Come the Fear arnm-3

by Chris Nickson

  He walked back down Briggate. The market had ended and the men were packing away their wares, laughing and boasting and comparing profits. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the rough, raw scrape of a fiddle. Ragged, hopeful children darted out of the shadows to grab at fruit that had fallen, holding it close, a meal for the night, survival until tomorrow. He’d been one of them himself, long ago in a lifetime he’d put away. After his father, one of the merchants, had thrown out his wife and son, they’d had to scrabble on the streets. His mother had become a whore and Nottingham had lived by theft, work, anything to keep body and soul together.

  A pair of women wandered like ghosts through the detritus, eyes sharp for anything they might be able to use, scraps of food, pieces of tin, a dress too ripped or threadbare to sell. They moved silently, hopelessly, so pale and thin they looked like wraiths caught between life and death. One he’d seen for at least five years, her back bent and her grey hair lank, no expression on her face. He took a coin from his breeches and slid it into her cold hand. She didn’t even look up at him. Sometimes he believed that the line between the poor and the dead could barely be seen.

  Once he reached the Calls he only had to ask once to find the address he needed. It was a single room in a cellar, the only light a window high in the wall that would never catch the sun.

  She owned little, but she kept it clean, the place spotless and scrubbed, a coat and dress hanging from a nail on the wall, a sheet folded carefully over the straw of the mattress in the corner.

  ‘You’ve seen him, then?’ Alice Wendell asked, her back straight, her gaze direct.

  ‘Yes.’

  She waited quietly for his response, her face composed, eyes intent on him.

  ‘Cates dismissed her four weeks ago,’ he began. ‘He wasn’t happy with her work, but mostly it was because she was with child.’ He paused. ‘That’s why he didn’t want to tell you.’ The woman remained still. ‘He said she didn’t even seem to know she was going to have a baby.’

  ‘Aye, that’d be Lucy,’ she said in a soft, tired voice. ‘She’s a lovely lass but she’s not always in this world. Someone will have had his way with her and she’ll not even remember who it was.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the Constable told her. She put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Nay, it’s not your fault, lad. There’s plenty happy to take advantage of a girl like that. Now I have to find her before anything else happens.’ The woman sighed. ‘She’ll be too ashamed to come back here where I can look after her.’

  ‘I can have my men keep their eyes open for her.’

  ‘Thank you.’ For the first time, she gave a brief smile. Four weeks was a long time; he knew she understood that. The chances of finding the girl were small. But it cost nothing to have the men keep watch.

  ‘What does Lucy look like?’

  ‘She’s easy enough to spot, is our Lucy. Lovely long, pale hair and blue eyes. But you can’t miss her. She has a harelip.’

  ‘A harelip?’ His head jerked up and he thought again of the girl from the fire.

  ‘Aye,’ the woman said with slow resignation, as if she’d had to explain it too many times before. ‘You know what they say, don’t you? If a woman sees a hare when she’s carrying the child, it’ll be born with a harelip. Well, I never saw one when I was big with Lucy, I’ll tell you that for nowt.’ She shook her head angrily. ‘All those bloody tales and she’s had to pay for it her whole life. They’ve allus made fun of her.’

  ‘Is there anywhere else she could have gone?’

  ‘Only to her brother. There’s just been the three of us since my man died, and they were just bairns then. But our Peter would have brought her back here if she’d turned up, I know he would.’

  ‘Where does he live?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘Queen Charlotte’s Court, up off Lady Lane. Him and his girl have a room up there.’

  ‘How tall is Lucy?’

  ‘There’s not much to her,’ Alice Wendell said tenderly. ‘Thin as a branch and smaller than me.’

  He looked at her, seeing the love for the girl in her eyes, and knew he had to tell her. ‘You’d better sit down, Mrs Wendell.’ She looked at him curiously.

  ‘We found a body in the fire last week,’ he began. He’d spare her the brutal details. ‘A girl who was pregnant. From what I could see, she might have had a cleft lip. It looks as if someone killed her before the blaze.’

