Chris Nickson - Come the Fear

‘You look tired.’

She snorted. ‘You show me a mother who isn’t. We get by, like we always do.’ She stood as the baby finished and passed her to him. ‘You can look after her now. There’s the last of yesterday’s pie if you’re hungry.’

He held Isabell, her head over his shoulder, patting her back to wind her. He loved moments like these, revelling in the tiny girl with her warm, milky smell, the tenderness of her skin and the softness of her hair.

‘Aye, I could eat. Where’s James?’

‘He’s still out playing.’

A dark look crossed his face.

‘Leave it, John. Don’t worry, it’s still light.’

But he knew he’d fret anyway. The boy was five but he already had the wild spirit his father recognized all too well. For a while James had seemed happy; Sedgwick’s wife had gone off with a soldier and Lizzie had moved in, everything to James that his mother had never been. Then they’d moved to the house and Isabell had been born. Now so much of Lizzie’s time was taken with the baby, leaving James on his own, and he’d learned to leave quietly and stay away for hours.

The deputy had tried reasoning with him and punishing him, mildly and harshly, but none of it had helped. After Easter the boy would start at the charity school; until then Sedgwick was determined to keep him in line.

Lizzie put the pie and a mug of ale in front of him and took the baby.

‘Did you tell him not to go out?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Lizzie admitted, rocking Isabell gently in her arms.

‘If he’s not back by the time I’ve finished this I’ll go and find him.’

‘John. .’ she began, then stopped. He ate silently and purposefully, cutting and chewing, washing the food down. Then he pushed the chair back and stood, eyes like thunder.

‘I’ll be back soon enough. If he comes in-’

‘I know,’ she said.

The boy was exactly where he’d expected, playing in the old, tangled orchard that had once been part of the manor house. There were other lads there, all of them older, and Sedgwick stayed quiet, watching them from a distance. Five of them moved together; James and another outside the group ran behind.

He sighed. It reminded him all too much of himself, and he knew he couldn’t let his son make the same mistakes. Quickly he strode out and grabbed James by the wrist, the others shouting and scattering quickly.

‘Right, you’re coming home with me.’ He began to walk, the boy squirming and wriggling in his grip, on the edge of tears. The deputy dragged harder, then stopped after a few yards and knelt so that their faces were close. ‘I’m only going to say this once,’ he told James, his fingers tight on the boy’s thin arm. ‘You’re going with me. When we get home you’re going to say sorry to your mam for disobeying her, and then you’re going to bed.’

‘But I haven’t had my supper,’ James complained, starting to cry and snuffle.

‘And you’ll not be getting any, either.’ His voice was harsh and serious and he looked into the boy’s eyes. ‘I’ve had enough of this. You need to start doing as you’re told. Do you understand me?’

The boy kept his head down. Sedgwick put a hand under his chin, forcing it up, seeing the tear tracks like icicles on his cheeks and the misery in his eyes.

‘I said, do you understand me?’

James nodded slowly. The deputy breathed deeply, wondering just what he was going to do with his son. Then he stood up and held out a hand. The boy stared at it for a moment, no expression on his face, and reached out to take it.

‘So there was a man in the house before the fire but we don’t know anything about him?’ the Constable asked.

‘Seems that way. The ones who saw him weren’t paying attention,’ Sedgwick explained. ‘Why would they?’

It was still early, the weather cooler with the promise of rain drifting on the wind. Lister had put more Middleton coal on the fire before the others arrived and the room was warm.

‘How about you, Rob, did you find anything?’

‘No, boss.’

Nottingham sat back.

‘We’ll get her buried today,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Nobody’s come forward to say someone’s missing. That means she probably doesn’t have any family around here.’ He looked at the others. ‘Any ideas?’

‘A whore?’ Lister wondered.

‘Whores have friends and families,’ the Constable reminded him gently. ‘Still, it’s worth asking round. See if any have gone missing, ones who were pregnant.’

‘What about servants?’ Sedgwick suggested.

‘That could be,’ Nottingham agreed slowly. ‘Maybe dismissed because of her state. Why don’t you talk to some of them? You know how they gossip with each other, someone might have heard something.’

‘I’ll try,’ he said doubtfully. With so many servants in the city they’d need God’s own luck to name the girl.

‘I know. But we’ll need to know who she was if we’re going to find who killed her. We can’t let anyone walk free after that.’ He paused, then added, ‘By the way, there’s a thief taker from London going about. He’s looking for a family called Cooper, husband, wife, two lads. That mean anything?’

They shook their heads.

‘I had a word with Davidson, too, John. I don’t think he’ll be a problem. Seemed meek as a lamb to me.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t get any ideas, then, boss.’

The men left and Nottingham walked back into the cold cell. The girl was still covered by the sheet, the stink of her cooked flesh slowly turning rancid. He pulled down the cloth to show what remained of her face and stared at its emptiness, trying to picture how she must have looked.

He was still there, lost in thought, when the undertakers arrived, and watched as they bundled her carelessly away. They’d take her and the baby to the pauper’s cemetery on the other side of Sheepscar Beck. A curate would sketch a few words over the two of them, then a covering of quicklime and a few inches of earth would see them into eternity. There’d be no record of where they lay.

After a little more than a week he gave up. There was only faint talk and wispy rumour of whores or servants gone missing. The Constable had Lister investigate but everything came to nought. They knew no more than they had in the beginning, and there were other, pressing matters, petty things that took time and attention.

Still, it gnawed at him, the way every killing he hadn’t been able to solve stuck inside. Her murderer was still in Leeds. Maybe he thought he was free, maybe guilt woke him in the middle of every night and left him glancing over his shoulder everywhere he walked. He wanted the chance to find him and look for the secrets in his eyes.

The Constable had been on the other side of the river. Thieves had struck the grand house of a merchant on Meadow Lane, taking silver plate and coins, a pretty return for a few minutes’ work.

They’d come in the night, worked quickly and silently not to wake the household. In all likelihood someone inside had helped them; he’d send the deputy over later to talk to the servants. A word, a hesitation, a look: that would be all it took.

The day had a pleasant spring warmth, the early April sun comfortable rather than overpowering. As he passed a bush a small flock of sparrows wheeled away in a brief rustling of leaves and beating of wings. He dawdled across the bridge back into Leeds, leaning on the parapet for a while, gazing down at the light shimmering on water and letting his thoughts drift away. The voice roused him.

‘Mr Nottingham.’

He turned to look at the thief taker. He’d heard nothing of the man since he’d come and introduced himself, and was surprised to find him still here.