Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

‘Who do you think a magistrate would believe, boss?’ Lister asked.

The Constable gave a grim smile. ‘I know.’

‘What about the factor?’ Sedgwick asked. Nottingham stared at him. ‘They’re close, those two.’

‘It’s a thought.’ He considered the idea. ‘But he’s been with Darden for years. He’ll be loyal, I’ll put money on it.’

‘Push him a little. See what happens,’ the deputy suggested. ‘I’ll do it if you like.’

The Constable thought for a minute. It wouldn’t hurt to exert a little pressure. It would let Darden known that his station and his money wouldn’t see him home free.

‘No, I’ll do it,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll find him at the cloth market.’

‘In public?’ Sedgwick asked. ‘Boss . . .’

‘I’ll ask him to come here afterwards for a talk,’ Nottingham said with a smile.

‘I’ll wager he shows up with a lawyer.’

The Constable shrugged. ‘Let him. I want him worried, even if I don’t get anything from him.’ He looked at Rob. ‘Anything much during the night?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Come in early tonight if you can.’

‘Yes, boss.’

Nottingham grinned. ‘I imagine you have somewhere to be soon. Emily should be on her way to school.’

The lad blushed.

‘Off you go.’

‘Thank you, boss,’ Sedgwick said once they were alone again.

‘Right, you have work to do and I have the daily report to write.’

Sitting quietly at the desk, he flexed his fingers before picking up the quill and writing. It had been a bad night, the pain in his stomach making it hard to settle and sleep. He felt empty of emotion, carrying on only by the habit of years. Tomorrow he’d need to be sharp, and pray God rested again.

For now, though, he’d do his job, walk over to the Moot Hall with the report, then follow up on some of the tips that had come in. In his bones he knew there was nothing in them but he had to do his duty.

Martin Cobb glanced up as the Constable laid the report on his desk. ‘Mr Fenton wants to talk to you.’

He’d been wondering if Darden would talk to the mayor; now he knew.

‘Is he in?’

‘He is, you can go through,’ the clerk said, and returned to his papers.

A warm fire burned in the grate of Fenton’s office, hot enough for the man to take off his coat and display a waistcoat with designs of birds and flowers delicately picked out in colourful silk. His shirt was crisp white, the stock carefully tied at his neck.

‘Jeremiah Darden came to see me yesterday afternoon,’ he began. ‘He said you paid him a visit.’

‘I told you I planned on it.’

‘And I told you to tread very carefully.’ The mayor had iron in his voice. ‘He told me you as near as dammit accused him of being Gabriel.’

‘But I didn’t,’ the Constable countered. He was standing, hands gripped tight on the back of the chair.

‘And you’d bloody well better not.’

‘Why?’ Nottingham asked simply.

Fury flooded through the mayor’s face. ‘I’ve known Jeremiah Darden most of my life, I’ve done business with him.’ He brought his palm down sharply on the desk. ‘He’s no more capable of something like that than I am.’

The Constable eyed him steadily, saying nothing for a long time. Even if Darden was Gabriel and the truth came screaming at the door, Fenton and the others who ran Leeds would shut their ears. ‘What are you ordering me to do, your Worship?’ he asked finally.

‘I’m not giving you any orders, Nottingham.’ Fenton paused, choosing his words with great care. ‘But I’ll tell you something for nothing. There are some folk on the Corporation who thought you should have retired after you were hurt. They believe Leeds needs a new Constable. Going after Mr Darden won’t do anything to change their minds.’ He gave a curt nod of dismissal.

Briggate was lively, servants out and gossiping, the apprentices laughing with each other, shops with shutters wide, welcoming trade, an exotic mix of spices as he passed the grocer, leather displayed invitingly at the glover, the slop of bloody guts and innards at the Shambles, stray dogs fighting over the scraps.

So all the good aldermen were gathering around one of their own, Nottingham thought as he walked down the street. But the aldermen hadn’t seen the pain and the helplessness on the faces of the dead children. They hadn’t stroked the bruises, wiped away the coal dust where the corpses had been thrown away. And however much they offered as a reward, they didn’t care.

He turned on his heel and walked back to the Head Row. The first drops of rain hit his face as he opened the door to Garroway’s Coffee House. The smell was so thick it caught at the back of his throat, the air steamy and damp, windows misted over with condensation.

There were only a few men in the place, cups and crumbs scattered across the tables in front of them. Tom Williamson sat in his usual place close to the banked fire, two of last week’s London papers on the bench in front of him, the pages of the Mercury strewn lazily on the floor at this side.

‘You must be wanting something if you’ve come here, Richard,’ he said with a smile. ‘Come and sit down.’

The merchant was wearing another new coat and breeches, dark green velvet this time, cut to the height of London fashion, and a waistcoat whose design was shot through with silver thread. The clothes of a rich man, Nottingham thought as he settled, one growing richer by the day. Working hard and using his brain he’d taken his father’s merchant business and made it into something bigger and more prosperous.

‘Were you looking for me?’

‘I was,’ the Constable admitted. ‘You got your way with the reward, I see.’

Williamson had the grace to look shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry, Richard. It had gone too far, too many people believed it was a good idea. Has it been any help?’

‘Bugger all.’ He laughed.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘You could tell me about Solomon Howard, Darden’s factor.’

‘Solomon?’ The request took him by surprise. ‘You don’t think he’s-’

‘I don’t think anything, Tom,’ he replied quietly. ‘I just need to know about him.’

Williamson breathed in deeply, gathering his thoughts.

‘Well, he’s been Jeremiah’s factor for as long as I can remember.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘He’s good at his job, always seems to know what the markets abroad are going to want. And he’s vain, he looks more like a merchant than most merchants. Jeremiah pays him well, I know that. He’s more or less one of us, even if he doesn’t have his own business. And Jeremiah’s promised him the business when he dies.’

‘It won’t go to his daughters?’

‘No. Their husbands aren’t interested. They’d only sell it, anyway, and they all have money. So Solomon is very loyal.’ He gave a short bark of laughter. ‘As you can imagine.’

‘What’s he like as a man?’

‘Very dry,’ Williamson replied after a moment. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh. Never married, I do know that.’ He chuckled. ‘I doubt he could find a woman who’d put up with him, even for what he earns. I think the man spends most of his waking hours working.’

‘Most of us do,’ the Constable observed wryly.

‘You know what I mean. Solomon doesn’t have anything else in his life.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ the merchant replied. ‘I see him at the market and I’ve had dealings with him, but that’s as far as it goes. I’m not sure he has any friends besides Jeremiah. I’m not certain you’d exactly call them friends, either.’

‘There was some cloud over Mr Darden becoming mayor, wasn’t there?’ Nottingham decided to edge the question into the conversation.