Come the Fear arnm-3

by Chris Nickson

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted finally. ‘I can’t think.’

  ‘Was it before that big fire down on the Calls?’ he asked, using it as a marker. Caroline’s face brightened. ‘Oh, before that, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Who was running her, do you know?’

  She frowned. ‘Never heard, and whoever it was, he didn’t show his face round here. She was down by the old chantry chapel by the bridge. They often put the new ones down there. A fresh face to catch trade as it comes into town.’

  ‘I need a favour,’ he began, then stopped as something caught his eye. ‘Can you ask around and see who was running her?’ He dashed the words off even as he began to move. ‘I’ll look for you later.’

  He ran quickly and quietly through the crowd, tall enough to keep watching his quarry. In just a few seconds he was able to reach out and hold the boy by his collar. The lad shouted out but no one stopped to help him.

  ‘You know you’re not allowed down here.’ James was wriggling hard, like a fish fighting the hook. Sedgwick jerked and the boy stopped. ‘Don’t you?’

  James didn’t answer.

  ‘Well, don’t you?’ He kept his grip tight, moving to look his son in the face.

  ‘Yes, Papa.’ He could hear the defeat and sullenness in the answer.

  ‘Do you want me to thrash you out here in front of everyone?’ Sedgwick’s voice was low, barely more than a hiss, but threatening and dangerous.

  ‘No, Papa.’

  ‘I’m going to take you home and see what your mam has to say.’

  ‘She’s not-’ James began then shut his mouth.

  ‘Not what?’ Anger flooded into his words. ‘Not what? Not your mam?’

  ‘She’s Isabell’s mam now,’ James started, unable to stop his words. ‘That’s all she cares about, what Isabell does.’

  He took the boy by the arm and began to drag him, forcing the lad to run to keep pace with his long strides. He said nothing, feeling the fury inside himself, scared he might not stop slapping the boy if he began. Finally, in Lands Lane, the small house in sight, he halted.

  ‘I never want to hear what you said before,’ he told the boy. ‘I don’t know what you remember about your real mam, but Lizzie’s been more to you than she ever was. She loves you and she looks after you.’ He paused and took a breath, trying to frame his thoughts into words. ‘You know Isabell’s tiny, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Papa,’ James answered reluctantly.

  ‘That means she relies on her mam for everything. You were the same when you were a baby. It doesn’t mean Lizzie’s stopped loving you, and it certainly doesn’t mean she’s not your mam any more. You understand that?’

  James nodded slowly. Sedgwick took an old, dirty kerchief from the deep, bulging pocket of his coat, wet it with spit and gently wiped the tears away from the boy’s dirty face.

  ‘I’m warning you, though,’ he continued. ‘You misbehave once more and I’ll spank you so hard I’ll tan your hide. And don’t think I wouldn’t do it because you’re my son.’ He took the boy by the hand again and walked into the house. Lizzie was hunched over Isabell; the baby in her basket was crying as if the world might end. She looked up as they entered, her eyes wide, face drawn in fear, her hair wild.

  ‘Where were you?’ Lizzie stood, looking first at the baby and then opening her arms. Sedgwick let go of the boy and James ran to her. She shook her head, eyes closed, rocking back and forth as she held the lad. ‘Don’t,’ she said softly. ‘Don’t ever do that again. I was looking for you and you’d gone.’

  ‘I won’t,’ James promised, snuffling as he cried. ‘I’m sorry.’ Sedgwick carefully picked up the baby, so light and fragile in his large hands that it still scared him. He cradled her, rubbing a fingertip gently over her lips, taking in her warmth and marvelling that he could have a love so huge for something so small. She opened her eyes and smiled up at him, the yelling subsiding into a gentle hiccough.

  ‘Where was he?’ Lizzie asked. The boy kept hold of her skirts.

  ‘Down on Briggate.’ He looked at James. ‘He knows what’ll happen the next time.’