  For a moment he wasn’t certain she’d understood him. Then slowly, by small degrees, her face crumpled and she brought up her worn hands to cover it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her.

  ‘Why?’ she asked eventually, her words muffled. ‘What was she doing there? Who’d do that to my Lucy?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ll find out.’

  He stood, knowing there was no solace he could give now, then he closed the door quietly behind him, leaving the woman to a lifetime of mourning.

  Back at the jail he sat and stared. The girl had been gone four weeks, and a little more than seven days had passed since they’d found the bodies after the fire. Now he had a name for her: Lucy Wendell. Pregnant and with a harelip, who else could it have been? He had somewhere to begin.

  But that meant she’d been somewhere for three full weeks before she was murdered. Twenty-one days was a long time.

  Five

  Lister was yawning, barely awake after the long Saturday night. There’d been something in the air; he’d lost count of the fights they’d broken up, men filled with ale and looking for violence. They’d cracked heads, put some in the cells to face the Petty Sessions, and taken blows. His cheek ached where someone had hit him and he had a kerchief wound round his hand to staunch the blood from a cut to his palm. At least no one had died, although one seemed unlikely to survive, cut deep in the chest with a long tanner’s knife.

  A light, misting ran had drifted in with the dawn, softening the outlines of the buildings through the window of the jail. Soon the bells of the churches would begin to ring for Sunday services, the carillons echoing around to remind the faithful, and the people would parade around in their best clothes. He’d be home and in his bed, trying to rest before calling on Emily in the afternoon.

  He stretched out his legs on the flagstone floor and looked at the Constable.

  ‘Sounds like it could have been worse,’ Nottingham said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Rob agreed cautiously.

  ‘You wait until they’re a real mob,’ Sedgwick told him. ‘It’s been a while since we had that.’

  ‘I have a name for the girl who died in that fire down on the Calls,’ the Constable said. ‘Lucy Wendell.’

  This was the reason he’d come in early this Sabbath morning, Lister realized. He and the deputy both shook their heads. The name meant nothing.

  ‘It looks like she was missing for three weeks before the blaze. She’d been working as a servant for the Cates family. They dismissed her because she was pregnant. I’ve talked to her mother. The lass didn’t go home after that. There’s a brother lives in Queen Charlotte’s Court. John, you go up there and talk to him. Rob, do you know either of the Cates boys?’

  ‘I know William best.’

  ‘I talked to Ben Cates. It seemed straightforward enough, but when you have a chance, talk to William. See what you can find out about the girl.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘How do you know it’s the same girl?’ the deputy asked. ‘There was precious little left of her.’

  ‘Lucy Wendell was pregnant and she had a harelip.’ He shrugged. ‘I doubt we’d find two round here like that who’ve gone missing. Don’t let on to anyone that she’s dead yet, though. I want to find out what happened to her.’ The Constable stood, ready to leave. ‘Anything else?’

  He made his way down Marsh Lane, Mary on one arm, Emily on the other. This was always the proudest moment of his week, walking to church with the pair of them. He’d put on his good suit, and the women wore dresses sponged clean and bright. Th
ey hunched into their coats to keep off the dampness but he kept his face to the drizzle, feeling it fresh on his skin and combing it into his hair with his fingers.

  On Kirkgate rich and poor lived cheek by jowl, in houses that had been grand back when James was king or in sad wrecks of dwellings that let in the weather. St Peter’s stood set back from the press of them; the old, dark stone church towered over them all. Nottingham smiled wryly at the way people lowered their voices to a respectful whisper as soon as they entered the lych gate. He just hoped he’d stay awake during Reverend Cookson’s sermon. For a man supposedly filled with the spirit of God he droned worse than an insect.

  He’d never been one for believing, and since Rose’s death the year before the prayers seemed like nothing more than empty words that hung on the wind before blowing away. He came because he had to, because his position demanded that he be seen here. He exchanged greetings with aldermen and merchants, bowed to the mayor and received a wink as they made their way to the pew. Mary sat quietly, years of faith behind her, but Emily shifted restlessly on the seat, willing the time to tick away to afternoon when she’d see her young man. Young love, always eager, he thought, and reached out to take his wife’s hand. He relished her joy and solemnity, every shade of her moods.

