At the Dying of the Year

by Chris Nickson

  The audience had quickly thinned. He looked at the soldier with his worn, smiling face, scarlet coat neatly sponged clean and bright, breeches mostly white, boots worn and travel dusty. Next to him the drummer boy, a lad maybe ten years old, had put up his sticks and was glancing idly around. ‘Come on,’ the deputy continued, ‘we’re right by the Old King’s Head. I don’t know about you, but I need to drink the taste of this morning away.’

  The Constable watched Tom and his apprentice wrap the bodies in their winding sheets. They’d carry them away once the streets were quiet and few would see, and take them to the pauper’s grave out beyond Sheepscar Beck. The children would lie as forgotten in death as they’d been in life.

  The murderer had taken his time with them. He’d relished every pain he’d inflicted, drawn it out to make them hurt even more. And they’d be no match for a grown man.

  All over Leeds, people would know that three children had been killed. Now he just had to hope no details came out about the way the bodies had been broken, battered and used. If that happened there’d be fury all over the city. That had been the mayor’s fear, Leeds out of control. Not that he’d needed to say anything. The Constable had already seen the resolve and the hatred on Sedgwick’s face, the hurt in Rob’s eyes, and he knew what was in his own heart. They all wanted this man.

  He’d hoped for time to ease back into the job, not working so hard or so long at first, but it wasn’t going to be that way.

  FOUR

  Rob leaned against the wall vainly trying to rub the weariness from his eyes. Evening was drawing in, the weather turning colder. He pulled up his collar, wishing he’d worn his greatcoat. The bell rang exactly on the half hour and the girls trooped meekly out of the dame school, each in her blue dress, carrying a bag. Mrs Rains stood in the doorway, making sure they behaved as they walked down the street.

  Five more minutes passed before Emily emerged, the old cloak fastened at the neck, her cap slightly askew, letting a few strands of hair fall to her cheek. He smiled and moved forward as he saw her, reaching out to take the basket she was holding.

  ‘How were they?’ he asked.

  ‘The same as ever.’ She laughed. ‘Lovely. Tiring. Frustrating.’ Her hand lingered on his, her eyes merry until she noticed his expression. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked quickly, panic flashing across her face. ‘Has something happened to Papa?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ he assured her swiftly. ‘It’s what we found this morning.’

  ‘What? What was it?’

  He explained as they walked, seeing the horror grow on her face. She clutched at his arm, glancing up at him when he went silent, lost in the dark country of his thoughts. ‘They were so helpless,’ he said finally, seeing them once again in his mind. ‘So small.’

  ‘You’ll find whoever did it,’ Emily averred. ‘I know you will. You and Papa and Mr Sedgwick.’

  But what if we don’t? he wondered. He’d spent the last three hours talking to everyone he could think of, anyone who might be able to help. From Mark the cobbler to the whores on Briggate, no one had known anything useful. He sighed.

  They crossed Timble Bridge, strolling up Marsh Lane and into the house.

  ‘Mama?’ Emily called, hanging her cloak on a peg by the door then pulling off the cap and shaking her hair free. When there was no reply she went and looked through to the kitchen. ‘That’s strange. She’s not here.’ Her expression brightened and she opened her arms. ‘But it means we have the house to ourselves for a while.’

  Nottingham didn’t even know how long he’d been sitting there thinking, the ghosts of the dead lingering in the cells as darkness started to fall. He could feel them there, pushing against him for attention, tugging at the memories he’d kept locked away in the corners of his mind. The faces he’d known back when he slept in the woods outside the city, wrapping himself in a stolen blanket for any kind of warmth, the hunger in his belly always there, as natural as breathing. Alice, her blue eyes so big and sad she could charm a coin from the women without saying a word. Peter and Martin, a pair of brothers a year or so older than him, who left one night and were never seen again. Or sickly little Thomas, coughing himself to sleep every night, growing thinner and thinner until he seemed fade into death before their eyes. They all came back to visit him, and he heard their voices as if they’d just spoken soft, broken words in his ear.

