At the Dying of the Year (25 page)

‘But . . .'

‘I know.' He reached across the table and placed his hand lightly over hers. ‘We survived when Rose died.'

‘Mama was with us then.' Her eyes were glistening.

‘She's still here,' he said quietly. ‘She's always going to be here.'

‘It hurts.'

‘It does,' he agreed.

‘Was it like this when Grandmama died?'

Had it? His mother had been ill for so long that he was
the only thing keeping her alive. They existed in rooms where the runnels of damp came down the walls and he stole and begged food that she could barely eat. When her breath stopped he'd felt relief first of all; she didn't have to struggle any more. The pain took longer. It was still there, buried deep, and it would never vanish.

‘No,' he answered finally. ‘But I wish she was still here. She'd have been very proud of you. Mama was, too. So am I.'

She smiled and the tears began. Better that she let them out, he thought.

They sat by the firelight and talked, sharing their memories. He told her tales that brought laughter, and he learned things about Mary as a mother that he'd never known. Eventually he stood.

‘We both need our beds,' he said.

‘Thank you, Papa.' She hugged him, still sniffling a little.

‘As long as we're here, she'll never go away,' he reminded her.

‘I know.'

‘D
o either of you have any ideas how we can put Darden and Howard in the dock?'

They'd gathered in the jail, Rob yawning behind his hand, the deputy looking dishevelled, his old hose filled with rips. Nottingham looked from one face to the other.

‘That Lucy of yours can identify Howard,' Sedgwick said.

‘His lawyer would tear her apart in court. Especially since she came to work for me.'

The deputy grunted. ‘Couldn't they just disappear?'

‘No. I want them to go to trial and I want to see them hang for what they've done. I want everyone to know.' His voice was hard and determined.

‘Yes, boss.'

‘We'd better keep digging. The longer it goes on, the harder it'll be for us to find anything.'

He watched them leave, finished the daily report and walked it over to the Moot Hall. A heavy frost had fallen overnight, leaving the flagstones and cobbles white and slick. Martin Cobb was at his desk, head bent over his work; he looked up as the Constable approached.

‘The mayor wants to see you,' he warned.

‘Is he in?'

‘Arrived five minutes ago.'

He knocked and entered. Fenton was at his desk. The fire blazed in the hearth, making the room luxuriously warm.

‘Sit down, Nottingham.'

He settled awkwardly on the delicate chair and waited. The mayor looked harried, in need of a shave, white bristles sprouting on his chin. He read through a paper, dipped the quill in a small jar of ink and scribbled his signature across the bottom before pushing it aside.

‘People have been talking to me,' he said.

‘Oh?'

‘It seems you're still asking questions about Mr Darden and his factor.'

‘I am,' the Constable admitted.

‘Why? I told you to stop.'

‘My job is to find who killed those children.' He looked directly at Fenton. ‘And my wife,' he added.

‘When we put up the reward, people came forward. Have you looked at them?'

‘Of course. All it did was waste good time,' Nottingham told him flatly.

‘You'd already made up your mind.'

‘It was them.'

The mayor sighed. ‘You're grieving. Your thinking is muddled.'

‘Is it?'

‘That's what I'll tell Darden's lawyer when he complains. But if you keep it up I'm going to talk to the Corporation and we'll start looking for a new Constable. I'm sorry about your wife but you've been nothing but trouble since you came back to work. I'll not tolerate you defaming Jeremiah Darden. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Very.' He stood. ‘But you'd better think about what you're going to say when it comes out that they killed those children. I know about Darden and that boy.'

‘You know nothing,' Fenton replied firmly. ‘You've got an idea fixed in your head and it's the wrong one. I've given you the last warning; there won't be another.'

Once he was outside all the rage of the last few days welled up in him. His wound hurt and his legs ached, but he forced himself to walk out along the Head Row, beyond Burley Bar and into the countryside beyond. The road to Woodhouse snaked off into the distance and he followed it along the hill, all the way to the common land where people still grazed their cows in the summer. The beasts were all away in their byres now and the ground was empty; most folk were too sensible to be out in the cold.

