jane was following. Heads down, they kept moving steadily along, as if they hadn’t heard a thing.
A second scream, stronger, more awful than the first. Two men ran along the road, carrying a girl on a wooden hurdle. She was a small creature, no more than nine, clothes drenched in blood. Her dress was torn, showing a leg where the flesh hung ragged, ripped through to pale bone. Her fists were clenched, thrashing against the wood to try and stop the pain.
‘Be quiet,’ one of the men ordered in a harsh voice. ‘Surgeon will take care of it.’ They all knew what that meant: the leg would go. People shuddered and stepped back as the girl wailed no, no, no, no, the fear raw in her voice….

Jane realised she’d been digging her nails hard into her palms. Pain arrived so suddenly; it could touch anyone. She knew; seeing the girl had brought back the torment of losing her own little
finger. Hers had been a deliberate act of violence, but in some small way she understood. She was still for a moment, trying to push everything she’d just seen out of her mind. She knew it
would return later. As soon as she closed her eyes that night.

You can pre-order it here (UK) or here (US). And yes, the building on the cover is Temple Newsam.

I’m trying something new, set in Leeds of course, this time in 1862 (although the section coming up in 1858, to confuse you). It’s a little different – I have about 20,000 written. This is the opening – I really like the characters – but I’d honestly love to know what you think.

Meet Virginia Cooper. Her husband will be along shortly

‘Mrs Cooper,’ the chief constable said, ‘allow me to be blunt.’

            Finally, she thought, but made sure her face showed nothing. For the last five minutes he’d been going round the houses, offering hesitant comments about the weather, the roads, anything but the reason she was here.

            ‘Of course, sir.’

Virginia had arrived at the town hall half an hour earlier, nine o’clock on the dot, stomach fluttering as she patted the stone lions on the steps for luck. Just a month before she’d been a speck in the crowd that had gathered along the road to watch Queen Victoria arrive in her carriage and open the building. Now she was inside, and the splendour of it all, with its polished marble and granite, captured her breath for a second.

She was in her finery, the dress and she and daughter Ellie had sewn at the start of spring, a pale, spotted muslin with false sleeves, embroidered belt and a tiered skirt that cascaded to the ground, copied from a London magazine, all topped by a hat prettily decorated with flowers and ribbons. The button boots on her feet were polished to a brilliant shine. She’d been up early, fussing over every little detail, desperate to make a strong impression. As she sat across from him, with Her Majesty’s portrait gazing down from the wall, she felt up to the mark, pushing down the nerves she’d had before she met Chief Constable Broadbent.

He was a fastidious, exact man. His appearance made that obvious, with a well-cut suit, a high, crisp collar and neat tie held in place by a small gold pin. Pale, soft skin, a double chin, and luxurious combed mutton-chop sideboards that spread across his cheeks. Long, thin fingers with clean nails that kept toying with a pen to try and hide his awkwardness. An outstanding policeman, her husband had told her; the men would follow him anywhere. A bachelor, she knew that, too; obviously hesitant and uncomfortable around women. Seeing that made her feel easier.

            ‘I’ll ask you plainly: would you be interested in working with the police force, Mrs Cooper? Your husband has, hmm, praised you as a woman of intelligence and rare perception.’

            ‘He’s very generous to say so, sir.’ Woe betide him if he’d said anything less, she thought. ‘What would you require me to do?’

No skivvying, no ironing shirts or cleaning. She’d made that plain to Rob when he first raised the idea two evenings before. He’d shaken his head and laughed, then put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t dare. No, this is something to exercise that brain of yours.’

            She narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you mean? Something like your duties?’ Robert Cooper was the inspector of detectives in Leeds police, with a sergeant and two men in plain clothes under his command.

Virginia thought she’d kept her restlessness well hidden. The wish for something more in her life. She didn’t know what, she couldn’t name it, but it was there inside her.

But he’d seen, and he’d been sharp enough to come up with this, something that might settle the ache inside. But never in a million years would she have imagined an involvement with the police as the answer. How could she? Female detectives simply didn’t exist.

            ‘A little similar,’ he allowed. ‘Doing things that a man can’t manage so easily.’

            Her pulse had begun to beat faster. But…

‘Does it pay?’ she asked sharply. The job sounded intriguing. But if the police wanted a woman, they could pay her a wage.

He nodded. ‘If things go well, it could become fairly regular paid employment.’

If things go well. Virginia saw that satisfied look in his eye; he knew he’d piqued her curiosity.

