Come the Fear

by Chris Nickson

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked kindly. Her eyes were haunted, and he could feel the fear coming off her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.’

  ‘Anne.’

  ‘Anne, did you know Lucy?’

  She nodded slightly, keeping her head down, eyes looking at the floor.

  ‘Did you like her?’

  She looked up at him as if she didn’t understand the question. ‘What?’

  ‘Did you like her?’

  She shrugged. ‘He loved her, she were his sister.’

  ‘Your man must miss her.’

  ‘Aye.’ She turned away again, as if she couldn’t keep her mind on one thing for more than a moment.

  ‘And she was never here after she left her job?’

  Anne shook her head briefly.

  ‘You didn’t see her after that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long have you been with Peter?’

  She thought for a little while. ‘A year, close enough.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘He’s better than some,’ she admitted flatly. ‘We eat.’

  He knew he wasn’t going to get much from her, and she’d never dare say anything against her man; she was too scared of him. She’d probably had batterings so often in her life that it seemed the normal way to her. He smiled.

  ‘Thank you, Anne, you’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘Are you going to tell him you were here?’ she asked, and he could hear the terror under the words.

  ‘Not a word,’ he promised, and her face relaxed a little.

  The Constable sat adding figures, making sure the men would be paid, when there was a timid knock on the door and a boy of about eight entered, looking around wide-eyed at being in such a terrifying place.

  ‘Sir?’ he asked in a high voice. ‘Are you the Constable?’

  ‘I am,’ Nottingham told him, smiling with his eyes.

  ‘A man told me to give you this. He said you’d give me some money if I did.’ He held out a small fist containing a folded piece of paper.

  ‘Did he now?’ he asked. ‘And did he say how much?’

  ‘He said you should give me a penny.’

  The Constable laughed and dug into his breeches pocket for a coin.

  ‘Who was this man?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ the boy answered, his eyes still moving around the room, full of curiosity. ‘But his skin was black. Was it paint?’

  ‘No. He was born like that. Some people are.’

  The boy nodded sagely. Nottingham passed over the coin and took the note.

  ‘Thank you,’ the boy said. ‘The man told me I should thank you.’ He left quietly, and Nottingham opened the paper. It was from Joe Buck, in his thin scrawl: Another house last night. Mr Collins.

  He knew Collins, a merchant who never seemed to find great success, still living in the old house on Briggate that his father had left him. The Constable rubbed his chin. It could be worth a visit to shake the man a little and see what happened. If it helped to catch the thief taker it would be worthwhile.

  The house was down towards the river, almost opposite the office of the Mercury. Glancing across the street he saw Rob’s father bent over his desk, stopping only to put more ink on his quill. A sour taste filled his mouth and he swallowed it away, turning his attention to the merchant.

  The house needed a new coat of limewash. The mullioned windows were warped in their frames, the glass thick, a few small panes missing and never replaced, rags stuffed in their stead by a man who couldn’t afford the repairs. It wasn’t the home of someone rich, but rather someone who had little to lose.

  He knocked and was shown in by a serving girl, the skin on her hands red and raw. She showed him into a parlour where the fire was laid but not lit, the room chilly and unwelcoming. Dust on the mantle showed a couple of objects missing since it had last been cleaned.

  Collins arrived quickly. He was a small, thin man, barely reaching to Nottingham’s shoulder, with startled eyes and a questioning mouth. His clothes were middling, the breeches of fair cut and style, the jacket older but clean, the material made to last.

  ‘Constable!’ he said. ‘Milly said it was you, but I can’t think why you’d come here. What can I do for you?’ His voice sounded strained, the skin tight on his face.

  ‘I heard that someone had stolen some items from you.’

  ‘Really?’ The surprise was so forced it wouldn’t have fooled an infant. Nottingham raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I hear quite a few things, Mr Collins. Your father was on the Corporation, if I remember.’

