At the Dying of the Year (5 page)

‘They wanted to join up.' He nodded at the pair. ‘Look in their pockets, you'll find the shilling they took. Then they changed their minds.'

‘Is that true?' He glanced at the youth, sitting on a bench with his head in his hands.

The young man bobbed his head slowly, never looking up.

‘Then you're a soldier now,' Lister told him. ‘Same goes for your friend.' He looked around the inn. ‘Anyone want to complain about that?'

Men shook their heads and contemplated their ale in silence. Lister caught the eye of the landlord, grinning as the man nodded his relief and appreciation. Usually it was visiting clerics and farmers who stayed at this place, men with quiet lives who didn't raise their voices or their fists in anger.

The sergeant sat alone in the corner, grazes on his large knuckles, hat placed carefully on the bench beside him.

‘A word with you,' Rob said, sliding across from him.

The soldier looked up, a sly smile on his face showing a row of rotten teeth. ‘Come to join up, have you? Better than being a Constable's man.'

He ignored the comment. ‘How long are you staying in Leeds?' he asked. There was no sign of the young drummer boy – long gone to sleep, he expected.

The man shrugged. ‘Another day, maybe two. Depends how many want to join the regiment.' He picked carefully at a thread on his uniform coat. It was worn, but carefully looked after, each small rent sewn by skilled fingers. ‘It's a good life, we're stationed out in Gibraltar. All sun and warm weather.' He stared at Rob. ‘And the girls there would love you.'

‘You might want to think about another inn,' Rob advised him. He glanced at the men on the floor. ‘Somewhere they don't mind a little rowdiness.'

The sergeant bristled. ‘I like the bed here.'

‘Then no repeats of tonight,' Lister warned.

‘I didn't start that. But once they begin, I finish it.' The soldier clenched his fist.

‘No more,' Rob ordered as he stood. ‘What's your name?'

‘Grady,' the man answered proudly. ‘Daniel Grady.

‘Then while you're here, make sure you obey the law, Sergeant Grady. The cells can hold soldiers, too.'

He left the inn and walked back up to jail. There'd never be a shortage of those who thought home was too small for their dreams of glory. All they'd become was fodder for the cannons and the guns and the bayonet. The lucky few would come back intact. He'd seen them, sitting quiet in the inns, staring absently at some point beyond the gaze of others.

He made his midnight rounds, checking in with the men. Everything was quiet. Down by the bridge he heard the water rushing, and rested his elbows on the parapets. For a moment he closed his eyes and saw the faces of the dead children.

They needed to find the killer before others did. All through the evening he'd heard whispers and mutterings in the alehouses and on the corners, anger and outrage, men boasting of the things they'd do if they caught the murderer.

He cut along the Calls, going all the way to the church and coming back by the Crown. Everything was quiet there, the shutters tight, the gates to the yard locked. Lister smiled and carried on, the only sound his heels on the street.

I
t was still dark when he woke suddenly, as if someone had taken his hand and dragged him from the dream. The images in his head tattered to nothing so all that remained was the pain that had been with him ever since the knife entered his body.

Outside, a cold world had arrived. The ground was hard under his boots, the late moonlight showing a rime of frost on the fields. He used the stick to steady himself as he walked along the road and over Timble Bridge.

The return to work had exhausted him but he'd still lain awake long into the night, drifting between past and present as if no years separated them. He'd seen the faces of the dead in his mind, studied them until he knew the questions he needed to ask the children at the market. All he needed was to make them stop and listen to him. He remembered how adults always meant danger, how it was safer to avoid them as much as possible. He'd seen his face in the glass; he knew how he'd look to them and it wasn't a handsome picture. He'd turned gaunt in his recovery, the years hanging heavy on his face. The hair he'd once been so proud of was more grey than blond now, and wiry to the touch. Still, he hoped wryly, perhaps they'd see the same fear in him that they felt themselves: that each night could be their last.

