‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Is it James?’
‘I can’t find him.’
Seventeen
‘Sit down,’ he told her, and poured her a mug of ale. ‘Now, what’s happened?’
‘The lad’s not been the same since this one was born, Mr Nottingham.’ She held the girl close and drank in timid little gulps, not looking at him. ‘Says I’m not his mam, half the time he says he hates us, all sorts of things.’
The Constable rested against the edge of the desk. He pushed the blanket back from the baby’s head and stroked the black down of her hair as she slept.
‘Has he run off before?’
She nodded. ‘Often enough lately. He’ll stay out and go where we’ve told him he can’t, things like that. He’ll be starting at the charity school soon enough. We just hope that’s going to help.’ He could see her fingers pressing again the clay of the mug, hands shaking slightly. ‘But with. . you know, we’ve told him to stay at home.’
‘When did you notice he was gone, Lizzie?’
‘About an hour ago.’ She reached up and wiped away a tear. ‘I’d just fed this one and put her down to sleep, then I went to play with him, but he was gone.’ She breathed slowly. ‘I’ve looked all over for him but I can’t find him. I’m scared. That’s why I came down to find John, Mr Nottingham. He told me about the child snatcher. If anything happens to James he’ll never forgive me.’
‘Did you have words with James this morning?’
‘He wanted to go out and I said no. I told him there were bad people out there and he had to stay inside today. He started shouting so I gave him a smack and told him to go upstairs.’ She began to cry again. ‘He must have gone out when I was busy with Isabell.’
The Constable took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
‘You live on Lands Lane, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll have someone find John for you,’ he assured her, ‘and I’ll send a couple of the men out to look for James.’
‘Thank you,’ Lizzie said gratefully. She breathed deeply.
‘What was he wearing?’
‘A shirt, black breeches with a hole in the knee, grey hose and shoes,’ she answered.
‘We’ll find him,’ the Constable promised, making sure no note of doubt crept into his voice. ‘You go home,’ he advised her. ‘Look after Isabell. James might come back on his own.’
She looked up at him, the sadness bedded deep in her eyes, clutching the baby.
‘He never has before, Mr Nottingham, not since this one came. Why would he now?’
He sent one of the men to find the deputy and dispatched two others to search the area around Lands Lane, back into the orchards by the old manor house. That would be a good place for a boy to play and explore, he thought.
He paced the floor, waiting for Sedgwick to arrive, only stopping when the door banged open and he burst in, breathless from running.
‘They said it was important. I’d just been to see Dan Scott.’
Nottingham cut him off. ‘Lizzie was here. James has gone again.’
‘I’ll-’
‘That girl of Davidson’s, Fanny. I had Holden follow her. He lost her on Lands Lane.’
‘Fuck.’
‘John,’ he began, but Sedgwick had already dashed out. The Constable sat down and ran a hand through his hair. James could just have run off and be hiding somewhere. Boys did that and returned when they were ready; he remembered doing it himself. But he’d have done the same as the deputy if it has been his child. Especially with Fanny so close. .
They needed to find her, to find James, to find Wendell. And he didn’t have enough men for all three jobs. A missing boy was the most important, there was no question on that. Best to hope he’d just wandered away to sulk and they’d find him hidden away somewhere. The girl close by could just be a coincidence. He’d have to pray it was.
He put on his tricorn hat and walked over to Lands Lane. Two of the men were there, looking in the doorways and small, dark courts that snaked back from the street.
‘You start knocking on doors,’ he told one of them briskly. ‘Mr Sedgwick’s boy is missing. See if anyone’s seen the lad. You,’ he said to the other, ‘go and find three more men to help. We’ll start here and work outwards.’
When they were busy he strode through to the orchard that lay beyond the houses. The trees were overgrown, gnarled, mossy branches splayed in all directions, much of the wood dead and rotten. But there were still apples in the autumn, drawing boys from all over the city; he’d come here often enough when he was young and hungry, greedily collecting the fruit. Once it had been part of the grounds of the manor house, but all that was left of the building was rubble. Everything useful had been taken and reused, wood and stone and tile, the past becoming part of the present.
The grass had grown high and wild, tangles of brambles with their sharp thorns, bushes grown into strange shapes that offered refuge away from the eye. He sighed and began to search, selecting a long stick to poke into the places he couldn’t reach, raising his voice to call the lad’s name. An hour passed as he laboured slowly over the area, finally sure James wasn’t here.
There were so many places, that was the problem. Any lad who knew the city would have special places he never revealed, where he could run and feel safe and alone.
He knocked at Sedgwick’s door, his breeches smeared with dirt, hose ripped and torn. Lizzie answered, fearful and quiet, Isabell crying loudly behind her in a basket, tiny arms and legs flailing at the air, her eyes pinched shut.
‘Has he come home?’
She opened her mouth then just shook her head, as if she couldn’t trust herself with words. Her eyes were red and her cheeks blotched from crying.
‘We’ll find him,’ the Constable assured her. ‘I’ve got men out looking, and we’ll bring in other people.’
‘John?’ she asked, her voice choked.
‘He knows, he’s out there, too.’
She glanced over her shoulder to the baby.
‘You stay here,’ he advised. ‘Look after her. I’ll see someone tells you if there’s any news.’
A few more men had joined the searchers, small groups working their way through the streets. Two men were knocking on doors, only to be met by women shaking their heads. But he didn’t see the deputy.
He waved one of the men over. ‘Where’s Mr Sedgwick?’
‘Haven’t seen him, boss,’ the man shrugged. He must have his own ideas of where to look, the Constable thought. For the rest of them there was no alternative but to carry on. He crossed Briggate, sliding through a passageway and into a court. Rubbish had rotted in the corners, the bloated body of a dead dog tossed aside, swarming with flies. He began in one of the houses that crowded into the space, working his way up stairs that were missing treads or where the boards were rotten. The lad wasn’t in any of them. He poked through all the waste with no success then moved to the next small yard, meaner and dirtier than the last.
It was the same story, a place where little light had ever penetrated, the buildings all patchwork fabrics without hope. Just a short distance away he could hear the sharp sounds of the street, the cries of women selling lavender from their baskets, the clack of hooves as cattle were herded to the Shambles. Back in the yard there was only a dank, dead silence. He finished checking and moved back through the passageway, feeling as if he was returning from another, dark country.
He could see others searching, more of them now, their faces grim and determined, combing the corners and hidden places for the boy. They’d find him, Nottingham thought. They had to.
Sedgwick had gone straight down to the bridge. James loved to stand there, fascinated by the flow of the river below and the trundle of carts along the road. He darted between people, crossing the span, then coming back, but there was no sign of the lad.
His heart was beating fast and his mouth was dry. His eyes moved from side to side, praying to spot the small, familiar figure, but there was nothing, not even the others he’d play with or follow. He clattered down the stairs to the bank of the Aire, scared to look into the water for what he might see there but knowing that he had to check.