Come the Fear

by Chris Nickson

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘No.’ He paused. ‘You don’t know about our Lucy, do you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sedgwick asked.

  ‘She’s a sweet lass, right enough, but she’s not all there in the head.’

  ‘She’s bloody simple,’ the girl muttered, but Wendell silenced her with a quick, vicious look.

  Sedgwick waited for more.

  ‘I’d have looked after her if she’d come to me.’

  ‘She was pregnant,’ the deputy told him. ‘That’s why she was dismissed.’

  ‘I’ll look for her,’ Wendell said with a sharp nod.

  ‘That’s our job . . .’ Sedgwick let the words trail away.

  ‘I said I’ll do it. You’re not family,’ the man said firmly, his jaw set, his gaze hard. ‘It’s different.’

  There should have been no business done on a Sunday, no food or drink for sale on the Sabbath. But behind closed doors the alehouses and dram shops turned a pretty penny every night of the week. Where there was money to be made, God could easily be forgotten.

  Lister had to try three places before he found William Cates. He knew the man would be out rather than face the deathly stillness of an evening at home with his parents and his pious brother, the pair of them as different as stone and water. Robert lived for business and the church, treating both as holy and cherishing profit as a sacrament. Will preferred the noise and liveliness of a crowd, the distraction and pleasure it brought. But he was the one with the natural gift for the wool trade. He could spot a good cloth at ten paces, knew who’d buy it from him and for how much. Robert did the work but Will filled the coffers.

  Lister bought a mug of the alewife’s special brew and stood close to the fire. It was still chilly enough after dark to need heat even as each day grew a little warmer.

  ‘Rob, over here.’

  He looked up and saw Cates wave. The men around him moved on their benches to make room.

  ‘We don’t often see you out on a Sunday,’ Cates laughed as he settled. ‘I thought you’d maybe taken religion.’

  Lister smiled. ‘I don’t have the time any more. I’m working and I’m courting these days,’ he explained sheepishly.

  The men all laughed knowingly.

  ‘You should never let that stop you having a good time,’ Cates advised him, signalling to the pot boy for another jug. ‘Still, I suppose when you’re a Constable’s man, eh? You enjoying it?’

  ‘Best job I’ve ever had,’ Rob answered honestly.

  ‘And you’ve had a few in your short time.’

  Lister grinned and took a long drink. He glanced at the others, chattering and joking, and leaned forward. ‘I wanted to see you, Will. Can you make a few minutes tomorrow?’

  ‘Me?’ Cates looked puzzled. ‘I suppose I can. Is it important?’

  ‘It’s probably nothing, but . . .’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘My work,’ Rob said.

  ‘All right,’ Cates agreed after a moment, giving him a curious look. ‘The Rose and Crown at noon. We’ll get a parlour.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure it’s nothing bad?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lister said. ‘I just thought it would be better away from the warehouse or home.’

  Cates sat back and gave a hearty laugh. ‘The good things in life usually are.’

  Rob finished his ale and stood up.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, and left.

  The city was quiet, and a low, heavy moon hung over the horizon. As he walked home, hands pushed into the pockets of his breeches, Lister thought back to the afternoon with a smile. He and Emily had strolled out along the river, seeing the wild-flowers start to bloom and hearing the rich birdsong in the hedgerows. He’d led her into a copse and pulled her close, kissing her hard and feeling her body pushing against his.

  They’d stopped, the way they always stopped, the pair of them flushed and guilty. He’d looked at her, seeing her eyes wide and expectant, her mouth so red. He’d stroked her hair and rested her head against his shoulder. Finally, once his heartbeat had slowed again, he’d led her back out into the sunshine to continue their ramble. They said nothing, the pressure of her hand tight on his, her small, thin fingers grasping him.

  Later, at her door, he held her again, their passions cooler as the evening scents rose from the ground.

  ‘I love you,’ she said. He smiled and rubbed his fingertips against her cheek.

  ‘I love you,’ he told her and gave a small, dry laugh. ‘So now we’ve said it.’

  ‘I mean it, Rob.’ Her voice was earnest.

