‘She’ll have him tomorrow. And all the days after that, too. It’ll just be the two of them now.’
‘Not the same, though, is it?’ He had no reply. She reached out and took his hand. ‘I’ll put out the candle. You look like you need your rest.’
He’d just woken when she came down the stairs. It was still dark and he heard her groping her way.
‘Miss Emily,’ he said quietly.
‘I’m going home.’ Her voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.
‘I’ll walk with you.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘I need to see your father.’
Outside, in the half-light on the horizon, her face looked ravaged. If she really had slept it had been for no more than a few minutes. As they passed the jail she glanced through the window, looking for Rob.
‘He’ll be out doing his last rounds,’ the deputy told her. She tried to smile but it left as soon as it came, no heart behind it. He coughed and said, ‘I talked to the undertaker and the church. They’re going to have the funeral this afternoon.’
She looked at him sharply.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be one thing less for you and the boss to have to think about.’
‘I suppose it doesn’t matter when we bury Mama,’ she said emptily. She stayed quiet until they crossed Timble Bridge. ‘Thank you. And thank Lizzie, too.’ She looked up Marsh Lane at the house. ‘Is Papa there?’
She picked up her pace, moving so briskly that the deputy had to rush to keep up with her. He followed as she burst through the door, seeing the Constable sitting and staring at the dead fire. As Nottingham turned his head, Emily began to hit him with her small fists, crying and howling out all her pain.
He sat there and took it all, the tears trickling down his cheeks. Once she’d exhausted herself he stood, leaning heavily on the stick at his side and wrapped his arms around her.
‘I know, love, I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’
The deputy stayed by the door, feeling awkward, an intruder on this private grief.
The Constable kept whispering, words too low for anyone but her to hear. Emily cried against his coat, her arms tight around his neck, hair tumbling from her cap. Finally she nodded, wiping her face, and went upstairs.
‘Boss . . .’
‘Don’t, John. Please.’ His eyes were full of the dead, looking but not really seeing. ‘Just tell me what’s happening.’
Sedgwick summarized it all. Nottingham bowed his head and listened quietly.
‘It’s my fault,’ he said finally. ‘I had to brag to Howard. I emptied that pouch and asked if it was his. I said someone had found it near his house. He had his revenge.’
‘Christ, boss.’
‘If I hadn’t . . .’ He halted, searching for the words to flay himself. ‘If I hadn’t been so fucking arrogant, if I hadn’t wanted to rub his nose in it, she’d still be alive.’
‘You don’t know that.’
The Constable looked at him. ‘Of course I do,’ he said dismissively. ‘So do you, I can see it on your face. He knows I’m going to live with this every day from now on, that I’m going to feel it every time I walk through that door or sleep in my bed or wake in the morning.’
‘We’ll get him, boss.’
‘I know. We will. But it’s too late. He’s killed Mary. He’s killed me, he’s killed Emily. He’s killed all those children.’ He slammed his hand against the wall.
‘We’ll find a way to hang him.’
‘Thank you. And thank Lizzie for . . .’ He raised his eyes.
He bought a pie from a seller at the bottom of Kirkgate and ate it as he walked. There were more people to see, questions to ask. The deputy knew that Hugh would never let him back into Howard’s house now, no matter how much he threatened. That way was blocked.
At the Rose and Crown he strode through the yard to the stables, finding Hercules gently brushing dirt from a mare until her coat shone.
‘Bad news about the Constable’s wife,’ the old man said without turning. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Anything that can help me find her killer. You know Mr Darden and Mr Howard?’
Hercules bobbed his head, keeping a slow rhythm with the brush. ‘Always a private parlour when they meet someone here. Or if they want to talk.’
‘What do they talk about?’
The man frowned. ‘They go quiet when anyone comes in. Are you sure it was them?’
‘I believe it was Solomon Howard,’ the deputy told him. ‘And that he murdered the children, too. I just need to be able to prove it.’
‘I’ll keep my ears open.’ The old man turned to face him. The hair was matted around his face, his beard long and uncombed. ‘I’ll promise thee that. When’s the funeral?’
‘Two o’clock.’
‘Aye, that’s what I heard. There’ll be plenty of folk there. People have a high regard for Mr Nottingham in this city.’
Rob arrived at the house on Marsh Lane as the clock struck the half hour. Lucy answered the door, her face serious, a dark shawl around her thin shoulders. Emily sat in the chair that had been her mother’s, small and slumped, her eyes red and her face pale. He took her hand, the flesh chilly against his, and he tried to smile for her.
The Constable said nothing, the pain buried deep behind his expression. Five minutes passed, then he stood and said, ‘We’d best be going.’
They walked along, their steps slow and solemn. Nottingham used the stick, Emily holding on to his other arm, and Rob followed, Lucy at his side. Along the road one door opened, then another, and a third. Families emerged, dressed in their best, all crossing Timble Bridge to the Parish Church.
The Constable removed his hat as he entered, seeing the deputy standing near the font, James on one side and Lizzie on the other with Isabell in her arms, the baby’s eyes wide to be in such a big building. He made his way down to a bench at the front and sat, his daughter beside him, Rob on her other side, then the servant girl.
