Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

The Constable took his time looking for wounds. There were small scars on his arms, but nothing from any recent fights, and no stab wound on his chest. Slowly and tenderly he turned the boy, tracing the skin of his back to search for anything. Finally he parted the long hair, still soaked and full of the stench of the river.

‘That’s it,’ he said to Rob. ‘A lump. Someone hit him there, then he either fell into the river or he was pushed.’

‘Gabriel?’

The Constable looked up. ‘I don’t know. But Caleb was the only one we know who’d seen him. Did you set a man on Howard?’

‘Yes, boss,’ Rob replied.

‘Go and find him, I want to know what he saw.’

Left alone, Nottingham stared down at the boy, reaching out to close his eyes. He’d stopped believing the platitudes of the church when Rose had died. There’d be no seat at the right hand of God for Caleb, only the burn of lime on dead flesh in the unmarked grave of the poor.

He knew that any number of people could have killed the boy, for more reasons than he could count. But he had no faith in coincidences. This was Gabriel’s work, protecting himself; he was certain of that.

Outside, dawn was breaking, the light starting to clear. He rubbed the weariness out of his eyes and poured a mug of ale, sipping slowly as he tried to think.

The door opened and Rob returned, followed by Lake, the man who’d been watching Solomon Howard. Lake was a night creature, small with dark eyes full of secrets.

‘Did Howard go anywhere tonight?’ Nottingham asked.

‘To the Talbot, sir,’ Lake answered. His skin was sallow and heavily pock-marked, nose bulbous, the veins red and broken by drink.

‘Did you go inside?’

The man shook his head. ‘The folk in there know what I do.’

‘How long did he stay?’

‘An hour. Happen a bit longer.’

There were plenty of ways in and out of the Talbot; the landlord had made sure of that.

‘How did he seem when he left?’

Lake shrugged. ‘Nowt unusual. He went home and the house went dark a few minutes after that.’

‘Thank you.’

There was nothing he could use. And after his error with Darden he’d need to walk very carefully around Howard. No doubt the landlord would testify that the factor had been there and maybe even produce a whore he’d used. And perhaps it would be no more than the truth.

The time he’d spent recovering had dulled his senses. He’d been wrong about Darden, and now he was uncertain whether he dare trust his own feelings. Nottingham ran a hand through his hair and sighed, then began to pace around the room, trying to shake his thoughts into some kind of order.

He was no further along when the deputy arrived, smiling and eager to work.

‘Morning, boss.’

‘Isabell?’ the Constable asked.

‘The fever broke yesterday. Now she’s coming out in spots, just like the apothecary promised. I never thought I’d be so glad to hear a babby scream and cry.’ He gave a wide grin. ‘Why are you in on a Sunday, anyway?’

‘Someone killed Caleb. Rob pulled him from the river last night.’

‘Darden?’

‘He’s not Gabriel.’ He explained all that had happened.

Sedgwick snorted. ‘There’s three ways out of the Talbot that I know.’

‘We’ve got nothing on the factor, John. Nothing at all. I’ll wager you a shilling that the mayor’s going to call me in tomorrow and ask why I was questioning him.’

‘What now, boss?’

‘I want you to start asking around and see what you can find on Solomon Howard. And I’d better go home and get ready for church.’ He paused. ‘It’s good news about Isabell.’

‘It is. For a time there . . .’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know. Be thankful.’

He walked to church with Mary on one arm and Emily on the other. The morning was crisp, brisk, slate clouds scudding across the sky, the year dying slowly as winter came creeping. He dozed as Reverend Cookson gave his sermon, the words reaching him as a drone until his eyes closed.

Mary nudged him awake in time to stand for the final prayer. Glancing around, he saw other faces that looked as if they’d just been shaken from sleep. Outside, men coughed and cleared the dust from their throats, standing around awkwardly as their wives chattered merrily.

A hand closed tightly around his arm and pulled him away from the throng. Mayor Fenton wore the chain of office proudly over his coat, a polite public smile on his lips but his eyes hateful and furious.

‘I want you in my office tomorrow morning, Nottingham.’

‘Yes, your Worship,’ the Constable answered.

‘Have you caught him yet?’

‘No.’ For now, at least, he’d leave it at that.

Fenton snorted and turned away. ‘Tomorrow,’ he repeated.

‘What did the mayor want?’ Mary asked as they strolled home. Emily was talking to her friends before meeting Rob; they’d have the luxury of a house to themselves for a few hours.

‘What do they always want? He’s not happy with me.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll worry about it when I’m going to the Moot Hall.’

All the deputy could find was shreds of gossip and tittle-tattle. Solomon Howard hadn’t been born to money. He’d been a child who’d grown up around Briggate, the son of a draper with a shop down by the bridge. Not rich, but not without a penny, either.

Sedgwick had talked to a pair of men who’d known him back in those days. Even then he’d been one to keep to himself, they’d told him, solitary and silent, with a love of money, spending little and keeping his coins hidden.

His father had paid to apprentice him to another draper over in Bradford. It was no more than a handful of miles but the lad had rarely come back to visit his parents. When he did return to Leeds he was twenty and just appointed as Darden’s factor. He was young for the job but learned quickly from his employer. The young man had grown into well-cut coats and breeches and long, draped waistcoats shot through with thread that ached to be gold.

From there Sedgwick had chased ghosts of words. Howard had lived a quiet life. He’d never married and if he’d had any dalliances he’d been discreet enough about them.

Then someone had told the deputy about the whore. He found her in a gin shop, old before her time, the flesh of her face sagging as she nursed a small glass. Her chin was soft, the grey showing in her hair. He bought her another dram and she looked up with clouded, tired eyes. ‘Aye, there were a few of us he used. Me, Sally, Ann. He paid well enough. But he was a rough bastard for his money.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Tha’ knows.’ She blushed, a flush of surprising innocence. ‘He liked to hurt me when he did it.’ She held up her right hand; the little finger was crooked. ‘He did that. Broke it.’ She swallowed the gin. ‘None of us liked it when he came around, we’d not be able to work for a day or two after.’

‘Then why did you go with him?’ the deputy asked.

‘Because he paid as much as we’d make in a week, mister. You think any lass can turn that down?’

He ordered more gin for her, a small jug this time. She smiled, showing brown, broken teeth.

‘What does he do these days?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, love, but good luck to her, whoever she is. He dropped me as soon as I started looking old.’ She drank greedily and gave a short, hard laugh. ‘Not that anyone else wants to pay for me now, either.’

He left a couple of pennies on the bench for her. Another hour and she’d probably forget she’d ever talked to him.

The day was edging towards twilight, a damp, chilly mist beginning to form as Sedgwick walked along Boar Lane. There were few people about; candlelight shone through gaps in the window shutters as people settled in their homes for the night.