  She breathed deeply and shook her head sadly and put her arms around the lad’s shoulders. She sagged with exhaustion; she looked like a woman close to the end of her tether. Her eyes were sunken, with dark patches shading under them, all the prettiness and life leeched from her face in a wearied expression that was beyond age. Between the baby and James there was no peace for her.

  Sedgwick reached out and stroked her arm, moving down to rub the back of her hand tenderly. Then he kissed her and left. There was work he needed to do; the problems at home would need to wait until later.

  Will Cates was waiting in a small private parlour at the Rose and Crown when Rob arrived. It was up a rickety flight of stairs and curtained to give some privacy. A jug of wine sat on the table. Lister sniffed it, looked questioningly at Cates, then poured himself a mug and sat down. Even dressed in his best coat and breeches he didn’t look rich, but he was presentable enough for good company.

  ‘Now,’ Will asked, ‘what’s all this mystery about?’

  ‘I told you, it’s nothing important.’

  Cates laughed softly. ‘But important enough to meet in private?’

  ‘That was your idea.’

  ‘True enough,’ he acknowledged, taking a drink. ‘So what is it, Rob?’

  ‘Your father dismissed a serving girl a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Who? Lucy?’ Will said in aggrieved surprise. ‘You dragged me out to ask about Lucy?’

  ‘I did,’ Lister admitted without apology. ‘She’s missing. No one’s seen her since she left your house.’

  Cates snorted. ‘She’s probably too stupid to find her way home.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Anyway, what business is it of the Constable? She’s hardly a child.’

  Rob gave a heavy shrug. ‘I just do what I’m told.’

  Cates drained his mug and reached over to pour more of the wine.

  ‘You know Lucy was pregnant? That’s why my father really let her go.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know who was more scandalized by it, my mother or my holy brother.’

  ‘Any idea who got her that way?’ Rob asked.

  Will held up his hands. ‘It wasn’t me, that’s all I can tell you. She might have been too daft to say no, but with that harelip she wasn’t someone I’d have wanted in the first place.’

  ‘You’ve tupped other servants?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ Cates admitted without hesitation. ‘My first time was with a maid. What’s the point of having good-looking servants otherwise? Don’t tell me you never have?’

  ‘No.’

  Cates raised his eyebrows. ‘Dear God,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Another innocent. I think even my brother’s been at the serving girls, and I know for a fact my father has. But Lucy? You’ve got to draw a line somewhere. I doubt she’d have known what I was doing.’

  ‘I heard she wasn’t bright.’

  ‘She was simple,’ Cates observed flatly, pouring more wine. ‘I don’t even know why my father took her on. She couldn’t do anything without prodding, and even then it was only half done.’

  ‘So why didn’t he dismiss her sooner?’

  ‘No idea,’ he answered, ‘and far less interest. It’s not my business. If he’d give me a halfway decent allowance I wouldn’t even be living there.’

  Lister sipped deeply and then pushed the mug away.

  ‘More?’

  Rob shook his head. He rarely drank wine and didn’t want it going to his head.

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Lucy?’ Cates though for a moment. ‘Ugly as Saturday sin with that harelip. But it was always yes sir or no sir and a pretty little curtsey. At least she knew that. If she’d looked better I’d have had her, stupid or not.’

  ‘No one called for her?’

  Cates laughed. ‘Christ’s blood, man, do I look like an authority on what the servants do? I do
n’t know. You’d have to ask them. As long as they do what they’re supposed to and keep out of my way I don’t give a bugger what they get up to.’

  Rob stood. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Is that it? Not going to stay and have something to eat? The landlord said they had a fresh pig this morning.’

  ‘I can’t. Work to do.’ It was a lie, he had no duty until this evening. But staying meant more drinking and he wanted to be sober to walk Emily home from school.

  Cates shrugged. ‘It’s your choice,’ he said.

  It was the shank of the afternoon when Richard Nottingham turned the corner from Kirkgate on to Briggate. The sun had finally broken through and the heat of the day clung close to the pavement. It seemed too early in the year to be this warm, he thought.

