At the Dying of the Year (7 page)

‘Did that belong to Amos?' Sedgwick asked. Amos Worthy had been the city's biggest pimp, never convicted of anything as half the Corporation used his girls. He and Nottingham had enjoyed a strange relationship, part hatred, part friendship, until Worthy had died of cancer the year before.

‘The old bugger left it to me in his will. I never thought I'd use it.' The Constable laughed. ‘I'm never going to be rid of him.'

They both worked through the afternoon, talking to more people, hoping for any indication of who Gabriel might be, and finding nothing. Towards evening a low, cruel wind blew out of the north, cutting like knives against the skin, and the deputy pulled his coat tighter about him as he finished his rounds.

The house on Lands Lane was warm, filled with the smell of cooking, a pot suspended over the fire in the kitchen. Isabell was awake, sitting on the floor, her eyes widening to see her papa come in on a wave of cold air.

‘Shut that door,' Lizzie told him sharply, but with a welcoming smile on her face. He pulled her close, rubbing his chilled face against hers. She laughed and shrieked, ‘Give over, John Sedgwick, you're perished.' The baby joined the laughter, throwing her head back and giggling. He scooped her up and danced round the room holding her in his arms.

‘Where's James?' he asked and Lizzie raised her head towards the ceiling. Still holding Isabell he climbed the stairs to the bedroom they all shared and found the boy at his school work. He settled on the small pallet, tickling the girl lightly on the chest. ‘What is it tonight?'

‘Spelling.' He looked up, frowning. ‘The master said he'd beat anyone who didn't do well.'

The deputy raised his eyebrows. ‘Aye, I suppose that would make you study. You know it all yet?' He glanced at the long list of words.

‘I hope so, Da,' James replied in a heartfelt voice. ‘Can you test me?'

They ran through ten of the words together. Sedgwick was impressed by his son's confidence; he reeled the letters off quickly, right each time.

‘Very good,' he said finally. ‘You'll make him happy.' He ruffled the boy's hair. ‘I'm proud of you. And so is she,' he added with a laugh as the baby gurgled. ‘You like school, don't you?'

‘Yes, Da.' He slid the slate into his bag. ‘I like to know things.'

‘You'll do well.' He smiled. ‘But you'd better get yourself to bed or your mam won't be happy.'

Rob made his way along the Calls before turning up High Back Lane and coming out on Kirkgate by the White Cloth Hall. The pale stone of the building shone eerily in the moonlight, standing broad and tall, as intimidating as a cathedral.

The Crown and Fleece was quiet. He opened the door to see a few drinkers gathered close to the fire, the landlord leaning on the trestle bar to talk to a customer. He straightened as Rob entered.

‘The sergeant moved on?'

The landlord shook his head. ‘Upstairs asleep. Didn't find any more recruits so he started drinking. He'll be on his way tomorrow.'

‘What about those two lads who signed up?'

‘Locked them in the stable. They'll be warm enough in there while morning.'

He accepted the ale he was offered, grateful to have a few minutes out of the chill, edging closer to the hearth until he felt the heat on his face and hands.

Back on the street he could have sworn it was even colder than before. His breath clouded as he walked, the only sound the clatter of his boots on the cobbles. Everyone was indoors and he wished he was among them. It was still only November.

As he made his rounds he thought about Emily. He could understand that she didn't want to marry, didn't want to be the property of any man. Over the months he'd even come to accept it after a fashion. But deep inside he held tight to a knot of hope that she'd change as she grew older. There was plenty of time yet; she'd just turned seventeen over the summer.

The curse was that he loved her. Contrary as she could be, Emily was the only girl he'd ever cared about. But James Lister desired something different for his son, a suitable wife, someone with the right standing and a handsome dowry, not a girl who was the granddaughter of a prostitute. That had caused the rift between them; it was the reason he lived in lodgings now. He hadn't spoken a word to his father since he left, fully six months before. The lights were all out in the house on Briggate when he passed, his parents tucked under the blankets for the night, shutters closed over the offices of the
Leeds Mercury
, the newspaper his father published.