  ‘He was.’ The merchant eagerly nodded his agreement, happy to move on.

  ‘It was the Corporation that created the post of Constable,’ Nottingham continued. ‘They needed someone to take care of the crime in Leeds. That’s what I do. But if I don’t know a crime’s happened, I can’t help, can I?’

  ‘No.’ Collins started to blush.

  ‘I believe some people have been looking to this thief taker, the one who’s new here, to help them. Everything returned for a small fee, I believe, and everything kept quiet. But I’d like to think that good people in Leeds would rather have the thief caught and tried.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Collins agreed quickly, staring intently at the ground.

  ‘I’ll leave you to think on it,’ Nottingham told him mildly. ‘You might discover some items missing that you want to report to me.’ He moved to the door. ‘I’ll bid you good day.’

  Collins would be at the jail later in the day, red-faced and tongue-tied, the Constable was certain of it. He left the house, glanced across the street to the Mercury again and walked away, bunching his fists.

  It was a short stroll to the Talbot. He sent word up to Walton and sat in the corner with a beaker of musty ale that had sat too long in the cask. The thief taker came down the stairs yawning, his clothes dishevelled, raking a hand through his hair.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Constable? I hope this is important. I was still asleep.’

  ‘There have been four burglaries in Leeds within a week, Mr Walton.’

  The man raised his eyebrows. ‘In London that’s no number at all.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, this isn’t London. And four is too many for this city. But there’s an odd thing.’

  ‘Oh?’ Walton asked without interest.

  ‘Two of them haven’t even been reported and the third withdrew his complaint.’ He glanced up at the thief taker. ‘You won’t mind if I look at your room?’

  ‘And why would you want to do that?’ Walton asked with a small grin.

  ‘Just to be certain that everything there belongs to you,’ Nottingham said.

  ‘What if I refuse?’

  The Constable stood.

  ‘You don’t believe I’m an honest man, do you, Constable?’

  ‘I don’t trust you, Mr Walton.’

  The thief taker’s smile was like an adder’s. ‘And if you find nothing in my room?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Nottingham said warily.

  ‘Then shall we go?’ the thief taker suggested. ‘You can see for yourself.’

  Following the man up the stairs, the Constable felt dismayed. He’d hoped Walton would have been careless, too proud of his little tricks, and left things openly around. But he must have been wrong; the man wouldn’t have let the law in otherwise. Still, it had been a gamble, something worth doing in the moment.

  Walton made a performance of unlocking his door, turning the large, heavy key and ushering Nottingham inside. It was a sparse, small space, the shutters thrown wide, the window open to the yard behind the inn. A small chest stood in the corner, its lid up, empty inside. There was a candle, holder and tinder on the shelf, and an old bed. Nottingham rummaged over the straw mattress and through the blankets and pillow, but it was just for the sake of appearance. There was nothing to be found here and they both knew it. Walton leaned against the wall, looking smug.

  �
�I told you,’ he said. ‘Everything that’s here belongs to me. There’s precious little of it.’

  ‘You asked if I thought you were an honest man, Mr Walton. I’ll give you your answer. I don’t believe you are.’

  ‘Be careful what you say,’ the thief taker warned. ‘Slander’s a crime even in these parts.’

  Nottingham smiled. ‘But the truth isn’t. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again, Mr Walton.’

  He frowned as he walked back to the jail. The thief taker had made him look foolish, but he wasn’t the first and he wouldn’t be the last. For all that, it had been worthwhile; he’d learned something from the room.

  At his desk he scribbled quick notes to Sedgwick and Lister with new instructions for the men. With God’s good grace they’d have Walton soon enough. He steepled his hands over his mouth, feeling the roughness of bristles against his fingertips. Sometime soon he’d need a shave.

  He sat back, wondering what he could do to ease Emily’s pain and realized there was nothing. What happened depended on Rob, and he felt sorry for the lad. Whatever he chose he’d lose something. If he followed his father, he might well believe he had to leave the job, just when he’d learned how to do it well. Nottingham sighed. No good would come of any of this.