  He opened the door of the house and walked in, his ears suddenly aware of the loud mechanics of the printing press, the rich smell of ink filling his nostrils. James Lister was working, turning the handle, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, his concentration deep on his task.

  ‘Mr Lister,’ Nottingham shouted. Only when the job was done did Lister raise his head.

  ‘Constable,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s a bad time to call, I’m afraid.’ He gestured around the room, at the piles of paper and the finished copies of the new Leeds Mercury stacked under the front window.

  He was a man who seemed to grow more rotund by the month, his long waistcoat barely containing his belly. Careless ink stains smudged his clothes, and there were black flecks on his white hose and across his florid face. But he had a ready grin and an ear for delicious gossip that served him well.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Someone has an advertisement in your new issue,’ the Constable explained. ‘I’d like to see it.’

  Lister looked at him shrewdly and picked up a finished copy, his thick fingers smudging the wet words.

  ‘Anything I should know about?’ he asked with interest.

  ‘The thief taker. I’m curious about his services.’

  ‘I remember him. A very curious man, don’t you think?’ He glanced at the Constable but didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Told me what he wanted to say and I wrote it down. I don’t think he has his letters. There was something not too pleasant about him.’ He handed over the newspaper. ‘That’ll be a penny ha’penny,’ he said.

  Nottingham laughed and dug into his breeches pocket for the coins.

  ‘It’ll be the best money you spend this week,’ Lister promised with a smile, eyes twinkling.

  ‘Maybe. I’ll leave you to your business.’

  ‘Still a few hours of this. Just think, you’re the first in Leeds with all the news.’

  He went to the White Swan, next to the jail. The potman brought his ale and the Constable turned the pages of the newspaper, eyes slipping over the print until he found what he wanted.

  It was much as Walton had said. For part of the value of the items he’d reunite owners with belongings that had somehow disappeared. For a little more money he’d find the person who’d taken them and bring him to justice. It was an odd, dark trade, but he had to admit it was within the law. What troubled him was that it needed a familiarity with Leeds that the thief taker couldn’t possess; the man hadn’t been in the city long enough to know people or understand the subtleties of the place. Walton could be contacted in care of the Talbot Inn. Somehow that didn’t surprise him. It just meant they’d need to keep a closer eye on the man.

  Caroline had gone by the time the deputy returned to Briggate. She could have been off with a man, or maybe she’d gone to the dram shop to drink down some strength for the rest of the day. But he couldn’t wait for her. There were other girls who might have seen Lucy, who might have the answers he needed.

  A couple of them remembered her, the timid, ugly creature who seemed to make no money yet came back the next night with her face bruised button-bright and her eyes full of fear, then didn’t return again. But none of them had spoken to her and no one knew who’d been running her. All he could hope was that Caroline had been able to find a name for him; if anyone here was likely to manage it, she’d be the one.

  There’d be no point questioning the pimps. These days there were too many of them and the denials would fall too easily from their lips. Instead he went on to other business, the theft of some lace from a shop near the top of Briggate, the report of a pocket picked and two florins stolen. That worried him; it was the third instance inside a week. But without a description of some kind, or the good fortune to catch the thief in the act, they stood little chance: he knew that all too clearly.

  Finally he returned to the jail. Nottingham was there, working on another report, sharpening the nib on a quill.

  ‘She was a whore right enough,’ the deputy said, folding his long body on to a chair. ‘Just not a good one.’

  The Constable sat back. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She only worked two nights. Took nothing the first, according to other girls, came back all bruised the next, and that was it. Never returned after that.’

  ‘Who was pimping her?’ Nottingham ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the fringe.

  ‘I don’t know yet, boss. Old Caroline’s asking round.’

  Nottingham thought for a moment. ‘How long ago was this?’

  Sedgwick shrugged. ‘Before the fire on the Calls, that’s all she can really remember.’

  The Constable gave a long, deep sigh. ‘That doesn’t help us much.’

