Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

The Constable stared at him. ‘I’ll do my job, your Worship. The one the city pays me to do.’ He gave a small bow and left.

He needed to calm his temper before seeing Darden. After seeing the mayor his blood was hot, and it needed to be cold as January for the encounter. He let the fog swallow him, drifting down Briggate to Leeds Bridge. Sounds were muffled, even the creak of carts as they approached, and people came and vanished like ghosts in a dream.

The water rushed by, a few yards below him, with a noise as deep as the devil’s laughter. He leaned on the parapet and watched it, roiling and curling around the stanchions, until the anger had passed. Then he cut through to Vicar Lane to the house that had been in Darden’s family for generations.

The limewash had been renewed recently, still a bright, glowing white against the dark timbers. The windows were small and old, the door heavy, worn oak. At the side of the building a cobbled path led to the warehouse where Darden had his business.

He’d had few dealings with the man over the years; he’d maybe met him three or four times, and they’d never spoken long enough for him to gain a solid impression beyond the sense of wealth and power that surrounded him like perfume.

Nottingham let his fist fall on the door three times and waited. Soon he could hear a rush of footsteps and then he was looking at the harried face of the servant who’d appeared at the jail.

‘Yes, sir?’ the man asked as if they’d never seen each other before.

Nottingham smiled. ‘I’m the Constable of Leeds. I’d like to see Mr Darden.’

He entered the hall and waited while the servant went into a room, hearing the small murmur of voices. Then he was shown into a parlour where Jeremiah Darden sat in his chair, a copy of the Mercury spread over his lap. He took off his spectacles, a quizzical look on his face. There was an air of cleanliness about him, but the rich always looked clean and smelt of sanctity, Nottingham thought. Dirt never clung to them.

‘Constable?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Nottingham answered.

‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Yes. You’ve heard what happened to the children?’

‘The ones in the bell pit? Of course.’ He folded the newspaper and dropped it on the floor. Even seated he was a big, powerful man, his hands large, thighs thick in a pair of pale blue breeches, his hose pure white, shoes polished, silver buckles sparkling in the light from a hot fire. ‘What’s that to do with me?’

‘Where were you a week ago Saturday?’ the Constable asked, keeping his eyes on Darden’s face.

The man sat and thought. ‘Was that when they had the cockfight at the Talbot?’ he said after a few moments.

‘Yes.’

‘Then that’s where I was.’ He gave a small, bemused chuckle and rubbed his chin. ‘The first time I’ve ever been, if you can believe that.’ There was no sign of worry or hesitation.

‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘Not especially. I only went because my factor’s been saying for years that I should see it. I finally gave in.’ He snorted. ‘I lost a guinea and came home with blood on my coat from the damn bird. Anyway, what does that have to do with those children?’

‘You’ve seen the posters the city put up?’

‘Of course. I’ve given a pound towards the reward myself. Fenton came calling on me for money.’

The man had complete confidence, Nottingham thought. Pride seemed to seep from every pore. Most people would be nervous if the law came asking questions, but Darden acted as if it was the most normal conversation in the world, with nothing at all to hide.

‘It’s brought out plenty of people wanting the reward and giving us names.’

‘I still don’t see how that brings you here, Constable.’

‘Yours was one of the names.’

For a second the man’s face darkened, as if his temper was about to explode. Then he gave a long, deep laugh. ‘Me? And you believed them?’

‘We’re following up on everything,’ Nottingham said genially.

‘Well, there’s nothing here for you. If you don’t believe I was at the cockfight, ask my factor, Mr Howard, or whoever it is that owns the Talbot. They’ll tell you.’

‘I will,’ the Constable promised and smiled. ‘After all, I have to do my job.’

Darden stared at him as if trying to see a deeper meaning in the words, then gave a curt nod. ‘Next time try using a little intelligence, though. You should know better than to suspect a man like me. Good day, Constable. I don’t imagine you’ll need to return here.’

Outside, the fog wreathed around him as he walked. Darden had attempted to be polite, but there had been something beneath that, a deep disregard, arrogance, as if the man had believed himself above everything. He’d never asked about the children, never mentioned them, as if their deaths were nothing at all to him.

And he’d lied about being at the cockfight, the Constable was certain of that, just as he was sure that if he returned to the Talbot tomorrow, Bell would remember that the merchant had been there after all. And Solomon Howard was Darden’s factor, the man closest to him. He’d worked for and with the man for years now; he’d say whatever he was bidden to say.

In his gut he now believed that Darden was Gabriel. Proving it – even being allowed to try – would be another matter altogether. And the man knew that full well. He believed he was untouchable.

‘John, I want Holden watching Darden every day. He’s the best we have. Tell Rob to assign another of the men to cover nights.’

‘Yes, boss.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

‘I am,’ Nottingham replied with certainty. He frowned. ‘He’s clever, though. Didn’t even blink at the questions, answered everything perfectly naturally. And at the end warned me not to come back.’

‘What? He threatened?’

The Constable shook his head. ‘Nothing as obvious as that. He just gave me a very strong hint that I should consider him above suspicion.’

‘So how are we going to prove any of this, boss?’

‘I’m going to find Caleb and have the lad take a look at him. He’s seen Gabriel, he can tell me if it’s Darden.’

‘And if it isn’t?’

‘It is,’ Nottingham said.

‘What about all these people giving us names? If I’ve had one this morning, I’ve had twenty of them.’

‘Do what you can and pass the rest to the men to look into. They’ll all come to nothing, anyway.’

‘What about the mayor?’

‘I’ll tell him we’re looking at everything.’ He gave a sly grin. ‘It’ll be the truth. We will be, just not quite the way he wants.’

Sedgwick glanced out of the window. ‘With this fog Holden will have problems following Darden. It’s not going to clear today.’

‘I don’t care if he knows we have someone on him. He won’t be doing anything stupid.’ The Constable pushed the fringe off his forehead. ‘I want him to know we’re there.’

‘He’ll go to the mayor, boss.’

‘Let him.’ He rummaged through a small pile of papers on the desk. ‘Do you have anything more on those recruits who vanished?’

‘Bugger all.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘I went back again. No one will admit to letting them go and they didn’t leave without help. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere on it.’

The bell at the Parish Church sounded for noon, the noise deadened by the fog.

‘Come on,’ the Constable said, ‘let’s go next door to the Swan and have dinner. See if the world looks any better with a full belly.’

Nottingham walked down Briggate, the chill of the fog seeping through to his bones. His greatcoat felt damp to the touch, tiny drops forming on the wool. In the distance he could hear shouting; he moved faster, following the sounds down towards Swinegate. As he turned the corner the noise grew louder, a babble of voices yelling obscenities and threats. He charged forward, shouldering men aside until he reached the middle of the mob.