The merchants and aldermen were alone in their private pews, looking uncomfortable, there under duty and sufferance. The mayor’s pew stayed empty. But the back of the church was filled, folk standing, men, women, children.
Rob turned and saw faces he knew: Joe Buck and his servant, landlords from the White Swan, the Ship, the Turk’s Head, even Mr Bell from the Talbot. All the Constable’s men stood in a line, and behind them Morrison the chandler, Kirshaw the apothecary and too many others to see.
The coffin sat on trestles, plain, simple oak without decoration or polish. The congregation rose as the vicar emerged to face them, the Book of Common Prayer in one large hand.
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, yea, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall not die forever.’
When all the priest’s words were done and the bell began to toll, Rob moved forward, along with the deputy, Tom Williamson and the Constable himself to carry the coffin out to the grave.
It was next to Rose’s, the soil piled to one side, dark and moist. The diggers stood apart, a jug of ale by their feet, hats off, heads bowed in respect.
Once they’d lowered the body into the earth, Nottingham knelt, picked up a clod of earth and crumbled it between his fingers. He held out his hand, letting the dirt drop, the sound of it hollow on the wood.
‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed,’ the vicar began. Nottingham stepped back and Emily took his place, tears coursing down her cheeks, and Rob stood by her side as she let the soil fall. ‘We therefore commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body that it might he like to His glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby He is able to subdue all things to Himself.’
Emily took hold of her father’
s hand and slowly led him away as the bell sounded its last dull note. Sedgwick put his arm around Lizzie’s shoulders, holding her close, feeling her with him, alive, Isabell sucking on a damp rag soaked in sugar water.
He watched the Constable and his daughter go through the lych gate and then turn for home.
‘I’d not want to be looking through their eyes today,’ Lizzie said quietly.
‘No.’ The wind blew up and he pulled his coat closer.
‘I’m going home. I still need to cook. Come on, James.’
He kissed her forehead. ‘I love you, you know,’ he whispered.
‘Don’t be so daft,’ she told him, but she was smiling and her eyes were wet.
‘What do we do now?’ Rob was next to him, watching the man and girl cross Timble Bridge.
‘You’d better go to her, lad. She’s going to need you.’ He looked over his shoulder, spotting Lucy standing by the church, lost and hopeless. ‘Take that lass with you. Stay there as long as you need. The night men can look after things until tomorrow.’
The crowd of mourners thinned. Some would go up to the White Swan to drink and talk, others back to their work and homes. It was over; Mary Nottingham was buried. The grave-diggers were at work, bending their backs and filling the hole, the bell had gone silent, and all that remained were the sounds of the city.
He walked slowly back up Kirkgate to the jail, put more coal on the fire and waited for the heat to warm his bones. He sat at the desk, thinking how he could prove Howard’s guilt.
Today was for grieving. Tomorrow he’d go out to Marsh Lane and question the people there, ask if they’d seen anything. Many worked in their cottages, the families all together in the weaving trade, the children combing and carding, the mother spinning and the father at the loom, trying to make a living between that work and a few animals grazing on what was left of the common land and food growing in the garden behind the kitchen. Maybe he’d be lucky and someone noticed a stranger.
He hadn’t expected so many to turn out for the funeral. Not the rich, who had to be there from obligation, but all the others, the press of people who stood crowded together for the length of the service and in the churchyard. He knew them all and heard them mutter their anger at the killing, even men who’d rarely think twice about knifing another soul.
While they were still full of goodwill and their memories sharp he’d start to go round them, to see what they might know, what they might have spotted, anything that could be of use. He needed something that would help hang the bastards.
TWENTY-ONE
He unlocked the door and entered, feeling the dull silence in the house. He moved around the room, touching the chairs, the table, the candles, as if to assure himself they were real. Everything in this place held a memory of Mary.
He lifted his head and for a fleeting moment he believed he could hear her calling his name and the sound of her footsteps on the flagstones of the kitchen. But it passed in a breath and he knew that from now on the family would just be two of them.
‘Papa?’ Emily’s voice drew him out of his thoughts. ‘Would you like some ale?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
He understood that she felt as lost as he did, lost and probably even more alone. She couldn’t comprehend why he couldn’t have her here last night, why he couldn’t have held her and offered her some comfort. Perhaps he’d never be able to explain it to her in a way she’d understand, but he’d needed the time with his guilt, the chance to ask Mary for her forgiveness.
He heard Emily in the kitchen, knowing he couldn’t go to her in there. His gaze would fall to the floor, where no scrubbing would ever remove the mark. The door opened and Rob came in, Lucy behind him, her eyes fearful, standing in the corner, trying to keep herself small and unnoticed. If he didn’t see her, he couldn’t let her go. He knew what scared her, that he’d turn her back out to the streets, just when she’d found a home.
‘She’s through there, lad,’ Nottingham said and Lister moved away quietly. There was a strange, unnatural hush in the house, every sound muted.
‘Lucy.’ He saw her flinch. ‘I’m going to need someone to cook and clean and take care of everything here. I hope you’ll want to stay.’
‘Me?’
‘You,’ he assured her. ‘Will you?’
