Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

‘Maybe he just doesn’t know what to do,’ Rob suggested.

‘But he has to,’ she pleaded helplessly. ‘He has to know what to do.’ She clutched his arm tighter. ‘He has to.’

There was nothing he could say to give her the comfort she needed. All he could do was put his hand over hers and be at her side.

The sleet passed during the night as the wind shifted to the east. On Saturday morning the skies were clear, the air cold, frost clinging to the grass. The puddles had a thin coat of ice that cracked under his feet as he walked up Kirkgate, the stick tapping on the ground.

In the cells three men were sleeping off a night of drinking. One of them had a bloody face, his nose mashed to one side; another had pissed himself on the bench. The Constable put coal on the fire and poured a mug of ale.

Soon enough Rob returned from his final rounds. The cold and rain had made things quiet enough; he’d had time to start work on the accounts, putting them into the kind of order a clerk would value.

‘You’ve done more than I could,’ Nottingham told him.

‘I’ll have them finished for Tuesday, boss. They won’t find any fault.’

‘Good. You get yourself off to your bed. You deserve it after that.’

‘Boss?’

There was something in his tone; the Constable looked closely at the lad as he struggled for the right words.

‘It’s Emily. She . . .’ He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even wilder. ‘She’s scared.’

‘Scared?’ The words took him by surprise.

‘I don’t think she knows what to do. She needs to have you there.’

He nodded. He knew he hadn’t done the best by her. He’d put himself, his grief, his guilt ahead of her. But it was all he could manage. He remembered when Rose had died, how all the words had vanished from the house, how they’d been too fearful to say anything, retreating from each other, too scared to love properly in case another of them died.

He walked Briggate with the deputy, the weavers bundled into their heavy coats against the bitter wind, their faces set and stubborn as they laid out cloth on the trestles. The men chewed at the hot beef of their Brigg-End Shot breakfasts, swilling the food down with a mug of ale as they worked.

The merchants sheltered in the lee of a building, all gathered together in a group, dressed in rich wool and polished leather. Nottingham kept his eye on Darden and Howard, their faces half-hidden by hats, then passed on down the street.

‘What do you reckon they’re thinking, boss?’

‘I wish I knew, John,’ he answered, shaking his head. ‘I’d hope they’re praying we don’t find the evidence to send them to the hangman.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘But I’ll give you odds the bastards are smirking at us instead.’

‘Did Lucy have much to say?’

‘Plenty, but none of it anything to help us.’

They continued in silence all the way to Leeds Bridge.

‘Lizzie thinks we should just kill them.’

‘You think I don’t want to?’ The Constable gazed out at the river. The water was high, dark and dangerous. ‘I want to make it so there’s pain in every breath they take and they beg me to finish it.’

‘But?’

Nottingham shook his head. ‘You know as well as I do. We’ll prove it, John. We’ll get them in court. And when we do, the mayor and all the rest of their friends will desert them.’

‘You hope.’

‘They will. They’ll leave them to die alone, then they’ll peck over the carcasses like crows. You just wait and see. Let’s go back up. It’s bloody freezing out here.’

The market bell rang as they were part way up the street, the merchants moving quickly among the clothiers, examining a length and moving on or making their bargain before someone else could offer more.

And elsewhere in the city, the Constable thought, folk wouldn’t give a thought to all this and the money it made. They’d be at their work, the servants and clerks, the shopkeepers and apprentices. They’d count their pay at day’s end and struggle on into another week.

The deputy left to follow word of a burglary, a piece of silver plate and some lace gone missing from a house. Nottingham walked up to the market cross at the top of Briggate, the traders all setting up their stalls for the Saturday market. Farmers brought eggs and butter, their chickens squawking in their wooden cages, a Sunday dinner for those who could afford it. The tinker had his brazier lit, ready to mend pots and pans later; for now, others crowded round its warmth.

‘Grand to see, isn’t it?’ He turned towards the voice, seeing Joe Buck’s face, Henry two paces behind him, oblivious to the stares people gave.

‘People make money, people spend money. Same as everywhere. But that’s a business you know well, Joe.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ the fence said with a smile. ‘You found the evidence to hang your Gabriel yet?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Best have a word with yon clothes seller, then.’ Buck nodded in the direction of a stall further down the street. ‘He has something that might interest you.’

‘What?’

‘You’ll have to go and see for yourself.’ He touched the brim of his tricorn hat. ‘I’ll bid you good day.’

The man was still laying out his goods. Not too long ago it had been Isaac the Jew who’d done all this, selling dresses and coats and linen that had seen better days. But he was gone, another murdered soul, and someone else had drifted in, hoping to make a little money.

The man was in his middle years, gaunt, with cheerless eyes, helped by a boy with the same thinness in his face, straining as he carried bundles from a cart.

‘We’re not ready yet,’ he said, fussing with the garments. ‘Market bell hasn’t rung, anyway.’

‘I’m the Constable,’ Nottingham said.

‘Oh aye?’ The man was suddenly interested, standing straight and pulling at the sleeves of his greatcoat. ‘I’m Charles Johnson. Looking for summat to wear, maybe?’

‘Not for me.’ He kept the friendly tone in his voice and scanned the piles of clothes, some little better than tatters, a few garments almost new. ‘What have you bought lately?’

‘Not so much. Weather like this, folk are buying not selling.’ The man rummaged deftly in one of the piles. ‘But there’s this.’ He pulled out a shirt, the white almost yellow with age. ‘Good quality, last for years.’

The Constable shook his head and Johnson gave him a steady look.

‘I tell you what. I bought this on Tuesday. Beautiful, it is.’ He opened up a chest under the trestle and carefully unfolded a grey coat. ‘What about that?’

‘Can I see it?’

The cloth and weave were exquisite and expensive, far better than anything else the man was offering. But that wasn’t what he noticed. The grey coat was spattered with dark stains, the colour of rust. Some were tiny, almost lost, others larger, a couple almost the size of his thumb.

‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.

‘Like I said, I bought it on Tuesday.’ The man looked worried, eyes shifting around uncomfortably. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘Who did you buy it from?’

Johnson shrugged. ‘A man came up and asked if I wanted to buy it.’

‘When on Tuesday?’

‘Afternoon. Why? I was enjoying some ale at t’ Rose and Crown and he came up to my lad. He sent him on to me.’

‘Did the man give his name?’

‘I never asked him. It was a coat and it were cheap and quality. Have I done summat wrong, mister? Did he steal them?’

‘No, I don’t think he did,’ the Constable assured him. ‘What did he look like?’

‘A big bugger.’ He held his arms apart. ‘Shoulders like that on him. I knew it couldn’t be his coat, but he said his master had given it him. He was wearing the breeches that went with it. Tight on him, they were, too.’