Free from all Danger

by Chris Nickson

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find the right man.’

  ‘I hope so.’ He sighed. ‘Until then, this is yours.’

  Perhaps he’d take those words back soon. It would depend what the night brought.

  ‘I’m flattered.’ It was what Brooke would want to hear.

  The mayor rubbed his hands together.

  ‘I’d better get to work. They’re building a fire by the bridge. I’ll be there. So will most of the members of the corporation. I trust you’ll stop by when you have the chance.’

  ‘If I have the time. It’ll be busy.’ He understood what the man was saying: make sure it’s well guarded. He’d keep Waterhouse and Dyer there to stand watch on everything and stamp out any trouble.

  Garroway’s was quiet, only a few customers sitting and reading the London papers. Finer was at his usual table by the window, an empty coffee dish in front of him. It was impossible to read anything on his face. Maybe that was why he’d been so successful; he never gave away what he was thinking.

  ‘There’s a cold snap coming,’ Finer said. ‘I can feel it. My wrists ache.’

  ‘We had a frost, that’s all. And it looks set to be fair.’

  ‘It’ll change. You mark my words. A day or two and our teeth will be chattering.’

  ‘What else do you know?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘Nothing to help me find those ledgers. Have you learned anything?’

  The constable shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Are you ready, then?’

  For what? That was the question. While the fires blazed, something was going to happen. Something unknown. How could he be ready? All he could do was act once it started.

  ‘As much as I’ll ever be.’

  ‘You were never one for planning, even when you started out as a constable’s man. You let things happen and then you plunged in.’

  ‘That’s what I was paid to do.’

  ‘A little thought and you could have nipped things in the bud. Stopped them before they began.’

  ‘And what could I have done about this?’ Nottingham said mildly. ‘Tell me that.’

  ‘Maybe more than you did. You ran from killing to killing. You never even thought there could be much more to it until I pointed it out.’

  That was true. But he’d been out of this for two years. He’d lost his touch, his sharpness.

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’

  ‘You’re on the back foot. When it comes, you’d better be ruthless. No talking, no arrests.’ He stared, eyes cold. ‘Kill them. All of them. The way you did when someone killed that deputy of yours.’

  ‘John Sedgwick.’

  Finer waved the name away as if it meant nothing. ‘Treat them that way. You don’t have any choice. Anything less and they’ll murder you.’

  Bitter words, he thought as he walked back down the Head Row. Con was by the Market Cross, playing a lulling air as the constable passed and greeted him with a nod. By the Moot Hall, Jem had drawn a small crowd, gathered close and caught up in his tale.

  Leeds. Home.

  Down by the bridge men piled up heavy branches for the fire, bundled faggots of wood ready to be added later. The town seemed to be hushed, full of anticipation and excitement. For most people, tonight would be a great celebration.

  He’d loved this night when he was small, moving from one fire to the other with his parents, seeing how the blazes cast shadows that looked like devils to his eyes. Later, on his own and sleeping anywhere he could find, they gave the chance of a few hours’ warmth. Some sweet bonfire toffee, if he could steal it, or food that a family had left to roast in the embers. He’d taken his own girls, watching the same wonder on their faces that he’d once possessed. Young Mary’s turn would come, then her children and all the ones that followed. Long after he was dead and forgotten.

  The day seemed to crawl past, as if someone had weighed down the hands of the church clock so that they barely moved. By dinner Nottingham felt as if he’d spoken to half of Leeds. He’d gone to all the fires, making sure none was too close to houses; the last thing the town needed was sparks drifting and causing a fire.

  The White Swan was doing a sullen trade as men kept money back for the night’s drinking. No press of people as he sat and ate, wondering what else he could do during the afternoon. He needed to feel he was making some progress, that he had some small hope of stopping everything that was coming towards him.

  But by the middle of the afternoon, what little faith he possessed in that was slipping away. Another two hours and it would grow dark. Later, people would finish their work and the bonfires would be lit.

  He walked, looking in vain for a man with a coat pocket missing. The day had stayed mild; there would be plenty of folk out tonight, and enough of them would end up drunk and rowdy to cause trouble.

  Con had gone from the market cross, but Jem was still sitting by the Moot Hall. His voice sounded dry as old leather now, cracking and rasping as he spoke. He had an empty mug at his side. Nottingham slipped into the Rose and Crown, bought another, and took it to him. With a grin, he said, ‘Bless you, sir,’ and barely broke the pace of his tale. Small kindnesses, the constable thought. Maybe someone would have a favour for him.

  But as dusk slipped in, there was nothing. The men assembled at the jail, everyone reporting for their duty. Those who worked nights looked resentful at starting so early, trying to hide their yawns. The day people seemed brighter, harder. At least they’d have extra pay this week, although they’d probably earn it in cuts and bruises tonight.

  Nottingham gave them their assignments. Two men at each of the big fires, ready to deal with any incident before it could blow out of hand. The rest would cover the town. That should be enough to control the apprentices.

  ‘I’m sure the cells will be full in the morning,’ he said. ‘But make sure you’re not the ones with sore heads. Dyson, Waterhouse, I need to talk to you before you go.’

  ‘What about me?’ Crandall asked.

  ‘Take charge of the men who are roving around. Make sure that if anything starts to happen, you send word to me immediately.’

  He issued cutlasses to the pair watching the bonfire that Brooke and the corporation would attend.

  ‘Use them only if you have to,’ he ordered. ‘With luck, the sight of weapons should be enough to deter any trouble.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Dyer answered. They were clever enough to restrain themselves.

  After they’d gone, another sword lay on the desk, waiting for him. Nottingham unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out three pistols, powder and bullets.

  Rob arrived after darkness had fallen. He was breathing hard, sweating and leaning heavily on the stick as he moved, but he looked ready.

  ‘Any word?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Nottingham replied, and saw the man’s face fall. ‘How’s your knee? No lies. I need the truth.’

  ‘It still hurts,’ Lister answered after a moment, then raised his head. ‘I can walk.’

  ‘You’ll be no use with a sword. Take these.’ He pushed two of the pistols across the desk. ‘Make sure they’re loaded and primed.’

  Rob looked up as he worked. ‘What about you, boss? Are you armed?’

  The constable patted the pocket of his greatcoat. ‘Already done. And I’ll have the cutlass.’

  As the constable locked the door of the jail, he could sense the eagerness in the air. The streets were full, people already starting to gather although the fires wouldn’t be lit until the Parish Church clock struck the hour.

  He could feel his heart beating hard. But he felt certain it wouldn’t happen for a while yet. Not until the families had enjoyed the blazes and gone off to their homes, and the real drinking and merriment began. There was still time for some word to come, for him to be able to stop it before it began.

  The fires were beautiful. Rob had loved them from the first year his father had taken him out to see them. It was magical to see Leeds alive and alight at night, as if the whole
town was burning.

  Emily had come home as he was preparing to leave. As she took off her cloak she’d watched him make his aching way from the kitchen and he thought he’d never seen such sadness in anyone’s eyes. But she didn’t try to stop him. How could she, with her father out there? Instead she held him close and told him to come home when it was done.

  She wasn’t going to attend the bonfires. In the end he persuaded her to go with the Webbs and take Mary for a few minutes. The baby was a true Leeds girl; she should start as she’d carry on.

  The constable moved at Rob’s slow pace down Briggate. The blaze already towered into the sky, light brighter than day reflecting off the buildings. The town smelt of wood smoke.

  He waited as the constable exchanged a few words with the great, good men and their wives. Nods to Waterhouse and Dyer, who circulated with their eyes alert.

  Then they were away, back up the street. It hurt to walk, each step still took effort, but he had to be here. He owed it to the boss. Time after time he’d been right on this when Rob had doubted him and even thought he wasn’t fit for the job any more.

  His palm was clammy on the stick as he pushed it down to take his weight. It was close now. Whatever was going to happen would begin soon; an hour or two at most.

