The Constable shook his head. ‘I need someone on this. Try again. Someone over there has to know her.’
‘What about Wendell?’
‘We’ll have him sooner or later. The word’s out that he killed his sister. No one’s going to come to his aid.’
‘We should be the ones looking for him.’
‘Aye, you’re probably right,’ the Constable said wearily. ‘But we have a child to find, and the child snatcher, as well as Wendell. I don’t have enough men for all that.’
Sedgwick opened the door and walked in, his hair wild, looking as though he hadn’t rested long.
‘Lizzie told me. I wanted to go straight out, but she made me rest a little more.’
‘You know she was doing the right thing,’ Nottingham told him. ‘She’s got a good head on her shoulders, that lass.’
‘Mebbe. I just felt I should be there, I should be the one to find him.’
‘I’ve had the men searching.’
‘Thank you, boss.’
‘Go and look for him, John. At least we know now that he wasn’t taken.’
‘That’s one weight lifted.’ He looked up, eyes red from tiredness and pain. ‘But it still doesn’t bring him home though, does it?’
‘He’s out there and we’ll find him,’ the Constable assured him. ‘Go on, get looking. And Rob, take Holden and one of the others and start asking more questions.’
A little more time, he thought. That was all it would take. Someone was bound to know Fanny, especially if she was with the others. James would turn up when his belly was empty or fear overcame him. And Wendell would find soon enough that he had nowhere to go.
Patience, he told himself. He just needed to let things run their course. Another day, two at most, and all this would be over. He poured more ale, draining the jug. In a few minutes he’d go next door to the White Swan and have them refill it.
As he sat back to drink one of the clerks from the Moot Hall ducked into the jail. ‘The mayor wants you,’ he said, then left again.
Nottingham sighed, finished the mug and stood. He retied his stock, half-heartedly brushing at the dirt on his coat and his hose. He knew he looked a tatterdemalion, unkempt as any scare-the-crow in the fields, but he was past caring. He’d been working for more hours than he cared to count, with who knew how many more to come. People would have to take him as he was.
At the Moot Hall he knocked on the dark, heavy door and entered. John Douglas was at his desk, his face bleak and unshaven, looking up as the Constable entered.
‘Do you have anything good to tell me?’ he asked.
‘We know my deputy’s son wasn’t snatched,’ Nottingham answered as he sat.
The mayor nodded his approval. ‘That’s something. Any word on him?’
‘We’re still looking.’
‘People are talking, Richard. Two lads gone in just a few days.’
‘They’re different cases. You know that.’
‘But they don’t,’ Douglas said with emphasis. ‘And I can’t tell them.’
‘No.’ The Constable rubbed at his eyes, trying to push out the gritty feeling behind them.
‘What about the other things?’
‘Very soon,’ he promised.
‘You’re sure?’ the mayor asked.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good enough for me.’ As the Constable stood, Douglas added, ‘Richard, go home and sleep.’
‘There’s too much to do.’
‘It’s an order,’ the mayor said firmly. ‘You look like you need rest more than anything, man. You said you trust your men, let them look after things for a few hours.’
‘I will.’
Douglas was right, he knew that. He was too tired to think properly, his body ached, but he hated to ask his men to do things he couldn’t do himself. Around him, Leeds was busy, the crowds on Briggate, the wheels of the carts pushing up on to the pavements as the axles creaked, the sound of laughter and arguments spilling from the dram shops.
He turned on to Kirkgate and kept walking past the jail. This time he’d give in.
Mary was in the garden, working with her fingers to pull the weeds around the plants. When she looked up and caught him watching her, he saw emotions flicker across her face, fear, joy, surprise.
‘I’ve been sent home to sleep,’ he said with a smile.
‘About time, too,’ she told him. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘Sleep first,’ he said.
But in bed, rest refused to come easily. Even with the shutters closed light still leaked into the room, along with the clacking sounds of the loom, loud and constant next door. He kept thinking of things he should have done, orders he should have given. Finally he drifted away, diving through troublesome dreams.
