Cold Cruel Winter

by Chris Nickson

  ‘I’ll get you some food,’ she said, breaking away to bustle, cutting bread and cheese and pouring a mug of ale. He sat at the table, watching her work, fingers nimble and assured in her kingdom, until she put a plate before him.

  ‘I’ll go back after this,’ he told her. ‘There’s plenty to do.’

  ‘When isn’t there?’ she wondered.

  ‘More than ever at the moment.’

  ‘It won’t ever end, and you know it.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And that’s why you love it, Richard.’

  He nodded, knowing that was true as well. Some men had drink as their weakness. For him it had always been his work. From the moment he’d become a Constable’s man, all those years ago, he’d known this was for him. It meant too many hours away from his family, but even now it was a price he’d gladly pay to do the job.

  He chewed slowly, washing the food down with the ale, and watched Mary as she worked, carefully cleaning the knives and scouring dishes. She glanced out of the window and sighed.

  ‘Do you think this winter will ever leave?’ she asked bleakly.

  ‘Eventually,’ he answered. He knew exactly what she meant. As long as the cold gripped them, Rose was still close. Once the sun finally arrived and the season changed, there would be fresh, true hope for the future, a warmth they could feel inside as well as out. He stood, held her tight and kissed her brow softly.

  ‘I need to get back to the jail.’

  She nodded and drew back to hold him at arm’s length.

  ‘Why did you really come home, Richard?’

  ‘Because I wanted to be with the people I love most in the world.’ He squeezed her arm lightly. It was an honest answer, even if it wasn’t a complete one. He couldn’t tell her how scared of life he felt sometimes. He couldn’t tell anyone. He just needed the quiet reassurance of his home. Softly, he stroked her sleeve with his fingertips.

  ‘I’ll be back tonight. I’ll try not to be too late.’ It was a promise he’d made and broken so often that the words were more ritual than promise.

  Emily was on the stairs, awkwardly pushing the broom into the crevices and corners. He paused for a moment to watch her until she felt his glance and turned to face him.

  ‘You’re seeing how it’s done now.’

  ‘I’m slow.’ She smiled. ‘Rose was much better.’

  ‘We all have to start somewhere, you know.’

  ‘I think mama will see I have plenty of practice.’ She pushed the hair away from her forehead in a gesture that was so like his own it disarmed him.

  ‘Well, they say practice makes perfect.’ He gave her a wink and pulled on his coat.

  The besom stopped its swish across the stair.

  ‘Papa?’ Emily asked.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘They say that God gathers those close whom he loves, don’t they?’

  ‘Some people do,’ he agreed, wondering at her question.

  ‘If that’s true,’ she said with real concern in her voice, ‘does that mean He hates the rest of us? He leaves us here to miss them and mourn them.’

  ‘I don’t know, love’ he told her finally. ‘All we can do is hope He loves us all.’

  Outside, the sky had lowered further, and the snow was still coming down. Endless clouds the colour of dull pewter rolled into the city. Even before he reached Timble Bridge the greatcoat was covered in white. Underfoot the mud had hardened into a treacherous, slippery mass.

  For all that, his heart felt lighter. For the first time in months Emily had sounded a little like the girl she’d once been. Quieter and more thoughtful, definitely, and less challenging, but none the worse for that, given how wilful she’d been.

  Children dead in body, children dead in spirit, he thought. He shivered. This winter, tossing up its dead and throwing them into the earth, was going to make atheists of them all.

  At the jail he tried to settle back into his report. The words came slowly and awkwardly, vainly attempting to catalogue progress where there was none. He laboured to the end, scratching and sawing on the paper, then threw his quill down on the desk. The afternoon had slipped away into twilight while he’d worked. He lit a candle and sat back in the chair.

  Sedgwick and Josh came in together, their voices loud in the small room as they complained about the weather. Nottingham waited as they shook out the snow from their coats.

  ‘You’d better sit down,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘What’s that, boss?’ Sedgwick asked.

  ‘It seems our friend Wyatt wants to kill me.’

