Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

‘The two who’ve gone, what were their names?’

Grady needed to think for a moment before answering. ‘Thomas Lamb and Nathaniel Sharp.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s what they told me, anyway.’

He understood. Young men joined the army for more reasons than adventure. Escaping a wife, debt or the law could all send men to arms, and the names they gave often weren’t their own.

‘Where’s Andrew?’

‘I sent him down by the river to practise. We’re going down to Wakefield later.’ He shook his head as if he was trying to clear it. ‘What happened to them? I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t either,’ the Constable admitted. He smiled. ‘But I will.’

He walked down towards the Aire, passing through a ginnel then cutting over Call Brows and Low Holland, following the sharp tattoo of drumbeats. The boy was marching by the water, the drum hanging from his neck by a thick leather strap, large against his tiny body. He put up the sticks as Nottingham approached.

‘You’re very good on that.’ The boy eyed him warily but said nothing. The Constable gazed out at the water. ‘What do you know about the two who disappeared, Andrew?’

‘Nothing, sir.’ The boy looked up with guileless eyes. ‘Just that Sergeant Grady signed them up, sir.’

‘How long have you been with the regiment?’

‘Almost two years, sir.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Andrew said, but his words had no conviction.

‘Where do you come from, lad?’

‘York, sir.’

‘You miss it?’

‘Sometimes.’ He brightened for a moment. ‘But Gibraltar is warm.’

‘Tell me, what do you think happened to those two, Andrew?’

The boy didn’t answer at first, still staring at the Constable. ‘Don’t know, sir. Really, I don’t.’

‘Thank you. I wish you well in your travels.’

He walked back to the jail, still not sure if the lad was telling him the truth. He’d probably never know. The deputy was sitting by the desk, laboriously writing out a note.

‘Any luck, John?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Nothing,’ Sedgwick responded, his mouth tight with frustration. ‘He’s nowhere. No one knows him.’

‘He’s not the only one, it seems.’ He explained about the recruits, and a grin spread across the deputy’s face.

‘Devils?’ he laughed. ‘Someone felt sorry for them and let them out, more like.’

‘Go on down there and talk to the serving girls and the landlord.’

‘What about Gabriel?’

‘The Corporation’s offering a reward,’ he said flatly. ‘The posters are going up today.’

Sedgwick frowned and let out his breath loudly.

‘I warned the mayor,’ Nottingham continued.

‘Couldn’t he give us another day or two?’

‘The city needs to show it’s concerned,’ he said disgustedly, then picked up the quill pen and tossed it across the desk. ‘They don’t care about the children, you know that. They’re only bothered because people are angry.’

‘So what are we going to do, boss?’

‘There’s no choice. We’ll have to go through everything that comes in. It doesn’t even matter if we know it’s wrong.’

‘Every bastard in the city’s going to come through that door.’

‘I know that, John. But there’s nothing we can do about it. You’d better get down to the inn and see what you can discover. We’ll be busy enough later.’

Alone again, he sat back in frustration. He was no closer to finding Gabriel and he didn’t know how the two recruits had escaped. It wasn’t a good return to work. He ached all day and by evening he was exhausted, drained by what he’d done. And that had been precious little, he knew.

Perhaps Mary had been right when she’d suggested that he leave the job. It was in the slowest time of his recovery, when the days all seemed dark and clouded and she believed he’d never have good health again. But he’d been certain he needed this; he’d clung to it. Now, mired down this way, he wondered if he should have listened more closely to her.

He picked up the stick, the silver cold against his palm. A hot pie at the Swan would revive his spirits. Before he could reach the door it opened and a man glanced around nervously before ducking quickly into the jail.

He was tall, a worn old bicorn hat on his head, with the diffident, furtive look of a servant on his face.

‘You need the law?’ the Constable asked.

The man snatched off his hat awkwardly, holding it in front of him and kneading it nervously between his fingers. He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. The words would need to be teased out of him, Nottingham thought.

‘Has something happened?’

‘This Gabriel,’ the man said finally, his voice husky and barely there. ‘It’s real, what they say?’

‘It is,’ the Constable confirmed. ‘Do you know anything about him?’

The man bit his lip, as if unsure whether to continue. Finally he blurted out, ‘Aye. I think it might be my master.’

He looked sharply at the man, but the anguish on his face made it clear he was serious, torn inside. It had cost him a great deal to come here and say those words.

‘Who’s your master?’ He waited patiently, knowing the answer wouldn’t come easily.

‘Mr Darden,’ the servant said finally.

The Constable groaned inside. Darden was one of the city’s richest merchants, a man who’d served on the corporation. If he’d been killing children . . .

‘Why do you think he might be Gabriel?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice even and steady.

‘He has a grey suit and a wig.’

‘Plenty of men own those,’ Nottingham countered.

‘And he came home last week with some blood on his clothes,’ the man blurted out. ‘On the grey coat.’

‘Did he say anything about it?’

‘Claimed he’d been at a cockfight at the Talbot.’

That was quite possible. If Darden had been at the front of the crowd he could easily have been spattered in blood.

‘Why don’t you believe him?’

‘He’s never been to one before, and I been with him years now. ’Sides, he’s been different since.’

‘How?’ He sat again, listening closely.

‘He’s been quiet. He can’t seem to settle to owt. It’s not like him.’

‘Have there been any other times in the last few months when he’s seemed strange?’ The Constable thought of Jane and David, the two other children Caleb had told him about.

The man scratched at his head. ‘Nay. Not that I can remember right now.’

‘I know it’s not easy but you did the right thing in coming to tell me,’ Nottingham thanked him.

The man raised his eyes and gave a tight, wan smile that betrayed his pain. ‘I keep thinking of those little ones.’

‘Do you really believe it’s Mr Darden?’

‘I don’t know.’ He gazed at the floor. ‘That’s the truth. But he’s not been hissen for more than a week now, and that’s a fact. He gets up in the night and walks about the house. It just made me wonder.’ He moved the hat between his fingers again. ‘You’ll not say it were me, will you?’

‘I won’t say anything,’ the Constable promised. ‘I’ll look into it. And if it’s him I’ll arrest him.’

The man seemed satisfied with that. He gave a quick nod then jammed the hat low on his head and slipped out of the jail.

Jeremiah Darden. The man had money; he’d made a grander fortune than most out of the wool trade. For years he’d been an alderman until he’d resigned, paying a fine to leave office. There had even been vague talk about Darden becoming mayor, Nottingham recalled, but it had never happened.

His wife had died two or three years before, he remembered. The couple had three daughters, bonny girls, all respectably married off around the county, none of the sons-in-law eager to involve themselves in anything as dirty as trade. Darden still sometimes attended the markets at the Cloth Hall and on Briggate. He bought the occasional length of cloth, but most of the business these days was done by his factor and his coffers stayed full.