Come the Fear

by Chris Nickson

Nottingham walked up to him, just the wood between them.

  ‘Peter Wendell,’ he said. The landlord said nothing. ‘You know him?’

  The man gave a brief nod.

  ‘When was he here last?’

  ‘What business is it of yours?’ He curled his heavy, scarred knuckles into fists.

  ‘I’m looking for him. That makes it my business.’ He slapped the cudgel down so it barely missed the other man’s hands. ‘I remember you told me you thought his sister was hard done by.’

  ‘Aye,’ Bell acknowledged.

  ‘We went to talk to Peter about her death and he ran. You make of that what you will. I think you understand what I’m saying.’ He paused to give the man time to consider his words. ‘Now, when was he here last, Mr Bell?’

  ‘Last night,’ he said grudgingly. ‘We had a cock fight, he’s always here for those.’

  ‘How much did he lose?’

  Bell shrugged.

  ‘I want to know who he drinks with.’

  ‘Whoever’s here,’ the man answered. ‘He’s in most nights, people know him.’

  ‘Names,’ the Constable ordered.

  ‘Daniel Scott, Luke Andrews, Solomon Smith.’

  It was a litany of petty criminals, men often arrested for violence and drunkenness. Nottingham looked at the deputy.

  ‘If he comes in here, send someone to the jail,’ he ordered Bell. ‘You want whoever killed Lucy found, don’t you?’

  The landlord nodded.

  ‘Then do your duty for once.’

  Outside, he put the cudgel in the deep pocket of his coat.

  ‘Go and see those three, John. Take some men with you, just in case. Tell them why we’re looking for Wendell. The word will spread. If people believe he killed his sister, they’ll shun him.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘We’ll find him soon. He’ll be scared now. Let’s make him terrified. I want every single door closed to him,’ he said.

  By the time he reached the jail he felt a grim satisfaction. It was only a matter of time until they’d have Wendell. He wasn’t smart; he was a man who thought with his fists, not his brain.

  Holden was waiting by the door, a deep frown on his face. As the Constable approached he stood straight and rubbed a hand across the bristles of his beard.

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘I lost her,’ he admitted bashfully. ‘She must have seen me.’

  ‘Where?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘She went up Lands Lane. I gave her a few moments and then I turned the corner. She was gone.’

  The Constable kept his face impassive and his voice carefully even.

  ‘Did you look for her?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Holden looked at the ground. ‘I don’t know where she could have gone, honest. You know me, I’m good at this, but I couldn’t find her.’

  Nottingham nodded. ‘Go and see Mr Sedgwick. He needs some men to help him.’

  Alone, he brooded. There could be a reasonable explanation for the girl vanishing. She might have a room on Lands Lane. She might have seen him at the market or spotted Holden behind her. But in a blue dress, acting the way she was, she could be the woman snatching children. They needed to find her.

  Five minutes later he was still wondering where they could look when the door opened.

  ‘Mr Nottingham,’ the woman said, ‘where’s my John?’

  Lizzie was wearing an old dress, its deep red faded to pink. Her hair was neatly tucked under a cap. She was holding Isabell close to her, the baby swaddled tight. But her face was filled with desperation, her mouth tight, her eyes frantic.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Is it James?’

  ‘I can’t find him.’

  Seventeen

  ‘Sit down,’ he told her, and poured her a mug of ale. ‘Now, what’s happened?’

  ‘The lad’s not been the same since this one was born, Mr Nottingham.’ She held the girl close and drank in timid little gulps, not looking at him. ‘Says I’m not his mam, half the time he says he hates us, all sorts of things.’

  The Constable rested against the edge of the desk. He pushed the blanket back from the baby’s head and stroked the black down of her hair as she slept.

  ‘Has he run off before?’

  She nodded. ‘Often enough lately. He’ll stay out and go where we’ve told him he can’t, things like that. He’ll be starting at the charity school soon enough. We just hope that’s going to help.’ He could see her fingers pressing again the clay of the mug, hands shaking slightly. ‘But with . . . you know, we’ve told him to stay at home.’