  Fourteen

  He could count his heartbeats – two, three, four – whilst they digested what he’d told them. It was Josh who spoke first.

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked.

  ‘Wyatt said his book will be in four volumes. That’s four victims.’

  ‘I know,’ Josh replied. ‘I heard you two talking.’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to,’ Nottingham chided him, then softened. ‘But I’d have been disappointed in you if you didn’t.’ He held up one finger. ‘He’s already killed Graves, the man he stole from.’ A second finger joined the first. ‘He has Rushworth, unless we’re lucky enough to drag him back alive.’ The third finger. ‘Judge Dobbs, who sentenced him to transportation.’ Then the last finger, pointing at himself. ‘Richard Nottingham. I was with the old Constable who arrested him, and the old Constable is dead.’

  ‘So what are we going to do, boss?’ Sedgwick wondered seriously.

  Nottingham reached into his greatcoat where it hung on the hook and produced the knives.

  ‘We’re going to be prepared,’ he announced. ‘He’s set us the challenge, and I’m damned if I’ll let him win it. I want you two armed. If you find him, let him find the mercy of God, not of justice.’

  He looked at them calmly, watching them both. ‘I don’t want any of the men shadowing me. Wyatt already proved how good he was when he snatched Rushworth. I can look after myself. I want to tempt him to come for me.’

  ‘But boss—’ Sedgwick started to protest, but the Constable held up his hand.

  ‘No buts, John. I need you out there looking for him. It’s bad enough he’s beaten us and got Rushworth, but can you imagine what’ll happen if he gets the judge? The whole story will come out then, we won’t be able to stop it.’

  ‘What about me?’ Josh asked.

  ‘You’re my ears and eyes out there.’ He smiled. ‘You hear things and you see things no one else sees. You know what I mean.’ He watched the boy’s skin flush with pride, then saw Sedgwick’s frown. ‘I mean it, John,’ he warned.

  ‘Boss—’

  ‘No.’ It was a short, simple word, and this time it conveyed everything. ‘I needed you to know what was happening. Wyatt’s not going to get me, and he’s not going to get the judge.’

  Inside, he’d already given up on Rushworth, sacrificed him. Failed him. Another victim of the winter. Wyatt had him, and they weren’t going to find him alive. Who would be left to mourn him and try to understand what had happened?

  ‘What else can we do to find Wyatt?’ he asked aloud.

  ‘We’ve been scraping the barrel for days, boss,’ Sedgwick said. ‘The man’s vanished.’

  ‘Only the dead vanish. And this bastard’s not going to die on us yet. Not until we have him.’ Nottingham’s eyes were as hard as the weather outside. ‘Get the night men looking everywhere.’

  The deputy glanced at him quizzically. The Constable leaned forward, rubbing his fingers across his mouth.

  ‘The fact is that he’s almost certainly killed Rushworth by now. That means he has to get rid of the body.’

  The others nodded.

  ‘His best chance to do that without being seen is at night.’

  ‘He did it in the day last time, boss.’

  ‘And we weren’t looking for him then. Have the men check everyone where one man is propping up another or seems dead drunk.’
/>   ‘Some nights, that could be half the population of Leeds.’

  Nottingham waved away the objection.

  ‘Let them earn their money for once. It’s as good a chance to find him as we’ve got.’

  If he isn’t too clever for them, he thought. So far Wyatt had shown more tricks than a conjuror.

  ‘Get them on it, John.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Outside, Sedgwick quickly dragged Josh into the White Swan and found a bench in the corner, away from the fire and the loud voices of people railing at winter’s return. He held his hand up for ale, and once the pot boy had served them, he began to talk quickly in a low voice.

  ‘So what are we going to do about the boss?’

  ‘What can we do?’ the boy asked.

  ‘We’re not going to leave him to go up against Wyatt himself, that’s for certain.’

  ‘But he told us not to follow him.’

  The deputy took a drink and shook his head. ‘There’s a time to ignore orders,’ he said firmly. ‘You’re the one to do it. I’m too tall, he’d spot me in a second. You’re the one no one sees, he said so himself.’

