At the Dying of the Year

by Chris Nickson

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘There can’t be any buts. And you know the hardest part? They know that. They’re laughing at me.’

  ‘Because they have money.’

  ‘That’s part of it.’

  She stood. ‘I need to start cooking.’ In the doorway she turned and said, ‘If you want justice, give me a knife and two minutes with them.’

  He heard her moving around, the dull, metallic clack of pans as she started work. He curled his right hand into a fist then opened it again. He hadn’t told her what he really wanted to do to the men. He couldn’t speak about it to anyone. Once the words and the feelings came out he could never put them away again.

  He was caught, bound by the law, stretched between what he wanted and what he had to do. A few would understand the truth, but he knew that most people would be like Lucy and see him doing nothing.

  He felt hollow inside. They’d taken everything good in his soul. Doing anything at all took all his strength. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, wishing he could hear her footsteps above. Then he went back into the cold, bitter rain.

  Rob stood in the doorway; it kept some of the sleet away. But by the time Emily came out of school his hat was soaked and his shoes sodden.

  ‘I didn’t know if you’d come out in this,’ she said, putting her arm through his.

  ‘Of course you knew,’ he said with a smile. There’d been no colour in her face since her mother died, he thought, and no joy or life in her words. They walked quickly, trying to avoid the horse dung that lay smeared and slimy on the street, not saying anything more until they were by the road that led from Kirkgate to the White Cloth Hall. He glanced across, seeing the bell pits neatly filled in, circles of dark earth on the grass.

  ‘Why did they do it?’ she asked, her voice lost and far away, and he wondered what he could tell her that might have any kind of reason to it. ‘She didn’t hurt them. She never hurt anyone.’ Emily turned to him, her face wet. ‘Why couldn’t Papa save her?’

  ‘He would have if he could,’ he said quietly. ‘You know that.’

  ‘And then he didn’t even want me to come home and be with him.’ He heard the desperate confusion and anger in her voice. ‘He wouldn’t let me see her.’

  ‘He was trying to protect you.’

  ‘I’m not a child,’ she said defiantly. ‘I saw my sister die. After that we were all together. Mama was there.’

  They moved aside as a cart rushed up the street, one wheel dipping through a puddle and sending a small wave over the cobbles. The hem of her dress was already wet and dark, but she didn’t seem to notice it.

  ‘Maybe he just doesn’t know what to do,’ Rob suggested.

  ‘But he has to,’ she pleaded helplessly. ‘He has to know what to do.’ She clutched his arm tighter. ‘He has to.’

  There was nothing he could say to give her the comfort she needed. All he could do was put his hand over hers and be at her side.

  The sleet passed during the night as the wind shifted to the east. On Saturday morning the skies were clear, the air cold, frost clinging to the grass. The puddles had a thin coat of ice that cracked under his feet as he walked up Kirkgate, the stick tapping on the ground.

  In the cells three men were sleeping off a night of drinking. One of them had a bloody face, his nose mashed to one side; another had pissed himself on the bench. The Constable put coal on the fire and poured a mug of ale.

  Soon enough Rob returned from his final rounds. The cold and rain had made things quiet enough; he’d had time to start work on the accounts, putting them into the kind of order a clerk would value.

  ‘You’ve done more than I could,’ Nottingham told him.

  ‘I’ll have them finished for Tuesday, boss. They won’t find any fault.’

  ‘Good. You get yourself off to your bed. You deserve it after that.’

  ‘Boss?’

  There was something in his tone; the Constable looked closely at the lad as he struggled for the right words.

  ‘It’s Emily. She . . .’ He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even wilder. ‘She’s scared.’

  ‘Scared?’ The words took him by surprise.

  ‘I don’t think she knows what to do. She needs to have you there.’

  He nodded. He knew he hadn’t done the best by her. He’d put himself, his grief, his guilt ahead of her. But it was all he could manage. He remembered when Rose had died, how all the words had vanished from the house, how they’d been too fearful to say anything, retreating from each other, too scared to love properly in case another of them died.

