At the Dying of the Year (8 page)

‘Yes sir.' The lad moved quickly, used to obeying orders as soon as they were given.

‘Kick around in the straw,' he added. Nottingham doubted the boy would find anything, but he wanted to be thorough, and he knew he couldn't climb up there and back down himself.

‘Nothing here, sir.'

Grady was still in the yard. He glanced up expectantly.

‘Well, Sergeant,' Nottingham said with a sigh. ‘You were right, they've disappeared.'

‘I told you there were devils here.' The soldier stalked off. The drummer boy looked blankly over his shoulder at the Constable for a moment, then followed.

There were no devils in Leeds, least of all at an inn like this, Nottingham thought. Something had happened. The recruits had managed to escape. The drummer boy could have unlocked the stable door for them, or even a serving girl. He'd need to talk to the landlord and try to pull Andrew aside before the sergeant left. There'd be an answer, he was certain of that, something simple and straightforward. The young men might have gone, but they hadn't simply vanished into the air. No one did that.

It was the last thing he needed. Finding Gabriel was all that mattered, not hunting down a pair who'd likely thought better of their futures after taking the King's shilling. He spent another five minutes searching inside and outside the stable, the horses snorting uncomfortably as he prowled around the building. Finally he stood thoughtfully in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, before striding into the inn.

The sergeant sat at a table, idly moving a mug of ale across the wood.

‘The two who've gone, what were their names?'

Grady needed to think for a moment before answering. ‘Thomas Lamb and Nathaniel Sharp.' He shrugged. ‘That's what they told me, anyway.'

He understood. Young men joined the army for more reasons than adventure. Escaping a wife, debt or the law could all send men to arms, and the names they gave often weren't their own.

‘Where's Andrew?'

‘I sent him down by the river to practise. We're going down to Wakefield later.' He shook his head as if he was trying to clear it. ‘What happened to them? I don't understand.'

‘I don't either,' the Constable admitted. He smiled. ‘But I will.'

He walked down towards the Aire, passing through a ginnel then cutting over Call Brows and Low Holland, following the sharp tattoo of drumbeats. The boy was marching by the water, the drum hanging from his neck by a thick leather strap, large against his tiny body. He put up the sticks as Nottingham approached.

‘You're very good on that.' The boy eyed him warily but said nothing. The Constable gazed out at the water. ‘What do you know about the two who disappeared, Andrew?'

‘Nothing, sir.' The boy looked up with guileless eyes. ‘Just that Sergeant Grady signed them up, sir.'

‘How long have you been with the regiment?'

‘Almost two years, sir.'

‘Do you like it?'

‘Yes, sir,' Andrew said, but his words had no conviction.

‘Where do you come from, lad?'

‘York, sir.'

‘You miss it?'

‘Sometimes.' He brightened for a moment. ‘But Gibraltar is warm.'

‘Tell me, what do you think happened to those two, Andrew?'

The boy didn't answer at first, still staring at the Constable. ‘Don't know, sir. Really, I don't.'

‘Thank you. I wish you well in your travels.'

He walked back to the jail, still not sure if the lad was telling him the truth. He'd probably never know. The deputy was sitting by the desk, laboriously writing out a note.

‘Any luck, John?' he asked hopefully.

‘Nothing,' Sedgwick responded, his mouth tight with frustration. ‘He's nowhere. No one knows him.'

‘He's not the only one, it seems.' He explained about the recruits, and a grin spread across the deputy's face.

‘Devils?' he laughed. ‘Someone felt sorry for them and let them out, more like.'

‘Go on down there and talk to the serving girls and the landlord.'

‘What about Gabriel?'

‘The Corporation's offering a reward,' he said flatly. ‘The posters are going up today.'

Sedgwick frowned and let out his breath loudly.

‘I warned the mayor,' Nottingham continued.

‘Couldn't he give us another day or two?'

‘The city needs to show it's concerned,' he said disgustedly, then picked up the quill pen and tossed it across the desk. ‘They don't care about the children, you know that. They're only bothered because people are angry.'

