Convalescence by Chris Nickson Page A

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