  He walked Briggate with the deputy, the weavers bundled into their heavy coats against the bitter wind, their faces set and stubborn as they laid out cloth on the trestles. The men chewed at the hot beef of their Brigg-End Shot breakfasts, swilling the food down with a mug of ale as they worked.

  The merchants sheltered in the lee of a building, all gathered together in a group, dressed in rich wool and polished leather. Nottingham kept his eye on Darden and Howard, their faces half-hidden by hats, then passed on down the street.

  ‘What do you reckon they’re thinking, boss?’

  ‘I wish I knew, John,’ he answered, shaking his head. ‘I’d hope they’re praying we don’t find the evidence to send them to the hangman.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘But I’ll give you odds the bastards are smirking at us instead.’

  ‘Did Lucy have much to say?’

  ‘Plenty, but none of it anything to help us.’

  They continued in silence all the way to Leeds Bridge.

  ‘Lizzie thinks we should just kill them.’

  ‘You think I don’t want to?’ The Constable gazed out at the river. The water was high, dark and dangerous. ‘I want to make it so there’s pain in every breath they take and they beg me to finish it.’

  ‘But?’

  Nottingham shook his head. ‘You know as well as I do. We’ll prove it, John. We’ll get them in court. And when we do, the mayor and all the rest of their friends will desert them.’

  ‘You hope.’

  ‘They will. They’ll leave them to die alone, then they’ll peck over the carcasses like crows. You just wait and see. Let’s go back up. It’s bloody freezing out here.’

  The market bell rang as they were part way up the street, the merchants moving quickly among the clothiers, examining a length and moving on or making their bargain before someone else could offer more.

  And elsewhere in the city, the Constable thought, folk wouldn’t give a thought to all this and the money it made. They’d be at their work, the servants and clerks, the shopkeepers and apprentices. They’d count their pay at day’s end and struggle on into another week.

  The deputy left to follow word of a burglary, a piece of silver plate and some lace gone missing from a house. Nottingham walked up to the market cross at the top of Briggate, the traders all setting up their stalls for the Saturday market. Farmers brought eggs and butter, their chickens squawking in their wooden cages, a Sunday dinner for those who could afford it. The tinker had his brazier lit, ready to mend pots and pans later; for now, others crowded round its warmth.

  ‘Grand to see, isn’t it?’ He turned towards the voice, seeing Joe Buck’s face, Henry two paces behind him, oblivious to the stares people gave.

  ‘People make money, people spend money. Same as everywhere. But that’s a business you know well, Joe.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ the fence said with a smile. ‘You found the evidence to hang your Gabriel yet?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Best have a word with yon clothes seller, then.’ Buck nodded in the direction of a stall further down the street. ‘He has something that might interest you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll have to go and see for yourself.’ He touched the brim of his tricorn hat. ‘I’ll bid you good day.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The man was still laying out his goods. Not too long ago it had been Is
aac the Jew who’d done all this, selling dresses and coats and linen that had seen better days. But he was gone, another murdered soul, and someone else had drifted in, hoping to make a little money.

  The man was in his middle years, gaunt, with cheerless eyes, helped by a boy with the same thinness in his face, straining as he carried bundles from a cart.

  ‘We’re not ready yet,’ he said, fussing with the garments. ‘Market bell hasn’t rung, anyway.’

  ‘I’m the Constable,’ Nottingham said.

  ‘Oh aye?’ The man was suddenly interested, standing straight and pulling at the sleeves of his greatcoat. ‘I’m Charles Johnson. Looking for summat to wear, maybe?’

  ‘Not for me.’ He kept the friendly tone in his voice and scanned the piles of clothes, some little better than tatters, a few garments almost new. ‘What have you bought lately?’

  ‘Not so much. Weather like this, folk are buying not selling.’ The man rummaged deftly in one of the piles. ‘But there’s this.’ He pulled out a shirt, the white almost yellow with age. ‘Good quality, last for years.’

