Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

He was right. Smithson was sitting on a bench, elbows resting on the table. He had wide shoulders, no neck and wrists as thick as some men’s thighs.

‘Hello, Hugh,’ the deputy said, settling down across from him. ‘It’s been a long time. Staying out of trouble?’

The man nodded warily.

‘That’s a good cut of cloth,’ the deputy continued, reaching across and fingering the collar. ‘Still, I hear you have a position now.’

Smithson grunted.

‘Good employer, is he, Mr Howard?’

The man put down his glass and focused on the deputy. ‘Aye, good enough. He pays well. What about it?’

‘Doesn’t look as if he works you too hard.’

‘I do what he wants.’

The deputy had forgotten the way that Smithson’s voice sounded as if it had dragged over gravel. ‘Much time off?’

‘Every Sunday.’

‘All the servants?’

‘Aye, both of us. Why?’

‘I’m just curious.’ He smiled. ‘You see much of Mr Darden?’

Smithson sat back and folded his arms. ‘What do you want to know for, Mr Sedgwick?’

‘I want to make sure you’re well looked after, Hugh. Can’t have anyone taking advantage of you.’

‘Mr Howard would never do that.’

‘Did you tell him about your past?’ the deputy wondered. ‘I know we never proved it but we were sure you were guilty.’

‘That was a long time ago,’ the man demurred.

‘You’re an honest, hardworking man these days?’

‘I am that,’ he answered proudly. ‘You ask anyone.’

‘So if I happened to see Mr Howard and mentioned that we thought his servant had once battered someone to death it wouldn’t matter to him?’

Smithson’s face set firm. ‘That would be slander.’

‘It would only be what we thought.’ He paused. ‘Although perhaps he might let you go after learning that. No more wages or time to slip away for a drink. No more Sundays off.’

The man sighed. ‘What do you want?’

‘Tell me about your employer. He likes his whores, from what I hear.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ His mouth set in a tight line.

‘There’s a lass who works in the house, too.’

Smithson chuckled. ‘She’s forty if she’s a day. Hardly a lass.’

‘How is he with her?’

The man shrugged. ‘Same as he is with me. We know our place and he treats us fairly.’

‘And what does he do when you’re not there?’

‘I’ve no idea, Mr Sedgwick. I’m not there.’

‘Does he go out much?’

‘Aye, he’ll go to the cockfights or an assembly sometimes. Most days he’s working until after dark.’

‘He must be a rich man.’

Smithson drained the mug and stared at him. ‘Anything else, Mr Sedgwick?’ He started to rise, tall and menacing.

‘Nothing. But it’s good to know where we can find you, Hugh.’

He watched the servant leave, forced to bend his head slightly to go through the door. Smithson was clever enough not to mention the meeting to his employer; it could only bring questions the man would rather not answer.

For all that, he hadn’t learned anything other than Howard was generous, giving them every Sunday off. There was plenty a man could do with a whole day in an empty house.

The Constable had seen Rob in the morning, still bedraggled from his rounds, hair hanging in tangles around his face.

‘Emily said there was something at the Crown and Fleece.’

‘We found our answer.’

Nottingham listened with a frown, then said, ‘We should have done more there.’ He sighed. ‘Go on home and dry off.’

He’d taken the daily report to the Moot Hall and strolled down Briggate for the cloth market. Howard and Darden were standing together, discussing something intently. He raised his hat to them and continued down the street, feeling the anger of their gaze hot on his neck.

At least fewer people were pursuing the reward for Gabriel; the novelty of it had passed. There were just three new names and he could strike one of those immediately. Old Jeffrey Halton could scarcely walk down the street and his hand shook so hard his wife had to feed him. But there’d be other tips coming in. Folk didn’t easily forget a sum like twenty pounds.

He bought a pie from the seller at the market, spotting the deputy in the distance, a full head taller than most of the people bobbing along the street. Quietly, he slipped through the opening and into the court where he’d met Caleb.

The ground was thick with mud from the rain, the stink of rubbish stronger than ever. The Constable leaned against a wall that was heavy with slime. The sounds of the market seemed muted and distant, a world apart from here.

He waited, hoping that one of the children would come. It was unlikely, but he had to try. He needed to be able to talk to them, to know if Gabriel returned and if any more of them disappeared.

The church bell tolled the quarter hour, then the half, and he was still alone, the pie growing cold in his hand. Finally he moved away, ready to return to the bustle of Briggate.

‘Wait.’

He halted and turned. He stood facing a girl, small and thin, wearing an old gown full of rents and patches, deep blue once, but the colour had faded and worn to nothing. She had a proud little face, dirt smudged across her cheeks, and dark hair that hung matted to her shoulders. In her hand she carried a knife.

‘You’re t’ Constable, aren’t you?’ There was no fear in her voice and she stared steadily at him.

‘I am.’

‘Caleb told me about you. He’s gone.’

‘I know,’ Nottingham said.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ he answered simply. ‘You’re the girl who was in the shadows when I talked to him, aren’t you?’

She didn’t lower her eyes, just nodded once. ‘Who killed him?’

‘I think it was Gabriel,’ the Constable answered her. He held out the pie. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Lucy.’ She took the food from him, small, deft fingers wrapping it carefully in a dirty kerchief.

‘Have you seen Gabriel?’

She stood straighter, her mouth moving in disgust. ‘Often enough, whenever he’s come around. He even tried to get me to go with him once.’ She paused. ‘Is it right, what Caleb said? That you lived out here.’

‘Yes. But it was a long time ago now.’

‘And now you have a house and servants?’

He smiled gently. ‘A house. No servants.’

Lucy nodded then asked, ‘How did he die?’

‘He was in the river.’

‘He could swim,’ she said quietly.

‘Someone had hit him on the head.’

The girl stayed silent for a long time. ‘He looked after me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Are you going to catch him?’

‘I’m going to try.’

She looked doubtful. ‘You were wrong before. Caleb told me that.’

‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘But Caleb helped me. He’d seen Gabriel.’

‘So have I.’ She paused. ‘Helping you got him killed.’

He said nothing but bobbed his head sadly. ‘I need to catch this man.’ He watched her face.’Would you know him again?’

‘Oh aye,’ Lucy said with a snort. ‘I’d know that face anywhere.’

‘Would you help me? Like Caleb did.’

She eyed him calmly.

‘I want Gabriel,’ the Constable said. ‘For Caleb. And Mark and Luke and Alice and all the others.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ Lucy told him, although he could see the lie in her eyes.

‘I know.’

‘What’ll happen if you catch him?’

‘He’ll hang,’ Nottingham answered. He waited a few moments.

‘I’ll help you,’ she agreed finally, her face set.

‘Thank you. But I need a better way to find you than this.’

Lucy hesitated. ‘You know the old manor house? There’s part of an old shed there that still has a roof. I sleep out there with some of the others. Knock twice before you come in and I won’t kill you.’ Her voice was serious and hard.