Cold Cruel Winter

by Chris Nickson

  But not for a minute yet. Everything connected with this man disturbed him. He was calling the tune, and the Constable and his men were dancing like fools. Even Worthy had found nothing.

  And meanwhile Wyatt laughed.

  These books were the proof. He gloated. This wasn’t his story, it was his boast. Nottingham glanced out of the window. A few people straggled along Kirkgate, their breath blossoming on the cold air.

  Inside, intimate with Wyatt, he could have been in a different world, a close, horrifying world. Very carefully, using his fingernails, he prised the book open and found his place.

  Since my time in Derbyshire I had foresworn women. In one way or another they were all whores. They took your money, they took your life. I had my plans, and if I wanted a woman she’d come later, when I was established, once I had my fortune.

  I had bought a shirt that was too large for me, and needed it altered. I was good with a pen, but I had no skill with a needle. Charlotte was a seamstress who lived in the same court. Since she was so close I took it to her.

  There was something unusual about her. She looked different, a deeper colour to her skin, but it was more than that. She was reticent, as genteel as a lady for all she dressed in old clothes and didn’t have two pennies to her name.

  She had no idea where she had been born or about her background, but her family had ended up here, then died. She was the only one to survive. Something about her touched me. Unlike the girl who had tried to ruin me or the prostitutes who wanted my coin, she was honest. I wanted to look after her, to give her a better life.

  She moved into my room.

  But meanwhile, you will also want to know what happened to Mr Rushworth. Of course, you already know.

  He was so easy to take. A soft word, and then he recognized me. I knew your man was behind him, but there was no challenge in tricking an oaf like that.

  Then I had him away. He was such an unassuming man in life, a man who sensed his lot. The only time I ever heard him speak up was against me. If he had not done that he could still be content with his ink and paper. Maybe there will be some to miss him. I never asked.

  In the short time I held him with me he spoke more than I heard in those long years we worked together. He apologized for all the trouble and pain he had caused me, of course. As well he should. He begged. Yes, he begged most volubly. It should have been satisfying but it quickly became tiresome to hear his wheedling voice, praying to me for his life. In the end I finished him sooner than I really wanted just to quiet him.

  By that time I found that there was very little satisfaction in killing him. But it was a job that had to be done, a small task to be completed. It was best done quickly.

  Gingerly, he slid the book into the drawer on top of its companion. He’d read it, he had no desire to ever open it again. If he could, he’d have burned them both immediately and let the blaze carry away all the hatred, all the fury that Wyatt had packed inside himself over his life.

  Wyatt would be in his middle thirties now, and all those years of simmering anger were boiling over. After all these words he might know more about Wyatt’s history, but the man himself remained elusive, more apparition than flesh. He’d told enough about the past, but beyond the killings he’d said nothing of the present. He was a clever, cautious man, hinting at so much but giving away nothing.

  Charlotte. At least they had a name now, although there was nothing more about the woman to help them.

  What troubled him most was the confidence Wyatt possessed. He wasn’t writing a confession or apology, there was no sorrow in his words for anything he’d done. He truly didn’t believe he could be caught. Was he really so certain of himself?

  The Constable poured more of the small beer and swilled it in his mouth before swallowing. He felt like throwing the mug against the wall just to hear it smash, but what would that prove, other than his own frustration?

  Who would he go for next? The judge, Nottingham thought. He wanted the challenge, to prove he could do it. He wanted to show how good he was, how deep his revenge could run. And he’d want the Constable alive to read about how he’d done it.

  Some of the men watching the judge were obvious; they were meant to be. Others were good, more adept at hiding themselves. He was certain Worthy had his men there, too, watching the watchers. A second ring of defence. When Wyatt came, they’d have him. One way or another. And if he came for the Constable instead, he was ready.

  Twenty-One

  If it wasn’t for the cold he’d have fallen asleep. The fear for Frances poured through him. He felt sure Lizzie would look after her, but he’d noticed the dark, worried look that flashed between her and John, the concern in their eyes.