  ‘When did you notice he was gone, Lizzie?’

  ‘About an hour ago.’ She reached up and wiped away a tear. ‘I’d just fed this one and put her down to sleep, then I went to play with him, but he was gone.’ She breathed slowly. ‘I’ve looked all over for him but I can’t find him. I’m scared. That’s why I came down to find John, Mr Nottingham. He told me about the child snatcher. If anything happens to James he’ll never forgive me.’

  ‘Did you have words with James this morning?’

  ‘He wanted to go out and I said no. I told him there were bad people out there and he had to stay inside today. He started shouting so I gave him a smack and told him to go upstairs.’ She began to cry again. ‘He must have gone out when I was busy with Isabell.’

  The Constable took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

  ‘You live on Lands Lane, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll have someone find John for you,’ he assured her, ‘and I’ll send a couple of the men out to look for James.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lizzie said gratefully. She breathed deeply.

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘A shirt, black breeches with a hole in the knee, grey hose and shoes,’ she answered.

  ‘We’ll find him,’ the Constable promised, making sure no note of doubt crept into his voice. ‘You go home,’ he advised her. ‘Look after Isabell. James might come back on his own.’

  She looked up at him, the sadness bedded deep in her eyes, clutching the baby.

  ‘He never has before, Mr Nottingham, not since this one came. Why would he now?’

  He sent one of the men to find the deputy and dispatched two others to search the area around Lands Lane, back into the orchards by the old manor house. That would be a good place for a boy to play and explore, he thought.

  He paced the floor, waiting for Sedgwick to arrive, only stopping when the door banged open and he burst in, breathless from running.

  ‘They said it was important. I’d just been to see Dan Scott.’

  Nottingham cut him off. ‘Lizzie was here. James has gone again.’

  ‘I’ll—’

  ‘That girl of Davidson’s, Fanny. I had Holden follow her. He lost her on Lands Lane.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘John,’ he began, but Sedgwick had already dashed out. The Constable sat down and ran a hand through his hair. James could just have run off and be hiding somewhere. Boys did that and returned when they were ready; he remembered doing it himself. But he’d have done the same as the deputy if it has been his child. Especially with Fanny so close . . .

  They needed to find her, to find James, to find Wendell. And he didn’t have enough men for all three jobs. A missing boy was the most important, there was no question on that. Best to hope he’d just wandered away to sulk and they’d find him hidden away somewhere. The girl close by could just be a coincidence. He’d have to pray it was.

  He put on his tricorn hat and walked over to Lands Lane. Two of the men were there, looking in the doorways and small, dark courts that snaked back from the street.

  ‘You start knocking on doors,’ he told one of them briskly. ‘Mr Sedgwick’s boy is missing. See if anyone’s seen the lad. You,’ he said to the other, ‘go and find three more men to help. We’ll start here and work outwards.’

  When they were busy he strode through to the orchard
that lay beyond the houses. The trees were overgrown, gnarled, mossy branches splayed in all directions, much of the wood dead and rotten. But there were still apples in the autumn, drawing boys from all over the city; he’d come here often enough when he was young and hungry, greedily collecting the fruit. Once it had been part of the grounds of the manor house, but all that was left of the building was rubble. Everything useful had been taken and reused, wood and stone and tile, the past becoming part of the present.

  The grass had grown high and wild, tangles of brambles with their sharp thorns, bushes grown into strange shapes that offered refuge away from the eye. He sighed and began to search, selecting a long stick to poke into the places he couldn’t reach, raising his voice to call the lad’s name. An hour passed as he laboured slowly over the area, finally sure James wasn’t here.

  There were so many places, that was the problem. Any lad who knew the city would have special places he never revealed, where he could run and feel safe and alone.

  He knocked at Sedgwick’s door, his breeches smeared with dirt, hose ripped and torn. Lizzie answered, fearful and quiet, Isabell crying loudly behind her in a basket, tiny arms and legs flailing at the air, her eyes pinched shut.