He woke as Mary opened the door, and rolled on to his back.
‘Do you feel any better?’ she asked as she sat and rubbed the back of his hand.
‘A little.’ He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the fringe off his forehead. ‘How long did I sleep.’
‘Five hours.’ She smiled. ‘I thought I’d wake you before Emily came home. It’ll be all clatter and din then. There’s some meat and ale for you downstairs.’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
She bent and kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘Now you’d best get yourself up. You’ll be going back to the jail?’
‘I have to.’
He took off the shirt and washed himself, the cold water fresh and wonderful on his skin, removing the worst of the dirt and sweat. Once he felt clean he found fresh clothes, old breeches tight on his waist, the jacket and shirt mended often but still too good to sell.
He ate in the kitchen, telling Mary about James, teeth tearing at the old beef and washing it down, hungrier than he’d realized.
‘Rob said Emily told him she won’t marry anyone.’
Mary raised her eyebrows. ‘Maybe she’ll change her mind in time.’
‘You know what she’s like. She might not.’
‘What’s he going to do?’
‘He says he’ll keep courting her,’ Nottingham said. ‘He doesn’t want to marry anyone else.’
Mary shook her head. ‘I hope it’s worth it in the end.’
‘So do I.’ He wiped the plate clean with some bread. ‘I’d better go back.’
‘Don’t be gone all night, Richard,’ she told him.
‘I won’t unless I have to. If the others are out I will be, too.’
She brushed something invisible from the old, faded material of his waistcoat.
‘You’ve done more than anyone who works for you,’ she chided.
‘And it needs to stay that way,’ he said with a smile. He kissed her forehead. ‘I love you.’
John Sedgwick had moved the men out past New Mill and the Upper Tenters, into the woods the spread out from the Aire. The word that James had been seen the morning before had made his heart rise. Just knowing he hadn’t been taken by the child snatcher gave him hope.
Now, out here, all that had evaporated like a puddle in the sun. All the terror had returned. Anything could have happened to the boy. He could have slipped into the river and drowned, he could have injured himself somewhere. There were dangers in every step. Time was passing and he was growing more frantic.
‘Have you looked over there?’ he asked urgently, pointing to a copse just up the hill. The man shook his head. ‘Go ahead and search it.’ He tramped on through the undergrowth, ignoring the sharp edges of stalk and brambles that sliced at his breeches and hose.
Suddenly he stopped, raising his hand to halt the others.
‘Did you hear that?’ he asked quietly. Both the men looked at him quizzically. ‘Over there.’ He nodded to where the riverbank cut away sharply. Slowly he moved towards the area, each step careful and soft.
From the edge he could see how the earth had gone, leaving a tangle of roots under the tree that grew tall above, its leaves casting a shadow. There would be holes down there, he thought, place
s where a boy could shelter and hide. He’d heard a cry, he was certain of it.
Carefully, the deputy judged the drop and jumped, feeling the shock of cold water rising up his shins. He steadied himself, the river running around him, and looked at the bank.
‘Hello, James,’ he said with long relief. ‘It looks like you’ve found yourself a good hiding place.’
Twenty
The word had spread quickly. One of the men had run all the way back to the jail, shouting that they’d found the boy.
‘Where was he?’ Nottingham asked.
‘By the river, about half a mile past the New Mill.’
‘How was he?’
‘Seemed well enough,’ the man said with a shrug. ‘Dirty and tired. Nowt broken. Probably regretting running away now, mind.’
The Constable grinned. ‘Where’s Mr Sedgwick?’
‘He’s taking the lad home.’
‘Go and tell him he doesn’t need to come back today.’
‘Yes, boss.’ The man dashed off again.
He sat back in the chair and let out a slow sigh. He could only imagine what the deputy must feel, the flood of relief in his heart. James had been found; that was the important thing. Now he could use the men to look for Fanny and for Peter Wendell.