He made his way down to the riverbank, picking out the small fires flickering in the distance. As he came closer, Bessie emerged from the darkness, coming to meet him before he reached the camp.

‘Getting brisk out here, Mr Lister.'

‘If it keeps on like this we'll have another hard winter,' he agreed. ‘Do you have anything for me?'

In the moonlight he saw her shake her head. ‘One of the lasses took ill and I was looking after her all night. I didn't have time for owt else.'

‘How is she?'

There was a pause, a fill of silence, before she answered.

‘She died.'

‘I'm sorry.'

She tried to smile but there was no heart in it. ‘Aye, well, it happens. There wasn't anything we could do. And there was someone else to look after her little girl.' She shook her head. ‘I'll ask them tonight, I promise.'

‘I know a little more now.' He told her about Gabriel, seeing the anger rise in her eyes.

‘Leave it with me,' Bessie said. ‘If anyone knows anything I'll tell you tomorrow.'

The hours passed slowly. By the time the clock struck five he was glad to return to the jail, put more coal on the fire and start writing his report. He could still feel the cold in his bones, as if he might never be completely warm again.

There was a strong blaze in the grate by the time the deputy arrived, hands pushed deep in the pockets of his ancient greatcoat, closing the door swiftly to keep out the bitter dawn air.

‘At least you've made it cosy in here,' he said with a grin. ‘I knew there was a reason we took you on.'

‘Planning on staying here most of the day?'

‘Chance would be a fine thing. The boss will have me hither and yon. That recruiting sergeant still at the Crown and Fleece?'

‘Leaving today. And he was in his bed early as a Christian last night. No trouble at all.'

‘Many take the King's shilling?' Sedgwick asked idly.

Lister shrugged. ‘Just two, from what the landlord said. They're locked in the stables.'

‘Daft buggers.'

The Constable arrived a few minutes later, breathing deep and warming his hands in front of the blaze before he shrugged off his coat.

‘Anything much during the night?'

‘All quiet, boss,' Rob told him.

‘Were Bessie's people able to help with Gabriel?'

‘She's going to ask them. Someone died there, she didn't have the chance.'

Nottingham sat at the desk and glanced at the night report. ‘Somebody knows him,' he said firmly.

‘We've already talked to everyone,' the deputy observed.

‘Then we'll go back and talk to them again. People have passed the word. I don't care if it's a rumour or a whisper, we need something.' He looked at the others. ‘John, just speak to everyone you can.'

‘Yes, boss.'

‘If you walk down to Timble Bridge you'll have more time with Emily,' he advised Lister. ‘I daresay she'll need some warming up.' He winked and saw Rob blush as Sedgwick laughed.

He finished his daily report and walked up to the Moot Hall. People were tightly wrapped against the weather, hats jammed down hard on heads so only their eyes were visible. A few cattle lowed plaintively at the Shambles, as if they knew what awaited them.

It was all different upstairs, among the Turkey carpets and the polish of the wood panelling. Servants had come in early to lay the fires, then disappeared as if it had all happened by God's will.

Martin Cobb sat at his desk, sorting through a pile of papers. He smiled broadly to see the Constable.

‘Mr Nottingham, your timing's excellent,' he said genially. ‘The mayor just asked to see you. Go on in.'

‘Sit yourself down.' The mayor nodded at the expensive chair, its legs so spindly and delicate they looked as though they'd never hold a man's weight. The Constable lowered himself carefully.

Fenton was dressed in rich wool, a merchant who spent money on his tailoring, wearing his suit easily. The coat and waistcoat were cut to flatter, and his face was smooth and pink from a recent shave, but the skin under his eyes dark and puffy.

He was thumbing through the newest edition of the
Mercury
. On the desk there was a dish of coffee, carried down hot from Garroway's on the Head Row, the aroma rich in the air of the office.

‘Have you found him yet?' he asked, barely raising his eyes.

Nottingham placed his report on the pile of papers awaiting the mayor's attention. ‘Not yet, your Worship.'

‘I heard you turned down the offer of a reward from the merchants.' He folded the newspaper slowly and sat back. ‘Why?'

