At the Dying of the Year (24 page)

The Constable nodded. He'd never met Trueman but he'd heard the name often enough over the years. He had to be eighty if he was a day, but he worked all his life for the city, rising until he became head clerk of the corporation. ‘Where does he live, do you know?'

‘A little way along the Newcastle road, I think. It should be easy enough to find his direction.'

‘Thank you again.'

‘Richard.' There was a note of warning in the man's voice. ‘If they're guilty I want them to hang as much as anyone. Please, take care trying to prove it.'

‘Part of me's well beyond care now,' he answered.

I
t was the work of a minute to discover exactly where Trueman lived, close enough to stay in touch with the city, but still enough distance away to be separate from it. The Constable crossed over the Head Row, passing the grand houses and the grammar school at Town End before Leeds vanished into countryside.

The fields were dark and moist where they'd been pulled over by the plough. Sheep grazed on the hillsides. They were what gave Leeds its wealth, a fortune in their fleeces. He strode out, hands pushed into the pockets of his greatcoat, the stick clicking out a rhythm on the road.

The house was out beyond Sheepscar, past the few houses there that were barely a hamlet. The garden was small but well-tended, the building itself in good repair, more than a cottage but certainly nothing grand. He knocked at the door and waited until the servant answered.

She was a young girl, modest, but with lively blue eyes and an intelligent face.

‘I'm Richard Nottingham, the Constable of Leeds,' he said. ‘I'd like to see Mr Trueman.'

She bobbed a quick curtsey and invited him into the hallway. ‘It's right parky out there,' she said. ‘Come in and get yourself warm.' She vanished through another door. He heard a quiet exchange of voices, then she came and led him through.

Trueman still had a full head of white hair, side whiskers extending almost to his chin. He was seated in front of a roaring fire, neatly dressed in an expensive coat and breeches, the stock tied at his throat. He looked at the Constable with perceptive eyes covered by a cloud of rheum.

‘Mr Nottingham. I've heard plenty about you, but we've never met.' He had the voice of a younger man, sonorous and regal.

‘No. Thank you for seeing me.'

The man gave a short nod. ‘My condolences to you, sir. I lost my wife ten years back. I know what it's like to find yourself alone.' He steepled his hands under his chin, the spots of age all across his flesh. ‘But I do wonder what brings you all the way out here.' He raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Something from the past, perhaps? I can't imagine why else you'd need to talk to me.'

The Constable smiled. ‘It is.'

‘Then sit yourself down. I don't want a crick in my neck from looking at you. Some ale, a glass of wine? You've had a fair walk out here.'

‘I'll be fine.' He sat on the other chair in the room.

Trueman picked a small glass from the table and sipped. ‘Cordial,' he explained. ‘Keeps my throat moist. Now, what do you want to know?'

‘I've heard that quite a few years ago Jeremiah Darden lent the Corporation some money.'

The old man mulled over the question. ‘He did, yes.'

‘What was it for?' Nottingham asked.

Trueman smiled. ‘There were some purchases of land the Corporation wanted to make, down by the bridge. Mr Darden offered the money so everything could be conducted speedily.'

‘Why did it need to be done so quickly?'

‘It didn't, I suppose. But it simplified things. We didn't have the money at the time, so we'd have been forced to wait until revenues came in. This way was much easier and made sure we obtained the land, rather than someone else buying it and selling to us at a profit.' The surprise must have shown on Nottingham's face. ‘Yes, that has happened before. I won't say who or where.'

‘How much money was involved?'

‘Not as much as many people have claimed, I can assure you of that. I've heard all manner of wild figures. It was four hundred pounds. That's still a handsome sum, I think you'll agree with me on that.'

‘That's true.' It was as much as many good merchants took in profit during a year, enough to live on without caring or ever having to count costs.

‘You know how these things are,' Trueman continued. ‘They become exaggerated. I've heard he lent a round thousand, but I know that's wrong. I was there and I helped draw up the papers.'

‘He was repaid?'

