Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

He walked over slowly, happy to take his time, to make his Worship wait a few minutes. A few folk came to offer their condolences. Then he climbed the steps and walked along the corridor with the thick Turkey carpet, past Martin Cobb, and knocked on the door.

‘Come in.’

Fenton was leaning back in his chair, smoking a clay pipe with a long stem. ‘Sit down.’

He perched carefully on the chair, his hands folded over the silver head of the stick.

‘You don’t like the wealthy, do you, Nottingham?’

‘Don’t I?’

‘You’ve got it in your head that Mr Darden and Mr Howard are responsible for crimes they’d never have committed. I’ve heard about you over the years, going after men with money.’

‘The law’s for everyone,’ the Constable replied calmly. ‘There’s not one for the rich and another for everyone else. And I’m paid to make sure people keep to the law.’

‘For now. It’ll be different after tomorrow.’

He shrugged. ‘If it is, it is.’ He’d discovered that he didn’t really care any more. The person that kept him going more than any other had gone. Emily had the money Worthy had left her; she wouldn’t want for a roof over her head, or for something to eat. What happened to him was no longer important. ‘But the truth will come out sooner or later. And if you back those two you’re going to look like a bloody fool.’

‘Get them out of your head,’ Fenton shouted, slapping the desk. ‘They’re not guilty. I’ve been talking to the aldermen and enough of them will back me to replace you.’

‘Do what you will.’

‘I intend to,’ they mayor told him with a wolfish grin. ‘You think your power is greater than anyone’s here, that you’re the only one who cares about justice. You went too far, Nottingham. Your comeuppance is long overdue.’

The Constable just smiled, letting the words wash over him and away again.

‘I’ll be interested to hear what your accounts show. I daresay there’ll be enough discrepancies to warrant your dismissal.’

Nottingham stood. ‘Was that all, Mr Fenton? I have pressing work to do. If there’s nothing more I’ll take my leave.’

‘Go. This might be your last time here as Constable.’

He returned to the jail to go through the rest of the figures with Rob. By the time they finished it was close to full dark. Emily would have walked home alone. Nottingham pushed the papers into a neat pile.

‘You’ve done a good job there.’

‘Thank you, boss.’ In the candlelight he could see the lad flush with pride.

‘Come on home and have some supper before you start for the night. She’ll be happy to see you.’

The thin, bitter mist of rain was still falling as they went down Kirkgate. As they passed the Crown and Fleece the door opened and the landlord came bustling out.

‘Mr Nottingham,’ he said loudly, his face beaming, his words starting to slur. ‘Mr Lister. I was hoping to see you.’

The Constable gave him a gentle smile. ‘What can we do for you?’

‘There’s something I want to show you.’ His mouth closed suddenly. ‘I’m sorry, I should have remembered. My condolences to you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But please, I’d like you to look at this.’

Nottingham glanced at Rob and raised his eyebrows. Lister shrugged. They followed the man into the yard, where a torch lit everything.

‘There,’ he said proudly and pointed. One of the stones in the stable wall had been removed and replaced with another, artfully cut so a pair of skulls protruded. ‘They kept coming to me, they wouldn’t leave me alone, dying like that with no one to care. So I talked to the mason and had him do that. Cost a pretty penny, too. We put it in place this morning. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s a fine tribute,’ the Constable told him. ‘People will remember them.’

‘They can rest now,’ Rob said.

‘Aye, they can,’ the landlord agreed. ‘Will you come in and drink a mug? We’ve been celebrating.’

‘Not tonight, thank you. Perhaps we can toast them another time.’

‘Whenever you want,’ the man offered. ‘Whenever you want.’

They walked on. At the churchyard he glanced over, seeing the dark earth of Mary’s grave and the small memorial to Rose next to it, feeling sorrow like a weight around his heart.

‘You know, lad, Mary and I used to talk about the things we were going to do together. All hopes for the future. Now we won’t have the chance to do them. You and Emily, though, you have time.’

‘But-’

‘There isn’t a but,’ he answered quickly. ‘You’re happy together. Make the most of it. I mean it.’

‘What about the money? She was going to refuse it.’

‘I know. I was the one who suggested it. But there’s no point, really, is there?’

‘Isn’t there, boss? What do you mean?’

‘If she turns it down, it’ll just end up in some lawyer’s pocket. Emily might as well use it. She can do whatever she wants. Open a school. She can be a writer – she used to want to do that.’

‘She still does.’

Nottingham nodded. ‘You’re young enough to have plenty of dreams. When Amos Worthy left her that money he told me he was giving her freedom.’

‘Was he? It seems more like a burden.’

‘When he said it I didn’t believe him, either. I thought it was bad money, made on the backs of his whores. Now I wonder if he wasn’t right.’

‘Why did he leave it to her? I still don’t really understand it.’

They crossed Timble Bridge, boot heels muted on the soaked wood.

‘It’s a long story, lad.’ His mother’s face came into his head, the woman Worthy loved for so long and lost. ‘I used to think he did it to spite me. Maybe he saw more than I did.’

The house was warm. Emily was seated close to the fire, a small pile of books on the floor beside her, the smell of damp wool filling the air. He could hear Lucy moving around in the kitchen, humming softly to herself, a tune he didn’t recognize that drifted in and out of hearing.

Nottingham walked through, leaving the lovers alone for a few minutes. He kept his gaze level, unable to look down, scared of what might remain on the floor, and of the pictures in his head. Lucy stood by the fire, stirring the pottage as it simmered over the flame. She turned and smiled at him, her face guileless, hair hanging over her shoulders.

‘Another half hour and it’ll be ready.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. When he didn’t say anything or move, she asked, ‘Is owt wrong?’

‘No,’ he answered slowly. ‘Just thinking. Remembering.’

‘She loved you, you know.’ Lucy gave a small grin.

‘I know.’

‘You had a long time together.’

‘Never enough.’

‘When she was showing me what to do, she asked me about mesen. She was the first one to do that. Like she really cared. Like it mattered.’

‘It did,’ he told her. ‘It does.’

She took him by surprise. ‘If you ever want me to leave, just tell me.’

‘Why would I want that? I need someone to look after the house.’

‘But how much longer will you be here?’ He began to reply but she continued, ‘I’ve got ears and a brain. I’ve heard you talking.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But wherever we go, you’ll have a job. I promised you that.’

‘I’ve had promises off men before. I can look after meself.’ Her face hardened for a second and he could see the strong woman she’d become in time.

‘I know that.’

She nodded, willing to accept his word, not needing to say anything more. He left her to finish cooking, and saw Rob and Emily by the window, looking out into the night. He had his arm lightly around her waist and she leaned into him. The little girl who’d once told her father that she wanted to marry him when she grew up had given her heart completely to someone else now.