Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

The Constable never took his eyes off Mary. ‘You know who, John. You know who it was as well as I do.’ He was surprised that he sounded so ordinary, so matter-of-fact, that the pain inside didn’t turn the words into shrieks.

‘Boss, I . . .’

Nottingham shook his head slightly. He didn’t need that. Not now. ‘You know what to do. Get Brogden here, and a couple of men to take her to the jail.’

‘I will.’ He paused for a long moment. ‘Emily can stay with us. You don’t want her around this. I’ll wake Rob and have him meet her.’

He hadn’t even thought about Emily yet. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘What about you?’ Sedgwick asked. ‘You can’t stay here, either.’

‘I’m going to, John.’

‘I’ll stay with him,’ Lucy offered.

‘Are you sure?’ the Constable asked her.

‘Yes.’

He pounded on the door until Rob answered, yawning and running a hand through his hair.

‘Get yourself dressed,’ the deputy ordered.

‘What is it?’

‘Someone’s killed Mary Nottingham.’

‘What?’ He looked as if he hadn’t believed what he’d heard.

‘Someone came in their house and murdered her. The coroner’s on his way over there now. I need you. Go and meet Emily. Tell her gently and take her to my house. Lizzie’ll look after her. Don’t let her go home, you understand? Then I want you at the jail. Wear your good suit.’

‘Who’d do that?’

‘I’m not sure, but the boss said it was Gabriel. And you know what that means.’ His eyes were hard and his voice low with anger. ‘Whoever it was, you and me are going to find them. Come on, get a move on, we have work to do.’

Sedgwick’s next stop was the house on Lands Lane. Lizzie’s face filled with sorrow as he told her.

‘Bring the lass here,’ she said, her eyes glistening. ‘I like Mary. You remember how she came down here when James went missing. She never had any side on her. Bring Mr Nottingham, too. He’s going to need someone around him who cares.’

‘That new servant is going to stay with him.’

She sighed deeply. ‘Well, if anyone knows about death, that girl will. You go and find who did it.’

‘I’m going to,’ he promised.

‘You know who it is, don’t you?’

‘I have a very good idea.’

She looked up at him. ‘Then do one thing, John Sedgwick. When you’re sure and you find him, don’t wait for him to swing on the gallows.’

‘I hadn’t planned on it.’

The coroner came and went, in the house less than a minute, lifting the sheet and seeing the eyes set in the fixed, stunned gaze of death. On his way out he said, ‘I’m sorry,’ but Nottingham barely heard the sound of his voice.

Lucy directed the men who came to remove the body, making them enter and leave through the back garden. The Constable sat in the parlour, staring at the hearth where the fire had died. After they’d gone he heard the girl working, scrubbing away at the stains on the stone. The blood would never go completely, he knew that. He’d see it every day. Worse than anything, he understood that one morning he’d see it and it would be nothing more than a mark on the flagstones.

‘I’ll start another fire,’ the girl said as she raked out the ashes. ‘It’s perishing in here.’

In a few minutes the room was warmed, the flames licking at the air. He hadn’t moved. Whatever was happening, it all seemed unimportant now.

‘Do you want something to drink? To eat?’

He raised his eyes to her. Hers were red with crying, too, but she was doing her best. Nottingham shook his head slightly. He didn’t have any appetite, any thirst. Outside, the day was ending, and she bustled around, closing the shutters and lighting candles. He heard her moving around upstairs and all he could think of was the way Mary walked, how familiar everything about her had been to him.

Lucy returned and sat on the small tied rug in front of the hearth. Its colours had faded and it was covered with small burns from jumping coals. He recalled Mary making it in the fifth year of their marriage, using scraps of fabric and part of an old sack.

‘Do you remember when you were young and you lived out there?’ the girl asked quietly.

‘Yes,’ he answered after a long silence.

‘What did you do when someone died?’

‘I don’t know,’ he answered. In truth he couldn’t recall.

‘We used to tell stories about them. No one else was ever going to remember them.’

‘Not tonight,’ he told her softly. ‘I can’t face that tonight.’

She nodded her head.

‘I just need to be alone.’

For a few minutes she was busy, laying out her pallet in the kitchen. Then there was silence.

It was all his fault. If he hadn’t goaded Howard with the silk pouch and made it clear that he knew the man was Gabriel, Mary would still be here, sitting in the other chair, sewing, reading, talking. But he’d been so confident about the taunt. And now sorrow and guilt wound tight around his heart. She’d paid the price for what he had done.

If he’d listened to her, if he’d retired after he’d been wounded, none of this would have happened. But he’d needed to show he was strong, to prove that he was still the man he’d once been, that he could do the job was well as ever. He had to be a proud man.

Now he was alone with his pride, and all its gold was tarnished.

He’d make them pay. But it would be a fleeting satisfaction. They’d taken something far greater from him. And from Emily. He knew he should be with her, comforting her, but he didn’t have the strength right now. All he could do was feel the grief tighten all around him.

Tonight he needed her to himself, to gather the memories around himself and try to gain some warmth and solace from them. He had to breathe her in alone, to hear her voice in his ear from every corner of the house.

He knew no one would understand, least of all Emily. She’d want to be here, to have his arms around her, to share her tears with him. Tomorrow he’d do that, hold her and cherish her. Her mother was dead and she needed her father in a way she never had before. Part of him wanted to go and bring her home, but he couldn’t. She’d hate him for it, he hated it in himself, but in his heart he knew he had no choice. One last time he wanted Mary with him.

If only . The words filled his mind. If only he hadn’t shown Howard the pouch. If only . . . He knew the hours would trail and spin in front of him and the guilt would weigh heavier and heavier in his head. It would last a lifetime.

The afternoon had passed in a blur. The deputy had spoken to the undertaker. He’d pushed and bullied the curate at the Parish Church to arrange the burial for the next day. As twilight began, he turned from Kirkgate on to Briggate and climbed the stairs in the Moot Hall, the sound of his boots muted by the thick carpet.

Martin Cobb scribbled away at his papers, a circle of candlelight on his desk, glancing up as he heard someone approach.

‘Mr Sedgwick. I haven’t seen you since Mr Nottingham came back. How are you?’

‘I want you to give the mayor a message.’

Cobb looked up at him curiously. ‘What is it?’

‘Tell him to be at the church at two tomorrow. In his robes.’

The clerk sat back and rubbed his chin. ‘Why would Mr Fenton need to do that? He’s a busy man.’

‘Because someone murdered the Constable’s wife this morning and we’re going to bury her.’

‘What?’ Cobb asked, shocked.

But the deputy was already walking away.

He spent another two hours passing the word. He finished on the other side of the river, sitting in Joe Buck’s parlour, feeling awkward in the dainty chair, sipping at a glass of ale. He wanted to be moving, to be doing something more.