At the Dying of the Year

by Chris Nickson

  ‘I don’t want you to, love,’ he told her gently. He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been thinking about what’s important.’

  Emily looked up quickly. ‘Important?’

  He nodded. ‘What matters in life. If you love Rob, you should be with him. Do what your heart tells you. And I don’t mean you have to marry him.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I know what I’ve said before. It was your mother who always told me to let you be yourself. She was right. You don’t know how long you’ll have any happiness. You need to grab at it. You’ve got a good lad there. Just make sure you love him with all your heart.’ He reached over and squeezed her hand lightly. ‘I was thinking we could ask him to lodge here, if you wanted that.’

  ‘But where would he sleep? There’s no extra bedroom.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’ He smiled at her. ‘But it would all look above board if he was a lodger.’

  ‘People would still talk. There’d be a scandal,’ she objected. ‘Mrs Rains would let me go.’

  ‘I don’t think folk would even notice. Plenty of folk have lodgers. And if Mrs Rains is outraged, open your own school. There are plenty in Leeds who have nothing, who’d like a little learning for their daughters.’

  She was lost in thought for a moment, daydreaming, he thought.

  ‘How could I afford it?’

  ‘You have the money Amos Worthy left for you. There’s more than enough for that.’

  ‘You said you want me to refuse that. You told me it was tainted. And you were right.’

  ‘I know,’ he agreed with a short nod. ‘And I know better than you how he filled his coffers. But it’s done with. The money’s there. Maybe doing something good with it would be right. Educate the poor girls who’d never have a chance otherwise.’ He smiled. ‘Your mother would be proud of that.’

  Emily sat and stared at the fire.

  ‘Believe me,’ Nottingham said, ‘life’s too short to end up with any regrets. I’ve learned that in the last few days. I want to see you happy, and I don’t give a bugger what anyone else thinks. It’s up to you, though. Would you like Rob here?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, giving the first smile he’d seen since Mary’s death. ‘But what about your position? What will people say?’

  ‘Nothing, most like. As long as it looks right, no one will take much notice. And if they do, he’s the lodger. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things since . . .’ He swallowed and forced himself to say the words. ‘Since your mother died. If you don’t make the most of your life no one else will. Love that boy of yours. Be happy. Christ only knows there’s nothing else worthwhile.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa.’ She stood in a smooth movement and hugged him, her head against his chest. He put his arms around her, pulling her close, her hair against his face. The scent of her was just the same as it had been when she was a little girl, and the images of those years tumbled through his mind. Of Emily, Rose, Mary. Of himself, younger, healthier and happier. Back when he could taste the future and grabbed for it. God knew he missed his wife, but perhaps he and his daughter could forge some kind of life.

  He didn’t want to leave his bed. When he opened his eyes he could feel the pounding in his head. The landlord of the Ship had given him a flagon of strong twice-brewed ale, and he and Lizzie had drunk it all once Isabell and James were asleep.

  Her arm was thrown across her chest and he could feel her furred breath close to his ear. They’d talked and laughed their way through the evening, carefree and careless, the drinking turning to touching and kissing before they tumbled between the sheets, feeling alive and loving.

  Through the gap between the shutters he saw the sky lightening. He knew he should get up and go to the jail, but the warmth was so lulling and comforting, and he could guess how he’d feel when he moved.

  Finally, though, he had to stir and use the chamber pot. The sounds of movement woke Isabell. Before she could begin to cry, he picked her out of her crib and placed her next to her mother. Lizzie stirred with a small groan and drew the baby to her nipple.

  The deputy dressed quickly, before the heat of the bed vanished. Down in the kitchen he took a quick drink from the dregs of the ale, swilling it around in his mouth. He felt rough, no doubt about it. It was his own fault; the landlord had winked and warned him it was strong.

  His breath clouded the air as he walked down Lands Lane, the cold pulling at his face, his head hammering with every footfall. The ground was soaked from the rain that had lasted most of the night. But the thought of Lizzie the evening before made him smile. She hadn’t been like that in a long time; he’d forgotten how much he missed it.

