At the Dying of the Year (11 page)

The Constable glanced down. He knew the man's face. He was Mr Sorensen, one of three Swedish merchants who'd arrived in Leeds ten years before. They'd set up in business and slowly established themselves, marrying local women and becoming part of the fabric of Leeds.

‘Why would you think that?'

‘Just look at him,' the fat man answered with a smirk, and a few others nodded and murmured. ‘He's got a grey coat and breeches and a wig. Listen to him, you can tell by the way he speaks. He dun't sound right.'

He moved forward a pace and Nottingham raised the stick as a warning, smelling the heaviness of ale on the man's breath. He knew all too well how the mood of a mob could shift in an instant. He needed to control them or there'd be more violence.

He picked out a spindly man with a long face at the front of the crowd. ‘You, what's your name?'

Taken aback, the man answered without thinking, ‘Tom, sir.'

‘You think you can attack a man on the street?' the Constable asked.

The man looked around the gathered faces and shifted uneasily. ‘We were arresting him,' he said. ‘To get the reward.'

Somewhere, Nottingham could hear running feet. But the fog was too thick to see anything or even judge how far away they were.

‘No, you weren't. If you'd carried on you'd have killed him. Do you want to hang for murder, Tom?' He said the words evenly and let them have their impact. None of the crowd had moved back. They weren't willing to listen, the blood lust had risen. The fat man was leering at him, ready to pounce forwards. He balanced the stick, ready to use it, holding it so the silver top would hurt whoever it hit.

‘Right, break this up.' Two of his men came through the mist, swinging their cudgels ready for a fight. Now the odds had changed the swagger vanished from the small group, like air going out of a bladder.

‘Take this one to the jail,' the Constable ordered. He looked around. ‘Any of you still here when I count to three will go with him.'

‘You can't do that,' the fat man protested.

Nottingham turned to him. ‘I just did it. You're going to be charged with assault.' He put his face close to the man. ‘This isn't a city where you can take the law into your own hands. You're going to learn that.'

His men took the fat man's arms. Everyone else had vanished.

Carefully, he knelt by the merchant. The man was conscious. His nose had been broken and there was blood all around his face.

‘Can you stand?'

‘I think so,' Sorensen answered, his voice so thick with pain and fear the Constable could barely make out the words. He hawked, spitting out some blood and two teeth, moving himself gingerly on to his hands and knees and staying there as he gathered his strength.

The Constable held him by the arm to steady him, giving Sorensen something to grab as he raised himself with a long groan. Nottingham bent and picked up the man's wig and hat.

‘Why?' The merchant moved his head slowly to clear it. ‘Why they do that?'

‘They thought you were Gabriel. The child killer.'

‘Me?' Sorensen's eyes widened in disbelief. ‘But why?'

‘Because you're wearing grey. Because you sound different. Because they all want the reward.'

‘So.' He nodded and began to dust himself down.'

‘Do you want me to fetch the apothecary?'

‘No,' Sorensen answered. ‘But help me home if you will, Mr Nottingham.' He spoke in a curious accent, the native singsong of his words overlaid with the stony roughness of Leeds. He limped a few steps, grimacing, then set his mouth and tried to walk normally, still favouring his left leg.

‘I know Leeds,' Sorensen said thoughtfully. ‘I been here ten years. I know people not so stupid always.'

‘Not always,' the Constable agreed. ‘But twenty pounds is a fortune to many of them. And some of them don't trust outsiders.'

The merchant shook his head sadly. They walked slowly up Briggate towards Sorensen's new house at Town End, just beyond the Head Row. ‘Idiots,' he muttered quietly.

‘You're right,' Nottingham agreed. ‘But remember they're poor, they don't know much.' He gave a sad smile. ‘It's not an excuse.'

‘Mr Fenton asked me to contribute to the reward. I said no.' He turned to the Constable and raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe this is what I get instead,' he said wryly.

‘Tell the mayor. He might listen to you.'

They parted at the merchant's door. The man had a large home with a clean, spare front.

‘Thank you for coming when you did,' Sorensen told him.

‘Send for the apothecary,' Nottingham advised. ‘He can give you something so you won't hurt so much later.'

