Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

Back at the jail he poured a mug of ale and stoked the fire, wondering what else he could do about Solomon Howard. Whatever lingering doubts he’d had about the man being Gabriel had vanished now.

He was still pondering when the door opened and lawyer Benson entered, with the factor right behind him.

‘Mr Benson. Mr Howard.’ He greeted them with a short nod. ‘Sit down, please.’

‘We won’t be staying long, Constable.’ Benson had a bluff voice to match his appearance, the broad, jowly face of a man who knew how to indulge his income. His belly pushed hard against the thick wool of his greatcoat and he pulled off a pair of expensive leather gloves.

‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’

‘Mr Howard tells me you have a man following him. Is that true?’

‘It is,’ Nottingham said.

For a moment Benson seemed surprised at the admission before recovering. ‘You understand that’s completely unacceptable. Why are you hounding my client this way?’

Nottingham glanced at Howard. The man’s eyes were focused and full of hate. ‘Because I have reason to believe that Mr Howard might be Gabriel.’

‘What?’ The lawyer bellowed the word. ‘Are you accusing my client?’

‘No,’ the Constable replied calmly. ‘If I accuse him, he’ll know. I’m investigating. That’s my job.’

‘What you’re doing isn’t investigation. It’s harassment, and it’s damaging Mr Howard’s reputation.’

‘Is it?’ Nottingham asked blandly. ‘Then my apologies.’

‘Call him off, Constable,’ Benson told him. ‘Or you’ll face a lawsuit.’ He gave a smile that showed a set of white teeth. ‘I’m sure you don’t want that. I’ll bid you good day.’

He turned, the factor following him. At the door Howard glared before leaving.

Half a minute passed before Holden slipped in. ‘Never good news when there’s a lawyer involved, boss.’

Nottingham chuckled. ‘You’ve got that right enough. It seems we’ve upset Mr Howard.’

‘Do you want me to leave him be?’

‘For now,’ the Constable told him after some consideration. He’d rattled the man, that was something. And the factor hadn’t gone to his employer or the mayor. Quite what that meant, he didn’t know yet. ‘Go and find Mr Sedgwick. He’ll have a job for you.’

‘Yes, boss.’

Alone again, Nottingham drained the dregs of the ale and wondered what to do next. Howard was worried if he was appearing with his lawyer. How could he increase the pressure on the man?

‘Any ideas?’ he asked next morning, glancing towards Sedgwick and Lister. A thin covering of snow had fallen during the night, just enough to brighten the land for a few hours. Already it felt a little warmer; by noon it would all be gone.

‘Can we search his house?’ Rob asked.

‘He’d never let us, and we don’t have enough to justify it.’

‘What about that girl’s identification? Isn’t that enough?’

The Constable shook his head. ‘Not this time. Howard’s already threatening a lawsuit for being followed.’

‘What if we search without him knowing?’ the deputy wondered thoughtfully.

Nottingham pushed the fringe off his forehead and looked at him. ‘What did you have in mind, John?’ he said softly.

‘We can’t, boss,’ Rob protested, but the Constable held up a hand to quiet him.

‘See if there’s anything in his house that connects him to the children and take it. If that doesn’t rattle him, nothing will.’

‘How are we going to do that? None of us has the skills.’

Sedgwick smiled. ‘I daresay Hugh Smithson could be persuaded to let me in if I kept silent about his past.’

Nottingham was silent for a long time. Then: ‘You’d better make sure you’re not caught.’

‘I will.’

‘It’s not right, boss,’ Rob said after the deputy had left. ‘Doing it that way.’

‘It’s not right to torture and kill children, either.’ His voice was firm and his eyes hard. ‘I’ll do what I have to in order to find out who murdered them.’

‘You’re certain it’s Howard?’

‘I’m positive. Lucy identified him. Do you still see the faces at night?’

Lister nodded.

The Constable softened his tone. ‘That’s why I’m doing this. He’s one of the people who thinks he can build walls of money to protect himself. But I’ll dig under them.’

He knocked softly on the door. One, a pause, and then two more. Smithson opened it and the deputy slipped in quickly.

‘Be quick, please, Mr Sedgwick. The cook will only be an hour at the market.’

‘I’ll be as fast as I can, Hugh.’

He felt the thud of his heart in his ribs. It had taken a few days to set this up. There was a meeting with Smithson, with hints and threats of letting the man’s past slip to his master and a warning of what would happen after. Even when he’d reluctantly agreed, they still needed a time when both Howard and the cook would be gone.

Now it was Saturday morning. The factor had been at the cloth market and he’d spend the rest of the day at the warehouse. The deputy had watched the cook leave for market, a basket over her arm, before climbing over the wall into the back garden of the house.

He took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. Howard would keep anything incriminating well hidden, in a locked desk or chest. The bedroom was well-furnished, the mattress of down, the sheets fine linen. Six suits hung from pegs, more than he’d even seen together before, and all of them costly but none of them grey. Ten long waistcoats, silk embroidered with gold thread in beautiful patterns of peacocks, birds and flowers, the colours dazzlingly bright. He checked the pockets, then the two chests full of shirts and hose. There was nothing.

Moving softly, he checked the rest of the rooms before going back down. The desk in the parlour was open, with a letter half-written. He searched carefully through the drawers, then moved on. In the dining room a dark oak dresser filled one wall, displaying a collection of silver plate, cutlery stored carefully in a chest.

Finally he tried another door. It was locked. He took a small set of picks from the pocket of his breeches and tried one, then another. At the fourth attempt one fitted, and he was in the room. Light came from a barred window that looked out on the garden.

The strongbox was crafted to keep money safe, with three heavy locks; it would take too long to open them all. Ledgers were stacked on the desk, next to a quill and an inkwell. There was little of interest in the drawers, bills from tailors and shoemakers.

Time was running short and so far he’d come up empty-handed. The hearth was empty but he could feel the sweat running down his back. Another chest stood in the corner. He fumbled with the picks, his hands slick, then it was open.

The grey suit was carefully folded, breeches on top of the coat, dark stains on them both. He lifted them out. Underneath was a knife, the blade wiped roughly clean, and a riding crop. A silk pouch lay on the bottom; in it were neatly-tied locks of hair of all colours, more than ten of them, all soft to the touch.

The deputy put it inside his shirt, then the knife in his pocket. The suit was too bulky to carry and he placed it back in the chest before securing it again. It took precious moments of trying before the lock clicked once more on the door to the room.

Smithson was still at the back door, pacing anxiously up and down the room. ‘I’ll not ask if you found what you wanted,’ he said.

‘Best not,’ Sedgwick advised him.

‘You promise you won’t say anything to Mr Howard?’

‘I told you, Hugh. You ought to know by now that I keep my word.’