Convalescence

Convalescence: A Richard Nottingham Story
Copyright: Chris Nickson
Published: 2013
The right of Chris Nickson to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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“A beautiful day, friend.”

    
Standing on Timble Bridge, idly staring down at the water, Richard Nottingham turned to see a small, ragged man, no more than twenty years old, a wide grin on his mouth, his accent the deep sing-song of the border country. His clothes were old and travel-stained, boots worn and weary. The lad took off his tricorn hat and wiped his forehead.

    
“Grand,” Nottingham agreed. And it was. In the shade of a tall willow, he felt pleasantly cool in the July heat.

    
“Do you know a good place to stay in Leeds?” The man hoisted a pack higher on his back. “I’ve walked here from Durham and I could use a bed, like.”

    
“Try Mrs. Lumley on Call Lane. She runs a clean house and fair prices. Anyone will be able to direct you.”

    
The man gave a small nod of thanks. “Champion,” he said, pulled a flask from a threadbare coat and took a swallow. “You know Leeds well, then?”

    
Nottingham smiled. “I should. I’ve lived here all my life.”

    
“Happen you’d know which folk buy things?”

    
“Things?” He raised an eyebrow.

    
“Aye.” The man winked. “Things. You know.”

    
“Try the Talbot,” he suggested with a smile. “It’s on Briggate, you can’t miss it. I daresay you’ll find what you need there.”

    
The man grinned again, showing a mouth of missing teeth. “I’ll be sure and do that.”

    
“Are you staying here long?”

    
“Depends.” He shrugged. “I’ve never been one for staying anywhere too long. Keep moving, keep alive. That’s the best way, like.” He tipped his hat. “I’ll wish you a good day, friend.”

    
Nottingham nodded. “And to you,” he said, then added, “What’s your name?”

    
“Will Langton. If you’re looking for something, I’ll have it. And if I don’t, I can get it for you. At a price, of course.” He winked and extended his hand. “And I don’t know you, friend.”

    
“Richard Nottingham.” They shook briefly and the man strode off towards the Parish Church and Kirkgate. For a long time Richard Nottingham, Constable of Leeds, stood on the bridge, watching people pass and relishing the light breeze against his face. Finally he began to walk home, a slow shuffle, leaning heavily on the stick as he moved. The pistol in his coat pocket hit against his hip, but it was better to have the habit of carrying it. Each step jarred, leaving him sweating and aching by the time he’d covered the two hundred yards to his door and pushed it open.

     He’d started out early in the afternoon, stopping often to catch his breath, taking in the perfumes of all the wildflowers at the roadside and the warm summer scent as men scythed grass over in the fields. Dust rose from the wheels as a cart passed slowly, the driver nodding at him.

    
Nottingham had smiled as he gazed around. There’d been times since the wounding that he doubted that he’d ever see this again, times he doubted he’d live. He barely remembered much of the spring, days and nights passing in and out of consciousness, seeing faces at the bedside, the living and the dead, all looking at him with their tender, sad eyes. But now, in the shank of July 1733, he was here on Marsh Lane, determined to walk to Timble Bridge and back. He knew he moved like an old man, a few, slow paces then the need to rest. It didn’t matter; even if the small journey took him all afternoon, he had time. All the time in the world. And after so long in the house, even straying these few hundred yards from home felt like victory.

    
With God’s good grace the constable would return to work. But it would take weeks, likely months before he was ready. When something as simple as a stroll down the road needed all his effort and will, there was still a long way to go.

Sitting on the chair in front of the empty fireplace, he breathed deeply and reached for the jug of ale, pouring a cup and drinking it all down. Mary stood in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at him.

    
“You look exhausted.”

    
“I am,” he admitted with a wry smile. “A tiring business, walking.”

   
“You still need rest, Richard.”

    
“I know,” he admitted. “But I have to build up my strength, too.”

    
She shook her head at him and went back to her work. The next he knew, the clump of boots on the stairs woke him and Rob appeared.

    
“Been out, boss?”

    
“I went down to the bridge. Although it felt like I’d walked to York and back.” He looked at the lad. “I did meet someone interesting, though.”

    
“Oh?”

    
“A man called Will Langton.”

    
Rob frowned. “I don’t know him.”

    
“He’s new, just arrived from Durham.” He described the man. “I daresay he’ll be in the Talbot tonight. Looking for people to buy things.”

    
Lister laughed. “Things, eh? Perhaps I’ll go down there and see what he has.”

    
“If he doesn’t have it, he can get it. That’s what he wants to make out, anyway. I sent him to Mrs. Lumley’s. He had a heavy pack.”

    
“Maybe we can lighten it for him.”

    
“Mr. Sedgwick might want to look at what he’s been carrying,” the constable suggested.