  The Constable shook his head and Johnson gave him a steady look.

  ‘I tell you what. I bought this on Tuesday. Beautiful, it is.’ He opened up a chest under the trestle and carefully unfolded a grey coat. ‘What about that?’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  The cloth and weave were exquisite and expensive, far better than anything else the man was offering. But that wasn’t what he noticed. The grey coat was spattered with dark stains, the colour of rust. Some were tiny, almost lost, others larger, a couple almost the size of his thumb.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.

  ‘Like I said, I bought it on Tuesday.’ The man looked worried, eyes shifting around uncomfortably. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Who did you buy it from?’

  Johnson shrugged. ‘A man came up and asked if I wanted to buy it.’

  ‘When on Tuesday?’

  ‘Afternoon. Why? I was enjoying some ale at t’ Rose and Crown and he came up to my lad. He sent him on to me.’

  ‘Did the man give his name?’

  ‘I never asked him. It was a coat and it were cheap and quality. Have I done summat wrong, mister? Did he steal them?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he did,’ the Constable assured him. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘A big bugger.’ He held his arms apart. ‘Shoulders like that on him. I knew it couldn’t be his coat, but he said his master had given it him. He was wearing the breeches that went with it. Tight on him, they were, too.’

  ‘Did he have anything else to sell?’

  ‘Aye. A pair of shoes and some hose.’

  ‘What did you do with them?’

  ‘Kept them for mesen. There’s good leather on them shoes and nice shiny buckles.’

  Those buckles would certainly be shiny enough, Nottingham thought. Most likely silver.

  ‘I’m going to need the coat and the shoes,’ he said, watching Johnson frown.

  ‘I should have known it were too good to be true. What’s he done?’

  ‘You know what these are?’ the Constable asked, rubbing the stains with his fingertips.

  ‘No. But I reckoned that was why he’d been given the clothes to sell.’

  ‘It’s blood. The man who owned this suit killed people.’

  He watched all the colour leave the man’s face. ‘Christ.’

  ‘The man who sold you the clothes, did he say anything else?’

  Johnson shook his head. ‘Just wanted his money and then he left. Didn’t take no more than five minutes.’

  ‘Did he bargain with you?’

  ‘Took the first offer I made.’ He nodded at the coat. ‘Got that at a good price, thought I’d make a pretty penny off it. You’re going to take it, aren’t you?’ he asked sadly.

  ‘I am,’ Nottingham answered. ‘You’ll have to bring the shoes to the jail. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Aye.’ The man sighed. ‘My mam always used to say that if summat seems too good to be true, it probably is.’ He looked up with a wan smile and a small, world-weary chuckle. ‘She were right an’ all, weren’t she?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Mr Johnson. And if you see the man again, send your lad to find me.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  He rolled the coat and put it under his arm. Gabriel’s grey coat. Solomon Howard’s coat. Either the factor had told Smithson to get rid of it, one last task, or the servant had stolen it before he left. However it happened, they needed to find Hugh Smithson. He was the one with evidence to put Howard on the gallows. And the Constable would make sure that Darden stood beside him.

  He spread it out on the desk, stroking the blood stains. Some of them would be Mary’s, the last drops of her life. Finally, after gazing at it for a minute, he put the coat into a deep drawer of the desk.

  He knew the deputy was hunting for Smithson. Now he’d put the word out, too. If the man was still in Leeds, they’d find him. The servant would peach on his employer quickly enough; it was better than death. They just had to hope he was still in Leeds, or someone knew where he’d gone.

  For the rest of the day he trailed across the city, from the Calls to the Head Row, from London Road to the Ley Lands, asking the same questions over and over. Did they know Smithson? When had they seen him last? Had he said where he was going? Who knew him well?

  By the shank of the afternoon he was exhausted, his throat raw from so much talking. High clouds had begun to settle in, others following and filling the horizon. There’d be rain during the night. Any colder and it could be snow.