  He could lose her.

  He’d checked the men, seeing each was in position, and told them to watch for a woman with darker skin. Some of them had taken it in immediately, others had been confused and he’d patiently explained it to them.

  Two were waiting by the Moot Hall, where the judge had finished the Petty Sessions, and two more were close by the house at Town End. Josh circled around, his eyes open and alert for the woman, even as his heart fretted.

  He’d seen so many die in his life, but what he was feeling now for Frances was different. She’d been with him for four years now, arriving from nowhere, so quiet she might have been a shadow. She was a patient girl, and shy, hardly ever meeting people’s eyes. Sometimes he wondered what had happened to her before they met, but she’d never mentioned anything about it.

  From the corner of his eye he caught a movement, but he didn’t turn to look. Instead he slowly crossed Briggate, the ruts of ice hard from cart wheels and hooves. There was someone half-hidden in the entry of a court. He didn’t stop, but a single short glance was all he needed. Someone else was watching. From what he’d seen, though, it couldn’t have been Wyatt; the man’s skin had the paleness of too many English winters. He’d tell the boss later.

  He settled in a spot a little further down Briggate that allowed him to watch the man without being observed. A wall kept the worst of the wind away and he crouched, hands deep in his pockets. This was work he could do well, tucked away, waiting, unseen, following. It was why the Constable had taken him on. He had the patience to do the job well. But as soon as he settled his thoughts returned to Frances and the anguish came back to his mind.

  The idea that she might die terrified him. Over time she’d become part of him, her smile, her presence. He’d looked after her, but her warmth had comforted him too, first when they were children and now in different ways. It seemed impossible for Josh to imagine his life without her in it.

  As soon as he finished work he’d go over and spend time with her. Lizzie had said he could stay as long as he wanted, as long as he didn’t tire her. But he’d be happy to simply sit and hold her hand. There didn’t even need to be words.

  Two men walked by, heavily wrapped against the cold, barely wasting a glance on him. All they’d be worried about would be their money, Josh thought. He could have been another beggar boy, or the cutpurse he used to be. Two paces on they’d have forgotten about him.

  He kept his face carefully angled, looking down but still able to watch the man across the street from the corner of his eye. His thoughts made their inevitable way back to Frances, feeling the sparrow touch of her small hand in his, the way she’d looked as she was carried to John’s room.

  For a moment he wondered if he’d see her alive again and panic rose quickly through him. He wanted to run to her. But he stayed where he was. There was work to be completed. Duty was something he’d learned in the last few months; there was a job to do and he’d see it through.

  Time passed slowly. The iciness of the ground seeped through his shoes and into his feet. His limbs ached, and even deep in the pockets, his fingers were stiff.

  Suddenly the man moved. Josh waited a moment then slid to his feet. His legs were stiff and for the first few steps he stumbled like an old man, knees not wanting to
move.

  The man was further up Briggate, easy to spot as he walked in short bursts, stopping to inspect shop windows as he slyly cast his eyes ahead to the judge and the Constable’s men who followed.

  It wasn’t Wyatt, Josh was positive of that. The man moved too confidently, like someone who’d known the ground well for years. The judge crossed the Head Row, a small body plunged deep into a large coat. He was going home to eat, Josh knew, and then he’d sleep in his chair for an hour. It was his daily ritual, as he’d learned in the days he’d had to follow the man.

  Nottingham’s men did their work well, staying nearby until the judge was safe behind his own door. They’d leave for a while now, to warm themselves in an inn, and return later to follow if he went out again.

  Josh waited until they’d gone. Knowing he had time, he ran around, through the courts and by the Grammar School, to reappear higher up Town End, hidden by a gatepost. No one would look there, and he could see the entire street.

