Chris Nickson - Come the Fear

A light, misting ran had drifted in with the dawn, softening the outlines of the buildings through the window of the jail. Soon the bells of the churches would begin to ring for Sunday services, the carillons echoing around to remind the faithful, and the people would parade around in their best clothes. He’d be home and in his bed, trying to rest before calling on Emily in the afternoon.

He stretched out his legs on the flagstone floor and looked at the Constable.

‘Sounds like it could have been worse,’ Nottingham said.

‘Maybe,’ Rob agreed cautiously.

‘You wait until they’re a real mob,’ Sedgwick told him. ‘It’s been a while since we had that.’

‘I have a name for the girl who died in that fire down on the Calls,’ the Constable said. ‘Lucy Wendell.’

This was the reason he’d come in early this Sabbath morning, Lister realized. He and the deputy both shook their heads. The name meant nothing.

‘It looks like she was missing for three weeks before the blaze. She’d been working as a servant for the Cates family. They dismissed her because she was pregnant. I’ve talked to her mother. The lass didn’t go home after that. There’s a brother lives in Queen Charlotte’s Court. John, you go up there and talk to him. Rob, do you know either of the Cates boys?’

‘I know William best.’

‘I talked to Ben Cates. It seemed straightforward enough, but when you have a chance, talk to William. See what you can find out about the girl.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘How do you know it’s the same girl?’ the deputy asked. ‘There was precious little left of her.’

‘Lucy Wendell was pregnant and she had a harelip.’ He shrugged. ‘I doubt we’d find two round here like that who’ve gone missing. Don’t let on to anyone that she’s dead yet, though. I want to find out what happened to her.’ The Constable stood, ready to leave. ‘Anything else?’

He made his way down Marsh Lane, Mary on one arm, Emily on the other. This was always the proudest moment of his week, walking to church with the pair of them. He’d put on his good suit, and the women wore dresses sponged clean and bright. They hunched into their coats to keep off the dampness but he kept his face to the drizzle, feeling it fresh on his skin and combing it into his hair with his fingers.

On Kirkgate rich and poor lived cheek by jowl, in houses that had been grand back when James was king or in sad wrecks of dwellings that let in the weather. St Peter’s stood set back from the press of them; the old, dark stone church towered over them all. Nottingham smiled wryly at the way people lowered their voices to a respectful whisper as soon as they entered the lych gate. He just hoped he’d stay awake during Reverend Cookson’s sermon. For a man supposedly filled with the spirit of God he droned worse than an insect.

He’d never been one for believing, and since Rose’s death the year before the prayers seemed like nothing more than empty words that hung on the wind before blowing away. He came because he had to, because his position demanded that he be seen here. He exchanged greetings with aldermen and merchants, bowed to the mayor and received a wink as they made their way to the pew. Mary sat quietly, years of faith behind her, but Emily shifted restlessly on the seat, willing the time to tick away to afternoon when she’d see her young man. Young love, always eager, he thought, and reached out to take his wife’s hand. He relished her joy and solemnity, every shade of her moods.

‘You stayed awake for most of the sermon,’ she said approvingly as they filed back out into the daylight. The morning had cleared, bringing patches of blue sky to the west.

‘Not by choice,’ Nottingham complained. ‘How long did he talk?’

‘He turned the glass twice, so a little over an hour,’ Mary told him.

He sighed. ‘And it’s nothing he couldn’t have said in ten minutes.’

‘Richard!’ she hissed, nudging him with her elbow as he raised his hat politely to Mrs Atkinson, the alderman’s wife. Emily was deep in conversation with her friends, talk punctuated by the sweetness of girlish giggles.

‘Let’s go home,’ he said. ‘She’ll follow when she’s ready. She still has to get herself ready for Rob.’

‘She loves him, you know,’ Mary told him as they walked down the street, skirting around the stinking puddles and pools.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, surprised.

She looked at him in astonishment.

‘I’m her mother, of course I’m sure. She’d marry him tomorrow if he asked.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t, then,’ he said. ‘They’ve only known each other a few months.’

‘Sometimes you can tell in a few days, you know. You seemed certain enough as soon as you knew me.’

He grunted, reaching to his neck and loosening his stock. ‘That’s better. They’re not old enough to be wed yet. And they don’t have any money.’

‘Not having money didn’t stop us,’ she reminded him.

‘We were older than them,’ he countered. ‘I was twenty, Rob’s just eighteen. Emily’s only sixteen. You were eighteen.’ But as he looked at her he knew words couldn’t win this. There was something deeper. ‘What about Rob? Do you think he loves her?’

Mary’s eyes shone, her face as open as sky. ‘Haven’t you noticed how he looks at her whenever she’s in the room? He’s as besotted as she is.’ He saw the pure delight in her smile. After losing one daughter, she wanted the other to be happy.

‘Give them time,’ he told her. ‘Last year you were glad to have her home with us.’ He recalled Emily on the doorstep in tears, trying to explain how she’d left her position as a governess after her employer attempted to force her to lie with him.

He put her arm in his as they walked slowly back up Marsh Lane. By the beck the trees and bushes were green, the bluebells giving thick, glorious spots of colour on the ground.

‘If it’s what they want, they’ll do it in time,’ he said.

‘What about Rob’s father? What does he think?’ Mary wondered.

‘I’ve no idea,’ the Constable answered. ‘When I’ve seen him we’ve never talked about it.’ He unlocked the door to their house and stepped aside for her to enter, the way he’d always done, the way his mother had taught him. Mary bustled into the kitchen. A few minutes later Emily dashed in, as always on the edge of lateness, gathering her skirt and rushing up the stairs to her bedroom. He sighed.

The deputy knew Queen Charlotte’s Court well. He’d been here many times before. There’d been fights, stolen items, even bodies in the rubbish that crowded around the decrepit buildings. It was a place where people survived rather than lived. Precious little light came in, and rancid smells collected in the deep mud. There was no joy in life here.

It only took a brief word to discover where Peter Wendell lived. It was a rooming house with the front door missing and wood on the stairs going rotten, never built to last but still here, making money for a landlord who only cared that his tenants paid on time.

Wendell answered his knock promptly. He looked close to twenty, his face not yet fully settled into shape, thickset, with dark hair cut close to the skull and shirt sleeves rolled up to show bulging muscles. His eyes were blurry and bloodshot, and the smell of last night’s drink was strong on his body.

‘Aye?’ he asked.

‘I’m John Sedgwick, the deputy constable.’

‘Oh aye?’ He pushed his chin forward in a challenge. ‘You got business here?’

‘I want to talk to you about your sister.’

The man cocked his head. ‘Better come in, then. Don’t want the world knowing my life.’

There was a pallet in the corner with a grimy, stained sheet thrown hastily over it, a scarred table close to a dirty, cracked window, and two stools. A girl, haggard and thin, stood in the corner, pulling a threadbare shawl around her shoulders.