At the Dying of the Year (19 page)

Sedgwick smiled. ‘I daresay Hugh Smithson could be persuaded to let me in if I kept silent about his past.'

Nottingham was silent for a long time. Then: ‘You'd better make sure you're not caught.'

‘I will.'

‘It's not right, boss,' Rob said after the deputy had left. ‘Doing it that way.'

‘It's not right to torture and kill children, either.' His voice was firm and his eyes hard. ‘I'll do what I have to in order to find out who murdered them.'

‘You're certain it's Howard?'

‘I'm positive. Lucy identified him. Do you still see the faces at night?'

Lister nodded.

The Constable softened his tone. ‘That's why I'm doing this. He's one of the people who thinks he can build walls of money to protect himself. But I'll dig under them.'

He knocked softly on the door. One, a pause, and then two more. Smithson opened it and the deputy slipped in quickly.

‘Be quick, please, Mr Sedgwick. The cook will only be an hour at the market.'

‘I'll be as fast as I can, Hugh.'

He felt the thud of his heart in his ribs. It had taken a few days to set this up. There was a meeting with Smithson, with hints and threats of letting the man's past slip to his master and a warning of what would happen after. Even when he'd reluctantly agreed, they still needed a time when both Howard and the cook would be gone.

Now it was Saturday morning. The factor had been at the cloth market and he'd spend the rest of the day at the warehouse. The deputy had watched the cook leave for market, a basket over her arm, before climbing over the wall into the back garden of the house.

He took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. Howard would keep anything incriminating well hidden, in a locked desk or chest. The bedroom was well-furnished, the mattress of down, the sheets fine linen. Six suits hung from pegs, more than he'd even seen together before, and all of them costly but none of them grey. Ten long waistcoats, silk embroidered with gold thread in beautiful patterns of peacocks, birds and flowers, the colours dazzlingly bright. He checked the pockets, then the two chests full of shirts and hose. There was nothing.

Moving softly, he checked the rest of the rooms before going back down. The desk in the parlour was open, with a letter half-written. He searched carefully through the drawers, then moved on. In the dining room a dark oak dresser filled one wall, displaying a collection of silver plate, cutlery stored carefully in a chest.

Finally he tried another door. It was locked. He took a small set of picks from the pocket of his breeches and tried one, then another. At the fourth attempt one fitted, and he was in the room. Light came from a barred window that looked out on the garden.

The strongbox was crafted to keep money safe, with three heavy locks; it would take too long to open them all. Ledgers were stacked on the desk, next to a quill and an inkwell. There was little of interest in the drawers, bills from tailors and shoemakers.

Time was running short and so far he'd come up empty-handed. The hearth was empty but he could feel the sweat running down his back. Another chest stood in the corner. He fumbled with the picks, his hands slick, then it was open.

The grey suit was carefully folded, breeches on top of the coat, dark stains on them both. He lifted them out. Underneath was a knife, the blade wiped roughly clean, and a riding crop. A silk pouch lay on the bottom; in it were neatly-tied locks of hair of all colours, more than ten of them, all soft to the touch.

The deputy put it inside his shirt, then the knife in his pocket. The suit was too bulky to carry and he placed it back in the chest before securing it again. It took precious moments of trying before the lock clicked once more on the door to the room.

Smithson was still at the back door, pacing anxiously up and down the room. ‘I'll not ask if you found what you wanted,' he said.

‘Best not,' Sedgwick advised him.

‘You promise you won't say anything to Mr Howard?'

‘I told you, Hugh. You ought to know by now that I keep my word.'

With a quick scramble over the wall he was out and breathing deeply. He waited a minute or two, his back against the stone, breath blooming in the cold air, before walking slowly back to the jail.

‘What did you find?' the Constable asked urgently as Sedgwick poured himself a glass of ale and downed it in a single gulp. His throat was dry as a summer road and his hands shook slightly. Rob had stayed, eager to see if the deputy had discovered anything.

Now he watched as the deputy produced a knife and pulled out a small silk packet. ‘Hidden away in a chest in his strongroom.' He paused. ‘There's a grey suit there, too.'

