Chris Nickson - Come the Fear

‘Of course, of course.’ Collins agreed quickly, staring intently at the ground.

‘I’ll leave you to think on it,’ Nottingham told him mildly. ‘You might discover some items missing that you want to report to me.’ He moved to the door. ‘I’ll bid you good day.’

Collins would be at the jail later in the day, red-faced and tongue-tied, the Constable was certain of it. He left the house, glanced across the street to the Mercury again and walked away, bunching his fists.

It was a short stroll to the Talbot. He sent word up to Walton and sat in the corner with a beaker of musty ale that had sat too long in the cask. The thief taker came down the stairs yawning, his clothes dishevelled, raking a hand through his hair.

‘You wanted to see me, Constable? I hope this is important. I was still asleep.’

‘There have been four burglaries in Leeds within a week, Mr Walton.’

The man raised his eyebrows. ‘In London that’s no number at all.’

‘I’ve told you before, this isn’t London. And four is too many for this city. But there’s an odd thing.’

‘Oh?’ Walton asked without interest.

‘Two of them haven’t even been reported and the third withdrew his complaint.’ He glanced up at the thief taker. ‘You won’t mind if I look at your room?’

‘And why would you want to do that?’ Walton asked with a small grin.

‘Just to be certain that everything there belongs to you,’ Nottingham said.

‘What if I refuse?’

The Constable stood.

‘You don’t believe I’m an honest man, do you, Constable?’

‘I don’t trust you, Mr Walton.’

The thief taker’s smile was like an adder’s. ‘And if you find nothing in my room?’

‘We’ll see,’ Nottingham said warily.

‘Then shall we go?’ the thief taker suggested. ‘You can see for yourself.’

Following the man up the stairs, the Constable felt dismayed. He’d hoped Walton would have been careless, too proud of his little tricks, and left things openly around. But he must have been wrong; the man wouldn’t have let the law in otherwise. Still, it had been a gamble, something worth doing in the moment.

Walton made a performance of unlocking his door, turning the large, heavy key and ushering Nottingham inside. It was a sparse, small space, the shutters thrown wide, the window open to the yard behind the inn. A small chest stood in the corner, its lid up, empty inside. There was a candle, holder and tinder on the shelf, and an old bed. Nottingham rummaged over the straw mattress and through the blankets and pillow, but it was just for the sake of appearance. There was nothing to be found here and they both knew it. Walton leaned against the wall, looking smug.

‘I told you,’ he said. ‘Everything that’s here belongs to me. There’s precious little of it.’

‘You asked if I thought you were an honest man, Mr Walton. I’ll give you your answer. I don’t believe you are.’

‘Be careful what you say,’ the thief taker warned. ‘Slander’s a crime even in these parts.’

Nottingham smiled. ‘But the truth isn’t. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again, Mr Walton.’

He frowned as he walked back to the jail. The thief taker had made him look foolish, but he wasn’t the first and he wouldn’t be the last. For all that, it had been worthwhile; he’d learned something from the room.

At his desk he scribbled quick notes to Sedgwick and Lister with new instructions for the men. With God’s good grace they’d have Walton soon enough. He steepled his hands over his mouth, feeling the roughness of bristles against his fingertips. Sometime soon he’d need a shave.

He sat back, wondering what he could do to ease Emily’s pain and realized there was nothing. What happened depended on Rob, and he felt sorry for the lad. Whatever he chose he’d lose something. If he followed his father, he might well believe he had to leave the job, just when he’d learned how to do it well. Nottingham sighed. No good would come of any of this.

He was still thinking when the door opened and Alice Wendell entered. Her back was straight, her clothes clean, hair neatly hidden by an old cap washed pure white. But her face had aged over the days; sorrow haunted her eyes, the lines so deep in her flesh they might have been put there with a chisel.

‘Sit down,’ he offered, pulling out a chair and pouring her a mug of ale from the jug. She drank politely, then set the beaker on the edge of the desk.

‘I need to find out what you’ve learned about my Lucy’s death,’ she said, and he knew it had been the only thing in her mind since he’d given her the news, stealing her sleep and tearing at her waking hours.

‘We’ve been trying, but we haven’t managed to find much yet,’ he admitted, knowing he was really saying nothing at all.

She stared at him. ‘Please?’ she asked. ‘Tell me what you know.’

He sat down slowly. He shouldn’t say anything to her, but how could he refuse the woman’s request? Hard as it might be, the knowledge was all she’d have left of her daughter.

‘She tried her hand at whoring for a night, but she didn’t have any luck. Then we know she was staying with a group who camp down by the riverbank at night. It seems she was there for a week. After that we simply don’t know. I’m sorry. We’re trying to find out.’

‘Thank you.’ She made to get up and he said,

‘She told people she couldn’t go home because he ’d find her. Do you know what she meant?’

Alice Wendell shook her head sadly. ‘There’s nobbut me there, and her brother when he comes to visit. Just family who love her.’

‘No man who’s been interested in her?’

She snorted. ‘How many of them you talked to would have wanted her? Eh?’

He nodded his head slightly in acknowledgement.

‘I’ve heard about you,’ she said. ‘They say you’re not like them as run Leeds. You care about us.’

‘Everyone deserves justice, Mrs Wendell.’

She held her head up. ‘Get the bastard who did this to my Lucy, then. You can do that for her. I want to see him hang up on Chapeltown Moor.’

‘If I can, I will.’

‘I’ll have to live for that, then.’

Alone again, Nottingham rubbed his eyes. How many women had come to the jail over the years wanting news of husbands, sons and daughters? He’d lost count long ago. He’d been able to give good tidings to a few, but for most there were no happy endings. He hoped that in time he’d be able to tell Alice Wendell who’d murdered her daughter, but for now the path had ended and they’d managed to account for little more than one of the three weeks before the fire. She’d been somewhere in Leeds. Someone would have seen her face, maybe even known her name. The city wasn’t so big that they couldn’t find out. A few thousands souls, so many of them pushed together in the cold, crowded spaces of the poor: faceless, anonymous folk, all working for the few who tasted luxury each day without thought. He’d discover where she’d been. The image of her in the cellar, the half-formed child on her belly, would remain in his mind forever; no one in this world deserved to die that way. She’d had precious little voice in life, and he was damned if he’d let her be silent in death.

Rob had dressed in his best suit and breeches. His hose were spotless, his shoes lovingly polished so the steel buckles shone. He’d washed and run his hands through his hair, staring at himself in the looking glass until he was satisfied with what he saw.

He waited outside the school, standing aside as the girls ran out into the city. He felt as nervous as a child called in to be disciplined, his eyes anxiously darting to the door, knowing she’d be there soon.