Come the Fear (29 page)

‘We can't go through this again.'

He nodded. ‘I don't know what else we can do. We love him, you treat him like he's yours.'

‘He doesn't like Isabell.'

‘It's not that. He's had us to himself, he liked that. And now she's here he thinks we don't love him any more.'

‘But—'

‘I know,' he said softly. ‘We just need to give him a little time. Let him really see that we still love him.'

‘We've tried that,' Lizzie said helplessly.

He sighed. ‘Then we've just got to keep on doing it. He's a good lad, you know that.' He yawned and closed his eyes, feeling all the life draining from him.

‘Go to bed, John,' she told him. ‘James isn't the only one needing his sleep.'

‘I need to work. With what happened to that girl when I shot the thief taker . . .'

‘Not today, you don't. Mr Nottingham will understand,' she said firmly. ‘And if he doesn't, I'll tell him.'

The Constable spent the rest of the day moving between the people he knew who might have seen Wendell. They were the folk who lived like ghosts, the ones unseen at the frayed edges of society.

They were men and women who haunted the market, scavenging for something to sustain them until the next day, rotten fruit and meat too spoiled even for the dogs at the Shambles.

He knew their names, knew where to find them in the shadowed spaces where no one else would go. They seemed to vanish in order to die; their bodies were rarely found, and when they were there was peace on their faces, as if giving up life had been release, not pain.

But none of them had seen the man. They shook their heads to answer Nottingham's question, or pointed fingers to suggest possibilities.

He stayed out until evening was falling, finding his way down to the river, seeking the man Rob had talked to before. Simon Gordonson was there, a face the Constable recognized, the withered right arm close to his chest. Several fires glowed and crackled, people of all ages gathered around them. One girl rocked and suckled her baby while an old man held a small piece of meat in the blaze with a stick.

‘Mr Nottingham,' Gordonson said. He worked hard to stay presentable, the worst of the dirt cleaned from his breeches and coat each day, his hose washed, lank hair finger-combed.

‘Quite a group, Mr Gordonson,' the Constable said with admiration.

‘And more of them every day,' Gordonson said sadly. ‘These are hard times.'

‘They're always hard times unless you have money. My man said you had Lucy Wendell here for a few days.'

‘We did. Maybe if she'd stayed . . .' He shook his head helplessly.

‘I'm looking for her brother.'

‘He'd find no welcome here.' There was no doubt in his voice. ‘I've heard what he did to her.'

‘I need your people to keep their eyes open for him. He's out there.'

‘And if they see him?'

‘Then come and tell me,' Nottingham told him.

‘There are plenty of folk here who don't trust the law,' Gordonson said warily. ‘They think it's only for those with money.'

‘There's law and there's justice, Mr Gordonson. I want justice for Lucy. Tell them that, please.'

The man nodded his agreement.

‘I hear they found your deputy's lad.'

‘They did, and he's safe now.' Nottingham smiled.

‘What about the other boy, the one who went missing on Saturday?'

‘We found him, too. I'm surprised you don't know that.'

‘It just seemed strange, that's all. People searching all over and suddenly he's there by the Bridge.' Gordonson raised his eyebrows.

‘I think people were just glad to have him back,' the Constable said blandly.

‘If you say so.' Gordonson looked at him curiously.

‘I do.' He kept his eyes firmly on the man. He'd give away nothing on this. The less anyone realized, the better. ‘I'd appreciate the help of these people in finding Peter Wendell.'

‘I'll ask, but the choice is theirs.'

‘Of course,' Nottingham agreed. ‘I heard that Robbins is seeking a clerk over at the tannery.'

Gordonson lifted the withered right arm. ‘Even with this?'

‘If you can write a good hand and you'll work hard I doubt he'll care.'

The man inclined his head towards the groups gathered around the fires. ‘And who'd look after them if I left?'

‘Maybe they can look after themselves.'

Gordonson smiled. ‘I feel a responsibility for them, Mr Nottingham. They're all good people.'

‘Most people are, I find.' He reached into the large pocket of his waistcoat and drew out a purse. He'd taken it from a pickpocket and no one had ever come to claim it. ‘This might help them.'

