Chris Nickson - Come the Fear

‘Mr Wendell,’ the Constable said, raising his voice above the noise, ‘can you spare us a moment?’

Peter Wendell took a kerchief from the pocket of his breeches and wiped at his face.

‘This about Lucy?’ he asked.

‘It is.’

‘You found who killed her yet?’ His tone was belligerent, anger boiling beneath the surface.

‘Not yet,’ Sedgwick told him. ‘You told me you were going to look.’

Wendell shrugged his shoulders. ‘And I’ve not found anyone. It’s your job, anyway. Why are you coming to me at my work?’

‘I’m just wondering if you know anything more that can help us,’ Nottingham said genially.

‘Me? No.’

‘Are you sure, Peter?’

‘Of course I’m bloody sure. What are you saying? You think I killed my sister?’

‘Nothing like that,’ the Constable replied. ‘Why? Did you?’

Without warning, Wendell turned and drove his large fist hard into the deputy’s belly, sending him to the floor, gasping for breath. Then he began to run.

Nottingham was in front of him, standing firm with his legs apart. Wendell swung the hammer hard. The Constable moved aside, but it still caught him on the thigh, tumbling him as he grunted, the pain sharp as a knife. He could only watch as Wendell dropped the hammer and ran off along the street.

Slowly he raised himself, barely able to hobble, and went to help the deputy. Sedgwick was on his knees, hands clutching at his stomach, still struggling to draw a breath. The Constable rolled him on to his back and pulled him by the belt, forcing the breath into him.

‘Take your time, John, we won’t catch him right now.’

He worked his leg slowly, feeling along the bone, but it was intact. He gestured for the smith to come over. ‘Has Peter been acting differently lately?’ he asked.

The smith looked at them emptily, running a large, scarred hand over his beard.

‘Different how?’ he asked.

‘Quieter, maybe, more secretive.’

The smith shrugged. ‘Long as he does his work I don’t give a bugger whether he talks all day or says nowt. So what’s he done to make him go for you like that? Why’s he run off?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Nottingham told him, then helped the deputy to his feet. ‘If he comes back, send someone for us.’

The smith gazed at the gate. ‘Someone runs like that, he won’t be back.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll need a new lad now.’

‘Maybe you can find a more reliable one,’ the Constable said.

They walked slowly back to the jail, Sedgwick still rubbing his belly and the Constable feeling the sharp ache where Wendell had hit against his leg.

‘Christ, the bastard packs a good punch,’ the deputy gasped finally, unable to keep a hint of admiration from his voice. ‘I’ll be feeling that for days.’

‘I think we just found our killer,’ Nottingham said thoughtfully. ‘I can’t see any other reason he’d run when I asked him that.’

‘He doesn’t like the law. He already told me that.’

The Constable shook his head. ‘This was more than dislike. I was watching his eyes. When I asked if he’d killed her I could see the guilt in them. He did it.’

‘How did you know?’

‘I didn’t,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘The words just came into my head. I didn’t really believe it was him.’

‘But why would he murder his own flesh and blood and then set her on fire?’ Sedgwick wondered. It was beyond understanding, the work of someone who’d forsaken his soul.

‘I’ve no idea, but I’m going to find out once we catch him.’ The Constable’s voice was dark and urgent. ‘Take two of the men and go up to his room. I doubt he’ll be there, but you’d better check. If you find him, use your cudgels.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Talk to that girl of his and find out who his friends are and where he’d be likely to go.’

‘What about the child snatcher?’ the deputy asked.

‘I’ll watch for her at the market. I’ll have Holden with me. First, though, I’m going to see Peter’s mother.’

He strode briskly over to the Calls, rapping on the door of the cellar room. He could hear the woman moving inside and the tap of her soles on the floor.

‘You’ve found summat?’ she asked. Her face had grown even more pinched. Her hose lay on the table with a needle and thread where she’d been darning under the thin light from the window.

‘I have,’ he told her. ‘I went to see your son this morning.’

‘Did he know something?’ she asked with a catch in her voice. ‘He’s said nothing to me.’

‘We wanted to talk to him about Lucy. But when I asked if he’d killed her he punched my deputy and ran off before we could stop him.’

Alice Wendell looked him in the eye. ‘What’s tha’ saying?’

‘That he’s guilty, Mrs Wendell.’

‘Could be summat and nowt,’ she tried to tell him, but the fingers bunching her apron showed she realized the truth.

‘Maybe. But you don’t believe that, do you?’ he asked gently.

‘You really think he killed her? That he murdered my Lucy?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do. I’m sorry.’

There were tears clouding her eyes as she spoke. ‘I know my Peter’s never been good, but he loved her well enough. He looked after her, he protected her.’

‘What would he have thought about her having someone’s baby?’ he asked gently.

‘He’d have killed whoever did it,’ she answered simply. ‘There’s a bad streak in him.’

‘Maybe he killed her instead.’

She shook her head again, more firmly this time. ‘Nay,’ she said, and raised her head, her words full of despair. ‘I’ll not believe my son would do that to his own blood.’

‘If he comes here, bring him to me.’

‘So you can hang him.’

‘All I want is the truth,’ he told her. ‘If it turns out he didn’t do it, if he had a good reason to run like that, I’ll let him go. But I’m going to find whoever murdered Lucy.’

She took several breaths before nodding. She was still standing in the same place, fingers pressing down on the wood of the table, as he left.

‘Keep your eyes open for women in blue dresses with dark hair,’ the Constable instructed Holden. The cloth market had ended and traders were setting up their stalls at the top end of Briggate.

‘Blue?’

‘If you see someone like that, watch them carefully.’

‘There could be dozens of dark-haired women dressed in blue, boss,’ Holden complained.

‘I know,’ Nottingham agreed. Already people were drawn to the trestles, talking, gossiping, hunting through piles and clutter for the early bargains.

‘So why are we looking?’ Holden asked. ‘And what are we looking for?’

The Constable stared at him. ‘You’d better keep this to yourself. And that means not telling it later when you’ve had a drink. The chandler’s boy was snatched by a woman in blue. You see anyone in blue reach for a child, follow them. You understand?’

‘Aye.’

‘I’ll be looking, too. Move about and keep your wits clear.’

‘Yes, boss.’

Nottingham wandered around the market, idly inspecting items, his eyes alert. The crowd had grown thicker, thronging the street, filling the air with a din of noise. He stayed around the fringes, picking out the women dressed in blue. Some wore dresses so ragged and pale the colour could have been pulled from the dawn sky, others had rich, deep velvet and every shade in between. They were old and young, thin and rounded.

He tried to spot Holden but the man was good, staying hidden from sight. Women were holding their children close, keeping tight grips on hands and wrists, giving quick smacks if the little ones tried to squirm away. But he knew it only took a moment for an infant to be gone.