Chris Nickson - Come the Fear

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Both of you think what we can do about Lucy Wendell, too. I’m not going to let her killer escape. Anyone who can do that is an affront to God.’

He stood, feeling his back ache and his knees protest at the weight as he rose.

‘And remember, not a word to anyone.’

‘Did you find him?’ Mary asked anxiously as he walked into the kitchen.

‘We did,’ he said with a weary smile. ‘Alive and fine.’ He brought her close, happy to feel the warmth against him. ‘I think half the city must have been out looking.’

‘Are you going to church this morning?’

‘I’d better. I need to see the mayor after.’ He cut some cheese and tore off a hunk of yesterday’s loaf. ‘I feel like I could sleep for a year.’

She kissed him.

‘At least there was a happy ending,’ she said. ‘That’s reason enough to give thanks.’

‘This time,’ he told her, and she glanced at him curiously. ‘I’ll wash and put on my Sunday suit.’

At the top of the stairs he could hear Emily moving in her room. For a moment he considered telling her about the child snatcher so she could try to protect the girls she taught. But if one person was told, the word would spread on the wind. Within an hour all Leeds would know.

He stripped and splashed cold water from the ewer over his body. The lye soap made a harsh lather on his skin, but after a few minutes he felt cleaner, more awake and ready to face the day.

Mary had sponged his good suit and laid it out on the bed. It was excellent material, a gift from a merchant a full ten years ago. Now the cut was long out of date and the breeches were uncomfortably tight at the waist and in the thighs. But for a few hours each week it was fine. He didn’t have the money to waste on a new one. This one would last for as long as he needed it.

As he locked the front door the bells at St Peter’s began to peal for the early service. With Mary on one arm and Emily on the other he walked proudly down Marsh Lane and over Timble Bridge.

He knew the mayor would be in his office. It was a post that gave no respite, a mistress that demanded complete devotion for a year. Nottingham walked down the hallways, the rich Turkey carpet under his heels, no sound of voices behind the closed doors today. The dark wainscoting was polished to a high sheen, the portraits of the rich men who’d run the city looking down on him balefully.

He knocked on the door and entered. John Douglas glanced up, a quill in his hand as he worked through the pile of papers in front of him. His coat was draped over the chair back, his long waistcoat unbuttoned and his stock undone, the costly wig tossed on to the windowsill.

‘Something must be important to bring you here on a Sunday, Richard,’ he said, leaning back in the heavy chair.

‘Morrison’s boy,’ the Constable said.

Douglas raised his eyebrows.

‘You found him,’ he said. ‘The lad was safe and unhurt. His parents are grateful and the churches were full this morning.’ He nodded at the chair and Nottingham sat.

‘We didn’t find him,’ the Constable answered. ‘He was left for us to find. He was barely awake. Someone had taken him and drugged him.’

The mayor studied him before asking, ‘Are you certain about this?’

The Constable drew the note from his pocket and put it on the desk. ‘That was in his pocket.’

Douglas remained silent for a long time after reading.

‘What can we do?’ he asked finally.

‘I don’t know,’ Nottingham admitted, shaking his head. ‘We daren’t let people know that someone’s taking children. There’ll be panic all over the city.’

The mayor nodded soberly. ‘But if we don’t say anything there could be more children snatched,’ he pointed out.

‘I know.’

Douglas filled two beakers from the jug on a table and passed one to the Constable. ‘How do we find these people?’

‘I don’t know that, either. If I start asking questions folk will become suspicious. It doesn’t take long for a wisp of rumour to become fact here, you know that as well as I do.’

The mayor studied the liquid in his mug. ‘Who else knows about this note?’

‘Just two of my men. They won’t say anything.’

‘No one else?’

Nottingham shook his head. He could hear the sounds of the day outside, couples making their way up Briggate to St John’s, the cacophony of bells from the city’s three churches.

‘Do whatever you have to do, Richard,’ Douglas said with a grimace. He took a long drink of the ale. ‘I don’t care what it takes to find whoever did this.’

‘And when we do find them?’

The mayor didn’t reply.

Nottingham stood and walked towards the door.

‘You’ll have my full backing in everything,’ the mayor told him.

He walked along Swinegate. For once the street was quiet, the businesses all closed for the Sabbath, no carts clattering along the road to disperse the puddles and clumps of stinking night soil tossed from the windows. Horses whinnied in their stable at the ostler’s and smoke rose lazily from the chimneys. Like all the other shops along the row, the chandler’s was shuttered.

The Constable slipped into the passageway that ran by the building and through to the yard behind. The ground was filled with buckets and basins, tools of the chandler’s trade, the smell of lye heavy and acrid in the air.

He knocked on the door and waited. It was Morrison himself who came, all the pain and tension eased from his face.

‘Constable,’ he said.

‘How’s Mark? Awake and well?’

‘Aye, he is that, praise God.’ The chandler smiled, showing the nubs of brown teeth in a wide mouth. He was a stout man, his knuckles gnarled and misshapen, two fingers gone from his right hand. ‘Come in, come in.’

The chandler and his family lived above their business in a series of small, untidy rooms. He could hear the wife in the kitchen, giving orders to the maid and the sound of children behind another closed door.

Morrison led him up another flight of stairs, the rail trembling under his touch, and into a small room under the eaves. The floor was swept and a window looked down on the street. The boy lay in clean sheets on a pallet of fresh straw, a spotless shirt over his scrawny body.

‘This is the Constable, Mark.’

The lad turned and Nottingham could see his eyes were alert and the colour had returned to his face.

‘Hello,’ he said, squatting down and smiling. ‘How do you feel, Mark?’

Mark glanced at his father then back at the Constable. ‘Fine, thank you, sir,’ he replied, his voice clear and strong, although Nottingham could see the faint traces of fear lingering in his expression.

‘You had us all worried yesterday, you know.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

Nottingham grinned and ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘You’re back and safe now, that’s all that matters.’ He turned to Morrison. ‘I’d like to talk to your son alone, if I might.’

‘Of course,’ the chandler agreed with an eager nod. ‘Just come down when you’re done.’

He waited until the footsteps had faded before speaking.

‘What do you remember about yesterday, Mark?’

‘I don’t know,’ the boy answered slowly. ‘It’s all mixed up inside.’

‘Do you recall being at the market with your mother?’ he prodded gently.

Mark nodded.

‘What happened after that?’

‘I was holding her hand and then I was on my own. I tried shouting but no one heard me.’

He could see the tears of memory welling in the lad’s eyes.

‘Did anyone help you?’

‘Yes. There was a lady. She said she’d take me to my mam.’

‘And did you go with her?’

He nodded. ‘But we went the other way, down Briggate. I asked if she was taking me home.’