At the Dying of the Year

by Chris Nickson

  ‘We’d better hurry up,’ he told her. ‘It’s going to rain soon.’

  ‘You’ll be soaked tonight.’

  Rob shrugged. It came as part of the job. His good greatcoat and a hat would keep him dry enough. At least there’d be little crime if it poured.

  A shout made him turn. He saw the landlord of the Crown and Fleece gesturing at him.

  ‘You work for t’Constable, don’t you?’ the man shouted.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘but—’

  ‘I need thee, lad.’

  He looked helplessly at Emily.

  ‘Go on,’ she said with a smile. ‘Come along after if you can. Mama will have made enough for you.’

  He watched as she turned away, then he strode towards the inn. ‘What is it?’ he asked with a sigh.

  ‘In the stable.’ The landlord gestured with a thick arm.

  As soon as he was inside he could smell it, the thick, awful stench of decay.

  ‘Aye, that’s it.’ The man folded his arms. ‘The boy forked out some hay a few minutes back and suddenly the stink was everywhere.’

  Rob glanced up at the loft, then took a piece of linen from his coat pocket and tied it around his face.

  The stable boy had dropped his fork on the straw. Rob picked it up and began to dig slowly. There was much less of it than the last time he’d been here, no more than two feet thick on the platform; he’d never imagined horses ate so much. He tried to breathe through his mouth as he worked, just taking in small gulps of air. In two strokes the tines pushed against something soft, and he started to clear the hay.

  All that remained of them were scraps of clothing, clean white bone and some stinking, sickly flesh that the rats had left. He gazed at them for a moment then climbed down, walking out into the yard before gulping in the air. The rain had begun and he lifted his head to feel it clean against his face. They should have dug deeper when they were searching, he thought. They hadn’t done their job well.

  ‘You’d better go for the coroner,’ he said.

  By the time Brogden arrived the rain was a deluge, the ground full of dark puddles.

  ‘Where?’ he asked, holding a scented handkerchief against his face.

  ‘Up there.’

  It took the man less than a minute to return. ‘Dead,’ he said quickly and scurried back outside, bending to puke on the cobbles before dabbing delicately at his mouth.

  The landlord stood behind the trestle, drinking deep from a mug. He poured another and passed it to Rob without a word. The fire was blazing in the hearth. As soon as word of the corpses passed round this place would be full of men drawn by the gossip.

  ‘I’ll bring some men to move the remains. They’ll need something to clear their throats after, though.’

  ‘Aye, lad.’ The man nodded without looking at him. ‘I’ll see to it, don’t tha’ worry there.’

  Rob watched the men carry the remains of the recruits away to the paupers’ graves beyond Sheepscar Beck. He held on to a pair of small leather satchels. Each contained a change of old clothes and a few hard-saved coins. No letters, not even a pen, and no idea of where they’d come from.

  He could easily imagine how they’d died. A cold night, a few drinks, and they’d have burrowed into the hay for warmth. Down there they’d have slept but found no air to breathe. They’d gone deep enough that it had taken this long to discover them as feed had been tossed down to the horses.

  There had been no devils, no one setting them free in the night. The answer had been simple in the end. And one they should have found long before.

  ‘Get rid of that hay,’ he advised the landlord, ‘and scrub down the loft before you put any more in.

  They were standing in front of the stable, the doors wide open to air it. The wave of rain had passed, but more was in the air.

  ‘I can’t believe it. They were only sleeping there.’ The landlord shook his head.

  The Crown and Fleece would be famous for a few days. Folk would come to drink and see where the two recruits died. Tragedy was always a good spur to business.

  Then the rain returned, a sweeping onslaught from the west that soaked him before he’d even reached the jail. He banked up the fire and hung his coat over a chair to dry before settling to write up the discovery of the bodies.

  He stood by the window, watching the drops bounce off the road. With luck there’d be nothing else to drag him out from here. He’d complete his rounds before dawn. The river would be up, pushing hard against the banks. The way the night had gone so far it would be his luck to find another corpse in the river.