  Rob was at the jail, head down as he checked a column of figures.

  ‘Keeping out of mischief?’ He poured some beer, letting it take away the dryness in his throat.

  ‘More than you, by the look of you.’ Rob chuckled. ‘Good night?’

  ‘Grand. How about you? Much here?’

  ‘They must have all stayed indoors. Saturday night and only three arrests. They’re all sleeping in the cells.’

  Sedgwick sat and stretched out his legs. ‘Wish I could do that myself.’

  ‘You’ll live.’

  ‘I daresay.’ He covered his eyes with a hand. ‘Right now it doesn’t sound like a good idea, though. You almost finished the accounts?’

  ‘Close enough. They’ll be ready for the boss to give to the treasurer on Tuesday.’ Rob stood and reached for his greatcoat. ‘I’m going home.’ He glanced at the deputy. ‘God help Leeds if anything happens this morning.’

  ‘Bugger off.’

  Lister left, laughing. The deputy could hear the city stirring, a few folk off to early services. He drank a little more. It helped. He’d be spending most of the day outside, standing and waiting in the bitter weather.

  Sedgwick stood far enough away, hidden from sight, and watched Solomon Howard leave for church, his new servant right behind him. Five minutes later the cook emerged, wearing her good dress, a heavy shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. She started up the Head Row, and his long legs soon brought him up beside her.

  ‘Morning, love,’ he said, tipping the brim of his old hat. She turned to look at him, taking in the bloodshot eyes, the old clothes and worn boots.

  ‘Morning,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘You work for Mr Howard, don’t you?’

  The woman frowned. ‘What about it?’ she asked. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘I’m John Sedgwick, I’m the deputy Constable.’

  ‘Then you can get yourself gone,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ll have nowt to do with you.’

  ‘I just want to ask you some questions.’

  ‘You’ll get no answers from me. You’re hounding him, you and the Constable, and he’s done nowt wrong.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  She stopped, brought up her hand and slapped him hard on the face. ‘Of course I bloody am. Now leave me alone.’ She walked on, leaving him to rub his face, the skin stinging in the chill.

  He kept an eye on her until she crossed the road and vanished along Town End towards the church. She’d tell her employer, he had no doubt about that, and the man would be at the jail with his lawyer.

  There was nothing to be done. He’d tried. It was time to make his rounds and see if he could walk off his throbbing head.

  The Constable walked down Marsh Lane, Emily’s arm threaded through his, Lucy on the other side. He’d slept badly, dreams tugging darkly at him and waking him several times. His leg ached and the knife wound on his belly felt hot.

  At the churchyard they stood by the graves for a few minutes, saying nothing, lost in their own thoughts. He saw Emily wipe away tears, and put his arm around her shoulders. There was space beyond Mary where he’d lie when his own time came.

  The service was as long as ever, the vicar’s voice droning through his sermon. He closed his eyes, hoping to rest a little, but all that came to him were pictures of Mary decaying
in her coffin, jerking his eyes back open and leaving his heart pounding in his chest. Eventually it was over, the final blessing given, and they made their way outside, taking condolences and making greetings. Mayor Fenton passed with a curt nod, glowering at him.

  A few raindrops began to fall as they walked back over Timble Bridge. Last Sunday he’d enjoyed an afternoon with his wife. This week she was under the soil and he didn’t know how long he had left to find evidence against the man who killed her. If the mayor had his way, Tuesday could be the end of his time as Constable.

  At home he changed into his old coat and breeches, the warm hose that had been darned so many times over the years, and his good, thick boots. He cut bread and cheese, put the food in his pockets, then headed back to the jail.

  ‘Did you see the cook?’ he asked Sedgwick.

  ‘She gave me a good slap for my trouble,’ the deputy answered ruefully.

  ‘Not the first you’ve had, anyway.’

  ‘Aye, probably not the last, either.’ The smile left his face. ‘So what now, boss?’

  ‘I don’t know, John. Is there anywhere we haven’t looked?’