He wrote a note for the mayor, passing on the news, and paid a boy a farthing to take it to the Moot Hall. Then he locked the door of the jail and set out to find Wendell.
James had fallen asleep against his shoulder as he carried him home. The boy had mud plastered against his skin and his clothes, and he’d burst into tears when the deputy held him close, but his bones were whole and he had no bad cuts.
Sedgwick unlocked the door of the house on Lands Lane and pushed it open with his arm.
‘John?’ Lizzie said, then saw the lad slumped and her face crumpled. ‘Is he . . .?’
‘He’s just sleeping. Don’t worry.’
He carried the boy up to his bed and stripped the garments from him, tossing them on the floor. Lizzie hovered close by, holding the baby, rubbing her back tenderly.
‘Your brother’s home,’ she told Isabell quietly. ‘We don’t want him to go again, do we?’
Quickly and lightly, Sedgwick ran his fingertips over his son, then pulled up the covers. James had barely stirred, his breathing even and deep.
‘He’ll be fine when he’s rested.’ He kissed Lizzie then took Isabell from her, taking in the freshness of her and smiling. ‘He can wash when he’s awake.’ He grinned and sighed with pleasure. ‘He’ll be hungry, too.’
‘Just like his father,’ Lizzie said, her eyes glistening.
‘I could eat,’ he said.
‘I know you, John Sedgwick, you’re always hungry,’ she said. ‘There’s bread and cheese, and a pottage cooking.’
As they sat at the table, Lizzie gently rocked Isabell on her lap and asked, ‘What are we going to do about him, John?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted soberly. ‘Mebbe this will have terrified him.’
‘Then why didn’t he just come home?’
He considered the question. ‘Too scared of what we’d do, perhaps.’ He reached across and took her hand. ‘I’ll talk to him later.’
‘We can’t go through this again.’
He nodded. ‘I don’t know what else we can do. We love him, you treat him like he’s yours.’
‘He doesn’t like Isabell.’
‘It’s not that. He’s had us to himself, he liked that. And now she’s here he thinks we don’t love him any more.’
‘But—’
‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘We just need to give him a little time. Let him really see that we still love him.’
‘We’ve tried that,’ Lizzie said helplessly.
He sighed. ‘Then we’ve just got to keep on doing it. He’s a good lad, you know that.’ He yawned and closed his eyes, feeling all the life draining from him.
‘Go to bed, John,’ she told him. ‘James isn’t the only one needing his sleep.’
‘I need to work. With what happened to that girl when I shot the thief taker . . .’
‘Not today, you don’t. Mr Nottingham will understand,’ she said firmly. ‘And if he doesn’t, I’ll tell him.’
The Constable spent the rest of the day moving between the people he knew who might have seen Wendell. They were the folk who lived like ghosts, the ones unseen at the frayed edges of society.
They were men and women who haunted the market, scavenging for something to sustain them until the next day, rotten fruit and meat too spoiled even for the dogs at the Shambles.
He knew their names, knew where to find them in the shadowed spaces where no one else would go. They seemed to vanish in order to die; their bodies were rarely found, and when they were there was peace on their faces, as if giving up life had been release, not pain.
But none of them had seen the man. They shook their heads to answer Nottingham’s question, or pointed fingers to suggest possibilities.
He stayed out until evening was falling, finding his way down to the river, seeking the man Rob had talked to before. Simon Gordonson was there, a face the Constable recognized, the withered right arm close to his chest. Several fires glowed and crackled, people of all ages gathered around them. One girl rocked and suckled her baby while an old man held a small piece of meat in the blaze with a stick.
‘Mr Nottingham,’ Gordonson said. He worked hard to stay presentable, the worst of the dirt cleaned from his breeches and coat each day, his hose washed, lank hair finger-combed.
‘Quite a group, Mr Gordonson,’ the Constable said with admiration.
‘And more of them every day,’ Gordonson said sadly. ‘These are hard times.’