The wind tore at him, harsh enough to take his breath away for a moment. He opened his greatcoat, letting everything buffet him. Slowly he knelt, the dampness of the earth soaking straight through his breeches. Alone, he could cry, letting the tears fall and the sobs shake his body. He shouted out for her, for himself, for everything that was lost. He put his hands on the grass, feeling it damp against his fingers, and tore up tufts of it, anything that could ease the pain inside.

When he'd finished he pushed himself slowly back to his feet. His throat was raw, and a thin drizzle hid the tears. He breathed deeply and walked slowly back to the city.

The clock had struck eleven by the time the deputy entered the Talbot. He could smell a stew cooking somewhere, but he'd have put money on the meat being tainted, bought cheap, the taste hidden with spices. Soon enough folk would be in for their dinner, some spending the rest of the day here, meeting and making their bargains behind tankards of ale. None of them would stay if they saw him.

Bell the landlord was wiping down the trestle with a wet, dirty cloth. He looked up as Sedgwick approached.

‘I said I'd give you a day.'

‘Aye, I remember.'

‘Have you done some thinking?'

‘Mebbe,' Bell replied. He poured himself a mug of ale from the barrel and tasted it.

‘It's your choice. I've a man with nothing better to do than spend his day outside the door.'

‘What do you want to know?'

‘Was Darden here from that cockfight?'

‘No,' the landlord admitted grudgingly.

‘First he wasn't here, then he was, and now he wasn't. Which is it to be, Mr Bell?' He kept his voice low and pleasant, enjoying the man's torment.

‘He was never here.' There was hatred in Bell's eyes.

‘So why did you lie?'

‘I was offered money.'

‘Who by?'

‘Hugh Smithson. He works for Mr Howard.'

‘I know who he is. He told you to say Mr Darden had been here and paid you for that?'

‘Aye, if anyone asked, that was what I was to tell them. I had to say I'd forgotten he'd been here.'

‘You'd better be prepared to swear to that in court,' the deputy told him.

‘You never said owt about court,' Bell said sharply.

‘Didn't I?' Sedgwick asked blandly.

‘I can't do that.' The landlord shook his head slowly. ‘I'll tell you, but that's it.' He raised his head defiantly. ‘I don't give a bugger what you do.'

‘Are you sure about that?'

‘Aye,' he said. ‘I am. Leave a man here all the time if you want.'

The deputy stared at him for a moment then nodded and left. He wouldn't be able to push Bell further. He had something now, though, even if he couldn't use it in court. It might be worth going to Solomon Howard's house to talk to Smithson once more.

But the man who answered the door wasn't familiar. He was heavily muscled, starting to run to fat, with dark hair cropped short against his skull and a thick, fleshy neck.

‘I'm looking for Hugh Smithson,' Sedgwick began.

‘Gone,' the man answered bluntly and began to close the door. The deputy wedged a foot on the step.

‘Gone?'

‘Mr Howard wasn't happy with his work.'

‘When did that happen?'

‘Two days back.' Tuesday, the deputy thought. The day the boss showed Howard the pouch. The day Mary Nottingham was killed.

‘Where's he gone?'

‘Buggered if I care.' The man pushed harder and Sedgwick gave way. The door slammed closed in his face.

‘Tell your men to keep their eyes open for someone called Hugh Smithson,' the deputy told Rob. Outside the jail it was full dark, the night bitter.

‘Who's he?'

‘He was Howard's servant until Tuesday. Sacked. He's the one who let me in the house. The older men will remember him. He has a bit of a past, does Hugh.'

‘What do you want me to do if I find him?'

‘Bring him in. He'll likely welcome a bed for the night, anyway.'

‘What's he done?'

‘If he's been out of work for two days and doesn't have any money, he'll have done something,' Sedgwick promised.

‘I can't sleep,' Sedgwick whispered to Lizzie. They were in bed, both James and Isabell asleep, the night quiet around them.

‘Work?' He was holding her close, enjoying the warmth of her body. His greatcoat and her cape were piled on the bed, on top of the thin blanket.