  ‘So do I. I’ve never told it to anyone before,’ he insisted. The men he knew didn’t love. Instead they valued girls for their fortune or position, for their beauty or the slimness of their waists. This was different, a strange land where he had no language. ‘But what do we do about it?’ he asked.

  ‘We just love each other, that’s all,’ she answered confidently. ‘And we don’t stop.’ She stood on tiptoe, put her lips against his, smiling, then opened the door and vanished inside.

  He’d wandered back into Leeds feeling light and content, the gentle happiness still filling him as he unlocked the door on Lower Briggate. The smell of ink filled the place, seeping out of the room where his father wrote and printed the Leeds Mercury.

  James Lister had purchased the newspaper the year before from the widow of its founder. He’d already been writing for it, penning idle pieces of gossip that saw print each week, but his income was solid enough not to need the money. Taking on the whole business had been a gamble, but one that seemed to be paying off. The Mercury had increased its profit in the last twelve months, and Lister was slowly altering the balance of news to make it a respectable local press. Rob had worked for his father briefly, trying to learn the trade. But he had no way with words, the backwards letters of the press confused him and he had no desire to end up as a printer’s devil, hands black with ink.

  He made his way softly up the stairs. His mother would already be in her bed, ready to rise early and supervise the servants on the Monday wash. A light was still burning in the parlour and he saw his father, sitting and waiting, waistcoat unbuttoned to let his ample belly spread, a book open on his lap. It would be Defoe, he was willing to put his wages on it. It was always Defoe.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be so early,’ James Lister said with a smile. ‘Come and sit for a little while.’

  ‘I’m tired. I’ve been working.’

  ‘And you were courting earlier.’ Lister’s voice was gentle, almost laughing. ‘You had the afternoon with Emily Nottingham, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He leaned against the door jamb, half in the shadows.

  ‘I like her, she has a spark.’

  ‘She does,’ Rob agreed with a broad smile.

  ‘How long has it been now?’

  ‘Eight months, father,’ he replied. ‘As I’m sure you know full well.’

  Lister nodded slowly. ‘I just wanted to be certain.’ He raised his head. ‘It’s long enough to be serious.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘What about the girl?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Rob asked.

  James Lister spread his hands in exasperation. ‘Are you just a way to fill her time or is she in love with you?’

  ‘She’s told me she loves me.’

  Lister raised his eyebrows. ‘And I suppose you’ve said the same to her?’

  ‘I have,’ Rob admitted, feeling himself redden.

  ‘They’re not idle words, I take it?’

  ‘No,’ Rob replied fiercely. ‘Of course not.’

  Lister stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘You know there were rumours about her a year and a half or so back? People said she was running wild.’

  ‘She told me all about it,’ Rob said, an edge in his voice. ‘But there was never anything improper.’

  Lister removed his spectacles and polished them with his kerchief. ‘Has there been with you?’ he asked.


  ‘No, there hasn’t.’ Rob paused. ‘Why are you asking me all this, anyway, father?’

  ‘Because I don’t want you coming home one day and announcing you’re betrothed to the girl, that’s all,’ he said, his voice firm as iron.

  Rob bristled. ‘Why not? I love her, so does Mother – you just said that you like her yourself.’

  Lister shook his head as if his son was stupid.

  ‘Liking’s fine, loving’s fine, I suppose,’ he said, ‘but she’s not a girl for you to marry.’

  ‘I thought you respected Mr Nottingham. You recommended me to him for a job.’

  ‘He’s a good enough Constable,’ Lister acknowledged. ‘And he can be fine company at times. But he’s not the right class socially.’ All the pleasantry had gone from his voice. ‘Tell me, what do you know about your Constable? About his past, I mean.’

  ‘Nothing, really,’ Rob admitted. ‘I’ve never felt the need. I know there was money when he was young, but it went and he lived as best he could.’

  ‘His father was a wool merchant – quite middling, the wife brought all the money to the marriage,’ his father explained. ‘He discovered she was having an affair and threw her and their son out. She had to make her living as a whore while the lad begged and stole.’