‘So what are we going to do, boss?'

‘There's no choice. We'll have to go through everything that comes in. It doesn't even matter if we know it's wrong.'

‘Every bastard in the city's going to come through that door.'

‘I know that, John. But there's nothing we can do about it. You'd better get down to the inn and see what you can discover. We'll be busy enough later.'

Alone again, he sat back in frustration. He was no closer to finding Gabriel and he didn't know how the two recruits had escaped. It wasn't a good return to work. He ached all day and by evening he was exhausted, drained by what he'd done. And that had been precious little, he knew.

Perhaps Mary had been right when she'd suggested that he leave the job. It was in the slowest time of his recovery, when the days all seemed dark and clouded and she believed he'd never have good health again. But he'd been certain he needed this; he'd clung to it. Now, mired down this way, he wondered if he should have listened more closely to her.

He picked up the stick, the silver cold against his palm. A hot pie at the Swan would revive his spirits. Before he could reach the door it opened and a man glanced around nervously before ducking quickly into the jail.

He was tall, a worn old bicorn hat on his head, with the diffident, furtive look of a servant on his face.

‘You need the law?' the Constable asked.

The man snatched off his hat awkwardly, holding it in front of him and kneading it nervously between his fingers. He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. The words would need to be teased out of him, Nottingham thought.

‘Has something happened?'

‘This Gabriel,' the man said finally, his voice husky and barely there. ‘It's real, what they say?'

‘It is,' the Constable confirmed. ‘Do you know anything about him?'

The man bit his lip, as if unsure whether to continue. Finally he blurted out, ‘Aye. I think it might be my master.'

H
e looked sharply at the man, but the anguish on his face made it clear he was serious, torn inside. It had cost him a great deal to come here and say those words.

‘Who's your master?' He waited patiently, knowing the answer wouldn't come easily.

‘Mr Darden,' the servant said finally.

The Constable groaned inside. Darden was one of the city's richest merchants, a man who'd served on the corporation. If he'd been killing children . . .

‘Why do you think he might be Gabriel?' he asked, trying to keep his voice even and steady.

‘He has a grey suit and a wig.'

‘Plenty of men own those,' Nottingham countered.

‘And he came home last week with some blood on his clothes,' the man blurted out. ‘On the grey coat.'

‘Did he say anything about it?'

‘Claimed he'd been at a cockfight at the Talbot.'

That was quite possible. If Darden had been at the front of the crowd he could easily have been spattered in blood.

‘Why don't you believe him?'

‘He's never been to one before, and I been with him years now. 'Sides, he's been different since.'

‘How?' He sat again, listening closely.

‘He's been quiet. He can't seem to settle to owt. It's not like him.'

‘Have there been any other times in the last few months when he's seemed strange?' The Constable thought of Jane and David, the two other children Caleb had told him about.

The man scratched at his head. ‘Nay. Not that I can remember right now.'

‘I know it's not easy but you did the right thing in coming to tell me,' Nottingham thanked him.

The man raised his eyes and gave a tight, wan smile that betrayed his pain. ‘I keep thinking of those little ones.'

‘Do you really believe it's Mr Darden?'

‘I don't know.' He gazed at the floor. ‘That's the truth. But he's not been hissen for more than a week now, and that's a fact. He gets up in the night and walks about the house. It just made me wonder.' He moved the hat between his fingers again. ‘You'll not say it were me, will you?'

‘I won't say anything,' the Constable promised. ‘I'll look into it. And if it's him I'll arrest him.'

The man seemed satisfied with that. He gave a quick nod then jammed the hat low on his head and slipped out of the jail.

Jeremiah Darden. The man had money; he'd made a grander fortune than most out of the wool trade. For years he'd been an alderman until he'd resigned, paying a fine to leave office. There had even been vague talk about Darden becoming mayor, Nottingham recalled, but it had never happened.

