Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

Williamson shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea, Richard. My father was still running the business then. All anyone told me was that he’d decided to resign from the Corporation. Why all the interest, anyway?’

‘It’s just something I’m looking into.’

‘How are you managing at your job?’ He nodded at the walking stick. ‘Does that help?’

‘It’s there when I need it.’ He smiled and stood. ‘Like my job, I’m better off with it. Thank you, Tom; don’t work too hard.’

‘Hannah’s doing her best to make sure I don’t. Now she wants me to take her to London.’

‘You’ll look the part of a society man down there, I’m sure.’

It had been another bad night, one when sleep came reluctantly, coaxed and persuaded and then only staying for the briefest times. Nottingham rose early, dressed and washed, found bread in the kitchen and ale in the jug to break his fast.

The evening before Mary had watched as he undressed, the candle flickering on the small table by the bed. She’d pointed out the scars on his body, all the batterings and bruisings of his life working to uphold the law. She’d counted seventeen, some so old he only had faint memories of how he’d acquired them, the most recent still livid and painful.

‘How many more, Richard?’ she asked sadly, running his fingers lightly over an ancient knife wound on his arm. She looked up at him, eyes filled with love and gentleness. ‘How many? And how bad will the next one be?’

He didn’t even try to answer. Each one of them had come with his job, each had its story, forgotten or not. He understood what she was asking, but he couldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear and they both knew it.

It had rained during the night, leaving the roads muddy before turning into a misting drizzle which lightly dampened his face as he walked to the jail. It was still dark, just the birds in the trees, their songs answering each other, the music loud and beautiful in his ears.

Lister was sitting at the desk, completing the night report.

‘What do we have?’ He held his hands out to the fire, letting the warmth soak into him. He seemed to feel the chill and damp more easily these days.

‘Three in the cells, boss. Two of them were drunk and fighting on Briggate, so we used the cudgels on them. They’ll be off to the Petty Sessions later. And another one that the men pulled out of the Aire before he drowned. He didn’t smell of drink.’

‘Trying to kill himself?’

Lister shrugged. ‘He was fast asleep last time I looked.’

‘You get off home, lad. Catch up on your rest.’

‘Is there anything more on those children, boss?’ He paused a moment. ‘They keep coming back to me.’

The Constable placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘That shows you take it seriously. Makes you human. Don’t ever lose that. If you do, it’s time to get out of this type of work.’ He gave a sigh. ‘I might have more later. We’ll see.’

The deputy’s face was strained when he arrived, flesh taut over his bones, eyes sunken in dark smudges of skin. He just shook his head in answer to Nottingham’s unspoken query.

‘Could be another day or more yet.’ He poured himself a mug of ale, drank and slammed the mug down on the desk. ‘All we can do is keep bathing her.’

‘How’s Lizzie?’

‘Dead on her feet. Torn apart.’ It was all he could bring himself to say of her desperation and the screams in her eyes.

‘How many do you have left on that list of names?’ the Constable asked.

Sedgwick pulled a folded piece of grubby paper from his pocket. ‘Ten,’ he answered. ‘They’ll all be pointless, you know that.’

‘Give it to me, I’ll look after it. Go home.’

‘Are you sure, boss?’

‘You did more than enough when I was gone. Come back when Isabell’s fever has broken.’

‘If.’ He knew enough to understand that the worst could happen. It so often did.

‘It will,’ Nottingham told him with confidence. ‘Go.’

The Constable was careful to reach the cloth market on Briggate just before the bell rang for the start of selling. The merchants were already there, waiting and gossiping in the middle of the street while the weavers made their last minute preparations, arranging and draping their cloth to best advantage.

Solomon Howard was off by himself, gazing down the street at all the lengths on display. They’d never met; none of the hedgerow scandals that flared up and died down around Leeds had ever mentioned him.

‘Mr Howard.’

The man turned, taken by surprise. ‘Good morning, Constable. A pleasure, sir.’ He had a deep, rich voice that was a contrast to his delicate features. His wig was black and carefully curled, falling artfully on to his shoulders and he wore a thick woollen greatcoat that hung open to display an exquisitely cut coat and breeches of wool dyed deep burgundy. The gold buckles on his shoes gleamed and his linen was spotless white. He stood taller than Nottingham, looking down his nose at him, wearing a smile like a worn fist. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I was hoping for a word with you.’

Howard raised his eyebrows. ‘Me?’

Nottingham smiled. ‘Perhaps you could come to the jail when the market’s finished. It’ll only a take a few minutes.’

Worry flickered briefly over the man’s face. ‘I’m very busy. I have appointments. I’ll need to pay the clothiers.’

‘I’m sure your clerks can do that, sir. And it won’t take long, I promise.’

‘Very well, then,’ Howard agreed with a sigh.

‘Thank you.’ He walked away just as the bell began to peal, and didn’t look back. The factor would spend the next hour wondering and sweating, distracted from his work. Others would be crowding round, asking their own questions, and the man would have no answers for them.

On the way to the jail he stopped at the Talbot. Bell was clearing the mugs and plates where the clothiers had breakfasted on their Brigg End shots of beef and ale.

‘Constable,’ the landlord greeted him warily.

‘Do you know Mr Howard?’

‘Solomon?’ Bell’s face broke into a grin. ‘Course I do. He’s been coming to the cockfights for years. Lost a pretty penny on them, too. Can’t gamble to save his soul, that one.’ He paused. ‘You’ve reminded me now. That time you were asking about . . .’

‘Yes?’ he asked, although he knew what the man was going to say.

‘I recall he brought Mr Darden with him. Does that help you?’ he asked with a smirk.

‘Thank you.’

It was no more than he’d expected. A few coins had changed hands and something that never happened was suddenly remembered. And that was the end of that tale.

He was sitting at his desk by the time the cloth market ended. All the papers sat in neat piles, the jug filled with ale. Five minutes later Howard arrived, glancing round the room with curiosity.

‘Sit down.’ The Constable smiled. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘What is it you want, Mr Nottingham? I told you, I’m a busy man.’ The factor sounded affronted, a bluff of anger.

‘Do you go to the cockfights, Mr Howard?’

‘The cockfights?’ Whatever he’d been expecting, that wasn’t it, Nottingham thought. ‘Yes, I do. Why?’

‘Have you ever taken your employer with you?’

‘Once.’ Confidence returned to the man’s face. ‘Just two weeks ago. He didn’t care for it. Ended up with blood on his coat. It’s ruined, it’ll never come out properly.’

‘At the Talbot?’

‘Yes. Ask Bell the landlord. He knows me, he’ll have seen us.’

The Constable smiled at the smoothness of the lie.

‘What do you think about Gabriel?’