Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

Nottingham opened the desk drawer and took out the silk pouch, feeling it slide between his fingers. He closed his fist around it, the sorrow rising in his chest. If he hadn’t been so arrogant . . .

He breathed deeply and put the pouch away. The design, the texture, were fixed in his mind. He stood, took hold of the stick and left the jail, walking down Briggate towards the bridge. People stopped him to offer their condolences. They were kindly meant, but each time it only brought Mary’s face into his head and he had to turn away in case they saw his tears ready to fall.

Tom Williamson’s warehouse lay on the riverbank, downstream from the bridge. It was still new, the stonework clean and sharp, not yet worn down by weather and winters. In the clerks’ office the brazier burned and beyond men worked busily, preparing a shipment for somewhere.

The Constable spotted Williamson, an apron over his coat and breeches, pulling at a heavy cloth on the shelf. The man next to him said something and the merchant turned, then came forward, his hand extended.

‘Richard,’ he said, his voice filled with sadness. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Thank you.’ Nottingham shook his hand. ‘And for yesterday, too, for coming forward to carry the coffin.’

‘I was honoured,’ Williamson said, and the Constable believed him. ‘Come on, let’s go outside. I need some fresh air after all the dust in this place.’

The cold wind swept down along the river and the men walked with their backs to it.

‘You didn’t come here just to thank me.’

‘No,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘You told one of my men something interesting.’

‘Lister’s boy, you mean? He seems sharp enough.’

‘He is. You talked about Mr Darden lending money to the city.’

Williamson sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I said it was a long time ago. I was just a boy then. All I really know is that it angered my father.’

‘He thought it put Darden in a special position.’

The merchant nodded then gave a wry grin. ‘He believed a lot of strange things. To be honest, I think he just wished he’d had the money himself, so he could have lent it.’

‘Who’d know more about it?’

Williamson stopped and looked at the Constable. ‘You’d better tell me what’s going on, Richard. I heard that the mayor had warned you away from Darden. Then your man was asking about him and his factor.’

‘Fenton did warn me, yes. And Howard brought his lawyer to see me.’

‘Then why?’ His eyes were curious.

‘I’m as sure as I can be that Solomon Howard murdered Mary, and that Darden has been in it with him. I believe they killed those children. Eleven of them.’

Williamson stayed silent for a long time.

‘If you know all that . . .’

‘My proof won’t stand in court,’ Nottingham said flatly. ‘I’m looking for something that will. That’s the reason I’m looking at everything. It doesn’t matter how small it is or how long ago it happened. I want anything I might be able to use.’

‘Charles Trueman,’ the merchant said. ‘Go and talk to him. He was privy to things for decades. If anyone knows the full story, he will.’

The Constable nodded. He’d never met Trueman but he’d heard the name often enough over the years. He had to be eighty if he was a day, but he worked all his life for the city, rising until he became head clerk of the corporation. ‘Where does he live, do you know?’

‘A little way along the Newcastle road, I think. It should be easy enough to find his direction.’

‘Thank you again.’

‘Richard.’ There was a note of warning in the man’s voice. ‘If they’re guilty I want them to hang as much as anyone. Please, take care trying to prove it.’

‘Part of me’s well beyond care now,’ he answered.

It was the work of a minute to discover exactly where Trueman lived, close enough to stay in touch with the city, but still enough distance away to be separate from it. The Constable crossed over the Head Row, passing the grand houses and the grammar school at Town End before Leeds vanished into countryside.

The fields were dark and moist where they’d been pulled over by the plough. Sheep grazed on the hillsides. They were what gave Leeds its wealth, a fortune in their fleeces. He strode out, hands pushed into the pockets of his greatcoat, the stick clicking out a rhythm on the road.

The house was out beyond Sheepscar, past the few houses there that were barely a hamlet. The garden was small but well-tended, the building itself in good repair, more than a cottage but certainly nothing grand. He knocked at the door and waited until the servant answered.

She was a young girl, modest, but with lively blue eyes and an intelligent face.

‘I’m Richard Nottingham, the Constable of Leeds,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see Mr Trueman.’

She bobbed a quick curtsey and invited him into the hallway. ‘It’s right parky out there,’ she said. ‘Come in and get yourself warm.’ She vanished through another door. He heard a quiet exchange of voices, then she came and led him through.

Trueman still had a full head of white hair, side whiskers extending almost to his chin. He was seated in front of a roaring fire, neatly dressed in an expensive coat and breeches, the stock tied at his throat. He looked at the Constable with perceptive eyes covered by a cloud of rheum.

‘Mr Nottingham. I’ve heard plenty about you, but we’ve never met.’ He had the voice of a younger man, sonorous and regal.

‘No. Thank you for seeing me.’

The man gave a short nod. ‘My condolences to you, sir. I lost my wife ten years back. I know what it’s like to find yourself alone.’ He steepled his hands under his chin, the spots of age all across his flesh. ‘But I do wonder what brings you all the way out here.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Something from the past, perhaps? I can’t imagine why else you’d need to talk to me.’

The Constable smiled. ‘It is.’

‘Then sit yourself down. I don’t want a crick in my neck from looking at you. Some ale, a glass of wine? You’ve had a fair walk out here.’

‘I’ll be fine.’ He sat on the other chair in the room.

Trueman picked a small glass from the table and sipped. ‘Cordial,’ he explained. ‘Keeps my throat moist. Now, what do you want to know?’

‘I’ve heard that quite a few years ago Jeremiah Darden lent the Corporation some money.’

The old man mulled over the question. ‘He did, yes.’

‘What was it for?’ Nottingham asked.

Trueman smiled. ‘There were some purchases of land the Corporation wanted to make, down by the bridge. Mr Darden offered the money so everything could be conducted speedily.’

‘Why did it need to be done so quickly?’

‘It didn’t, I suppose. But it simplified things. We didn’t have the money at the time, so we’d have been forced to wait until revenues came in. This way was much easier and made sure we obtained the land, rather than someone else buying it and selling to us at a profit.’ The surprise must have shown on Nottingham’s face. ‘Yes, that has happened before. I won’t say who or where.’

‘How much money was involved?’

‘Not as much as many people have claimed, I can assure you of that. I’ve heard all manner of wild figures. It was four hundred pounds. That’s still a handsome sum, I think you’ll agree with me on that.’

‘That’s true.’ It was as much as many good merchants took in profit during a year, enough to live on without caring or ever having to count costs.

‘You know how these things are,’ Trueman continued. ‘They become exaggerated. I’ve heard he lent a round thousand, but I know that’s wrong. I was there and I helped draw up the papers.’