Chris Nickson - Come the Fear

‘I don’t like people lying to me,’ the Constable said. The pimp tried to scuttle away, dragging his bad leg, but Nottingham stood over him. ‘And you lied to me twice.’

‘What did I do?’ Davidson asked helplessly. ‘I told you the truth.’

‘You said you wouldn’t cause any trouble.’

‘We haven’t,’ the man insisted, sounding desperate. ‘What have we done?’

‘And you said you didn’t beat Lucy.’

‘I didn’t!’ Davidson yelled. ‘I told you what happened. You asked my sisters.’

‘And the three of you put together a fine pack of lies for me.’ He stared down at the man.

‘We didn’t,’ Davidson said, but the outrage had worn thin in his voice.

‘Lucy told someone the real reason she’d left you.’

‘And you believe that?’

‘I do,’ the Constable told him. ‘She had no reason to lie.’

‘I told you the truth,’ Davidson said again.

‘And I don’t believe you,’ Nottingham answered coldly. ‘I’m going to give you a choice. You and your sisters can leave Leeds today, or I can come back tomorrow and put you all in jail. It’s up to you. If I see any of you in the city again I’ll arrest you. Is that clear?’

‘Where will we go?’

‘That’s up to you, Mr Davidson. I really don’t care as long as you leave my city.’

He turned and left, slamming the door loudly behind him.

The deputy made his way back to Queen Charlotte Court. A fragment of sunlight caught the corner of one building to show off the stained, crumbling limewash. The stench of rotting rubbish filled his nostrils, mounds of it piled against the cramped, tumbling houses, the paw of a dead dog showing, covered by flies that buzzed away as he approached.

He knocked on the door of Wendell’s room, hoping the girl would be at home. The lock turned, and she opened just enough to glance out.

‘Hello, love,’ Sedgwick said with an easy grin, ‘I was here the other day, do you remember? I’m the deputy constable. Do you have a few minutes to talk?’

‘He’s not here,’ she said, her voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

‘I know. It was you I wanted. Can I come in? It’s better than everyone knowing why I’m here.’

Reluctantly she let him in, standing back against the wall as if she wished she could disappear into the plaster. He looked at her, seeing she was little more than frail bones and thin skin. There were fresh bruises on her forearms and more blossoming on her face and throat. The old dress was too large for her small chest and the shawl she hugged around her shoulders was faded and threadbare. Greasy hair hung around her face.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked kindly. Her eyes were haunted, and he could feel the fear coming off her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘Anne.’

‘Anne, did you know Lucy?’

She nodded slightly, keeping her head down, eyes looking at the floor.

‘Did you like her?’

She looked up at him as if she didn’t understand the question. ‘What?’

‘Did you like her?’

She shrugged. ‘He loved her, she were his sister.’

‘Your man must miss her.’

‘Aye.’ She turned away again, as if she couldn’t keep her mind on one thing for more than a moment.

‘And she was never here after she left her job?’

Anne shook her head briefly.

‘You didn’t see her after that?’

‘No.’

‘How long have you been with Peter?’

She thought for a little while. ‘A year, close enough.’

‘Do you love him?’

‘He’s better than some,’ she admitted flatly. ‘We eat.’

He knew he wasn’t going to get much from her, and she’d never dare say anything against her man; she was too scared of him. She’d probably had batterings so often in her life that it seemed the normal way to her. He smiled.

‘Thank you, Anne, you’ve been very helpful.’

‘Are you going to tell him you were here?’ she asked, and he could hear the terror under the words.

‘Not a word,’ he promised, and her face relaxed a little.

The Constable sat adding figures, making sure the men would be paid, when there was a timid knock on the door and a boy of about eight entered, looking around wide-eyed at being in such a terrifying place.

‘Sir?’ he asked in a high voice. ‘Are you the Constable?’

‘I am,’ Nottingham told him, smiling with his eyes.

‘A man told me to give you this. He said you’d give me some money if I did.’ He held out a small fist containing a folded piece of paper.

‘Did he now?’ he asked. ‘And did he say how much?’

‘He said you should give me a penny.’

The Constable laughed and dug into his breeches pocket for a coin.

‘Who was this man?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ the boy answered, his eyes still moving around the room, full of curiosity. ‘But his skin was black. Was it paint?’

‘No. He was born like that. Some people are.’

The boy nodded sagely. Nottingham passed over the coin and took the note.

‘Thank you,’ the boy said. ‘The man told me I should thank you.’ He left quietly, and Nottingham opened the paper. It was from Joe Buck, in his thin scrawl: Another house last night. Mr Collins.

He knew Collins, a merchant who never seemed to find great success, still living in the old house on Briggate that his father had left him. The Constable rubbed his chin. It could be worth a visit to shake the man a little and see what happened. If it helped to catch the thief taker it would be worthwhile.

The house was down towards the river, almost opposite the office of the Mercury . Glancing across the street he saw Rob’s father bent over his desk, stopping only to put more ink on his quill. A sour taste filled his mouth and he swallowed it away, turning his attention to the merchant.

The house needed a new coat of limewash. The mullioned windows were warped in their frames, the glass thick, a few small panes missing and never replaced, rags stuffed in their stead by a man who couldn’t afford the repairs. It wasn’t the home of someone rich, but rather someone who had little to lose.

He knocked and was shown in by a serving girl, the skin on her hands red and raw. She showed him into a parlour where the fire was laid but not lit, the room chilly and unwelcoming. Dust on the mantle showed a couple of objects missing since it had last been cleaned.

Collins arrived quickly. He was a small, thin man, barely reaching to Nottingham’s shoulder, with startled eyes and a questioning mouth. His clothes were middling, the breeches of fair cut and style, the jacket older but clean, the material made to last.

‘Constable!’ he said. ‘Milly said it was you, but I can’t think why you’d come here. What can I do for you?’ His voice sounded strained, the skin tight on his face.

‘I heard that someone had stolen some items from you.’

‘Really?’ The surprise was so forced it wouldn’t have fooled an infant. Nottingham raised his eyebrows.

‘I hear quite a few things, Mr Collins. Your father was on the Corporation, if I remember.’

‘He was.’ The merchant eagerly nodded his agreement, happy to move on.

‘It was the Corporation that created the post of Constable,’ Nottingham continued. ‘They needed someone to take care of the crime in Leeds. That’s what I do. But if I don’t know a crime’s happened, I can’t help, can I?’

‘No.’ Collins started to blush.

‘I believe some people have been looking to this thief taker, the one who’s new here, to help them. Everything returned for a small fee, I believe, and everything kept quiet. But I’d like to think that good people in Leeds would rather have the thief caught and tried.’