Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

With a quick scramble over the wall he was out and breathing deeply. He waited a minute or two, his back against the stone, breath blooming in the cold air, before walking slowly back to the jail.

‘What did you find?’ the Constable asked urgently as Sedgwick poured himself a glass of ale and downed it in a single gulp. His throat was dry as a summer road and his hands shook slightly. Rob had stayed, eager to see if the deputy had discovered anything.

Now he watched as the deputy produced a knife and pulled out a small silk packet. ‘Hidden away in a chest in his strongroom.’ He paused. ‘There’s a grey suit there, too.’

Nottingham was opening the pouch, watching as locks of hair tumbled to the desk and counting through them. ‘Eleven,’ he said dully. ‘And we only have the names of five of them. Does anyone know you took these?’ the Constable asked.

Sedgwick shook his head. ‘Hugh just guarded the back door. I’m certain he doesn’t know that his employer is Gabriel.’

Nottingham turned to Lister. ‘Howard will look in that chest soon enough. Then we’ll see.’

‘You said Darden lied about going to the cockfight at the Talbot,’ Rob said slowly. ‘What if he and Howard are in this together?’

‘I suspect they probably are.’

The Constable had considered it often enough in the last few days. Everything had churned in his mind during the long nights when sleep didn’t arrive swiftly. Inside, he believed that the merchant and factor were both guilty of killing the children; it would explain so much. He glanced down at the hair again, some straight, some curly, each lock carefully cleaned and tied before being put away.

Knowing was one thing. For all his brave words, Nottingham understood that proving it in court would be impossible against two men with wealth and influence. They’d draw their power around them and the two of them would protect each other. The Corporation would never allow Darden to be convicted, not with the stain that would put on its reputation. His only hope was that the two men would do something, make some error, and they were too clever for that. They’d managed to keep their sins hidden for a long time; they’d be careful no sun shone on them now.

‘Can we keep a man on them, boss?’ the deputy asked.

‘Lawyer Benson’s made it very clear there’ll be a lawsuit if we do.’ He gestured at the knife and hair. ‘We can’t use this. We don’t even have it.’

‘So what can we do now?’ Lister asked.

‘We wait and hope.’

By the end of the day he felt drained. He’d tried to imagine some way to bring the men to justice and he’d come up with nothing. Unless they did something stupid, he was impotent. An icy drizzle had begun during the afternoon and he clattered across Timble Bridge with his head bowed, kicking at a stone and watching it roll into the beck.

A fire was burning in the grate and he stood gratefully before it, the warmth seeping slowly into his bones. He could hear Mary and Lucy chattering in the kitchen. The girl was smiling more, so proud of the dress cut down for her that she kept stopping to glance at herself in the looking glass.

Eleven children dead – twelve with Caleb – and he could name only half of them. They’d never find the other bodies, never learn who they were. And the men who’d killed them could carry on with their business, making money, still alive and flaunting their wealth.

He wanted them to pay. He wanted to be in court when the judge sentenced them. He wanted to see the mayor’s face as the two men jounced at the end of a rope on Chapeltown Moor. But he didn’t see any road he could follow to make that happen.

‘You’re miles away, Richard,’ Mary said.

He’d never even heard her approach. ‘Just thinking,’ he answered with a smile.

‘You don’t look happy.’

‘It’ll pass. Who’s cooking today?’

‘Lucy.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘Don’t worry, I showed her what to do.’

‘As long as it tastes better than the pottage she made.’

‘It will,’ she laughed. ‘She’s coming along quickly. I’ll let her go to the market for me on Tuesday.’

‘Please don’t,’ he said. ‘One of the reasons she’s here is to keep her out of sight.’

‘Of course.’ She smiled sadly. ‘She’s just so alive that I keep forgetting about that.’

‘Glad she’s here?’

She nodded and held him. He laid his arms around her, smelling her hair, her face against his shoulder.

‘Emily and Rob will be here soon, she’s bringing him for his supper,’ she said.

‘They’ve been out walking?’

‘They’re young and in love,’ she reminded him. ‘They won’t even have noticed the weather. We went out in worse than this.’

‘Only because your father wouldn’t trust us alone in a room.’

She slapped his arm playfully. ‘And you know he was right on that.’

‘Maybe he was,’ he conceded with a grin.

The door opened and Emily swept in, dragging off her bonnet and shaking out the damp from her cape. Rob entered behind her, the pair of them talking loudly, and the house suddenly felt full and livelier.

‘Staying to eat, then, lad?’ the Constable asked.

‘Yes, boss.’

‘We’ll give you first bite.’ His eyes twinkled and he squeezed Mary’s arm lightly. ‘Especially as you liked that pottage so much the other night.’

By the time Lucy carried the pot to the table, careful not to spill a drop, they were seated and ready. The girl started to return to the kitchen but Mary said, ‘Pull up a stool. Sit down.’

‘Ma’am?’ Lucy looked at her in confusion.

‘You’re one of us, you live here. Come and eat with us.’

The girl flashed a look at Nottingham. He gave her a quick nod.

‘Thank you.’

She stayed quiet during the meal, watching the others as they talked. The Constable saw her staring hungrily at the pot and said, ‘Help yourself to more if you want. There’s still some left.’

She still ate greedily, keeping her face close to the plate, scarcely tasting the food. He remembered the first good meal he’d had after living rough. The old Constable had taken him home and put a bowl of stew in front of him. At first he’d thought it was a joke of some kind, that it would be snatched away from him. Then he’d gobbled it all down, not even chewing the meat and gristle, before wiping up every drop of the juice with a piece of bread. It still seemed like the best thing he’d ever tasted.

As the light waned outside the window, he sat back, hearing the bright laughter between Rob and Emily, seeing the tenderness on Mary’s face at having her family around her, and he felt glad he was still alive. When the pain of his wound had been its worst, back at the start of the summer, he’d believed death might be better. Now he was grateful to have survived, to enjoy moments like this and see his daughter happy. She might be contrary at times, unwilling to marry her young man, but his love for her was as big as heaven.

Eventually Rob stood. Nottingham knew the lad was reluctant to leave, but Saturday was always the busiest night of the week. Men had been paid and wanted to drink away all the miseries of the week. There’d be arguments and fights, in a bad week even murder.

‘Just watch yourself,’ he advised.

‘Yes, boss.’

Lucy disappeared with the dishes, and the brief moments of joy passed. He sat in front of the fire with Mary. She had a book open, her yearly reading of Pilgrim’s Progress , and he had the Leeds Mercury draped over his knees.

‘They’re right together, aren’t they?’ he asked.

‘They are,’ Mary agreed. ‘I suppose we looked like that once. Young and in love.’