Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

‘Stop!’ he shouted, using his stick to push people away. A man was on the ground, curled in on himself, his hat a few yards away, dark wig close to his head. Someone raised his foot to kick and the Constable hit him sharply on the knee. ‘What’s going on here?’ When no one answered, he said, ‘You know who I am. You can give me some answers or spend tonight in the jail.’ He pointed at a fat man wearing a threadbare coat and sweating as if he’d worked half a day ‘You. Tell me.’

‘It’s him,’ he answered, trying to catch his breath. ‘It’s that Gabriel. He killed them children.’

The Constable glanced down. He knew the man’s face. He was Mr Sorensen, one of three Swedish merchants who’d arrived in Leeds ten years before. They’d set up in business and slowly established themselves, marrying local women and becoming part of the fabric of Leeds.

‘Why would you think that?’

‘Just look at him,’ the fat man answered with a smirk, and a few others nodded and murmured. ‘He’s got a grey coat and breeches and a wig. Listen to him, you can tell by the way he speaks. He dun’t sound right.’

He moved forward a pace and Nottingham raised the stick as a warning, smelling the heaviness of ale on the man’s breath. He knew all too well how the mood of a mob could shift in an instant. He needed to control them or there’d be more violence.

He picked out a spindly man with a long face at the front of the crowd. ‘You, what’s your name?’

Taken aback, the man answered without thinking, ‘Tom, sir.’

‘You think you can attack a man on the street?’ the Constable asked.

The man looked around the gathered faces and shifted uneasily. ‘We were arresting him,’ he said. ‘To get the reward.’

Somewhere, Nottingham could hear running feet. But the fog was too thick to see anything or even judge how far away they were.

‘No, you weren’t. If you’d carried on you’d have killed him. Do you want to hang for murder, Tom?’ He said the words evenly and let them have their impact. None of the crowd had moved back. They weren’t willing to listen, the blood lust had risen. The fat man was leering at him, ready to pounce forwards. He balanced the stick, ready to use it, holding it so the silver top would hurt whoever it hit.

‘Right, break this up.’ Two of his men came through the mist, swinging their cudgels ready for a fight. Now the odds had changed the swagger vanished from the small group, like air going out of a bladder.

‘Take this one to the jail,’ the Constable ordered. He looked around. ‘Any of you still here when I count to three will go with him.’

‘You can’t do that,’ the fat man protested.

Nottingham turned to him. ‘I just did it. You’re going to be charged with assault.’ He put his face close to the man. ‘This isn’t a city where you can take the law into your own hands. You’re going to learn that.’

His men took the fat man’s arms. Everyone else had vanished.

Carefully, he knelt by the merchant. The man was conscious. His nose had been broken and there was blood all around his face.

‘Can you stand?’

‘I think so,’ Sorensen answered, his voice so thick with pain and fear the Constable could barely make out the words. He hawked, spitting out some blood and two teeth, moving himself gingerly on to his hands and knees and staying there as he gathered his strength.

The Constable held him by the arm to steady him, giving Sorensen something to grab as he raised himself with a long groan. Nottingham bent and picked up the man’s wig and hat.

‘Why?’ The merchant moved his head slowly to clear it. ‘Why they do that?’

‘They thought you were Gabriel. The child killer.’

‘Me?’ Sorensen’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘But why?’

‘Because you’re wearing grey. Because you sound different. Because they all want the reward.’

‘So.’ He nodded and began to dust himself down.’

‘Do you want me to fetch the apothecary?’

‘No,’ Sorensen answered. ‘But help me home if you will, Mr Nottingham.’ He spoke in a curious accent, the native singsong of his words overlaid with the stony roughness of Leeds. He limped a few steps, grimacing, then set his mouth and tried to walk normally, still favouring his left leg.

‘I know Leeds,’ Sorensen said thoughtfully. ‘I been here ten years. I know people not so stupid always.’

‘Not always,’ the Constable agreed. ‘But twenty pounds is a fortune to many of them. And some of them don’t trust outsiders.’

The merchant shook his head sadly. They walked slowly up Briggate towards Sorensen’s new house at Town End, just beyond the Head Row. ‘Idiots,’ he muttered quietly.

‘You’re right,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘But remember they’re poor, they don’t know much.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘It’s not an excuse.’

‘Mr Fenton asked me to contribute to the reward. I said no.’ He turned to the Constable and raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe this is what I get instead,’ he said wryly.

‘Tell the mayor. He might listen to you.’

They parted at the merchant’s door. The man had a large home with a clean, spare front.

‘Thank you for coming when you did,’ Sorensen told him.

‘Send for the apothecary,’ Nottingham advised. ‘He can give you something so you won’t hurt so much later.’

‘You know?’ The man rubbed his jaw. Bruises were beginning to bloom on his face.

‘I do.’ He had too much experience of all that. He hesitated, then added, ‘It might be best if you didn’t wear anything grey or a wig. At least for now.’

The attack hadn’t surprised him. It was bound to happen sooner or later, for exactly the reasons he’d given Sorensen. It probably wouldn’t be the only one, either. All it needed was a single spark and there’d be other blazes like this, with no one around to stamp them out.

The mayor had offered the reward and he wouldn’t withdraw it now. Even an attack on a merchant like the Swede wouldn’t make him change his mind. Fenton wasn’t the kind of man who could admit he was wrong.

The fat man sat in the cell, eyes furious, face florid, the veins broken all around his nose. He stood as he saw the Constable.

‘You can’t do this to me.’ His voice was ragged and raw.

‘Sit down and shut up.’ He stared until the man reluctantly obeyed.

‘We was just trying to stop Gabriel,’ the man said, but all his power had gone.

‘Instead you set on an innocent man.’

The man said nothing.

‘You’ll be at the Petty Sessions tomorrow. No one’s going to give rough justice in Leeds.’

Sedgwick had a list of names and addresses of people someone thought could be Gabriel. He spent the afternoon going from one to the next. None of them was the man, and he knew they wouldn’t be.

Over the years he’d learned to trust the boss. If he said Darden was Gabriel, then he was. What he couldn’t see was how they were going to prove it and take him to the gallows. Even if they could find evidence, the mayor and the Corporation would protect him. They’d never let one of their own be found guilty of a crime like this.

How could they find out more? He wondered about Darden’s factor, Solomon Howard. He didn’t know the man but he’d seen him often enough at the cloth markets. He was prim, close to priggish. He always dressed well, more like a merchant than an employee, carrying an air of superiority with him.

In his late forties, he was Darden’s man through and through, and had been for years. No one knew the merchant better. He’d be privy to many of the man’s secrets. But Howard had always struck him as a brittle man, with little backbone under the thin veneer. How would he react if they began questioning him?