At the Dying of the Year (2 page)

‘Yes, sir?' he asked.

‘I have the daily report from the jail for the mayor.'

‘If you leave it with me I'll pass it to him.'

Nottingham looked down at him, smiled and said mildly, ‘You don't know who I am, do you, lad?'

The clerk shook his head.

‘I'm the Constable here. I'm just back to work. I've always met with the mayors every morning.'

The man shifted on his seat and looked embarrassed. ‘I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know. Mr Fenton's changed things. He only sees people by appointment.'

‘I see,' Nottingham said slowly.

‘Mr Sedgwick just gave me the report every day.'

‘What's your name?'

‘Martin Cobb, sir.'

He took the paper from his pocket and unfolded it. ‘Well, Martin, if you'd see this reaches the mayor, with my compliments.'

‘I will. And I'm sorry for not knowing who you were, sir.'

He left, feeling the long sting of humiliation. In all his years as Constable, none of the mayors had refused to see him. It didn't bode for a good return. He set his mouth and walked out on to Briggate.

The street was busy, people squeezing and pushing their way past each other with the dark scent of unwashed bodies, carters urging their horses on, wagon wheels creaking under the heavy loads, the fierce smell of horse sweat, then the hard blood tang from the meat hanging in the butchers' shops on the Shambles. He stood, taking it all in. This was the Leeds he loved.

Rob knew the Talbot well. He'd been here too many times in the last year, breaking up fights or pursuing felons. He pushed open the door of the inn and entered, the scent of stale beer and tobacco on the air. The conversation of the few morning drinkers halted as they saw him.

The door leading to the whores' rooms upstairs was closed, the other door to the cockfighting pit bolted and barred. Bell the landlord was kneeling to tap a new barrel of ale; he glanced up, spat on to the stone floor and looked away again.

‘The two men who died the other night,' Rob began.

‘It were outside.' The man didn't even bother to turn his head, keeping his back to Lister. ‘Nowt to do wi' me.'

‘Had they been drinking in here?'

‘'Appen,' he answered. ‘We were busy.'

‘They'd been seen in here,' Rob told him.

‘If you know, why's tha' asking me?' Bell stood up slowly, broader and taller than the Constable's man, his arms thick with muscle, a worn leather apron tight over the hard bulge of his belly. Several days' growth of stubble covered his cheeks. He rested large, scarred hands on the trestle and stared. ‘I've said all I'm going to say to you. So you can piss off now, and next time your master can come himself and not send his lapdog.'

Rob eyed him, showing nothing, then slowly turned on his heel and left. Bell had meant to humiliate him; he wasn't the first and he wouldn't be the last. But the words wounded a little less each time. He knew he was young, that they saw him as easy prey, untested and with no power. That was changing. He loved this work and he knew he had a talent for it. He'd learned from Sedgwick and from the boss, and the lessons would continue for a long time yet. He sighed slowly and tried not to yawn.

His job was looking after the nights, supervising the men who kept Leeds safe during the darkness. For all the months the Constable had been gone, he and the deputy had been stretched tight, working long hours, every day of God's week, always exhausted.

He'd ask a few more questions then he'd go to his room and sleep. Later, before work, he'd meet Emily and walk out to the house on Marsh Lane to eat his supper. It was more than a free meal, it was chance to spend time with her. For too long it had felt as if they'd been snatching at moments and minutes together.

Along the Calls he searched for the right house. One of the dead men had lived here, leaving a widow and three children behind him; with luck, the woman would be able to tell him something. He was still looking for the place when he heard a shout and turned. A man was running quickly towards him, stripped to shirt and breeches, his face and hands covered in dirt, the bright light of fear in his eyes.

‘You the lad who works with the Constable?' he asked. Rob nodded. ‘You'd better come, then. It's the bell pits.' The man jerked his thumb vaguely in the direction of the White Cloth Hall then moved away, his stride fast and jerky.

Lister was pushed to keep pace with the man as they headed along Low Back Passage. ‘What is it?' he asked. ‘What's in the pit?'

But the man just shook his head. ‘Tha'll see soon enough.'