Nottingham was opening the pouch, watching as locks of hair tumbled to the desk and counting through them. ‘Eleven,' he said dully. ‘And we only have the names of five of them. Does anyone know you took these?' the Constable asked.

Sedgwick shook his head. ‘Hugh just guarded the back door. I'm certain he doesn't know that his employer is Gabriel.'

Nottingham turned to Lister. ‘Howard will look in that chest soon enough. Then we'll see.'

‘You said Darden lied about going to the cockfight at the Talbot,' Rob said slowly. ‘What if he and Howard are in this together?'

‘I suspect they probably are.'

The Constable had considered it often enough in the last few days. Everything had churned in his mind during the long nights when sleep didn't arrive swiftly. Inside, he believed that the merchant and factor were both guilty of killing the children; it would explain so much. He glanced down at the hair again, some straight, some curly, each lock carefully cleaned and tied before being put away.

Knowing was one thing. For all his brave words, Nottingham understood that proving it in court would be impossible against two men with wealth and influence. They'd draw their power around them and the two of them would protect each other. The Corporation would never allow Darden to be convicted, not with the stain that would put on its reputation. His only hope was that the two men would do something, make some error, and they were too clever for that. They'd managed to keep their sins hidden for a long time; they'd be careful no sun shone on them now.

‘Can we keep a man on them, boss?' the deputy asked.

‘Lawyer Benson's made it very clear there'll be a lawsuit if we do.' He gestured at the knife and hair. ‘We can't use this. We don't even have it.'

‘So what can we do now?' Lister asked.

‘We wait and hope.'

By the end of the day he felt drained. He'd tried to imagine some way to bring the men to justice and he'd come up with nothing. Unless they did something stupid, he was impotent. An icy drizzle had begun during the afternoon and he clattered across Timble Bridge with his head bowed, kicking at a stone and watching it roll into the beck.

A fire was burning in the grate and he stood gratefully before it, the warmth seeping slowly into his bones. He could hear Mary and Lucy chattering in the kitchen. The girl was smiling more, so proud of the dress cut down for her that she kept stopping to glance at herself in the looking glass.

Eleven children dead – twelve with Caleb – and he could name only half of them. They'd never find the other bodies, never learn who they were. And the men who'd killed them could carry on with their business, making money, still alive and flaunting their wealth.

He wanted them to pay. He wanted to be in court when the judge sentenced them. He wanted to see the mayor's face as the two men jounced at the end of a rope on Chapeltown Moor. But he didn't see any road he could follow to make that happen.

‘You're miles away, Richard,' Mary said.

He'd never even heard her approach. ‘Just thinking,' he answered with a smile.

‘You don't look happy.'

‘It'll pass. Who's cooking today?'

‘Lucy.' She laughed at his expression. ‘Don't worry, I showed her what to do.'

‘As long as it tastes better than the pottage she made.'

‘It will,' she laughed. ‘She's coming along quickly. I'll let her go to the market for me on Tuesday.'

‘Please don't,' he said. ‘One of the reasons she's here is to keep her out of sight.'

‘Of course.' She smiled sadly. ‘She's just so alive that I keep forgetting about that.'

‘Glad she's here?'

She nodded and held him. He laid his arms around her, smelling her hair, her face against his shoulder.

‘Emily and Rob will be here soon, she's bringing him for his supper,' she said.

‘They've been out walking?'

‘They're young and in love,' she reminded him. ‘They won't even have noticed the weather. We went out in worse than this.'

‘Only because your father wouldn't trust us alone in a room.'

She slapped his arm playfully. ‘And you know he was right on that.'

‘Maybe he was,' he conceded with a grin.

The door opened and Emily swept in, dragging off her bonnet and shaking out the damp from her cape. Rob entered behind her, the pair of them talking loudly, and the house suddenly felt full and livelier.

‘Staying to eat, then, lad?' the Constable asked.

‘Yes, boss.'

‘We'll give you first bite.' His eyes twinkled and he squeezed Mary's arm lightly. ‘Especially as you liked that pottage so much the other night.'

