Chris Nickson - Come the Fear

‘What about when she left?’ he asked gently.

‘She came out with us the second day,’ Sarah said. ‘She didn’t want to, not after what had happened, but it’s like Joshua told her, you have to make money to eat. We left her here and that was it. She never came back.’

‘You didn’t look for her?’

Her eyes widened, surprised by the question. ‘Why? She weren’t one of ours.’

Davidson’s tale hadn’t fully convinced him. It had slid too glibly off his tongue. This was different, though. He’d no doubt the sisters could lie with the best of them when it suited them, but what they’d told him had the stark, spare ring of honesty. And it left him little further along.

Rob had watched the dark blue of evening turn to thick black on the western horizon. He’d already made his first rounds with the men, seeing everything quiet in the inns and alehouses. It was still early in the week and people didn’t have enough money left to cause trouble. That would come after they were paid on Friday or Saturday.

He knew the smells of Leeds at night now. They weren’t as strong as in daylight, the shit of carters’ horses worked hard into the street and dried, the harsh steel tang of blood around the Shambles fading with nightfall, the rank stink of unwashed bodies now locked behind closed doors.

He made his way down to the river, hearing the water flowing and seeing a pair of fires glowing on the bank, looking for all the world like an entrance to hell. The sight made him think of tales of the gabble ratchets his governess had scared him with when he was young. Looking around, he half expected to see the eyes of the dogs made by the devil from the souls of children who’d died before they could be baptized. Instead he saw faces: people who had arrived a month or so before with the first warmth of spring. He’d met them on their first night, just men and women who had nothing, keeping each other safe in the darkness and looking for fitful work in the city or the country that surrounded it.

There were more of them now, maybe forty in all, a mix of the wounded and the weary, the hopeless and the defeated. The trust had vanished from their eyes, and the love from their hearts. They left with the dawn, only coming back when dusk fell.

They kept the fires burning all through the night, sleeping close to the flames for warmth and protection. The men kept cudgels close to hand to fight off the drunks who came for sport or rape.

One man stood as Rob approached. He was slight, his hair lank, but he stood out from the others, wearing clothes that had he kept carefully clean, his boots shiny from spit and effort. His right arm was withered, wasted and useless, life’s dark joke that would always be with him.

‘Mr Lister,’ he said.

‘Evening, Simon.’

Rob joined the others in the circle around the blaze. He saw some eye him suspiciously, wary of any authority. But Simon Gordonson was the one who seemed to speak for them all, a smiling man who persisted through a life that had done him no favours.

He’d made his way as a clerk for a shoemaker until the sleeping sickness had taken his wife and children at the tail of the previous summer, just as the nights grew chill. In his grief he’d given up his home, the things that no longer had meaning to him, and taken to wandering. He’d come back to Leeds a few weeks before, bringing the others who’d joined him, a strange, dispossessed band.

The men passed a jug of ale around and Rob took a short swig before handing it on. A pan of something bubbled over the fire. The women sat further away, almost in the shadows, babes and small children asleep on their laps, their bodies warmed with coats or threadbare blankets. Dogs rested nearby, raising their heads occasionally to sniff something on the breeze.

‘Crime keeping you busy, Mr Lister?’ Gordonson asked. He was an affable soul with a ready smile. Only rarely did it slip, but Rob could see the bottomless sorrow beneath the mask.

‘There’s no danger of ever being out of work,’ he answered.

Gordonson laughed softly. ‘God’s kingdom’s never so peaceful as he’d like it to be. I thought I saw you out with a lass the other day. Courting, are you?’

‘I suppose I am,’ he answered with a small laugh.

‘Pretty girl,’ Gordonson said quietly.

‘She is,’ Lister agreed. ‘But my father’s warned me I’d better not marry her.’

‘Not marry?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Why wouldn’t he want that? A man needs a wife and bairns to complete him.’

‘You tell him that.’ Rob couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘He doesn’t want me to marry her because her father’s the Constable.’ He saw the other man’s confusion. ‘She’s not good enough for me, evidently.’

‘Good enough is what rich folks can afford.’ Gordonson stared at the ground then looked up. ‘Are you rich, Mr Lister?’

‘No,’ Rob replied slowly, then said, ‘Middling, maybe.’

Gordonson leaned forward. ‘In that case I’ll tell you something for free. Nothing’s better than love.’

‘It won’t fill your belly, though, will it?’ Lister asked.

‘Maybe not, but food won’t fill your heart, either.’

Rob looked at Gordonson carefully. ‘And what about if the love goes? What then?’

Simon tapped his head. ‘Memories, Mr Lister. Memories. They can keep a man warm for many a long night.’

Rob sat and considered the words. A wind soughed lightly through the reeds and the tall grass by the water. Finally he stood.

‘I should get back to my work,’ he said. ‘Tell me, did you have a girl down here with a harelip? It would be a few weeks ago now.’

‘You mean that Lucy?’ Gordonson asked.

‘Yes, that’s her name.’

‘She stayed with us for a few days. You’d need to talk to Susan, she was the one who looked after her.’

Rob scanned the faces almost lost in the darkness. ‘Where is she?’

Gordonson shook his head. ‘Not tonight, Mr Lister. She’s off working. You come back tomorrow and I’ll see she’s here for you.’

Rob nodded. ‘Do you remember when Lucy was here?’ he wondered.

‘Not really,’ Gordonson told him with a gentle smile. ‘Time’s the one thing we have plenty of here. Maybe that’s why we don’t pay it much heed. Ask Susan tomorrow, she might know.’

‘So we know she whored for one night after Cates dismissed her,’ the Constable said. He sat behind the desk, hands playing with the quill pen as he talked. ‘And she was down with these folk by the river.’

Rob nodded. He stood close to the door, breeches and hose still dripping from wading into the water to pull out a body below Leeds Bridge. The corpse sat in the cold cell they used as a mortuary.

‘That’s the start of a picture,’ Nottingham continued, pushing a hand through his hair. ‘We need more. You find out what this woman knows, Rob. John, I want you to talk to the servants up at the Cates house. Lucy was there a few months, she must have become friendly with one of them.’

‘Yes, boss.’ The deputy sat on the other chair, longs legs stretched out in front of him.

‘Either of you have any idea where else she could have gone?’

Neither of them spoke. This was a story they’d need to piece together, a puzzle they’d need good fortune to complete. But the Constable was determined that they’d continue until the picture was finished.

‘According to Davidson and his girls, Lucy said she couldn’t go home because he’d find her there. See if you can discover who the he is.’

They nodded.

‘And there’s one other thing,’ he announced. ‘Yesterday evening I had a note from our Alderman whose house was robbed. It seems that his property has been returned.’