Come the Fear

by Chris Nickson

  He knew the mayor would be in his office. It was a post that gave no respite, a mistress that demanded complete devotion for a year. Nottingham walked down the hallways, the rich Turkey carpet under his heels, no sound of voices behind the closed doors today. The dark wainscoting was polished to a high sheen, the portraits of the rich men who’d run the city looking down on him balefully.

  He knocked on the door and entered. John Douglas glanced up, a quill in his hand as he worked through the pile of papers in front of him. His coat was draped over the chair back, his long waistcoat unbuttoned and his stock undone, the costly wig tossed on to the windowsill.

  ‘Something must be important to bring you here on a Sunday, Richard,’ he said, leaning back in the heavy chair.

  ‘Morrison’s boy,’ the Constable said.

  Douglas raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You found him,’ he said. ‘The lad was safe and unhurt. His parents are grateful and the churches were full this morning.’ He nodded at the chair and Nottingham sat.

  ‘We didn’t find him,’ the Constable answered. ‘He was left for us to find. He was barely awake. Someone had taken him and drugged him.’

  The mayor studied him before asking, ‘Are you certain about this?’

  The Constable drew the note from his pocket and put it on the desk. ‘That was in his pocket.’

  Douglas remained silent for a long time after reading.

  ‘What can we do?’ he asked finally.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nottingham admitted, shaking his head. ‘We daren’t let people know that someone’s taking children. There’ll be panic all over the city.’

  The mayor nodded soberly. ‘But if we don’t say anything there could be more children snatched,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I know.’

  Douglas filled two beakers from the jug on a table and passed one to the Constable. ‘How do we find these people?’

  ‘I don’t know that, either. If I start asking questions folk will become suspicious. It doesn’t take long for a wisp of rumour to become fact here, you know that as well as I do.’

  The mayor studied the liquid in his mug. ‘Who else knows about this note?’

  ‘Just two of my men. They won’t say anything.’

  ‘No one else?’

  Nottingham shook his head. He could hear the sounds of the day outside, couples making their way up Briggate to St John’s, the cacophony of bells from the city’s three churches.

  ‘Do whatever you have to do, Richard,’ Douglas said with a grimace. He took a long drink of the ale. ‘I don’t care what it takes to find whoever did this.’

  ‘And when we do find them?’

  The mayor didn’t reply.

  Nottingham stood and walked towards the door.

  ‘You’ll have my full backing in everything,’ the mayor told him.

  He walked along Swinegate. For once the street was quiet, the businesses all closed for the Sabbath, no carts clattering along the road to disperse the puddles and clumps of stinking night soil tossed from the windows. Horses whinnied in their stable at the ostler’s and smoke rose lazily from the chimneys. Like all the other shops along the row, the chandler’s was shuttered.

  The Constable slipped into the passageway that ran by the building and through to the yard behind. The ground was filled with buckets and basins, tools of the chandler’s trade, the smell of lye heavy and acrid in the air.

  He knocked on the door and waited. It was Morrison himself who came, all the pain and tension eased from his face.

  ‘Constable,’ he said.

  ‘How’s Mark? Awake and well?’

  ‘Aye, he is that, praise God.’ The chandler smiled, showing the nubs of brown teeth in a wide mouth. He was a stout man, his knuckles gnarled and misshapen, two fingers gone from his right hand. ‘Come in, come in.’

  The chandler and his family lived above their business in a series of small, untidy rooms. He could hear the wife in the kitchen, giving orders to the maid and the sound of children behind another closed door.

  Morrison led him up another flight of stairs, the rail trembling under his touch, and into a small room under the eaves. The floor was swept and a window looked down on the street. The boy lay in clean sheets on a pallet of fresh straw, a spotless shirt over his scrawny body.

  ‘This is the Constable, Mark.’

  The lad turned and Nottingham could see his eyes were alert and the colour had returned to his face.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, squatting down and smiling. ‘How do you feel, Mark?’

