At the Dying of the Year (21 page)

She'd been knifed five times; all the cuts were the same size. There were the beginnings of bruises on her sides and legs, as if someone had kicked her. He ran his fingers lightly over her scalp and found a lump under her hair. Had that happened before or after she died, he wondered?

Tenderly, he covered her once more. Soon enough they'd come to remove her corpse. He knew he'd taken things into his own hands by arranging the funeral, but it was the right thing. The boss didn't need that on top of everything else.

He was sitting at the desk, thinking, when Rob arrived. He was wearing his good suit rather than his work clothes, his face closed and anxious.

‘How is she?' the deputy asked.

‘How do you think?' He poured a glass of ale and drank it down. ‘She was crying and screaming. She wanted to go home.'

‘You didn't let her?'

Rob shook his head.

‘Lizzie'll look after her. The funeral's tomorrow at two.'

‘Did the boss arrange it?' Lister asked in surprise.

‘I did. It's one thing less for him to think about at the moment.' The deputy looked up. ‘Right, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to talk to the clerks at Darden's when they finish work. You're going to see as many of the merchants as you can. You'll do better at that than I would. That's why I wanted you dressed up.'

‘What do you want me to say?'

He'd thought about that during the afternoon. ‘Tell them that someone murdered Mrs Nottingham and persuade them to come to the funeral. When you've done that, ask a few questions – can they think of anyone who might have done it. Then drop in something about Darden and Howard.'

‘I will.'

‘Leave everything else to the night men, I don't give a bugger what it is. You and I are going to work on this until we have them.'

‘She was good to me,' Rob said emptily.

‘Aye, and she cared about Lizzie, and James and Isabell. The world's lost a grand woman. The boss knows that more than anyone. But now she's in the cold cell. Someone stabbed her five times. Just keep thinking about that.'

H
e went from merchant to merchant, from home to warehouse. The news had passed already, the way it did in Leeds, and they all received him with serious faces and words of condolence. Without question they agreed to attend the funeral, but none had an idea who could have been responsible. And when he started his questions about Darden and the factor, their mouths shut and their eyes began to look elsewhere.

He found Tom Williamson at the new warehouse by the river. Men were preparing a shipment of cloth to leave for Hull the next morning. A small, fussy clerk checked against his list and pettishly directed Rob to the office.

The merchant was there, a brazier burning to give some heat to the room. His head was down, concentrating on a column of figures.

‘Mr Williamson?'

He looked up, taking a moment to place Lister. ‘Did Mr Nottingham send you?'

‘You haven't heard the news?' He seemed to be the first who didn't know.

‘What news? What's happened?'

‘Someone killed the Constable's wife this morning. Stabbed her in her house.'

Williamson sat back, looking stunned. He ran his hands down his face. ‘Richard . . .?'

‘He found her,' Rob said.

‘What can I do?'

‘The funeral's tomorrow at two.'

‘I'll be there, of course. I met her a few times. She always seemed a lovely woman.'

‘She was,' he said with quiet feeling.

‘You're James Lister's lad, aren't you?' the merchant asked thoughtfully. ‘The one who's courting the Constable's daughter?'

Rob raised his head. ‘I am.'

‘How is she?'

Lister just stared at him.

‘Please, tell them both how sorry I am for them.' He stayed silent for a short while, then asked, ‘Do you know who did it?'

‘Not yet,' Lister lied. ‘Can you think of anyone?'

Williamson shook his head.

‘What do you know about Mr Darden and his factor?'

‘What?' he asked in astonishment. ‘You think they're behind it?'

‘No, nothing like that. We're just gathering information on them.'

‘Richard had asked me about them, too. I told him what I knew.' He rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘There's something going on, isn't there?'

‘I'm just doing what I'm told,' Rob answered blandly, trying to keep all the expression off his face. Williamson stared at him, then sighed. ‘There was something I was going to tell Mr Nottingham when I saw him. I'd forgotten all about it before; I was only a boy when it happened, but my father fumed about it for years.'