The man's eyes widened as he weighed the money in his palm. ‘That's very generous.'

‘It's just been sitting at the jail. Someone might as well have the use of it.'

‘But it won't buy us, Constable.'

‘It's not intended to, Mr Gordonson.' He tipped his hat, turned and walked away.

No one had word of Peter Wendell. Wherever the man was, he was staying out of sight. He hadn't gone home again, according to the man on watch at Queen Charlotte's Court. But he was still in Leeds, the Constable was certain of that; it was the only place he knew.

Rob was at the jail when he returned, hungrily eating a pie before setting off on his rounds.

‘Any luck on the other side of the river?' he asked.

‘Hints and rumours, that's all. You'd think they were made of air.'

‘I'll send Mr Sedgwick over there tomorrow.'

‘James is fine?'

‘That's what I heard,' Nottingham told him. ‘John will be in with the morning.'

‘Anything I should look for tonight, boss?'

‘Peter Wendell,' he answered after a moment. ‘He might well come out at night. Have the men alert for him. Watch out, though, he's dangerous.'

‘Yes, boss.'

‘Did you see Emily today?'

Rob nodded.

‘You'll need your patience with her,' Nottingham told him. ‘And I'm saying that as her father.'

‘Yes, boss.'

‘Now go on, off you go.'

Alone, he finished his report and heard the city slowing with the night. There were shouts and laughter from the White Swan next door and the occasional sound of footsteps, late workers heading to their hearths.

Finally he pushed paper and quill away from him. There was nothing more he could do tonight. With a deep sigh he stood and stretched, locked the door behind him and set off slowly down Kirkgate. On impulse, at the Parish Church he opened the lych gate and made his way over to Rose's grave. The moon was high and bright enough to make out the words on the headstone.

‘That sister of yours,' he said quietly. ‘I wonder if she'll ever change. She's still bloody contrary.'

He squatted and placed his palm on the grass that had grown over his older daughter.

‘We all miss you, love.' He sighed softly. ‘I'm not sure God had a plan that let you die, but I'm not sure he looks over this life, either.' He stroked the earth as if it was skin, tenderly and gently. ‘You'll always be in our hearts, you know that.'

He stopped again at Timble Bridge, listening to the water burble over the rocks and pebbles, then walked up Marsh Lane, seeing a thin light shining through the shutters at home.

Mary sat in her chair, reading, and he bent over to kiss her. He could hear the footsteps as Emily moved around upstairs in her room.

‘I wondered if you'd be home tonight,' she said.

‘Nothing more I could do,' he explained, unable to stifle a yawn.

‘And more sleep won't hurt you,' she pointed out.

‘I know,' he admitted, taking Mary's hand and pulling her to her feet so he could hold her. ‘We could have an early night together, if you want.'

‘Maybe you should come home and rest in the daytime more often,' she said with a twinkling smile.

‘Chance would be a fine thing.'

‘Then let the others do more. They're younger than you.'

‘I'll be at my best come the morning,' he promised her.

‘I hope you'll be at your best before then, Richard,' she told him with a grin.

There'd been no sign or whisper of Peter Wendell during the night. Rob had been out with the men, checking the dark places where someone might hide. There were plenty of folk out there, sleeping in the spaces others ignored, their few belongings on their backs, faces hollow and eyes blank when they were roused, too cowed to complain.

The clock had hardly struck four, with the bare rise of dawn, when the door of the jail opened. Lister looked up from his report, one hand sliding to grab the cudgel. A woman entered, her face as sharp as if someone had planed down the flesh, eyes appraising him carefully.

‘Mr Nottingham in yet?' she asked.

‘No.'

‘You tell him Alice Wendell came by.'

‘Lucy's mother?'

‘Aye,' she said curtly. ‘He came, drunk as owt, needing somewhere to stay.'

Rob stood. ‘Is he still there?'

She nodded. ‘Sleeping as if God owed him the time.' She pursed her lips. ‘Nay, there's no rush, lad, he'll not be waking soon, not the state he was in.' She turned to leave, then added, ‘I'll warn you, though, he won't come easy, even in his cups.'

