Cold Cruel Winter

by Chris Nickson

  Wyatt was a man who planned meticulously, whose revenge had been simmering for years. He’d thrown down his gauntlet, and Nottingham had no choice but to respond. More than that, he had to win, to catch Wyatt before he could complete his mission. Three more deaths. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

  ‘There can’t be any word about the book, John,’ he warned, taking another mouthful of beer. ‘You and I and the Mayor will be the only ones to know. The same with his plans. He’s told us what he intends to do. We’re going to stop him.’

  Sedgwick pushed his mug around the table. ‘So how do we do that, boss?’

  Nottingham sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know yet. He wants to murder three more people. We have to start by identifying the people he wants to kill and protecting them. And we have to keep hunting for him.’

  He knew that it sounded little enough, and it was. He’d need to review the trial transcript and see who’d given evidence, who would be in danger. But how could anyone reach inside a mind as twisted as Wyatt’s and see things through his eyes?

  ‘I’d better go and tell the Mayor,’ he said finally. ‘Get the men out, John.’

  ‘They’re already out, boss.’

  The Constable’s face tightened. He breathed deeply.

  ‘Then double their efforts. We’re not just fighting a man here, we have to fight against the clock, too.’

  Sedgwick returned to the jail. He had a little time. Rummaging in the drawer, he looked at the book. Lying there, it seemed so ordinary, so harmless. The cover looked like any other leather, and he reached out to touch it. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew what it was, but he couldn’t help himself. It was macabre, of course it was, yet his fingers still irresistibly stroked the binding, then riffled through the pages. His reading was improving, and with a little effort he could slowly make out the sentences, even if he couldn’t follow every single word.

  The boss was right. Word about this could never leak out. The city would panic, and there would be no chance of containing it. He closed the drawer again. He’d never imagined that writing could be too powerful and too dangerous.

  Nottingham had to wait at the Moot Hall, although he’d insisted to the clerk that his business with the Mayor was urgent. Sitting, he tried to empty his racing mind. The luxury of the city building, with its dark, highly polished wainscoting and heavy carpet, seemed a whole world away from what he saw every day. The courts and yards, the ragged men and women, the children scavenging at the market or on the river bank, the lives and deaths that took place every day just outside these walls, that was what he really knew. He never felt comfortable in the homes of the merchants, surrounded by wealth, the muted chime of a long clock announcing the passing of hours, or the luxurious, moneyed sheen of fabric of a suit or gown.

  The Mayor looked harassed. He was halfway through his one-year term, and all the deaths of winter, which he could do nothing to halt, had weighed on him; it still showed although the thaw had begun.

  He looked up from his papers as Nottingham sat.

  ‘You’d better have news on Graves’s killer,’ he said brusquely.

  The Constable could hear the weariness in his voice. ‘I do,’ he replied carefully. ‘But it’s not good.’

  He described the book, watching Kenion carefully as the colour fell from his face and he retched silently, hands gripping tight on the desk. When the Constable finished, the Mayor was silent for a long time before asking, ‘Where’s this book now?’

  ‘It’s at the jail,’ Nottingham replied.

  ‘And who else knows about it?’

  ‘Only my deputy.’

  Kenion raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You trust him?’

  ‘Completely,’ the Constable replied.

  ‘You’d better be right. No one else can know about this. If words spreads, I’ll know who to blame.’

  Nottingham nodded. He understood the importance of silence.

  ‘We need to find this bugger fast,’ Kenion said. He stared directly at the Constable. ‘We can’t afford another killing like Sam’s. What are you doing about it?’

  There was nothing to be gained now by hedging, Nottingham decided.

  ‘My men are looking, but there’s been nothing so far. But now I know who’s responsible, I can do a lot more. If I can identify his other targets from the trial transcript, I can guard them.’

  The Mayor rubbed his fleshy chin and nodded.

  ‘And we’ll keep looking, of course. We’ll find him.’

  ‘Just make sure you find him in time.’ It was half-command, half-wish.