The band of light on the eastern horizon was starting to broaden as he reached the jail. He listened as Rob gave the night report, then said, ‘Check the inn again this evening. If that sergeant's still there, move him on to the Talbot.' He grinned. ‘They'll know how to deal with him there.'

‘He'll be out with his drummer today,' Sedgwick pointed out. ‘All those country boys coming in for market day.'

‘We can't stop him, John, you know that. Just keep your eye on him.'

‘Yes, boss.'

‘Bessie didn't have anything?' he asked Lister.

‘She's going to ask the people at the camp.'

‘Go down there again tonight. Nobody else knew anything?'

Lister shook his head. Nottingham looked over at the deputy. ‘How about you?'

‘Nothing,' Sedgwick answered despondently. ‘I've put the word out but I didn't really need to; they'd be coming to us if they knew anything. Everyone wants this one, boss. The only good thing is that they've found no more bodies.'

Nottingham nodded solemnly. In the distance the church bell rang the half hour. ‘Right,' he said, ‘I'd better walk around the cloth market. Let them see I'm back.'

It was exactly as he remembered it, the way he knew it would be, as it had been for years before his time. The weavers set up their trestles on either side of Briggate, stretching up from the bridge, and laid out the cloth they'd finished. The merchants circulated, making their deals with clothiers in whispers, the exchanges as muted and reverent as a church service. But it was the worship of profit, the Constable knew that. Wool was the religion of Leeds; everyone bowed his head to it and the money it brought.

He walked down towards the river, taking his time, making sure everyone noticed that he was back. Some yelled out their greetings, others nodded and smiled. Tom Williamson, one of the few friends Nottingham had among the merchants, came over, a smile wide on his face.

‘About time you were working again, Richard,' he said as they shook hands. ‘How do you feel?'

‘Better than when I had a knife in me,' he answered wryly. ‘You're looking prosperous.' Williamson wore a new coat and breeches, the wool so dark the colour moved between blue and black. A neatly cut waistcoat flowed almost to his knees, the silk as yellow as pale sun with designs in blue and green.

‘Business is good,' he replied, sounding almost embarrassed. ‘My wife insists I have to look like a success. I said the money would be better saved, but . . .' He shrugged helplessly. ‘I tell you, Richard, I don't understand women any more now than I did when I was twenty.' Williamson's face clouded. ‘I heard about the children.'

‘We'll find whoever did it,' Nottingham assured him.

‘It's a bad thing to come back to,' he said, and the Constable added his solemn agreement. ‘Some of us were talking before the market. We thought we could put up a reward to help catch the murderer. It might help.'

Nottingham gave a long sigh as he tried to frame a reply. After a moment he said, ‘Don't. I know you want him brought to justice as much as I do, but once you offer money, everyone starts peaching on his neighbour, just hoping to get rich. Do you see the problem, Tom?'

‘Of course,' the merchant said quickly. ‘We don't want to make your job harder than it is. Is there anything we can do?'

‘I don't know.' It was the simple truth. He couldn't recall the last time there'd been an offer of help. It was generous, it showed the outrage in the city, but although money was what the merchants understood, it wasn't the answer here. He smiled. ‘I'll need to think about that.'

Williamson clasped his hand again. ‘Just let me know. And it's good to see you again, Richard. It truly is.'

The Constable watched him wander away. To most of the merchants he was simply someone to be tolerated, someone to protect them and their wealth from the poor. Williamson had more about him than that. He saw the person, not the position. He'd probably been the one to suggest the reward, thinking of his own young children.

The cloth market wound down, most of the lengths sold, the weavers packing their things away, ready to lead their packhorses back out to the Pennine villages where they lived.

At the other end of Briggate, beyond the Moot Hall and the Shambles, traders were setting up for the Tuesday market, laughing and joking as they worked. Nottingham strolled up to the market cross by the Head Row. Wives and servants were already moving around, searching out the early bargains, picking through stalls of old clothes, bargaining with farmers for the poultry in wooden cages.

He loved the liveliness and noise, but his concentration was elsewhere, looking around to try to spot the children who stayed on the fringes of everything. They survived by barely being noticed, scavenging and stealing what they could and vanishing again.

