Free from all Danger

by Chris Nickson

  Nottingham felt the hope starting to trickle away like sand in an hourglass. Meecham was a wandering drunk. Once he found the man and had him sober, they’d still need to separate what he’d seen from the visions in his head.

  ‘Is there anywhere he favours?’

  ‘I just serve them, take their money, and listen when they talk. I thought you’d like to know.’

  He finished the ale and stood, reaching for coins to pay for his meal.

  ‘On me, Mr Nottingham.’

  ‘Then I thank you twice.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Henry Meecham.’

  ‘What about him?’ Rob asked.

  ‘Where would we find him?’

  ‘If he’s not drunk in the cells, he could be anywhere.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Why? What’s he done?’

  ‘Witnessed Warren’s murder, by the sound of it,’ Nottingham said.

  Lister glanced out of the window. It was growing dark early and the night would be brutally cold.

  ‘I’ll get the men on it. They all know him by now.’

  ‘Get him in here for his own safety. I don’t want him dead overnight. From anything.’ If Meecham was going around Leeds talking about what he’d seen, the killer could easily hear it.

  ‘Yes, boss.’ He pulled on his greatcoat and looked wistfully at the fire. Nottingham was already waiting at the door.

  ‘Tell me about Meecham,’ he said as they walked down Briggate, heads buried in their collars.

  ‘There’s not much to say that you can’t guess. Drinks whenever he has money. Works at this or that until he makes a little, then he goes to sup it all. I don’t know why he’d be out at Mabgate, though. He usually likes to stay closer to town.’

  ‘That’s what he told Michael at the Swan.’

  ‘Then let’s pray we can find him.’

  They went to the inns, but no sign of Meecham. Nobody had seen him since the night before. Lister went to pass the word to the men, and the constable returned to the jail to leave a note for Crandall. All he could do was hope Henry Meecham was still alive and that his memory would be sharp once he was sober.

  He’d left orders to send word as soon as the man was found. At home, as he listened to Jem’s stories, he stayed alert, hoping for a knock on the door.

  The old man stayed close to the fire, soaking in its warmth. Annie sat on the floor, wrapped up in Jem’s words, transported into the tale of Jack and his adventures up the beanstalk. Emily was cuddled up with Rob, and Lucy stared into the distance, smiling as she listened. He was the only one not lost to the magic.

  Jem finished and coughed. Lucy rushed to refill his mug and give him bread and the last of the cheese. They’d eaten well, some beef from the market, potatoes, and more, talk dashing all around the table.

  Nottingham had sat back and watched it, taking pleasure in the eagerness and the noise. It took him back to another time. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine himself there …

  ‘You’re quiet.’ Lucy nudged him and whispered in his ear. Jem had started again.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘I’ve been watching you. You’ve hardly said a word all night.’

  ‘I’ve just been enjoying it all.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said doubtfully, ‘but not all of you is here.’

  He smiled. She knew him too well.

  ‘I’m hoping to hear about something.’

  ‘Work?’ Lucy asked and he nodded. ‘I’ll tell you something, going back to that job has done you the power of good. You’re alive again, you’ve got that spark in your eye. We were all worried you were just going to fade away.’

  He’d wondered that himself. Wished for it at times, that his image would grow paler and paler until one day he was no longer there. But she was right: being constable again had brought him firmly into the present. Duty and responsibility had given him something worthwhile. He was solid again, substantial.

  As soon as the knock came, he was on his feet and opening the door. An icy chill outside, and one of the night men saying they had Meecham safe at the jail.

  ‘Keep him there. Warm him up and give him food. I’ll be along shortly.’

  Two more minutes and he was marching towards Leeds with Rob at his side. There was ice forming on the puddles and cobbles; in the morning people would slither and slip and break their bones.

  Nottingham pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his greatcoat. Meecham might hold the thread they could pull, the one that would lead them to the end of this. He didn’t speak. No need; they were both thinking the same thing.