    
“I’ll tell him.” He shifted from foot to foot.

    
“Do that,” he said, then glanced out of the window. “You’d better go, lad. Can’t have you late to meet Emily after school.”

He was awake when Rob returned from work in the morning. His eyes had been open for an hour or more, seeing the brightness rise slowly in the east. He eased himself upright, trying not to disturb Mary as she slept. Dressing, once so simple and brisk, now seemed a hesitant, painful business. But he needed to do it, to be moving, to feel part of life again, not an invalid.

    
Finally he was in the kitchen, watching the lad at the table devouring bread and cheese, a full cup of ale in front of him.

    
“Busy night?” he asked.

    
“Drunks, fights.” Rob shrugged. “Nothing too bad, boss.”

    
“What about that Tom Langton? Did you find him at the Talbot?”

    
“Not when I looked in, boss. No one sounding like him had been there.” He frowned. “I told Mr. Sedgwick. He’s going down to Mrs. Lumley’s lodging house to check.”

    
“Maybe he found somewhere cheaper,” Nottingham said. “Or perhaps he decided Leeds wasn’t to his taste.”

    
“I’ll keep my eyes open, anyway.”

    
“I wouldn’t waste your time, lad. It’s probably nothing.”

It had been a rushed morning, the deputy thought. But every day was without the constable around. He’d made his early rounds, given the men their assignments, then checked on the Tuesday cloth market, his eye alert for the pickpockets who loved the place and its opportunities. Dinnertime had come and gone, the sun high, before he had the chance to make his second rounds. He’d struggled through preparation for the court cases, questioned two men suspected of a rape and examined the open window that had given a burglar entry to a house on the Head Row before he could buy a pie from a seller and set out for Leeds Bridge.

    
At first he thought it was nothing, just the long grass around the water engine flattened by a pair of lovers seeking a quiet spot. He didn’t think he’d spotted it earlier, but he’d dashed by, hurrying to get the morning underway. He put the last of the food into his mouth and pushed his way through, brushing at the midges that tried to gather around his face.

    
“Fuck,” he said quietly, kneeling by the man on the ground and feeling for a pulse. Nothing. “Fuck,” he repeated.

The cold cell they used for the morgue was heavy with summer heat. He lifted the sheet off the body. The young man didn’t have a face he knew, with sandy hair, old clothes, his boots repaired many time. There’d been an empty pack at his side and a battered tricorn hat a few yards away.

    
Sedgwick had examined the area carefully before he called for help. There was little blood by the body and he began to search around, finally finding a spot by the riverbank where the soil was damp and sticky to the touch. Twenty yards, he guessed, and the man was small. He could easily have been killed here and carried there, out of sight for a while.

    
Bruises had bloomed like flowers across the man’s face. There were more on his body, he saw as he cut away a shirt of rags, stiff and discoloured with blood. He’d been knifed four times, in the stomach and chest. If he’d been lucky the poor bugger would have died quickly. From the look of it, he hadn’t even had a chance to defend himself. There was a sheath on his belt, but no knife. The killer had likely taken it.

    
The deputy stood back, slowly rubbing his chin and reaching for a mug of ale to wash the taste of death from his mouth. Rob had told him about the man the boss met on Timble Bridge yesterday and he wondered if the body could be him. He’d planned on checking Mrs. Lumley’s lodging house when he had chance; now he’d better make time.

In the afternoon Nottingham took up the stick and walked down to the bridge again. He was weary by the time he leaned against the parapet, but perhaps it had been a little easier, just the smallest bit quicker. Maybe, he thought hopefully. Maybe. He settled into the shade, letting the sweat dry on his face and watched the world go by. His thoughts started to drift.

    
Will Langton. The man was trouble. The constable might have been gone from work for a few months, but his instincts hadn’t vanished completely. Hopefully the man really had bypassed Leeds and gone elsewhere. He shook his head slowly and turned his gaze back to the water, listening to the soft way it burbled over the rocks.

    
“Boss?”

    
Dragged back to the day, the constable looked up to see Sedgwick next to him. He’d never even heard the man arrive.

    
“Hello, John,” he said with real pleasure. “I’m surprised to see you out this way during the day.” The look on the deputy’s face made him pause. “You look tired.”

    
“Never ends, boss. You know that.” Sedgwick sighed and rested his elbows on the parapet. “I wanted to ask you something. That man you met yesterday…”

    
“Will Langton? Strange, I was just thinking about him.”

    
“I need you to tell me what he looked like. In detail.”

    
Nottingham cocked his head. “What’s happened?”

    
“I found a body by the water engine. Empty pack by his side. Not anyone I recognise.”

    
The constable tried to picture the man in his mind, his words slow as he described Langton, telling everything he could recall. “What do you think?” he asked finally.