  The man waited a few minutes, pacing restlessly and stamping his feet to stay warm before turning on his heel and marching away. Josh followed carefully, keeping distance between them as they moved on to lower Briggate, then on to Swinegate. There Josh moved quickly, his suspicions sharp, arriving in time to see the man vanish into Worthy’s house.

  He ran back to the jail, eager to tell the Constable, but he’d left. Josh stood on Kirkgate, the wind harsh against his face. He’d have to give the boss the news later.

  He needed food, something hot inside him. He hadn’t eaten since the day before. There was no market, so there were no stalls, but Michael at the Ship would feed him.

  Walking quickly he headed back up Briggate. By the Moot Hall, he was about to turn into the small court with the inn when he felt a hand on his sleeve. He turned to see a child, barely five, urgently pulling at his coat. The boy’s face was grubby, hands filthy, and he was dressed in a short, ragged jacket and torn breeches, calves bare, shoes held together with twine. For a moment Josh thought he must be a beggar, then the boy said,

  ‘They want you to come. They think they’ve seen your man.’

  Twenty-Two

  The boy took off at a run, as if he had no doubts that Josh would follow. And he did, sliding and slipping on the snow and ice, but quickly catching up and keeping pace. The boy knew his way around the streets, taking short cuts and dashing through small spaces.

  They ended up in the Ley Lands. Looking ahead, Josh could see where the city petered out and gave way to cottages. Here, though, there were still courts and yards where people simmered and stewed, survived or died. Even in this weather he could smell the stink of misery, as if it had become part of the houses themselves.

  The boy led him around a corner. A man waited there, so deep in the shadows that he looked to blend in with the wall. He was wearing a long cloak, the hood pulled close over his head.

  For one horrifying moment Josh wondered if he’d come into a trap, then the man pushed back the cowl. It was the young man from the group of Gypsies.

  ‘We think we’ve seen him,’ he said without preamble.

  ‘Where?’

  The man didn’t move.

  ‘There’s a house in the court with most of the roof missing. It looks empty, but there’s a man with darker skin who goes in there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The words didn’t seem grateful enough. If they caught Wyatt from this, the man would have a good reward.

  The man smiled wryly. ‘You’d better go and tell your master, boy.’

  ‘Yes.’ Josh began to turn away.

  ‘And make sure you remember our part,’ the man warned.

  ‘I will.’ He started to run back to the jail, hoping that the Constable had returned.

  When he arrived, Nottingham was sitting at his desk, a slice of pie at his side as he worked. After running hard through the cold, the heat of the room seemed close, and Josh felt clammy cold sweat drying on his face.

  ‘Wyatt,’ he said, drawing in lungs full of air. ‘I think I might have found him.’

  The Constable sat up sharply, his eyes quickly alert. ‘Where?’

  ‘In a court by the Ley Lands.’ Josh sat, slowly regaining his breath.

  ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

  ‘No,’ Josh admitted. ‘I was told.’

  Nottingham pushed the fringe off his forehead, fierce concentration on his face.

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  Josh shook his head.

  ‘Do you believe the information?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Josh answered firmly.

  Nottingham nodded. ‘Go and find John and a couple of the other men and come back here. We’ll go and see if this is Wyatt.’

  ‘Do you think it could be?’

  The Constable shrugged. ‘I hope so.’ He smiled. ‘We won’t know until we see, will we? But we’re going to be prepared. Get John.’

  It took a full hour before the men were assembled at the jail. Nottingham and Sedgwick took primed pistols, and the Constable armed the others with knives. Josh led the way through the afternoon streets, the party moving silently. The wind had finally dropped and more people were around, heavily wrapped, stepping back in fear and hurried whispers as the men passed.

  They halted outside the court. Only Josh and Nottingham ventured in, keeping out of sight as the boy pointed out the house. Two of the men were detailed to go around and watch the rear. There would be no chance of Wyatt escaping, if Wyatt it was. Five minutes later the Constable raised his hand. Flanked by Sedgwick and Josh, their weapons drawn, he walked to the house with the missing roof and pushed heavily on the door.

