Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

He picked up the stick and slowly made his way down Kirkgate, his greatcoat still on a hook at the jail. Thin sleet had begun

to fall; people hurried down the street with heads bowed, trying to stay dry. Nottingham turned at the lych gate and walked through the mud of the churchyard to the graves.

Lichen was beginning to grow on Rose’s headstone, starting to eat away at the sharp cuts of the words. He knelt and scraped it away with his fingernail. She’d be nothing but bone now, the flesh all eaten away.

Next to her the earth was mounded dark over Mary. He could find a spade and dig it all away, pull the nails from the coffin lid and see her again before nature took her. He remembered kneeling by her body in the kitchen, his fingers smoothing her hair, the texture of it in his hands. He’d kissed her cheek, his face beside hers to draw in the scent of her for the final time.

He could still conjure up her voice calling his name, the love she put into a simple word even when he exasperated her.

‘Boss?’ The word made him turn to face the deputy, dragged back to the pain of the present.

‘You’ve been here for over an hour,’ Sedgwick told him gently. ‘Someone came to fetch me. You’re soaked through.’ He smiled. ‘Come on, let’s get you in the warm.’

The Constable followed him meekly to the jail. Sedgwick talked of anything and everything, how James was at school, the way Isabell was growing, almost ready to crawl, words to fill the space between them, to keep Nottingham’s mind in the here and now.

The Constable sat on his chair, surrounded by all the papers. He put more coal on the fire and watched as the flames licked upwards. The deputy poured some ale, put it in his hand and stared until he drank it down.

‘I should start on all this,’ Nottingham said finally. ‘The treasurer wants to see the accounts on Tuesday.’

‘Why?’

The Constable raised his eyes and brushed the fringe off his forehead. ‘The mayor wants me out,’ he answered emptily. ‘He refuses to believe that Darden and Howard could be guilty. He’ll have you out, too, and Rob.’

‘Then we’d better show him he’s wrong.’ He smiled. ‘Have the lad work on the sums, he has the mind for it. If this weather keeps up there’ll be little enough for him to do at night, anyway.’

Nottingham nodded. Rob would make sense of all the figures with ease.

The deputy buttoned his heavy coat and pulled up the collar. The sleet was still falling, icy puddles forming on the roads. His boots and hose were soaked, his feet chilled. He’d considered telling the Constable to go home, but what was there for him there? Just more memories to hurt him.

The man he’d talked to by the graves this morning wasn’t the one he’d known for years. This one was broken, lost, looking for something he was never going to find, more like a helpless child than a grown man.

He could only imagine how he’d feel if Lizzie died, and they’d barely been together for a heartbeat. If someone killed her . . . then he’d commit murder of his own. The older you grew, the more you had to lose, and the more life could hurt you.

He didn’t even know where he was going. He’d put out the word about Smithson. The man had probably left Leeds, paid off by Howard, but if he’d decided to linger the deputy wanted him. Landlord Bell at the Talbot had made it plain that he wouldn’t testify.

They had nothing. Short of a miracle they’d never arrest Howard and Darden. It was as if their lives were charmed, that guilt could never touch them. But he was damned if he’d let them look at the world with scorn and take whatever they wanted. He pushed the old tricorn hat more firmly on his head. All he could do now was follow wherever his feet took him, and ask questions.

There was hardly a soul on Vicar Lane, and the carters making their way up and down the Head Row were few and far between. Finally he ducked through an opening off Briggate and into the Ship. The place was bustling, the fire crackling loudly. He looked around as he waited for his ale, spotting familiar faces among the crowd.

The landlord waved away his money. ‘Tha knows better than that, Mr Sedgwick.’

He smiled his thanks and squeezed through to the hearth. Joe Buck the fence and his servant, Henry, had a small table to themselves. Some might stare at Henry’s colour but they knew to leave the pair alone.

‘Joe,’ the deputy said. ‘Henry.’

Buck moved along the bench. ‘I’ve been hearing some strange things about the Constable,’ he said with concern.

‘Oh aye?’ Sedgwick took a long drink.

‘Standing in the rain at the churchyard today, out near Woodhouse in that weather yesterday.’

The deputy shrugged. ‘He’s just lost his wife, Joe. He’s not himself.’

‘Little birds have been talking to me, Mr Sedgwick.’ Buck frowned. ‘They say the mayor wants rid of Mr Nottingham.’

Sedgwick smiled. ‘How long have you lived in this city, Joe?’

‘All my life.’

‘Then you know not to believe everything people say here.’

‘The person who told me was well-placed,’ the fence said.

‘Aye, they always are, Joe. And how often are they right?’ He shook his head. ‘Come on, you know the answer as well as I do.’

Henry was staring at the mug in front of him, the light shining on his shaved, dark skull.

‘But what happens to you if someone else becomes Constable?’ Buck asked. ‘A new man might have other ideas for a deputy.’

‘Happen so.’

‘Tha dun’t sound too worried,’ Henry told him.

‘I already said it’s not going to happen. So why worry about it?’

‘But if it did,’ Buck began slowly, ‘you’d still need to earn money. You’ve got that family to feed.’

‘Going to offer me something, are you, Joe?’

‘Always good to have something up your sleeve, Mr Sedgwick.’

‘Except the boss won’t be going anywhere.’

Buck nodded. ‘Tell me something. You already know full well who was responsible, don’t you?’

The deputy nodded.

‘Then why’s he still alive?’

‘You know why. The boss wants them to hang.’

‘Bugger that.’ He looked around cautiously and began to speak in a quick, low voice. ‘I know folk who’d take care of the problem for nowt. They’d be gone by tomorrow.’

‘That’s not how Mr Nottingham does things, Joe.’

‘Not even when they murdered his own wife?’

‘Not even then.’ He gave the man a warning look. ‘And don’t you go getting ideas, either.’

‘We need rid of scum like that.’

‘Don’t,’ the deputy repeated. ‘And that’s not advice, either. You try it and I’ll be coming for you.’ He held Buck’s gaze until the man nodded.

‘Right, I’ve had a warm and a wet. I’d best get back to work.’ He put the battered hat back on his head. ‘Good to see you again, Joe. Henry.’

Outside, he took a deep breath, strode through the narrow ginnel and back on to Briggate. The sleet was still coming down. Any colder and it would turn to snow, he thought. But not yet, not yet. He wasn’t ready for another winter.

But he’d learned something interesting from the encounter – Joe Buck was paying someone at the Moot Hall for information and he had a good idea who. It could be worth paying Martin Cobb a visit sometime.

Darden and Howard had money and influence to protect them. Somewhere, though, there had to be the evidence to put the pair of them in the dock. And he was going to find it.

At the jail the Constable was putting the documents for the accounts in order, small piles of them scattered across the desk.

‘Boss, how closely have you questioned Lucy about Gabriel?’ Sedgwick asked.