  ‘Joe Buck gave you the nod towards that coat. He might know more.’

  The Constable shook his head. ‘If he did he’d have said something.’ He sighed. ‘Just go around the people you know. See if there’s something they’ve forgotten. Ask if any of them have seen Smithson. I’ll do the same. If we don’t have them by Tuesday . . .’

  The deputy understood perfectly. If the mayor brought in a new man as Constable he’d likely lose his job too. And then what would he do? He didn’t have an education like Rob; finding work would be difficult, and he’d made any number of enemies, men who’d love to take advantage of his misfortune. He wanted to see the men who killed the children and Mary Nottingham swing, and he also wanted to keep this position.

  The door opened and both men turned their heads.

  ‘What are you doing here, lad?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘I’ve come to help,’ Rob said. ‘There must be something more I can do.’

  The Constable weighed his words before answering. The boy could be with Emily where he was needed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll finish the accounts tonight. They’ll be in order for you.’ Nottingham dipped his head in appreciation. ‘But I want to do some real work this afternoon.’

  ‘Then get back out there and talk to everyone you know,’ the Constable advised. ‘It’s what we’re all going to do. We’ve run out of other choices.’ He saw the looks of determination on their faces. ‘Someone out there knows something. We just have to find them. We still have a day and a half.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Rob said.

  The inns were closed, but the dram shops and alehouses kept their doors quietly open. Everyone knew, a few complained, and business carried on as usual. Men always needed somewhere to drink and blunt the pain of living. Sunday saw them busy, small rooms crowded, the serving girls rushing from table to packed table, slapping at groping hands.

  The Constable and Rob slipped from place to place, talking to men hunched over the benches. Most knew nothing and simply shook their heads. Others had a few words, enough to make them press on somewhere else, searching for another face.

  Sedgwick bantered with the whores, out on Briggate in all weathers, goose flesh on their cleavage, faces always hopeful of making a few coins. They sheltered in the small openings to courts and yards, trying to duck away from the frigid wind. He found two who’d been with Solomon Howard and shuddered at the memory. Another claimed Darden had used her so hard when she was young that it had taken a week for the bruises to heal, and showed off a small scar on her back.

  The stars were brilliant up in the clear sky and frost was already forming on the grass when they returned to the jail. The deputy’s face was set grimly as he drained a mug of ale.

  ‘Any luck, boss?’

  Nottingham shook his head. ‘Rob?’

  ‘Nothing. But we’re talking to ordinary folk. If we want to find out about Darden and Howard we should be talking to the merchants again. They’re the ones who’d know.’

  ‘Those ordinary folk see plenty,’ Sedgwick told him. ‘And half the time the rich don’t even notice them.’

  ‘The merchants and the Corporation aren’t going to give up their own,’ the Constable said. ‘Not when the mayor’s on their side.’

  ‘Do we have anything to lose?’ Rob asked.

  ‘No,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘We’ll do it tomorrow. There might be one or two who have no love for Darden; I’ll ask Tom Williamson.’

  The church bells began to ring for evening service. The Constable stood. ‘We can’t do anything more today. Are you coming for your supper, Rob? Emily would like to see you.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Thank you both for your work today. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Long day?’ Lizzie asked as Sedgwick stretched before sitting at the table. He pulled Isabell on to his lap, tickling under her arms to watch her giggle.

  ‘They all are lately.’

  ‘Was your head as bad as mine this morning?’

  ‘Worse, mebbe. I spent most of the morning suffering. What did you three do today?’

  ‘Mama took us out,’ James said excitedly. ‘She showed me what different plants are for.’

  ‘Did she?’ He smiled at his son. ‘And do you remember what they do?’

  ‘Dock leaves take away nettle stings,’ he began, ‘and she showed me the trees where you shouldn’t eat berries.’

  Isabell wriggled on his lap and he let her down slowly. For a moment she stood, before collapsing on to all fours.

  ‘She’ll be walking soon.’

  ‘And then she’ll be trouble,’ Lizzie said with a grin.