‘I’ve been, hmm, considering the idea of a woman to work with our detective police,’ the chief constable continued. ‘A couple of other forces have enjoyed success using women in, hmm, certain situations. Often the wives of policemen. They deal with females who are breaking the law, for instance, searching them when they’re arrested or following them around town.’

‘I understand, sir,’ she said, fingers tight around the reticule in her lap, lips pressed together, trying to keep the hope out of her voice.

‘It will require discretion and a certain amount of skill,’ he said. ‘A person of a certain maturity. More than that, Mrs Cooper, you have to understand, any arrangement must remain, hmm, completely unofficial. You won’t have the power to arrest anyone, of course, and you can’t tell people what you do. I’m sure you can see that the majority in Leeds – throughout England, for that matter – would never, hmm, condone the idea of a policewoman.’ He offered her a fleeting, earnest smile. ‘I can’t imagine her majesty would approve, either.’

‘I’m sure she wouldn’t, sir.’ Her heart was pounding. The job felt close enough to taste.

Then the questions about herself. Did she have children? Two, from her first marriage. A grown son named Tom, now an assistant manager at Queen’s Mill in Castleford, and a daughter aged sixteen, Eleanor, living at home and apprenticed to a dressmaker. There’d been one more, the very first. He’d died of diphtheria before his second birthday.

How did she feel about a wife working? When it was something like this, it was a service to the town, she replied and looked at him. Didn’t he feel that way?

Broadbent reddened slightly and turned away for a second.

A few more things, but she’d been reading men’s expressions for most of her forty-five years. He was satisfied, he’d made up his mind. The chief constable gathered his papers together, tapped them into a neat pile and took a breath.

‘Mrs Cooper, if you’re willing, I would like to have you work with Leeds police. One job to begin, a, hmm, trial, as it were. Then possibly more to follow. We’d pay you by the case to start.’

‘Thank you, sir. I’d be very pleased with that.’ She didn’t try to hide her broad smile. A female detective. The eagerness overflowed in her voice. ‘Do you have something in mind to begin?’

‘I do,’ he said. He steepled his forearms on the desk and delicately rested his chin on his fingertips, eyes down to avoid her stare. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but a pair of fortune tellers arrived in town at the end of last week.’

‘Yes, sir.’ It had been common gossip at the covered market on Kirkgate. They’d come and set up in a house on Trafalgar Street in the Leylands.

‘I’d like you to make an appointment and, hmm, have your fortune told. A woman will raise no suspicion. Make a note of everything, and report back here afterwards. Fortune telling is an offence under the Vagrancy Act, you see. We’ll take care of the prosecution.’ His face clouded. ‘You realise that the, hmm, the nature of your work must largely stay in the shadows, Mrs Cooper. You’d only step out of them if you have to give evidence in court.’ He cocked his head. ‘Would you be comfortable doing that?’

For a moment, Virginia felt a panic rise in her chest. Rob had never mentioned anything about that. He’d probably never thought about it; facing judges and counsel was second nature to him. But she only needed a moment to make up her mind: she didn’t know if she could do this work, but she was desperate to try, to see if it could provide what was missing.

‘Yes, sir.’ Her voice was firm. ‘I would be willing to do that.’

‘Excellent.’ He smiled, a real look of warmth on his face. ‘Detective Sergeant Bell will give you the details.’ Broadbent extended his hand. ‘Welcome, Mrs Cooper.’

Four years had gone by since then. She’d learned how to spot frauds, been scratched and bruised as she searched female prisoners, and trailed pickpockets all over Leeds. She’d seen heartbreaks and horrors that returned to haunt her through the nights. Tried to comfort a young woman whose drunken husband had beaten her halfway to death simply because she answered him back. Heard the anguish of a woman whose man had just murdered her young child. She’d spent five hours in a dark, muddy cellar along Marsh Lane with a female killer, while water leaked through the wall to lap over her ankles, constantly alert in case the woman tried to attack her.

            She’d watched the harm people did to each other, more of it than she could ever have conceived. Known their fears and violence and learned to develop a shell to protect herself. Along the way, she’d come to understand that she had a gift for this. Rob must have seen that in her. But now she understood why he never wanted to discuss the job when he came home; it kept his family safe from the demons that lived inside him.

While silent, unspoken, she kept her own well of sorrows hidden.