‘Of course,' the old man said with an emphatic nod. ‘And within three months.'

‘Was he paid interest?'

‘No. That was part of the agreement. It was civic spirit on his part; he was a member of the Corporation. All he received was the amount he lent and a vote of thanks.'

‘But he never became mayor.'

‘Now you're digging deeper,' Trueman told him with a smile. ‘And you're doubtless wondering why he resigned from the Corporation.'

‘I've heard stories.'

‘I'm sure you have – I've heard more than a few myself.'

‘What's the truth?' Nottingham asked him.

The old man hesitated before answering. ‘Sordid and crude,' he said. ‘Mr Darden tupped a servant.'

‘There's nothing unusual about that.'

‘Of course not.' Trueman's smile became wolfish. ‘But not his own servant. And not a girl. This was a boy who'd just begun working for another member of the Corporation. He hadn't just enjoyed him, he'd beaten him hard, too.'

The Constable was silent for a long time. ‘How did people find out?'

‘The boy collapsed the next day. When he came to, he told them what Mr Darden had done.'

‘What happened to the lad?'

‘He died,' Trueman said flatly, then stared at Nottingham. ‘You can understand why Mr Darden was asked to resign. We couldn't have someone like that running the city. But neither could we have the truth come out, of course.'

‘The tales I heard were about a girl.'

The man waved an old hand, the skin wrinkled and pale. ‘Vague fancies. People could build on them as they wished. And better they believed it was a girl than a lad.'

‘But the city and the merchants still protect him.'

‘They always will, Constable. He's paid for his crime. He gave up his seat on the Corporation, he lost the chance to be mayor. He's been punished. Underneath all that he's still one of them. He helped them when he needed it. Surely you understand that?'

He nodded sadly. He understood it all too well.

‘Besides,' Trueman added, ‘imagine the damage it would cause if the real story ever came out. Not just to Mr Darden, but to the city. I'll ask you to think about that. I've told you all this in confidence. I'm trusting you have enough respect for Leeds that you'll never make it public knowledge.'

‘Should I have?'

‘Would you care for one more story from the past?' He took another sip of the cordial and leaned back in his chair. ‘Did it ever surprise you when Constable Arkwright first took you on?'

The question took him aback. It had been over twenty years ago, when he worked the jobs he could, none of them steady, none paying much. He'd survived living on the streets of the city. He believed that Arkwright had seen something in him, something that would make him a good Constable's man, and he'd been grateful for the steady employment.

‘Should it?' he answered warily.

‘There were folk on the Corporation who thought your father had treated your mother very shabbily. He flaunted his sins, his gambling and philandering. Then he put the two of you out because he'd discovered her affair.'

‘And you'll know she died,' Nottingham said bitterly.

‘I do,' he acknowledged. ‘A few people thought that perhaps you deserved a little better. After all, none of it was your fault.' Trueman sighed. ‘Eventually someone had a quiet word with Mr Arkwright. Without that you wouldn't be sitting here today.'

‘Thank you for being so honest with me.' The Constable stood, pushing himself slowly upright with the stick and groaning at the pain in his legs.

‘You're going to have more of that as you grow older,' Trueman told him with a sympathetic nod. ‘I'm sorry for your loss, I truly am.'

The trees were bare, branches stark against the sky. The bitter November wind suited his mood as he walked back into Leeds. So now he knew exactly why Darden had left public life. No one had cared that the boy had died. A lie or two and a few pounds to his parents would have covered that. He doubted if any of those in power had remembered the lad's name. And still they protected the merchant to hide all the secrets and shame of the past.

And now he knew another ugly truth. There'd been no special promise for the old Constable to spot. It was simply a sop, a way of relieving a little guilt, but long after his mother had died with nothing, all she owned legally stolen from her by her husband. Telling him had been the price Trueman exacted for his secrets, and the words had stung.

But only for a moment. Nothing anyone said could really hurt him now. He was already overflowing with pain. It was so heavy that he felt he could touch it, that it stood between him and the rest of the world. And he knew he'd been good at his job, good enough to become deputy and then Constable. He'd earned his position.