  Rob stayed silent, staring at his father. He’d heard hints of the story, nothing more. But the Richard Nottingham he knew was the Constable, an excellent one, too, a man he admired, that he’d learned from.

  ‘I don’t see how that affects Emily,’ he said, concentrating on keeping his voice under control.

  Lister snorted. ‘I’d hoped you’d managed to acquire a bit of common sense by now, Robert. We’re a respectable family. We have a long line, we have some money, we’re not scrabbling in the dirt for our pennies. We have a reputation. I won’t have my son marrying the granddaughter of a whore.’

  ‘So the Constable’s daughter isn’t good enough for your son?’

  ‘No, she’s not,’ Lister answered sharply. ‘You see how her father dresses; the man might as well be wearing rags. And the girl? She works, she teaches.’

  ‘What are you saying I should do?’ Rob asked. Anger was growing inside him, but he kept it carefully tamped down, his fists clenched tight at his sides, nails digging into his palms.

  ‘Drop her. Or keep on walking out with her if you want. Bed the bitch if you can, if she’s slut enough. I don’t really care.’ He turned his gaze on his son. ‘But I won’t have you marrying her. Your mother and I will find you a suitable wife.’

  Rob pushed himself away from the door frame. ‘Is that advice or a demand?’

  ‘It’s whatever you want to make of it,’ Lister told him. ‘But you’d do well to remember that there are consequences for every action. I want a good match for you. Take a little time and think about that.’

  ‘Goodnight, father,’ he said coldly and ran up the next flight of stairs to his bedroom.

  Six

  An early mist had come down as the Constable walked into Leeds, giving a cobweb light to the land. Somewhere off in the trees crows were cawing and he could hear the soft smack of hooves on the earth, but he couldn’t see them. Once the sun rose it would all burn away and bring another bright spring day, but for now he might have been alone in the world with its soft, beautiful chill.

  Three weeks, he thought. Someone must have seen Lucy Wendell in that time. She’d need to eat and drink, she’d want somewhere to sleep. If she’d had any money at all it would have been precious little, not enough to keep her for all that time.

  He was still brooding when the deputy arrived at the jail, rubbing the sleep from his face. He sat on the bench, stretching out his long legs.

  ‘Bad night?’

  ‘Isabell kept waking and I don’t know what I’m going to do about James.’ He chuckled drily and shook his head. ‘Aye, other than that it was fine.’

  ‘Have you seen Lucy’s brother yet?’

  ‘Yesterday. He claims he hadn’t seen her.’

  Nottingham waited.

  ‘But?’ he asked.

  The deputy shrugged. ‘There’s something about him I don’t like. He said he’d go searching for her, keep it in the family. From the look of him, he spends most of his money on drink and beats his girl.’

  ‘Plenty of men do that,’ the Constable countered.

  ‘I know.’ Sedgwick yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I just had the feeling he wasn’t telling me the full truth.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him she was dead?’

  ‘No.’ Sedgwick poured himself a mug of small beer. ‘Are you even sure it’s her, boss? There was so little left, how can you tell?’

  ‘It’s her, John,’ he said. ‘I’m certain. That had to be a harelip.’ He pushed the fringe off his forehead. ‘All it means is we still don’t know anything. I’m going to ask at the inns. She might have gone looking for work after Cates dismissed her. Someone took a lot of trouble to try and make her disappear. If it hadn’t been for pure luck we’d never even have known she’d lived, let alone that she was dead. She’d just have been ashes. We need to find whoever could do that.’

  ‘Have you thought more about asking around the whores?’

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ Nottingham said with a nod. ‘Why don’t you do that?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Was there anything else yesterday?’

  ‘A body from the river. Scudamore Mitchell, you remember him?’

  ‘Is he the carpenter whose work kept falling apart?’

  ‘That’s the one. His friends said he’d been drinking Saturday night, probably fell in. And there was another who was cleaning his fowling piece and blew off his foot.’

  ‘Nothing suspicious?’

  The deputy shook his head, no longer surprised by the things people did. ‘No, just stupid. He might live, if he’s lucky.’