  ‘It’s a start. I’ll keep asking. I suppose the pimp could have killed her.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘If he beat her once he could do it again. That makes him the best we have.’

  ‘What about the baby, though, boss? Why would he want to tear the child out of her like that?’

  ‘I wish I understood that, John. I really do.’

  After the deputy had left for the evening the Constable pushed his reports aside. They’d still be there in the morning when he’d be ready to deal with them. He needed to talk to Alice Wendell again.

  He locked the door of the jail and walked slowly to the Calls. Leeds was growing quiet, people in their homes, the noises around muted. There was a deep, comforting silence within the sounds of the city, and he reached for the stillness there. Already workmen were busy on the house where they’d found Lucy, he noticed. They’d knocked out much of the bones of the place and put up a new framework, the fresh-cut timber almost golden in the early evening light. The Constable lingered for a minute, amazed as always by the skill of the joiners and builders, then moved on.

  He only had to knock once before she answered the door to the cellar room. It didn’t surprise him. As soon as she saw him, for just the briefest moment her face fell. Then she gathered herself, mouth firm and back straight.

  ‘Tha’d better come in,’ she said.

  Inside, the door closed, she kept her gaze direct.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he began but she shook her head.

  ‘Nay,’ she told him. ‘It’s not your fault. I thought you’d be back.’

  ‘I need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Aye. Go on, then.’ Her voice was steady, her gaze firm, but he saw her fingers pressing tightly on the wood of the table. She kept her grief inside, a private thing, not to be shared. The face she showed the world had to be strong.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked.

  ‘Six month, near as spitting. Used to be up in the Leylands. But once it were just me, after our Lucy found her position, I wanted somewhere cheaper.’

  ‘So the folk around here don’t know her?’

  ‘Nay.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘It were different when we were up there,’ she continued, as if it had been another town and not just a quarter of a mile away. ‘They all knew us there. Everyone looked out for everyone else. Even more when I had my man.’

  ‘How did he die?’ the Constable asked quietly.

  ‘He went mad.’ She lifte
d her eyes. ‘Couldn’t work, couldn’t do owt. Finally it seemed like all he had left was words. He’d never been much for talking, but he began to speak and speak. All day, even into the night when he should have been asleep. Then it was like he’d said everything, used it all up, and he was silent. And then he died.’ She gave a small, wan smile. ‘It were a long time ago now.’

  But no less raw for all the years, he thought.

  ‘What about your son?’

  ‘He were a good lad,’ she answered, and he noticed the past tense. ‘Looked after things, brought his money home every week. He had a good trade at the smithy. Then he met some wild lads and he fell in with them.’

  She shrugged helplessly. He knew the story, he’d heard it more times than he could recall. Drinking, whoring, fighting. . there was nothing new in the world.

  ‘Our Lucy, she’s buried over there with the paupers?’ Alice Wendell asked.

  ‘Yes. We didn’t know who she was.’

  After a short silence she asked, ‘Can I bring my lass home? Bury her proper?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll find out.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said with a short nod of her head. It was both gratitude and dismissal.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do?’

  ‘I’ll be reet.’

  He left her, saddened and heartsore. She’d survive because she’d always survived, no matter how much life might have thrown at her. She’d outlived her daughter and that was always a difficult thing to accept.

  At the Parish Church he made his way among the graves until he reached Rose’s headstone. He bowed his head and let memories of her fill his mind, allowed the joy of remembering her alive overcome the pain he’d felt when she’d died. She’d been gone more than a year now but the scar still felt tender.

  Quietly he made his way home, thoughts tumbling in his head. Mary was in the garden, carefully picking weeds from between the plants as the light faded. He lifted her up, held her close, smelling her, kissing her.

  ‘What’s that for?’ she asked in happy astonishment.

  He shrugged and smiled.

  Seven

  The second of the burglaries came that night, at the home of Alderman Ridgely close to the Red House at the top of the Head Row. The job had been neatly and daringly done, the Constable saw after he’d been called out in the small hours, the lock on the window sash quietly worked open with a knife blade.