  Josh nodded slowly. He couldn’t deny it. It was a skill that had kept him alive for years before he’d become a Constable’s man. He’d grown in the last months, but he was still small, able to slide in and out of places, to avoid the eye. And he desperately wanted the boss alive.

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Your job now is to follow the boss and make sure he never knows you’re there. I’m ordering you, I’ll take responsibility.’

  ‘What do I do if I see Wyatt?’ Josh asked. He knew his limits. He’d never best a grown man in a fight.

  ‘If anyone looks threatening, you yell and kill them. Simple as that.’ He said the words flatly and with finality. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Understand?’

  Josh nodded.

  ‘Right. Finish your ale and get to it.’

  Nottingham was deep in his sleep when the noise woke him, loud and persistent. Slowly he groped his way to wakefulness and realized someone was knocking on the door. He pushed the fringe off his face, picked up the cudgel he kept at the bedside and walked quietly downstairs. In a swift single movement he opened the door, ready to strike. The bitter air was a shock against his flesh, pushing him immediately, fully awake.

  Josh was there, his hair wild from running, his breath clouding as he panted. The Constable could see his footprints in the snow that now lay on the road.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s been a riot,’ the boy gasped. ‘The apprentices. Mr Sedgwick said you’d better come.’

  Nottingham nodded, trying not to shiver in the cold. ‘Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘He told me to wait for you.’

  The Constable dragged on his clothes, feeling every year of his age.

  ‘What is it?’ Mary asked, sounding sleep-dazed, her mouth hidden by the blanket, the words curious more than concerned.

  ‘Just the apprentices.’ It was the only explanation needed. From time to time they’d go out drinking, against the terms of their contracts, and it would bubble over into fighting and destruction. They’d arrest a few of them, break a few heads, and that would be the end of it for a while. It was the way it had always been, further back than anyone remembered.

  Josh was standing outside the door, trying to burrow himself into his greatcoat, his hands ploughed into his pockets. The Constable knew why Sedgwick had ordered him to stay. Security. Just in case Wyatt was lying in wait, the wolf hiding in the places where there was no light.

  ‘Is it bad?’ Nottingham asked as they started to walk.

  ‘No worse than usual, Mr Sedgwick says.’

  ‘That’s a small comfort, I suppose.’

  He strode out hard, feeling his eyes beginning to tear from the cold. The snow had ended, but there was about two inches of it atop mud that had frozen hard into awkward waves and gullies. The clouds remained, low and thick, a feather bolster over the city, leaving the night moonless.

  ‘Boss?’ Josh asked in a tentative voice as they crossed the bridge.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘How old were you when you became a father?’

  What a strange question, he thought, and had to ransack his memory for the age.

  ‘Twenty-one. Why? Is that girl of yours in the family way?’

  The silence gave him his answer. Jesus, he thought, they begin so young. Or maybe they simply didn’t know any better.

  ‘She says she is. But she doesn’t look big.’

  Despite himself, Nottingham grinned. ‘You give her time. If she’s carrying, she’ll grow. How long have you known her?’ he asked, trying to sound as if the question had no weight.

  ‘A long time. She was one of those I looked after back when . . .’ Josh’s words trailed away. ‘You know.’

  Back when you were a cutpurse, the Constable thought. She’d probably be dead now if you hadn’t taken responsibility for her.

  ‘Do you love her?’

  The boy took his time about answering. ‘I don’t know,’ he decided. ‘What is love, anyway?’

  ‘Now that’s a question men have been asking for centuries.’ They were heading up Kirkgate, past the Parish Church and close to the jail. ‘We’ll talk more about this later. Meanwhile we have work to do.’

  A pair of candles lit the office and the fire roared in the grate, as welcoming as a kiss. Noise came from the cells, the overloud voices of young men filled with anger and drink. Sedgwick was leaning against the desk, blood clotted around a gash on his forehead, a heavy cudgel sticking out of his pocket.

  ‘They got you?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘One did, but he’s hurting a lot worse now.’