  Mark glanced at his father then back at the Constable. ‘Fine, thank you, sir,’ he replied, his voice clear and strong, although Nottingham could see the faint traces of fear lingering in his expression.

  ‘You had us all worried yesterday, you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  Nottingham grinned and ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘You’re back and safe now, that’s all that matters.’ He turned to Morrison. ‘I’d like to talk to your son alone, if I might.’

  ‘Of course,’ the chandler agreed with an eager nod. ‘Just come down when you’re done.’

  He waited until the footsteps had faded before speaking.

  ‘What do you remember about yesterday, Mark?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the boy answered slowly. ‘It’s all mixed up inside.’

  ‘Do you recall being at the market with your mother?’ he prodded gently.

  Mark nodded.

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘I was holding her hand and then I was on my own. I tried shouting but no one heard me.’

  He could see the tears of memory welling in the lad’s eyes.

  ‘Did anyone help you?’

  ‘Yes. There was a lady. She said she’d take me to my mam.’

  ‘And did you go with her?’

  He nodded. ‘But we went the other way, down Briggate. I asked if she was taking me home.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ the boy admitted with a blush of embarrassment. ‘She gave me something to drink. It tasted funny but she said I had to drink it all. Then I don’t remember anything after that until I was back here. I’m sorry, sir.’

  Nottingham smiled and patted the boy’s hand.

  ‘You’re doing very well,’ he said. ‘What did the woman look like? Can you close your eyes and see her?’

  He waited as the boy concentrated, careful not to rush him.

  ‘She had a blue dress.’

  ‘Very good, Mark, you’re doing well. Anything else?’

  ‘Her hair was dark.’

  ‘What was her name? Did she tell you?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the lad apologized, ‘that’s all.’ He turned to stare at the Constable. ‘Was she a bad lady?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nottingham told him. ‘You’re safe now and that’s the only thing that matters. But you probably shouldn’t say anything about the lady to anyone. Can you keep it a secret?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mark answered seriously.

  ‘Even from your parents?’ he asked quietly. ‘Just between us? You promise?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Good lad.’ He stood, feeling the ache in his knees. ‘You just rest today, you’ll be fine tomorrow.’

  Wearing his best clothes, his hair combed, Rob stood outside the Constable’s house. He’d managed a few hours of sleep, broken by the church bells, then he’d determined to come down here, the way he had every Sunday afternoon for months. Maybe Emily would refuse to see him, but he had to try. His father might want to marry him into society but he was going to follow the course his heart set.

  He had no great experience of girls but he knew enough to understand that she was different. She enchanted and nonplussed him in equal amounts with the way she looked at the world, a girl who spoke her thoughts fearlessly without caring who heard them.

  What he felt for her wasn’t the bloodless love h
is parents professed. It was passion, not propriety. Maybe it was ridiculous, maybe it would come to naught, but he’d fallen into it without hesitation.

  He stood straight and knocked. Almost before he was ready, Mary Nottingham was standing there, a woman with greying hair and a kindly face. Beyond her he could see the boss sitting in his chair, rubbing his chin with his hand as he thought.

  ‘I’ve come to see Emily,’ Rob said.

  ‘Come in, I’ll shout for her.’ She climbed the stairs and he waited in the room, the Constable staring at him and smiling.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re persistent,’ he said.

  ‘I love her,’ Lister answered, as if it explained everything.

  ‘She knows that, I’m sure.’

  He turned as he heard footsteps and saw Emily, her expression as unsure as his own. She was still in her church dress, the dark colour showing off her pale skin, her hair loose and tumbling over her shoulders.

  ‘I thought we could take a walk,’ he suggested.

  He watched as she glanced briefly at her father then back at him.

  ‘As long as it’s not far,’ she agreed cautiously. ‘I still have to prepare work for school tomorrow.’

  ‘Just to the river and back,’ he said, feeling as nervous as if they’d barely met.

  ‘You go and enjoy yourselves,’ the Constable said. ‘Stay for supper if you like, Rob.’

  He saw the minute shake of her head.