  ‘You stayed awake for most of the sermon,’ she said approvingly as they filed back out into the daylight. The morning had cleared, bringing patches of blue sky to the west.

  ‘Not by choice,’ Nottingham complained. ‘How long did he talk?’

  ‘He turned the glass twice, so a little over an hour,’ Mary told him.

  He sighed. ‘And it’s nothing he couldn’t have said in ten minutes.’

  ‘Richard!’ she hissed, nudging him with her elbow as he raised his hat politely to Mrs Atkinson, the alderman’s wife. Emily was deep in conversation with her friends, talk punctuated by the sweetness of girlish giggles.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ he said. ‘She’ll follow when she’s ready. She still has to get herself ready for Rob.’

  ‘She loves him, you know,’ Mary told him as they walked down the street, skirting around the stinking puddles and pools.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, surprised.

  She looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘I’m her mother, of course I’m sure. She’d marry him tomorrow if he asked.’

  ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t, then,’ he said. ‘They’ve only known each other a few months.’

  ‘Sometimes you can tell in a few days, you know. You seemed certain enough as soon as you knew me.’

  He grunted, reaching to his neck and loosening his stock. ‘That’s better. They’re not old enough to be wed yet. And they don’t have any money.’

  ‘Not having money didn’t stop us,’ she reminded him.

  ‘We were older than them,’ he countered. ‘I was twenty, Rob’s just eighteen. Emily’s only sixteen. You were eighteen.’ But as he looked at her he knew words couldn’t win this. There was something deeper. ‘What about Rob? Do you think he loves her?’

  Mary’s eyes shone, her face as open as sky. ‘Haven’t you noticed how he looks at her whenever she’s in the room? He’s as besotted as she is.’ He saw the pure delight in her smile. After losing one daughter, she wanted the other to be happy.

  ‘Give them time,’ he told her. ‘Last year you were glad to have her home with us.’ He recalled Emily on the doorstep in tears, trying to explain how she’d left her position as a governess after her employer attempted to force her to lie with him.

  He put her arm in his as they walked slowly back up Marsh Lane. By the beck the trees and bushes were green, the bluebells giving thick, glorious spots of colour on the ground.

  ‘If it’s what they want, they’ll do it in time,’ he said.

  ‘What about Rob’s father? What does he think?’ Mary wondered.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ the Constable answered. ‘When I’ve seen him we’ve never talked about it.’ He unlocked the door to their house and stepped aside for her to enter, the way he’d always done, the way his mother had taught him. Mary bustled into the kitchen. A few minutes later Emily dashed in, as always on the edge of lateness, gathering her skirt and rushing up the stairs to her bedroom. He sighed.

  The deputy knew Queen Charlotte’s Court well. He’d been here many times before. There’d been fights, stolen items, even bodies in the rubbish that crowded around the decrepit buildings. It was a place where people survived rather than lived. Precious little light came in, and rancid smells collected in the deep mud. There was no joy in life here.

  It only took a brief word to discover where Peter Wendell lived. It was a rooming house with the front door missing and wood on the stairs going rotten, never built to last but still here, making money for a landlord who only cared that his tenants paid on time.

  Wendell answered his knock promptly. He looked close to twenty, his face not yet fully settled into shape, thickset, with dark hair cut close to the skull and shirt sleeves rolled up to show bulging muscles. His eyes were blurry and bloodshot, and the smell of last night’s drink was strong on his body.

  ‘Aye?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m John Sedgwick, the deputy constable.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ He pushed his chin forward in a challenge. ‘You got business here?’

  ‘I want to talk to you about your sister.’

  The man cocked his head. ‘Better come in, then. Don’t want the world knowing my life.’

