At the Dying of the Year (26 page)

He wanted Howard and Darden in court, wanted to walk up to Chapeltown Moor and see them hang, but the numbness in him was growing. They'd killed part of him, too, the best part, taken away so much of his love. So little seemed important any more. The weight was too heavy on his shoulders.

He picked up the stick and slowly made his way down Kirkgate, his greatcoat still on a hook at the jail. Thin sleet had begun
to fall; people hurried down the street with heads bowed, trying to stay dry. Nottingham turned at the lych gate and walked through the mud of the churchyard to the graves.

Lichen was beginning to grow on Rose's headstone, starting to eat away at the sharp cuts of the words. He knelt and scraped it away with his fingernail. She'd be nothing but bone now, the flesh all eaten away.

Next to her the earth was mounded dark over Mary. He could find a spade and dig it all away, pull the nails from the coffin lid and see her again before nature took her. He remembered kneeling by her body in the kitchen, his fingers smoothing her hair, the texture of it in his hands. He'd kissed her cheek, his face beside hers to draw in the scent of her for the final time.

He could still conjure up her voice calling his name, the love she put into a simple word even when he exasperated her.

‘Boss?' The word made him turn to face the deputy, dragged back to the pain of the present.

‘You've been here for over an hour,' Sedgwick told him gently. ‘Someone came to fetch me. You're soaked through.' He smiled. ‘Come on, let's get you in the warm.'

The Constable followed him meekly to the jail. Sedgwick talked of anything and everything, how James was at school, the way Isabell was growing, almost ready to crawl, words to fill the space between them, to keep Nottingham's mind in the here and now.

The Constable sat on his chair, surrounded by all the papers. He put more coal on the fire and watched as the flames licked upwards. The deputy poured some ale, put it in his hand and stared until he drank it down.

‘I should start on all this,' Nottingham said finally. ‘The treasurer wants to see the accounts on Tuesday.'

‘Why?'

The Constable raised his eyes and brushed the fringe off his forehead. ‘The mayor wants me out,' he answered emptily. ‘He refuses to believe that Darden and Howard could be guilty. He'll have you out, too, and Rob.'

‘Then we'd better show him he's wrong.' He smiled. ‘Have the lad work on the sums, he has the mind for it. If this weather keeps up there'll be little enough for him to do at night, anyway.'

Nottingham nodded. Rob would make sense of all the figures with ease.

T
he deputy buttoned his heavy coat and pulled up the collar. The sleet was still falling, icy puddles forming on the roads. His boots and hose were soaked, his feet chilled. He'd considered telling the Constable to go home, but what was there for him there? Just more memories to hurt him.

The man he'd talked to by the graves this morning wasn't the one he'd known for years. This one was broken, lost, looking for something he was never going to find, more like a helpless child than a grown man.

He could only imagine how he'd feel if Lizzie died, and they'd barely been together for a heartbeat. If someone killed her . . . then he'd commit murder of his own. The older you grew, the more you had to lose, and the more life could hurt you.

He didn't even know where he was going. He'd put out the word about Smithson. The man had probably left Leeds, paid off by Howard, but if he'd decided to linger the deputy wanted him. Landlord Bell at the Talbot had made it plain that he wouldn't testify.

They had nothing. Short of a miracle they'd never arrest Howard and Darden. It was as if their lives were charmed, that guilt could never touch them. But he was damned if he'd let them look at the world with scorn and take whatever they wanted. He pushed the old tricorn hat more firmly on his head. All he could do now was follow wherever his feet took him, and ask questions.

There was hardly a soul on Vicar Lane, and the carters making their way up and down the Head Row were few and far between. Finally he ducked through an opening off Briggate and into the Ship. The place was bustling, the fire crackling loudly. He looked around as he waited for his ale, spotting familiar faces among the crowd.

The landlord waved away his money. ‘Tha knows better than that, Mr Sedgwick.'

He smiled his thanks and squeezed through to the hearth. Joe Buck the fence and his servant, Henry, had a small table to themselves. Some might stare at Henry's colour but they knew to leave the pair alone.

