At the Dying of the Year

by Chris Nickson

  He’d said nothing to Emily yet. He wouldn’t until he believed he knew why his father wanted them there. The man rarely forgave and never forgot, and Rob had humiliated him when he moved into lodgings after they’d argued over Emily.

  Saturday night had passed calmly with the usual number of drunks and fights that left blood on the floor. A few would wake in the cells, others would take time to heal, but no one had died.

  Now Leeds was quiet, from Lands Lane to the other side of the bridge. Folk were in their beds, wrapped in darkness. The only footsteps he heard as he walked around were his own. He still clutched the cudgel tightly in his hand. He’d been taken by surprise before and it was never going to happen again.

  The moon was close to full, bright in the cold, cloudless sky. He took a final turn down by the river, where the light shone like jewels on the water. Close to the bank, bumping back and forth in a small eddy, he made out a dark object.

  He searched around for a thick branch and slid down right to the edge of the Aire, reaching out to poke and turn the bundle. It slipped and slid away from him, turning slowly in the current; then something rose and he could make out a hand.

  ‘Shit,’ he said quietly. ‘Shit.’

  Rob tried to grab the body, and by the time he’d managed to haul it on to land his boots were soaked. He stood back, breathing hard, and saw the corpse was little more than a child. He knew what to do: he ran through the streets until he found one of the night men, and sent him off to fetch Brogden the coroner. And the boss needed to know about another dead boy.

  It was another hour before they’d carried the boy back to the jail, covered with a stained old sheet. The Constable was already there, his face still puffy with sleep. He’d thrown on his clothes, not bothering with a stock, his hose mismatched.

  He followed them into the cold cell they used as a morgue. ‘Where was he?’

  ‘About a hundred yards above the bridge. I haven’t had chance to examine him. I didn’t recognize his face.’

  Nottingham peeled back the top of the sheet. The face looked peaceful, so young and clear, washed clean by the water.

  ‘I do. He was called Caleb.’

  THIRTEEN

  The Constable took his time looking for wounds. There were small scars on his arms, but nothing from any recent fights, and no stab wound on his chest. Slowly and tenderly he turned the boy, tracing the skin of his back to search for anything. Finally he parted the long hair, still soaked and full of the stench of the river.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said to Rob. ‘A lump. Someone hit him there, then he either fell into the river or he was pushed.’

  ‘Gabriel?’

  The Constable looked up. ‘I don’t know. But Caleb was the only one we know who’d seen him. Did you set a man on Howard?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Rob replied.

  ‘Go and find him, I want to know what he saw.’

  Left alone, Nottingham stared down at the boy, reaching out to close his eyes. He’d stopped believing the platitudes of the church when Rose had died. There’d be no seat at the right hand of God for Caleb, only the burn of lime on dead flesh in the unmarked grave of the poor.

  He knew that any number of people could have killed the boy, for more reasons than he could count. But he had no faith in coincidences. This was Gabriel’s work, protecting himself; he was certain of that.

  Outside, dawn was breaking, the light starting to clear. He rubbed the weariness out of his eyes and poured a mug of ale, sipping slowly as he tried to think.

  The door opened and Rob returned, followed by Lake, the man who’d been watching Solomon Howard. Lake was a night creature, small with dark eyes full of secrets.

  ‘Did Howard go anywhere tonight?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘To the Talbot, sir,’ Lake answered. His skin was sallow and heavily pock-marked, nose bulbous, the veins red and broken by drink.

  ‘Did you go inside?’

  The man shook his head. ‘The folk in there know what I do.’

  ‘How long did he stay?’

  ‘An hour. Happen a bit longer.’

  There were plenty of ways in and out of the Talbot; the landlord had made sure of that.

  ‘How did he seem when he left?’

  Lake shrugged. ‘Nowt unusual. He went home and the house went dark a few minutes after that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There was nothing he could use. And after his error with Darden he’d need to walk very carefully around Howard. No doubt the landlord would testify that the factor had been there and maybe even produce a whore he’d used. And perhaps it would be no more than the truth.