  Too many of the night men had gathered at the jail. He knew why; they wanted to be warm. But as he glared, they began to leave.

  ‘How is he?’ the constable asked Crandall.

  ‘Freezing. I put a brazier in the cell and gave him a pair of blankets.’

  ‘Something to eat?’

  ‘The dregs of the stew from the Swan. It’s burnt but—’

  ‘Good enough.’ He turned to Rob. ‘You’ve dealt with Meecham before?’

  ‘Too often.’

  ‘Then you talk to him. I’ll just listen.’

  Henry Meecham wasn’t old, probably not even forty yet. But he had an ancient air, deep weathered creases on his face, most of his hair gone. He seemed like someone who’d turned away from life and only found joy at the bottom of a cask.

  But he’d finished the food. That was a good sign, Rob thought, and the brazier took away the worst of the chill in the room.

  ‘Well, Henry, a meal and a fire. We’re treating you like royalty now.’

  ‘You are, Mr Lister. I’m right glad of it, too.’ He slurred his words, but Rob had never heard him do anything else, as if his voice never quite surfaced from the drink.

  ‘You were in the Swan last night.’

  ‘Were I?’ He listed his head, eyes narrow in surprise. ‘Happen I were.’

  ‘You told the landlord you’d been up on Mabgate. What took you out that way?’

  ‘Used to work there. Five years a dyer, I were.’ He held up his callused, dirty hands. ‘I’d go home all colours.’

  It was as much of an explanation as they were likely to hear, Rob decided. Maybe some odd memory had taken him back. It didn’t matter.

  ‘What did you see there?’

  ‘I must have fallen asleep in the grass. I heard some people talking.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two of them. Sounded like just two, any road.’

  ‘Do you know who they were?’ He held his breath, hoping for a worthwhile answer, and glanced at the constable. Nottingham was listening intently, staring at the floor.

  ‘I thought I knew one of them,’ Meecham answered. ‘Big, burly. The way he held himself. Only I didn’t see his face.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who he was?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘It was like it was on the tip of my tongue. But it wouldn’t come.’

  ‘What happened? Tell me what you saw, Henry.’

  ‘They were talking. Then the big one, he did something and the other one fell down.’

  ‘Go on,’ Lister said quietly. ‘After that.’

  ‘The big one, he went through the other man’s pockets. Then he kicked him into the beck and walked off. That were it.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘Nowt,’ Meecham snapped as he turned his head towards the voice. ‘What would you do? I stayed right there. I must have fallen asleep again. Next thing I knew I heard the feet and people were coming to work. Once they’d gone past I left.’

  ‘I need you to remember everything you can about the big man. The killer.’

  ‘I’ve told you. Can I have a drink? I need a drink. I’m parched.’

  The constable returned with a mug of ale and the man cradled it carefully before sipping.

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘A coat. The moon came out for a moment while I was watching and I saw it. It looked like one of the pockets
was missing.’ He pawed with his right hand. ‘And he had a hat. Three corners on it.’

  ‘What about his face?’

  ‘I told you. I never saw it.’

  Another quarter of an hour and they didn’t get any further. Nottingham locked the cell door behind them.

  ‘We’ll try him again in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t think he knows any more than that,’ Rob said.

  ‘You’re probably right.’ But they had something. Not much, but better than the murky shape he’d seen going to kill Jane. Time and sleep might jog something in Meecham’s memory. ‘We’ll try anyway.’

  ‘He’ll probably wake in the night, shaking and seeing things. That’s what he usually does.’

  ‘Then Crandall can deal with it. He might as well make himself useful for once.’

  On the way home, they kept a brisk pace against the cold.

  ‘How long do you think Meecham will live?’

  Rob weighed the prospects. ‘This winter, next perhaps. We’ll probably find him frozen to death one morning. I’m not sure he even cares.’