  ‘Is everything all under control?’

  ‘Pretty much, boss. We’ve got the worst of them here, the men are returning some to their masters. A few ran off.’

  ‘How many were there?’ Nottingham wearily took off his coat and sat at the desk. There would be all the documents to fill out, some prisoners to commit to the Petty Sessions, a few to release with no more than hard threats, all of them requiring words written on paper.

  ‘About forty, near as I could tell. They’d been at the Talbot.’

  Nottingham rolled his eyes. More bad things happened there than at any tavern in Leeds. ‘Did they do much damage?’

  Sedgwick shrugged.

  ‘We’ve had worse. Some windows broken on Briggate. They started a few scraps but nothing major until they ran into us.’

  Nottingham nodded. His men knew how to deal with the apprentices when they turned rowdy.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Three, maybe?’ Sedgwick shrugged. ‘Four? I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You go on home, John. You’ve done a good job. Tell the men that, too. I’ll take a look for damage when it’s light. You can leave, too, Josh.’

  It wasn’t worthwhile walking home to his own bed, his own wife. His mind was working now, there’d be no more sleep. He noted the silent glance between the other two as he wished them good night.

  The dawn came in stages of grey that slowly swept night off into corners and crevices. He heard the bell of the Parish Church strike seven and glanced through the window. Smoke was rising from the chimneys, Leeds was alive but staying behind closed doors where possible. Stragglers hurried down the streets, their heads bowed in protection.

  He put on the coat, grateful it had had a few hours to warm. He’d deal with the apprentices later, once he’d tallied their damages.

  It was more than he’d hoped but less than he’d feared. A total of twelve windows broken and four signs torn down. The shopkeepers were out, attempting to clear up the mess, seeking glass in the snow and boarding up the holes. He made note of their complaints and tried to mollify their anger, softly reminding a few of them that they’d once been apprentices themselves and wild as the night.

  At least they’d h
ad the sense not to do anything to the Moot Hall. That would have seen the Corporation come down on them hard. But they hadn’t even managed the wit to throw things at the statue of old Queen Anne above the doorway.

  He was up at the Head Row, about to cross over and see if there had been any problems on New Street when someone called his name. He turned, one hand sliding into his pocket for the knife, only to see Kearney the butcher.

  ‘Thank God I’ve found you,’ he said, his voice urgent and afraid, his eyes wide. ‘I think you’d better take a look. There’s a body at the top of Lands Lane.’

  Fifteen

  Rushworth, he thought anxiously. It had to be Rushworth.

  He dispatched a boy to find some of his men and rouse Brogden the coroner, then he walked up Lands Lane, following it from Briggate, around the corner, up to where it met the orchards of the old manor house.

  He could see the body from a hundred yards away, its shape dark and rounded against the glittering white of the snow. Nottingham slowed his pace, eyes on the ground, seeing how many had left footfalls.

  Ten yards from the corpse he stopped completely. This wasn’t Rushworth. He recognized the small cap pinned to the hair and the tumble of rags that served as clothing. It was Isaac the Jew.

  He edged closer, eyes examining everything. A runnel of blood under Isaac’s head had left a wide stain. He reached down and dipped his finger in it. It was cold now, but it had been warm enough to melt the snow a little.

  The corpse lay on its side, head tilted back, old empty eyes gazing to heaven, hands clenched into small, gnarled fists.

  Isaac had told him once where he was born, but he’d forgotten the name of the country. It had sounded like poetry in the man’s faltering English.

  ‘Here you hunt animals,’ he’d said, his accent guttural and heavy. ‘There they killed us for their sport.’ And the mist of tears would cover his eyes as the memories came, to stay unspoken.

  He’d tried to explain, too, about the skullcap and what it meant, but Nottingham had never understood its significance. Now it was just a circle, another scrap of old cloth.

  The Constable walked very slowly around the body, kneeling, examining. Someone had hit Isaac hard on the back of his thin old man’s skull. Nottingham gradually widened the circle of his search, looking for Isaac’s pack, for a bloodied branch, for anything that might help.