Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

‘I don’t know what I’d have done . . .’ she began.

He smiled at her. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he told her, his mouth against her ear. Not this time, he thought grimly. But Isabell was still a baby. How many died before they had a chance to grow? There might yet be a day when they were crying together.

He opened the shutters. The November light was grey and dreary, but at least it felt like life.

‘You sleep,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet James from school and give him the news.’

Lizzie squeezed his hand. ‘How did I get such a good man, John Sedgwick?’

‘You were lucky,’ he answered with a grin and tousled her hair. ‘You rest now. She probably won’t wake up for a while yet.’

Downstairs he placed his hands on the table, feeling out the scars in the wood. They’d been lucky. But how much luck could any family have? He stretched, easing the tension out of his neck then scooped up the crumbs of bread and the tiny pieces of cheese he’d left and ate them.

Nottingham waited. Soon, he told himself. Soon Holden would arrive and tell him. Once he had his evidence even the mayor and the Corporation wouldn’t be able to defend Darden. They’d have to give him up, to sacrifice him.

He stirred at every loud footstep out on Kirkgate, a small knot of pain that wouldn’t go away nagging around the scar in his belly. He tried to concentrate on other things but his mind kept drifting, seeing the faces of dead children.

The bell at the Parish Church rang four. Outside the afternoon had become twilight. Another hour or two and folk would be going home from work, a new urgency in their stride. And he waited.

He picked up the report on the missing recruits, scanning through it quickly in case he’d missed something before. There was nothing he could see; they’d simply disappeared somehow. It was a good trick, a way to escape the army and leave everyone guessing. They’d probably never know the truth of what really happened.

Finally the door opened and Holden walked in alone.

‘Well?’ the Constable asked. ‘Did you see him?’

‘He came out a short while back. That lad was perished after standing so long.’

‘What did he say?’

‘I’m sorry, boss. He said Darden isn’t Gabriel.’

‘What?’ He’d been so certain.

‘We saw him walk out of the door and down Vicar Lane. I was watching the lad’s face. He wasn’t lying, boss, I’m sure of that.’

‘What did Caleb say?’ The Constable asked urgently.

‘After Darden had gone, I asked him, and he shook his head. He told me he’d never seen the man before and that Gabriel was taller and not as old as Darden.’

‘What else?’

‘That was all, boss. He ran off after that.’

Nottingham sighed. ‘Thank you.’

‘Do you want me to keep following Darden?’

‘No, let it lie.’

He made the final round of the day, walking out along Low Holland where the new warehouses blossomed, small ships and barges tied up beside them to carry cloth down to Hull. Smoke rose from the chimney of the dyeworks in the distance, and the rank stink of the place hung in the air.

The Constable turned back. It was dark, and the clouds had vanished, leaving the air cold enough to make his breath bloom in front of his face as he passed the empty tenting fields, the path he’d followed so many times in his life.

How could he have been so wrong? Everything he knew had told him that Jeremiah Darden was Gabriel. Had he lost so much when he was away? He pushed the fringe of his forehead with a short, angry gesture. And if it wasn’t Darden, who was Gabriel?

At least the mayor would be happy.

He tried to think. Gabriel was taller and younger than Darden, Caleb claimed. The merchant was close to Nottingham’s height, no more than an inch between them. There were plenty in Leeds bigger than that. And younger. Darden was in his middle fifties if he was a day. But he could clearly remember the lad saying that Gabriel was old. What was old to a boy of that age?

He kicked at the dirt in frustration. They were right back where they’d begun.

Rob was at the jail when he returned, dressed in his good woollen greatcoat to go out and check on the night men.

‘You don’t need anyone watching Mr Darden now,’ the Constable told him. ‘That boy said he wasn’t Gabriel.’

‘So who is?’

‘I don’t know. Someone taller and younger, he says.’

‘There’s no shortage of them.’ Rob chewed his lip for a moment. ‘What about the factor?’

‘Howard?’

‘Yes.’

Oh, sweet Christ. Solomon Howard stood a good four inches above his employer and he was probably close to forty. Old but still younger. All his sharpness must have gone if he hadn’t been able to see that. He’d need to find Caleb once more and have him see the factor.

‘Put your man on him instead,’ he ordered. ‘And tell Mr Sedgwick I want Holden to follow Howard in the daytime.’

‘Yes, boss.’

The Constable smiled. The lad could go places. ‘Just keep the city in order during the night.’

Rob poked and pushed his way through the dark hours, keeping moving to stay awake. Sleep hadn’t come during the day; he’d thought over and over about his father’s invitation. What baffled him was the reason behind it. James Lister did nothing without a considered reason. Was the man offering his own kind of apology, or was there something darker beneath the words?

He’d said nothing to Emily yet. He wouldn’t until he believed he knew why his father wanted them there. The man rarely forgave and never forgot, and Rob had humiliated him when he moved into lodgings after they’d argued over Emily.

Saturday night had passed calmly with the usual number of drunks and fights that left blood on the floor. A few would wake in the cells, others would take time to heal, but no one had died.

Now Leeds was quiet, from Lands Lane to the other side of the bridge. Folk were in their beds, wrapped in darkness. The only footsteps he heard as he walked around were his own. He still clutched the cudgel tightly in his hand. He’d been taken by surprise before and it was never going to happen again.

The moon was close to full, bright in the cold, cloudless sky. He took a final turn down by the river, where the light shone like jewels on the water. Close to the bank, bumping back and forth in a small eddy, he made out a dark object.

He searched around for a thick branch and slid down right to the edge of the Aire, reaching out to poke and turn the bundle. It slipped and slid away from him, turning slowly in the current; then something rose and he could make out a hand.

‘Shit,’ he said quietly. ‘Shit.’

Rob tried to grab the body, and by the time he’d managed to haul it on to land his boots were soaked. He stood back, breathing hard, and saw the corpse was little more than a child. He knew what to do: he ran through the streets until he found one of the night men, and sent him off to fetch Brogden the coroner. And the boss needed to know about another dead boy.

It was another hour before they’d carried the boy back to the jail, covered with a stained old sheet. The Constable was already there, his face still puffy with sleep. He’d thrown on his clothes, not bothering with a stock, his hose mismatched.

He followed them into the cold cell they used as a morgue. ‘Where was he?’

‘About a hundred yards above the bridge. I haven’t had chance to examine him. I didn’t recognize his face.’

Nottingham peeled back the top of the sheet. The face looked peaceful, so young and clear, washed clean by the water.

‘I do. He was called Caleb.’