At the Dying of the Year by Chris Nickson

Saturday,’ he answered after a moment’s thought. ‘Why? Nowt wrong with that.’
    â€˜Do you know Jeremiah Darden?’
    â€˜The merchant?’ Bell asked warily. Nottingham nodded. ‘Aye, by sight, same as most in the city.’ He was on edge, uncertainty in his eyes as he refused to hold the Constable’s gaze.
    â€˜Does he come to the cockfights?’
    â€˜Him?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Bell shook his head. ‘Never seen him at one in my time. Why?’
    â€˜Was he at the last one you had?’
    â€˜I just said—’
    â€˜Yes or no,’ Nottingham asked. His voice was quiet but firm.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Then I thank you.’ He looked over the press of people wanting drink. ‘You can go back to your work now.’ As the landlord turned away, he added, ‘I’ll be back to talk about those two deaths another time.’
    So Darden had lied, he thought as he returned to the jail. It could mean that the servant’s suspicions were right and the man was Gabriel. Or it could mean any number of other things. He stoked up the fire and sat for a while, drawing in the heat and trying to think.
    He needed to talk to Darden; that was beyond any doubt. And he knew he had to inform the mayor first. It would be better to wait until tomorrow, after the reward had been announced. Fenton could bluster all he liked then, but he wouldn’t be able to stop the Constable following up on a tip.
    By late afternoon men were pasting the posters on boards and buildings. The ink was still fresh enough to run, blurring the words, but no one could miss the amount the corporation was offering for the arrest of Gabriel. Twenty pounds. It would take most of the working men in Leeds more than half a year to earn that much. Some wit had pasted one of the posters to the door of the jail and he tore it off as he left, crumpling the paper and letting it fall to the ground.
    There were more of the notices on the pillars leading to the White Cloth Hall. A man stood and read the words aloud to a crowd that broke into loud murmurs when he announced the reward. It would be like that all over the city, greed quickly clouding men’s eyes and minds.
    They didn’t even notice Nottingham walk past as he headed out past the Parish Church towards Timble Bridge and home. The men with power could open their purses and offer enough to turn heads, enough to make it seem as if they cared, but they’d do nothing to help the children like Caleb or the people who saw Bessie’s camp as their only home.
    â€˜What’s wrong?’ Mary asked as he walked through to the kitchen and held her close. He kept his arms around her, her cheek next to his, until he felt the anger inside begin to ebb and he could open his eyes again.
    â€˜The Corporation’s put up a reward for the man who killed the children. Twenty pounds.’
    â€˜Do they honestly believe that will help?’ she asked in horror.
    â€˜They do,’ he answered sadly.
    She shook her head in disgust. ‘Just leave them to it, Richard,’ she said. ‘Tell them you’re still not well enough. We’ll manage.’
    He stroked her hair gently. ‘I can’t. You know I can’t walk out and leave John and Rob to deal with it all. I saw those children. I saw what Gabriel had done.’ He stepped back to look deep into her eyes. ‘I can’t walk away from them, either.’
    â€˜I know,’ she said with a sigh of resignation. ‘I know you too well. But sometimes I wish you didn’t have duty in your veins. The city takes advantage of you.’
    Rob saw the notices as he waited outside the dame school for Emily. People were talking eagerly about the reward on offer as they passed, how they’d spend it, imagining who they knew who might be Gabriel.
    He leaned against the wall, hands pushed deep in the pockets of his greatcoat. Evening was starting to fall, the air bitter