Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

It was all different upstairs, among the Turkey carpets and the polish of the wood panelling. Servants had come in early to lay the fires, then disappeared as if it had all happened by God’s will.

Martin Cobb sat at his desk, sorting through a pile of papers. He smiled broadly to see the Constable.

‘Mr Nottingham, your timing’s excellent,’ he said genially. ‘The mayor just asked to see you. Go on in.’

‘Sit yourself down.’ The mayor nodded at the expensive chair, its legs so spindly and delicate they looked as though they’d never hold a man’s weight. The Constable lowered himself carefully.

Fenton was dressed in rich wool, a merchant who spent money on his tailoring, wearing his suit easily. The coat and waistcoat were cut to flatter, and his face was smooth and pink from a recent shave, but the skin under his eyes dark and puffy.

He was thumbing through the newest edition of the Mercury . On the desk there was a dish of coffee, carried down hot from Garroway’s on the Head Row, the aroma rich in the air of the office.

‘Have you found him yet?’ he asked, barely raising his eyes.

Nottingham placed his report on the pile of papers awaiting the mayor’s attention. ‘Not yet, your Worship.’

‘I heard you turned down the offer of a reward from the merchants.’ He folded the newspaper slowly and sat back. ‘Why?’

Nottingham considered his answer for a moment. ‘Because I want to find the man who hurt and killed those children, not someone whose neighbour has a grudge against him and thinks he can earn some quick money,’ he said calmly.

Fenton shook his head. ‘I disagree, Constable. Folk will see the city takes this seriously.’

‘We’ve been talking to people. We know more about him. He calls himself Gabriel, and he wears a full wig and a grey suit. By now most of the people in Leeds know that, too.’ His voice was earnest. ‘They’ll do what they can to help, and they’ll do it without the promise of money.’

‘We need to show people we’re concerned.’

The Constable sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to stop himself from shouting. ‘They already know that. Put up a reward and you’re only going to make our job much harder. We’ll have to follow up every hint or tip, and they’ll all be wrong.’

‘And what if one of them’s right?’ the mayor countered with a smug smile.

‘It’s unlikely.’ Experience had taught him that. ‘And I’d wager we’d get it without the money.’

‘It doesn’t really matter, anyway,’ Fenton told him flatly. ‘The Corporation’s agreed. I’m having the posters printed today.’

‘Yes, your Worship.’ It was a battle he’d already lost. Now he had to think how to make the most of the defeat.

‘Anything else, Nottingham?’

‘No.’

His face was grim as he walked down the corridor. He wanted to bang his fist against the rich wood and smash a hole in the wall. At least once he was outside the cold of the wind and the blood stink from the Shambles seemed real.

As soon as the notices were up people would start coming forward, hoping to snatch at the wealth. And he knew they’d need to check each word and suggestion, just in case. It was all they’d have time to do. He made his way back to the jail, and pushed the iron deep into the coal to let the blaze rise.

He knew he’d done all he could. He’d find the bastard.

The door flew open. The recruiting sergeant entered, his uniform neatly buttoned, the scarlet of the coat brilliant in the dull colour of the jail. The drummer boy slipped in behind him.

‘You’re the Constable?’ the sergeant asked. Nottingham nodded, pulled from his thoughts. The soldier looked fearful. ‘My recruits have disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’ He didn’t understand. ‘What do you mean? They’ve run off?’

‘No,’ he replied and then shook his head in confusion, pushing his lips together. ‘I don’t know. They were in the stable and the door was locked. When I went in for them this morning they’d gone.’

‘And the door was still locked?’

‘Aye, good and tight. I turned the key myself last night and opened it a few minutes ago.’ He voice was wary. ‘There’s a devil in there.’

‘Let’s go and take a look, Sergeant . . .’

‘Grady. Daniel Grady.’ The man straightened his back.

‘And what’s your name?’ the Constable asked the drummer.

‘Andrew, sir.’

The lad wore old clothes that had been made for a bigger boy, and a pair of drumsticks was thrust through a worn leather belt. His face and hands had been roughly cleaned, the skin shining and red. But his boots were good, almost new and highly polished.

Nottingham rose, gathered his stick and smiled. ‘Crown and Fleece, isn’t it?’ he asked.

The sergeant had locked the stable door and lowered the wooden bar.

‘This is how you left it last night?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Grady said. ‘I went to me bed early. The two lads had been drinking, and I knew they’d be warm enough in here with the beasts.’

‘Let’s see inside.’

The horses whinnied as the door was drawn back to let light into the stable. The air was warm and moist, full with the smell of horse shit and hay. The Constable stood and glanced around the building. There were no windows, and the animals were confined in their stalls. A ladder led up to the hayloft.

‘Have you checked up there?’

‘I sent the boy up,’ Grady answered and Nottingham turned to Andrew.

‘There was just hay, sir,’ the boy said shyly. ‘No sign of anyone.’

He walked around the outside of the stable, searching for another door or any place the recruits could have escaped. There was nothing. The place was only a few years old, the Yorkshire stone still a soft golden colour, the roof on tight with no gaps.

The sergeant looked haunted, confronted by something far beyond his understanding. He moved awkwardly from foot to foot, turning his head from side to side as if he might spot the recruits hiding somewhere in the yard.

‘Andrew,’ the Constable said, ‘go up to the loft again and look in the hay.’

‘Yes sir.’ The lad moved quickly, used to obeying orders as soon as they were given.

‘Kick around in the straw,’ he added. Nottingham doubted the boy would find anything, but he wanted to be thorough, and he knew he couldn’t climb up there and back down himself.

‘Nothing here, sir.’

Grady was still in the yard. He glanced up expectantly.

‘Well, Sergeant,’ Nottingham said with a sigh. ‘You were right, they’ve disappeared.’

‘I told you there were devils here.’ The soldier stalked off. The drummer boy looked blankly over his shoulder at the Constable for a moment, then followed.

There were no devils in Leeds, least of all at an inn like this, Nottingham thought. Something had happened. The recruits had managed to escape. The drummer boy could have unlocked the stable door for them, or even a serving girl. He’d need to talk to the landlord and try to pull Andrew aside before the sergeant left. There’d be an answer, he was certain of that, something simple and straightforward. The young men might have gone, but they hadn’t simply vanished into the air. No one did that.

It was the last thing he needed. Finding Gabriel was all that mattered, not hunting down a pair who’d likely thought better of their futures after taking the King’s shilling. He spent another five minutes searching inside and outside the stable, the horses snorting uncomfortably as he prowled around the building. Finally he stood thoughtfully in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, before striding into the inn.

The sergeant sat at a table, idly moving a mug of ale across the wood.