Come the Fear

by Chris Nickson

  ‘That was grand,’ he said finally, reaching out and taking her hand. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me; that butcher of yours did you proud. It’s better than we could afford. Plenty of meat and it wasn’t even spoiled. There’ll be enough for tomorrow, too. What did you do for him, anyway?’

  ‘Just showed him how his apprentice was stealing from him. Nothing much.’

  Lizzie glanced over at the sleeping baby. ‘We could have an early night ourselves,’ she said coyly, her fingers twining in his.

  ‘We could,’ he agreed.

  ‘Then you’d better get up those stairs sharpish, John Sedgwick, and make sure you’re quiet so the little one doesn’t wake.’

  Twelve

  There was no more than a band of pale light on the horizon when the Constable walked up Kirkgate but already the day felt oppressive. The thick clouds in the sky seemed weighted and full, the air heavy. He could feel sweat in his armpits, and his hair was damp when he ran his hand through it.

  Lister had the window open wide, but there was no breeze to flow and cool the place. Rob’s jacket hung on a nail, his long waistcoat unbuttoned and the sleeves of his shirt pushed up.

  ‘Morning, boss,’ he said. ‘It’s close out already.’

  ‘If it keeps up like this, tempers are going to flare sooner rather than later. People don’t take the heat well here.’ Nottingham poured himself a mug of small ale and drank it down quickly. ‘Anything worth knowing about? Did putting the man on the yard of the Talbot help?’

  Lister sat back and laughed.

  ‘As soon as it was dark Walton climbed down the kitchen roof and was off down the back way. Johnson was on him. He said the only time he’s seen anyone move faster was when a husband’s come back without warning.’

  Nottingham grinned with satisfaction. ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘A place off Currie Entry. There’s a small court there.’

  ‘I know it. About as wide as your arm to get in, then just a few houses back there. Was Johnson able to see which one he went into?’

  Rob nodded. ‘He did a good job. Walton stayed there almost half an hour by the church clock, he said, then went back and climbed up to his room. Johnson found me and showed me where Walton had gone.’

  ‘Good. I think we’d better take a look at this place. Somehow I doubt our thief taker was just visiting an accommodating widow.’

  The Constable carefully avoided the other subject that hung between them. He’d talked to Mary the night before, waiting until Emily had gone to her room to work after arriving home in a flustered, sour mood. They’d discussed it in low voices, Mary’s anger at Rob’s father brittle and bitter, his own sadder, tempered by experience. But finally he’d convinced her that there was nothing they could do. Everything depended on the decisions Rob made. He’d put no pressure on the lad. He wouldn’t even hold it against him if he caved in to his father. The lad needed time to make up his mind fairly.

  By the time Sedgwick arrived, yawning and stretching so his fingertips almost touched the ceiling of the room, Nottingham knew what he wanted to do about Walton.

  ‘The three of us are going in together,’ he told them. ‘If we do it soon they’ll still be asleep. Look for anything of worth. Those houses are poor, so it’ll stand out. John, you watch whoever’s in there while Rob and I search.’ He opened the cupboard and took out three swords. ‘Let’s hope we don’t need them.’

  Full light had arrived as they left the jail, the clouds low in pale shades of grey. They entered the court one at a time, the Constable in the lead, alert for any noise, treading carefully on the packed down dirt.

  The house was old, the wood of the frame rotting and sagging so the windows couldn’t close. It only took a single kick to push the door back, and they walked in, weapons drawn.

  The couple was asleep. They sat up as Nottingham entered the room, the man with one foot already on the floor, the woman pulling the sheet up to cover herself.

  ‘Stay there,’ he ordered. ‘What’s your name?’

  The man stayed silent. He was older, the hair on his head thin and a dirty, greasy grey, with more sprouting heavily from his nostrils and ears. The bed was straw resting on planking, roughly covered with a sheet.

  ‘I’m the Constable. What’s your name?’ he repeated.

