Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

‘Once.’ He chuckled, then sighed. ‘Do you think she’ll ever give in and marry him?’

‘Only if she really wants to, when she’s good and ready. I don’t even try and talk to her about it any more. She can be as stubborn as you when she wants.’

‘Stubborn?’

‘You are and you know it,’ she said with a gentle smile. ‘It’s one of your attractions.’

‘One of many?’

‘Don’t fish for compliments, Richard.’

Monday had dawned clear, the stars still bright in the sky as he walked to work. Tomorrow, he thought, he’d leave the stick at home; he felt he’d be fine without it, and would look less of an invalid.

‘How was Saturday night?’ he asked Rob.

‘Busy.’ The lad rubbed at his eyes. His face looked drawn, the red hair even wilder than usual. ‘We’d no sooner stopped one fight then we’d be called to another. The cells were packed yesterday morning. Mr Sedgwick kicked most of them out when they’d sobered up.’

‘Anything serious?’

Rob shrugged. ‘A pair of woundings. Nothing fatal. There’s two back there for the Petty Sessions later.’ He passed over the report.

‘You go and get some sleep.’

‘I will, boss.’

At the Moot Hall he’d half-expected again to be called into the mayor’s office. He was surprised Fenton wasn’t putting more pressure on him to find Gabriel. Then again, he thought, the man could always claim that the Corporation had done its part, put up the reward, and any failing was from the Constable and his men.

The day passed quietly enough. He spent the time in thought, trying to find a way to use the evidence from Howard’s house which sat in his drawer. The knife. Even more, eleven locks of hair.

It made sense that Howard was in it with Darden. It gave meaning to the blood on the merchant’s coat and the changed testimony about him attending the cockfight at the Talbot. But try as he might he could find nothing to help him put them in court.

The next day he walked down Briggate to the cloth market before the bell rang. At home he’d picked up the stick, then replaced it against the wall, feeling stronger.

Howard and Darden were standing in the middle of the street, talking to some of the other merchants. The factor gave him a killing look, fists clenched, before turning back and trying to concentrate on the conversation. His face was pale, with dark smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes.

He knows, Nottingham thought. He’d looked in the chest and now he was filled with fear. Perhaps it was time to make him panic a little. He returned to the jail, emptied the pouch of its contents and slid it into his pocket.

The market had started; Darden and Howard were making their way from trestle to trestle, fingers feeling the cloth and talking in soft whispers. There was a reverent hush over the street as business was conducted.

He strode up to the pair. In a voice that carried well, he said, ‘Mr Howard, might I have a word, please.’

The factor turned quickly, a scowl on his face. Darden didn’t look around.

‘What do you want, Constable?’ Howard hissed. ‘More accusations and innuendo? You’ve been warned about that.’

‘Nothing like that, sir,’ Nottingham said with a genial smile. ‘Someone found something close to your house. I was just wondering if you recognized it, that’s all.’

‘What is it?’ he asked brusquely.

The Constable held the packet out on the palm of his hand, the pale light playing on the silk. He kept his eyes on Howard. ‘Does this belong to you?’

The factor shook his head quickly. But not before desperation had flashed across his face. ‘I’ve never seen it. Why would you imagine it’s anything to do with me?’

‘Then I thank you. I’m just trying to find the owner. This is costly material, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ He watched the man’s face, a few beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

‘Isn’t there anything in it to tell you?’

Nottingham opened the pouch and heard Howard draw in a sharp breath. ‘It’s empty.’

‘I can’t help you,’ Howard said. ‘I have work to do here.’

‘Of course. I apologize for dragging you from it.’

‘You damned well should.’ There was menace in the factor’s voice.

The Constable walked away, resisting the impulse to glance over his shoulder and see what was happening. He’d done what he could. Something would happen now, he was certain.

By the middle of the morning he knew he’d made a mistake in not using the stick. His wound hurt, a low, nagging pain, and his leg ached more than it had in weeks. If he tried to continue, by the end of the day he might not be able to walk at all.

He limped slowly down Kirkgate, the cold air pulling at his face. By the time he reached Timble Bridge he was exhausted, stopping to lean on the parapet and catch his breath. He’d been foolish, too optimistic and hopeful.

The last few yards to the house passed slowly. It didn’t matter; at home he could rest a few minutes before returning to work.

The front door was unlocked. That seemed strange until he recalled that Mary had planned to send Lucy to market; the girl didn’t have a key to the house. He’d argued against it, but she’d said that cleaned up, in a better dress and cap no one would recognize the lass, and in the end he’d given in.

He pushed the door open and entered, reached for the stick and rested his weight on it. Immediately he felt better.

‘It’s me,’ he said. There was no reply and he went through to the kitchen. In the doorway he had to stop, grab the jamb and steady himself.

She lay on the floor in all her shattered beauty. A stream of blood on the flagstones glistened in the firelight. He knelt on the floor beside her, fingertips urgently touching her neck, seeking a pulse, or anything at all.

He stroked her hand and kissed her hair. Time passed. Moments or minutes, they didn’t matter any more. She was dead. Murdered.

Silence seemed to fill the room, to press down on him. He wanted to speak, to scream, but there was no sound worth a thing now. His face was wet. At first he didn’t understand why. Then he reached up to touch his skin and realized he was crying.

He looked around for something to cover her, so no one else would see her in the indignity of death. The tears wouldn’t stop and he tried to wipe them away, pushing roughly at his face.

He stood, climbed the stairs, his heart so heavy he believed it would burst from his chest. He pulled the sheet off the bed, took it downstairs and draped it lovingly over her. The memories tumbled through his brain. Her face, the sound of her voice, the way she moved and laughed. Young and older.

Finally he heard the front door and the sharp, awkward sound of shoes on the floor.

‘Don’t come in here,’ he said, his voice as raw as if he’d been shouting.

‘What is it, sir?’ Lucy asked. ‘What’s happened?’

He swallowed, trying to find something in himself. ‘Go to the jail and fetch Mr Sedgwick. If he’s not there, ask people, someone will know where to find him. Tell him to come here as soon as he can.’

‘What’s in there? Tell me.’ She stood in the doorway.

He turned to look at her, the pain clear on his face. The girl understood. She’d seen death often enough.

‘Please,’ he said, ‘just go now. Get him.’

She put down the basket and ran. He could hear the small echo of her footsteps down Marsh Lane and he turned back to Mary, taking her hand and trying to pray her back to life.

Suddenly, so quickly it seemed, the deputy was there, out of breath, Lucy just behind him.

‘What’s wrong, boss?’ he asked. Then he saw the sheet, the shape of the body underneath. ‘Oh Christ. No.’ He looked at Nottingham in confusion. ‘Who?’