  He thought back to Sunday afternoon. He’d met Emily after church and they’d walked along the river to Kirkstall Abbey. All the way out they’d prattled idly, about anything, everything, her eyes smiling and happy. They’d walked through the ruins for an hour before strolling back.

  ‘My father asked if we’d like to go over for dinner one Sunday,’ he said finally. For days he’d wondered how to tell her, trying to find something in their talks that would lead to it. In the end all he could do was blurt it out.

  ‘He did?’ she answered in surprise. ‘Was he serious?’

  Rob nodded.

  ‘He asked me, too?’ She sounded suspicious. ‘The whore’s granddaughter?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Why does he want me there?’ she wondered. ‘So he can have a chance to humiliate me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I wondered if it could be his way of saying sorry.’

  They strolled quietly for a while as the shadows began to lengthen.

  ‘What do you think? Do you want to go?’ Emily asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted with a sigh. ‘If we did and he started . . .’ She looked at him expectantly. ‘If he did we’d leave and never return,’ he promised.

  He’d eaten supper with Emily and her parents before returning to his lodgings. He stopped in front of the door, then turned and headed up Briggate.

  His father was seated at the table scribbling notes in the margin of a book.

  ‘Twice in such a short time,’ Lister said wryly, taking off his spectacles and gesturing at a chair. ‘Sit down.’

  Rob remained standing. ‘The last time I was here you invited us over one Sunday. Did you mean it?’

  ‘When have I ever said anything I didn’t mean?’ he asked with amusement.

  ‘And both of us?’

  His father nodded. ‘Both of you.’

  ‘Will you be civil?’

  Lister smiled. ‘I assure you, I shall be the soul of politeness. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘If you insult her we’ll walk out,’ Rob warned.

  ‘There’ll be none of that at my table.’

  ‘Then we accept.’

  He still wasn’t certain it had been the right decision. He looked at the rain running like a river down Kirkgate. It was done now. They’d dine with his parents next Sunday.

  FIFTEEN

  The rain had petered away again with the dawn, but the skies still weighed heavy, the colour of pewter, and the ground was thick with mud. Sedgwick moved through the crowds at the market, sellers crying their wares loudly, buyers haggling over the price. He had his eyes on a man who looked determined not to be noticed, watching him in case he cut a purse and tried to run.

  ‘Do you still want to talk to Smithson?’ Holden fell in step beside the deputy. ‘He’s in the Rose and Crown.’

  ‘I thought you were following Howard.’

  Holden smiled. ‘He went to the warehouse when the cloth market finished. He’ll be there all day so I decided to go back to the house. Smithson’s bought a few things and now he’s enjoying a quiet drink.’

  Sedgwick grinned. ‘About time I had a word with him, then.’

  ‘You won’t be able to miss him.’

  He was right. Smithson was sitting on a bench, elbows resting on the table. He had wide shoulders, no neck and wrists as thick as some men’s th
ighs.

  ‘Hello, Hugh,’ the deputy said, settling down across from him. ‘It’s been a long time. Staying out of trouble?’

  The man nodded warily.

  ‘That’s a good cut of cloth,’ the deputy continued, reaching across and fingering the collar. ‘Still, I hear you have a position now.’

  Smithson grunted.

  ‘Good employer, is he, Mr Howard?’

  The man put down his glass and focused on the deputy. ‘Aye, good enough. He pays well. What about it?’

  ‘Doesn’t look as if he works you too hard.’

  ‘I do what he wants.’

  The deputy had forgotten the way that Smithson’s voice sounded as if it had dragged over gravel. ‘Much time off?’

  ‘Every Sunday.’

  ‘All the servants?’

  ‘Aye, both of us. Why?’

  ‘I’m just curious.’ He smiled. ‘You see much of Mr Darden?’

  Smithson sat back and folded his arms. ‘What do you want to know for, Mr Sedgwick?’

