Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

‘I’ve been careful,’ he promised her. ‘The most I’ve done is walk to the Moot Hall and back.’

‘Was the mayor glad to see you?’

‘Not as you’d notice,’ he replied quietly. ‘When I took the daily report I had to give it to the new clerk he has. And when I told him about the children his only concern was how it might affect the city.’ He paused. ‘Do you mind if we stop by the churchyard?’

He could have found his way to the grave with his eyes closed. As soon as he’d been able to walk far enough it had been the first place he’d visited. Rose, their older daughter. Soon it would be two years since she’d died, taken in that awful, killing winter. He stood, threading his fingers through Mary’s. The grass had grown tall, the inscription on the headstone still clear but starting to wear, the edges of the letters no longer so sharp as lichen grew around the words.

They didn’t need words to remember the girl who’d been so loving and eager to please, barely married and with child herself when death came.

Finally he stirred, startled to see that full evening had come while his mind wandered.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told him tenderly. ‘I feel peaceful here.’

At the house he was careful to rattle the latch noisily before they entered. It would give Emily and Rob time to make themselves respectable. He’d be disappointed if they hadn’t taken advantage of the time alone.

The girl had built a fire and the pair of them sat close to it, careful not to look at each other. The Constable smiled inside. Emily might not want to marry but that didn’t mean she wasn’t interested in other things with her young man.

‘Did you find anything?’ he asked Lister.

‘Nothing, boss. No one knows anything. But there’s a recruiting sergeant in town.’

Nottingham rolled his eyes. ‘Find out where he’s staying. I’ll wager there’ll be trouble there tonight; there always is when they’re here. Prepare the men for it.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Go and talk to the people down at the camp, too. Someone down there might have known the children. Even names for them would be something.’

‘Mr Sedgwick suggested that.’

‘Good.’ The Constable brightened. ‘And I suppose we should feed you before you start work.’

Rob grinned. ‘Yes, boss.’

As dusk became night Sedgwick completed his last round and returned to the jail. The undertaker had taken the children, and he imagined them laid gently into the ground in the darkness before the gravediggers sprinkled a thick layer of quicklime on them.

The boss might have come back, but the work day had been as long as before, stretching from before dawn to well into the evening. It felt odd to have someone else making the decisions again and telling him what to do. He’d grown used to being in charge. Maybe he would be again; he could see the Constable wasn’t the man he’d once been. The smile was there and his mind seemed sharp enough, but he moved slowly and cautiously, like someone much older than his years.

The deputy locked the jail door, tested it briefly, then made his way home up Briggate and along Lands Lane. Inside the house a fire burned bright and warm in the hearth; Isabell was awake and smiling in the crib he’d made from old scraps of wood.

Sedgwick picked her up and held her at arm’s length before bringing her close, burying her face against her and smelling the freshness and the milk on her skin.

‘James is upstairs,’ Lizzie said. ‘He’s finishing the work he has to do for school.’ She was sitting close to the blaze, using its light to finish mending a shirt. He bent to kiss her and stroke her hair lightly, then tickled the baby until she began to gurgle happily. This was what he lived for, the thing that drove him through every day, knowing he’d come back to his family when it was all over.

He laid the girl back in her bed and climbed to the cramped upper storey of the house. The room was filled with a bed and a paillasse where the boy sat thoughtfully, staring at the slate in front of him, a stub of chalk clutched tight between his small fingers.

‘What do you have to do?’

‘Sums,’ James replied glumly, looking up. ‘It’s hard.’

The deputy chuckled and ruffled the lad’s hair. ‘It’s worth knowing,’ he said. ‘Remember, if you know how to count properly no bugger can cheat you.’ He’d talked to his son’s teacher at the charity school and knew he was learning quickly, already able to read and write spidery letters.

The boy’s blue coat hung neatly from a peg. Each afternoon, when James came home, Lizzie sponged it carefully. It was too large but that was good; it would need to last a few years before they’d be able to afford a new one. The first morning he’d walked the boy to school and seen him vanish into the place he’d thought his heart would burst from pride.

‘Sleep as soon as you’ve finished.’ He tried to kiss the lad but James wriggled away, never taking his eyes from the numbers in front of him, then scribbling an answer. ‘You hear me?’

‘Yes, Da.’

He settled by the fire, letting the warmth surround him. Isabell had fallen asleep and he pulled the blanket up around her chin. Lizzie had cut bread and cheese and poured a mug of ale. He drank slowly, gazing into the flames.

‘Bad?’ she asked. He nodded in reply. He’d knew she’d have heard; the word would have flown around Leeds.

‘Very,’ he said with a weary sigh. ‘It made me think about our two.’

Lizzie reached out and took his hand. ‘You can’t look after all of them, you know.’

‘We don’t even know their names,’ he told her bleakly. ‘Let alone who did it.’

She squeezed his fingers gently. ‘You’ll find him, John Sedgwick.’

He hoped that was true.

Rob made the rounds with two of the men then headed out along the Aire to the camp. He’d gone to his lodgings for the greatcoat and was glad of it now; with night the sky had cleared, stars shining and the air stinging against his face.

The clock on the Parish Church had struck nine by the time Rob walked along the riverbank. Small fires burned in the darkness, figures in silhouette gathered around them.

There’d be a thick frost tonight, he thought; already the grass crunched beneath his boots and the earth felt hard and rutted. He looked up to see a woman standing in front of him, her arms folded.

‘Evening, Mr Lister,’ she said, her voice wary. ‘What brings you this way? We’ve not seen you for a while.’ Her face broke into a small grin. ‘I was starting to think maybe you didn’t love us any more.’

He chuckled. ‘Hello, Bessie. It’s good to see you, too.’

‘Must be summat important to bring you down this way.’

‘I’m looking for information.’

For much of the year the strays and waifs of the riverbank gathered here every night. Being together gave them safety, somewhere to call home, if only for a few hours. Simon Gordonson had started the camp, but in the late summer he’d left, taking to the roads, and Bessie Sharp had assumed iron control. She was a hefty woman, almost as tall as Lister, with a fearsome gaze and a shrewd mind. Her curls were tucked under her cap, and she wore clothes others had cast off as if they were a queen’s robes. She looked after all the lost souls like they were her family, keeping them in line and protecting every one.

‘It’s about them children, in’t it?’

‘Yes.’

She glanced at the faces gathered around the fires, pulling a worn shawl tighter around her shoulders. ‘There’s enough to look after here. Once winter comes proper I’ll have plenty to do keeping these alive.’ Bessie stared at him. ‘So what information are you looking for?’