By the time Lucy carried the pot to the table, careful not to spill a drop, they were seated and ready. The girl started to return to the kitchen but Mary said, ‘Pull up a stool. Sit down.'

‘Ma'am?' Lucy looked at her in confusion.

‘You're one of us, you live here. Come and eat with us.'

The girl flashed a look at Nottingham. He gave her a quick nod.

‘Thank you.'

She stayed quiet during the meal, watching the others as they talked. The Constable saw her staring hungrily at the pot and said, ‘Help yourself to more if you want. There's still some left.'

She still ate greedily, keeping her face close to the plate, scarcely tasting the food. He remembered the first good meal he'd had after living rough. The old Constable had taken him home and put a bowl of stew in front of him. At first he'd thought it was a joke of some kind, that it would be snatched away from him. Then he'd gobbled it all down, not even chewing the meat and gristle, before wiping up every drop of the juice with a piece of bread. It still seemed like the best thing he'd ever tasted.

As the light waned outside the window, he sat back, hearing the bright laughter between Rob and Emily, seeing the tenderness on Mary's face at having her family around her, and he felt glad he was still alive. When the pain of his wound had been its worst, back at the start of the summer, he'd believed death might be better. Now he was grateful to have survived, to enjoy moments like this and see his daughter happy. She might be contrary at times, unwilling to marry her young man, but his love for her was as big as heaven.

Eventually Rob stood. Nottingham knew the lad was reluctant to leave, but Saturday was always the busiest night of the week. Men had been paid and wanted to drink away all the miseries of the week. There'd be arguments and fights, in a bad week even murder.

‘Just watch yourself,' he advised.

‘Yes, boss.'

Lucy disappeared with the dishes, and the brief moments of joy passed. He sat in front of the fire with Mary. She had a book open, her yearly reading of
Pilgrim's Progress
, and he had the
Leeds Mercury
draped over his knees.

‘They're right together, aren't they?' he asked.

‘They are,' Mary agreed. ‘I suppose we looked like that once. Young and in love.'

‘Once.' He chuckled, then sighed. ‘Do you think she'll ever give in and marry him?'

‘Only if she really wants to, when she's good and ready. I don't even try and talk to her about it any more. She can be as stubborn as you when she wants.'

‘Stubborn?'

‘You are and you know it,' she said with a gentle smile. ‘It's one of your attractions.'

‘One of many?'

‘Don't fish for compliments, Richard.'

Monday had dawned clear, the stars still bright in the sky as he walked to work. Tomorrow, he thought, he'd leave the stick at home; he felt he'd be fine without it, and would look less of an invalid.

‘How was Saturday night?' he asked Rob.

‘Busy.' The lad rubbed at his eyes. His face looked drawn, the red hair even wilder than usual. ‘We'd no sooner stopped one fight then we'd be called to another. The cells were packed yesterday morning. Mr Sedgwick kicked most of them out when they'd sobered up.'

‘Anything serious?'

Rob shrugged. ‘A pair of woundings. Nothing fatal. There's two back there for the Petty Sessions later.' He passed over the report.

‘You go and get some sleep.'

‘I will, boss.'

At the Moot Hall he'd half-expected again to be called into the mayor's office. He was surprised Fenton wasn't putting more pressure on him to find Gabriel. Then again, he thought, the man could always claim that the Corporation had done its part, put up the reward, and any failing was from the Constable and his men.

The day passed quietly enough. He spent the time in thought, trying to find a way to use the evidence from Howard's house which sat in his drawer. The knife. Even more, eleven locks of hair.

It made sense that Howard was in it with Darden. It gave meaning to the blood on the merchant's coat and the changed testimony about him attending the cockfight at the Talbot. But try as he might he could find nothing to help him put them in court.

The next day he walked down Briggate to the cloth market before the bell rang. At home he'd picked up the stick, then replaced it against the wall, feeling stronger.

Howard and Darden were standing in the middle of the street, talking to some of the other merchants. The factor gave him a killing look, fists clenched, before turning back and trying to concentrate on the conversation. His face was pale, with dark smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes.