At the Dying of the Year

by Chris Nickson

  ‘You know, lad, Mary and I used to talk about the things we were going to do together. All hopes for the future. Now we won’t have the chance to do them. You and Emily, though, you have time.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘There isn’t a but,’ he answered quickly. ‘You’re happy together. Make the most of it. I mean it.’

  ‘What about the money? She was going to refuse it.’

  ‘I know. I was the one who suggested it. But there’s no point, really, is there?’

  ‘Isn’t there, boss? What do you mean?’

  ‘If she turns it down, it’ll just end up in some lawyer’s pocket. Emily might as well use it. She can do whatever she wants. Open a school. She can be a writer – she used to want to do that.’

  ‘She still does.’

  Nottingham nodded. ‘You’re young enough to have plenty of dreams. When Amos Worthy left her that money he told me he was giving her freedom.’

  ‘Was he? It seems more like a burden.’

  ‘When he said it I didn’t believe him, either. I thought it was bad money, made on the backs of his whores. Now I wonder if he wasn’t right.’

  ‘Why did he leave it to her? I still don’t really understand it.’

  They crossed Timble Bridge, boot heels muted on the soaked wood.

  ‘It’s a long story, lad.’ His mother’s face came into his head, the woman Worthy loved for so long and lost. ‘I used to think he did it to spite me. Maybe he saw more than I did.’

  The house was warm. Emily was seated close to the fire, a small pile of books on the floor beside her, the smell of damp wool filling the air. He could hear Lucy moving around in the kitchen, humming softly to herself, a tune he didn’t recognize that drifted in and out of hearing.

  Nottingham walked through, leaving the lovers alone for a few minutes. He kept his gaze level, unable to look down, scared of what might remain on the floor, and of the pictures in his head. Lucy stood by the fire, stirring the pottage as it simmered over the flame. She turned and smiled at him, her face guileless, hair hanging over her shoulders.

  ‘Another half hour and it’ll be ready.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. When he didn’t say anything or move, she asked, ‘Is owt wrong?’

  ‘No,’ he answered slowly. ‘Just thinking. Remembering.’

  ‘She loved you, you know.’ Lucy gave a small grin.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You had a long time together.’

  ‘Never enough.’

  ‘When she was showing me what to do, she asked me about mesen. She was the first one to do that. Like she really cared. Like it mattered.’

  ‘It did,’ he told her. ‘It does.’

  She took him by surprise. ‘If you ever want me to leave, just tell me.’

  ‘Why would I want that? I need someone to look after the house.’

  ‘But how much longer will you be here?’ He began to reply but she continued, ‘I’ve got ears and a brain. I’ve heard you talking.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But wherever we go, you’ll have a job. I promised you that.’

  ‘I’ve had promises off men before. I can look after meself.’ Her face hardened for a second and he could see the strong woman she’d become in time.

  ‘I know that.’

  She nodded, willing to accept his word, not needing to say anything more. He left her to finish cooking, and saw Rob and Emily by the window, looking out into the night. He had his arm lightly around her waist and she leaned into him. The little girl who’d once told her father that she wanted to marry him when she grew up had given her heart completely to someone else now.

  He ate the meal approvingly; Lucy had seasoned the pottage well enough to give it taste, and he wiped up the last of it from the bowl with a heel of bread.

  ‘That was excellent,’ he said truthfully, and the girl smiled wide as if he’d given her the greatest praise in the world.

  As she cleared the bowls away, Rob stood. ‘I should go to work.’

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning, lad.’

  The door closed on Emily and her young man. She’d be out there for five minutes, saying her loving goodbye, then watching him walk away, picking his shape out of the darkness until he reached Timble Bridge.

  She came back in, sat in the chair and picked up the books she’d been studying earlier.

  ‘Rob tells me you still write.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emily said, puzzlement crossing her face.

  ‘Did you show it to Mama?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Would you be willing to let me see it?’

  Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Are you sure, Papa? I know you don’t really like to read.’

  ‘I’m certain.’

  ‘Then yes, of course I will.’

  He smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  They sat in silence. She worked and Nottingham gazed into the fire. He closed his eyes and for a few minutes he could imagine it was Mary next to him, turning the pages as she read. Always The Pilgrim’s Progress before winter put its cold breath on the world, and poetry to welcome spring. He could tell the passing of the seasons by the book in her hand. For a fleeting moment he felt her in the room, as if she’d come to warm her cold bones at the fire.

  The bed was large as a country, the other side too far to reach. He felt empty of God’s grace, lost, tired and alone. Sleep hadn’t been a willing visitor since Mary had died. He stared at the darkness, the sheets cold against his body.

  Tomorrow . . . He’d gambled that he could find the evidence against Darden and Howard and he’d lost. The accounts were in order but that wouldn’t matter to the mayor. He’d find some reason to appoint a new Constable.

  It was humiliation, disgrace, and some day he’d feel it deeply. For now there was too much pain in his heart to absorb more. It was as if it was happening to someone else and he was no more than a spectator, watching it all play out.

  He’d failed Mary and now he’d failed Sedgwick and Rob. They’d believed him, trusted him to discover the proof. He had no doubt that Fenton would dismiss them, too. The man likely already had other candidates prepared for the post, pliable men more eager to please than serve justice. Darden and his factor would continue to walk free.

  He drifted in and out of rest, buffeted by dreams that dragged him back to wakefulness, a clammy sweat on his skin. Before dawn he was up, dressed and locking the door behind him. The drizzle had stopped, the stars were clear in the sky, the ground hard under his boots, a sheen of frost on the grass.

  Smoke was beginning to climb from a few chimneys as he walked up Kirkgate; servants were already at work, preparing food, cleaning the house before their masters and mistresses rose. The warmth of the fire at the jail was welcoming; Rob was preparing the nightly report, exhaustion showing on his face.

  ‘Anything?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘A burglary up on the Head Row. Took two pieces of plate and some lace.’

  ‘We had one like that last week in Turk’s Head Yard,’ the Constable said thoughtfully. ‘How did they get in?’

  ‘A window left unlocked.’

  ‘Mr Sedgwick can look into it. You take yourself off home. You’ve put in too many hours lately.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Rob didn’t put up any argument, just gave a weak smile as he stood.

  Alone, he prepared the daily report for the mayor, keeping it curt, a summation of events. He placed the paper on top of the accounts and poured a mug of ale. The door opened and the deputy entered, shrugging off his greatcoat and standing close to the hearth.

  ‘Another burglary,’ Nottingham said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Up on the Head Row. Someone left a window open.’

  ‘Very similar to that other one, isn’t it?’ Sedgwick said thoughtfully.

  ‘I’ll leave it with you.’ He gathered up the report and the accounts, brushed off his coat and straightened his stock. His stick clicked hard on the cobbles as he made his way to the Moot Hall. M
artin Cobb took the report without a word. The Constable took a deep breath and knocked on the door of the treasurer’s office. In the distance he heard the bell signalling the start of the cloth market.

  Rob felt the ache of tiredness all through his body. He’d eaten some bread and cheese and washed it down with a few gulps of ale. He knew he should go and escort Emily to school, to grab at a few more minutes with her, but he needed sleep. He’d stripped down to his shirt when the knocking came at his door.

  ‘Get your coat, lad,’ the deputy told him. ‘And bring your knife. We have work to do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some justice. For those little ones and for Mrs Nottingham.’

  He stared at Sedgwick, his mouth open.

  ‘Well, are you in or do I have to do it myself? This is the best chance we’ll ever have. The boss is with the treasurer, I’m with Joe Buck and you’re sleeping.’

  ‘Mr Nottingham will know.’

  ‘Aye. And however much it might go against the grain he’ll never say a word. There’s too much honour in him to do it himself, but inside he’ll thank us.’

  ‘Do you think we can get away with it?’

  ‘I know we can, lad. I’ve been planning this.’ The deputy grinned. ‘Trust me. Now, are you coming? We don’t have much time.’

  It was late afternoon when the Constable returned to the jail. The treasurer had queried every item in the accounts, wanting justification for each expenditure, asking questions about every tiny detail. But in the end he’d been able to find no fault; Rob had done his work thoroughly. Nottingham felt some small satisfaction in that.

  It was the start of the end, he knew that, and the rest would come quickly. A note from the mayor in the morning. If he was lucky he might keep the job for another few days. More likely it would all be over in a few hours.

  Sedgwick was pacing the floor, a piece of paper in his hand. He stopped as the Constable entered.

  ‘They’ve gone. Darden and Howard.’

  ‘Gone? Where?’ He felt as if he’d walked into a dream. The deputy held out the paper.

  ‘A boy brought this an hour or so back.’

  It was no more than a few words. We have left. Ask the Constable why. He knows the truth. Jeremiah Darden. Solomon Howard.

  He looked again. The signatures seemed real enough, shaky and nervous. For the rest, even disguised, he could make out Rob’s hand.

  ‘What have you done, John?’ he asked.

  ‘Me?’ Sedgwick asked blandly. ‘I went to that burglary, then I’ve spent the rest of the day with Joe Buck. I thought it was time to put a little pressure on him. Ask him if you like.’

  ‘And Rob?’