  They didn’t talk. Nothing they said would have seemed adequate. There was enough noise all around. Somewhere in the distance a man fired off a musket and Rob felt a sudden shock. But it was nothing more than celebration.

  The glow of the fire reached up Briggate, casting shadows around the whores standing in the passageways that led through to the yards. Some held fans coyly over their mouths. Others smiled and beckoned.

  He wondered about the pimps. None of them had listened to his warnings. They’d probably all be drinking and waiting for the small hours to take the money off the girls.

  It seemed to take an age to reach the market cross. He lumbered, he knew it, an ungainly beast. Rob stood next to Nottingham, looking back, their view blocked by the Moot Hall. The whole night crackled and sparked. Voices rose here and there, a harsh burst of laughter. Rob pushed a hand into the pocket of his greatcoat and curled around the handle of the pistol. He’d never been a good shot, but one hit was all it took. He could manage that.

  At first he barely noticed the shout. It was part of the wash of sound. Then it came again, a strange wail that seemed to rise. Without even thinking, he began to move. But Nottingham was already ahead, pushing through the crowd, parting them with his shoulder.

  It was no more than a few yards, just outside the Rose and Crown. People were pushing themselves back in horror to leave a space around the scene. Nottingham saw Jem on his knees, howling as he held Blind Con. The fiddler was on the ground, a trickle of blood seeping from the edge of his mouth. There were wounds on his chest and his stomach. He tried to paw at them, as if he could brush them away. The violin lay where it had fallen, body smashed and strings hanging loose.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Con came to visit me. He’d just gone and I saw he’d left his gloves.’ Jem held up his hand, something gripped between the finger. ‘I went after him. As soon as he stepped out on Briggate a man was waiting. Two blows and he run off.’

  Nottingham look around. The people who’d gathered were silent.

  ‘What did he look like? Where did he go?’

  ‘Young, fair hair. He went into the Talbot.’

  Rob had arrived, taking in the scene and hearing the last remark.

  ‘Get him inside,’ the constable said. He turned his head and saw John Reynolds, the landlord, watching. ‘Send someone for the doctor.’

  Con wasn’t going to live; he knew the signs all too well. But at least he could be spared the indignity of dying on the street. Two men came forward to lift him and Jem picked up the broken fiddle. Nottingham looked at Lister and nodded.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Talbot was a babble of confusion as they walked in, weapons drawn. A heartbeat later, they were surrounded by silence.

  ‘Where is he?’ Nottingham shouted. ‘Fair hair, he had a knife.’

  Mutely, someone pointed to the door that led to the kitchen. Suddenly the pieces all fell into place.

  Harry Meadows had even told him. He’d said he had two sons. It was there, if he’d had the brains to see it.

  He crashed through to the kitchen, hearing Rob hobbling behind. The room was empty, the door to the yard hanging open, the back gate unlatched.

  Nottingham ran up the stairs. One room was locked. He brought his boot down hard until it splintered. Inside, two women cowered against the wall. One older, one still young. The wife and the daughter.

  ‘Where are they?’ Just fear and silence. He raised the cutlass.

  ‘The churchyard.’ The woman’s words came out in a croak.

  ‘Which one?’ He took a step forward and saw her flinch.

  ‘St John’s.’

  ‘Don’t try to leave.’

  Rob was searching, scattering everything off the table.

  ‘St John’s churchyard,’ the constable said. ‘Come in the back way.’

  He raced back up Briggate, legs jarring with every stride. Nottingham knew people were stopping to stare as he shoved through the crowd and across the Head Row. A hundred yards ahead another bonfire was burning close to the grammar school, people laughing and cheering as another big branch collapsed.

  At the lych gate, he stopped to catch his breath for a moment, then walked into the churchyard.

  The glow from the blaze threw strange, flickering shadows across the churchyard. In the light he could see three figures standing close to the porch. He kept walking towards them until he was able to make out their faces. Harry Meadows stood in the middle, outlined against the darkness.