  ‘Has he come home?’

  She opened her mouth then just shook her head, as if she couldn’t trust herself with words. Her eyes were red and her cheeks blotched from crying.

  ‘We’ll find him,’ the Constable assured her. ‘I’ve got men out looking, and we’ll bring in other people.’

  ‘John?’ she asked, her voice choked.

  ‘He knows, he’s out there, too.’

  She glanced over her shoulder to the baby.

  ‘You stay here,’ he advised. ‘Look after her. I’ll see someone tells you if there’s any news.’

  A few more men had joined the searchers, small groups working their way through the streets. Two men were knocking on doors, only to be met by women shaking their heads. But he didn’t see the deputy.

  He waved one of the men over. ‘Where’s Mr Sedgwick?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him, boss,’ the man shrugged. He must have his own ideas of where to look, the Constable thought. For the rest of them there was no alternative but to carry on. He crossed Briggate, sliding through a passageway and into a court. Rubbish had rotted in the corners, the bloated body of a dead dog tossed aside, swarming with flies. He began in one of the houses that crowded into the space, working his way up stairs that were missing treads or where the boards were rotten. The lad wasn’t in any of them. He poked through all the waste with no success then moved to the next small yard, meaner and dirtier than the last.

  It was the same story, a place where little light had ever penetrated, the buildings all patchwork fabrics without hope. Just a short distance away he could hear the sharp sounds of the street, the cries of women selling lavender from their baskets, the clack of hooves as cattle were herded to the Shambles. Back in the yard there was only a dank, dead silence. He finished checking and moved back through the passageway, feeling as if he was returning from another, dark country.

  He could see others searching, more of them now, their faces grim and determined, combing the corners and hidden places for the boy. They’d find him, Nottingham thought. They had to.

  Sedgwick had gone straight down to the bridge. James loved to stand there, fascinated by the flow of the river below and the trundle of carts along the road. He darted between people, crossing the span, then coming back, but there was no sign of the lad.

  His heart was beating fast and his mouth was dry. His eyes moved from side to side, praying to spot the small, familiar figure, but there was nothing, not even the others he’d play with or follow. He clattered down the stairs to the bank of the Aire, scared to look into the water for what he might see there but knowing that he had to check.

  ‘James!’ he yelled, and waited for a reply that never came. He was running along the path, out towards the New Mill, then into the trees, hearing his breath come hard and feeling the sweat on his face and palms. Every few seconds he’d stop, gazing around desperately for any movement, any sign of his son, the fear growing large in his belly.

  Finally, after covering the ground four times and shouting himself hoarse, he had to admit that the boy wasn’t here. He pulled his hands through his hair, wondering where the lad could have gone, where else he could look.

  He couldn’t allow himself to think that the child snatcher had the boy. James had gone off before and been fine. He’d wander home this evening as if nothing had happened.

  The deputy knew that James resented his baby sister. She received so much of the attention that had once been all his. He knew it hurt him, and he’d tried to explain, but there was so much that didn’t make sense to a boy. James couldn’t see why Lizzie gave most of her time to Isabell, or that she loved him as much as she had before, and was just as much his mam. Slowly he made his way back, hoping over hope that someone would have found the lad, but knowing in his soul that no one had.

  Eighteen

  The night birds had begun their songs when they sat down in the jail. The deputy looked haunted, wild-eyed, distracted by every small noise, unable to sit still. Nottingham sat back thoughtfully, his coat hanging from a nail, the long waistcoat unbuttoned and his stock untied. Lister, fresh-faced from sleep, was alert and anxious.

  ‘Have you been home, John?’ Nottingham asked.

  Sedgwick nodded absently.

  ‘How’s Lizzie?’

  He shook his head, lacking words to describe the feelings.

  ‘Rob, you take over the search. We’ve had plenty of volunteers, just like with the Morrison boy. Organize them, get them into the fields beyond Town End.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘You should go home and sleep, John.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he answered simply. ‘Not while James is out there.’