  The Constable stood. ‘Write them up,’ he said. ‘I’m going to start talking to the innkeepers. Lucy didn’t just vanish for three weeks.’

  He began at the top of Briggate, at the Rose and Crown. People were already hunched over the benches, breaking their fast with bread and cheese and ale. Martin, the owner, wiped his hands on his leather apron and tucked money away in the pocket of his long waistcoat. His wife would be in one of the outbuildings starting a new draught to brew while their daughters worked in the kitchen, preparing the vegetable stew for dinner.

  ‘You’ll have something to drink?’ He began to reach for a mug. ‘How can I help you, Constable?’

  ‘Nothing for me today,’ Nottingham said pleasantly. ‘Just a few questions. Do you have many seeking work here?’

  ‘A few,’ Martin replied with a laugh. ‘Got to be careful who you take on in a place like this or they’ll be tipping the profits down their gullets.’

  ‘I’m looking for a girl who might have asked about becoming a servant.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ He folded his arms. ‘Never a shortage of those. There’s always too many lasses looking for work.’ He winked. ‘And some reckon they can make some brass on the side from the men.’

  ‘You’d remember this girl. She had a harelip.’

  The man grimaced and the Constable noticed the small hand movement he made to ward off evil. Harelips were bad luck, cursed by God, their words twisted, their looks ugly. People shunned them lest their own babes became the same way.

  ‘Not had one like that here,’ he replied. ‘I wouldn’t have hired her, anyway. She’d drive business away.’

  The Constable made his way down the street, stopping at all the inns to ask and receiving the same answer everywhere. She’d never sought employment at them and none would have taken her on. By the time he reached the Talbot he was downcast; the search seemed fruitless, but he’d go in and ask anyway.

  With its cockfighting pit and gambling, the Talbot was a place he hated. The men were called there two or three times a week to quell fights or arrest a pickpocket. He’d have closed the inn if he’d
had the power. As he entered he felt the conversation hush. The landlord spat on the stone floor and turned away to examine the spigot on a cask. Nottingham walked up to the serving trestle and waited.

  ‘Mr Bell,’ he said finally, and the man looked at him.

  ‘I’d not seen thee there,’ the man said flatly. ‘You’ll have a drink with me, Constable?’

  Bell was a large man, strong and with the edge of danger in his temper. He’d fought bare knuckle when he was young and had the makings of a champion until he’d shattered the bones between his knuckles and wrist. Now there was a thick layer of fat over the old muscles, and the scars on his face and hands stood as the only reminders of his past.

  ‘Not today,’ the Constable answered with a smile. ‘All I’m looking for is some information.’

  Bell eyed him warily.

  ‘Have you had a girl with a harelip asking for work here? It would have been a few weeks ago.’

  The man chuckled.

  ‘What? Alice Wendell’s lass, you mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nottingham said with surprise.

  ‘No,’ he answered firmly, ‘she’s not been in here. She knows I’d never take her on. They wouldn’t be happy.’ He tilted his head toward the customers. ‘I’ve known her since she was a nipper. Lovely girl, do anything for anybody, mind, but not a clever lass. Why are you looking for her, then? She done something?’

  ‘She’s missing. I told her mother I’d ask after her.’

  Bell frowned. ‘That’s bad news. I always had a soft spot for young Lucy. I’ll keep a lookout for her.’

  So, nothing, he thought as he walked back to the jail. He could go through all the alehouses and dram shops, but that could easily take half a week. He sat at the desk, lost in thought. Lucy Wendell had been somewhere, and he was certain it had been in Leeds. It was probably the only place she knew, the only one where she’d feel that she might be safe. And in the end even that hadn’t helped to save her. He loved the city but sometimes it seemed cursed and dangerous.

  Someone had bedded her and put a child in her. Whoever had done that had almost certainly been the one to kill her, too. That would take the start of this tale back several months, to when she was working for Cates, and that was food for thought. Men took advantage of girls working for them often enough, then dismissed them if their bodies quickened. He’d never heard of anyone killing a lass because of it, but men had certainly killed for much less.