  ‘I can’t today, boss,’ he answered.

  Outside, under the high clouds, he wanted to reach for her hand as they crossed the tenters’ fields, the wooden frames standing stark, empty of cloth. But she kept a discreet distance, too far for a casual touch.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come today,’ Emily said hesitantly.

  ‘Why not?’

  She glanced at him. ‘After we talked the other day.’

  ‘Did you really think I’d just give up?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she sighed.

  ‘I told you, I love you.’

  He listened to the silence until they reached the riverbank and sat on an old log where generations of lovers had carved their initials.

  ‘But I said I didn’t know if I could love you,’ she continued as if there had been no gap. ‘Not unless I can be sure of you.’

  ‘If we don’t see each other and if we don’t talk to each other, how can you ever know?’ Rob let the words rush out. He stared at the water moving lazily past. ‘If we stop it’s the same thing as my father winning.’

  ‘Is it?’ she wondered.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied with certainty, and she looked at him.

  ‘Why do you love me, Rob?’

  The question took him aback. He tried to dig down, to find the words that could capture his feelings for her.

  ‘Because you’re you,’ he answered eventually. ‘You’re not afraid of anything,’ he added.

  ‘That’s not true,’ she told him, sadness in her voice. ‘I’m afraid of lots of things.’

  ‘But you don’t show it,’ he insisted. ‘You care about people . . . about things.’ He knew it hardly made sense, but it was all he could manage.

  Her fingers touched his and he felt a pull of hope as he put his hand over hers.

  ‘I do love you,’ he said.

  He waited, holding his breath for her reply.

  ‘I know, and I love you. It’s just . . .’

  ‘What?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted and shook her head. ‘I really don’t know; I wish I did.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘I’m scared of what your father might do if you refuse him. I’m scared that you’ll give in to him and break my heart. Or if you don’t, I’m scared you might resent me some day.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he told her, knowing it was true.

  ‘But I have to be certain and I’m not.’ She stood and smoothed down the dress. ‘Let’s go back. I really do have work to finish.’

  They held hands, meandering slowly, letting idle words cover their feelings until they were outside her house.

  ‘It’s not over,’ he said. ‘I don’t ever want it to be over.’

  She smiled and gave him a small, quick kiss.

  ‘Neither do I.’

  John Sedgwick had almost finished his day’s work as the sky clouded over in the late afternoon and a light drizzle began to fall. He perched the battered tricorn hat more squarely on his head, turned up his coat collar and made his way back to the jail.

  The only thing remaining was to take Walton over to the prison below the Moot Hall. He’d wait there until the Quarter Sessions reached the city then stand trial for his crimes. There was no doubt of his guilt; they’d caught him with the loot from a burglary. Within days of the verdict he’d be dangling from the noose up on Chapeltown Moor and the crowds would jeer and roar as he danced in the air.

  He’d let the thief taker sit all day without food or water. They could look after him at the prison. There had been more pressing business. He’d gone over to Shaw’s Well and seen that Davidson and his whores had gone then asked around casually to see if anyone had noticed Morrison’s boy when he’d been missing.

  After this he’d finally be able to go home. All day he’d been scared of James wandering off again, of the child snatcher taking him. He was small, he’d be easy to grab for anyone with determination. Minute by minute the fear had eaten through him and he knew he’d embrace his son tightly when he walked through the door and saw him there.

  He needed to talk to him, to make him understand that he needed to stay close to home, close to Lizzie, close to safety. How could he make a boy of his age comprehend all the dangers life held? All he could do was try. If necessary he’d lock him in the house and keep him there.

  Maybe the boss was right, and there’d be panic if word of someone taking children spread through the city. But maybe panic was better than another child gone and parents grieving, he thought. With everyone watching and wary the bastard would have a much harder task.

  Walton was sitting in his cell, eyes closed as if he was asleep. The deputy turned the key in the lock and said,

  ‘On your feet. Hands out in front.’

  The thief taker obeyed without a word and Sedgwick snapped the shackles on his wrists, the iron weight pulling his arms down.

