At the Dying of the Year

by Chris Nickson

  He completed his final round, the fog still thick as a blanket around him. His feet ached, his mind was weary, and all he wanted was the quiet love of his family at the house on Lands Lane.

  The fire was burning low and no one was downstairs when he entered. Surprised, he climbed the stairs. Lizzie was bent over Isabell’s crib, while James stood close by. The fear in the room was so powerful he could have touched it.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, his voice hushed. Lizzie turned and he saw terror on her face.

  ‘She’s burning up, John.’ Lizzie sounded on the edge of desperation. ‘She’s been getting hotter all day. I’ve tried everything.’ There were tracks on her cheeks where she’d been crying, haunted smudges under her eyes. James just stared at his little sister. The baby’s face was red, but she was quiet. ‘Do something, John, please,’ Lizzie begged.

  He ran.

  He pounded through the fog, hearing the wet slap of his feet on the ground, all the way to Kirshaw the apothecary’s house. He kept hammering on the door until a servant came, and asked breathlessly for the master.

  As soon as he saw the man the tumble of thoughts and horrors cleared in his brain. ‘I need you at my house,’ he said firmly. The apothecary knew him, he did enough work for the city.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘My little girl. She’s been on fire all day.’

  The man frowned. ‘All day?’

  ‘Aye. You have to come now.’

  Kirshaw nodded. ‘I’ll get my bag. Go home, Mr Sedgwick, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  The deputy took a deep breath, caught between the need to be with his family and dragging the man along.

  ‘As soon as I can,’ the apothecary repeated gently. ‘I promise you.’

  He nodded, turned on his heel and ran again until his lungs burned in his chest. He saw Isabell, dying, dead, felt the hole that would consume his life if she was no longer there.

  ‘He’s coming,’ he told Lizzie and held her close, his other arm around James’s shoulders. He wanted to tell them that everything would be fine, that Isabell would soon be crying and laughing as if nothing had happened. But even as he tried, the words caught in his throat and he knew he couldn’t speak them. He couldn’t feed those lies to the people he loved. He knew the truth, he’d seen the anguish on too many faces as tiny coffins were buried in the churchyard.

  Lizzie felt stiff, rigid under his touch, as if she was scared to move. He heard the knock at the door, and pushed James away to answer it. Then the apothecary was there with his calm manner, easing them aside and bending over the cradle. The deputy watched Kirshaw’s fingers stroke the baby’s face and look into her eyes. Lizzie reached out and gripped his hand tightly. He looked at her and gave a tight smile that she couldn’t return.

  The apothecary took his time, wetting a cloth and wiping Isabell’s forehead. Sedgwick held his breath, willing the seconds to pass quickly, for the man to say something, to offer some comfort.

  Then Kirshaw stood, wiping his hands slowly on the cloth. He was a tall man, withered and stooped with age, his beard grey and bushy, his mouth pursed and thoughtful.

  ‘How long has she been like this?’ he asked.

  ‘It started this morning,’ Lizzie answered in a bare, fractured croak.

  ‘Before that?’

  The deputy tightened his fingers around hers.

  ‘She seemed fine yesterday. Maybe . . .’

  ‘What?’ said the apothecary.

  ‘A little scratchy in her throat,’ Lizzie told him.

  He nodded, then began to pace in the cramped room. ‘I’ve seen quite a few cases like hers. She’ll live—’ Sedgwick felt relief course through him ‘—but she’s going to be like this for another day, maybe two. She’ll stay very hot. You must keep wiping her with a cold, wet cloth. You must.’ He stared at them to make sure they understood.

  ‘What about after that?’ the deputy asked him. ‘What then?’

  The apothecary brightened. ‘The fever will go, very quickly, and she’ll start to get spots.’

  ‘Spots?’ The tremor had returned to Lizzie’s voice.

  ‘They’ll last a few days and it will all be over,’ he assured her. ‘But you have to keep her cool while she’s like this,’ he repeated. ‘It’s vital. If anything bad happens, send for me.’ He stooped to pick up his bag.