  The time he’d spent recovering had dulled his senses. He’d been wrong about Darden, and now he was uncertain whether he dare trust his own feelings. Nottingham ran a hand through his hair and sighed, then began to pace around the room, trying to shake his thoughts into some kind of order.

  He was no further along when the deputy arrived, smiling and eager to work.

  ‘Morning, boss.’

  ‘Isabell?’ the Constable asked.

  ‘The fever broke yesterday. Now she’s coming out in spots, just like the apothecary promised. I never thought I’d be so glad to hear a babby scream and cry.’ He gave a wide grin. ‘Why are you in on a Sunday, anyway?’

  ‘Someone killed Caleb. Rob pulled him from the river last night.’

  ‘Darden?’

  ‘He’s not Gabriel.’ He explained all that had happened.

  Sedgwick snorted. ‘There’s three ways out of the Talbot that I know.’

  ‘We’ve got nothing on the factor, John. Nothing at all. I’ll wager you a shilling that the mayor’s going to call me in tomorrow and ask why I was questioning him.’

  ‘What now, boss?’

  ‘I want you to start asking around and see what you can find on Solomon Howard. And I’d better go home and get ready for church.’ He paused. ‘It’s good news about Isabell.’

  ‘It is. For a time there . . .’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know. Be thankful.’

  He walked to church with Mary on one arm and Emily on the other. The morning was crisp, brisk, slate clouds scudding across the sky, the year dying slowly as winter came creeping. He dozed as Reverend Cookson gave his sermon, the words reaching him as a drone until his eyes closed.

  Mary nudged him awake in time to stand for the final prayer. Glancing around, he saw other faces that looked as if they’d just been shaken from sleep. Outside, men coughed and cleared the dust from their throats, standing around awkwardly as their wives chattered merrily.

  A hand closed tightly around his arm and pulled him away from the throng. Mayor Fenton wore the chain of office proudly over his coat, a polite public smile on his lips but his eyes hateful and furious.

  ‘I want you in my office tomorrow morning, Nottingham.’

  ‘Yes, your Worship,’ the Constable answered.

  ‘Have you caught him yet?’

  ‘No.’ For now, at least, he’d leave it at that.

  Fenton snorted and turned away. ‘Tomorrow,’ he repeated.

  ‘What did the mayor want?’ Mary asked as they strolled home. Emily was talking to her friends before meeting Rob; they’d have the luxury of a house to themselves for a few hours.

  ‘What do they always want? He’s not happy with me.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll worry about it when I’m going to the Moot Hall.’

  All the deputy could find was shreds of gossip and tittle-tattle. Solomon Howard hadn’t been born to money. He’d been a child who’d grown up around Briggate, the son of a draper with a shop down by the bridge. Not rich, but not without a penny, either.

  Sedgwick had talked to a pair of men who’d known him back in those days. Even then he’d been one to keep to himself, they’d told him, solitary and silent, with a love of money, spending little and keeping his coins hidden.

  His father had paid to apprentice him to another draper over in Bradford. It was no more than a handf
ul of miles but the lad had rarely come back to visit his parents. When he did return to Leeds he was twenty and just appointed as Darden’s factor. He was young for the job but learned quickly from his employer. The young man had grown into well-cut coats and breeches and long, draped waistcoats shot through with thread that ached to be gold.

  From there Sedgwick had chased ghosts of words. Howard had lived a quiet life. He’d never married and if he’d had any dalliances he’d been discreet enough about them.

  Then someone had told the deputy about the whore. He found her in a gin shop, old before her time, the flesh of her face sagging as she nursed a small glass. Her chin was soft, the grey showing in her hair. He bought her another dram and she looked up with clouded, tired eyes. ‘Aye, there were a few of us he used. Me, Sally, Ann. He paid well enough. But he was a rough bastard for his money.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Tha’ knows.’ She blushed, a flush of surprising innocence. ‘He liked to hurt me when he did it.’ She held up her right hand; the little finger was crooked. ‘He did that. Broke it.’ She swallowed the gin. ‘None of us liked it when he came around, we’d not be able to work for a day or two after.’