  ‘Sit down. Legs out.’ He moved deftly, locking the ankle rings and chain in place. They’d make walking difficult, but the distance was short and he’d learned long ago to take no chances. A desperate man could run fast and he had no taste for the chase right now, not with his own hearth calling him. Before they left he armed himself with a sword and pistol, loading and priming it as Walton watched. ‘Try to escape and I’ll put the load in your brain.’

  Briggate was quiet, only a few people out, courting couples and girls parading arm in arm, eyes darting around for any eligible young men. The deputy walked slightly behind the thief taker, one hand lightly gripping the hilt of his weapon, the handle of the gun in easy reach. What could he say to James that would make the boy listen, he wondered? How could he bring back the happy child who’d been there before Isabell was born?

  As they approached two serving lasses who giggled at being so close to danger, the thief taker slid quickly to the side and turned. In one swift movement he lifted his arms, looped the chain around the neck of one of the girls and pulled it taut.

  He smiled, showing his black teeth, his eyes dark and empty, edging backwards, keeping the girl as a shield in front of him. Her face pleaded with the deputy, her small fingers scrabbling helplessly at the metal.

  ‘Stay back,’ Walton said, taking a step back and pulling the girl along with him.

  ‘Let her go,’ Sedgwick ordered. He had the sword in his right hand, the pistol extended in his left. The other servant was backed against the wall, screaming, but he hardly heard her. ‘Let her go now.’

  Walton took another pace backward, the girl’s heels dragging. One shoe came off, stand
ing alone and empty on the flagstone.

  Breathing deeply, the deputy raised the pistol, aiming at the thief taker’s head. Slowly, keeping his arm straight, he squeezed down on the trigger. The noise filled his brain as he fired.

  Fifteen

  ‘I’m sorry, boss.’

  The deputy was sitting with his head in his hands, an empty mug of ale in front of him. Nottingham was in his chair, hands together under his chin. He’d been asleep at home, stretched out in his chair in just shirt and breeches, when one of the men had pounded on the door.

  He’d dressed hastily and walked to the jail. Walton’s body lay in the cold cell they used as a morgue, part of his skull gone, the ball buried behind empty eyes. The apothecary said the girl would live; the bullet had only grazed her head. He’d bound the wound and given her something to make her sleep before letting her go home with her friend. She’d been trembling, too fearful to speak, bursting into tears every time she tried to open her mouth.

  ‘Just be glad she wasn’t really hurt,’ the Constable said. ‘For the love of Christ, what were you doing, John?’

  Sedgwick raised his eyes and shook his head.

  ‘You weren’t paying attention. You let him get away from you and a girl was almost killed.’ He sighed and pushed the fringe off his forehead then poured himself some more ale. ‘You know better than that.’

  ‘I was thinking about this child snatcher and James.’

  ‘I don’t care that Walton’s dead,’ Nottingham continued, slamming his palm down on the desk in anger. ‘I don’t give a fuck about him, it’s just sooner rather than later. But you took a risk with someone’s life.’

  ‘What else could I do, boss?’ Sedgwick asked. He stood up and began to pace around the room. His long legs seemed constrained by the small space. He looked hard at the Constable. ‘What?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have let it happen in the first place and you know it,’ Nottingham answered coldly. Before the deputy could reply he held up his hand. ‘I know. It did happen. But you should at least have waited until you could get a clearer shot at him or used your sword.’

  ‘I was trying to fucking save her!’ Sedgwick shouted. ‘She was terrified. What should I have done?’ He stormed out, letting the door slam behind him. The Constable started to rise from his chair and follow then sat back. Sedgwick needed some time. He knew full well what he should have done, that he should have been alert and watching the prisoner every second. It was one of the first things he taught all the men. He understood what the man was thinking, that he was blaming himself and his own stupidity, and feeling relief at not killing or badly injuring the girl. He knew the deputy had had no choice once Walton had taken the servant. Finally he stood and sighed loudly. It was time to go home. There was nothing more he could do here.