Nottingham considered his answer for a moment. ‘Because I want to find the man who hurt and killed those children, not someone whose neighbour has a grudge against him and thinks he can earn some quick money,' he said calmly.

Fenton shook his head. ‘I disagree, Constable. Folk will see the city takes this seriously.'

‘We've been talking to people. We know more about him. He calls himself Gabriel, and he wears a full wig and a grey suit. By now most of the people in Leeds know that, too.' His voice was earnest. ‘They'll do what they can to help, and they'll do it without the promise of money.'

‘We need to show people we're concerned.'

The Constable sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to stop himself from shouting. ‘They already know that. Put up a reward and you're only going to make our job much harder. We'll have to follow up every hint or tip, and they'll all be wrong.'

‘And what if one of them's right?' the mayor countered with a smug smile.

‘It's unlikely.' Experience had taught him that. ‘And I'd wager we'd get it without the money.'

‘It doesn't really matter, anyway,' Fenton told him flatly. ‘The Corporation's agreed. I'm having the posters printed today.'

‘Yes, your Worship.' It was a battle he'd already lost. Now he had to think how to make the most of the defeat.

‘Anything else, Nottingham?'

‘No.'

His face was grim as he walked down the corridor. He wanted to bang his fist against the rich wood and smash a hole in the wall. At least once he was outside the cold of the wind and the blood stink from the Shambles seemed real.

As soon as the notices were up people would start coming forward, hoping to snatch at the wealth. And he knew they'd need to check each word and suggestion, just in case. It was all they'd have time to do. He made his way back to the jail, and pushed the iron deep into the coal to let the blaze rise.

He knew he'd done all he could. He'd find the bastard.

The door flew open. The recruiting sergeant entered, his uniform neatly buttoned, the scarlet of the coat brilliant in the dull colour of the jail. The drummer boy slipped in behind him.

‘You're the Constable?' the sergeant asked. Nottingham nodded, pulled from his thoughts. The soldier looked fearful. ‘My recruits have disappeared.'

‘Disappeared?' He didn't understand. ‘What do you mean? They've run off?'

‘No,' he replied and then shook his head in confusion, pushing his lips together. ‘I don't know. They were in the stable and the door was locked. When I went in for them this morning they'd gone.'

‘And the door was still locked?'

‘Aye, good and tight. I turned the key myself last night and opened it a few minutes ago.' He voice was wary. ‘There's a devil in there.'

‘Let's go and take a look, Sergeant . . .'

‘Grady. Daniel Grady.' The man straightened his back.

‘And what's your name?' the Constable asked the drummer.

‘Andrew, sir.'

The lad wore old clothes that had been made for a bigger boy, and a pair of drumsticks was thrust through a worn leather belt. His face and hands had been roughly cleaned, the skin shining and red. But his boots were good, almost new and highly polished.

Nottingham rose, gathered his stick and smiled. ‘Crown and Fleece, isn't it?' he asked.

The sergeant had locked the stable door and lowered the wooden bar.

‘This is how you left it last night?'

‘Yes, sir,' Grady said. ‘I went to me bed early. The two lads had been drinking, and I knew they'd be warm enough in here with the beasts.'

‘Let's see inside.'

The horses whinnied as the door was drawn back to let light into the stable. The air was warm and moist, full with the smell of horse shit and hay. The Constable stood and glanced around the building. There were no windows, and the animals were confined in their stalls. A ladder led up to the hayloft.

‘Have you checked up there?'

‘I sent the boy up,' Grady answered and Nottingham turned to Andrew.

‘There was just hay, sir,' the boy said shyly. ‘No sign of anyone.'

He walked around the outside of the stable, searching for another door or any place the recruits could have escaped. There was nothing. The place was only a few years old, the Yorkshire stone still a soft golden colour, the roof on tight with no gaps.

The sergeant looked haunted, confronted by something far beyond his understanding. He moved awkwardly from foot to foot, turning his head from side to side as if he might spot the recruits hiding somewhere in the yard.

‘Andrew,' the Constable said, ‘go up to the loft again and look in the hay.'