‘You know?' The man rubbed his jaw. Bruises were beginning to bloom on his face.

‘I do.' He had too much experience of all that. He hesitated, then added, ‘It might be best if you didn't wear anything grey or a wig. At least for now.'

The attack hadn't surprised him. It was bound to happen sooner or later, for exactly the reasons he'd given Sorensen. It probably wouldn't be the only one, either. All it needed was a single spark and there'd be other blazes like this, with no one around to stamp them out.

The mayor had offered the reward and he wouldn't withdraw it now. Even an attack on a merchant like the Swede wouldn't make him change his mind. Fenton wasn't the kind of man who could admit he was wrong.

The fat man sat in the cell, eyes furious, face florid, the veins broken all around his nose. He stood as he saw the Constable.

‘You can't do this to me.' His voice was ragged and raw.

‘Sit down and shut up.' He stared until the man reluctantly obeyed.

‘We was just trying to stop Gabriel,' the man said, but all his power had gone.

‘Instead you set on an innocent man.'

The man said nothing.

‘You'll be at the Petty Sessions tomorrow. No one's going to give rough justice in Leeds.'

Sedgwick had a list of names and addresses of people someone thought could be Gabriel. He spent the afternoon going from one to the next. None of them was the man, and he knew they wouldn't be.

Over the years he'd learned to trust the boss. If he said Darden was Gabriel, then he was. What he couldn't see was how they were going to prove it and take him to the gallows. Even if they could find evidence, the mayor and the Corporation would protect him. They'd never let one of their own be found guilty of a crime like this.

How could they find out more? He wondered about Darden's factor, Solomon Howard. He didn't know the man but he'd seen him often enough at the cloth markets. He was prim, close to priggish. He always dressed well, more like a merchant than an employee, carrying an air of superiority with him.

In his late forties, he was Darden's man through and through, and had been for years. No one knew the merchant better. He'd be privy to many of the man's secrets. But Howard had always struck him as a brittle man, with little backbone under the thin veneer. How would he react if they began questioning him?

He played with the idea, keeping it at the back of his mind as he worked. By the time evening gathered he'd talked to almost twenty men, none of them remotely like Gabriel, rag pickers and labourers, clerks, shopkeepers on Briggate. But however much he hated it and saw it as a waste of his good time, he knew it had to be done. There were more names for Rob later, and this would go on for days yet.

He completed his final round, the fog still thick as a blanket around him. His feet ached, his mind was weary, and all he wanted was the quiet love of his family at the house on Lands Lane.

The fire was burning low and no one was downstairs when he entered. Surprised, he climbed the stairs. Lizzie was bent over Isabell's crib, while James stood close by. The fear in the room was so powerful he could have touched it.

‘What is it?' he asked, his voice hushed. Lizzie turned and he saw terror on her face.

‘She's burning up, John.' Lizzie sounded on the edge of desperation. ‘She's been getting hotter all day. I've tried everything.' There were tracks on her cheeks where she'd been crying, haunted smudges under her eyes. James just stared at his little sister. The baby's face was red, but she was quiet. ‘Do something, John, please,' Lizzie begged.

He ran.

He pounded through the fog, hearing the wet slap of his feet on the ground, all the way to Kirshaw the apothecary's house. He kept hammering on the door until a servant came, and asked breathlessly for the master.

As soon as he saw the man the tumble of thoughts and horrors cleared in his brain. ‘I need you at my house,' he said firmly. The apothecary knew him, he did enough work for the city.

‘Who is it?'

‘My little girl. She's been on fire all day.'

The man frowned. ‘All day?'

‘Aye. You have to come now.'

Kirshaw nodded. ‘I'll get my bag. Go home, Mr Sedgwick, I'll be there as soon as I can.'

The deputy took a deep breath, caught between the need to be with his family and dragging the man along.

‘As soon as I can,' the apothecary repeated gently. ‘I promise you.'

He nodded, turned on his heel and ran again until his lungs burned in his chest. He saw Isabell, dying, dead, felt the hole that would consume his life if she was no longer there.

