Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

‘I’ll come for you in the morning,’ he said and moved towards the passageway.

‘Mister?’ she called. ‘You said you didn’t have a servant?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you want one?’

‘What are you going to do?’ the deputy asked. He soaked up the juices of the stew with a piece of bread and pushed the bowl away.

‘I’ll have her take a look at Howard tomorrow,’ Nottingham said. They sat at the bench in a corner of the White Swan, the other customers happy to keep their distance.

‘What if she says it’s him? No one who matters is going to believe her.’

‘We will,’ he said. ‘Then we can dig deeper and find some evidence we can use.’

‘You were sure it was Darden, boss, and you were wrong,’ Sedgwick reminded him.

‘I know.’ He’d pored over it often enough since, rubbing it raw.

‘I caught up with Hugh Smithson.’

‘What did he have to say for himself? Anything useful?’

‘Just that the servants receive every Sunday off.’

‘Every Sunday?’ The Constable raised his eyebrows.

‘Aye, that’s what I thought, too.’

‘Do you think he’ll say anything to Howard?’

The deputy shook his head and grinned. ‘Seems Hugh hadn’t told him about his past and he’d rather it stayed quiet.’

‘That’s good work, John.’

‘What are you going to do if it’s not Howard?’

‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’

‘Before you finish I want you to come with me.’

‘Where, boss?’

Rob had handed over the night report. A frost had hardened the ground and frozen the wheel tracks on the road into deep ruts; the chill had been damp enough to cut through to his bones as he’d completed his rounds. Now he wanted nothing more than a chance to see Emily for a few minutes as she walked to school, and then the warmth of his bed.

‘You’ll see.’

He followed the Constable up Briggate, stopping for bread at the baker’s, and along the Head Row, past Garroway’s, its windows covered with steam, the heady, exotic scent of coffee in the air. At Burley Bar, the edge of the city, they turned down Mill Hill Lane and into the tangle of grass and trees that had once been the orchard of the manor house.

Nottingham had to look carefully before he found the building, half of it so thickly covered in ivy that it looked as if nature had claimed it back. Slates covered some of the roof, leaving dark, bare patches that gaped to the morning. He knocked twice on a door eaten away by rot, and waited. Rob opened his mouth to speak but the Constable held up his hand.

‘Lucy,’ he said. ‘I told you I’d come.’

Inside someone dragged at the door, the hinges squealing. The girl walked out of the darkness, blinking in the bare daylight. Pulled tight around her shoulders she had a threadbare shawl someone had thrown away, and the knife was in her hand.

Nottingham handed her the loaf. ‘You can use this. You and the others.’

‘Aye,’ she agreed, bobbing her head. ‘Thank you.’

‘You said you could help me. Like I told you yesterday, there’s someone I’d like you to see, someone I think might be Gabriel.’

Rob saw panic rise in her eyes.

‘He won’t see you,’ the Constable promised her. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

The girl gestured back over her shoulder. ‘One of the little ones is poorly,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave her.’

‘Rob, go and fetch apothecary Kirshaw. Bring him here.’

Surprised, he turned and walked away quickly, making his way down to Briggate and pounding on the apothecary’s door until the old servant answered. From there it took another five minutes of fussing before the man was ready to leave, the bag weighing him down on one side.

‘Where are we going?’ Kirshaw asked, his voice petulant. His coat, old and trailing almost to the ground, was buttoned all the way to his throat against the November chill.

‘Mr Nottingham wants you to look at someone.’

The apothecary muttered as he followed, lifting his legs to move through the overgrown grounds of the manor. The Constable was waiting by the building.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. The girl stood at his side, looking down at the ground.

‘Where is he?’ the apothecary grumbled.

‘She,’ Nottingham corrected him. ‘She’s in there.’

‘She?’ Kirshaw bristled.

‘A little girl. Look at her, help her.’

‘Who’s going to pay me?’

The Constable smiled. ‘You’ll get your reward in heaven,’ he said slowly, his voice firm enough to brook no argument. ‘Mr Lister will stay and help you.’

Light filtered through the door. The child was in a corner, a ragged blanket pulled around her. Rob watched as the apothecary lifted one of her hands then ran a hand across her forehead, muttering to himself. He delved into the bag, then turned.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ Kirshaw said sharply. ‘Fetch some water.’

‘Will he make her well?’ Lucy asked as they walked.

‘If he can,’ Nottingham told her.

‘What if he can’t?’

‘He’ll do everything he can.’

She nodded. He knew the world she lived in, where the line between life and death often blurred to nothing, where some never woke in the morning.

He found Holden standing behind a hefty oak tree close to Howard’s house.

‘Keep her out of sight,’ he ordered. ‘Howard can’t see her.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Mr Holden knows what to do,’ he told her. ‘Just listen to him.’

She looked scared. ‘You did this with Caleb, didn’t you?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he admitted. She stared at him, her eyes unblinking. ‘Mr Holden will make sure no one sees you.’

Finally, with a sad, unbelieving smile, she nodded.

By the time the apothecary left, the little girl was sleeping quietly. Kirshaw had fed her a few drops of liquid in water Rob brought from the spring.

‘She needs food,’ the apothecary said as he stood. ‘There’s nothing to her. She needs to be warm and something hot in her.’ He looked at Rob. ‘She needs looking after. Do that and she’ll be fine. If not . . .’ He shrugged and gathered his bottles and potions. ‘And tell Mr Nottingham I’ll be sending my bill to the Corporation.’

‘You do that.’

Alone, Rob watched the girl. A few of the other children had come, then scattered like sparrows when they saw him, vanished from view. He couldn’t leave her helpless and on her own. He scavenged dead wood from the orchard and lit a small fire in the building then settled back against a wall.

He was dozing when Lucy returned. The blaze had brought a little warmth to the room and the child slept on, a smile on her lips, the blanket pulled around her face.

‘How is she?’

‘She’ll rest for a while. When did she eat last?’

‘Yesterday, maybe,’ Lucy said. ‘Day before.’

Rob pulled some coins from his pocket. ‘Buy her some food. Something hot.’

The Constable completed the daily report and left it with Martin Cobb at the Moot Hall. He’d taken three men to the Petty Sessions for their trials: the baker with adulterated bread would find himself in the stocks on Briggate and the two apprentices found drunk would be handed over to the masters for a thrashing.

He listened to the people passing, a murmur of voices outside the window, the creak of carts and the yelling of the drivers. Finally the door opened wide and Holden strode in.

‘She says it’s him, boss. Howard is Gabriel.’

Inside he felt a surge of satisfaction replacing the anxiety that had been bubbling through him.

‘Go and find Mr Sedgwick then keep watching. Where’s Howard now?’