‘Joe,' the deputy said. ‘Henry.'

Buck moved along the bench. ‘I've been hearing some strange things about the Constable,' he said with concern.

‘Oh aye?' Sedgwick took a long drink.

‘Standing in the rain at the churchyard today, out near Woodhouse in that weather yesterday.'

The deputy shrugged. ‘He's just lost his wife, Joe. He's not himself.'

‘Little birds have been talking to me, Mr Sedgwick.' Buck frowned. ‘They say the mayor wants rid of Mr Nottingham.'

Sedgwick smiled. ‘How long have you lived in this city, Joe?'

‘All my life.'

‘Then you know not to believe everything people say here.'

‘The person who told me was well-placed,' the fence said.

‘Aye, they always are, Joe. And how often are they right?' He shook his head. ‘Come on, you know the answer as well as I do.'

Henry was staring at the mug in front of him, the light shining on his shaved, dark skull.

‘But what happens to you if someone else becomes Constable?' Buck asked. ‘A new man might have other ideas for a deputy.'

‘Happen so.'

‘Tha dun't sound too worried,' Henry told him.

‘I already said it's not going to happen. So why worry about it?'

‘But if it did,' Buck began slowly, ‘you'd still need to earn money. You've got that family to feed.'

‘Going to offer me something, are you, Joe?'

‘Always good to have something up your sleeve, Mr Sedgwick.'

‘Except the boss won't be going anywhere.'

Buck nodded. ‘Tell me something. You already know full well who was responsible, don't you?'

The deputy nodded.

‘Then why's he still alive?'

‘You know why. The boss wants them to hang.'

‘Bugger that.' He looked around cautiously and began to speak in a quick, low voice. ‘I know folk who'd take care of the problem for nowt. They'd be gone by tomorrow.'

‘That's not how Mr Nottingham does things, Joe.'

‘Not even when they murdered his own wife?'

‘Not even then.' He gave the man a warning look. ‘And don't you go getting ideas, either.'

‘We need rid of scum like that.'

‘Don't,' the deputy repeated. ‘And that's not advice, either. You try it and I'll be coming for you.' He held Buck's gaze until the man nodded.

‘Right, I've had a warm and a wet. I'd best get back to work.' He put the battered hat back on his head. ‘Good to see you again, Joe. Henry.'

Outside, he took a deep breath, strode through the narrow ginnel and back on to Briggate. The sleet was still coming down. Any colder and it would turn to snow, he thought. But not yet, not yet. He wasn't ready for another winter.

But he'd learned something interesting from the encounter – Joe Buck was paying someone at the Moot Hall for information and he had a good idea who. It could be worth paying Martin Cobb a visit sometime.

Darden and Howard had money and influence to protect them. Somewhere, though, there had to be the evidence to put the pair of them in the dock. And he was going to find it.

At the jail the Constable was putting the documents for the accounts in order, small piles of them scattered across the desk.

‘Boss, how closely have you questioned Lucy about Gabriel?' Sedgwick asked.

Nottingham looked up thoughtfully. ‘I've asked her about him, about when he came after the children. Why?'

‘Have you asked her
about
him? Anything that might have stayed in her memory.'

‘No,' he admitted slowly. ‘I was going to give the girl time to settle, then . . .'

‘Let's go and talk to her. She might know something we can use.' He gave a deep sigh of frustration. ‘Christ only knows we need some help.'

The Constable was already rising and putting on his greatcoat. ‘She trusts me, John. I'll do it.'

‘Do you want me to come with you?'

‘No. It'll be better if it's just me and her.'

He walked purposefully, glancing over at the graves in the churchyard, picking two of them out immediately and feeling the yearning that had been there that morning and would still exist tomorrow and all the days that followed. The sleet stuck the hair to his scalp and a thin, cold trickle of water ran down the back of his neck.

