Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

‘Do you remember her name?’

‘Meg something-or-other.’ He shrugged and shook his head.

‘Meg Robinson?’ The deputy searched through his memory for women named Meg.

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure I ever knew her surname.’

It was enough to start Sedgwick down another road, and two hours later he found the woman named Meg Brennan. She was perhaps twenty, bulky and plain, a baby suckling at her breast, three more children filling the room with noise.

‘My man’s out,’ she said. ‘Drinking up his pay, most like. Same as bloody ever.’

‘You worked for Solomon Howard?’

‘Him,’ she snorted. ‘Aye, for four year before I met my man and this lot began popping out.’ She caught him looking at her. ‘I were pretty back then, everyone said, and trim, too. Why’d you want to know about him?’

‘We’re just asking questions.’ He smiled. ‘Was he a good employer?’

‘You mean was he all over me, don’t you, love?’

‘Was he?’

‘He was, and I let him because my mam needed the money and I didn’t know no better. Rough bastard as well.’

‘How old were you when it started?’

‘Twelve. I’d been there a fortnight.’

‘Didn’t you say anything?’

Meg Brennan moved the baby to the other breast and stared at him. ‘Who to, eh? I thought they were all like that. My mam kept telling me I was lucky to have a position with a man like him. She’d not have listened. I was the oldest, I had to work.’

‘Did he bring other girls there?’

‘Not as I ever saw, but he wouldn’t need to when he had me, would he?’

‘What did he do when you said you were leaving?’

‘He wa’nt as interested in me then. I’d filled out, hadn’t I? I worked out my notice and left. He wa’nt even around the day I went. No goodbye, nowt.’

‘Was he having other lasses by then?’

‘Aye, I expect so,’ she answered with a deep sigh. ‘But if he were, it wa’nt at home. Once he lost interest in me, he had me working all the hours God sent. Beat me if he didn’t like what I’d done, too.’

‘Hard?’

Meg stayed silent for a long time. ‘Aye.’

He rose to leave, feeling pained for stirring the dust of memories in her.

‘I don’t know why you’re after him,’ she said quietly, ‘but whatever it is, I hope you make the bastard pay for it.’

‘Penny for them,’ Lizzie said. James was in his bed, Isabell asleep on her mother’s lap, and they sat in front of the fire, enjoying a few quiet moments.

‘They’re not worth that,’ he told her. ‘It’s just work.’

‘When isn’t it?’ She reached over and pressed his hand. ‘Is it better now that Mr Nottingham’s back?’

‘He’s . . .’ He struggled for the words. ‘He looks older now. Tired.’

‘You would be too if that had happened to you.’

‘Mebbe. He’s still sharp.’

‘It’ll be your chance to be Constable in time.’

‘If they offer it. This bloody mayor won’t, I’ll tell you that.’

‘There’ll be another mayor next year. Happen he’ll be better.’

‘I’m not sure I want it. When the boss was off . . .’

‘When Mr Nottingham was ill you were a man short then and I hardly ever saw you. The Corporation wouldn’t pay to take on someone else. But think about it, John, there’d be more money, a bigger house for the children.’

‘We get by, don’t we?’

‘We do. Barely.’

‘Anyway, the boss won’t be going anywhere soon. Not until we’ve found Gabriel, anyway. So it doesn’t even matter yet.’

‘Yet,’ Lizzie said. ‘You could be Constable for a long time.’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘I want you to have your due,’ she told him firmly. ‘When he does go you’ve earned that position.’

‘Mebbe,’ he said doubtfully.

The Constable walked up Kirkgate well before dawn. He’d woken early, but Lucy had been up before him, the fire in the kitchen already lit and water boiling to wash the linens. She’d greeted him with a smile, bread and cheese already cut for him to break his fast.

‘I heard you moving upstairs,’ she said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear and pouring a mug of ale. ‘You’ll need that to wash it down.’

The girl wasn’t afraid of work, he thought as his boot heels clicked against the stone. She was learning well, too, and taking the hardest of the work from Mary’s shoulders. He’d heard his wife with the girl the previous evening, teaching her to make bread, guiding her through the proportions and the kneading until she was satisfied. Show her once and the girl remembered, his wife said happily. Lucy seemed happy enough with her position, too, settling into a routine. He’d swear she was already putting on a little weight, her cheeks fuller and rosier.

Rob was at the desk, scribbling away quickly with the quill.

‘Busy night?’

‘Not really. They don’t seem to like it when it turns cold.’ And winter certainly seemed to have arrived. Sleet had fallen during the evening, and the wind from the west brought the threat of worse. ‘There was one thing, boss. Harris the draper was walking home with his boy. He was wearing a grey suit, his son’s only eight . . .’

‘Oh Christ,’ the Constable exclaimed.

‘Three of them set on him, calling him Gabriel. Two of ours were close enough to crack some heads before it got out of hand.’ He nodded at the cells. ‘The ones who did it are in there.’

‘No damage to Harris or his lad?’

‘They’re fine.’

Nottingham nodded and walked across the room, stopping to stare out of the window. After a while he said, ‘Emily told me what happened yesterday. I’m sorry, lad.’

Lister smiled. ‘Did she say she bested him?’

‘No,’ Nottingham answered in surprise. ‘She didn’t mention that.’

‘It was wonderful, boss. Emily left my father speechless, then she stood up, thanked my mother and we left. There’s people who’d have paid good money to see that.’

‘I might myself,’ the Constable laughed. ‘But it still wasn’t good for you.’

Rob shrugged and stayed silent.

‘You go on home. Stay for your supper tonight if you like. Young Lucy’s trying her hand at cooking.’

The deputy arrived a few minutes later, full of the morning, the broad grin making him look like a gleeful child.

‘Looks like you learned something interesting about Mr Howard.’

‘I did that, boss.’

The Constable listened carefully, letting Sedgwick tell his tale in full.

‘Not a pleasant man, by all accounts.’

‘But rich enough. And there’s always Darden to protect him.’

‘We don’t know he does that,’ Nottingham pointed out.

‘Like as not, though. They’ve worked together for years, he must know.’

Maybe, he thought. Certainly he’d heard nothing to persuade him that Howard wasn’t Gabriel.

‘Keep Holden close on him.’

‘We still need proof, boss.’

‘I know.’ And finding something they could use would be the trick. For now he’d do all he could to make the factor feel uncomfortable. ‘See if you can discover anything more about him today.’

He completed the daily report and carried it over to the Moot Hall. Out on the horizon the clouds looked heavy and menacing. If they blew in there could be an early snow. He dropped the paper on Martin Cobb’s desk, half-expecting a demand from the mayor to see him. But in no more than a moment he was back on Briggate.

His body was healing slowly. He felt better than when he’d returned to work, stronger, able to complete a day without weariness. He was still using the silver-topped stick, and by late afternoon, when his muscles ached, it helped, but soon he’d be able to manage without.