Free At the Dying of the Year by Chris Nickson

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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Nothing, sir.’ The boy looked up with guileless eyes. ‘Just that Sergeant Grady signed them up, sir.’
    â€˜How long have you been with the regiment?’
    â€˜Almost two years, sir.’
    â€˜Do you like it?’
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ Andrew said, but his words had no conviction.
    â€˜Where do you come from, lad?’
    â€˜York, sir.’
    â€˜You miss it?’
    â€˜Sometimes.’ He brightened for a moment. ‘But Gibraltar is warm.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Any luck, John?’ he asked hopefully.
    â€˜Nothing,’ Sedgwick responded, his mouth tight with frustration. ‘He’s nowhere. No one knows him.’
    â€˜He’s not the only one, it seems.’ He explained about the recruits, and a grin spread across the deputy’s face.
    â€˜Devils?’ he laughed. ‘Someone felt sorry for them and let them out, more like.’
    â€˜Go on down there and talk to the serving girls and the landlord.’
    â€˜What about Gabriel?’
    â€˜The Corporation’s offering a reward,’ he said flatly. ‘The posters are going up today.’
    Sedgwick frowned and let out his breath loudly.
    â€˜I warned the mayor,’ Nottingham continued.
    â€˜Couldn’t he give us another day or two?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜So what are we going to do, boss?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Every bastard in the city’s going to come through that door.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜You need the law?’ the Constable asked.
    The man snatched off his hat awkwardly, holding it in