At the Dying of the Year (13 page)

‘I'm sure your clerks can do that, sir. And it won't take long, I promise.'

‘Very well, then,' Howard agreed with a sigh.

‘Thank you.' He walked away just as the bell began to peal, and didn't look back. The factor would spend the next hour wondering and sweating, distracted from his work. Others would be crowding round, asking their own questions, and the man would have no answers for them.

On the way to the jail he stopped at the Talbot. Bell was clearing the mugs and plates where the clothiers had breakfasted on their Brigg End shots of beef and ale.

‘Constable,' the landlord greeted him warily.

‘Do you know Mr Howard?'

‘Solomon?' Bell's face broke into a grin. ‘Course I do. He's been coming to the cockfights for years. Lost a pretty penny on them, too. Can't gamble to save his soul, that one.' He paused. ‘You've reminded me now. That time you were asking about . . .'

‘Yes?' he asked, although he knew what the man was going to say.

‘I recall he brought Mr Darden with him. Does that help you?' he asked with a smirk.

‘Thank you.'

It was no more than he'd expected. A few coins had changed hands and something that never happened was suddenly remembered. And that was the end of that tale.

He was sitting at his desk by the time the cloth market ended. All the papers sat in neat piles, the jug filled with ale. Five minutes later Howard arrived, glancing round the room with curiosity.

‘Sit down.' The Constable smiled. ‘Thank you for coming.'

‘What is it you want, Mr Nottingham? I told you, I'm a busy man.' The factor sounded affronted, a bluff of anger.

‘Do you go to the cockfights, Mr Howard?'

‘The cockfights?' Whatever he'd been expecting, that wasn't it, Nottingham thought. ‘Yes, I do. Why?'

‘Have you ever taken your employer with you?'

‘Once.' Confidence returned to the man's face. ‘Just two weeks ago. He didn't care for it. Ended up with blood on his coat. It's ruined, it'll never come out properly.'

‘At the Talbot?'

‘Yes. Ask Bell the landlord. He knows me, he'll have seen us.'

The Constable smiled at the smoothness of the lie.

‘What do you think about Gabriel?'

‘Gabriel?'

‘The man who killed those children,' Nottingham said. ‘That's what he calls himself.'

The factor looked down. ‘Terrible. Awful.'

‘Why do you think a man does something like that?'

‘What?' Howard glanced up sharply and Nottingham saw the tiniest glimmer of fear. ‘How would I know? What are you trying to say, Constable? Are you accusing me?'

Nottingham held up his hands, palms outwards. ‘I'm not accusing anyone, Mr Howard,' he answered calmly. ‘I simply want to know your thoughts, that's all.'

‘Then I can't help you. I wouldn't know what to say.' He stood. ‘Was there anything more?'

‘I appreciate your time. And I'm sure you'll tell me if you believe you know who Gabriel could be.'

Howard slammed the door behind him. Nottingham listened as a cart rumbled slowly up Kirkgate and heard the low sound of voices passing outside the window. He'd been as obvious as he could without an outright accusation. Now he'd have to wait and see what happened with Darden and his factor. But there were other ways to move things along . . .

He stopped at the pie seller, choosing one that almost burned his hand as he carried it. He slipped through the market crowds at the top of Briggate, eyes alert for any sign of Caleb or the other children but seeing nothing. He wandered for a few minutes, quickly caught up in the shouts and bustle, then slipped down the passageway into the empty court.

He pushed away the corpse of a dog, its body already bloating, and sat down. All he could do was wait and hope that Caleb would appear, a ghost seen in the daylight. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cold stone of a building.

‘You still don't look like a Constable.'

The boy was standing close. There was a fresh rip in his breeches and his face was grubbier than it had been on Tuesday, his hair a rat's nest of tangles. Nottingham looked into the deep shadows and saw a shape again, highlighted just enough for him to be certain it was a girl. He blinked and she'd gone.

‘I am, though,' He held out the pie. ‘Something for you and the others.'

Caleb darted forward and took it from him. ‘And have you found that Gabriel yet?' There was a note of disbelief in his voice.