  There was a pallet in the corner with a grimy, stained sheet thrown hastily over it, a scarred table close to a dirty, cracked window, and two stools. A girl, haggard and thin, stood in the corner, pulling a threadbare shawl around her shoulders.

  ‘So what about my sister, then?’ Wendell asked.

  ‘Have you seen her lately?’

  The man shook his head slowly and turned to the girl.

  ‘How long is it?’ he asked her. ‘Two months?’ She just looked back at him blankly. The deputy could see the garden of bruises on her arms and wondered how many more there’d be on her body. ‘Aye, two months, summat like that. Why?’

  ‘She’s missing. Your mam’s worried about her.’

  ‘Well, we’ve not seen her,’ he said, brushing the problem aside as if it had no importance. ‘She’s working for that man up at Town End.’

  ‘They dismissed her.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ For the moment there was a flicker of interest in his eyes.

  ‘Where do you work?’ Sedgwick asked.

  Wendell looked at him. ‘What’s that matter to you?’ The man’s voice was surly.

  ‘I’m just curious.’ The deputy smiled. ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘The blacksmith on Swinegate. I’m a farrier.’

  ‘Good work, is it? Steady?’

  ‘It’s fair.’ The man kept his bulk close to Sedgwick, arms crossed over his chest.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d earn enough to afford somewhere better than this.’

  ‘You think what you like,’ Wendell said sullenly.

  ‘You know anywhere your sister could have gone?’

  ‘She’d have come here or gone to see me mam,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘We’re all the family she has.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘No.’ He paused. ‘You don’t know about our Lucy, do you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sedgwick asked.

  ‘She’s a sweet lass, right enough, but she’s not all there in the head.’

  ‘She’s bloody simple,’ the girl muttered, but Wendell silenced her with a quick, vicious look.

  Sedgwick waited for more.

  ‘I’d have looked after her if she’d come to me.’

  ‘She was pregnant,’ the deputy told him. ‘That’s why she was dismissed.’

  ‘I’ll look for her,’ Wendell said with a sharp nod.

  ‘That’s our job. .’ Sedgwick let the words trail away.

  ‘I said I’ll do it. You’re not family,’ the man said firmly, his jaw s
et, his gaze hard. ‘It’s different.’

  There should have been no business done on a Sunday, no food or drink for sale on the Sabbath. But behind closed doors the alehouses and dram shops turned a pretty penny every night of the week. Where there was money to be made, God could easily be forgotten.

  Lister had to try three places before he found William Cates. He knew the man would be out rather than face the deathly stillness of an evening at home with his parents and his pious brother, the pair of them as different as stone and water. Robert lived for business and the church, treating both as holy and cherishing profit as a sacrament. Will preferred the noise and liveliness of a crowd, the distraction and pleasure it brought. But he was the one with the natural gift for the wool trade. He could spot a good cloth at ten paces, knew who’d buy it from him and for how much. Robert did the work but Will filled the coffers.

  Lister bought a mug of the alewife’s special brew and stood close to the fire. It was still chilly enough after dark to need heat even as each day grew a little warmer.

  ‘Rob, over here.’

  He looked up and saw Cates wave. The men around him moved on their benches to make room.

  ‘We don’t often see you out on a Sunday,’ Cates laughed as he settled. ‘I thought you’d maybe taken religion.’

  Lister smiled. ‘I don’t have the time any more. I’m working and I’m courting these days,’ he explained sheepishly.

  The men all laughed knowingly.

  ‘You should never let that stop you having a good time,’ Cates advised him, signalling to the pot boy for another jug. ‘Still, I suppose when you’re a Constable’s man, eh? You enjoying it?’

  ‘Best job I’ve ever had,’ Rob answered honestly.

  ‘And you’ve had a few in your short time.’

  Lister grinned and took a long drink. He glanced at the others, chattering and joking, and leaned forward. ‘I wanted to see you, Will. Can you make a few minutes tomorrow?’

  ‘Me?’ Cates looked puzzled. ‘I suppose I can. Is it important?’

  ‘It’s probably nothing, but. .’

  ‘Work?’