  The door to the jail opened and roused him. Mary was there, gently smiling. The sight took him aback and he wondered if he was dreaming it. She never visited him at the jail.

  ‘I had to come and buy some things,’ she explained, lifting the basket on her arm. ‘I was worried about you.’

  He stood slowly, his face softening as he put his arms around her. The feel of her, solid under his hands, her hair tickling his neck, banished the phantoms from his head.

  ‘You heard?’

  He felt the nod of her head against his chest.

  ‘Three of them,’ he told her.

  Mary pulled back and studied his face. She didn’t need to say anything; he knew the question in her eyes.

  ‘I’m weary and heartsick,’ he said eventually and gave a small smile. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’

  ‘Emily and Rob will be in the house by themselves if he met her after school,’ she warned.

  ‘He will have done.’ The lad met her every afternoon when she’d finished teaching. ‘We’d better make sure we’re noisy and slow as we go in.’ He winked at her, picked up the stick and they left together, arm in arm.

  ‘How have you managed today?’ she asked as they walked down Kirkgate.

  ‘I’ve been careful,’ he promised her. ‘The most I’ve done is walk to the Moot Hall and back.’

  ‘Was the mayor glad to see you?’

  ‘Not as you’d notice,’ he replied quietly. ‘When I took the daily report I had to give it to the new clerk he has. And when I told him about the children his only concern was how it might affect the city.’ He paused. ‘Do you mind if we stop by the churchyard?’

  He could have found his way to the grave with his eyes closed. As soon as he’d been able to walk far enough it had been the first place he’d visited. Rose, their older daughter. Soon it would be two years since she’d died, taken in that awful, killing winter. He stood, threading his fingers through Mary’s. The grass had grown tall, the inscription on the headstone still clear but starting to wear, the edges of the letters no longer so sharp as lichen grew around the words.

  They didn’t need words to remember the girl who’d been so loving and eager to please, barely married and with child herself when death came.

  Finally he stirred, startled to see that full evening had come while his mind wandered.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told him tenderly. ‘I feel peaceful here.’

  At the house he was careful to rattle the latch noisily before they entered. It would give Emily and Rob time to make themselves respectable. He’d be disappointed if they hadn’t taken advantage of the time alone.

  The girl had built a fire and the pair of them sat close to it, careful not to look at each other. The Constable smiled inside. Emily might not want to marry but that didn’t mean she wasn’t interested in other things with her young man.

  ‘Did you find anything?’ he asked Lister.

  ‘Nothing, boss. No one knows anything. But there’s a recruiting sergeant in town.’

  Nottingham rolled his eyes. ‘Find out where he’s staying. I’ll wager there’ll be trouble there tonight; there always is when they’re here. Prepare the men for it.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Go and talk to the people down at the camp, too. Someone down there might have known the children. Even names for them would be something.’

  ‘Mr Sedgwick suggested that.’

  ‘Good.’ The Constable brightened. ‘And I suppose we should feed you before you start work.’

  Rob grinned. ‘Ye
s, boss.’

  As dusk became night Sedgwick completed his last round and returned to the jail. The undertaker had taken the children, and he imagined them laid gently into the ground in the darkness before the gravediggers sprinkled a thick layer of quicklime on them.

  The boss might have come back, but the work day had been as long as before, stretching from before dawn to well into the evening. It felt odd to have someone else making the decisions again and telling him what to do. He’d grown used to being in charge. Maybe he would be again; he could see the Constable wasn’t the man he’d once been. The smile was there and his mind seemed sharp enough, but he moved slowly and cautiously, like someone much older than his years.

  The deputy locked the jail door, tested it briefly, then made his way home up Briggate and along Lands Lane. Inside the house a fire burned bright and warm in the hearth; Isabell was awake and smiling in the crib he’d made from old scraps of wood.

  Sedgwick picked her up and held her at arm’s length before bringing her close, burying her face against her and smelling the freshness and the milk on her skin.

