Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

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‘Did he have anything else to sell?’

‘Aye. A pair of shoes and some hose.’

‘What did you do with them?’

‘Kept them for mesen. There’s good leather on them shoes and nice shiny buckles.’

Those buckles would certainly be shiny enough, Nottingham thought. Most likely silver.

‘I’m going to need the coat and the shoes,’ he said, watching Johnson frown.

‘I should have known it were too good to be true. What’s he done?’

‘You know what these are?’ the Constable asked, rubbing the stains with his fingertips.

‘No. But I reckoned that was why he’d been given the clothes to sell.’

‘It’s blood. The man who owned this suit killed people.’

He watched all the colour leave the man’s face. ‘Christ.’

‘The man who sold you the clothes, did he say anything else?’

Johnson shook his head. ‘Just wanted his money and then he left. Didn’t take no more than five minutes.’

‘Did he bargain with you?’

‘Took the first offer I made.’ He nodded at the coat. ‘Got that at a good price, thought I’d make a pretty penny off it. You’re going to take it, aren’t you?’ he asked sadly.

‘I am,’ Nottingham answered. ‘You’ll have to bring the shoes to the jail. I’m sorry.’

‘Aye.’ The man sighed. ‘My mam always used to say that if summat seems too good to be true, it probably is.’ He looked up with a wan smile and a small, world-weary chuckle. ‘She were right an’ all, weren’t she?’

‘I’m afraid so, Mr Johnson. And if you see the man again, send your lad to find me.’

‘I’ll do that.’

He rolled the coat and put it under his arm. Gabriel’s grey coat. Solomon Howard’s coat. Either the factor had told Smithson to get rid of it, one last task, or the servant had stolen it before he left. However it happened, they needed to find Hugh Smithson. He was the one with evidence to put Howard on the gallows. And the Constable would make sure that Darden stood beside him.

He spread it out on the desk, stroking the blood stains. Some of them would be Mary’s, the last drops of her life. Finally, after gazing at it for a minute, he put the coat into a deep drawer of the desk.

He knew the deputy was hunting for Smithson. Now he’d put the word out, too. If the man was still in Leeds, they’d find him. The servant would peach on his employer quickly enough; it was better than death. They just had to hope he was still in Leeds, or someone knew where he’d gone.

For the rest of the day he trailed across the city, from the Calls to the Head Row, from London Road to the Ley Lands, asking the same questions over and over. Did they know Smithson? When had they seen him last? Had he said where he was going? Who knew him well?

By the shank of the afternoon he was exhausted, his throat raw from so much talking. High clouds had begun to settle in, others following and filling the horizon. There’d be rain during the night. Any colder and it could be snow.

He finished the day at the White Swan, taking his time over a mug of ale. The inn was loud, folk coming in to spend their wages and find some brief joy in their lives. He settled at the end of a bench, lost in his thoughts until Sedgwick sat across from him.

‘Found him yet?’ Nottingham asked before telling him about the coat.

‘So far I’ve had him telling people he was going to York, Wakefield and London.’

‘I’ve had all of those, and America to start a new life.’

The deputy snorted. ‘Wherever he’s gone the bastard doesn’t want anyone to know.’

‘Unless he’s still here and hiding.’

Sedgwick shook his head. ‘He’s gone, boss. The last anyone saw of him was Tuesday night. If he was in Leeds someone would have spotted him. He could be anywhere by now.’

‘Probably,’ the Constable agreed. ‘Let’s keep looking, just in case.’

‘What else do you want me to do?’

‘Didn’t you say Solomon Howard had a cook?’

‘Aye.’

‘Find a way to talk to her and see what you can discover.’

The deputy nodded and Nottingham drained his cup. ‘I’m off to my home.’

Emily was there, sitting in her chair with a book on her lap. But she’d barely turned three or four pages and her face was full of memories and sorrow.

‘It’s not right, is it?’ he said as he stood in front of the hearth.

‘What, Papa?’

‘This house without your mother in it.’

‘No,’ she answered.

‘Do you remember where we used to live, before I became Constable and we were given this place?’

She shook her head.

‘You were still very small. There was you and your sister and me and your mother all in one room. That was all we could afford on what the city paid me. But your mother made it into a home. Coming home every night was a joy.’

‘What was it like?’ she asked.

‘Clean and dry,’ he said after a while, calling the picture into his mind. ‘That’s the best anyone could say about it. The whole place wasn’t much bigger than this room. You were just a baby and we were always scared you’d end up crawling into the fire. Your sister almost did that when she was little. You mother managed to pull her away in time.’

‘How was it when we moved out here?’ Emily asked him, and he knew he had her interest. ‘How old was I?’

‘How old?’ He pushed the fringe off his forehead as he thought. ‘Two, maybe three? We thought we’d moved into a palace.’ He smiled at the recollection. ‘You can’t imagine it, going from one room to all this space. We didn’t know what to do with it all. I brought everything we owned out here in a handcart while your mama carried you and Rose walked next to her.’

‘She loved this place, didn’t she?’ The girl moved, curling her legs under herself and smoothing down the dress.

‘From the first moment she saw it.’ He could still see it as if it had just happened the day before. ‘She said it felt like home as soon as she walked in. Her eyes kept growing wider and wider as she looked around.’ He laughed. ‘And then you went out in the garden and fell over in the mud. She cleaned you off in the kitchen and said we’d be happy here. She was right, too.’

Lucy bustled through, carrying bowls of stew, the smell of meat quickly filling the room. The mood vanished like mist.

‘I hope I did it right,’ the servant said apologetically. Her skin was flushed from the heat of cooking, Mary’s old apron tied tight around her. ‘I’ve never made this before.’

They ate in silence. It was better than her pottage, he thought; there was some taste to the mutton and the gravy was thick. He emptied his bowl, poured ale and sat back to drink.

‘Very good, lass,’ he told her and saw her face light up as she smiled.

‘The mistress told me how she did it. I just tried to remember what she said.’

‘You’ve done very well.’

The candles cast long shadows as they settled back in front of the fire. He poured on more coal and watched the flames dance up the chimney.

‘What are you and Rob going to do?’ he asked finally.

‘Do, Papa?’ He could hear the caution in her tone.

‘Do,’ he said again. ‘You love each other. The whole of Leeds can see that.’ She lowered her head so he couldn’t see her expression. ‘You’re not going to marry him, are you?’

She shook her head, the hair shaking over her shoulders. ‘You know I’m not. And I’m not going to change just because Mama’s dead.’

‘I don’t want you to, love,’ he told her gently. He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been thinking about what’s important.’

Emily looked up quickly. ‘Important?’

He nodded. ‘What matters in life. If you love Rob, you should be with him. Do what your heart tells you. And I don’t mean you have to marry him.’

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