Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

It was impossible not to look at the house as the deputy walked along Marsh Lane. The image of Mary Nottingham’s blood was clear in his mind, and the loneliness and pain on the Constable’s face. There was a sense of all the love gone from the place.

As he knocked at the first house beyond Timble Bridge he could hear the clack of a loom inside. The noise continued as a young girl opened the door.

‘Hello, love,’ he said with a smile. ‘I need to talk to your mam or dad.’

The woman who appeared looked haggard. She was young enough but streaks of grey hair peeked from her cap.

‘Help you, mister?’ she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

‘I’m the deputy constable. We’re trying to find who killed Mrs Nottingham.’

‘Come in,’ the woman told him without hesitation. Four children were working hard preparing the wool and a spinning wheel sat in the corner, yarn hanging from it. Along the wall stood a collection of painstakingly carved wooden animals – a cow, horse, sheep and more. ‘Stop that,’ she said to her husband, her voice loud over the incessant noise of the loom. ‘Sit thisen down.’

She poured him ale and settled on her stool. ‘She were a lovely woman. Always had time for a word, and to ask after the bairns.’ She nodded at the children. ‘Who’d do summat like that?’ she asked.

‘Aye, and why?’ The man took a clay pipe from his waistcoat pocket and lit it.

‘What we want to know is whether you saw anyone along here on Tuesday morning.’

‘There’s allus folk on the road going in and out of Leeds,’ the man pointed out.

‘Maybe you noticed someone in particular.’

The woman looked worried, pulling a small girl close and placing the child on her lap.

‘We’re working from daylight until dark, mister. Same as all the folk round here.’

‘Give over.’ The man blew out a plume of smoke. ‘You’re up and down and in and out and mithering round half the day.’

‘Aye, and we’d never eat or have clean clothes if I wasn’t.’ She turned back to Sedgwick and blushed. ‘I’m sorry, love. But he’s right, people pass by all the time. Mostly we just hear them, there’s no reason to look.’

It was the same wherever he asked. People had to scrape a living and work hard. At a few of the homes no one answered, off at their labours; he’d send Rob there after dark. With a falling heart he kept going. Finally, about fifty yards beyond the Nottingham house a young woman said, ‘Aye, I saw a man at their door.’ She held a sleeping baby close to her chest, gently stroking the back of its head and rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. Over her shoulder he could see all the signs of poverty within, the room almost bare of furniture.

‘What did he look like? Do you remember?’ His throat was dry and he could feel the blood throbbing in his veins.

‘I didn’t pay him no mind.’ Her eyes were wide with fear. ‘Why? Was it him?’

‘Most likely.’

‘Really?’ She frowned and hugged the child a little tighter. ‘This one had been poorly. I was late emptying the chamber pot. That’s the only reason I saw anyone.’ She tilted her head towards the road. ‘Mrs Nottingham had only been up the day before. She gave me some herbs she thought might help Anna here.’

‘Did you know her well?’

‘We’ve only been here a few month. But she had a good word and she was kind. Folk round about liked her.’

‘What can you remember about the man you saw?’ he asked urgently.

She thought for a long time, absently rubbing the baby’s back. ‘He had a dark coat and breeches,’ she answered finally, her voice halting. ‘And a wig.’

‘What colour was his coat?’

‘I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.’

‘Did you see his face?’

She looked down the road to the Nottingham house. It stood too far away to see any detail. ‘No. I’m sorry.’

‘Was there anything else? Anything at all that you can recall?’

‘I saw him knock and go in the house.’

‘Did he come out again?’ the deputy asked urgently.

‘I’d emptied the pot so I went back in.’ The girl hefted the baby higher on her shoulder. ‘This one started crying again.’

‘You didn’t hear anything?’

‘Mister, when our Anna starts crying you can’t hear owt else.’

‘Was there something else you might have seen?’ he asked desperately. ‘It’s very important. It could help us find whoever killed her.’

‘I did think I saw someone else . . .’ she began.

‘Where?’

She pointed at a tree in the distance. ‘There.’ She shook her head helplessly. ‘I’m not sure. It was just something moving. It could have been a man. I’m sorry.’ She looked up at him with wide eyes. ‘He’ll not be back, will he?’

‘No,’ he assured her. ‘He won’t.’

She had nothing more to give. He thanked her and moved on. The description only made him believe it was Howard, dressed as Gabriel. But the girl hadn’t seen his face; she’d never be able to identify him. Why had Mary Nottingham let him in the house, he wondered? Had he forced his way in?

The deputy doubted they’d ever know the answers. And maybe they didn’t matter. The important thing was finding the evidence to convict him.

He asked at the other houses but no one else had seen a man by the house. He even stopped carters and people walking along but there was nothing to aid him. One or two might have seen someone but they didn’t remember who it could have been or how he was dressed.

All too often, that was the tale. There’d be something helpful but it wouldn’t be enough. If he had his way, the merchant and his factor would simply disappear and no one would ever see them again.

Instead of returning to the jail he went to the Talbot. Only a few drinkers huddled over their ale on benches far from the windows. Bell the landlord was checking the barrels, a new cask standing by, ready to be changed. He stood quickly when Sedgwick rapped on the counter.

‘Good to see you at the funeral yesterday,’ the deputy said brightly.

‘Aye, well . . .’ The man shrugged his large shoulders.

‘Show willing, eh?’

Bell said nothing, ready to turn back to his work.

‘I want a word.’

‘What about?’ The landlord bunched his fists then opened them again.

‘In the back,’ Sedgwick told him.

‘I need to keep an eye on that lot.’ He gestured at the customers. ‘They’ll drink me dry otherwise.’

‘Call one of the girls to do it.’

Bell stared at him for a moment, then yelled, ‘Essie!’ He pulled at a ring of keys on the belt under his leather apron and unlocked the door to the cock pit. Faint light came through the high windows. The room smelt strongly of blood and death. The landlord settled himself on a bench, crossing his arms over his belly.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re alone now, Mr Sedgwick. What did you want to talk about?’

‘Truth and lies.’

‘Oh aye?’ Bell smirked. ‘And what about them?’

‘As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been very good at the lies.’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘Funny how you remembered that Mr Darden had been at the cockfight not long after you said he hadn’t.’

‘I’d forgotten he was here,’ the landlord answered blandly.

‘The jingle of money’s always good for the memory, eh?’ The deputy smiled.

‘You think what you like.’

‘Oh, I will. And would you like to know what I think, Mr Bell?’

‘If you like.’

‘I think I’ve had enough lies from you.’

The landlord shook his head slowly. ‘I’ve been threatened by better men than you.’

‘Happen you have,’ the deputy told him. ‘But I daresay it won’t be too good for trade to have a Constable’s man standing outside all the time, will it, or if we keep taking in your girls for whoring?’ Bell sat quietly, sucking on his teeth. ‘You ought to know by now that I don’t threaten,’ Sedgwick continued. ‘Consider that a promise, Mr Bell.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And it’ll be the first of many.’ He slapped his palm against the wood surround of the pit. ‘I’d give it three months before you’re out of business. Maybe you want to think on that.’ He began to walk away. ‘I’ll be back to see about some truth.’