It’s the best damn World War II thriller set outside Lodom that you’ll read this year. Guaranteed.It features as strong Northern woman, Woman Police Sergeant Cathy Marsden, as the main character.You’ll walk those streets and feel the fear as the air raid sirens sound.You’ll be there with Cathy as she hunts an escaped German spy.It’s set in Leeds.

Bonus: I want to sell plenty of copies of this, partly because it’s very good, but also because it means my publisher will let me continue the series. The second comes out next year, but I want a third and a fourth, so…please?

Buy it from an independent bookshop if you can, but the behemoth is going to be easier for some people. The link is here. I know money’s tight for so many people – ask your local library to get it for you.

Thank you.

Hard to believe that it’s almost two weeks since the wonderful launch for No Precious Truth. Time’s felt compressed since then. But April has seemed to rush by, as if it was sprinting, so strange after a never-ending March.

A week later and the Yorkshire Post published an interview with me, one that captured me and my writing pretty well, I think.

I’d barely caught my breath when I had to write a paper I’d agreed to present at a symposium for music in the Leeds collections, in the new music library (and you really should see it) that’s part of the central library. I’d been asked to talk about Frank Kidson and his materials. A shock to me, as I’m no academic – not even a degree – but I’m a great admirer of Kidson and what he did.

He and his niece and companion, Ethel, are minor characters in the Tom Harper book, The Tin God, where his knowledge of folk song is important in unravelling the clues. He was one of the pioneering Victorian folk song collectors, penning a column about songs in the Leeds Mercury Supplement for a few years and published books on folk music; the most famous is the influential Traditional Tunes, which was largely preciously unknown music, much from Yorkshire, especially Leeds.

Leeds Libraries has an excellent collection, a handwritten biography of him by his niece, his watercolour sketchbook, arrangement of songs he worked on with composer Arthur Grimshaw (son of the famous Leeds painter Atkinson Grimshaw), and much more.

It was an honour to be asked to do this and have the rare luxury of spending time with the materials. I’ve wrote about Kidson for fRoots magazine in 2018 and I was grateful for the chance to spend time with him once more.

The day after was my school reunion. 53 years, although we bulked up the numbers by including the two years below. It was interesting. I’d expected it to be that, so I wasn’t disappointed. I’d seen a couple of the people more recently, and it was good to catch up with them. But I was never part of the mainstream at school, and there were plenty I didn’t recall.

Tomorrow, another symposium, this time at the law school of the University of Sheffield. Talking about crime fiction, so I’ve prepared that paper, even as I’ve been going through the proofs for A Rage Of Souls, the next Simon Westow novel, coming in October.

After that, I’ll be ready to take the long weekend off…

Of course, No Precious Truth hasn’t even been out for a month yet. If you haven’t read it yet, I’d certainly appreciate the sales. Independent bookshops are always best, but wherever you want. And for those on a budget, please, ask your public library to order it in, if they haven’t already. A little about Cathy from the Yorkshire Post interview, just to convince you.

I’m sorry you couldn’t be there, out at Kirkstall Forge for the launch of No Precious Truth. I never counted how many came, but the estimates are between 50 and 60 – a hell of a turnout for a sunny Thursday evening, and I’m flattered so many attended.

A number of faces I knew, and far many more that I didn’t. There had been an article about the event in the regional newspapers that must have made people curious. But also people familiar with my books, curious to see Leeds in a World War 2 setting, and to meet Woman Police Sergeant Cathy Marsden. And to be terrified by that rare vision of me in a suit.

The Forge features in the book, making it an ideal location for the launch. It had been important in the war (and was bombed in 1942, with five men losing their lives). I’m grateful to Lucinda Yeadon, who ended up in hospital two nights before the event (all wishes for a speedy recovery), to Marius and Shelly for being so receptive to the idea and organising everything, as well as providing refreshments for everyone.

Plenty of artifacts and ledgers from the Forge in wartime were on display, along with replica war documents, like ration books and identity cards, and newspapers.

Truman Books, a wonderful independent from Farsley, was the bookseller. 22 copies of No Precious Truth were sold, as well as two from the Tom Harper series. Thank you, everyone who bought a copy.

The centrepiece, though, was the cake, made and decorated by Lizzie, the daughter of Shelly, who runs Butler’s café, the venue for the event. Isn’t it glorious? Here it is, before and after.

I’m grateful to everyone who came and all those involved in putting on the event. Thank you. I hope the photos make you feel you were there. Remember, you can buy the book and see what all those people have discovered. Cheapest UK hardback price, with free postage, is here.