‘I think I have.' He paused, giving time for the words to sink in and watching the expression on the lad's face. ‘But I'm going to need your help to be sure.'

‘Oh aye?' The boy sounded doubtful. ‘And what can I do?'

‘I want you to see him and identify him. Don't worry,' he added swiftly, ‘he won't see you.'

‘I don't give a bugger if he sees me or not.' Caleb turned his head and spat in defiance. Nottingham smiled. ‘Who is it? Rich man, is he?'

‘Yes.'

The boy nodded as if that made absolute sense. ‘What will you do to him?'

‘If he's Gabriel I'll see him hang.'

‘Even if he has money?'

‘Even then.'

Caleb thought about the words. How many promises had he heard in his life, the Constable wondered, and how many of them had been broken?

‘Aye. I'll do it.'

‘I have a man watching him. I'll take you to him.' He stood slowly, leaning heavily on the stick.

‘You won't be there?'

‘I trust my men,' Nottingham told him.

They threaded through the crowds at the market. ‘How long have you been Constable, then?' Caleb asked. The boy's eyes darted from side to side trying to take in everything, judging, assessing.

‘Since before you were born. Too long, some people think.'

The boy eyed him curiously. ‘Why do they say that?'

‘This isn't a job for making friends, lad.'

‘Are you good at it?'

‘I try,' he replied as they turned on to the Head Row. ‘How did you end up out here?'

Caleb shrugged. There was pain inside the boy's head, the Constable knew that, but he'd never let anyone see it. To do that would be weakness.

‘There was only me mam. She looked after us, but she took ill and died. Then it was me and me sister and me little brother. The cold got them both one winter.'

Them and many others. The ground froze so hard that the city had stored the corpses in every place it could find until the thaw began.

On Vicar Lane he paused, and Caleb stood still. Finally Nottingham saw Holden, half-hidden from view in the dark entrance to a court, his eyes firmly on Darden's house.

‘Boss,' Holden said as they eased in past him.

‘Has he been out today?'

‘Not yet. Darden's usually inside while dinner time. Howard came after the cloth market, left a few minutes back. Darden will likely go down to the warehouse this afternoon. Who's this?' he asked, looking at the boy.

‘This is Caleb. He's seen Gabriel. I want him to take a look at Darden to be sure it's the same man.'

The man nodded.

‘Stay with Mr Holden,' the Constable instructed. He pulled some coins from his pocket and put them in the lad's hand. ‘If you're working, it's only right you get paid for your time.'

Caleb said nothing, but curled his fingers tightly around the money.

‘Just be honest. If you know the face, say so. But don't lie about it to please me,' Nottingham warned. ‘I just want the truth, you understand that?'

‘Yes.'

‘Mr Holden will look after you.'

On the way back to the jail he stopped at the Crown and Fleece. The place was empty, with the close, stale morning smell of taverns. A fire burned in the grate and the light through the window showed the dust motes in the air. All the tables and benches had been cleaned, the floor neatly swept.

The landlord was tasting a fresh batch of ale, sipping slowly and looking thoughtful.

‘Constable,' he said with a brief nod. ‘Care for a mug? It's turned out well. Just ready this morning.'

Nottingham drank gratefully and smiled. ‘You're right, there's a good taste to it. Thank you.' He took a little more and placed the cup on the trestle. ‘I was wondering if there'd been any more word on those missing soldiers.'

‘Nothing.' He paused, scratched his head and lowered his voice. ‘Tell you the truth, I'm buggered if I know what happened. The lasses who work here have been wondering if that sergeant was right and there's devils about.'

‘You know better than that.'

‘Aye, but . . .' He shrugged. ‘You tell me what happened to them, then.'

‘I don't know. But there'll be an answer somewhere.' The Constable swallowed the rest of the ale. ‘I might come back later for more of that.'

Sedgwick had managed to sleep for an hour. Lizzie sat on the edge of the bed, wringing out the cloth over a bowl of cold water then placing it on Isabell's forehead. The baby slept on, burned to exhaustion with fever.

