Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

Richard Nottingham exhaled slowly as his boot heels clattered over Timble Bridge, feeling the wool of his breeches rasp against his thighs as he moved. Partway across he stopped to rest for a moment, leaning heavily on the silver-topped stick and listening to the birds singing for the dawn. His breath bloomed in the November air and he pulled the greatcoat collar higher.

Five months had passed since he’d last walked this way to work. Five months since the knife sliced into his belly. For a week he’d drifted in and out of the world, living in a place made of furious heat and bitter chills, the pain always there, powerful enough to fill every thought, every moment. Few believed he’d survive.

Finally the fever burned out of his system and he woke, the daylight so bright it hurt his eyes, his wife Mary sitting by the bed, holding his hand. He’d live, the apothecary announced after examining him, although the healing would take a long time.

The summer of 1733 was warm, sticky, full of the drowsy scent of wildflowers in the fields as he began to walk again, shuffling like an old man. At first he could only manage a few yards before he was exhausted, forced to stop, frustrated by his body and its weakness. Strength returned gradually, at its own dismal pace. He went further, first to the bridge, then into the city, a little more distance each day.

And now he was back to work. Richard Nottingham was Constable of the City of Leeds once more.

He stood at the bottom of Kirkgate, relishing the sight of early smoke rising from chimneys. The thick smells of the place, the shit and piss, the smoke and the stink, rushed into him like perfume, hearing the sounds of voices and the rumble of early carts along the street. His gaze crossed to the Parish Church, eyes picking out the grave of his older daughter, Rose and resting there for a moment, thinking how close he’d come to joining her in the earth.

He pushed the door open and walked into the jail, feeling fear and relief in equal measures. Simply being here seemed like a victory over all the doubts and fears he’d had in the last months. He gazed around the room, as familiar to him as home, and smiled.

John Sedgwick sat at the desk, looking as if he belonged there. Then he glanced up and his face broke into a wide grin.

‘Welcome back, boss,’ he said, standing quickly and moving aside. For almost half a year he’d been the deputy who’d worked as Constable, with all the responsibility of the job and none of the pay. Now he’d be back where he’d been before. Nottingham tried to read the expression in his eyes.

‘Hello, John,’ he said, pleasure filling his voice. ‘I see it hasn’t changed at all.’

‘We kept it just this way for you.’

He winced as he lowered himself on to the chair, feeling the sharp twinge of pain shooting from the scar right through his stomach. All because of a stupid, simple mistake; he’d known better for so many years. He’d let down his guard and for one second forgotten everything he’d been taught. That was all it had taken for the man to draw the knife from his boot and cut him open.

A noise came from the cells and he raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘Rob’s sweeping them out,’ the deputy explained. ‘No one in there at the moment.’

Soon enough Rob Lister appeared with a broom, standing straight as he saw the Constable.

‘Good to see you back, boss.’ He was a young man, his red hair flying wild no matter what he tried to do with it, eyes bright, eager and ready to work. His was a familiar face; he seemed to spend all his free time at Nottingham’s house courting the Constable’s younger daughter, Emily.

‘So what do we have, John?’

‘Not too much at the moment. Two men died fighting each other a couple of nights back.’

‘At the Talbot?’ he asked, sure he knew the answer.

‘Aye, where else?’ Sedgwick answered with a dark grimace. ‘Apart from that there’s just a few small thefts, someone shot himself.’ He poured a cup of ale from the mug on the desk and passed it over. ‘You look like you need it.’

The Constable drank gratefully. He was thirsty, his body ached, and even the small effort of walking from home had drained him. He sat back and brushed the fringe off his forehead.

‘You take the thefts,’ he said. ‘Rob, go and ask around about the fight, see what you can find out before you go home.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Lister leant the besom against the wall, stretched and yawned exaggeratedly.

‘Get on with you,’ the deputy laughed. ‘Anyone would think you were shy to meet a little honest work.’

‘He’d probably rather meet Emily,’ Nottingham said with a sly smile. Rob shook his head at the two of them and left.

‘He’s turning out well,’ Sedgwick said thoughtfully. ‘Twice during the summer he solved things that I couldn’t see.’

‘He’s bright,’ the Constable agreed. ‘Don’t worry, though, he can’t replace you. Have you finished the daily report?’

The deputy pulled it from the top of a pile of papers. The writing was childlike and uneven, but he’d laid everything out clearly enough and Nottingham nodded his approval. ‘Good. Now you get busy on those thefts.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Sedgwick grinned again. He paused, then added, ‘It feels right to have you back.’

‘It feels right to be back,’ Nottingham said with satisfaction. ‘Where I should be.’

He belonged in this place; it was part of him. During the endless summer Mary had begged him to retire. She wanted him whole, and with her. After so long when work had come first she wanted her own good years with him; she’d never put it like that, but he knew. And the city had been fair. They’d offered him a small pension and the house on Marsh Lane that had come with the job. But he’d known he could never give her the thing she craved more than all else. He’d seen the fear fly across Mary’s face as he’d left the house that morning, the worry he might never return.

He wasn’t ready yet to do nothing, though, to watch the days blur endlessly one into the other, to sit and see the seasons change until he died. He needed this. John had come often enough to ask for his opinion and advice on things, and Rob had told him everything that was happening. But it wasn’t the same as being involved himself. He’d chafed for the spark of the hunt.

He pushed himself up from the desk, feeling every single one of his years and folded the report into the pocket of his coat. Leaning on the stick he walked up Briggate, exchanging greetings with people, stopping to talk, to smile at the well-wishers and welcome the opportunity to rest.

The Moot Hall stood firm and tall in the middle of the street, a carefully impressive symbol of power, an island that forced people and carts to either side of the road. The Constable took the stairs slowly, then felt his old boots sink deep into the thick Turkey carpet of the polished wood corridor. The smell was different, cleaner and sharper, the warm, protective scent of money.

It would be the first time he’d met William Fenton since the man had become mayor in September. He’d sent a note out to the house a few weeks before with wishes for a speedy recovery, but hadn’t visited himself.