  He was still thinking when the door opened and Alice Wendell entered. Her back was straight, her clothes clean, hair neatly hidden by an old cap washed pure white. But her face had aged over the days; sorrow haunted her eyes, the lines so deep in her flesh they might have been put there with a chisel.

  ‘Sit down,’ he offered, pulling out a chair and pouring her a mug of ale from the jug. She drank politely, then set the beaker on the edge of the desk.

  ‘I need to find out what you’ve learned about my Lucy’s death,’ she said, and he knew it had been the only thing in her mind since he’d given her the news, stealing her sleep and tearing at her waking hours.

  ‘We’ve been trying, but we haven’t managed to find much yet,’ he admitted, knowing he was really saying nothing at all.

  She stared at him. ‘Please?’ she asked. ‘Tell me what you know.’

  He sat down slowly. He shouldn’t say anything to her, but how could he refuse the woman’s request? Hard as it might be, the knowledge was all she’d have left of her daughter.

  ‘She tried her hand at whoring for a night, but she didn’t have any luck. Then we know she was staying with a group who camp down by the riverbank at night. It seems she was there for a week. After that we simply don’t know. I’m sorry. We’re trying to find out.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She made to get up and he said,

  ‘She told people she couldn’t go home because he’d find her. Do you know what she meant?’

  Alice Wendell shook her head sadly. ‘There’s nobbut me there, and her brother when he comes to visit. Just family who love her.’

  ‘No man who’s been interested in her?’

  She snorted. ‘How many of them you talked to would have wanted her? Eh?’

  He nodded his head slightly in acknowledgement.

  ‘I’ve heard about you,’ she said. ‘They say you’re not like them as run Leeds. You care about us.’

  ‘Everyone deserves justice, Mrs Wendell.’

  She held her head up. ‘Get the bastard who did this to my Lucy, then. You can do that for her. I want to see him hang up on Chapeltown Moor.’

  ‘If I can, I will.’

  ‘I’ll have to live for that, then.’

  Alone again, Nottingham rubbed his eyes. How many women had come to the jail over the years wanting news of husbands, sons and daughters? He’d lost count long ago. He’d been able to give good tidings to a few, but for most there were no happy endings. He hoped that in time he’d be able to tell Alice Wendell who’d murdered her daughter, but for now the path had ended and they’d managed to account for little more than one of the three weeks before the fire. She’d been somewhere in Leeds. Someone would have seen her face, maybe even known her name. The city wasn’t so big that they couldn’t find out. A few thousands souls, so many of them pushed together in the cold, crowded spaces of the poor: faceless, anonymous folk, all working for the few who tasted luxury each day without thought. He’d discover where she’d been. The image of her in the cellar, the half-formed child on her belly, would remain in his mind forever; no one in this world deserved to die that way. She’d had precious little voice in life, and he was damned if he’d let her be silent in death.

  Rob had dressed in his best suit and breeches. His hose were spotless, his shoes lovingly polished so the steel buckles shone. He’d washed and run his hands through his hair, staring at himself in the looking glass until he was satisfied with what he saw.

  He waited outside the school, standing aside as the girls ran out into the city. He felt as nervous as a child called in to be disciplined, his eyes anxiously darting to the door, knowing she’d be there soon.

  When Emily came out, she was talking to Mrs Rains, and he caught his breath. He knew she’d seen him; she had turned her head pointedly away, letting the conversation drag out, making exaggerated gestures with her small hands. But sooner or later she’d have to pass him and then he’d have his chance. Unable to sleep, he’d spent the day formulating the words, grinding them deep into his memory.

  Finally she finished and walked towards him. He stepped away from the wall, right into her path.

  ‘Please,’ he begged quietly, ‘hear me out.’