  Before he left the Moot Hall, Nottingham visited the clerk in the archives and collected the transcript of Wyatt’s trial. It was thin, a saddeningly short hearing. In itself, that was no surprise. Justice was dispensed swiftly and harshly in the city. But he needed clues, names. With a deep, heartfelt sigh, he walked back to the jail.

  Nottingham read through the trial transcript four times. The first time his eyes slipped hurriedly over the words, familiarizing himself with the events in court; he hadn’t attended the trial himself. Afterwards he studied it in more detail, pausing to think and examine statements, trying to imagine himself in Wyatt’s position.

  The guilt had never been in question; the evidence was obvious and overwhelming, and presented clearly and concisely. Wyatt hadn’t spoken in his own defence, although it wouldn’t have made any difference. Both Graves and one of his clerks had been able to show how he’d embezzled a total of twelve pounds over two years. It wasn’t a fortune, by any means, but enough to make a real difference. Wyatt had thought he was being clever, of course, but once examined his methods seemed obvious, banal.

  He recalled arriving at Wyatt’s lodging to arrest him. Nottingham was still the deputy then, accompanying the old Constable, David Arkwright, in case of trouble. He’d seen how Wyatt lived. There was nothing expensive or fancy in the room he and his woman shared with another couple. A small, battered chest to hold their clothes stood at the foot of the bed. The walls were bare, stained by ragged brown patches of damp, but the floorboards were swept scrupulously clean, a blanket folded neatly across the pallet.

  Wyatt himself was a small man, dressed in clean clothes, the coat worn but carefully brushed and mended, the waistcoat plain, home-cut but well stitched. His fingers were heavily coloured by the ink he used every day, but the nails were short and free of dirt. The wig on his head fitted well.

  His woman wore a simple grey gown, a shawl gathered close around her shoulders, hair loose, brushed to a shine and falling long down her back. Her eyes were large, a deep, dreamy brown, and her skin was the colour of summer dust. There was an exotic tinge to her that he couldn’t place. She held his gaze evenly as she moved next to Wyatt and took his hand.

  ‘You know who I am?’ Arkwright asked, and Wyatt had nodded.

  ‘Then you’ll know why I’m here, Mr Wyatt.’

  ‘If Graves had paid a fair wage, I’d never have had to steal.’ Wyatt’s voice was husky, on the edge of emotion.

  It was as good an admission as anyone needed, Nottingham thought.

  ‘I’m going to take you with me to the jail,’ Arkwright said. ‘You’ll get a fair trial, I can guarantee you that.’

  ‘And what about her?’ The man inclined his head towards the woman. ‘How’s she supposed to survive if there’s no money coming in? What’s she going to do?’

  Arkwright shook his head briefly. It wasn’t his concern, Nottingham understood that. The city employed them to stop crime and arrest criminals. They couldn’t affect anything beyond that; if they tried, they’d go mad. Lives fell apart; it was the way of the world. Crime had its consequences, even for the innocent. The woman stayed silent, head held proud and high.

  ‘You’re going to have to come with me,’ Arkwright told him. ‘It’ll be a lot easier if we just walk out of here together, but I’ll put irons on you if I must.’

  Wyatt turned to the woman, lacing his arms around her and kissing her d
eeply. He knows he’ll never see her again, Nottingham thought, and braced himself. He gripped his cudgel. This was often where it became dangerous, where they tried to run and the violence started. But Wyatt broke away, lowered his head, and shuffled slowly towards the Constable.

  Wyatt said nothing as they trudged out of the miserable court. The Constable and Nottingham stayed close, braced for the man to bolt, but he just trudged on, submissive and cowed. At the jail Arkwright put him in a cell, locking the door with a heavy clunk. Through the grille Nottingham watched as the man looked around then sat on the bed, legs together, hands gathered in his lap. Then he filled out the ledger, giving the date, the prisoner’s name, and his crime.

  For embezzlement, he’d go to the Quarter Sessions, which wouldn’t sit for another month. They’d move him to the prison in the cellar of the Moot Hall. It was a dismal place with little light, but still better than most. The prisoners were fed fairly, their families could visit without bribing the jailers, and they weren’t kept chained and shackled like animals.