  ‘What could happen?’ He needed to know. Kirshaw hesitated before replying.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Sedgwick, have you seen anyone have a fit?’

  He had, and the quick madness of it terrified him. ‘That could happen to her?’

  ‘It might,’ the apothecary answered carefully. ‘If it does, send someone for me immediately.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sedgwick said. He followed the man downstairs and stood by the door as Kirshaw pulled the heavy greatcoat over his scrawny body.

  ‘She’ll recover, with God’s blessing,’ he said, clapped the deputy on the shoulder and was gone. One of the few benefits of being a Constable’s man was that he didn’t have to pay the apothecary; Kirshaw made enough money from the city.

  Upstairs, Lizzie was gently bathing Isabell with cold water from a basin. He stroked her hair.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘You heard what he said.’

  Lizzie turned her heard, her face anguished, tortured. ‘But what if she’s not, John? What if she has one of them fits?’

  The thought was full in his mind, too. ‘Then we’ll send for Kirshaw again.’ He sat on the bed and pulled James close. ‘Don’t worry, lad, she’ll be back to herself in a few days. I promise.’

  The boy nodded, his eyes more hopeful than convinced.

  ‘You go off to bed,’ Sedgwick told him. ‘There’s school for you in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, Da.’

  They kept a single candle burning in the corner, the tallow smell thick and greasy in the room, and took it in turns to wipe down the baby. Finally he said, ‘You try and sleep for a while.’

  ‘Sleep?’ Lizzie said, as if it was a new word she’d never heard before. ‘I can’t do that, John. Not now.’

  But she did, rolling and restless, muttering words too low to make out while he tended his daughter. He could see the pain on his little girl’s face, and when her eyes opened the questions she had for him that she didn’t have the words to ask. He soothed her and stroked her with the cloth and sat back as she drifted away for a few minutes.

  Outside, he could hear all the small night noises of Leeds, the lonely set of footsteps, the voice that drifted on the air from somewhere. He could identify the hours by their sounds. Another few more of them and he’d be back at work, chasing down more worthless tips while his mind stayed here.

  The Constable looked at him and said, ‘You look like you haven’t slept, John.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ he answered, rubbing at his gritty eyes with the back of his hands. He explained why. ‘Lizzie’s looking after her now.’

  ‘Any change?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he answered quietly. He ached inside for his daughter, caught in so much fear and distress, with no understanding of what was happening to her.

  ‘You know what to do today.’

  ‘What about Darden?’

  Nottingham sat back and pushed the fringe off his forehead just as Rob entered.

  ‘Tomorrow’s market day. I’ll try to find Caleb again. He knows more than he told me, I’m sure of that. I’d like him to take a look at Darden. If he identifies him . . .’

  ‘Who do you think a magistrate would believe, boss?’ Lister asked.

  The Constable gave a grim smile. ‘I know.’

  ‘What about the factor?’ Sedgwick asked. Nottingham stared at him. ‘They’re close, those two.’

  ‘It’s a thought.’ He considered the idea. ‘But he’s been with Darden for years. He’ll be loyal, I’ll put money on it.’

  ‘Push him a little. See what happens,’ the deputy suggested. ‘I’ll do it if you like.’

  The
Constable thought for a minute. It wouldn’t hurt to exert a little pressure. It would let Darden known that his station and his money wouldn’t see him home free.

  ‘No, I’ll do it,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll find him at the cloth market.’

  ‘In public?’ Sedgwick asked. ‘Boss . . .’

  ‘I’ll ask him to come here afterwards for a talk,’ Nottingham said with a smile.

  ‘I’ll wager he shows up with a lawyer.’

  The Constable shrugged. ‘Let him. I want him worried, even if I don’t get anything from him.’ He looked at Rob. ‘Anything much during the night?’

  ‘No, boss.’

  ‘Come in early tonight if you can.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Nottingham grinned. ‘I imagine you have somewhere to be soon. Emily should be on her way to school.’

  The lad blushed.

  ‘Off you go.’

  ‘Thank you, boss,’ Sedgwick said once they were alone again.

  ‘Right, you have work to do and I have the daily report to write.’

