Free At the Dying of the Year by Chris Nickson Page A

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.
    â€˜Has something happened?’
    â€˜This Gabriel,’ the man said finally, his voice husky and barely there. ‘It’s real, what they say?’
    â€˜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.’

EIGHT
    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.
    â€˜Who’s your master?’ He waited patiently, knowing the answer wouldn’t come easily.
    â€˜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 . . .
    â€˜Why do you think he might be Gabriel?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice even and steady.
    â€˜He has a grey suit and a wig.’
    â€˜Plenty of men own those,’ Nottingham countered.
    â€˜And he came home last week with some blood on his clothes,’ the man blurted out. ‘On the grey coat.’
    â€˜Did he say anything about it?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Why don’t you believe him?’
    â€˜He’s never been to one before, and I been with him years now. ’Sides, he’s been different since.’
    â€˜How?’ He sat again, listening closely.
    â€˜He’s been quiet. He can’t seem to settle to owt. It’s not like him.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Do you really believe it’s Mr Darden?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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