  ‘Then help the others,’ the Constable said softly. ‘Don’t go haring off on your own. If you have any ideas where James might be, tell them so they can search properly.’

  Sedgwick nodded again. Nottingham knew he needed to be back out looking for his son, that each moment away was rubbing his heart raw.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you soon. And John,’ he added, ‘we’ll find him.’

  There were torches in the night, small points of fire that touched the darkness, spread across Town End, out beyond Burley Bar, along the side of the Aire and even past Timble Bridge.

  Lister had volunteers spread across the fields towards the Grammar School, its shape a silhouette picked out by the faint light of a quarter moon. He’d heard about the boy being gone when he went to meet Emily after school, the talk slipping around the streets, folk wondering how it could have happened again, rumours beginning to spread.

  But they’d still come out to help, dozens of men giving their time, women bringing stoups of ale and bread. With luck they’d find the lad. But if the child snatcher had him . . . It was a thought that stayed at the back of his mind as they worked, and he knew that each passing hour must be leaving the deputy in terror.

  He paused as someone’s wife handed him a full mug, and he drank deep. At least the night wasn’t too cold; if James was out here he wouldn’t freeze. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth he thought about the whore the Constable had mentioned. Maybe she was the child snatcher, maybe not. If she was, and if she had the boy . . . he remembered the words No Mercy from the note left with the Morrison lad. They’d just have to hope she didn’t have James.

  The Constable had charge of people searching around the Parish Church and beyond. The mayor and two of the aldermen had come out to help, working as hard as anyone. They’d looked at Sheepscar Beck, some men even wading into the water, but they’d found no body.

  Nottingham had managed to slip home for a few minutes, putting bread and cheese in the deep pockets of his coat. Mary had been in bed, and came downstairs in her shift as she heard him move around.

 
; ‘John Sedgwick’s lad is missing,’ he told her.

  ‘James? Oh, dear God. Emily said she’d heard another boy was gone.’

  ‘There are plenty of us out searching.’

  ‘What about Lizzie?’ Mary asked, her voice urgent. ‘Who’s looking after her? She has the baby, too.’

  ‘I don’t know, love.’ He sighed; he hadn’t had time to give it any thought.

  ‘I’ll go over and sit with her,’ she offered.

  ‘What about Emily?’

  ‘She’ll be fine here for the night.’

  ‘Take her with you,’ he suggested; he didn’t want the girl in the house alone. ‘She can go to school from there in the morning. I’ll have one of the men escort you.’

  He held her, glad of the comfort of her warmth. It was what he needed, the sense of being loved. In a moment he’d be back out there, each hour growing more desperate. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what the deputy must be feeling, or how he could keep from screaming.

  ‘I’ll have someone here in just a few minutes,’ he said finally. ‘I need to go.’

  She kissed him. ‘I hope you find him soon.’

  ‘So do I,’ he answered wearily. ‘There’s too much of this.’

  Back outside, owls hooted as they hunted. He could hear the men moving and see the torches flaring. The night took him and he walked back to them. Mary’s idea was good and generous. Lizzie would welcome someone else around, a woman to talk to, and help her with Isabell. And for Emily it would be a good lesson. She’d learn what it was like to be around a baby, and the darker, sadder side of loving someone.

  Another hour passed and his faith in finding the boy faded. Over half the men had left, going to their rest before work in the morning, and the rest were struggling to stay alert after so long. Soon, he knew, he’d have to send them home. In the morning, once it was light enough, they’d begin again.

  The deputy and his volunteers had begun on Boar Lane, searching the ground around Holy Trinity Church, then moving out and along, down Mill Hill, past Shaw’s Well and through Swinegate. They’d hammered on the smith’s gate until he opened up and let them in, examined the stables at the ostler’s, moving slowly back towards the river. The tenters’ grounds were open, with no place to hide, but the woods took them two hours.