‘What was it?'

‘It must have been, what, twenty-five years ago now?' He counted off the years in his head. ‘Close enough to that, anyway. Mr Darden lent the Corporation some money. I don't know how much it was and I'm sure it's long since been paid. But my father always said Darden received preferential treatment because of it.'

‘What did he mean?'

‘I don't know. It's probably nothing. I've never heard any more about it.'

‘Thank you.' Rob stood.

‘I'll be there tomorrow,' Williamson promised.

It was the only new thing he'd learned, an incident that happened a lifetime before. Still, he wondered why no one else had mentioned it. Memories were long, especially for anything that gave one merchant an advantage over the others.

He was walking back up Briggate, wrapped in his thoughts, wondering what he could do next, when a hand took his sleeve.

‘I heard,' James Lister said. ‘It's terrible. Do you have anyone yet?'

‘No, Father.'

‘Please, tell Mr Nottingham how saddened and shocked
I am.'

‘You can tell him yourself. The funeral's tomorrow at two.' He pulled away and continued up the street.

The deputy was waiting on the corner. The church bell had struck six and it was full dark when the three clerks emerged. They wore shabby clothes, the seats of their breeches shiny from being perched on stools all day.

‘Evening, lads,' he said. They were all well into middle age, with grey hair and the worn-down look of men worked too hard for too little. ‘I'm the deputy constable. I'd like a word.' He smiled. ‘Can I buy you all a drink?'

The first jug of ale went quickly and he ordered a second. He listened to them complain, wittering like old women, ears pricked for any loose talk. As their words wound down, he asked, ‘What did Mr Darden and Mr Howard do this morning?'

Ashton, the head clerk, the quietest and gravest of them, answered warily, ‘Why do you need to know?'

‘Knowing things is my business.'

‘It's Tuesday. Mr Howard was at the cloth market. Mr Darden went with him.'

‘Aye, I know that. And this morning someone killed the Constable's wife. Stabbed her five times.' He glanced around the faces. ‘So you'll see why I'm asking.'

‘They came to the warehouse after the market,' Ashton told him. ‘They allus do that. Got to check the cloth the weavers bring and make sure they don't cheat us.'

‘What about when that was done?'

‘Looked at the orders we were sending out.'

‘How long did that take?' Sedgwick asked.

‘I wasn't listening to the church clock. Then they went out.'

‘Where did they go?'

The clerk shrugged. ‘They don't tell us, they just go.'

‘When did they return?'

‘Mr Howard came back about dinner time. Mr Darden didn't come back at all. Nowt strange in that. He's retired.'

‘How did Howard seem?'

‘
Mr
Howard was the same as ever.' The man emphasized the title. ‘Wanted everything done yesterday. He must have been home, though.'

‘Why's that?' the deputy asked sharply.

‘He'd changed into an old coat and breeches. Spent part of the afternoon looking through cloth on the shelves.'

‘Is that usual?'

‘Mr Howard isn't a man to ruin a good suit.'

‘Does he look through the cloth regularly?'

Ashton shrugged again. ‘A few times a year.'

‘Was he different in any way?'

‘Not that I saw. But we were working.'

‘He had a right short temper,' one of the other clerks said.

‘What did he do?'

‘Clouted one of the lads who moves the bales around. Not just once, quite a few times until the boy was crying.'

‘Is he often like that?' Sedgwick watched them carefully, seeing the small, uncomfortable glances they exchanged.

‘It happens,' Ashton said flatly.

‘What else do you know?' the deputy pressed them.

‘Nowt, really. I've worked for them for years and they've been good to me.' He paused. ‘If you want them guilty of summat, I'll tell you now – they're not.'

Sedgwick stood and nodded his thanks. Outside the night felt raw; the chill clawed at his face as he made his way back to the jail. Rob was there, giving instructions to one of the night men. As soon as he'd gone, the deputy poured some ale and stood by the fire, feeling its heat.

‘Well?' he asked.

