He sat there and took it all, the tears trickling down his cheeks. Once she’d exhausted herself he stood, leaning heavily on the stick at his side and wrapped his arms around her.
‘I know, love, I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’
The deputy stayed by the door, feeling awkward, an intruder on this private grief.
The Constable kept whispering, words too low for anyone but her to hear. Emily cried against his coat, her arms tight around his neck, hair tumbling from her cap. Finally she nodded, wiping her face, and went upstairs.
‘Boss. .’
‘Don’t, John. Please.’ His eyes were full of the dead, looking but not really seeing. ‘Just tell me what’s happening.’
Sedgwick summarized it all. Nottingham bowed his head and listened quietly.
‘It’s my fault,’ he said finally. ‘I had to brag to Howard. I emptied that pouch and asked if it was his. I said someone had found it near his house. He had his revenge.’
‘Christ, boss.’
‘If I hadn’t. .’ He halted, searching for the words to flay himself. ‘If I hadn’t been so fucking arrogant, if I hadn’t wanted to rub his nose in it, she’d still be alive.’
‘You don’t know that.’
The Constable looked at him. ‘Of course I do,’ he said dismissively. ‘So do you, I can see it on your face. He knows I’m going to live with this every day from now on, that I’m going to feel it every time I walk through that door or sleep in my bed or wake in the morning.’
‘We’ll get him, boss.’
‘I know. We will. But it’s too late. He’s killed Mary. He’s killed me, he’s killed Emily. He’s killed all those children.’ He slammed his hand against the wall.
‘We’ll find a way to hang him.’
‘Thank you. And thank Lizzie for. .’ He raised his eyes.
He bought a pie from a seller at the bottom of Kirkgate and ate it as he walked. There were more people to see, questions to ask. The deputy knew that Hugh would never let him back into Howard’s house now, no matter how much he threatened. That way was blocked.
At the Rose and Crown he strode through the yard to the stables, finding Hercules gently brushing dirt from a mare until her coat shone.
‘Bad news about the Constable’s wife,’ the old man said without turning. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Anything that can help me find her killer. You know Mr Darden and Mr Howard?’
Hercules bobbed his head, keeping a slow rhythm with the brush. ‘Always a private parlour when they meet someone here. Or if they want to talk.’
‘What do they talk about?’
The man frowned. ‘They go quiet when anyone comes in. Are you sure it was them?’
‘I believe it was Solomon Howard,’ the deputy told him. ‘And that he murdered the children, too. I just need to be able to prove it.’
‘I’ll keep my ears open.’ The old man turned to face him. The hair was matted around his face, his beard long and uncombed. ‘I’ll promise thee that. When’s the funeral?’
‘Two o’clock.’
‘Aye, that’s what I heard. There’ll be plenty of folk there. People have a high regard for Mr Nottingham in this city.’
Rob arrived at the house on Marsh Lane as the clock struck the half hour. Lucy answered the door, her face serious, a dark shawl around her thin shoulders. Emily sat in the chair that had been her mother’s, small and slumped, her eyes red and her face pale. He took her hand, the flesh chilly against his, and he tried to smile for her.
The Constable said nothing, the pain buried deep behind his expression. Five minutes passed, then he stood and said, ‘We’d best be going.’
They walked along, their steps slow and solemn. Nottingham used the stick, Emily holding on to his other arm, and Rob followed, Lucy at his side. Along the road one door opened, then another, and a third. Families emerged, dressed in their best, all crossing Timble Bridge to the Parish Church.
The Constable removed his hat as he entered, seeing the deputy standing near the font, James on one side and Lizzie on the other with Isabell in her arms, the baby’s eyes wide to be in such a big building. He made his way down to a bench at the front and sat, his daughter beside him, Rob on her other side, then the servant girl.
The merchants and aldermen were alone in their private pews, looking uncomfortable, there under duty and sufferance. The mayor’s pew stayed empty. But the back of the church was filled, folk standing, men, women, children.
Rob turned and saw faces he knew: Joe Buck and his servant, landlords from the White Swan, the Ship, the Turk’s Head, even Mr Bell from the Talbot. All the Constable’s men stood in a line, and behind them Morrison the chandler, Kirshaw the apothecary and too many others to see.
The coffin sat on trestles, plain, simple oak without decoration or polish. The congregation rose as the vicar emerged to face them, the Book of Common Prayer in one large hand.
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, yea, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall not die forever.’
When all the priest’s words were done and the bell began to toll, Rob moved forward, along with the deputy, Tom Williamson and the Constable himself to carry the coffin out to the grave.
It was next to Rose’s, the soil piled to one side, dark and moist. The diggers stood apart, a jug of ale by their feet, hats off, heads bowed in respect.
Once they’d lowered the body into the earth, Nottingham knelt, picked up a clod of earth and crumbled it between his fingers. He held out his hand, letting the dirt drop, the sound of it hollow on the wood.
‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed,’ the vicar began. Nottingham stepped back and Emily took his place, tears coursing down her cheeks, and Rob stood by her side as she let the soil fall. ‘We therefore commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body that it might he like to His glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby He is able to subdue all things to Himself.’
Emily took hold of her father’s hand and slowly led him away as the bell sounded its last dull note. Sedgwick put his arm around Lizzie’s shoulders, holding her close, feeling her with him, alive, Isabell sucking on a damp rag soaked in sugar water.
He watched the Constable and his daughter go through the lych gate and then turn for home.
‘I’d not want to be looking through their eyes today,’ Lizzie said quietly.
‘No.’ The wind blew up and he pulled his coat closer.
‘I’m going home. I still need to cook. Come on, James.’
He kissed her forehead. ‘I love you, you know,’ he whispered.
‘Don’t be so daft,’ she told him, but she was smiling and her eyes were wet.
‘What do we do now?’ Rob was next to him, watching the man and girl cross Timble Bridge.
‘You’d better go to her, lad. She’s going to need you.’ He looked over his shoulder, spotting Lucy standing by the church, lost and hopeless. ‘Take that lass with you. Stay there as long as you need. The night men can look after things until tomorrow.’
The crowd of mourners thinned. Some would go up to the White Swan to drink and talk, others back to their work and homes. It was over; Mary Nottingham was buried. The grave-diggers were at work, bending their backs and filling the hole, the bell had gone silent, and all that remained were the sounds of the city.
He walked slowly back up Kirkgate to the jail, put more coal on the fire and waited for the heat to warm his bones. He sat at the desk, thinking how he could prove Howard’s guilt.
Today was for grieving. Tomorrow he’d go out to Marsh Lane and question the people there, ask if they’d seen anything. Many worked in their cottages, the families all together in the weaving trade, the children combing and carding, the mother spinning and the father at the loom, trying to make a living between that work and a few animals grazing on what was left of the common land and food growing in the garden behind the kitchen. Maybe he’d be lucky and someone noticed a stranger.