  ‘Matthew.’ The man’s voice had the rough edge of someone who drank too much, too often. He coughed and spat into a bowl on the floor.

  ‘John,’ Nottingham called, ‘come and watch these two while I look around.’

  ‘No need, boss. They have everything out. You’d think they were running a shop here.’

  The Constable waved his sword. ‘Up, the pair of you, and get dressed. You’re either thieves or fences, and either one will get you both hanged.’ Neither of them moved. ‘Come on.’

  Slowly they stood. The woman was of an age with the man; she turned her back to hide her thick body under her shift. He waited until they were clothed then looked through into the other room.

  Sedgwick had piled items on the table, good plate, jewellery, some lace and coins.

  ‘They’ve been busy, boss. The hangman will love them.’

  The Constable could see the fear in their eyes, the dread of death coming so soon.

  ‘What’s your surname, Matthew?’

  ‘Trill.’ The man coughed again, took a dirty kerchief from the pocket of his coat and spat.

  ‘And how did all this end up here? Don’t give me any stories, either,’ he warned.

  The man glanced at his wife and took her hand in a small gesture of comfort. Tears were tumbling down her cheeks and she pawed at them.

  ‘Well?’ Nottingham asked, his patience running thin.

  ‘We keep them here for someone,’ Trill said, his voice flat.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He says his name’s Walton. He pays us.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’ the Constable asked.

  ‘I was in the Talbot and we started talking. He asked if I wanted to make some money.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘A few days,’ Trill replied morosely.

  ‘And what did he want you to do?’

  ‘Just hold all that for him,’ the man said. ‘He told me it was all above board.’

  ‘And you didn’t ask any questions?’

  The man shrugged and coughed again. ‘It was money.’

  ‘It’s not any more,’ the Constable told him. ‘Was he here last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when will he be back again?’

  The couple looked at each other.

  ‘Tonight,’ the man said finally. ‘He’ll be coming to collect some things to take back to their owner.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Once it’s dark,’ the woman answered sadly. ‘I told you,’ she said to the man, and he simply shook his head, looking straight ahead.

  Nottingham was silent, leaving them to think, letting their imaginations feel the rope tightening around their necks.

  ‘I’m going to make you an offer, Mr Trill,’ he said finally. ‘You can have your lives if you help us get Walton.’

  He saw the woman’s hand clutch tightly at the man’s fingers.

  ‘How?’ Trill asked, hope in his voice.

  ‘All you have to do is be here when he comes. I’ll have someone hidden in your other room, and men outside.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Just do what you would. Then we’ll take him.’

  Trill nodded his agreement wearily.

  ‘Do that and you’ll escape the noose,’ the Constable told him. ‘Don’t try and send word to warn him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ the man answered, his voice low and hoarse. ‘Let the bugger come. As long as you save us.’

  ‘I will,’ Nottingham promised. ‘If you do what you’re told.’

  ‘Aye,’ Trill said with a sigh.

  ‘Good. Then I’ll have my man here before the sun sets. And
,’ he warned them again, ‘no word to Walton. You’ll be watched all day.’

  Out on Currie Entry, the air heavy around them, Rob asked,

  ‘Who’s going to watch them?’

  ‘No one,’ the Constable told him with a grin. ‘They’re scared enough, they won’t do anything. I just wanted to keep them fearful.’

  ‘What about tonight?’ Sedgwick asked.

  ‘You’ll be in the house with them, John. Keep yourself hidden. Rob and I will be out here. We’ll let Walton do his business and leave. You follow him out and we’ll take him in the yard. He won’t be able to escape from there and if he has any sense he won’t try to take on three men.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Lucy Wendell,’ he said, changing to the topic that kept worrying at his mind. ‘She was somewhere for two weeks and we haven’t found where yet.’ Nottingham looked at the others. ‘What do you think? Rob?’

  Lister spoke slowly, putting into words what he’d been wondering.

  ‘From what the other girl, Susan, told me, she seemed happy enough down by the river. I think someone found her, the man she was scared of.’