  ‘I want to make sure you’re well looked after, Hugh. Can’t have anyone taking advantage of you.’

  ‘Mr Howard would never do that.’

  ‘Did you tell him about your past?’ the deputy wondered. ‘I know we never proved it but we were sure you were guilty.’

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ the man demurred.

  ‘You’re an honest, hardworking man these days?’

  ‘I am that,’ he answered proudly. ‘You ask anyone.’

  ‘So if I happened to see Mr Howard and mentioned that we thought his servant had once battered someone to death it wouldn’t matter to him?’

  Smithson’s face set firm. ‘That would be slander.’

  ‘It would only be what we thought.’ He paused. ‘Although perhaps he might let you go after learning that. No more wages or time to slip away for a drink. No more Sundays off.’

  The man sighed. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Tell me about your employer. He likes his whores, from what I hear.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ His mouth set in a tight line.

  ‘There’s a lass who works in the house, too.’

  Smithson chuckled. ‘She’s forty if she’s a day. Hardly a lass.’

  ‘How is he with her?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Same as he is with me. We know our place and he treats us fairly.’

  ‘And what does he do when you’re not there?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Mr Sedgwick. I’m not there.’

  ‘Does he go out much?’

  ‘Aye, he’ll go to the cockfights or an assembly sometimes. Most days he’s working until after dark.’

  ‘He must be a rich man.’

  Smithson drained the mug and stared at him. ‘Anything else, Mr Sedgwick?’ He started to rise, tall and menacing.

  ‘Nothing. But it’s good to know where we can find you, Hugh.’

  He watched the servant leave, forced to bend his head slightly to go through the door. Smithson was clever enough not to mention the meeting to his employer; it could only bring questions the man would rather not answer.

  For all that, he hadn’t learned anything other than Howard was generous, giving them every Sunday off. There was plenty a man could do with a whole day in an empty house.

  The Constable had seen Rob in the morning, still bedraggled from his rounds, hair hanging in tangles around his face.

  ‘Emily said there was something at the Crown and Fleece.’

  ‘We found our answer.’

  Nottingham listened with a frown, then said, ‘We should have done more there.’ He sighed. ‘Go on home and dry off.’

  He’d taken the daily report to the Moot Hall and strolled down Briggate for the cloth market. Howard and Darden were standing together, discussing something intently. He raised his hat to them and continued down the street, feeling the anger of their gaze hot on his neck.

  At least fewer people were pursuing the reward for Gabriel; the novelty of it had passed. There were just three new names and he could strike one of those immediately. Old Jeffrey Halton could scarcely walk down the street and his hand shook so hard his wife had to feed him. But there’d be other tips coming in. Folk didn’t easily forget a sum like twenty pounds.

  He bought a pie from the seller at the market, spotting the deputy in the distance, a full head taller than most of the people bobbing along the street. Quietly, he slipped through the opening and into the court where he’d met Caleb.

  The ground was thick with mud from the rain, the stink of rubbish stronger than ever. The Constable leaned against a wall that was heavy with slime. The sounds of the market seemed muted and distant, a world apart from here.

  He waited, hoping that one of the children would come. It was unlikely, but he had to try. He needed to be able to talk to them, to know if Gabriel returned and if any more of them disappeared.

  The church bell tolled the quarter hour, then the half, and he was still alone, the pie growing cold in his hand. Finally he moved away, ready to return to the bustle of Briggate.

  ‘Wait.’

  He halted and turned. He stood facing a girl, small and thin, wearing an old gown full of rents and patches, deep blue once, but the colour had faded and worn to nothing. She had a proud little face, dirt smudged across her cheeks, and dark hair that hung matted to her shoulders. In her hand she carried a knife.

  ‘You’re t’ Constable, aren’t you?’ There was no fear in her voice and she stared steadily at him.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Caleb told me about you. He’s gone.’