  ‘James is upstairs,’ Lizzie said. ‘He’s finishing the work he has to do for school.’ She was sitting close to the blaze, using its light to finish mending a shirt. He bent to kiss her and stroke her hair lightly, then tickled the baby until she began to gurgle happily. This was what he lived for, the thing that drove him through every day, knowing he’d come back to his family when it was all over.

  He laid the girl back in her bed and climbed to the cramped upper storey of the house. The room was filled with a bed and a paillasse where the boy sat thoughtfully, staring at the slate in front of him, a stub of chalk clutched tight between his small fingers.

  ‘What do you have to do?’

  ‘Sums,’ James replied glumly, looking up. ‘It’s hard.’

  The deputy chuckled and ruffled the lad’s hair. ‘It’s worth knowing,’ he said. ‘Remember, if you know how to count properly no bugger can cheat you.’ He’d talked to his son’s teacher at the charity school and knew he was learning quickly, already able to read and write spidery letters.

  The boy’s blue coat hung neatly from a peg. Each afternoon, when James came home, Lizzie sponged it carefully. It was

  too large but that was good; it would need to last a few years before they’d be able to afford a new one. The first morning he’d walked the boy to school and seen him vanish into the place he’d thought his heart would burst from pride.

  ‘Sleep as soon as you’ve finished.’ He tried to kiss the lad but James wriggled away, never taking his eyes from the numbers in front of him, then scribbling an answer. ‘You hear me?’

  ‘Yes, Da.’

  He settled by the fire, letting the warmth surround him. Isabell had fallen asleep and he pulled the blanket up around her chin. Lizzie had cut bread and cheese and poured a mug of ale. He drank slowly, gazing into the flames.

  ‘Bad?’ she asked. He nodded in reply. He’d knew she’d have heard; the word would have flown around Leeds.

  ‘Very,’ he said with a weary sigh. ‘It made me think about our two.’

  Lizzie reached out and took his hand. ‘You can’t look after all of them, you know.’

  ‘We don’t even know their names,’ he told her bleakly. ‘Let alone who did it.’

  She squeezed his fingers gently. ‘You’ll find him, John Sedgwick.’

  He hoped that was true.

  Rob made the rounds with two of the men then headed out along the Aire to the camp. He’d gone to his lodgings for the greatcoat and was glad of it now; with night the sky had cleared, stars shining and the air stinging against his face.

  The clock on the Parish Church had struck nine by the time Rob walked along the riverbank. Small fires burned in the darkness, figures in silhouette gathered around them.

  There’d be a thick frost tonight, he thought; already the grass crunched beneath his boots and the earth felt hard and rutted. He looked up to see a woman standing in front of him, her arms folded.

  ‘Evening, Mr Lister,’ she said, her voice wary. ‘What brings you this way? We’ve not seen you for a while.’ Her face broke into a small grin. ‘I was starting to think maybe you didn’t love us any more.’

  He chuckled. ‘Hello, Bessie. It’s good to see you, too.’

  ‘Must be summat important to bring you down this way.’

  ‘I’m looking for information.’

  For much of the year the strays and waifs of the riverbank gathered here every night. Being together gave them safety, somewhere to call home, if only for a few hours. Simon Gordonson had started the camp, but in the late summer he’d left, taking to the roads, and Bessie Sharp had assumed iron control. She was a hefty woman, almost as tall as Lister, with a fearsome gaze and a shrewd mind. Her curls were tucked under her cap, and she wore clothes others had cast off as if they were a queen’s robes. She looked after all the lost souls like they were her family, keeping them in line and protecting every one.

  ‘It’s about them children, in’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She glanced at the faces gathered around the fires, pulling a worn shawl tighter around her shoulders. ‘There’s enough to look after here. Once winter comes proper I’ll have plenty to do keeping these alive.’ Bessie stared at him. ‘So what information are you looking for?’

  ‘About the children. If any of them had lived here, maybe. If anyone might know a name or two.’

  She shook her head. ‘You know what it’s like here. Some folk stay a day or two then move on. What were they like?’