  The Constable nodded slowly. ‘That’s possible. John?’

  ‘I agree,’ the deputy said. ‘There must have been some reason she never went back there. Something happened.’

  ‘I believe the man she feared was the one who made her pregnant,’ Nottingham said. ‘He’s the one we need to find. We need to start asking around again. Someone will remember her. Go hard on them.’ He paused. ‘You get started on that, John. Rob, we’ll meet at the jail just before sunset. I’ll go and see everything’s well at the cloth market.’

  The bell for the start of the market sounded as he arrived on Briggate, conversation turning to whispers as the merchants moved with purpose through the crowds. The cloth was laid out on the wood to show length and the quality of the colour. The weavers stood with coats off against the heat, deep circles of sweat showing under their armpits.

  By habit the merchants always dressed well for the markets, displaying their wealth and finery, no matter how uncomfortable the weather. It was a matter of pride, it kept them apart, a reminder of the wealth to be made in wool for the right people.

  He exchanged nodded greetings with a few of the men and watched bargains made and sealed with a quick shake of the hands. The cloth was folded, ready to be moved later to the warehouses. This was the real business of Leeds, fast and certain, where fortunes were founded and added to. Nottingham knew that full twenty thousand pounds could change hands over the next hour. And there would be more in the afternoon at the White Cloth Hall, where the only sounds would be the echo of heels on flagstones, the voices as hushed as if they were in church.

  He remembered the Hall being built, the stone clean and golden, the large area inside, the pillars as impressive and grand as any cathedral, where commerce stood as a god equal to any in heaven.

  Nottingham turned and caught Ben Cates glaring at him. The man stood with his sons, giving quick, whispered instructions. Robert was concentrating, nodding furiously, while Will glanced around, bemused, standing apart.

  By the time the bell sounded again to finish trading most of the cloth had gone. Only a few sad lengths remained, material of poor quality, weeks of work wasted and families going hungry.

  He stopped at the White Swan and drank a mug of small beer. The closeness was still pressing down on the city. If it remained, violence would abound tonight. Tempers would quickly shred, fists would become knives, men would bleed and die and women would weep.

  By the Moot Hall the traders were setting up for the Saturday market, chickens already squawking loudly in their wicker baskets, fearful as the tang of blood rose from the Shambles to fill the air, sweet and sickening, mixing with the stench of shit and piss along the street.

  Wives and servant girls crowded round the stall selling old clothes, small purses clutched tightly in their fists as they pulled and rummaged, drawing out dresses and shifts to hold against their bodies.

  Girls had come in from the farms carrying butter, fresh that morning, and churns full of milk. The street was bustling, voices raised to be heard, a clamour of people moving, pressing to one side as carts tried to pass. A woman wandered through the throng shouting herself raw as she tried to sell bunches of lucky heather.

  The Constable moved among the sellers he knew, asking if any of them recalled Lucy. Some thought they recollected a girl with a harelip but none could remember when they might have seen her. Too much time had passed, too many faces seen at markets in the towns all around.

  He was wondering what to do next, who to ask, when a hand tugged at his arm. The woman’s face was tight and frantic.

  ‘You’re the Constable, aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘Can you help me? My son’s gone missing.’

  Thirteen

  He straightened, immediately alert and attentive.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Just six,’ she said, the tears beginning to stream. She wiped at them with a hand that had seen plenty of work, her knuckles raw and red. ‘He wandered off a few minutes ago. The clock had just struck.’

  He placed her now, the wife of Morrison the chandler down on Swinegate.

  ‘What’s your son’s name?’ he asked.

  ‘Mark.’ She fumbled in the pocket of her old dress for a kerchief and blew her nose. She was perhaps thirty and she’d been pretty once, the faint traces of beauty still around her eyes and mouth. But time and children had taken their toll, and now her skin sagged and her hair was limp.

  ‘Where did you see him last?’ He tried to keep the urgency from his voice.

  ‘Up by the cross. I was going to buy a chicken, I turned round and reached for him and he’d gone . . .’ Panic filled her and her face crumpled again.