‘He's coming,' he told Lizzie and held her close, his other arm around James's shoulders. He wanted to tell them that everything would be fine, that Isabell would soon be crying and laughing as if nothing had happened. But even as he tried, the words caught in his throat and he knew he couldn't speak them. He couldn't feed those lies to the people he loved. He knew the truth, he'd seen the anguish on too many faces as tiny coffins were buried in the churchyard.

Lizzie felt stiff, rigid under his touch, as if she was scared to move. He heard the knock at the door, and pushed James away to answer it. Then the apothecary was there with his calm manner, easing them aside and bending over the cradle. The deputy watched Kirshaw's fingers stroke the baby's face and look into her eyes. Lizzie reached out and gripped his hand tightly. He looked at her and gave a tight smile that she couldn't return.

The apothecary took his time, wetting a cloth and wiping Isabell's forehead. Sedgwick held his breath, willing the seconds to pass quickly, for the man to say something, to offer some comfort.

Then Kirshaw stood, wiping his hands slowly on the cloth. He was a tall man, withered and stooped with age, his beard grey and bushy, his mouth pursed and thoughtful.

‘How long has she been like this?' he asked.

‘It started this morning,' Lizzie answered in a bare, fractured croak.

‘Before that?'

The deputy tightened his fingers around hers.

‘She seemed fine yesterday. Maybe . . .'

‘What?' said the apothecary.

‘A little scratchy in her throat,' Lizzie told him.

He nodded, then began to pace in the cramped room. ‘I've seen quite a few cases like hers. She'll live—' Sedgwick felt relief course through him ‘—but she's going to be like this for another day, maybe two. She'll stay very hot. You must keep wiping her with a cold, wet cloth. You must.' He stared at them to make sure they understood.

‘What about after that?' the deputy asked him. ‘What then?'

The apothecary brightened. ‘The fever will go, very quickly, and she'll start to get spots.'

‘Spots?' The tremor had returned to Lizzie's voice.

‘They'll last a few days and it will all be over,' he assured her. ‘But you have to keep her cool while she's like this,' he repeated. ‘It's vital. If anything bad happens, send for me.' He stooped to pick up his bag.

‘What could happen?' He needed to know. Kirshaw hesitated before replying.

‘Tell me, Mr Sedgwick, have you seen anyone have a fit?'

He had, and the quick madness of it terrified him. ‘That could happen to her?'

‘It might,' the apothecary answered carefully. ‘If it does, send someone for me immediately.'

‘Thank you,' Sedgwick said. He followed the man downstairs and stood by the door as Kirshaw pulled the heavy greatcoat over his scrawny body.

‘She'll recover, with God's blessing,' he said, clapped the deputy on the shoulder and was gone. One of the few benefits of being a Constable's man was that he didn't have to pay the apothecary; Kirshaw made enough money from the city.

Upstairs, Lizzie was gently bathing Isabell with cold water from a basin. He stroked her hair.

‘She'll be fine,' he said. ‘You heard what he said.'

Lizzie turned her heard, her face anguished, tortured. ‘But what if she's not, John? What if she has one of them fits?'

The thought was full in his mind, too. ‘Then we'll send for Kirshaw again.' He sat on the bed and pulled James close. ‘Don't worry, lad, she'll be back to herself in a few days. I promise.'

The boy nodded, his eyes more hopeful than convinced.

‘You go off to bed,' Sedgwick told him. ‘There's school for you in the morning.'

‘Yes, Da.'

They kept a single candle burning in the corner, the tallow smell thick and greasy in the room, and took it in turns to wipe down the baby. Finally he said, ‘You try and sleep for a while.'

‘Sleep?' Lizzie said, as if it was a new word she'd never heard before. ‘I can't do that, John. Not now.'

But she did, rolling and restless, muttering words too low to make out while he tended his daughter. He could see the pain on his little girl's face, and when her eyes opened the questions she had for him that she didn't have the words to ask. He soothed her and stroked her with the cloth and sat back as she drifted away for a few minutes.

Outside, he could hear all the small night noises of Leeds, the lonely set of footsteps, the voice that drifted on the air from somewhere. He could identify the hours by their sounds. Another few more of them and he'd be back at work, chasing down more worthless tips while his mind stayed here.