  He fitted the memory in his mind to the figure who’d disappeared with Four-Finger Jane. But Nottingham didn’t know the young men with bland faces and fair hair who flanked. Each of them stood over a bundle on the ground. They all held swords.

  ‘I wondered how long you’d take,’ Meadows said. All the joviality was gone, the landlord’s false face vanished. ‘People said you were clever.’

  He didn’t reply, just stared at them. Let Meadows waste his breath. Every word gave more time for Rob to arrive.

  ‘You see these?’ He kicked one of the bundles; it gave a muffled, frightened cry. ‘Two of the pimps. The third’s already dead. These two will be in a few minutes. We were going to leave them for you. Now you can have the pleasure of seeing them executed. You ought to pay me: I’m doing your work for you.’

  ‘Killing’s your work, not mine.’

  ‘What’s the line between work and pleasure?’ Meadows asked. ‘And when we’re done with these two, we’ll add you to the list.’

  He said it so simply, as if it was no more than a fact, a matter of no concern at all.

  The constable tightened his grip of the hilt on the cutlass and took a pace closer. In the distance, something fell with a dull crash into the fire and a wave of shadows sped past across the churchyard.

  ‘Stay there. After all, we want you to have a good view.’ Meadows smiled and chuckled. The right-hand pocket was missing from his old coat.

  The man turned to his sons. ‘Are you ready?’

  One of the bundles struggled, a final attempt to escape. But he’d been tied too firmly.

  ‘Then it’s time.’ He kept staring at the constable.

  The young men were as efficient as butchers. A single deep stroke across the neck, then moving back to watch the blood gush over the flagstones. The bodies twitched and fought, but there was no hope. In the space of a breath it was over.

  ‘What do you think?’ Meadows asked. ‘Quick. It was almost painless, really. Humane. And my boys were like artists, hardly got a drop of blood on themselves. Excellent, wouldn’t you say?’

  Nottingham stood, not letting himself show anything. Finer had been right, he thought. They had to die. All of them. And he had to stay
alive. He raised his blade.

  ‘Good,’ Meadows said. ‘It’s time for you now.’

  The young men moved, fanning out. Their eyes were cold and dead.

  Which one would come first? It didn’t matter; the other would be close behind, attacking him from both sides. And that would leave the middle open for Meadows. He’d want to have the final blow.

  Rob should be here by now. Hidden in the dark, behind a gravestone, preparing his shot. Pray God he was.

  Nottingham swung the cutlass in an arc, keeping the men back. Once, twice. But soon enough, they’d keep coming.

  His mouth was dry as dust. His head was pounding. He tried to swallow, but it felt like a lump in his throat. Nottingham swung it once more. The young men’s expressions were empty, eyes staring, no hint of how they’d move.

  The shot echoed loud off the buildings. One of the young men crumpled. His sword fell, a sharp, brittle sound as it bounced on the stone and into the grass. His brother turned. Before he could do anything, Nottingham thrust the cutlass deep into his belly. He felt the soft yield of the flesh and pushed it home.

  The man’s mouth opened but no sound came. The constable pulled and the blade came free, a rain of blood pouring from the wound as the man tumbled to his knees.

  ‘Neatly done,’ Meadows acknowledged with a nod. There was nothing in his eyes to show that he felt anything for his sons. No pain, no grief. He didn’t even give them another glance. ‘But they made it too easy for you. Now it’s just you and me, and I’m better than they could ever be.’

  He didn’t move. Nottingham knew the trick: let the opponent make the first move, catch him as he came.

  Off in the distance, an owl hooted as it hunted. The bonfire glowed bright for a moment, red and yellow light picking them out in the churchyard, stark against the blackness.

  ‘Not scared, are you?’ Meadows taunted.

  But he was proof against words. They washed over him. It would take more than that to make him do anything rash. The constable held his ground, ready.

  Meadows took a half-step to his right, pushing the point of his sword forward. It was a test, a feint. The man wanted to see what his opponent might do.