Rob sent men out to fetch Nottingham and the deputy, waiting anxiously for them to arrive. He could feel his heart beating faster with anticipation, flexing his fingers and looking at the cupboard where they kept the weapons.

Within half an hour all of them were there.

‘She said he's sleeping?' the Constable asked. He looked calm, his stock neatly tied, clean hose on his legs. Sedgwick seemed distracted, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes.

‘But be careful of him.'

‘I think we've learned that,' Nottingham said wryly. He drew three swords from the cupboard. ‘Don't use these unless you have to. Take your cudgels, too. Rob, get the manacles. I want those on him as soon as possible.'

‘Yes, boss.'

‘We'll take two of the others. They'll stay outside, just in case we need them. You ready, John?'

‘Yes, boss,' the deputy answered.

‘How's James?'

‘Still sleeping when I left.'

‘He'll be fine.'

‘Aye, I hope so.' His voice was flat and resigned, the pock marks on his face standing out red and livid in the early light.

‘Come on, then,' the Constable said. ‘And remember, I want him fit to talk. I want to find out what happened to Lucy Wendell.'

They marched down Briggate, hearing the servants slowly starting their morning work, then along Call Lane. Nottingham was quiet, his jaw set, the deputy striding next to him, long legs covering the distance easily. Rob hung back slightly, walking with the other men, the scabbard banging against his leg as he moved.

At the house on the Calls Nottingham issued his orders.

‘The room's in the cellar. Rob, John, you come with me. Alice Wendell will let us in. See if you can get the manacles on Peter before he wakes.' He gestured at the others. ‘There's only one door. You two stay out here in case he gets past us. If he comes out, hit him hard and bring him down.'

‘Can we trust her?' Sedgwick asked.

‘Yes,' the Constable answered without hesitation. Even though it would cost her a great deal, she wanted justice for Lucy. He led the way down the stairs, treading quietly, then tapped lightly on the door, Lister and the deputy so close behind that he could feel their breath on his neck.

She answered quickly, moving aside for them to enter. Peter Wendell lay on the pallet, his skin caked with dirt, the stubble grown heavy enough on his face to make him almost unrecognizable. He was sleeping deeply, the blanket pulled up around his neck.

Nottingham directed them with gestures. Once they were all in position he gave a nod and drew his weapon, holding it close to Wendell's face. Rob threw back the cover and started to put the manacle on the man's wrist.

Wendell sat up with a roar, pushing Lister backwards and slamming him hard into the wall. Nottingham put the point of the sword against the man's neck.

‘Don't move,' he ordered, pushing just enough for the point to pierce the skin. Drops of blood trickled down Wendell's skin as the man's eyes burned fire. ‘Now hold your arms out.'

Slowly, reluctantly, the man complied.

‘Put them on,' the Constable instructed Rob.

Metal clicked on metal, locking in place; Wendell's thick arms didn't sag under the heavy weight.

‘Stand up slowly.'

He rose from the bed, the men standing back slightly, three blades facing him.

‘Walk to the door. And don't try to run, I have more men outside.'

‘I won't,' Wendell said, his voice husky. He glanced over at his mother. ‘You told them, didn't you?'

She held her head high.

‘Aye, I did.'

‘Fucking old bitch.' He spat at her. She let it run down her cheek. The Constable kicked him behind the knee, making the man sprawl on the ground.

‘Get up,' Nottingham told him. ‘Out. Now.'

He let the others leave and turned to the woman. She was keeping her face hard, looking at nothing and breathing slowly.

‘Thank you,' he said.

She shook her head, keeping back the tears he knew were there. ‘When you find out why, come and tell me.'

‘I will,' he promised.

The Constable had put away his sword but kept the cudgel in his hand, the loop of leather around his wrist. He looked at Sedgwick, walking alongside Wendell, watching the prisoner intently, and knew the memory of the thief taker was uppermost in his mind.

At the jail they added ankle fetters, attaching them with a chain to a heavy staple driven into the flagstone of the cell. Nottingham locked the door, knowing the man was staring at him, but didn't give him a glance. There'd be ample time to talk very soon.