James had gone to school reluctantly, but the deputy knew he was better off there with his mind on other things. He pushed off the blanket, laid a hand lightly on Lizzie's shoulder and padded down the stairs. The bread was old and hard but he tore off a chunk anyway, then trimmed mould from the edge of a piece of cheese, eating without tasting, for something to do, just to fill his belly. Then Lizzie called, ‘John, come here! Now!'

He ran back up to the bedroom. Lizzie was smiling and crying.

‘It's broken. She's getting cooler. Feel her.'

He put his hand on the baby's cheek. He rested his fingers on her chest and her arm. Isabell's face was peaceful, her breathing easier. He pulled Lizzie close, stroking her hair as she buried her face against him.

‘She's going to be fine now,' he whispered. ‘Fine.' He kept his arms around her as her tears fell in relief and he thanked the God he didn't believe in for saving his daughter.

‘I don't know what I'd have done . . .' she began.

He smiled at her. ‘It doesn't matter,' he told her, his mouth against her ear. Not this time, he thought grimly. But Isabell was still a baby. How many died before they had a chance to grow? There might yet be a day when they were crying together.

He opened the shutters. The November light was grey and dreary, but at least it felt like life.

‘You sleep,' he said. ‘I'll meet James from school and give him the news.'

Lizzie squeezed his hand. ‘How did I get such a good man, John Sedgwick?'

‘You were lucky,' he answered with a grin and tousled her hair. ‘You rest now. She probably won't wake up for a while yet.'

Downstairs he placed his hands on the table, feeling out the scars in the wood. They'd been lucky. But how much luck could any family have? He stretched, easing the tension out of his neck then scooped up the crumbs of bread and the tiny pieces of cheese he'd left and ate them.

Nottingham waited. Soon, he told himself. Soon Holden would arrive and tell him. Once he had his evidence even the mayor and the Corporation wouldn't be able to defend Darden. They'd have to give him up, to sacrifice him.

He stirred at every loud footstep out on Kirkgate, a small knot of pain that wouldn't go away nagging around the scar in his belly. He tried to concentrate on other things but his mind kept drifting, seeing the faces of dead children.

The bell at the Parish Church rang four. Outside the afternoon had become twilight. Another hour or two and folk would be going home from work, a new urgency in their stride. And he waited.

He picked up the report on the missing recruits, scanning through it quickly in case he'd missed something before. There was nothing he could see; they'd simply disappeared somehow. It was a good trick, a way to escape the army and leave everyone guessing. They'd probably never know the truth of what really happened.

Finally the door opened and Holden walked in alone.

‘Well?' the Constable asked. ‘Did you see him?'

‘He came out a short while back. That lad was perished after standing so long.'

‘What did he say?'

‘I'm sorry, boss. He said Darden isn't Gabriel.'

‘W
hat?' He'd been so certain.

‘We saw him walk out of the door and down Vicar Lane. I was watching the lad's face. He wasn't lying, boss, I'm sure of that.'

‘What did Caleb say?' The Constable asked urgently.

‘After Darden had gone, I asked him, and he shook his head. He told me he'd never seen the man before and that Gabriel was taller and not as old as Darden.'

‘What else?'

‘That was all, boss. He ran off after that.'

Nottingham sighed. ‘Thank you.'

‘Do you want me to keep following Darden?'

‘No, let it lie.'

He made the final round of the day, walking out along Low Holland where the new warehouses blossomed, small ships and barges tied up beside them to carry cloth down to Hull. Smoke rose from the chimney of the dyeworks in the distance, and the rank stink of the place hung in the air.

The Constable turned back. It was dark, and the clouds had vanished, leaving the air cold enough to make his breath bloom in front of his face as he passed the empty tenting fields, the path he'd followed so many times in his life.

How could he have been so wrong? Everything he knew had told him that Jeremiah Darden was Gabriel. Had he lost so much when he was away? He pushed the fringe of his forehead with a short, angry gesture. And if it wasn't Darden, who was Gabriel?

At least the mayor would be happy.

He tried to think. Gabriel was taller and younger than Darden, Caleb claimed. The merchant was close to Nottingham's height, no more than an inch between them. There were plenty in Leeds bigger than that. And younger. Darden was in his middle fifties if he was a day. But he could clearly remember the lad saying that Gabriel was old. What was old to a boy of that age?