  She tilted her head and said nothing, but stopped and crossed her arms, her face expressionless. He took a breath.

  ‘What I told you was just what my father had said to me. Please, you have to believe me, it’s not how I feel about things. He can find me a hundred women to marry and I’ll turn them all away.’

  Emily looked at him. A curl had escaped her cap to hang down her cheek. He wanted to reach out and push it behind her ear but was too scared to touch her.

  ‘Have you told him that?’ she asked.

  ‘I tried.’

  ‘Then you’d better tell him again and make sure he understands.’ She moved around him and started to walk away.

  ‘Your father even asked about it this morning.’

  She stopped and turned. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said I should talk to you.’

  ‘He’s proud of my grandmother, did he tell you that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rob said.

  ‘What she did took a lot of courage,’ she said, admiration in her voice.

  ‘I know,’ he agreed.

  ‘I’m not sure I could be that strong,’ Emily admitted.

  ‘Then pray God you never have to find out.’

  ‘If I had to, what would you do?’ she asked. ‘Would you be proud of me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered without hesitation.

  She moved closer and looked deep into his eyes. ‘And what about your father? What do you think he’d say?’

  ‘You know exactly what he’d say,’ he told her and she nodded sadly.

  ‘But I’m not him,’ Rob protested desperately. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Since I became a Constable’s man I’ve seen things he couldn’t begin to understand.’

  ‘He’s still your father.’

  ‘He can’t make me think like him.’

  ‘He has money, Rob, he has influence,’ she said sadly. ‘Sooner or later he’s going to try and make you do what he wants. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘He won’t succeed,’ he promised. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘I want to believe you.’ She took his hand. ‘I really want to believe you. But I daren’t love someone who might hold my family’s past against me some day.’ She walked away, leaving him standing, torn and hopeless.

  The deputy arrived home in the early evening. He’d made his final round of the day and passed the keys over to Lister, along with the Constable’s note. Collins had arrived in the afternoon to report his robbery.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Rob asked. Sedgwick had s
hrugged.

  ‘The boss knows what he’s doing. Just put your man on the yard instead of the front entrance of the Talbot and see what happens.’ He paused. ‘What’s wrong with you, anyway? I’ve seen happier looking corpses.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Lister turned away and sorted through some papers.

  If the lad wanted to talk about it, he would, the deputy thought. It was his business.

  ‘Right, I’ll leave it all with you, then.’

  He made his way home through the streets, most of the houses already shuttered and locked for the night, keeping the robbers and evil spirits at bay. The inns and alehouses glistened with noise and music, lights shining in the gathering darkness but they held no appeal for him any more. He’d rather be with his family at his own hearth.

  He opened the door of the tiny house on Lands Lane and walked into a room full of the rich scent of cooking meat. The day before one of the butchers on the Shambles had given him some beef as thanks for a small favour and he’d been looking forward to it all day.

  Lizzie stood over the pan, stirring the stew with an old wooden spoon. Glancing across he could see Isabell asleep in her basket, eyes pressed firmly together, fat little hands showing above the blanket, black hair beginning to grow in thickly across her scalp. He bent down close enough to see her chest rise and fall in the slow pattern of breathing, then kissed Lizzie.

  ‘Has she been down long?’ he asked softly.

  ‘About an hour. Slept well this afternoon, too. It’s starting to get better.’ She stretched, pushing her hands against her back to straighten it, then put her arms around him and gave him the smile he loved. ‘And before you ask, James is upstairs asleep. I fed him when he came home from playing.’

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘Just the way he used to be,’ she said with a bemused shake of her head. ‘Sweet and loving. Settled down when I told him and went straight off. I don’t understand what gets into him sometimes.’ She ladled hot stew into a bowl and put it on the table for him, along with a beaker of ale and a crust of bread. ‘That should see you right.’ Lizzie watched happily as he spooned the food into his mouth, scarcely stopping to savour it, only slowing down as he sopped up the gravy.