  But with the morning, Meecham had nothing to add. He shivered, even with the brazier burning, reaching for the mug of ale as if it was balm.

  The constable let him stumble out into the early morning. He’d given them something. Only a few shreds, but it was more than they’d had before.

  Sunday. People would parade to church in their best clothes. No coats with missing pockets today. He wondered how much he could trust the man’s words: what had he seen and how much had he imagined? Meecham had witnessed the killing, yes, but as for the rest … But he’d take the small something he’d been given and try to build on it.

  At least, now Nick had gone, no one was muttering that the streets of Leeds were dangerous. The mayor was happy. These other killings didn’t affect ordinary folk. Let criminals kill criminals, and the town might be better for it.

  Most would hardly even notice if someone took control of the crime here. It wouldn’t touch their lives. Their worries were for themselves and their families.

  He was the one responsible for keeping them safe. Sometimes it seemed as overwhelming as the very first day he’d taken office, all those years before. He’d been young enough then to believe he could do it. He’d learned quickly that it wasn’t possible; it never would be. Some things you had to accept. Any town worth its salt had an underbelly to keep it sharp. The trick was keeping the right balance.

  By late afternoon he felt weary. He’d spent half the day walking around in the cold, looking at men in their coats. One or two with missing pockets, more than he’d ever imagined. But none who matched the rest of Meecham’s vague description. Too short, too thin; one who limped awkwardly.

  He went home in the last of the light. The final day of October. Bonfires were piled up for Gunpowder Treason Night next Friday. More would appear. A night of mayhem, if the wood was dry enough to burn well. And always the danger of fire spreading.

  The sound of a baby’s cry greeted him. He’d forgotten that Emily was bringing the little girl for a few hours. Mary. He had to learn to use her name.

  With coal piled on the fire, the room was close. Emily walked around, holding the child close, rubbing her back to calm her as the others watched. Nottingham removed his coat, held out his arms and gently took Mary, carefully cradling her head and seeing the relief on his daughter’s face.

  It didn’t take long. A few words, a snatch of a lullaby, and she quieted, staring up at him. He sat, keeping her in his arms. He’d never had time to do much of this when his girls were small. He’d been working all hours, proving himself worth the job.

  She was a sweet little girl, her eyes blue and wide, something on her lips that might be a smile. A small hand taking hold of his thumb. He saw Rob watching him, a look of pure terror in his eyes. He’d learn; everyone did.

  Finally, Mary slept and he tenderly put her back into the basket on the floor, covering her with the blanket.

  ‘How did you manage that, Papa?’ Emily pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and looked anxiously down at the girl.

  ‘Practice,’ he told her with a smile, even if it wasn’t completely true. As he gazed around the room he realized that he was the only one who’d had any part in raising a child. Annie was still just a bairn herself. Lucy was so capable that he often forgot she was still young. Emily taught girls, but by the time they reached her school they could speak and run and laugh. As for Rob … the lad had a good, open heart when he wanted. They’d all learn. They had no choice.

  The meal was food left from the night before, cut and stewed with this and that. But it was warm in his belly and that was all that mattered. After they were done he stood over the child while Emily wrapped herself in a cloak and Rob shrugged into his greatcoat. Yes, it would be good to have new life here.

  ‘Make sure she stays warm on the way back to Mrs Webb,’ he said, then the door closed behind them.

  ‘You’re clucking like a hen,’ Lucy told him.

  ‘Maybe,’ he agreed. ‘But you weren’t there when we found her. She was so cold I thought she’d die.’

  ‘She has a powerful set of lungs.’

  ‘I daresay you were the same.’

  ‘I’ll learn,’ she said. ‘Won’t I?’

  ‘Good training for when you have a few of your own.’

  She snorted and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Annie standing shyly with her book.

  ‘Miss Emily usually helps me with my reading now,’ she said.

  ‘Well then, we’d better look at it.’

  Families, he thought. Families.

