Chris Nickson - Constant Lovers

‘I want you working, not gabbing,’ Tunstall said, heels clacking brightly on the floor as he led Sedgwick along.

In the next room the men laboured silently, working with scissors near as tall as themselves to crop the nap to an even length. Sleeves rolled up and kerchiefs tied at the neck, they moved carefully and precisely, faces drawn in deep concentration. One slip could ruin a length and it would come from their wages, the deputy knew.

Beyond that, in a long hall with windows and doors cast wide open to try and draw in some air, others worked the irons in the steamy, oppressive heat, pressing and bundling the cloth, ready to go back to the merchants and be sold.

‘There’s brass in this,’ Tunstall explained, cuffing a boy who was struggling with a bucket of water, ‘and we’re making it.’ He paused. ‘For the moment, any road.’

‘Did Mr Jackson seem upset about anything lately? Was he quiet?’

‘Will?’ Tunstall chuckled, baring his yellow teeth. ‘As pleasant a soul as you could meet. Always ready to laugh with the workers, said it made them feel better, but I don’t know that it’s true.’

‘Was he courting?’ Sedgwick let the question slip casually. Tunstall shook his head emphatically.

‘Always working, that lad. If he wasn’t here he’d be off seeing customers. Did that one day every week. About the only time he wasn’t busy was Sunday and he’d have crept in here then if he could.’ He sighed. ‘He was no more than a lad, too. What could have made him do summat like that?’

‘We’ll try to find out,’ the deputy promised. ‘Did he go out to customers the same day every week?’

‘No, different days each week.’ Tunstall answered without thinking. ‘But he kept the orders coming and that was all that mattered. What about his family?’

‘The Constable’s informing his sister.’

Tunstall wasn’t going to say too much, but he might have more luck with the workers, Sedgwick thought. They were men who’d need a drink after working here. Catch a few of them in an alehouse, buy them a jug or two and their tongues would loosen. Men always saw more than the bosses imagined.

The afternoon was passing by, and the deputy decided he might as well wait rather than return to the jail. He slipped through the streets to Dyers Garth and lay back lazily on the riverbank. The swirl of the water was lulling and after a few minutes his thoughts started to drift. Come winter he’d be a father again, God willing. A new little bairn, a part of him. He’d loved James as a baby, and found real peace in holding him and watching him sleep. But he knew that the fear would be there, that something would happen, that Lizzie would die in childbed, that the newborn wouldn’t survive. It happened all too often, not one dead but both, leaving only a vast emptiness the heart couldn’t fill.

He breathed deep to clear his head, letting the sun bring back some contentment, and dozed until the bells of the Parish Church tolled six. Slowly he roused himself, brushing grass off his breeches, and wandered back to the Calls. The men came out laughing, loud in their brief freedom. Some went their way, but one group of five passed through Back Lane to Low Holland and the alehouse that had been made from a cottage there.

The deputy gave them five minutes, time enough to sit and wet their throats after a long day’s labour. Then he entered, greeting Nettie behind her trestle and pointing to the twice-brewed that would fight the day’s heat.

‘I know you,’ one of the men called to him. ‘You were at our place earlier. Talking to t’boss.’

‘Aye, I was.’ Sedgwick lifted the mug, took a long, deep swallow and walked over to join them on the bench. ‘I had some news for Mr Tunstall.’

‘What was that, then?’ another man asked. He had a face that seemed faintly familiar, but for the moment the deputy couldn’t put a name to it. ‘What’s the Constable’s man want at Tunstall’s?’

‘It was about Mr Jackson.’ Suddenly he remembered the man’s name — Caleb Rountree. He’d questioned him once about some stolen property, but they’d never been able to prove anything. ‘Did you know him, Caleb?’

The others laughed that the law would recognize him and Rountree reddened, burying his face in his mug.

‘What’s happened to him?’ an older man asked quietly.

‘Dead,’ Sedgwick told them, looking around the table. ‘Killed himself.’

‘What?’ Rountree crashed his pot down on the wood, eyes wide in disbelief. ‘Give over! What would he want to do summat like that for?’

‘I don’t know. Any of you know him?’

The older man struck a flint and lit his clay pipe, the sound of his drawing on the tobacco the only noise at the table. The others glanced at each other, unsure what to say.

‘He were better than Tunstall,’ the man said finally. ‘No side on him for all he were the boss. He knew the jobs and he could do them himself if need be. Crop a good length, too.’

Sedgwick motioned for Nettie to bring a jug.

‘He worked us hard enough, though,’ Rountree complained.

‘You know much about him?’

‘What’s to know?’ asked Rountree sourly. ‘They have their lives, we have ours. Not like we’re going to mix, is it?’

‘Never know,’ the deputy said. ‘You might have heard something. Rumours.’

‘The wife saw him in town once,’ the older man said idly. ‘Middle of the day and he was with a lass.’

‘On a work day?’

‘Aye. She told me when I got home, that’s how I remember.’ He shrugged carelessly. ‘Neither here nor there, I suppose.’

‘How long ago was that?’

The man scratched thoughtfully at the thatch of curls on his head. ‘Had to be before winter, I think. Couldn’t tell you any better than that.’

No one else seemed to have anything to offer. Sedgwick stood, careful to leave the ale. ‘If you think of anything else, come and find me,’ he said. As he walked away Rountree was already greedily pouring for himself.

By evening Lister had gone carefully through all the letters, scribbling notes in his tiny, cramped writing. Finally he threw down the quill in frustration.

‘Well?’ Nottingham asked.

‘There’s nothing about any plans, just love notes and meetings.’

‘Keep looking tomorrow. There might be something in there. How do you care for the job?’

‘It’s surprised me,’ Rob replied thoughtfully. ‘I like it.’

The Constable smiled grimly. ‘A suicide isn’t the best way to start, but you’ve done well. Go home and back at six tomorrow. And not a word to your father, please.’

‘I won’t say anything,’ he promised.

Nottingham didn’t dawdle on the way home, but strode out of the city, fingering the letter in his pocket. His boots clattered over Timble Bridge and up Marsh Lane, and the door opened on a rusted hinge with a soft creak more redolent of winter than bright summer.

Mary came quickly from the kitchen, her eyes expectant then glowing as he grinned.

‘You did it?’ she asked with a laugh.

‘I did,’ he told her with surprise and produced the paper from his pocket. ‘She’ll have no trouble finding another position with this. Where is she, anyway?’

‘In her room. She’s been there most of the day, poor love. Go and show it to her, Richard, it’ll cheer her up.’ She gave him a full, deep kiss and he drew her close, stroking the back of her neck until she pulled away. ‘Go on, make her happy.’

He tapped on the door of Emily’s room and entered. She was sitting on the bed, a book open in her lap although she wasn’t reading. As she turned to him he could see the redness of old weeping in her eyes and the puffiness of her lips. He held out the letter.