His wife had died two or three years before, he remembered. The couple had three daughters, bonny girls, all respectably married off around the county, none of the sons-in-law eager to involve themselves in anything as dirty as trade. Darden still sometimes attended the markets at the Cloth Hall and on Briggate. He bought the occasional length of cloth, but most of the business these days was done by his factor and his coffers stayed full.

For all that he'd retreated from public life, even Darden's softest words spoke loudly in Leeds. The people with power paid close attention to all he said. He was friend to them all and banker to a few when they needed it, if the rumours were true. And that meant the Constable needed to move very carefully. An accusation against Jeremiah Darden, especially one like this, was very dangerous.

Hot food at the White Swan would have to wait. Instead, he marched down Briggate to the Talbot.

‘You didn't slip down and let them out in the night, did you, love?' Sedgwick asked with a sly smile.

The maid at the Crown and Fleece stared squarely at him. She was in her late thirties, hands red and raw from washing pots and sheets, face pinched from years of hard work, strands of grey in the hair that escaped from her cap.

‘No, I bloody well did not,' she told him. ‘And if you call me love again you're going to walk out of here with a slapped face.'

He held up his hands in apology. ‘Well, someone must have let them out. They didn't just fly away.' She glared at him. ‘I just thought you might have felt sorry for them.'

The maid snorted and pushed the sleeves higher on her fleshy arms. ‘If they were daft enough to believe that sod they can go and be a soldier for all I care.'

‘Could someone else have done it?' he asked. She seemed the type to harbour a suspicion. ‘The potboy, a serving girl.'

‘Happen,' she conceded, then her eyes flashed in triumph and she sniffed. ‘But the serving girl sleeps in the same room as me. She wasn't up in the night, I can tell you that. And that stable lad could sleep through the day of judgement. It wasn't him.'

It hadn't been the landlord or his wife, either; after talking to them the deputy was certain of that. They were a couple who simply wanted a quiet, uneventful life, a road that ran straight before them all the way to the churchyard.

He'd walked around the stable, gone inside and climbed up to the loft where the hay stood at least almost as tall as a man, ready for winter. But he couldn't see how the two recruits could have vanished without help, and it hadn't come from the inn, he was certain of that. He didn't know the answer and maybe he never would. As he left the inn he saw the sergeant and the drummer boy ahead of him, starting on their way to Wakefield. The soldier walked with his shoulders slumped, all the confidence gone from his stride.

The Talbot was crowded. Men filled the tables, bent over their dinners; the smell of stew filled the air, heavily spiced to hide the rancid taste of meat long past its best. But the food was cheap and hot and it filled the belly.

He walked up to the long trestle where the landlord was drawing ale and carefully avoiding his glance. The Constable waited half a minute then brought the silver tip of the stick down sharply on the wood. Every head jerked towards him.

‘Mr Nottingham,' the man said with a forced smile. ‘I didn't see you standing there.' He wiped his hands slowly on his leather apron.

‘I'm sure you didn't, Mr Bell. You worked hard enough not to. I want a word with you.'

‘We're busy and the girl's off ill,' the landlord protested.

‘Then the quicker you give me answers, the sooner you'll be serving again, won't you? Down that end where it's quiet.'

Bell kept glancing back, making sure everything remained orderly. The noise in the tavern slowly grew again.

‘Is this about them two who died?' he asked. ‘I told that lad of yours, they were outside.'

The Constable didn't reply. He kept staring at the landlord, making him uneasy. That way there was the chance of dragging a little truth from him.

‘They started fighting in here but I kicked them out, and that was an end to it as far as I was concerned.'

‘When did you last hold a cockfight?'

The question took Bell by surprise. ‘A week ago Saturday,' he answered after a moment's thought. ‘Why? Nowt wrong with that.'

‘Do you know Jeremiah Darden?'

‘The merchant?' Bell asked warily. Nottingham nodded. ‘Aye, by sight, same as most in the city.' He was on edge, uncertainty in his eyes as he refused to hold the Constable's gaze.