  ‘What was Mark wearing?’

  For a moment she looked as if she couldn’t recall, then said, ‘His blue coat and breeches. They’re too big for him, they belonged to his brother and he hasn’t grown into them yet.’

  ‘How tall is he? What colour is his hair?’

  She held her hand at her waist. ‘About this high. He’s very fair.’

  Already Nottingham was looking around, but any boy that size would be almost invisible in the press of people.

  ‘You stay up by the cross,’ he told her. ‘I’ll start looking.’

  He squeezed his way through the crowds, moving down to the Moot Hall, searching rapidly. Children were lost at the market every week. A woman would let go of a small hand to pay for something and the young one would be pulled away, as if out to sea. They’d be found a few minutes later, crying and terrified.

  He gave the boy’s description to one of the stallholders, knowing it would quickly pass among them all, more eyes looking for the lad; it was what they did. He pushed between people, watching closely for small movements at the edge of his sight. Slowly he worked his way back up to the Market Cross, crossing and re-crossing every inch.

  Mrs Morrison was there, standing as tall as she could, shouting out the boy’s name, the words lost in the tumult of the market.

  ‘I haven’t found him yet,’ he told her, seeing the terror grow in her eyes. ‘Don’t worry. All the sellers know by now, they’ll be watching for him.’ She reached for his hand and he took it, patting it gently. ‘We’ll find him. You stay here.’

  He plunged back into the crowd, glancing at the stallholders who all shook their heads. Nothing. He could feel the first twinge of fear, the sense that something was wrong, creeping up his spine.

  Someone should have spotted the boy by now. He kept looking, checking all the nooks and hidden areas he knew so well, hoping against hope that he’d see the flash of a blue coat or the wail of a tiny voice.

  Around him people were beginning to drift away, their baskets full, the sellers slowly packing up their wares. Soon the bell would ring noon and the market would end. He walked back to the cross, where Mrs Morrison stood twisting a kerchief in her h
ands, still yelling her son’s name, her voice growing hoarse and desperate.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘I can’t see him.’

  The tears brimmed from her eyes and tumbled down her cheeks.

  ‘I’ll get the men out and searching,’ he told her. ‘We’ll find him. Go home. You have other children, don’t you?’

  She nodded dumbly.

  ‘You go and look after them,’ the Constable said; it would give her something to do. ‘I’ll come as soon as I know anything.’ He waited. ‘Please. We’ll look everywhere.’

  Finally she gave another nod and set off slowly down Briggate, walking as if she was in a dream, head darting hopefully from side to side.

  He strode into the Rose and Crown, shouting to be heard over the crowd there.

  ‘There’s a boy missing. He’s small and fair, in a blue coat and breeches. His name’s Mark. Who can help?’

  Several of the men drained their mugs and came to him. He divided them up, telling them where to look, then moved down the street to the Ship. More men volunteered. It was the same all along Briggate, until a small army was out looking for the lad.

  He returned to the jail, thinking quickly. The boy must have wandered off somewhere. There were enough men to find him in a few more minutes, an hour or two at most.

  Sedgwick was sitting at the desk, eating bread and cheese, a full mug of ale at his side.

  ‘We’ve got a missing lad, John.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Six.’

  He could see the deputy thinking of his own son as he stood and pushed the food away.

  ‘Who’s out there?’

  ‘Some men from the inns, about thirty of them. I sent his mother home. She’s Morrison’s wife, the chandler. Get everyone organized. I want him found quickly.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Come and tell me as soon as you know anything.’

  ‘I will.’

  Alone, behind his desk, Nottingham remembered the last time a child had vanished and not been found. It had been eight years before, a girl who hadn’t arrived home from the charity school. Men had searched through the evening, into the night and all the next day. They’d found her body, cold and long dead, in the orchard by the old manor house. Her mother drowned herself in the river a week later, weighted down by the heaviness of her heart, leaving a husband and two babies. He couldn’t allow that to happen again.