  ‘I know,’ Nottingham said.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered simply. ‘You’re the girl who was in the shadows when I talked to him, aren’t you?’

  She didn’t lower her eyes, just nodded once. ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘I think it was Gabriel,’ the Constable answered her. He held out the pie. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Lucy.’ She took the food from him, small, deft fingers wrapping it carefully in a dirty kerchief.

  ‘Have you seen Gabriel?’

  She stood straighter, her mouth moving in disgust. ‘Often enough, whenever he’s come around. He even tried to get me to go with him once.’ She paused. ‘Is it right, what Caleb said? That you lived out here.’

  ‘Yes. But it was a long time ago now.’

  ‘And now you have a house and servants?’

  He smiled gently. ‘A house. No servants.’

  Lucy nodded then asked, ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He was in the river.’

  ‘He could swim,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Someone had hit him on the head.’

  The girl stayed silent for a long time. ‘He looked after me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you going to catch him?’

  ‘I’m going to try.’

  She looked doubtful. ‘You were wrong before. Caleb told me that.’

  ‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘But Caleb helped me. He’d seen Gabriel.’

  ‘So have I.’ She paused. ‘Helping you got him killed.’

  He said nothing but bobbed his head sadly. ‘I need to catch this man.’ He watched her face.’Would you know him again?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ Lucy said with a snort. ‘I’d know that face anywhere.’

  ‘Would you help me? Like Caleb did.’

  She eyed him calmly.

  ‘I want Gabriel,’ the Constable said. ‘For Caleb. And Mark and Luke and Alice and all the others.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ Lucy told him, although he could see the lie in her eyes.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What’ll happen if you catch him?’

  ‘He’ll hang,’ Nottingham answered. He waited a few moments.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ she agreed finally, her face set.

  ‘Thank you. But I need a better way to find you than this.’

  Lucy hesitated. ‘You know the
old manor house? There’s part of an old shed there that still has a roof. I sleep out there with some of the others. Knock twice before you come in and I won’t kill you.’ Her voice was serious and hard.

  ‘I’ll come for you in the morning,’ he said and moved towards the passageway.

  ‘Mister?’ she called. ‘You said you didn’t have a servant?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ the deputy asked. He soaked up the juices of the stew with a piece of bread and pushed the bowl away.

  ‘I’ll have her take a look at Howard tomorrow,’ Nottingham said. They sat at the bench in a corner of the White Swan, the other customers happy to keep their distance.

  ‘What if she says it’s him? No one who matters is going to believe her.’

  ‘We will,’ he said. ‘Then we can dig deeper and find some evidence we can use.’

  ‘You were sure it was Darden, boss, and you were wrong,’ Sedgwick reminded him.

  ‘I know.’ He’d pored over it often enough since, rubbing it raw.

  ‘I caught up with Hugh Smithson.’

  ‘What did he have to say for himself? Anything useful?’

  ‘Just that the servants receive every Sunday off.’

  ‘Every Sunday?’ The Constable raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Aye, that’s what I thought, too.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll say anything to Howard?’

  The deputy shook his head and grinned. ‘Seems Hugh hadn’t told him about his past and he’d rather it stayed quiet.’

  ‘That’s good work, John.’

  ‘What are you going to do if it’s not Howard?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’

  SIXTEEN

  ‘Before you finish I want you to come with me.’

  ‘Where, boss?’

  Rob had handed over the night report. A frost had hardened the ground and frozen the wheel tracks on the road into deep ruts; the chill had been damp enough to cut through to his bones as he’d completed his rounds. Now he wanted nothing more than a chance to see Emily for a few minutes as she walked to school, and then the warmth of his bed.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  He followed the Constable up Briggate, stopping for bread at the baker’s, and along the Head Row, past Garroway’s, its windows covered with steam, the heady, exotic scent of coffee in the air. At Burley Bar, the edge of the city, they turned down Mill Hill Lane and into the tangle of grass and trees that had once been the orchard of the manor house.