Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

He heard Emily in the kitchen, knowing he couldn’t go to her in there. His gaze would fall to the floor, where no scrubbing would ever remove the mark. The door opened and Rob came in, Lucy behind him, her eyes fearful, standing in the corner, trying to keep herself small and unnoticed. If he didn’t see her, he couldn’t let her go. He knew what scared her, that he’d turn her back out to the streets, just when she’d found a home.

‘She’s through there, lad,’ Nottingham said and Lister moved away quietly. There was a strange, unnatural hush in the house, every sound muted.

‘Lucy.’ He saw her flinch. ‘I’m going to need someone to cook and clean and take care of everything here. I hope you’ll want to stay.’

‘Me?’

‘You,’ he assured her. ‘Will you?’

‘Yes.’ She blurted the word out, then blushed and said, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’ He gave her a wan smile. ‘I’m glad.’

She scuttled through to the kitchen. He could hear Emily and Rob whispering in there, their voices urgent but too low for him to make out the words.

His world had changed. All the objects, all the surroundings were familiar, things he’d touched and known for years, but he felt as if he didn’t know them at all.

‘Boss?’

He looked and Rob was there, pushing a mug of ale into his hand. He tightened his fingers around it, the clay cold against his palm. Emily was on her knees by the hearth, piling kindling and coal for a fire, her movements an echo of her mother’s. He drank, barely tasting the liquid.

‘Mr Sedgwick said I didn’t need to go to work tonight.’

The Constable nodded. ‘Emily will need you this evening. She’ll need us both.’

Lucy moved through the room, lighting candles from a taper, and the acrid smell of the tallow filled the air.

‘There’s only bread and cheese,’ she told him apologetically. ‘I haven’t cooked.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘You didn’t eat last night. You haven’t eaten today.’ Lucy looked up at him. ‘You need to eat,’ she insisted.

‘Papa,’ Emily said, her voice gentle and persuasive. ‘We all miss her. We all loved her.’ She smiled at him. ‘Please.’

He swallowed the food on his plate but barely noticed it, refusing more when Lucy urged it on him. Finally they were done, a spare funeral feast for an empty death, he thought. The girl gathered the dishes and took them to the kitchen.

‘Tomorrow,’ Nottingham said.

‘Boss?’

‘I’ll be back at work tomorrow.’

‘Papa-’ Emily began. He cut her off with a shake of his head.

‘There’s work to be done.’ He poured more ale and drank. ‘You’re right, love, we miss her. We’re always going to miss her. And we’ll always love her.’ He placed his hand over hers. ‘But it’s my job to catch whoever killed her, and I need to do that.’

‘But Rob and Mr Sedgwick . . .’

‘They can use another man to help them.’ His face softened. ‘I can’t spend another day sitting here. You know what I mean.’ She nodded her understanding. ‘And you should go back to school. We have the rest of our lives for sorrow and memories. They’ll be there forever.’

Later, after Rob had gone home and Emily was in her room, he settled in the bed and extinguished the candle, the weight of blame heavy on his heart. Even under blankets and a heavy coat he shivered. He reached out, knowing he’d never touch her again, but hoping for some ghost of shape. But there was nothing, no rhythm of her breathing, just the emptiness that would remain.

He knew he must have dozed, waking at times in the heavy darkness. The night felt like an enemy, taunting him, offering him no real rest. Before first light he was up and dressed, moving quietly round the house then gathering up the silver-topped stick and slipping out into the cold.

Two of the night men were at the jail, warming themselves by the hearth. The fire crackled bright and the pitcher of ale was almost empty.

‘Anything?’ he asked.

‘Nowt, boss,’ one of them answered. ‘Just a few who stopped by to say how sorry they were.’

He let them leave and sat to write the daily report, just two brief sentences to say there’d been no crime reported in Leeds the previous day. Dawn was close, and soon the city would be stirring all around him, servants lighting fires and preparing meals, labourers on their way to work, carters arriving and leaving with a trundle of wheels on the roads.

But there was only one thing he wanted now: to prove, beyond any doubt in court, beyond all that money could buy, that Howard had killed his wife and Darden had helped him. Once that was done, the future could do whatever it wanted; he’d no longer care.

By the time the deputy arrived the report was complete and sanded dry.

‘Boss,’ Sedgwick said.

‘It was time to come back to work,’ Nottingham said darkly. ‘We have plenty to do.’

‘Aye, we do.’ He kept the surprise off his face.

‘Anything more?’

‘I went and talked to a few folk, but no one had anything helpful. I’ll go out along Marsh Lane this morning and see if anyone saw Howard or Darden there yesterday morning.’

The Constable nodded. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘He’s a clever bugger; we already know that. But if there’s anything to find, we’ll find it.’

‘If.’

‘There’ll be something, boss. There always is.’

‘Let’s hope so.’ He stared at the deputy. ‘I want him soon.’

‘We’ll have him,’ the deputy promised.

After Sedgwick had gone he walked over to the Moot Hall. Out in the open, a threat of rain in the heavy clouds, he felt the pain of missing Mary so intensely that he had to stop and breathe deeply. He looked around, realizing she’d never see any of this again. That she wouldn’t be waiting when he returned in the evening.

Finally, he gathered himself, opened the heavy doors and climbed the stairs, treading gently on the Turkey carpet. Martin Cobb sat at his desk, his young face blushing as he saw the Constable.

‘Mr Nottingham. I’m so sorry . . .’

‘The daily report for the mayor.’ He laid the paper between them.

‘It must be terrible.’

He knew the man meant well, but he couldn’t feel charitable. ‘Then pray God it never happens to you.’

‘The mayor didn’t know when you’d return. He wants to see you.’

He knocked on the door and entered when he heard a voice inside. Fenton was hard at work, reading through a pile of papers on his desk. He was fresh-shaved, his cheeks pink and shiny, his expression pinched and irritable, as if he resented the intrusion.

‘My condolences on your loss.’

The Constable nodded his acknowledgement.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the funeral. I had other obligations. I hear there were plenty there.’

‘Yes.’ He took a tighter grip on the head of the stick.

‘Do you have any idea who killed your wife? And don’t say Mr Darden and his factor.’

Nottingham stayed silent.

‘I daresay you’ve made many enemies over the years,’ the mayor continued. ‘Maybe you’d do well to cast your net over some of them.’

‘Is that an order?’

Fenton threw down his quill in frustration. ‘If it needs to be. What you’re doing is beginning to look like an obsession.’

‘And if they’re guilty? What then?’

‘I’ve known Mr Darden for years. No one’s more respected in Leeds.’

‘Tell me, your Worship, when the city borrowed money from Mr Darden, was it ever repaid?’

The mayor brought his head up sharply. ‘A long time ago. What he did then was a civic gesture.’

‘Enough to buy gratitude and protection.’

‘I’ll put that statement down to your grief,’ the mayor said coldly. He picked up the quill.