Finally he saw two boys dart between stalls. His eyes followed them as they disappeared into the entrance of one of the many courts between the houses that lined the street. Back there, in the shadows, they'd feel safer.

He made his way down the street, carefully watching the ginnel, his stick tapping lightly on the flagstones. He had a warm pie in his coat, and small coins in the pocket of his breeches.

The buildings rose around the court, keeping the place in deep shade. Rubbish was piled against the corners and rats scattered as he approached. The stench of decay was strong around the old, dilapidated buildings. Half the windows were missing their glass, the cold and light kept at bay with pieces of rotting cloth. He cleared a space against a wall and sat, feeling pain push through his belly as he lowered himself. Then he took out the pie and laid it on the ground before breaking off a piece and chewing it slowly.

It would take time for their curiosity and fear to get the better of them. But time was something he had. He thought back to when he was very young, when he had both a father and a mother, when the world seemed safe, a magical place of hope and wonder. All that had vanished quickly enough and left him out here.

The bustle of the market seemed a world away, the noise baffled by brick and stone. Back here there was only silent desperation. He kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, listening closely for the smallest sound.

‘Are you all right?'

The Constable raised his head slowly. ‘Aye, lad, I'll be fine,' he said with a smile. ‘I just needed somewhere quiet. Come on out if you want. I've got some food.'

He waited patiently, careful to say nothing more. Too much and he could scare the boy away. This way he seemed harmless, just another old man. He took a little more of the pie and chewed it slowly.

When he looked up again the boy was standing in front of him, leaving enough distance to run. He was small and thin as twigs, his shirt ragged at the cuffs and neck, worn through at the elbows. Tattered breeches hung off skinny legs, hose gathered loosely on his calves, the shoes at least three sizes too large for his feet.

He looked about twelve, but Nottingham knew that was just a guess. Whatever his age, his face had seen far too much for his years. His eyes were sad, filled now with hunger as he looked at the pie, and he clenched a knife tight in one fist.

‘Help yourself. Take it all if you want.'

The boy glanced around quickly, then slipped forward, grabbing the food. Nottingham thought he saw a small form move deep in the shadows, a fleeting impression of a girl who vanished somewhere.

‘It's good,' the Constable said as the lad took a bite. ‘What's your name?'

‘Caleb,' the boy answered as he began to chew. He stared suspiciously at Nottingham. ‘Why are you back here, anyway?'

‘To learn something.'

Caleb cocked his head, taken by surprise. ‘What? There's nowt back here.'

‘There's you. And your friends. I see you're keeping some of the food for them.'

‘We share.'

The Constable smiled gently. ‘We used to do that, too.'

‘Oh aye?' He looked doubtful. ‘When was that, then?'

‘Back when I lived like you.' He said the words evenly, as if they meant nothing, watching the boy's eyes widen in disbelief.

‘You? You never did.'

‘It was a long time ago.'

‘What do you do now?' Caleb took another bite of the pie before carefully stuffing the rest in his pocket.

‘I'm the Constable of Leeds.'

‘No you're not,' the boy said confidently. ‘I've seen him. He's younger than you and taller.'

Nottingham laughed loud. ‘That's Mr Sedgwick. He's my deputy. I've been ill for a long time.'

‘Oh aye? What was wrong with you?' Caleb asked warily.

‘Someone tried to kill me.'

‘Really?'

He knew he had the lad's attention now. All he had to do was keep it, and make him believe. ‘Someone knifed me. It took a long time to heal. Look.' He pulled up his shirt to display the wound. Much of the redness had vanished, but the scar still stood livid against his flesh.

Caleb stared, staying quiet for a long time.

‘Did you really live out here, then? You're not just saying?'

The Constable answered slowly. ‘I did. I know what it's like. More years than anyone needs.' He cleared his throat. ‘We found three bodies yesterday.'

‘Aye, we know,' the boy told him, his voice as weary and aching as an old man's.