  Sitting quietly at the desk, he flexed his fingers before picking up the quill and writing. It had been a bad night, the pain in his stomach making it hard to settle and sleep. He felt empty of emotion, carrying on only by the habit of years. Tomorrow he’d need to be sharp, and pray God rested again.

  For now, though, he’d do his job, walk over to the Moot Hall with the report, then follow up on some of the tips that had come in. In his bones he knew there was nothing in them but he had to do his duty.

  Martin Cobb glanced up as the Constable laid the report on his desk. ‘Mr Fenton wants to talk to you.’

  He’d been wondering if Darden would talk to the mayor; now he knew.

  ‘Is he in?’

  ‘He is, you can go through,’ the clerk said, and returned to his papers.

  A warm fire burned in the grate of Fenton’s office, hot enough for the man to take off his coat and display a waistcoat with designs of birds and flowers delicately picked out in colourful silk. His shirt was crisp white, the stock carefully tied at his neck.

  ‘Jeremiah Darden came to see me yesterday afternoon,’ he began. ‘He said you paid him a visit.’

  ‘I told you I planned on it.’

  ‘And I told you to tread very carefully.’ The mayor had iron in his voice. ‘He told me you as near as dammit accused him of being Gabriel.’

  ‘But I didn’t,’ the Constable countered. He was standing, hands gripped tight on the back of the chair.

  ‘And you’d bloody well better not.’

  ‘Why?’ Nottingham asked simply.

  Fury flooded through the mayor’s face. ‘I’ve known Jeremiah Darden most of my life, I’ve done business with him.’ He brought his palm down sharply on the desk. ‘He’s no more capable of something like that than I am.’

  The Constable eyed him steadily, saying nothing for a long time. Even if Darden was Gabriel and the truth came screaming at the door, Fenton and the others who ran Leeds would shut their ears. ‘What are you ordering me to do, your Worship?’ he asked finally.

  ‘I’m not giving you any orders, Nottingham.’ Fenton paused, choosing his words with great care. ‘But I’ll tell you something for nothing. There are some folk on the Corporation who thought you should have retired after you were hurt. They believe Leeds needs a new Constable. Going after Mr Darden won’t do anything to change their minds.’ He gave a curt nod of dismissal.

  Briggate was lively, servants out and gossiping, the apprentices laughing with each other, shops with shutters wide, welcoming trade, an exotic mix of spices as he passed the grocer, leather displayed invitingly at the glover, the slop of bloody guts and innards at the Shambles, stray dogs fighting over the scraps.

  So all the good aldermen were gathering around one of their own, Nottingham thought as he walked down the street. But the aldermen hadn’t seen the pain and the helplessness on the faces of the dead children. They hadn’t stroked the bruises, wiped away the coal dust where the corpses had been thrown away. And however much they offered as a reward, they didn’t care.

  He turned on his heel and walked back to the Head Row. The first drops of rain hit his face as he opened the door to Garroway’s Coffee House. The smell was so thick it caught at the back of his throat, the air steamy and damp, windows misted over with condensation.

  There were only a few men in the place, cups and crumbs scattered across the tables in front of them. Tom Williamson sat in his usual place close to the banked fire, two of last week’s London papers on the bench in front of him, the pages of the Mercury strewn lazily on the floor at this side.

  ‘You must be wanting something if you’ve come here, Richard,’ he said with a smile. ‘Come and sit down.’

  The merchant was wearing another new coat and breeches, dark green velvet this time, cut to the height of London fashion, and a waistcoat whose design was shot through with silver thread. The clothes of a rich man, Nottingham thought as he settled, one growing richer by the day. Working hard and using his brain he’d taken his father’s merchant business and made it into something bigger and more prosperous.

  ‘Were you looking for me?’

  ‘I was,’ the Constable admitted. ‘You got your way with the reward, I see.’

  Williamson had the grace to look shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry, Richard. It had gone too far, too many people believed it was a good idea. Has it been any help?’

  ‘Bugger all.’ He laughed.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘You could tell me about Solomon Howard, Darden’s factor.’