  ‘Then why did you go with him?’ the deputy asked.

  ‘Because he paid as much as we’d make in a week, mister. You think any lass can turn that down?’

  He ordered more gin for her, a small jug this time. She smiled, showing brown, broken teeth.

  ‘What does he do these days?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, love, but good luck to her, whoever she is. He dropped me as soon as I started looking old.’ She drank greedily and gave a short, hard laugh. ‘Not that anyone else wants to pay for me now, either.’

  He left a couple of pennies on the bench for her. Another hour and she’d probably forget she’d ever talked to him.

  The day was edging towards twilight, a damp, chilly mist beginning to form as Sedgwick walked along Boar Lane. There were few people about; candlelight shone through gaps in the window shutters as people settled in their homes for the night.

  He turned up Cripplegate then trod through the old manor orchard to reach Mill Hill Lane and followed it to the Head Row by Burley Bar. Howard’s house stood by itself across the road, close to the corner of the road out to Woodhouse. It was a trim building, square-fronted and even, built in the new style, a short path leading to the door. The garden was neatly kept,

  a wall taller than a man at the back of the property to keep people out. The closest neighbour was a good thirty yards away. A girl – or a child – could scream in there and no one would hear. It could be worth talking to the servants, he thought as he strolled.

  ‘Evening, Mr Sedgwick.’ Holden was in the shadows, leaning against a tree, his eyes fixed on the house.

  ‘Has he been out today?’

  ‘Just to church.’

  ‘How many work for him?’

  ‘Two that I’ve seen. Do you remember Hugh Smithson?’

  The deputy searched through his memory. ‘Wasn’t he the one we caught digging up railings to sell them?’

  Holden grinned. ‘That was Dick Sawyer. No, we thought Hugh was beating and robbing folk but we could never prove it.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it,’ Sedgwick said slowly, the man’s face taking shape in his mind.

  ‘He’s working for Howard now. By the look of it he lives in.’

  ‘That’s worth knowing.’ He thought for a moment. ‘If you see Hugh going out for a drink, come and find me.’

  He was glad to close the door behind him and feel the warmth of the fire. Isabell was sitting on the flagstones playing with the horse he’d awkwardly whittled from a piece of wood. She looked up at him with a wide, innocent smile, a scatter of white spots across her face.

  ‘Hello, beautiful,’ he said, scooping her up in his arms and tickling her so she giggled. ‘How’s she been?’

  ‘You’d think she’d never been poorly at all,’ Lizzie answered. She shook her head but there was relief in her voice. ‘James is over at Joseph’s, that lad from school. I told him to be back by six.’

  He replaced the little girl on the floor and put the toy in her tiny hands, then stood a moment to watch her. Lizzie came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  ‘Hard to believe you and me made a little miracle like that,’ she said.

  He turned and held her close. ‘Not when she has a mam like you.’

  She laughed. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls, John Sedgwick.’

  ‘Not for a while now.’ He grinned.

  ‘And you’d better keep it that way if you know what’s good for you. Come on, there’s pottage in the pot. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Bloody starving.’

  ‘Just as well I made plenty then, isn’t it?’

  The Constable finished the daily report, gave the ink a moment to dry, then folded the paper. He straightened his stock and coat and set out for the Moot Hall.

  Martin Cobb was already at his desk, smiling as Nottingham approached.

  ‘The mayor wants to see you.’

  ‘He told me after church yesterday.’ He placed the report on the desk and knocked on the door, hearing a murmur then entering.

  ‘Sit down,’ Fenton told him. ‘I told you to leave Jeremiah Darden be.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So instead you’ve gone after his factor.’ The mayor stood and began to pace around the room. ‘Mr Darden came to see me on Saturday to complain. What do you have to say about it?’

