Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

The man turned at the sound of footsteps and nodded his welcome.

‘Does the name Gabriel mean anything?’

Hercules kept stroking the animal’s mane. ‘Not to me. Should it?’

‘How about a man who dresses in grey and wears a wig?’

‘Plenty of them around,’ he replied shortly.

‘Whoever killed those little ones calls himself Gabriel and dresses that way.’ He saw Hercules give a small nod. That was all he needed. The Constable pulled two coins from his breeches and put them on the shelf in the stall.

The river roared loud as he crossed the bridge, white water tumbling and roiling around the stone, in full spate down from the hills. The sound faded as he walked out along the London Road. As he passed Simpson Fold, where he’d been knifed, a chill rushed through him and he turned his head away.

The house he wanted was one of many hidden among a warren of streets. Unlike its neighbours it was kept with care and pride, the glass of the windows sparkling, the front step scrubbed free of the smallest speck of dirt. He knocked on the door and waited until it opened and the space was filled by a large black man with a small wig on his head.

‘Constable!’ he said with a wide grin. ‘I heard tha’ was back.’

‘Hello, Henry. Mr Buck around?’

‘Aye, he’s in’t back. Come on in.’ He moved aside, leaving just enough space for Nottingham to squeeze past. ‘Go through. He’ll be that pleased to see thee.’

The parlour was warm, the fire crackling brightly in the hearth. Joe Buck sat at his desk, immaculately dressed as ever in a coat and breeches of burgundy velvet, the stock and shirt some expensive shade between cream and white. The room smelled of beeswax; Henry would have been up early, starting the blaze then polishing every piece of furniture, the way he did each day.

Buck turned and a warm smile spread across his face. ‘Mr Nottingham,’ he said and stood, extending his hand. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

Joe Buck made a good living fencing stolen goods. But he was careful; he kept all his business at a long arm’s length; no matter how he tried, the Constable had never managed to charge him with anything.

‘Come and sit where it’s warm, man. Can I pour you a glass of wine? Ale?’

‘Nothing for me,’ Nottingham answered, settling gently on the delicate chair.

‘You’re looking well,’ Buck told him.

The Constable laughed. ‘I’m not and we both know it, Joe. But thank you. At least I’m back.’

‘And you’ve come to see me? I’m flattered.’ Buck spread his hands wide, the skin scrubbed clean and respectable, nails clipped short.

‘Don’t be. I’m here because you’re going to help me.’

‘Oh?’ The fence asked with interest.

‘The children we found yesterday.’

‘That was awful,’ Buck said sadly. ‘There’s no hell bad enough for whoever did it. What do you want from me, Constable?’

‘I’m not going to bugger around, Joe. I want you to tell all those thieves you deal with to watch for someone in a grey suit and wig who calls himself Gabriel. And have them tell others.’

‘Gabriel?’

‘That’s the name he uses.’

Buck studied him shrewdly then nodded his assent. ‘I’ll let everyone know,’ he promised. ‘We need to kill scum like that.’

‘He’ll have his trial, Joe, the same as everyone else.’ The Constable gave a slow smile. ‘Just like you will some day.’

‘You’ll have to catch me breaking the law first,’ Buck grinned.

‘Of course.’ Nottingham stood slowly, leaning on the stick and wincing.

‘Not fully healed?’ the other man asked with concern.

‘Enough to do my job. Don’t worry about that.’

The deputy knew folk all over the city, and he went from one to another passing on the message. The morning passed quickly and hunger rumbled in his belly as he walked up Briggate, lost in his thoughts.

‘Spare a farthing, Mr Sedgwick?’

He stopped and looked down to see soldier Sam grinning up at him through a set of broken teeth. He begged on the streets, pushing himself around on a small wooden cart someone had made for him years before. He’d left his legs on a battlefield and now he displayed the stumps, daring people to pass him by without handing him a coin. Summer and winter he was out, and the deputy knew he made good money, enough to keep a room all to himself in one of the courts.

‘Got a family to feed, Sam.’

‘Aye, you do,’ he agreed. ‘How’s that little babby of yours?’

He grinned. ‘She’s grand. Nine months now and prettier than her mam.’

‘You’d better hope your Lizzie doesn’t hear you say that,’ he warned.

‘She’d be the first to say it.’

‘What about your lad? Haven’t seen much of him lately.’

‘He’s at the charity school now and doing well,’ the deputy told him with pride.

‘You watch, he’ll end up on the corporation.’

‘As long as he does better than his father, I’ll be happy.’ A thought struck him. ‘You heard about those little ones?’

‘Course I did, Mr Sedgwick. Terrible that someone could do that to them. You know what I’d do if I found him?’

‘Same as half of Leeds, Sam. You ever heard of anyone named Gabriel?’

The beggar thought for a moment. ‘No, I haven’t. Why?’

‘We think he’s the one who killed those children. Dresses in a grey coat and breeches and wears a wig.’

‘There’s too many dress plain round here, you know that.’

‘Keep your eyes open,’ he said. ‘If you see anything, let us know.’

‘I hear Mr Nottingham’s back.’

‘He is that.’

‘That’ll be a change for you after being top dog these few months.’

The deputy smiled. ‘Aye, and a welcome one. As far as I’m concerned he can keep all that responsibility. Look out for Gabriel, will you? And tell everyone else, too.’

He left, knowing that Sam would pass the word, and walked up to the White Swan at the corner of Kirkgate. The Constable was already seated at a bench, cradling a mug of ale, a bowl of stew in front of him.

‘Found anything yet?’ he asked as Sedgwick slid in across from him.

‘No one knows him.’ He ordered a pie and ale from the potboy, then said, ‘I talked to soldier Sam. He’ll talk to all the other beggars.’

Nottingham nodded his approval. ‘Joe Buck’s going to let all the thieves know, too. Gabriel’s not going to be able to fly far without someone spotting him.’

‘Still too late for five of them, though.’

‘And however many have gone before,’ the Constable said, letting the meaning hang in the air. He sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Think about it, John. I know Caleb said he’s only been coming around since summer, but I doubt this is the first instance. It might have been going on for years. He could have just been very careful.’

‘How do you mean, boss?’

‘I don’t expect he let the ones in the past go. He just hid the bodies well, the way he did with Jane and David.’

The deputy pushed the food away, his appetite gone.

‘Oh Christ,’ he muttered.

‘If they hadn’t been working on the bell pits we might never have known.’ Nottingham’s voice was tight in his throat. ‘I don’t think he’s growing careless. We were just lucky – if you can call it that.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘At least now we know he’s out there and we can catch him.’ His fists clenched tight under the table, nails digging hard into the palms. ‘Right, let’s go back to work. By tonight I want everyone in Leeds to know about Gabriel.’ The Constable rose and took hold of the silver-topped stick.