  ‘Just like her mam.’

  ‘Better be careful, John Sedgwick.’ Her eyes were lively. ‘At least if you want to keep eating here.’

  He held up his hands in surrender.

  ‘Have you found anything yet?’ Lizzie’s voice became serious.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I still say you should just kill the bastards.’

  ‘The boss wouldn’t allow it.’

  ‘You know they’re guilty.’

  ‘That’s true.’ He thought of the silk pouch and the locks of hair.

  ‘And you’re sure he killed Mary Nottingham.’

  ‘As sure as we can be. But—’

  ‘No buts, John,’ she said, staring at him with hard eyes. ‘Or I’ll bloody do it meself.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘They won’t be able to find any fault with that, boss.’ Rob patted the neat pile of paper. ‘Everything tallies, all the money’s accounted for.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He was grateful; he knew he couldn’t have faced the task himself. Now the accounts were ready, prepared in a neat hand, for when he met the treasurer. In the end it would probably make no difference. The mayor was determined to dismiss him, and it wouldn’t be hard for him to find some other pretext. The aldermen would do whatever Fenton demanded. But he was damned if he’d go quietly. If it was there, he’d find the evidence against Howard and Darden. He’d have his revenge for Mary.

  ‘Boss?’ Rob asked.

  ‘What is it?’ The word had dragged him back from his thoughts.

  ‘Emily told me what you said to her,’ he began nervously. ‘Did you mean it? About lodging with you, I mean.’

  ‘I meant every word, lad,’ he answered with a smile. ‘Life’s too short. If you don’t grab it, it’ll be over before it begins. I don’t want that for her. Or for you. But it’s up to the pair of you, if that’s what you both want.’

  Rob nodded, unconvinced. He’d learn, the Constable thought.

  ‘You get yourself on home, lad. You’ve earned your sleep.’

  ‘I’ll work on, boss. Maybe I can help with the merchants,’ he said hopefully.

  Nottingham nodded. The lad would be able to talk to them, and he could use the help.r />
  ‘Come along and talk to Tom Williamson with me, then. If he can come up with some names, we’ll divide them.’

  The deputy had already been and gone, quiet and preoccupied. He was off looking for anything, for anyone, useful. He’d be worried about the future, the Constable imagined. If Nottingham lost his job the mayor would get rid of Sedgwick, and Rob, too. Out with the old and the tainted, in with the new. Lister was educated, he knew folk in the city, he’d find good work whatever happened. The deputy, though . . .

  ‘Right,’ he said finally. ‘Let’s go.’

  Williamson was at the warehouse, examining the invoices and making notes on a piece of paper.

  ‘Richard,’ he said in surprise, putting down the quill and flexing his fingers. ‘And Mr Lister again.’ He smiled. ‘More business about Mr Darden and Mr Howard?’

  ‘Very serious business,’ Nottingham said.

  The merchant cocked his head curiously. ‘You’d better sit down, then.’ He gestured to a pair of battered chairs and poured three mugs of ale. ‘Now, what is it?’

  ‘Do you know anyone who doesn’t like Jeremiah Darden?’

  Williamson leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. His long waistcoat was pale blue silk, the shape of flowers – forget-me-nots, cornflowers and others – skilfully picked out in darker colours.

  ‘I can think of three,’ he replied after a while. As the Constable sat forward expectantly, he added, ‘But I don’t see how they’ll be able to help you. They’ll only know about his business, not his life.’

  Nottingham shook his head. ‘I’m clutching at anything, Tom.’ The image of Mary lying on the kitchen floor flickered in his head. ‘I know what Darden and Howard have done and I want them for it. All of it. I’ll talk to anyone who might be able to help.’

  ‘Then you’d better see George Lamb. There’s no love lost between him and Darden. Nicholas Dunsley and Harold Hammond have never cared much for him, either, but Lamb truly hates him.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom.’

  The merchant stood and extended his hand. ‘Good luck to you, Richard. Remember, you still have some friends on the Corporation.’

  ‘Give them my gratitude.’