  With a mild groan it gave way and they entered. Sorry grey light filtered down through the rafters and broken joists, casting deep shadows. They stopped to listen, waiting as the place filled with a deep, sad silence. Walking slowly, they moved from room to room. Half the doors were missing, glass gone from the windows, floors deep in dust, cobwebs and rat droppings. It was a place that begged to be taken down and opened to the sky.

  At the end of the hall stood the last door, closed and dark. Nottingham turned the knob slowly and pushed it open. The faint light showed stairs down to a cellar. He walked slowly, feeling each step with his foot, the others close behind him.

  The floor under his feet changed from wood to packed dirt. The air smelt of stale food, sweat, shit, of life. Someone ate and slept down here. He tightened his grip on the pistol, slowly letting out his breath.

  The Constable waited, letting his eyes adjust to the heavy gloom until he could make out the walls. He could feel his heartbeat, the fire of dryness in his mouth. Very slowly he edged his way along, fingertips on the walls, touching the rough finish of bricks and mortar.

  After a few yards there was wood. He traced the frame of a door, old, dry, splintering. His hands moved further until he found the door itself, sliding down to the knob. Nottingham could sense the others behind him, tense and waiting.

  Slowly he turned the doorknob, then pushed the door wide and stepped into the room. The blackness felt as absolute as death. He had no idea how big the room was, or where Wyatt might be in it. He needed light. And they had none.

  ‘Who’s in here?’ he shouted.

  He could hear John moving around the room. Glancing back he could pick out Josh at the door, faintly highlighted, standing like a ghost.

  Nottingham moved to the wall and began working his way slowly around the room. Suddenly there was a small flare of light, and a glow gradually filled the room. Sedgwick had found a candle.

  In the opposite corner a man cowered in his bed. His eyes were wide and terrified. There was a wet spot on the dirty sheet where he’d pissed himself, and the scent of urine wafted across as he cowered.

  ‘Who are you?’ Nottingham asked. His pistol was pointed straight at the man’s head.

  His skin was darker. That much was true, but he looked nothing like the Wyatt of the Constable’s memory. This man was squat, his shoulders wide, his hair litt
le more than a shadow on his skull. A thick moustache, the bristle hair turned to grey and white, covered his top lip.

  ‘Who are you?’ he repeated.

  The man looked from Nottingham to Sedgwick and to Josh. The Constable could see he was scared for his life.

  ‘Your name?’ Nottingham asked, trying to soften his tone.

  ‘I—’ He looked around helplessly, petrified.

  ‘What’s your name, please?’ Nottingham asked again, this time more gently, lowering his weapon.

  ‘I’m Tom.’ The man spoke the word tentatively, the fear full in his voice. ‘Tom Walker.’

  Nottingham looked around the room, for what it was worth. The bed was old straw and an even older sheet, with a small travelling chest standing at the foot. Besides that the place was almost bare, the floor swept clean.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was a sailor. I’m on my way home.’ The Constable caught an accent he couldn’t quite pinpoint in the man’s voice. ‘I’ve no money and I found this place.’

  ‘And where’s home?’

  ‘Newcastle.’

  ‘Where are you travelling from?’

  ‘Portsmouth. Paid us off and let us go, like.’ He squinted hard, the shock and surprise starting to fade. ‘And who are you, then?’

  ‘I’m the Constable of Leeds,’ Nottingham told him. Walker stared at him.

  ‘Is there anyone else living in the house?’ the Constable asked.

  ‘No one I’ve seen. But I’ve only been here a couple of days, like. I’m on my way tomorrow. Just needed to rest up.’

  Nottingham smiled.

  ‘We’ll leave you, then. Have a safe journey, Mr Walker. Josh, go and tell the others we’ve finished.’ He paused. ‘But good work.’

  Upstairs, the light seemed to flood in on them, leaving Nottingham blinking. He felt the tension of the last few minutes seep out of his bones, leaving him tired.