Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

For all that he’d retreated from public life, even Darden’s softest words spoke loudly in Leeds. The people with power paid close attention to all he said. He was friend to them all and banker to a few when they needed it, if the rumours were true. And that meant the Constable needed to move very carefully. An accusation against Jeremiah Darden, especially one like this, was very dangerous.

Hot food at the White Swan would have to wait. Instead, he marched down Briggate to the Talbot.

‘You didn’t slip down and let them out in the night, did you, love?’ Sedgwick asked with a sly smile.

The maid at the Crown and Fleece stared squarely at him. She was in her late thirties, hands red and raw from washing pots and sheets, face pinched from years of hard work, strands of grey in the hair that escaped from her cap.

‘No, I bloody well did not,’ she told him. ‘And if you call me love again you’re going to walk out of here with a slapped face.’

He held up his hands in apology. ‘Well, someone must have let them out. They didn’t just fly away.’ She glared at him. ‘I just thought you might have felt sorry for them.’

The maid snorted and pushed the sleeves higher on her fleshy arms. ‘If they were daft enough to believe that sod they can go and be a soldier for all I care.’

‘Could someone else have done it?’ he asked. She seemed the type to harbour a suspicion. ‘The potboy, a serving girl.’

‘Happen,’ she conceded, then her eyes flashed in triumph and she sniffed. ‘But the serving girl sleeps in the same room as me. She wasn’t up in the night, I can tell you that. And that stable lad could sleep through the day of judgement. It wasn’t him.’

It hadn’t been the landlord or his wife, either; after talking to them the deputy was certain of that. They were a couple who simply wanted a quiet, uneventful life, a road that ran straight before them all the way to the churchyard.

He’d walked around the stable, gone inside and climbed up to the loft where the hay stood at least almost as tall as a man, ready for winter. But he couldn’t see how the two recruits could have vanished without help, and it hadn’t come from the inn, he was certain of that. He didn’t know the answer and maybe he never would. As he left the inn he saw the sergeant and the drummer boy ahead of him, starting on their way to Wakefield. The soldier walked with his shoulders slumped, all the confidence gone from his stride.

The Talbot was crowded. Men filled the tables, bent over their dinners; the smell of stew filled the air, heavily spiced to hide the rancid taste of meat long past its best. But the food was cheap and hot and it filled the belly.

He walked up to the long trestle where the landlord was drawing ale and carefully avoiding his glance. The Constable waited half a minute then brought the silver tip of the stick down sharply on the wood. Every head jerked towards him.

‘Mr Nottingham,’ the man said with a forced smile. ‘I didn’t see you standing there.’ He wiped his hands slowly on his leather apron.

‘I’m sure you didn’t, Mr Bell. You worked hard enough not to. I want a word with you.’

‘We’re busy and the girl’s off ill,’ the landlord protested.

‘Then the quicker you give me answers, the sooner you’ll be serving again, won’t you? Down that end where it’s quiet.’

Bell kept glancing back, making sure everything remained orderly. The noise in the tavern slowly grew again.

‘Is this about them two who died?’ he asked. ‘I told that lad of yours, they were outside.’

The Constable didn’t reply. He kept staring at the landlord, making him uneasy. That way there was the chance of dragging a little truth from him.

‘They started fighting in here but I kicked them out, and that was an end to it as far as I was concerned.’

‘When did you last hold a cockfight?’

The question took Bell by surprise. ‘A week ago Saturday,’ he answered after a moment’s thought. ‘Why? Nowt wrong with that.’

‘Do you know Jeremiah Darden?’

‘The merchant?’ Bell asked warily. Nottingham nodded. ‘Aye, by sight, same as most in the city.’ He was on edge, uncertainty in his eyes as he refused to hold the Constable’s gaze.

‘Does he come to the cockfights?’

‘Him?’

‘Yes.’

Bell shook his head. ‘Never seen him at one in my time. Why?’

‘Was he at the last one you had?’

‘I just said-’

‘Yes or no,’ Nottingham asked. His voice was quiet but firm.

‘No.’

‘Then I thank you.’ He looked over the press of people wanting drink. ‘You can go back to your work now.’ As the landlord turned away, he added, ‘I’ll be back to talk about those two deaths another time.’

So Darden had lied, he thought as he returned to the jail. It could mean that the servant’s suspicions were right and the man was Gabriel. Or it could mean any number of other things. He stoked up the fire and sat for a while, drawing in the heat and trying to think.

He needed to talk to Darden; that was beyond any doubt. And he knew he had to inform the mayor first. It would be better to wait until tomorrow, after the reward had been announced. Fenton could bluster all he liked then, but he wouldn’t be able to stop the Constable following up on a tip.

By late afternoon men were pasting the posters on boards and buildings. The ink was still fresh enough to run, blurring the words, but no one could miss the amount the corporation was offering for the arrest of Gabriel. Twenty pounds. It would take most of the working men in Leeds more than half a year to earn that much. Some wit had pasted one of the posters to the door of the jail and he tore it off as he left, crumpling the paper and letting it fall to the ground.

There were more of the notices on the pillars leading to the White Cloth Hall. A man stood and read the words aloud to a crowd that broke into loud murmurs when he announced the reward. It would be like that all over the city, greed quickly clouding men’s eyes and minds.

They didn’t even notice Nottingham walk past as he headed out past the Parish Church towards Timble Bridge and home. The men with power could open their purses and offer enough to turn heads, enough to make it seem as if they cared, but they’d do nothing to help the children like Caleb or the people who saw Bessie’s camp as their only home.

‘What’s wrong?’ Mary asked as he walked through to the kitchen and held her close. He kept his arms around her, her cheek next to his, until he felt the anger inside begin to ebb and he could open his eyes again.

‘The Corporation’s put up a reward for the man who killed the children. Twenty pounds.’

‘Do they honestly believe that will help?’ she asked in horror.

‘They do,’ he answered sadly.

She shook her head in disgust. ‘Just leave them to it, Richard,’ she said. ‘Tell them you’re still not well enough. We’ll manage.’

He stroked her hair gently. ‘I can’t. You know I can’t walk out and leave John and Rob to deal with it all. I saw those children. I saw what Gabriel had done.’ He stepped back to look deep into her eyes. ‘I can’t walk away from them, either.’

‘I know,’ she said with a sigh of resignation. ‘I know you too well. But sometimes I wish you didn’t have duty in your veins. The city takes advantage of you.’

Rob saw the notices as he waited outside the dame school for Emily. People were talking eagerly about the reward on offer as they passed, how they’d spend it, imagining who they knew who might be Gabriel.

He leaned against the wall, hands pushed deep in the pockets of his greatcoat. Evening was starting to fall, the air bitter and damp against his face. No doubt folk would be out tonight, eager to name names and hope for the money. It was stupid.