  Rob watched the constable leave the jail. Monday morning and the world was alive with its bustle and noise. Nottingham had simply said he wanted to talk to someone, then left. No explanation. But that was his way. Cryptic and cautious.

  No deaths reported overnight. At least there was that.

  But there would be more before this was over. He felt it in his gut. One man behind everything? Warren’s murder had tipped the balance; he’d come to believe the boss was right. Why hadn’t he spotted the signs for himself? We see what we want to see, Nottingham had said, and it was true. Everything had been there; he simply hadn’t been able to make a pattern from the pieces.

  So much for doubting whether the man could still do the job. Even after two years away, he was still sharper than Rob could ever hope to be.

  ‘Do you have my ledgers yet?’

  ‘You already know the answer to that.’ The constable sat across the table from Tom Finer, waiting as the man rolled up some documents and tied them with a red ribbon.

  ‘The deed on some land just south of the river. A fair price. Someone needing money quickly.’ He gave a thin, satisfied smile and glanced out of the window of Garroway’s at the people moving on the Head Row. ‘An investment. There will always be more people. There won’t ever be more land.’

  ‘And you’ll make money on it.’

  ‘If I’m lucky.’

  ‘You can’t have found Warren’s killer yet. We don’t have any fresh bodies.’

  Finer raised a thick eyebrow. ‘Why would I leave him to be found?’

  ‘You don’t know who it is yet.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’ Another brief smile. ‘But you’re still groping in the dark. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

  ‘I just wanted to remind you that this is something for the law to solve.’

  ‘The law hasn’t done very well so far. How many dead now? Six, is it? That’s hardly a success.’

  ‘We’re close—’

  ‘Which means you’re nowhere at all,’ Finer said. ‘You might as well keep your bluffs for someone who’ll believe them. The only thing you’ve managed to catch is a young cutpurse.’

  Nottingham didn’t reply. What could he say? It was true.

  ‘And don’t start suggesting we work together. You want justice. I’m after revenge.’ Finer shook his head. ‘The two don�
��t meet. Now, if you’ve said your piece, I have work to do.’ He tapped the document. ‘Money to make. Legally.’

  He hadn’t held much hope of co-operation, but as he turned up his collar against the chill wind, there was one crumb of satisfaction: Finer was no further along in the hunt than he was. The old man would have been smug if he’d succeeded.

  He spent the morning walking. It kept the blood turning and gave him the chance to look at the men on the streets. No one who came close to Meecham’s description. Only one missing pocket. And nobody who matched the half-glimpsed figure he’d seen in the mist.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘Boss?’ Rob came into the jail with an older man. He was large, chins jiggling over his collar as he walked. Not prosperous, but no pauper either, wearing a waistcoat covered in food stains, but a coat that was impeccably clean. The man glanced around the room through a pair of spectacles. Forests of hair sprouted from his nostrils and ears, grey and thick. ‘This gentleman wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Mr Pargiter,’ Nottingham said. ‘I haven’t seen you in a long time.’ He gestured to a seat and Rob watched as the man made a performance of lowering himself.

  Pargiter had come up to him outside the Moot Hall, demanding to see the constable.

  ‘Can I help you? I’m his deputy.’

  ‘No. I need him.’ He carried a walking stick, and banged it on the ground to emphasize his words.

  He knew Pargiter; all of Leeds did. Someone never short of an opinion and ready to air it, wherever he was. He was happy to let the boss deal with the man.

  ‘You’re looking for the man who killed Warren.’

  ‘We’re looking for a murderer,’ Nottingham agreed. Rob leaned against the wall, poured a mug of ale, and listened. ‘Why, do you know who did it?’

  ‘No.’ A bang of the stick on the floor for emphasis. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I see,’ the constable said slowly. ‘Do you have any information that might take us to him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand why you’re here.’ Rob caught Nottingham’s weary glance and gave a quick smile.

  ‘Because you’re doing everything wrong, as usual. You were just the same when you were in office before.’