  ‘Solomon?’ The request took him by surprise. ‘You don’t think he’s—’

  ‘I don’t think anything, Tom,’ he replied quietly. ‘I just need to know about him.’

  Williamson breathed in deeply, gathering his thoughts.

  ‘Well, he’s been Jeremiah’s factor for as long as I can remember.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘He’s good at his job, always seems to know what the markets abroad are going to want. And he’s vain, he looks more like a merchant than most merchants. Jeremiah pays him well, I know that. He’s more or less one of us, even if he doesn’t have his own business. And Jeremiah’s promised him the business when he dies.’

  ‘It won’t go to his daughters?’

  ‘No. Their husbands aren’t interested. They’d only sell it, anyway, and they all have money. So Solomon is very loyal.’ He gave a short bark of laughter. ‘As you can imagine.’

  ‘What’s he like as a man?’

  ‘Very dry,’ Williamson replied after a moment. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh. Never married, I do know that.’ He chuckled. ‘I doubt he could find a woman who’d put up with him, even for what he earns. I think the man spends most of his waking hours working.’

  ‘Most of us do,’ the Constable observed wryly.

  ‘You know what I mean. Solomon doesn’t have anything else in his life.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ the merchant replied. ‘I see him at the market and I’ve had dealings with him, but that’s as far as it goes. I’m not sure he has any friends besides Jeremiah. I’m not certain you’d exactly call them friends, either.’

  ‘There was some cloud over Mr Darden becoming mayor, wasn’t there?’ Nottingham decided to edge the question into the conversation.

  Williamson shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea, Richard. My father was still running the business then. All anyone told me was that he’d decided to resign from the Corporation. Why all the interest, anyway?’

  ‘It’s just something I’m looking into.’

  ‘How are you managing at your job?’ He nodded at the walking stick. ‘Does that help?’

  ‘It’s there when I need it.’ He smiled and stood. ‘Like my job, I’m better off with it. Thank you, Tom; don’t work too hard.’

  ‘Hannah’s doing her best to make sure I don’t. Now she wants me to take her to London.’

 
‘You’ll look the part of a society man down there, I’m sure.’

  ELEVEN

  It had been another bad night, one when sleep came reluctantly, coaxed and persuaded and then only staying for the briefest times. Nottingham rose early, dressed and washed, found bread in the kitchen and ale in the jug to break his fast.

  The evening before Mary had watched as he undressed, the candle flickering on the small table by the bed. She’d pointed out the scars on his body, all the batterings and bruisings of his life working to uphold the law. She’d counted seventeen, some so old he only had faint memories of how he’d acquired them, the most recent still livid and painful.

  ‘How many more, Richard?’ she asked sadly, running his fingers lightly over an ancient knife wound on his arm. She looked up at him, eyes filled with love and gentleness. ‘How many? And how bad will the next one be?’

  He didn’t even try to answer. Each one of them had come with his job, each had its story, forgotten or not. He understood what she was asking, but he couldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear and they both knew it.

  It had rained during the night, leaving the roads muddy before turning into a misting drizzle which lightly dampened his face as he walked to the jail. It was still dark, just the birds in the trees, their songs answering each other, the music loud and beautiful in his ears.

  Lister was sitting at the desk, completing the night report.

  ‘What do we have?’ He held his hands out to the fire, letting the warmth soak into him. He seemed to feel the chill and damp more easily these days.

  ‘Three in the cells, boss. Two of them were drunk and fighting on Briggate, so we used the cudgels on them. They’ll be off to the Petty Sessions later. And another one that the men pulled out of the Aire before he drowned. He didn’t smell of drink.’

  ‘Trying to kill himself?’

  Lister shrugged. ‘He was fast asleep last time I looked.’

  ‘You get off home, lad. Catch up on your rest.’

  ‘Is there anything more on those children, boss?’ He paused a moment. ‘They keep coming back to me.’

  The Constable placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘That shows you take it seriously. Makes you human. Don’t ever lose that. If you do, it’s time to get out of this type of work.’ He gave a sigh. ‘I might have more later. We’ll see.’