  He finished the day at the White Swan, taking his time over a mug of ale. The inn was loud, folk coming in to spend their wages and find some brief joy in their lives. He settled at the end of a bench, lost in his thoughts until Sedgwick sat across from him.

  ‘Found him yet?’ Nottingham asked before telling him about the coat.

  ‘So far I’ve had him telling people he was going to York, Wakefield and London.’

  ‘I’ve had all of those, and America to start a new life.’

  The deputy snorted. ‘Wherever he’s gone the bastard doesn’t want anyone to know.’

  ‘Unless he’s still here and hiding.’

  Sedgwick shook his head. ‘He’s gone, boss. The last anyone saw of him was Tuesday night. If he was in Leeds someone would have spotted him. He could be anywhere by now.’

  ‘Probably,’ the Constable agreed. ‘Let’s keep looking, just in case.’

  ‘What else do you want me to do?’

  ‘Didn’t you say Solomon Howard had a cook?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Find a way to talk to her and see what you can discover.’

  The deputy nodded and Nottingham drained his cup. ‘I’m off to my home.’

  Emily was there, sitting in her chair with a book on her lap. But she’d barely turned three or four pages and her face was full of memories and sorrow.

  ‘It’s not right, is it?’ he said as he stood in front of the hearth.

  ‘What, Papa?’

  ‘This house without your mother in it.’

  ‘No,’ she answered.

  ‘Do you remember where we used to live, before I became Constable and we were given this place?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You were still very small. There was you and your sister and me and your mother all in one room. That was all we could afford on what the city paid me. But your mother made it into a home. Coming home every night was a joy.’

  ‘What was it like?’ she asked.

  ‘Clean and dry,’ he said after a while, calling the picture into his mind. ‘That’s the best anyone could say about it. The whole place wasn’t much bigger than this room. You were just a baby and we were always scared you’d end up crawling into the fire. Your sister almost did that when she was little. You mother managed to pull her away in time.’

  ‘How was it when we moved out here?’
Emily asked him, and he knew he had her interest. ‘How old was I?’

  ‘How old?’ He pushed the fringe off his forehead as he thought. ‘Two, maybe three? We thought we’d moved into a palace.’ He smiled at the recollection. ‘You can’t imagine it, going from one room to all this space. We didn’t know what to do with it all. I brought everything we owned out here in a handcart while your mama carried you and Rose walked next to her.’

  ‘She loved this place, didn’t she?’ The girl moved, curling her legs under herself and smoothing down the dress.

  ‘From the first moment she saw it.’ He could still see it as if it had just happened the day before. ‘She said it felt like home as soon as she walked in. Her eyes kept growing wider and wider as she looked around.’ He laughed. ‘And then you went out in the garden and fell over in the mud. She cleaned you off in the kitchen and said we’d be happy here. She was right, too.’

  Lucy bustled through, carrying bowls of stew, the smell of meat quickly filling the room. The mood vanished like mist.

  ‘I hope I did it right,’ the servant said apologetically. Her skin was flushed from the heat of cooking, Mary’s old apron tied tight around her. ‘I’ve never made this before.’

  They ate in silence. It was better than her pottage, he thought; there was some taste to the mutton and the gravy was thick. He emptied his bowl, poured ale and sat back to drink.

  ‘Very good, lass,’ he told her and saw her face light up as she smiled.

  ‘The mistress told me how she did it. I just tried to remember what she said.’

  ‘You’ve done very well.’

  The candles cast long shadows as they settled back in front of the fire. He poured on more coal and watched the flames dance up the chimney.

  ‘What are you and Rob going to do?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Do, Papa?’ He could hear the caution in her tone.

  ‘Do,’ he said again. ‘You love each other. The whole of Leeds can see that.’ She lowered her head so he couldn’t see her expression. ‘You’re not going to marry him, are you?’

  She shook her head, the hair shaking over her shoulders. ‘You know I’m not. And I’m not going to change just because Mama’s dead.’