His boots clattered on the boards of Timble Bridge and he turned on to Marsh Lane. The house was barely two hundred yards away, every stone and window familiar. He didn't feel any joy at the sight, but it was still home, where the past had soaked into the walls, where he'd made notches in the door frames to mark how the girls grew each year, where Mary's touch was there in every little thing.

He unlocked the door and entered, slipping off the coat and hanging it on the nail. When he turned, Lucy was there, standing at the entrance to the kitchen, a long knife in her hand. He understood.

‘I didn't know who it was. I thought he'd come back . . .'

‘He won't return,' Nottingham assured her gently. ‘He did what he meant to do here. Come and sit down.'

She perched on the edge of the chair, as if she wasn't sure she should really be there, and looked at him questioningly.

‘Are you letting me go?'

‘No, nothing like that.' He smiled and her mouth twitched nervously. ‘I told you, you have a position here. I need you more than before, now that . . . my wife's gone.'

‘Have I done summat wrong? Just tell me and it won't happen again. I promise it won't.'

‘You've been doing a grand job.' He looked at her. ‘I want to ask you about Gabriel.'

‘I told you before.'

‘You saw him,' he told her. ‘You talked to him.'

Lucy was silent.

‘What was he like? Was he gentle?'

‘Aye.' She bit her lower lip. ‘It was like he could tell which were the weak ones. He'd make them promises until their eyes were shining.'

‘What kind of promises?' The Constable sat forward, hands on his knees, listening intently.

‘You know,' the girl answered. ‘Food. Somewhere to live. Somewhere warm.' Lucy glanced at him. ‘When you lived out there, weren't you allus cold?'

He nodded, remembering for the first time in years the way the weather gnawed at him back then, prickling his skin and burrowing into his marrow.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I was.'

‘I heard him talking to the young ones sometimes. It was like hearing someone tell a story about this lovely place where you want to go.'

‘Did he prefer younger children?'

‘He gave them little sugar things. They liked that. And they'd listen to him.'

‘Didn't anyone try to stop him? To chase him away?'

‘What do you think? But we couldn't watch the little ones all the time. He'd find them when we weren't around. We'd warn them, but some of them would still believe him,' Lucy said sadly.

‘What did he do when he talked to them?'

‘You mean did he touch them or owt like that?'

‘Yes.'

‘He'd just talk to them. But that was enough. You know?'

He knew all too well. When all you had from adults was shouts and threats, kind words and attention were like honey. Of course they'd listen.

‘He'd make it sound like they were going to get all these things. Food, clothes, somewhere warm to live.' She paused. ‘He has a tongue made of sweetness. I'm just glad I didn't meet him when I was little.'

‘You're safe now,' he told her.

‘Aye.' She gave a small, sad smile. ‘I am. But what about them still out there? And the ones still to come?'

‘We'll catch him.'

She raised her eyes and stared at him. ‘You've not done a good job of it so far, have you?'

‘No,' he admitted.

‘Why don't you just kill him? You know he killed all of them. You know he killed the mistress.'

‘Because that's the law,' he told her. ‘Both of them will die, but they'll do it properly when a judge has pronounced sentence.'

‘And what if that doesn't happen?' she asked him.

‘I don't know.' Fury bristled inside him at the thought.

‘Then happen you'd better find an answer,' she said sharply. ‘I don't know how you can sit there and just talk about it.' She blushed. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘What do you think?' he asked quietly. ‘That I'm not hurting? That I don't miss Mary? That I don't feel responsible for what happened to her?'

‘I said I'm sorry.'

‘I'm the Constable. I have to keep to the law. If I don't, why should anyone else?'

‘I know, but—'

‘There can't be any buts. And you know the hardest part? They know that. They're laughing at me.'

‘Because they have money.'

‘That's part of it.'

She stood. ‘I need to start cooking.' In the doorway she turned and said, ‘If you want justice, give me a knife and two minutes with them.'

He heard her moving around, the dull, metallic clack of pans as she started work. He curled his right hand into a fist then opened it again. He hadn't told her what he really wanted to do to the men. He couldn't speak about it to anyone. Once the words and the feelings came out he could never put them away again.