‘They’re always hard times unless you have money. My man said you had Lucy Wendell here for a few days.’
‘We did. Maybe if she’d stayed . . .’ He shook his head helplessly.
‘I’m looking for her brother.’
‘He’d find no welcome here.’ There was no doubt in his voice. ‘I’ve heard what he did to her.’
‘I need your people to keep their eyes open for him. He’s out there.’
‘And if they see him?’
‘Then come and tell me,’ Nottingham told him.
‘There are plenty of folk here who don’t trust the law,’ Gordonson said warily. ‘They think it’s only for those with money.’
‘There’s law and there’s justice, Mr Gordonson. I want justice for Lucy. Tell them that, please.’
The man nodded his agreement.
‘I hear they found your deputy’s lad.’
‘They did, and he’s safe now.’ Nottingham smiled.
‘What about the other boy, the one who went missing on Saturday?’
‘We found him, too. I’m surprised you don’t know that.’
‘It just seemed strange, that’s all. People searching all over and suddenly he’s there by the Bridge.’ Gordonson raised his eyebrows.
‘I think people were just glad to have him back,’ the Constable said blandly.
‘If you say so.’ Gordonson looked at him curiously.
‘I do.’ He kept his eyes firmly on the man. He’d give away nothing on this. The less anyone realized, the better. ‘I’d appreciate the help of these people in finding Peter Wendell.’
‘I’ll ask, but the choice is theirs.’
‘Of course,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘I heard that Robbins is seeking a clerk over at the tannery.’
Gordonson lifted the withered right arm. ‘Even with this?’
‘If you can write a good hand and you’ll work hard I doubt he’ll care.’
The man inclined his head towards the groups gathered around the fires. ‘And who’d look after them if I left?’
‘Maybe they can look after themselves.’
Gordonson smiled. ‘I feel a responsibility for them, Mr Nottingham. They’re all good people.’
‘Most people are, I find.’ He reached into th
e large pocket of his waistcoat and drew out a purse. He’d taken it from a pickpocket and no one had ever come to claim it. ‘This might help them.’
The man’s eyes widened as he weighed the money in his palm. ‘That’s very generous.’
‘It’s just been sitting at the jail. Someone might as well have the use of it.’
‘But it won’t buy us, Constable.’
‘It’s not intended to, Mr Gordonson.’ He tipped his hat, turned and walked away.
No one had word of Peter Wendell. Wherever the man was, he was staying out of sight. He hadn’t gone home again, according to the man on watch at Queen Charlotte’s Court. But he was still in Leeds, the Constable was certain of that; it was the only place he knew.
Rob was at the jail when he returned, hungrily eating a pie before setting off on his rounds.
‘Any luck on the other side of the river?’ he asked.
‘Hints and rumours, that’s all. You’d think they were made of air.’
‘I’ll send Mr Sedgwick over there tomorrow.’
‘James is fine?’
‘That’s what I heard,’ Nottingham told him. ‘John will be in with the morning.’
‘Anything I should look for tonight, boss?’
‘Peter Wendell,’ he answered after a moment. ‘He might well come out at night. Have the men alert for him. Watch out, though, he’s dangerous.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Did you see Emily today?’
Rob nodded.
‘You’ll need your patience with her,’ Nottingham told him. ‘And I’m saying that as her father.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Now go on, off you go.’
Alone, he finished his report and heard the city slowing with the night. There were shouts and laughter from the White Swan next door and the occasional sound of footsteps, late workers heading to their hearths.
Finally he pushed paper and quill away from him. There was nothing more he could do tonight. With a deep sigh he stood and stretched, locked the door behind him and set off slowly down Kirkgate. On impulse, at the Parish Church he opened the lych gate and made his way over to Rose’s grave. The moon was high and bright enough to make out the words on the headstone.
‘That sister of yours,’ he said quietly. ‘I wonder if she’ll ever change. She’s still bloody contrary.’
Come the Fear Page 22