‘Yes.’ She blurted the word out, then blushed and said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ He gave her a wan smile. ‘I’m glad.’
She scuttled through to the kitchen. He could hear Emily and Rob whispering in there, their voices urgent but too low for him to make out the words.
His world had changed. All the objects, all the surroundings were familiar, things he’d touched and known for years, but he felt as if he didn’t know them at all.
‘Boss?’
He looked and Rob was there, pushing a mug of ale into his hand. He tightened his fingers around it, the clay cold against his palm. Emily was on her knees by the hearth, piling kindling and coal for a fire, her movements an echo of her mother’s. He drank, barely tasting the liquid.
‘Mr Sedgwick said I didn’t need to go to work tonight.’
The Constable nodded. ‘Emily will need you this evening. She’ll need us both.’
Lucy moved through the room, lighting candles from a taper, and the acrid smell of the tallow filled the air.
‘There’s only bread and cheese,’ she told him apologetically. ‘I haven’t cooked.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘You didn’t eat last night. You haven’t eaten today.’ Lucy looked up at him. ‘You need to eat,’ she insisted.
‘Papa,’ Emily said, her voice gentle and persuasive. ‘We all miss her. We all loved her.’ She smiled at him. ‘Please.’
He swallowed the food on his plate but barely noticed it, refusing more when Lucy urged it on him. Finally they were done, a spare funeral feast for an empty death, he thought. The girl gathered the dishes and took them to the kitchen.
‘Tomorrow,’ Nottingham said.
‘Boss?’
‘I’ll be back at work tomorrow.’
‘Papa—’ Emily began. He cut her off with a shake of his head.
‘There’s work to be done.’ He poured more ale and drank. ‘You’re right, love, we miss her. We’re always going to miss her. And we’ll always love her.’ He placed his hand over hers. ‘But it’s my job to catch whoever killed her, and I need to do that.’
‘But Rob and Mr Sedgwick . . .’
‘They can use another man to help them.’ His face softened. ‘I can’t spend another day sitting here. You know what I mean.’ She nodded her understanding. ‘And you should go back to school. We have the rest of our lives for sorrow and memories. They’ll be there forever.’
Later, after Rob had gone home and Emily was in her room, he settled in the bed and extinguished the candle, the weight of blame heavy on his heart. Even under blankets and a heavy coat he shivered. He reached out, knowing he’d never touch her again, but hoping for some ghost of shape. But there was nothing, no rhythm of her breathing, just the emptiness that would remain.
He knew he must have dozed, waking at times in the heavy darkness. The night felt like an enemy, taunting him, offering him no real rest. Before first light he was up and dressed, moving quietly round the house then gathering up the silver-topped stick and slipping out into the cold.
Two of the night men were at the jail, warming themselves by the hearth. The fire crackled bright and the pitcher of ale was almost empty.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘Nowt, boss,’ one of them answered. ‘Just a few who stopped by to say how sorry they were.’
He let them leave and sat to write the daily report, just two brief sentences to say there’d been no crime reported in Leeds the previous day. Dawn was close, and soon the city would be stirring all around him, servants lighting fires and preparing meals, labourers on their way to work, carters arriving and leaving with a trundle of wheels on the road
s.
But there was only one thing he wanted now: to prove, beyond any doubt in court, beyond all that money could buy, that Howard had killed his wife and Darden had helped him. Once that was done, the future could do whatever it wanted; he’d no longer care.
By the time the deputy arrived the report was complete and sanded dry.
‘Boss,’ Sedgwick said.
‘It was time to come back to work,’ Nottingham said darkly. ‘We have plenty to do.’
‘Aye, we do.’ He kept the surprise off his face.
‘Anything more?’
‘I went and talked to a few folk, but no one had anything helpful. I’ll go out along Marsh Lane this morning and see if anyone saw Howard or Darden there yesterday morning.’
The Constable nodded. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘He’s a clever bugger; we already know that. But if there’s anything to find, we’ll find it.’
‘If.’
‘There’ll be something, boss. There always is.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ He stared at the deputy. ‘I want him soon.’
‘We’ll have him,’ the deputy promised.
After Sedgwick had gone he walked over to the Moot Hall. Out in the open, a threat of rain in the heavy clouds, he felt the pain of missing Mary so intensely that he had to stop and breathe deeply. He looked around, realizing she’d never see any of this again. That she wouldn’t be waiting when he returned in the evening.
Finally, he gathered himself, opened the heavy doors and climbed the stairs, treading gently on the Turkey carpet. Martin Cobb sat at his desk, his young face blushing as he saw the Constable.
‘Mr Nottingham. I’m so sorry . . .’
‘The daily report for the mayor.’ He laid the paper between them.
‘It must be terrible.’
He knew the man meant well, but he couldn’t feel charitable. ‘Then pray God it never happens to you.’
‘The mayor didn’t know when you’d return. He wants to see you.’
He knocked on the door and entered when he heard a voice inside. Fenton was hard at work, reading through a pile of papers on his desk. He was fresh-shaved, his cheeks pink and shiny, his expression pinched and irritable, as if he resented the intrusion.
At the Dying of the Year Page 17