  There was no doubt that Wyatt was guilty. Graves had gone over the accounts himself and presented the discrepancies. No one on the judge’s bench would dispute the word of one of the city’s most distinguished merchants. The best Wyatt could hope for would be seven years’ transportation, possibly even fourteen. Since he was an educated man Wyatt would plead benefit of clergy, speak a sentence from the Bible and escape the hangman’s noose. The severity of the sentence would depend on how gracious the judge was feeling that day.

  The transcript told Nottingham little. The trial was reported in flat, straightforward terms, a catalogue of statements, verdict and sentence. He sat back and wondered. Wyatt’s journal was going to be in four volumes. It didn’t take a great leap of the imagination to see he’d target the judge and the clerk who’d given evidence against him. But with the old Constable dead Nottingham couldn’t see who the fourth person might be.

  Joshua Forester was sitting on his pallet, watching Frances in her fitful sleep. She took small breaths, her long hair a tangle on the rough pillow. There was a sheet on the bed, and he’d piled two heavy coats on top for warmth, but even in the thaw the room was still bitter.

  She looked so vulnerable, and he worried about the tiny life in her belly. He could look after the two of them, but how would they manage with a baby? Frances had no idea how far along she was, and was too scared to ask anyone for advice. Soon she’d begin to show, he imagined, the way he saw all the time.

  He could talk to Mr Sedgwick, but he wasn’t even sure where to begin. No one had ever really asked about his life, they didn’t even know where he lived. He simply arrived at the jail each day and did as he was told. Josh knew he was lucky to have a regular wage, to be one of the Constable’s trusted men.

  Frances stirred, and he stroked her cheek.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked, her small voice not really awake.

  ‘Still dark,’ he told her. ‘You go back to sleep. You need your rest now.’

  She closed her eyes and he was struck again by her velvetlike beauty, so meek and fragile.

  ‘Why are you so good to me?’ Frances wondered.

  He gazed at her and kissed her eyelids softly. He didn’t even really know why himself. Habit, perhaps, or the feeling that someone cared about him, someone he could care about in return.

  She reached out and held his hand in her thin fingers.

  ‘I love you,’ she told him gently, and drifted away from him. He watched until she settled again, a small smile on her lips. What was she dreaming about? He picked and worried at a loose thread on his shirt. They’d survived the winter, managed to keep food and a fire and fashioned a life together. And a new life, he thought.

  After working he needed sleep, but it wouldn’t come. The night seemed to stretch forever, and dawn was a faint hope. Dark wakefulness gave rise to too many thoughts, a time when the imagination ran all over the mind. They left him uncomfortable; he preferred doing things to thinking. But he knew he had to make decisions, find things out. What would it be like to be a father? What would he do?

  Josh leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He could tell that this murderer scared the boss. Nothing had been said, but he knew anyway. He’d seen Graves’s back, the skin stripped off. He’d seen Nottingham take the slim book from the drawer, look at it, and handle it with distaste. He’d heard as John and the Constable talked quietly, about things they didn’t want him to know. He understood all the same. His mind had made the leap and connected the two things. He’d stayed quiet, not wanting to believe what his eyes told him yet accepting it was the horrific truth.

  Anyone who’d do something like that was more devil than man, Josh decided. Someone who’d stop at nothing to exact his revenge. He’d been out looking and listening, but there’d been no sighting, no whisper about Abraham Wyatt. How could that happen? How could a man carry out a crime like that and disappear? There were plenty of people in the city, that was true, but it wasn’t endless, the way he’d heard London was. Only a devil could vanish . . .

  Frances stirred again, and he reached out to gently take her hand, letting the sound of her breathing lull him to his rest.

  Josh came in, ready to work. He’d looked preoccupied recently, the Constable thought. But he’d been so lost in his own problems that he’d taken no account of the men. As long as they did their work, he’d let them be.

  ‘I’ve got a job for you,’ he told the boy. ‘Do you know Judge Dobbs?’

  Forrester shook his head.