  The deputy shrugged. ‘Sleeping, I expect.’ He stared at the Constable. ‘I thought you’d be happy, boss. This just proves you were right all along. Who knows, maybe the guilt was too much for them.’

  ‘How did you get them to sign?’

  ‘Sign?’ Sedgwick asked innocently. ‘All I know is what’s on that paper.’

  ‘And a boy brought it?’

  ‘That’s right. Come on, boss, this is the best news we could have had.’

  ‘I know. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘What about the note?’

  He looked into the deputy’s eyes, seeing the hope there. ‘I’ll take it over to the mayor’s office, and then I’m going home.’ As he passed he put his hand on the other man’s shoulder, then halted at the door, looking out at the street. ‘Thank you, John,’ he said quietly.

  At the Moot Hall he handed the paper to Martin Cobb.

  ‘You best see that the mayor reads this as soon as possible,’ he announced, then added, ‘I daresay it’ll all be in the next edition of the Mercury.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The snow came and went before Christmas, leaving the ground muddy, the grass a sharp green against the brown of the fields and bare trees. He made his way down Marsh Lane towards the Parish Church, picking his way carefully between the puddles. Lucy had sponged his good suit and breeches clean, his stock was bright white, his hair wetted down and combed.

  Emily and Rob walked arm in arm behind him, Lucy trailing after in a thick shawl, wearing the blue mantua that Mary had loved so much. She and Emily had altered it to fit, working long evenings with awkward, fumbling fingers. Whenever he saw it a stab of pain pierced his heart. But he’d said nothing; Lucy was so proud of it.

  The bell was ringing, drawing in the faithful to celebrate the nativity. But there was no charity in his soul, no love for his fellow man, no sense of the season. He went because it was expected of him, no more, no less.

  The mayor had taken the news about Darden and Howard with bad grace. He summoned the Constable, ranting and shouting and demanding an explanation, accusing him of murder. But Nottingham had been with the treasurer, Joe Buck backed up all Sedgwick said, and Rob’s landlady had seen him enter his rooms in the morning.

  He’d let Fenton run on until he had no more to say.

  ‘You’ve read it. They’ve admitted their guilt,’ the Constable told him. ‘That should be enough for you. For anyone on the Corporation.’

  ‘Get out, Nottingham.’

  He’d won. As soon as word of the confession spread, his position was safe. But he felt no joy in the victory, no success. No one had seen or heard of the men. No bodies had been found. Their disappearance would remain a mystery that would fade. It had already begun to slip from the tongues and minds in the city. He’d spoken no more about it to Rob or the deputy. They’d put it aside; there was enough to keep them all busy with burglaries, a cutpurse causing havoc until they caught him, fights and killings that punctuated the weeks of Advent.

  He did his job, then spent his evenings sitting by the fire, lost in thoughts and memories. Sometimes, in the restless dark, he could believe he felt Mary lying beside him, the comfort of her body and gentle breathing, with night for her gown. Then he’d wake and the mist of dreams would clear.

  He felt apart from the world, as if it couldn’t quite touch him any more, cut off by the sorrow that surrounded him. He said less and kept his thoughts inside, where they were safe.

  They passed under the lych gate. Nottingham turned and said to the others, ‘You go in. I’ll join you shortly.’

  He walked over to the graves, Rose and Mary side by side, preparing words for them both in his head.

  AFTERWORD

  The story of Skull and Stones Yard, as it became known, is a real Leeds tale. The stone with the two skulls stood in the yard of the Crown and Fleece for many years, then vanished when the stable was pulled down. It was rediscovered in the 1970s as part of the wall of a warehouse on Buslingthorpe Lane. Quite how or why it ended up there, no one seems to know. But it remains a link to a long gone Leeds.

  Rather than a tale, the bell pits are very much Leeds history. Excavations under Briggate have found evidence of them, and they were dotted around Leeds. They date from medieval times (and can be found in other areas, such as South Yorkshire and Derbyshire). The pits were dug by hand, a shaft that descended vertically, after which people would dig outward at the bottom, continuing until the pit was in danger of collapse. The miners descended by ladder and the coal would be raised in a bucket. It was small-scale mining before any industrialisation, mining on a very human scale. Generally, pits would be filled in before they fill in, to eliminate danger.

  As always, I’m grateful to Kate Lyall Grant and everyone at Crème de la Crime for believing in this book and in Richard Nottingham, to Lynne Patrick, the best editor a writer could ask to have, and to Thom Atkinson, whose insightful critiques improve everything I write. Penny, as ever, shows remarkable patience and incredible support for which I’m constantly thankful. A bow, too, in the direction of Leeds Libraries and Leeds Book Club.

 

 

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