Chris Nickson - Come the Fear

By the time Sedgwick arrived, yawning and stretching so his fingertips almost touched the ceiling of the room, Nottingham knew what he wanted to do about Walton.

‘The three of us are going in together,’ he told them. ‘If we do it soon they’ll still be asleep. Look for anything of worth. Those houses are poor, so it’ll stand out. John, you watch whoever’s in there while Rob and I search.’ He opened the cupboard and took out three swords. ‘Let’s hope we don’t need them.’

Full light had arrived as they left the jail, the clouds low in pale shades of grey. They entered the court one at a time, the Constable in the lead, alert for any noise, treading carefully on the packed down dirt.

The house was old, the wood of the frame rotting and sagging so the windows couldn’t close. It only took a single kick to push the door back, and they walked in, weapons drawn.

The couple was asleep. They sat up as Nottingham entered the room, the man with one foot already on the floor, the woman pulling the sheet up to cover herself.

‘Stay there,’ he ordered. ‘What’s your name?’

The man stayed silent. He was older, the hair on his head thin and a dirty, greasy grey, with more sprouting heavily from his nostrils and ears. The bed was straw resting on planking, roughly covered with a sheet.

‘I’m the Constable. What’s your name?’ he repeated.

‘Matthew.’ The man’s voice had the rough edge of someone who drank too much, too often. He coughed and spat into a bowl on the floor.

‘John,’ Nottingham called, ‘come and watch these two while I look around.’

‘No need, boss. They have everything out. You’d think they were running a shop here.’

The Constable waved his sword. ‘Up, the pair of you, and get dressed. You’re either thieves or fences, and either one will get you both hanged.’ Neither of them moved. ‘Come on.’

Slowly they stood. The woman was of an age with the man; she turned her back to hide her thick body under her shift. He waited until they were clothed then looked through into the other room.

Sedgwick had piled items on the table, good plate, jewellery, some lace and coins.

‘They’ve been busy, boss. The hangman will love them.’

The Constable could see the fear in their eyes, the dread of death coming so soon.

‘What’s your surname, Matthew?’

‘Trill.’ The man coughed again, took a dirty kerchief from the pocket of his coat and spat.

‘And how did all this end up here? Don’t give me any stories, either,’ he warned.

The man glanced at his wife and took her hand in a small gesture of comfort. Tears were tumbling down her cheeks and she pawed at them.

‘Well?’ Nottingham asked, his patience running thin.

‘We keep them here for someone,’ Trill said, his voice flat.

‘Who?’

‘He says his name’s Walton. He pays us.’

‘How did you meet him?’ the Constable asked.

‘I was in the Talbot and we started talking. He asked if I wanted to make some money.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘A few days,’ Trill replied morosely.

‘And what did he want you to do?’

‘Just hold all that for him,’ the man said. ‘He told me it was all above board.’

‘And you didn’t ask any questions?’

The man shrugged and coughed again. ‘It was money.’

‘It’s not any more,’ the Constable told him. ‘Was he here last night?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when will he be back again?’

The couple looked at each other.

‘Tonight,’ the man said finally. ‘He’ll be coming to collect some things to take back to their owner.’

‘What time?’

‘Once it’s dark,’ the woman answered sadly. ‘I told you,’ she said to the man, and he simply shook his head, looking straight ahead.

Nottingham was silent, leaving them to think, letting their imaginations feel the rope tightening around their necks.

‘I’m going to make you an offer, Mr Trill,’ he said finally. ‘You can have your lives if you help us get Walton.’

He saw the woman’s hand clutch tightly at the man’s fingers.

‘How?’ Trill asked, hope in his voice.

‘All you have to do is be here when he comes. I’ll have someone hidden in your other room, and men outside.’

‘What else?’

‘Just do what you would. Then we’ll take him.’

Trill nodded his agreement wearily.

‘Do that and you’ll escape the noose,’ the Constable told him. ‘Don’t try and send word to warn him.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ the man answered, his voice low and hoarse. ‘Let the bugger come. As long as you save us.’

‘I will,’ Nottingham promised. ‘If you do what you’re told.’

‘Aye,’ Trill said with a sigh.

‘Good. Then I’ll have my man here before the sun sets. And,’ he warned them again, ‘no word to Walton. You’ll be watched all day.’

Out on Currie Entry, the air heavy around them, Rob asked,

‘Who’s going to watch them?’

‘No one,’ the Constable told him with a grin. ‘They’re scared enough, they won’t do anything. I just wanted to keep them fearful.’

‘What about tonight?’ Sedgwick asked.

‘You’ll be in the house with them, John. Keep yourself hidden. Rob and I will be out here. We’ll let Walton do his business and leave. You follow him out and we’ll take him in the yard. He won’t be able to escape from there and if he has any sense he won’t try to take on three men.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Lucy Wendell,’ he said, changing to the topic that kept worrying at his mind. ‘She was somewhere for two weeks and we haven’t found where yet.’ Nottingham looked at the others. ‘What do you think? Rob?’

Lister spoke slowly, putting into words what he’d been wondering.

‘From what the other girl, Susan, told me, she seemed happy enough down by the river. I think someone found her, the man she was scared of.’

The Constable nodded slowly. ‘That’s possible. John?’

‘I agree,’ the deputy said. ‘There must have been some reason she never went back there. Something happened.’

‘I believe the man she feared was the one who made her pregnant,’ Nottingham said. ‘He’s the one we need to find. We need to start asking around again. Someone will remember her. Go hard on them.’ He paused. ‘You get started on that, John. Rob, we’ll meet at the jail just before sunset. I’ll go and see everything’s well at the cloth market.’

The bell for the start of the market sounded as he arrived on Briggate, conversation turning to whispers as the merchants moved with purpose through the crowds. The cloth was laid out on the wood to show length and the quality of the colour. The weavers stood with coats off against the heat, deep circles of sweat showing under their armpits.

By habit the merchants always dressed well for the markets, displaying their wealth and finery, no matter how uncomfortable the weather. It was a matter of pride, it kept them apart, a reminder of the wealth to be made in wool for the right people.

He exchanged nodded greetings with a few of the men and watched bargains made and sealed with a quick shake of the hands. The cloth was folded, ready to be moved later to the warehouses. This was the real business of Leeds, fast and certain, where fortunes were founded and added to. Nottingham knew that full twenty thousand pounds could change hands over the next hour. And there would be more in the afternoon at the White Cloth Hall, where the only sounds would be the echo of heels on flagstones, the voices as hushed as if they were in church.

He remembered the Hall being built, the stone clean and golden, the large area inside, the pillars as impressive and grand as any cathedral, where commerce stood as a god equal to any in heaven.