  ‘Owns a big house at Town End, the other side of the Head Row. It’s the first one beyond the Free School. Use a couple of the men. I want you to follow him everywhere. Don’t let him know you’re there.’

  ‘I can do that,’ Josh agreed easily. ‘Why do you want him watched, boss?’

  ‘I think the man who killed Sam Graves will be going after him. Keep your eyes open for anyone else who seems to be around, anyone at all. If they seem suspicious, bring them here and I’ll question them. This might be our best chance to find Wyatt.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  He gathered up his old greatcoat, so large that it seemed to engulf him.

  ‘Is everything all right, Josh?’ Nottingham asked gently.

  The boy looked at the Constable, eyes guileless, startled by the question. ‘Fine, boss. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered. You’ve been quiet these last few weeks.’

  Forrester shrugged, then slid out through the door. Concern hadn’t worked, Nottingham thought. He wrote a note for Sedgwick, telling him to organize men to follow Ralph Rushworth, the clerk from Graves’s warehouse who’d given damning evidence at Wyatt’s trial.

  He smiled. Things were changing. They were taking action.

  Nine

  Walking home at dusk, Nottingham’s steps faltered as he reached the Parish Church. He slipped quietly through the lych gate and crossed the ground to Rose’s grave. A little slush remained, but most of the snow had melted into the earth leaving it boggy and clinging, sucking softly at his boots. He hadn’t been here for a week; his time had been taken up with the murder. He felt ashamed for ignoring his daughter.

  In time, once the earth had fully settled, he’d pay for a headstone. For now, there was only a sinking mound and memories to show that she’d ever lived. He stood, head bowed, scenes from the past twenty years slipping through his mind. Rose as a baby, as an infant toddling on unsteady legs, as a girl with the sun on her hair, playing by the river. Rose on her wedding day, eyes turned in adoration to her husband . . . Rose in her final illness, face wan, eyes lost to the world in her fever.

  He hadn’t been able to save her, and that guilt bit painfully into his soul. He could catch murderers, but he couldn’t keep death from his own daughter, his little girl. He’d failed her, and he’d failed Mary and Emily, too. It was a pact, unspoken, unwritten, but always understood – he was the man, he’d keep them all safe. But he hadn’t managed in his duty.r />
  He wanted to believe in God and the life eternal, that Rose was in heaven. But belief was near impossible when you were empty. He silently mouthed prayers for her that came from years of church services . . . shelter her soul in the shadow of Thy wings, make known to her the path of life. He hoped they’d bring him a little peace, a communion with her. Instead all he could feel was a thin tear burning down his cheek. Slowly he wiped it away, then stood for a few more minutes until the damp chill roused him.

  At the gate he turned right, heading for Timble Bridge and home. He wasn’t sure he felt comforted by his visit, but it was something he’d needed to do. Not for Rose, but for himself.

  After a few yards he paused.

  ‘Are you going to show yourself?’ he asked loudly before turning.

  ‘I was wondering how long it would take you, laddie.’ A bulky man detached himself from the shadows to stand beside the Constable.

  ‘So what brings you here, Amos?’

  Nottingham had an uneasy relationship with Amos Worthy. The older man was a procurer and pimp, the most successful in Leeds, though he didn’t display it in dressy finery. For years the Constable had loathed him and tried to prosecute him, always without success, for Worthy had powerful friends on the Corporation.

  Then, the previous year, in the wake of a murder, Nottingham had learned that Worthy had once been his mother’s lover. It had come as a disturbing revelation, one that left him even more wary of the man.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your lass.’

  The Constable gave a small grunt, unsure how to reply. He knew the man hadn’t followed him just to give his condolences. He said nothing, waiting for more.

  ‘There’s a lot of talk going round about old Sam Graves,’ Worthy continued. Even speaking softly, his voice filled the street.

  ‘There’s always talk,’ Nottingham replied blandly.

  ‘You’ve not caught the killer.’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But that’s common knowledge.’

  ‘Someone told me summat interesting,’ Worthy said slowly. ‘He said there was a patch of skin missing from Graves’s back.’