At the Dying of the Year Read Online Free Page B

his own heart. They all wanted this man.
    He’d hoped for time to ease back into the job, not working so hard or so long at first, but it wasn’t going to be that way.

FOUR
    R ob leaned against the wall vainly trying to rub the weariness from his eyes. Evening was drawing in, the weather turning colder. He pulled up his collar, wishing he’d worn his greatcoat. The bell rang exactly on the half hour and the girls trooped meekly out of the dame school, each in her blue dress, carrying a bag. Mrs Rains stood in the doorway, making sure they behaved as they walked down the street.
    Five more minutes passed before Emily emerged, the old cloak fastened at the neck, her cap slightly askew, letting a few strands of hair fall to her cheek. He smiled and moved forward as he saw her, reaching out to take the basket she was holding.
    â€˜How were they?’ he asked.
    â€˜The same as ever.’ She laughed. ‘Lovely. Tiring. Frustrating.’ Her hand lingered on his, her eyes merry until she noticed his expression. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked quickly, panic flashing across her face. ‘Has something happened to Papa?’
    â€˜No, it’s nothing like that,’ he assured her swiftly. ‘It’s what we found this morning.’
    â€˜What? What was it?’
    He explained as they walked, seeing the horror grow on her face. She clutched at his arm, glancing up at him when he went silent, lost in the dark country of his thoughts. ‘They were so helpless,’ he said finally, seeing them once again in his mind. ‘So small.’
    â€˜You’ll find whoever did it,’ Emily averred. ‘I know you will. You and Papa and Mr Sedgwick.’
    But what if we don’t? he wondered. He’d spent the last three hours talking to everyone he could think of, anyone who might be able to help. From Mark the cobbler to the whores on Briggate, no one had known anything useful. He sighed.
    They crossed Timble Bridge, strolling up Marsh Lane and into the house.
    â€˜Mama?’ Emily called, hanging her cloak on a peg by the door then pulling off the cap and shaking her hair free. When there was no reply she went and looked through to the kitchen. ‘That’s strange. She’s not here.’ Her expression brightened and she opened her arms. ‘But it means we have the house to ourselves for a while.’
    Nottingham didn’t even know how long he’d been sitting there thinking, the ghosts of the dead lingering in the cells as darkness started to fall. He could feel them there, pushing against him for attention, tugging at the memories he’d kept locked away in the corners of his mind. The faces he’d known back when he slept in the woods outside the city, wrapping himself in a stolen blanket for any kind of warmth, the hunger in his belly always there, as natural as breathing. Alice, her blue eyes so big and sad she could charm a coin from the women without saying a word. Peter and Martin, a pair of brothers a year or so older than him, who left one night and were never seen again. Or sickly little Thomas, coughing himself to sleep every night, growing thinner and thinner until he seemed fade into death before their eyes. They all came back to visit him, and he heard their voices as if they’d just spoken soft, broken words in his ear.
    The door to the jail opened and roused him. Mary was there, gently smiling. The sight took him aback and he wondered if he was dreaming it. She never visited him at the jail.
    â€˜I had to come and buy some things,’ she explained, lifting the basket on her arm. ‘I was worried about you.’
    He stood slowly, his face softening as he put his arms around her. The feel of her, solid under his hands, her hair tickling his neck, banished the phantoms from his head.
    â€˜You heard?’
    He felt the nod of her head against his chest.
    â€˜Three of them,’ he told her.
    Mary pulled back and