  He described the faces still lodged in his mind.

  ‘I’ll ask,’ Bessie said. ‘But don’t hold your breath. Any bastard who’ll do that deserves more than the rope.’

  ‘Thank you.’ If any of them knew anything, he knew she’d badger them until they told her. He brought a pie from the pocket of his coat and handed it to her. She accepted it as if it was her due, not charity.

  ‘It won’t go far,’ Lister said apologetically, looking at the faces gathered around the flames. There were more than the night before, their faces all pinched and hungry in the flickering light. There were men with the vacant look of the lost, as if they were slowly walking towards death, mothers with young children clutched against their breasts, families in rags and tatters huddled together for the comfort as much as the warmth.

  ‘It’ll feed a few. That’s a start, Mr Lister, that’s a start. You come back tomorrow and I’ll tell you if they know owt.’

  If he was fortunate there’d be a word or two of help from the camp, he thought as he took the steps by the bridge and began to walk up Briggate. Light shone through gaps in the shutters at the Leeds Mercury and for a moment he hesitated, tempted to go over there and try to make some peace with his father. But each time before it had ended in an argument; why would this be any different?

  He was almost at the jail when he heard someone running hard up the street. Hand on his cudgel, he waited. The man slowed as he came close, breath steaming wildly in the air.

  ‘You the Constable’s man?’ he gasped. Lister nodded. ‘Fight down at the Crown and Fleece.’

  Rob hurried along Kirkgate, careful not to go too fast. It was always best to give them a little time, to let them hit each other for a while before he arrived. That way they had their pride from the fight, but most of them would be ready to end things. That’s what the deputy had taught him and he’d seen it was true. After a few minutes the fighters would have had their fill and their blood. But he still kept a tight hold on the cudgel, ready to break some heads.

  The Crown and Fleece was set back from the street, close to the Cloth Hall, at the back of a small yard. It was usually an orderly house, just a small inn, neatly kept, and with a clean stable for horses. Lister pushed at the door and walked in. One man lay on the floor, his eyes closed, and another was yelling at the recruiting sergeant who stood in a corner, the battle lust red on his face, heavy fists ready.


  ‘Come on, then,’ he challenged the man in front of him, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘You were happy enough to take the King’s shilling earlier. You’re not going to back out now.’ He glanced at the man sprawled limply on the ground. ‘I’ll have you like him and I’ll march you both away.’

  Lister rapped the cudgel on a bench, the sound sharp and harsh, making them stop and turn. ‘Enough,’ he shouted. ‘You,’ he said, pointing at the sergeant, ‘sit down. And you,’ he said to the other man, ‘over there.’

  He waited until they’d obeyed, feeling the tension in the room beginning to fall. The man on the floor stirred, moaning and then turning on his side to vomit noisily.

  ‘Give me a good reason not to throw you all in the cells,’ Rob told the soldier coldly.

  The man glared at him, brushed some dirt from the bright red uniform coat and took a long drink of ale before answering.

  ‘They wanted to join up.’ He nodded at the pair. ‘Look in their pockets, you’ll find the shilling they took. Then they changed their minds.’

  ‘Is that true?’ He glanced at the youth, sitting on a bench with his head in his hands.

  The young man bobbed his head slowly, never looking up.

  ‘Then you’re a soldier now,’ Lister told him. ‘Same goes for your friend.’ He looked around the inn. ‘Anyone want to complain about that?’

  Men shook their heads and contemplated their ale in silence. Lister caught the eye of the landlord, grinning as the man nodded his relief and appreciation. Usually it was visiting clerics and farmers who stayed at this place, men with quiet lives who didn’t raise their voices or their fists in anger.

  The sergeant sat alone in the corner, grazes on his large knuckles, hat placed carefully on the bench beside him.

  ‘A word with you,’ Rob said, sliding across from him.

  The soldier looked up, a sly smile on his face showing a row of rotten teeth. ‘Come to join up, have you? Better than being a Constable’s man.’