Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

He played with the idea, keeping it at the back of his mind as he worked. By the time evening gathered he’d talked to almost twenty men, none of them remotely like Gabriel, rag pickers and labourers, clerks, shopkeepers on Briggate. But however much he hated it and saw it as a waste of his good time, he knew it had to be done. There were more names for Rob later, and this would go on for days yet.

He completed his final round, the fog still thick as a blanket around him. His feet ached, his mind was weary, and all he wanted was the quiet love of his family at the house on Lands Lane.

The fire was burning low and no one was downstairs when he entered. Surprised, he climbed the stairs. Lizzie was bent over Isabell’s crib, while James stood close by. The fear in the room was so powerful he could have touched it.

‘What is it?’ he asked, his voice hushed. Lizzie turned and he saw terror on her face.

‘She’s burning up, John.’ Lizzie sounded on the edge of desperation. ‘She’s been getting hotter all day. I’ve tried everything.’ There were tracks on her cheeks where she’d been crying, haunted smudges under her eyes. James just stared at his little sister. The baby’s face was red, but she was quiet. ‘Do something, John, please,’ Lizzie begged.

He ran.

He pounded through the fog, hearing the wet slap of his feet on the ground, all the way to Kirshaw the apothecary’s house. He kept hammering on the door until a servant came, and asked breathlessly for the master.

As soon as he saw the man the tumble of thoughts and horrors cleared in his brain. ‘I need you at my house,’ he said firmly. The apothecary knew him, he did enough work for the city.

‘Who is it?’

‘My little girl. She’s been on fire all day.’

The man frowned. ‘All day?’

‘Aye. You have to come now.’

Kirshaw nodded. ‘I’ll get my bag. Go home, Mr Sedgwick, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

The deputy took a deep breath, caught between the need to be with his family and dragging the man along.

‘As soon as I can,’ the apothecary repeated gently. ‘I promise you.’

He nodded, turned on his heel and ran again until his lungs burned in his chest. He saw Isabell, dying, dead, felt the hole that would consume his life if she was no longer there.

‘He’s coming,’ he told Lizzie and held her close, his other arm around James’s shoulders. He wanted to tell them that everything would be fine, that Isabell would soon be crying and laughing as if nothing had happened. But even as he tried, the words caught in his throat and he knew he couldn’t speak them. He couldn’t feed those lies to the people he loved. He knew the truth, he’d seen the anguish on too many faces as tiny coffins were buried in the churchyard.

Lizzie felt stiff, rigid under his touch, as if she was scared to move. He heard the knock at the door, and pushed James away to answer it. Then the apothecary was there with his calm manner, easing them aside and bending over the cradle. The deputy watched Kirshaw’s fingers stroke the baby’s face and look into her eyes. Lizzie reached out and gripped his hand tightly. He looked at her and gave a tight smile that she couldn’t return.

The apothecary took his time, wetting a cloth and wiping Isabell’s forehead. Sedgwick held his breath, willing the seconds to pass quickly, for the man to say something, to offer some comfort.

Then Kirshaw stood, wiping his hands slowly on the cloth. He was a tall man, withered and stooped with age, his beard grey and bushy, his mouth pursed and thoughtful.

‘How long has she been like this?’ he asked.

‘It started this morning,’ Lizzie answered in a bare, fractured croak.

‘Before that?’

The deputy tightened his fingers around hers.

‘She seemed fine yesterday. Maybe . . .’

‘What?’ said the apothecary.

‘A little scratchy in her throat,’ Lizzie told him.

He nodded, then began to pace in the cramped room. ‘I’ve seen quite a few cases like hers. She’ll live-’ Sedgwick felt relief course through him ‘-but she’s going to be like this for another day, maybe two. She’ll stay very hot. You must keep wiping her with a cold, wet cloth. You must.’ He stared at them to make sure they understood.

‘What about after that?’ the deputy asked him. ‘What then?’

The apothecary brightened. ‘The fever will go, very quickly, and she’ll start to get spots.’

‘Spots?’ The tremor had returned to Lizzie’s voice.

‘They’ll last a few days and it will all be over,’ he assured her. ‘But you have to keep her cool while she’s like this,’ he repeated. ‘It’s vital. If anything bad happens, send for me.’ He stooped to pick up his bag.

‘What could happen?’ He needed to know. Kirshaw hesitated before replying.

‘Tell me, Mr Sedgwick, have you seen anyone have a fit?’

He had, and the quick madness of it terrified him. ‘That could happen to her?’

‘It might,’ the apothecary answered carefully. ‘If it does, send someone for me immediately.’

‘Thank you,’ Sedgwick said. He followed the man downstairs and stood by the door as Kirshaw pulled the heavy greatcoat over his scrawny body.

‘She’ll recover, with God’s blessing,’ he said, clapped the deputy on the shoulder and was gone. One of the few benefits of being a Constable’s man was that he didn’t have to pay the apothecary; Kirshaw made enough money from the city.

Upstairs, Lizzie was gently bathing Isabell with cold water from a basin. He stroked her hair.

‘She’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘You heard what he said.’

Lizzie turned her heard, her face anguished, tortured. ‘But what if she’s not, John? What if she has one of them fits?’

The thought was full in his mind, too. ‘Then we’ll send for Kirshaw again.’ He sat on the bed and pulled James close. ‘Don’t worry, lad, she’ll be back to herself in a few days. I promise.’

The boy nodded, his eyes more hopeful than convinced.

‘You go off to bed,’ Sedgwick told him. ‘There’s school for you in the morning.’

‘Yes, Da.’

They kept a single candle burning in the corner, the tallow smell thick and greasy in the room, and took it in turns to wipe down the baby. Finally he said, ‘You try and sleep for a while.’

‘Sleep?’ Lizzie said, as if it was a new word she’d never heard before. ‘I can’t do that, John. Not now.’

But she did, rolling and restless, muttering words too low to make out while he tended his daughter. He could see the pain on his little girl’s face, and when her eyes opened the questions she had for him that she didn’t have the words to ask. He soothed her and stroked her with the cloth and sat back as she drifted away for a few minutes.

Outside, he could hear all the small night noises of Leeds, the lonely set of footsteps, the voice that drifted on the air from somewhere. He could identify the hours by their sounds. Another few more of them and he’d be back at work, chasing down more worthless tips while his mind stayed here.

The Constable looked at him and said, ‘You look like you haven’t slept, John.’

‘I haven’t,’ he answered, rubbing at his gritty eyes with the back of his hands. He explained why. ‘Lizzie’s looking after her now.’

‘Any change?’

‘Not yet,’ he answered quietly. He ached inside for his daughter, caught in so much fear and distress, with no understanding of what was happening to her.

‘You know what to do today.’

‘What about Darden?’

Nottingham sat back and pushed the fringe off his forehead just as Rob entered.

‘Tomorrow’s market day. I’ll try to find Caleb again. He knows more than he told me, I’m sure of that. I’d like him to take a look at Darden. If he identifies him . . .’