At the Dying of the Year by Chris Nickson Read Free Book Online Page B

John. And he’s deadly.’
    â€˜Sounds like he has money.’
    The Constable nodded. ‘I thought that, too.’
    â€˜It’s not much to go on, though, is it?’
    â€˜It’s more than we had before,’ Nottingham pointed out. ‘I’m just glad the lad said as much as he did. Caleb doesn’t trust us, John. He knows more, I’m sure of that. He’s just keeping it close.’
    â€˜Why?’ Sedgwick frowned. ‘Doesn’t he want this Gabriel found?’
    â€˜He wants that, right enough,’ the Constable added without hesitation. ‘He’s just waiting to see if we’ll do something or we’re all talk.’ He leaned back and sighed. ‘So now we’d better find Gabriel.’
    â€˜How?’
    â€˜The boy’s given us a place to start. We work from there. We know Gabriel’s not poor; that cuts out a lot of folk.’
    â€˜Aye,’ the deputy agreed hesitantly. ‘But then we’re looking at the rich. You know what that means. They look after their own.’
    â€˜They won’t this time,’ Nottingham answered with certainty. ‘Put the word out. See if the name Gabriel means anything, or anyone’s noticed a man in a good grey suit and full bottom wig. Tell them why, too.’
    â€˜Yes, boss.’
    â€˜We’re going to make sure he has nowhere to hide.’ He looked up as the deputy stood. ‘I want everyone in Leeds to know by tomorrow. Let’s make the bastard sweat.’
    Sedgwick grinned, jammed the old tricorn hat on his head and left. Alone, the Constable pushed himself out of the chair, feeling the pain across his belly and the dull ache in his hips. They’d pass soon enough, and in the meantime there was work to be done.
    He started at the Rose and Crown, wandering past the inn and through to the yard and stables. Hercules was there, grooming one of the horses and softly whispering to the animal. It was what he did during the day, his real joy, and in the evenings he’d collect the mugs and clean up around the drinkers. In return he had a bed in one of the stalls and his food, all the scraps the others left. As long as Nottingham could recall Hercules had been around, a small, slight man, his head growing balder each year. Few paid him attention, but his ears were sharp and his eyes still saw things most folk missed.
    The man turned at the sound of footsteps and nodded his welcome.
    â€˜Does the name Gabriel mean anything?’
    Hercules kept stroking the animal’s mane. ‘Not to me. Should it?’
    â€˜How about a man who dresses in grey and wears a wig?’
    â€˜Plenty of them around,’ he replied shortly.
    â€˜Whoever killed those little ones calls himself Gabriel and dresses that way.’ He saw Hercules give a small nod. That was all he needed. The Constable pulled two coins from his breeches and put them on the shelf in the stall.
    The river roared loud as he crossed the bridge, white water tumbling and roiling around the stone, in full spate down from the hills. The sound faded as he walked out along the London Road. As he passed Simpson Fold, where he’d been knifed, a chill rushed through him and he turned his head away.
    The house he wanted was one of many hidden among a warren of streets. Unlike its neighbours it was kept with care and pride, the glass of the windows sparkling, the front step scrubbed free of the smallest speck of dirt. He knocked on the door and waited until it opened and the space was filled by a large black man with a small wig on his head.
    â€˜Constable!’ he said with a wide grin. ‘I heard tha’ was back.’
    â€˜Hello, Henry. Mr Buck around?’
    â€˜Aye, he’s in’t back. Come on in.’ He moved aside, leaving just enough space for Nottingham to squeeze past. ‘Go through. He’ll be that pleased to see thee.’
    The parlour was warm, the fire crackling brightly in