Rob knew about the bell pits; everyone in Leeds did. They were holes that extended just a few feet into the ground, opening into chambers ten or twelve feet across and shaped liked the bells that gave them their names; places where folk gathered scraps of coal for their fires. They'd existed for generations, all over the city, for so long that no one really knew who'd first dug them. He'd never been in one, although the schoolboys often dared each other to go down into the dry warmth. Three of them lay close together, no more than twenty feet apart, each separate from the other, along the path that led from Kirkgate to the White Cloth Hall, mounds of dark earth next to each one. A group of workmen were passing a flagon of ale around, all of them silent, their faces serious.

‘Down there.' The man pointed at one of the pits, where a ladder protruded above the lip. Rob glanced at him questioningly, but the man looked away, unwilling to meet his eyes. He gazed at the other men, but none of them would offer him more than a sad stare.

Curious, he placed his boots on the wooden rungs, testing the weight, and began to climb down. He'd barely descended a yard before he stopped, swallowing hard as he smelled it. Something was dead down here, the thick, cloying smell of decay heavy in the heat all around him. He drew a breath through his mouth and went deeper into the pit.

At the bottom, no more than ten feet below the surface, he felt the rough, dry earth under his soles. He was already sweating from the still heat. A thin tunnel of light came down the hole, spilling into a small circle on the ground, deep shadows and pitch darkness reaching beyond. He retched hard, unable to keep the bile down, pulled a handkerchief from his breeches and clamped it over his face and mouth.

It didn't help. He bent over, vomiting again and coughing until there was only a thin trickle of spittle trailing from his lips. The stench of death was so strong he felt he could touch it.

Just at the edge of the gloom he could make out the shape of feet. Six of them, bare, dirty soles showing, three different sizes. He moved two paces closer, his eyes watering. The legs were small, thin. They were children.

H
e hurried back up the ladder, falling on his knees at the top and gulping down the fresh air. His legs buckled at he tried to stand, and for a moment he was forced to hold on to someone's arm. The man handed him the jug and he drank deep, swilling the ale around his mouth before spitting out the taste of the pit.

‘Bad,' was the only thing the man said.

Rob didn't reply. He didn't own the words for what he'd seen. ‘Send someone for Mr Brogden, the coroner,' he said, his voice little more than a hoarse croak. ‘I'll bring some men to take the bodies out.'

He marched purposefully up Kirkgate, trying to clear the thoughts and images from his head. For all he knew there were more children down there, hidden by the darkness. He ran a hand through his hair, the stink of the dead clinging fast to his clothes.

The Constable looked up from the desk when the door opened, suddenly alert as he saw Lister's expression.

‘Christ, lad, what is it? I thought you'd gone home.' He poured a cup of ale and passed it over. ‘Drink that.'

Rob sat, trying to steady the mug in his hand, framing how to tell what he'd witnessed.

‘The bell pits by the Cloth Hall,' he began slowly, watching Nottingham's eyes intent on his face. ‘There are bodies in one of them.'

‘Bodies?' he asked sharply. ‘More than one?'

Lister nodded. ‘Three that I saw.' He paused. ‘They were just children, boss,' he said hopelessly. ‘One of the men who died at the Talbot had three children.'

The Constable sat up straight. ‘You think it's them?'

‘I don't know, boss.' Rob swilled a little more ale around his mouth then swallowed, trying to wash the dank taste away.

‘Who found them?' Nottingham asked urgently.

‘One of the workmen.'

‘You've sent for the coroner?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll come straight down. Go and find some of the men to help you get the corpses out.'

‘Yes, boss.' He stood, ready to leave.

‘Rob?' The lad turned. ‘If it helps, this is probably as bad as the job will ever be.'

Lister tried to smile, but it was weak and empty.

The Constable remembered the face of every dead child he'd seen since he'd begun the job. They were impossible to forget, each one clear and sharp in his head. Many had gone from hunger, little more than ghosts even before their hearts gave up the battle to keep beating, some from accidents, crushed by carts or lost to the river. Precious few had been murdered, and he thanked God for that, at least.

Some of the workmen were sitting on the grass when he arrived, others stood in a small group. He nodded and asked, ‘Has the coroner arrived yet?'

‘Gone down there with a candle,' one of the men answered.

When Brogden climbed back out there was dirt on his immaculate coat and he'd vomited on his shoes with their expensive silver buckles. He brought a flask from his waistcoat, fingers shaking so hard he could barely unscrew the top. He took a long drink and saw the Constable.

‘What's down there?' Nottingham asked.

The coroner shook his head, as if he couldn't believe what he'd seen. He raised his eyes. ‘Three of them,' he replied quietly. ‘Someone's killed them. None of them look older than eight.' Tears began to roll down his cheeks and he pawed at them angrily before walking away.

The Constable ran a hand across his mouth. His thoughts raced away from him. Three? It seemed impossible. Unless they did belong to the dead man, how could so many children vanish without anyone noticing? For the love of God, why would anyone want to murder them and leave them that way? He was still standing there thinking when Lister returned with four others, a ragtaggle group who looked more like beggars than Constable's men.

‘You'll have to be my eyes down there,' he told Rob. ‘I can't use a ladder. Not yet.'

‘I'll tell you what I see, boss.'

‘Tie linen around your faces,' Nottingham advised them all, ‘and try to breathe as little as you can when you're down there.' He looked at them. ‘They're children, it's going to be difficult. There are three of them.' He noticed their eyes widen. ‘I'm sorry.'

There was nothing more he could do until they started to bring out the bodies. The workmen had left hurriedly, not wanting to see, and he couldn't blame them. They didn't need this haunting their dreams for years.

The first, a boy perhaps six years old, was placed gently and lovingly on the grass by men who kept their faces deliberately expressionless. Then a girl of maybe eight and finally another boy, small and emaciated, who couldn't have been more than three.

They were all naked, covered in coal dust from the pit, grime all across their faces. Their small corpses had bloated and an army of maggots crawled over them, around their wounds, in their mouths and ears and eye sockets. They'd been dead a few days, maybe even longer; nothing to do with the dead man, the Constable decided. He walked between them, studying each one intently before softly saying, ‘Cover them up and take them to the jail, please.'

Rob hung back, his face ashen. Nottingham placed a hand lightly on his shoulder.

‘Go and find Mr Sedgwick, then get some sleep.' He glanced back at the children. ‘We're going to find the bastard who did this.'

They placed the bodies in the cold cell the city used as a mortuary. The Constable cleaned the worst of the pit dirt off them with a cloth and cold water and washed the maggots and blood from their wounds on to the floor. Now they lay on the bunks and the floor, so tiny, beyond help. The warmth of the pit had left their bellies distended. Rats and the Lord knew what had stolen their eyes, so they were sightless in death; chunks of hair were torn away by vermin, skin bitten and torn. Bruises blossomed dull purple all over their legs, arms, chests and faces, and knife cuts marked every part of their bodies. Each one had been stabbed in the heart. They'd suffered before they were given release.

Nottingham left them there and went back to the desk to pour himself a mug of ale. He swilled the liquid around in his mouth, trying to take away the lonely, bitter taste of death before swallowing. He stood, gazing out of the window at the people who passed, their thoughts on business or worries, a pair of women laughing brightly, all of them a world away from what he'd just seen.

Pain rumbled through his belly. He kept still until it passed, then breathed slowly and drank a little more before returning to the cells.

He'd lost count of the bodies he'd seen in this job. Young, old, male, female, the ones who died as he held them and those who'd gone weeks before, with barely any traces left to show they'd ever been alive. He believed he'd seen every evil man could do. But he hadn't.

Very carefully he lifted the girl's arm, as thin and light as a twig, so tiny and fragile in his hand. He could feel the break in the bone and saw the little finger twisted away from the hand. On the smaller boy, so frail he seemed to be more air than flesh, he could see the imprint of fingers around the neck, the child's tiny fists clenched tight in death. The older boy had a broken nose, his face a swollen mass where he'd been hit over and over.