  ‘I’m doing my job properly. The job the city gave me.’

  ‘The city can take it away, too.’ He paused to give weight to the words. ‘If that happens there’ll be no pension and no house.’

  The Constable said nothing.

  ‘I want this Gabriel as much as anyone,’ Fenton continued, ‘but I’ll not have you persecuting Mr Darden or anyone who works for him. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Very.’ He could feel his voice tight in his throat. ‘Was there anything else, your Worship.’

  ‘No. You can go.’

  FOURTEEN

  Out on Briggate a thin wind pulled at his face. The street was busy but he might as well have been alone. He turned on to Kirkgate, passed the jail and the Parish Church, the tip of his stick tapping lightly on the road as he walked.

  He stopped at Timble Bridge to watch the water flow until his temper had cooled. Finally he made his way up to the house on Marsh Lane. A pot of water was steaming over the fire. Mary was working in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up as she washed the linen, her skin a deep, blushing pink from the heat, the air filled with the harsh smell of lye.

  He stood still and quiet, watching her for a long moment until some sense made her look around.

  ‘Richard,’ she said, the word full of panic and fear. What—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he assured her quickly. ‘I needed a few minutes away.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’ She dried her hands on a square of cloth. ‘I can tell something’s wrong, it’s all over your face.’

  She’d known him too well, too long. He couldn’t hide anything from her. But in all their years together, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d discussed his work with her. Home was a place away from that, a refuge, and she understood that. Now slowly he laid out every piece as Mary listened closely.

  He told her all he knew, everything he believed, the words trickling out gradually, and finishing with the threats the mayor had made, the words still hot in his ear. She was silent for a long time when he was done, the quiet gathering around them.

  ‘Do you really think this man Howard is guilty?’ she asked finally.

  ‘I don’t know. I thought it was Darden and I was wrong about that. But someone killed Caleb. It might have been Solomon Howard. I don’t know enough to say yet.’

  ‘You need to find out.’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked around the room. ‘But if I do . . .’

&n
bsp; ‘You could retire now.’

  ‘I could,’ he agreed softly.

  ‘No one would think the worse of you.’

  He said nothing. She reached out and took his hand. ‘But you won’t, will you?’ She smiled softly.

  ‘I will if you really want me to.’

  Mary took a deep breath. ‘No.’ She looked at him with a small, loving smile. ‘And you know I can’t ask that, don’t you, Richard? When this is done, maybe.’

  He held her close.

  ‘We’ve lived with nothing before,’ she said. ‘I daresay we can again if need be.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The deputy was at the jail when he returned.

  ‘You were a long time with the mayor, boss.’

  ‘I had somewhere else to go. What did you find out about Mr Howard?’

  ‘There’s plenty he keeps hidden.’ He related what he’d learned, then added, ‘He has Hugh Smithson working for him now.’

  ‘Does he now?’ The Constable raised his eyebrows. ‘There’s not many would employ someone like that. Could be worth having a word with Hugh. We haven’t talked to him in a while.’

  Sedgwick grinned. ‘I’m going to, boss. Somewhere quiet.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll say much, but it’s worth a try.’

  He shrugged. ‘Get a few drinks in him first, you never know.’

  ‘The mayor won’t be happy.’

  ‘If he finds out. Leave him to me.’

  Nottingham stood. ‘Come on, let’s go next door and find some-thing to eat.’

  Rob was late, tying his stock as he ran up Briggate. Emily would be walking home after school, wondering why he wasn’t there. He spotted her in the distance along Kirkgate, and by the time he reached her he was breathless.

  ‘I slept too long,’ he gasped.

  She touched a finger to his lips before he could say more. ‘Don’t.’ Her eyes were warm and gentle. ‘I grew up with Papa, I know what it’s like.’

  He walked alongside her, hearing the soft swish of her skirt as she moved. Overhead the clouds had darkened and thickened, smudging the horizon.