Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

The band of light on the eastern horizon was starting to broaden as he reached the jail. He listened as Rob gave the night report, then said, ‘Check the inn again this evening. If that sergeant’s still there, move him on to the Talbot.’ He grinned. ‘They’ll know how to deal with him there.’

‘He’ll be out with his drummer today,’ Sedgwick pointed out. ‘All those country boys coming in for market day.’

‘We can’t stop him, John, you know that. Just keep your eye on him.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Bessie didn’t have anything?’ he asked Lister.

‘She’s going to ask the people at the camp.’

‘Go down there again tonight. Nobody else knew anything?’

Lister shook his head. Nottingham looked over at the deputy. ‘How about you?’

‘Nothing,’ Sedgwick answered despondently. ‘I’ve put the word out but I didn’t really need to; they’d be coming to us if they knew anything. Everyone wants this one, boss. The only good thing is that they’ve found no more bodies.’

Nottingham nodded solemnly. In the distance the church bell rang the half hour. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’d better walk around the cloth market. Let them see I’m back.’

It was exactly as he remembered it, the way he knew it would be, as it had been for years before his time. The weavers set up their trestles on either side of Briggate, stretching up from the bridge, and laid out the cloth they’d finished. The merchants circulated, making their deals with clothiers in whispers, the exchanges as muted and reverent as a church service. But it was the worship of profit, the Constable knew that. Wool was the religion of Leeds; everyone bowed his head to it and the money it brought.

He walked down towards the river, taking his time, making sure everyone noticed that he was back. Some yelled out their greetings, others nodded and smiled. Tom Williamson, one of the few friends Nottingham had among the merchants, came over, a smile wide on his face.

‘About time you were working again, Richard,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Better than when I had a knife in me,’ he answered wryly. ‘You’re looking prosperous.’ Williamson wore a new coat and breeches, the wool so dark the colour moved between blue and black. A neatly cut waistcoat flowed almost to his knees, the silk as yellow as pale sun with designs in blue and green.

‘Business is good,’ he replied, sounding almost embarrassed. ‘My wife insists I have to look like a success. I said the money would be better saved, but . . .’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘I tell you, Richard, I don’t understand women any more now than I did when I was twenty.’ Williamson’s face clouded. ‘I heard about the children.’

‘We’ll find whoever did it,’ Nottingham assured him.

‘It’s a bad thing to come back to,’ he said, and the Constable added his solemn agreement. ‘Some of us were talking before the market. We thought we could put up a reward to help catch the murderer. It might help.’

Nottingham gave a long sigh as he tried to frame a reply. After a moment he said, ‘Don’t. I know you want him brought to justice as much as I do, but once you offer money, everyone starts peaching on his neighbour, just hoping to get rich. Do you see the problem, Tom?’

‘Of course,’ the merchant said quickly. ‘We don’t want to make your job harder than it is. Is there anything we can do?’

‘I don’t know.’ It was the simple truth. He couldn’t recall the last time there’d been an offer of help. It was generous, it showed the outrage in the city, but although money was what the merchants understood, it wasn’t the answer here. He smiled. ‘I’ll need to think about that.’

Williamson clasped his hand again. ‘Just let me know. And it’s good to see you again, Richard. It truly is.’

The Constable watched him wander away. To most of the merchants he was simply someone to be tolerated, someone to protect them and their wealth from the poor. Williamson had more about him than that. He saw the person, not the position. He’d probably been the one to suggest the reward, thinking of his own young children.

The cloth market wound down, most of the lengths sold, the weavers packing their things away, ready to lead their packhorses back out to the Pennine villages where they lived.

At the other end of Briggate, beyond the Moot Hall and the Shambles, traders were setting up for the Tuesday market, laughing and joking as they worked. Nottingham strolled up to the market cross by the Head Row. Wives and servants were already moving around, searching out the early bargains, picking through stalls of old clothes, bargaining with farmers for the poultry in wooden cages.

He loved the liveliness and noise, but his concentration was elsewhere, looking around to try to spot the children who stayed on the fringes of everything. They survived by barely being noticed, scavenging and stealing what they could and vanishing again.

Finally he saw two boys dart between stalls. His eyes followed them as they disappeared into the entrance of one of the many courts between the houses that lined the street. Back there, in the shadows, they’d feel safer.

He made his way down the street, carefully watching the ginnel, his stick tapping lightly on the flagstones. He had a warm pie in his coat, and small coins in the pocket of his breeches.

The buildings rose around the court, keeping the place in deep shade. Rubbish was piled against the corners and rats scattered as he approached. The stench of decay was strong around the old, dilapidated buildings. Half the windows were missing their glass, the cold and light kept at bay with pieces of rotting cloth. He cleared a space against a wall and sat, feeling pain push through his belly as he lowered himself. Then he took out the pie and laid it on the ground before breaking off a piece and chewing it slowly.

It would take time for their curiosity and fear to get the better of them. But time was something he had. He thought back to when he was very young, when he had both a father and a mother, when the world seemed safe, a magical place of hope and wonder. All that had vanished quickly enough and left him out here.

The bustle of the market seemed a world away, the noise baffled by brick and stone. Back here there was only silent desperation. He kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, listening closely for the smallest sound.

‘Are you all right?’

The Constable raised his head slowly. ‘Aye, lad, I’ll be fine,’ he said with a smile. ‘I just needed somewhere quiet. Come on out if you want. I’ve got some food.’

He waited patiently, careful to say nothing more. Too much and he could scare the boy away. This way he seemed harmless, just another old man. He took a little more of the pie and chewed it slowly.

When he looked up again the boy was standing in front of him, leaving enough distance to run. He was small and thin as twigs, his shirt ragged at the cuffs and neck, worn through at the elbows. Tattered breeches hung off skinny legs, hose gathered loosely on his calves, the shoes at least three sizes too large for his feet.

He looked about twelve, but Nottingham knew that was just a guess. Whatever his age, his face had seen far too much for his years. His eyes were sad, filled now with hunger as he looked at the pie, and he clenched a knife tight in one fist.

‘Help yourself. Take it all if you want.’

The boy glanced around quickly, then slipped forward, grabbing the food. Nottingham thought he saw a small form move deep in the shadows, a fleeting impression of a girl who vanished somewhere.

‘It’s good,’ the Constable said as the lad took a bite. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Caleb,’ the boy answered as he began to chew. He stared suspiciously at Nottingham. ‘Why are you back here, anyway?’