‘Aye,' he answered slowly. ‘We're trying to find evidence on the bastard who killed Mary Nottingham and those children. It just feels like we're chasing him and he keeps moving another step ahead.'

‘You'll prove it, love,' she said lazily, curling around him. ‘Just settle down and rest. You need it.'

He sighed and closed his eyes. Images and ideas roiled through his mind. He let them pass, breathing quietly until they passed and everything faded away.

There was a sharp frost on the ground, the grass edged with white, the ground iron-hard under the worn soles of his boots. Away in the bare trees birds were beginning to sing. Soon enough there'd be snow and ice covering it all and the year would be dead.

The deputy was already at the jail, standing close to the fire. The skin was tight over his face, his eyes filled with weariness.

‘Anything, John?'

Sedgwick explained what he'd learned, then said, ‘He's not in the cells,' and shrugged.

‘If we can find him . . .' the Constable mused.

‘Aye. If.'

The door opened and Rob entered, his cheeks red from the cold.

‘Did you find out about Hugh?' the deputy asked.

Lister shrugged off his heavy coat and came close to the fire before answering.

‘There's no sign of him.'

‘What do you mean, no sign?'

Rob poured a little ale into a mug and drank. ‘Two of the men remembered him. They asked around. Smithson was out drinking Tuesday night.'

‘The Talbot?' Sedgwick interrupted.

Lister nodded. ‘He said he'd been dismissed and he was leaving Leeds. But he had money, he was buying flagons most of the evening.'

‘Did he say where he was going?' Nottingham asked.

‘No, boss.'

‘Fuck!' the deputy shouted in exasperation and began to pace round the room. ‘Howard's just making fools of us. He's paid Smithson off and sent him away so we can't question him.'

‘It sounds that way,' the Constable agreed calmly.

‘Well, what are we going to do?'

‘We're still going to find a way to catch Mr Howard.'

‘How?' Sedgwick raged.

‘I don't know yet, John,' Nottingham admitted. ‘But we'll do it.'

The deputy grabbed his greatcoat and left, the door closing loudly behind him.

‘You leave, too, lad. I'm sure Emily could use some company on the walk to school.'

‘Yes, boss.' Rob smiled.

‘Just be kind to her. She's going to need a lot of tenderness. It was bad enough when Rose died, but this . . .'

‘I will.' He hesitated, then asked, ‘What about you, boss?'

‘I'll survive,' he replied grimly.

Martin Cobb was at his desk, a wary smile on his face. The Constable dropped the daily report on to the man's desk.

‘Does he want me again?' he asked, nodding at the mayor's office.

‘Not today, Mr Nottingham.' He gave a small cough. ‘Do you have your accounts ready for the year?'

‘My accounts?' For a moment he wasn't sure he'd heard properly.

At least Cobb had the goodness to blush. ‘Mr Fenton wants you to meet the treasurer for the Corporation on Tuesday and go through the accounts for the jail.'

‘We're trying to catch a murderer. Before that I was off for months after being stabbed, as his Worship well knows.' He barely managed to keep his voice under control. ‘Of course the accounts aren't up to date, and they won't be by Tuesday.'

‘I'm sorry,' the clerk said, the flush rising on his face. ‘That's what he said to tell you. He wants you there with the accounts for the jail.'

The Constable sighed and nodded slowly. ‘Oh, I'll be there,' he agreed.

He understood perfectly well what the mayor was doing. There would be discrepancies in the accounts, just as there always were, and the treasurer would find them. That would be enough to dismiss him as Constable. It wouldn't be the deputy who took over this time, either, but someone more deferential to authority.

Back at the jail he sat at his desk, pulling papers from drawers, items dating back to the start of the year. He started to place them in order, then put them aside. No matter what he did, the mayor was determined to find some excuse to replace him.

He sat back, tired to exhaustion in his soul. It seeped through his bones and into his heart. Mary was gone and nothing mattered any more. He took out the silk pouch and let the eleven locks of hair fall to the desk. They were painful to see, but even they couldn't stir his anger the way they had before she was killed.