Lister told him what he'd learned and Sedgwick recounted what the clerks had told him.

‘What do you think?' he asked.

‘They were gone part of the morning. They had the time, there's no doubt about that,' Rob answered. ‘But there's nothing to show their guilt, is there?'

‘Aye. We need to find out where they're supposed to have gone. I'd like to take a look at those clothes Howard wore during the morning, too.'

‘What do we do next?'

‘Nothing tonight, lad. I'm going home to rest. There'll be plenty of time for more tomorrow. And the funeral.'

‘Will you tell Emily . . .?'

‘Of course I will. Don't worry, we'll look after her.'

‘What about the boss?'

‘He'll do what he needs to do.'

He opened the door softly. Lizzie was sitting close to the hearth. She put a finger to her lips to hush him. He settled on the other chair, looking down to see Isabell sleeping peacefully in her crib, her illness now nothing more than a memory.

‘I put Emily in our bed. I think the poor lass has cried herself to sleep for a while. That boy of hers didn't want to leave her.'

‘I'll take her home in the morning. The funeral's at two.'

‘Have you found anything yet?'

‘Not any proof.' He was tired, the anger and frustration burning inside him.

‘Find it, John,' she urged him.

‘I will. Don't worry about that. If it's there we'll find it.'

‘Have you seen Mr Nottingham?'

He shook his head. ‘Better to let him be for now.'

‘Mebbe.' She sighed deeply. ‘I'll tell you something, that girl could have done with her father tonight. I did what I could but she needed more than me.'

‘She'll have him tomorrow. And all the days after that, too. It'll just be the two of them now.'

‘Not the same, though, is it?' He had no reply. She reached out and took his hand. ‘I'll put out the candle. You look like you need your rest.'

He'd just woken when she came down the stairs. It was still dark and he heard her groping her way.

‘Miss Emily,' he said quietly.

‘I'm going home.' Her voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

‘I'll walk with you.'

‘There's no need.'

‘I need to see your father.'

Outside, in the half-light on the horizon, her face looked ravaged. If she really had slept it had been for no more than a few minutes. As they passed the jail she glanced through the window, looking for Rob.

‘He'll be out doing his last rounds,' the deputy told her. She tried to smile but it left as soon as it came, no heart behind it. He coughed and said, ‘I talked to the undertaker and the church. They're going to have the funeral this afternoon.'

She looked at him sharply.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I thought it would be one thing less for you and the boss to have to think about.'

‘I suppose it doesn't matter when we bury Mama,' she said emptily. She stayed quiet until they crossed Timble Bridge. ‘Thank you. And thank Lizzie, too.' She looked up Marsh Lane at the house. ‘Is Papa there?'

She picked up her pace, moving so briskly that the deputy had to rush to keep up with her. He followed as she burst through the door, seeing the Constable sitting and staring at the dead fire. As Nottingham turned his head, Emily began to hit him with her small fists, crying and howling out all her pain.

He sat there and took it all, the tears trickling down his cheeks. Once she'd exhausted herself he stood, leaning heavily on the stick at his side and wrapped his arms around her.

‘I know, love, I know,' he said. ‘I know.'

The deputy stayed by the door, feeling awkward, an intruder on this private grief.

The Constable kept whispering, words too low for anyone but her to hear. Emily cried against his coat, her arms tight around his neck, hair tumbling from her cap. Finally she nodded, wiping her face, and went upstairs.

‘Boss . . .'

‘Don't, John. Please.' His eyes were full of the dead, looking but not really seeing. ‘Just tell me what's happening.'

Sedgwick summarized it all. Nottingham bowed his head and listened quietly.

‘It's my fault,' he said finally. ‘I had to brag to Howard. I emptied that pouch and asked if it was his. I said someone had found it near his house. He had his revenge.'

‘Christ, boss.'

‘If I hadn't . . .' He halted, searching for the words to flay himself. ‘If I hadn't been so fucking arrogant, if I hadn't wanted to rub his nose in it, she'd still be alive.'