He waited outside the dame school, huddled in his greatcoat, a heavy coat and breeches beneath it, with thick hose and sturdy boots. Still he felt the cold through to his bones. It could be another long winter, he thought.

There was no gaiety or life in her face when she came out. Mrs Rains had a brief word with her, then Emily gave a quick reply and she was beside him, her small fingers warm in his hand. She closed her eyes.

‘Take me home,' she said. ‘Please.'

Rob smiled at her and she tried to return it. But there were dark smudges under her eyes and her face seemed pinched with sadness. He knew she'd find no relief in the house. Her mother's ghost would fill the place; it would always be there.

‘Do you know what I wish?' Emily said.

‘What?'

‘That we could just walk away from here and never come back.'

‘But we can't.'

‘I know.' She sighed deeply. ‘I miss her. It hurts. I want her to be there when I open the door and she won't be.'

It would fade, he knew that. It would always gnaw at her, but other joys, other treasures of memory would fill the hole that consumed her. But telling her wouldn't help. At the moment she wouldn't even understand. He stopped and pulled her close to him, stroking away the tears that started to fall down her cheeks.

‘Come on,' he said, putting his arm around her shoulder. ‘Let's get you home.'

They walked in silence. At the house he could see her hand shaking as she slid the key into the lock. Inside, he heard Lucy moving in the kitchen, then she came through with two mugs of ale.

‘Thank you.' Emily took the cup.

The girl curtseyed, looking serious. She moved away then halted in the doorway. ‘I know you wish it was your mam doing that and not me.'

‘No,' Emily said, taken by surprise.

‘I can see it in your face,' Lucy told her quietly. ‘I'm sorry.'

He sat at the jail, considering what Trueman had told him about Jeremiah Darden. Was there anything he could use, some scrap to help him convict the man? After all these years it had become nothing more than rumour scattered on the wind. The merchant could laugh it off and deny it all. Even passing it as gossip wouldn't damage him; it had all happened too long ago.

Outside, darkness had fallen quickly. Through the window he could glimpse candlelight flickering through shutters on the other side of Kirkgate. The fire was burning low in the grate. He knew he should go home but was reluctant to leave. All that waited for him was more sorrow.

The door opened and the deputy entered, rubbing his hands together. ‘It's going to freeze out there tonight. Won't be much work for Rob, they'll all be round their firesides.'

‘Did you find anything worthwhile?'

Sedgwick held his arms out to the weak blaze. ‘Not really. I had another word at the Talbot and threatened Bell a little. There might be something tomorrow.'

The Constable explained what Trueman had told him about Darden.

‘And nothing happened?'

‘He left the Corporation.'

‘He's in it with Howard. He has to be,' Sedgwick said. ‘Some of those dead children were boys.'

‘I know.' Nottingham shook his head. ‘Have I done all of this wrong, John?'

‘What do you mean, boss?'

‘We're no closer to putting them on the gibbet, are we?'

‘No,' the deputy admitted.

‘Could I have done it differently?'

‘Not that I can see. You mean the pouch, don't you?'

‘Yes.' It was the question he'd never stop asking himself.

‘I'd have done the same.' Sedgwick shook his head. ‘I doubt that's much comfort, though.'

‘No.'

‘Go home, boss. There's nothing more you can do here. I'm off myself soon. Tomorrow we'll come up with something.'

Lucy's pottage was flavourless. After a few spoonfuls he pushed the bowl away, seeing the disappointment on the girl's face. ‘I'm just not hungry,' he said.

Even Emily, with her appetite, couldn't finish.

Head bowed, Lucy cleared the table. She was trying hard, he knew that, and it was difficult for her, working in this house full of heartbreak.

‘Papa?' Emily's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. ‘What are we going to do?'

He understood. She was lost, flailing. All the hope had gone from her face.

‘We'll do what we have to do,' he told her. ‘We'll carry on.'