Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

Buck studied his face. ‘You know who did it, don’t you?’

‘Gabriel,’ Sedgwick answered. ‘Solomon Howard. He’s Jeremiah Darden’s factor.’

‘Powerful men,’ Buck mused. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘Prove it. And then I’ll kill them.’

The fence nodded. ‘I’ll be there tomorrow. And I’ll have people start asking. Anything they find, it’s yours. Mr Nottingham’s always been fair with me.’

Back at the jail Mary’s body was in the cold cell. He lit a candle and slowly unwrapped the sheet. It seem so strange to see her in death, her face still, her eyes empty. Alive, she’d been so gentle. At first he was reluctant to remove her clothes, to see her naked. She’s was the boss’s wife, a woman who’d shown his family kindness, whose voice he could hear in his head. He started then stopped. Finally he took a deep breath and tried to think of her as just another corpse.

She’d been knifed five times; all the cuts were the same size. There were the beginnings of bruises on her sides and legs, as if someone had kicked her. He ran his fingers lightly over her scalp and found a lump under her hair. Had that happened before or after she died, he wondered?

Tenderly, he covered her once more. Soon enough they’d come to remove her corpse. He knew he’d taken things into his own hands by arranging the funeral, but it was the right thing. The boss didn’t need that on top of everything else.

He was sitting at the desk, thinking, when Rob arrived. He was wearing his good suit rather than his work clothes, his face closed and anxious.

‘How is she?’ the deputy asked.

‘How do you think?’ He poured a glass of ale and drank it down. ‘She was crying and screaming. She wanted to go home.’

‘You didn’t let her?’

Rob shook his head.

‘Lizzie’ll look after her. The funeral’s tomorrow at two.’

‘Did the boss arrange it?’ Lister asked in surprise.

‘I did. It’s one thing less for him to think about at the moment.’ The deputy looked up. ‘Right, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to talk to the clerks at Darden’s when they finish work. You’re going to see as many of the merchants as you can. You’ll do better at that than I would. That’s why I wanted you dressed up.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

He’d thought about that during the afternoon. ‘Tell them that someone murdered Mrs Nottingham and persuade them to come to the funeral. When you’ve done that, ask a few questions – can they think of anyone who might have done it. Then drop in something about Darden and Howard.’

‘I will.’

‘Leave everything else to the night men, I don’t give a bugger what it is. You and I are going to work on this until we have them.’

‘She was good to me,’ Rob said emptily.

‘Aye, and she cared about Lizzie, and James and Isabell. The world’s lost a grand woman. The boss knows that more than anyone. But now she’s in the cold cell. Someone stabbed her five times. Just keep thinking about that.’

He went from merchant to merchant, from home to warehouse. The news had passed already, the way it did in Leeds, and they all received him with serious faces and words of condolence. Without question they agreed to attend the funeral, but none had an idea who could have been responsible. And when he started his questions about Darden and the factor, their mouths shut and their eyes began to look elsewhere.

He found Tom Williamson at the new warehouse by the river. Men were preparing a shipment of cloth to leave for Hull the next morning. A small, fussy clerk checked against his list and pettishly directed Rob to the office.

The merchant was there, a brazier burning to give some heat to the room. His head was down, concentrating on a column of figures.

‘Mr Williamson?’

He looked up, taking a moment to place Lister. ‘Did Mr Nottingham send you?’

‘You haven’t heard the news?’ He seemed to be the first who didn’t know.

‘What news? What’s happened?’

‘Someone killed the Constable’s wife this morning. Stabbed her in her house.’

Williamson sat back, looking stunned. He ran his hands down his face. ‘Richard . . .?’

‘He found her,’ Rob said.

‘What can I do?’

‘The funeral’s tomorrow at two.’

‘I’ll be there, of course. I met her a few times. She always seemed a lovely woman.’

‘She was,’ he said with quiet feeling.

‘You’re James Lister’s lad, aren’t you?’ the merchant asked thoughtfully. ‘The one who’s courting the Constable’s daughter?’

Rob raised his head. ‘I am.’

‘How is she?’

Lister just stared at him.

‘Please, tell them both how sorry I am for them.’ He stayed silent for a short while, then asked, ‘Do you know who did it?’

‘Not yet,’ Lister lied. ‘Can you think of anyone?’

Williamson shook his head.

‘What do you know about Mr Darden and his factor?’

‘What?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘You think they’re behind it?’

‘No, nothing like that. We’re just gathering information on them.’

‘Richard had asked me about them, too. I told him what I knew.’ He rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘There’s something going on, isn’t there?’

‘I’m just doing what I’m told,’ Rob answered blandly, trying to keep all the expression off his face. Williamson stared at him, then sighed. ‘There was something I was going to tell Mr Nottingham when I saw him. I’d forgotten all about it before; I was only a boy when it happened, but my father fumed about it for years.’

‘What was it?’

‘It must have been, what, twenty-five years ago now?’ He counted off the years in his head. ‘Close enough to that, anyway. Mr Darden lent the Corporation some money. I don’t know how much it was and I’m sure it’s long since been paid. But my father always said Darden received preferential treatment because of it.’

‘What did he mean?’

‘I don’t know. It’s probably nothing. I’ve never heard any more about it.’

‘Thank you.’ Rob stood.

‘I’ll be there tomorrow,’ Williamson promised.

It was the only new thing he’d learned, an incident that happened a lifetime before. Still, he wondered why no one else had mentioned it. Memories were long, especially for anything that gave one merchant an advantage over the others.

He was walking back up Briggate, wrapped in his thoughts, wondering what he could do next, when a hand took his sleeve.

‘I heard,’ James Lister said. ‘It’s terrible. Do you have anyone yet?’

‘No, Father.’

‘Please, tell Mr Nottingham how saddened and shocked I am.’

‘You can tell him yourself. The funeral’s tomorrow at two.’ He pulled away and continued up the street.

The deputy was waiting on the corner. The church bell had struck six and it was full dark when the three clerks emerged. They wore shabby clothes, the seats of their breeches shiny from being perched on stools all day.

‘Evening, lads,’ he said. They were all well into middle age, with grey hair and the worn-down look of men worked too hard for too little. ‘I’m the deputy constable. I’d like a word.’ He smiled. ‘Can I buy you all a drink?’

The first jug of ale went quickly and he ordered a second. He listened to them complain, wittering like old women, ears pricked for any loose talk. As their words wound down, he asked, ‘What did Mr Darden and Mr Howard do this morning?’

Ashton, the head clerk, the quietest and gravest of them, answered warily, ‘Why do you need to know?’

‘Knowing things is my business.’

‘It’s Tuesday. Mr Howard was at the cloth market. Mr Darden went with him.’