Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

‘We’d better hurry up,’ he told her. ‘It’s going to rain soon.’

‘You’ll be soaked tonight.’

Rob shrugged. It came as part of the job. His good greatcoat and a hat would keep him dry enough. At least there’d be little crime if it poured.

A shout made him turn. He saw the landlord of the Crown and Fleece gesturing at him.

‘You work for t’Constable, don’t you?’ the man shouted.

‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘but-’

‘I need thee, lad.’

He looked helplessly at Emily.

‘Go on,’ she said with a smile. ‘Come along after if you can. Mama will have made enough for you.’

He watched as she turned away, then he strode towards the inn. ‘What is it?’ he asked with a sigh.

‘In the stable.’ The landlord gestured with a thick arm.

As soon as he was inside he could smell it, the thick, awful stench of decay.

‘Aye, that’s it.’ The man folded his arms. ‘The boy forked out some hay a few minutes back and suddenly the stink was everywhere.’

Rob glanced up at the loft, then took a piece of linen from his coat pocket and tied it around his face.

The stable boy had dropped his fork on the straw. Rob picked it up and began to dig slowly. There was much less of it than the last time he’d been here, no more than two feet thick on the platform; he’d never imagined horses ate so much. He tried to breathe through his mouth as he worked, just taking in small gulps of air. In two strokes the tines pushed against something soft, and he started to clear the hay.

All that remained of them were scraps of clothing, clean white bone and some stinking, sickly flesh that the rats had left. He gazed at them for a moment then climbed down, walking out into the yard before gulping in the air. The rain had begun and he lifted his head to feel it clean against his face. They should have dug deeper when they were searching, he thought. They hadn’t done their job well.

‘You’d better go for the coroner,’ he said.

By the time Brogden arrived the rain was a deluge, the ground full of dark puddles.

‘Where?’ he asked, holding a scented handkerchief against his face.

‘Up there.’

It took the man less than a minute to return. ‘Dead,’ he said quickly and scurried back outside, bending to puke on the cobbles before dabbing delicately at his mouth.

The landlord stood behind the trestle, drinking deep from a mug. He poured another and passed it to Rob without a word. The fire was blazing in the hearth. As soon as word of the corpses passed round this place would be full of men drawn by the gossip.

‘I’ll bring some men to move the remains. They’ll need something to clear their throats after, though.’

‘Aye, lad.’ The man nodded without looking at him. ‘I’ll see to it, don’t tha’ worry there.’

Rob watched the men carry the remains of the recruits away to the paupers’ graves beyond Sheepscar Beck. He held on to a pair of small leather satchels. Each contained a change of old clothes and a few hard-saved coins. No letters, not even a pen, and no idea of where they’d come from.

He could easily imagine how they’d died. A cold night, a few drinks, and they’d have burrowed into the hay for warmth. Down there they’d have slept but found no air to breathe. They’d gone deep enough that it had taken this long to discover them as feed had been tossed down to the horses.

There had been no devils, no one setting them free in the night. The answer had been simple in the end. And one they should have found long before.

‘Get rid of that hay,’ he advised the landlord, ‘and scrub down the loft before you put any more in.

They were standing in front of the stable, the doors wide open to air it. The wave of rain had passed, but more was in the air.

‘I can’t believe it. They were only sleeping there.’ The landlord shook his head.

The Crown and Fleece would be famous for a few days. Folk would come to drink and see where the two recruits died. Tragedy was always a good spur to business.

Then the rain returned, a sweeping onslaught from the west that soaked him before he’d even reached the jail. He banked up the fire and hung his coat over a chair to dry before settling to write up the discovery of the bodies.

He stood by the window, watching the drops bounce off the road. With luck there’d be nothing else to drag him out from here. He’d complete his rounds before dawn. The river would be up, pushing hard against the banks. The way the night had gone so far it would be his luck to find another corpse in the river.

He thought back to Sunday afternoon. He’d met Emily after church and they’d walked along the river to Kirkstall Abbey. All the way out they’d prattled idly, about anything, everything, her eyes smiling and happy. They’d walked through the ruins for an hour before strolling back.

‘My father asked if we’d like to go over for dinner one Sunday,’ he said finally. For days he’d wondered how to tell her, trying to find something in their talks that would lead to it. In the end all he could do was blurt it out.

‘He did?’ she answered in surprise. ‘Was he serious?’

Rob nodded.

‘He asked me, too?’ She sounded suspicious. ‘The whore’s granddaughter?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Why does he want me there?’ she wondered. ‘So he can have a chance to humiliate me?’

‘I don’t know.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I wondered if it could be his way of saying sorry.’

They strolled quietly for a while as the shadows began to lengthen.

‘What do you think? Do you want to go?’ Emily asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted with a sigh. ‘If we did and he started . . .’ She looked at him expectantly. ‘If he did we’d leave and never return,’ he promised.

He’d eaten supper with Emily and her parents before returning to his lodgings. He stopped in front of the door, then turned and headed up Briggate.

His father was seated at the table scribbling notes in the margin of a book.

‘Twice in such a short time,’ Lister said wryly, taking off his spectacles and gesturing at a chair. ‘Sit down.’

Rob remained standing. ‘The last time I was here you invited us over one Sunday. Did you mean it?’

‘When have I ever said anything I didn’t mean?’ he asked with amusement.

‘And both of us?’

His father nodded. ‘Both of you.’

‘Will you be civil?’

Lister smiled. ‘I assure you, I shall be the soul of politeness. Does that satisfy you?’

‘If you insult her we’ll walk out,’ Rob warned.

‘There’ll be none of that at my table.’

‘Then we accept.’

He still wasn’t certain it had been the right decision. He looked at the rain running like a river down Kirkgate. It was done now. They’d dine with his parents next Sunday.

The rain had petered away again with the dawn, but the skies still weighed heavy, the colour of pewter, and the ground was thick with mud. Sedgwick moved through the crowds at the market, sellers crying their wares loudly, buyers haggling over the price. He had his eyes on a man who looked determined not to be noticed, watching him in case he cut a purse and tried to run.

‘Do you still want to talk to Smithson?’ Holden fell in step beside the deputy. ‘He’s in the Rose and Crown.’

‘I thought you were following Howard.’

Holden smiled. ‘He went to the warehouse when the cloth market finished. He’ll be there all day so I decided to go back to the house. Smithson’s bought a few things and now he’s enjoying a quiet drink.’

Sedgwick grinned. ‘About time I had a word with him, then.’

‘You won’t be able to miss him.’