Chris Nickson - Come the Fear

Suddenly he stopped, raising his hand to halt the others.

‘Did you hear that?’ he asked quietly. Both the men looked at him quizzically. ‘Over there.’ He nodded to where the riverbank cut away sharply. Slowly he moved towards the area, each step careful and soft.

From the edge he could see how the earth had gone, leaving a tangle of roots under the tree that grew tall above, its leaves casting a shadow. There would be holes down there, he thought, places where a boy could shelter and hide. He’d heard a cry, he was certain of it.

Carefully, the deputy judged the drop and jumped, feeling the shock of cold water rising up his shins. He steadied himself, the river running around him, and looked at the bank.

‘Hello, James,’ he said with long relief. ‘It looks like you’ve found yourself a good hiding place.’

The word had spread quickly. One of the men had run all the way back to the jail, shouting that they’d found the boy.

‘Where was he?’ Nottingham asked.

‘By the river, about half a mile past the New Mill.’

‘How was he?’

‘Seemed well enough,’ the man said with a shrug. ‘Dirty and tired. Nowt broken. Probably regretting running away now, mind.’

The Constable grinned. ‘Where’s Mr Sedgwick?’

‘He’s taking the lad home.’

‘Go and tell him he doesn’t need to come back today.’

‘Yes, boss.’ The man dashed off again.

He sat back in the chair and let out a slow sigh. He could only imagine what the deputy must feel, the flood of relief in his heart. James had been found; that was the important thing. Now he could use the men to look for Fanny and for Peter Wendell.

He wrote a note for the mayor, passing on the news, and paid a boy a farthing to take it to the Moot Hall. Then he locked the door of the jail and set out to find Wendell.

James had fallen asleep against his shoulder as he carried him home. The boy had mud plastered against his skin and his clothes, and he’d burst into tears when the deputy held him close, but his bones were whole and he had no bad cuts.

Sedgwick unlocked the door of the house on Lands Lane and pushed it open with his arm.

‘John?’ Lizzie said, then saw the lad slumped and her face crumpled. ‘Is he. .?’

‘He’s just sleeping. Don’t worry.’

He carried the boy up to his bed and stripped the garments from him, tossing them on the floor. Lizzie hovered close by, holding the baby, rubbing her back tenderly.

‘Your brother’s home,’ she told Isabell quietly. ‘We don’t want him to go again, do we?’

Quickly and lightly, Sedgwick ran his fingertips over his son, then pulled up the covers. James had barely stirred, his breathing even and deep.

‘He’ll be fine when he’s rested.’ He kissed Lizzie then took Isabell from her, taking in the freshness of her and smiling. ‘He can wash when he’s awake.’ He grinned and sighed with pleasure. ‘He’ll be hungry, too.’

‘Just like his father,’ Lizzie said, her eyes glistening.

‘I could eat,’ he said.

‘I know you, John Sedgwick, you’re always hungry,’ she said. ‘There’s bread and cheese, and a pottage cooking.’

As they sat at the table, Lizzie gently rocked Isabell on her lap and asked, ‘What are we going to do about him, John?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted soberly. ‘Mebbe this will have terrified him.’

‘Then why didn’t he just come home?’

He considered the question. ‘Too scared of what we’d do, perhaps.’ He reached across and took her hand. ‘I’ll talk to him later.’

‘We can’t go through this again.’

He nodded. ‘I don’t know what else we can do. We love him, you treat him like he’s yours.’

‘He doesn’t like Isabell.’

‘It’s not that. He’s had us to himself, he liked that. And now she’s here he thinks we don’t love him any more.’

‘But-’

‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘We just need to give him a little time. Let him really see that we still love him.’

‘We’ve tried that,’ Lizzie said helplessly.

He sighed. ‘Then we’ve just got to keep on doing it. He’s a good lad, you know that.’ He yawned and closed his eyes, feeling all the life draining from him.

‘Go to bed, John,’ she told him. ‘James isn’t the only one needing his sleep.’

‘I need to work. With what happened to that girl when I shot the thief taker. .’

‘Not today, you don’t. Mr Nottingham will understand,’ she said firmly. ‘And if he doesn’t, I’ll tell him.’

The Constable spent the rest of the day moving between the people he knew who might have seen Wendell. They were the folk who lived like ghosts, the ones unseen at the frayed edges of society.

They were men and women who haunted the market, scavenging for something to sustain them until the next day, rotten fruit and meat too spoiled even for the dogs at the Shambles.

He knew their names, knew where to find them in the shadowed spaces where no one else would go. They seemed to vanish in order to die; their bodies were rarely found, and when they were there was peace on their faces, as if giving up life had been release, not pain.

But none of them had seen the man. They shook their heads to answer Nottingham’s question, or pointed fingers to suggest possibilities.

He stayed out until evening was falling, finding his way down to the river, seeking the man Rob had talked to before. Simon Gordonson was there, a face the Constable recognized, the withered right arm close to his chest. Several fires glowed and crackled, people of all ages gathered around them. One girl rocked and suckled her baby while an old man held a small piece of meat in the blaze with a stick.

‘Mr Nottingham,’ Gordonson said. He worked hard to stay presentable, the worst of the dirt cleaned from his breeches and coat each day, his hose washed, lank hair finger-combed.

‘Quite a group, Mr Gordonson,’ the Constable said with admiration.

‘And more of them every day,’ Gordonson said sadly. ‘These are hard times.’

‘They’re always hard times unless you have money. My man said you had Lucy Wendell here for a few days.’

‘We did. Maybe if she’d stayed. .’ He shook his head helplessly.

‘I’m looking for her brother.’

‘He’d find no welcome here.’ There was no doubt in his voice. ‘I’ve heard what he did to her.’

‘I need your people to keep their eyes open for him. He’s out there.’

‘And if they see him?’

‘Then come and tell me,’ Nottingham told him.

‘There are plenty of folk here who don’t trust the law,’ Gordonson said warily. ‘They think it’s only for those with money.’

‘There’s law and there’s justice, Mr Gordonson. I want justice for Lucy. Tell them that, please.’

The man nodded his agreement.

‘I hear they found your deputy’s lad.’

‘They did, and he’s safe now.’ Nottingham smiled.

‘What about the other boy, the one who went missing on Saturday?’

‘We found him, too. I’m surprised you don’t know that.’

‘It just seemed strange, that’s all. People searching all over and suddenly he’s there by the Bridge.’ Gordonson raised his eyebrows.

‘I think people were just glad to have him back,’ the Constable said blandly.

‘If you say so.’ Gordonson looked at him curiously.

‘I do.’ He kept his eyes firmly on the man. He’d give away nothing on this. The less anyone realized, the better. ‘I’d appreciate the help of these people in finding Peter Wendell.’

‘I’ll ask, but the choice is theirs.’

‘Of course,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘I heard that Robbins is seeking a clerk over at the tannery.’