Cold Cruel Winter

by Chris Nickson

  The rain dripped in a heavy stream from his hat. A fence, long destroyed, brought him into what had once been the kitchen garden, now bare and waterlogged. He turned and waited as the slow snake of men caught up to him.

  ‘Are you all ready?’ Nottingham asked quietly. ‘Take your positions – and be ready.’

  With Sedgwick at his side he rounded the building, reaching out to touch the stone, rough under his fingers. They stood by the front door for a moment, then the Constable nodded and Sedgwick raised his boot.

  Thirty-Three

  The wood gave only a little at first, then more on the second kick, groaning on its hinges. At the third attempt it exploded open. Nottingham rushed in.

  A candle sat on the table, burning bright, the room full of light. The shutters were closed. The room was clean, floors swept, the bed in the corner neatly covered with a sheet.

  She was there, half hidden in a crouch behind the table. She wasn’t quite the woman of his memory. Her face was older, harder, the hair dark but missing its deep, unusual sheen. A large knife lay at her side, but she made no move to pick it up.

  ‘Where is he, Charlotte?’ Nottingham asked. She glanced up at her name, and the candle glow reflected off the tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘You get her, John,’ Nottingham ordered. ‘I’ll see what else is in the house. He’s here somewhere.’

  He found a candle stub and lit it. Raising his arm sent a shudder of pain from his shoulder, but he needed light and he needed the dagger. The door by the stone sink had to lead outside. Another, though, seemed to go somewhere else. Cautiously, he opened it, standing back as he pushed the wood against the wall.

  Stairs went down to the cellar. This is the place, he thought. The stench rose to meet him, a sickening, heady blend of piss, shit and blood. He descended carefully, keeping the flame out ahead of him.

  There was the table, with a neat stack of paper, a quill and an inkwell. Close by, a chair and another table with leather straps, and several knives. Barrels stood in the corner.

  But there was no Wyatt. He turned around, letting light play into every corner and crevice, but there was no one. At the far end of the room another door stood, barely ajar. Beyond it he could hear the rain. He went out and called for his men.

  ‘Did anyone come out this way?’

  He was greeted with blank stares and shakes of the head. They’d missed him. He’d managed to escape. He ducked back in the house and examined the door. The lock was new, the key still in it. Now he was out and loose in the city.

  The Constable took the papers from the desk and slid them into a large waistcoat pocket.

  Upstairs, Sedgwick had Charlotte’s wrists tied behind her.

  ‘Where did he go?’ Nottingham asked urgently. He took her chin in his hands so she had to face him. He kept his grip tight enough to hurt her. ‘Tell me and you won’t have the gallows.’

  She closed her eyes and said nothing. He pushed her away.

  ‘Take her to the jail,’ he ordered. ‘Have one man stay in case Wyatt returns. Send another down to watch the bridge. We’re going after him.’

  By the time Sedgwick caught up to him with his long stride, Nottingham was halfway down the track that led to the road. The rain slashed at his face and ran down his neck. He slowed to a fast walk.

  ‘He must have got out without the useless bloody men seeing him,’ the Constable blazed. ‘Worthy’s men buggered up, too. They were supposed to be by the road.’ In the darkness he pointed at the city. ‘He’s out there. He won’t be leaving Leeds. He’s dreamed about this place and what he’d do for so long that he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.’

  ‘So where do we start?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, ‘but he doesn’t have another bolthole. And that means we’ll find him.’

  ‘Where?’

  Nottingham made a quick decision. Where would he be if he wanted to hide in Leeds?

  ‘We’ll begin by the river and work out from there.’

  They marched on grimly, up the Head Row then down Briggate. The only sound was rain pounding on the cobbles; all the snow had finally melted. The water soaked through his coat and his shirt, leaving his skin cold. His boots squelched and he felt as if the world was liquid.

  Wyatt was somewhere, somewhere close. At the stairs by the bridge Nottingham stopped. Below, the water was loud, at least two feet higher than usual. For a short moment the moon came through the clouds and he could see the torrent gushing deep and forbidding. The rain in the hills, Nottingham thought, and all this melted snow. Something went by in the river, a large branch, a body, it passed too swiftly for more than a guess.

  The Constable glanced upriver. In this weather a regiment could hide in the woods there and never be noticed. The other way, down among the warehouses, were shadows deep enough to engulf a man. Before dawn any search would be hopeless.

  He let out a long, slow breath. It was time to admit defeat for now.

  ‘We’ll start again at first light. Go and get some rest.’

  Once Sedgwick had left, dashing away gratefully, he stood for another minute. Tomorrow it would happen.

  He burrowed into the bed, the blanket close about him, still feeling the chill all the way to his marrow. As soon as he’d walked into the room he’d stripped off his clothes and stood close to the fire, trying to take in its heat.

  Lizzie had rubbed his body with a piece of rough cloth and fed him a bowl of warm soup. It took the edge off everything, but he was still cold. The blanket helped, and the closeness of Lizzie’s body. A few feet away James was already asleep, his breathing soft in the air.

  ‘Don’t you go and come down with something, John Sedgwick,’ Lizzie said with a chuckle. ‘You’ll want me waiting on you every minute of the day.’

  He laughed quietly. She could always do this, come up with the right words to make him forget everything else, to make him happy. He reached for her, but she rolled away with a teasing giggle. ‘That’s not the way to get warm and you know it.’

  ‘There’s a right way and a wrong way, is there?’

  She sighed. He didn’t need to see her to know she was rolling her eyes. ‘Men. Don’t you know anything?

  ‘If we did, you’d have nothing left to teach us.’

  ‘You cheeky bugger.’

  But she gave in readily enough, and enjoyed it as much as he did. Later, as sleep was slowly overtaking him, she asked, ‘How’s Josh?’

  ‘Some people are looking after him. Gypsies,’ he said uncomfortably.

  ‘What?’ He felt her sit up. ‘I thought he was going to stay with Mr Nottingham.’

  ‘The Gypsies came. They’re old friends, apparently. Known him since he was a nipper or something. And he wanted to go with them.’

  ‘He could have come here,’ Lizzie insisted, ‘with folk who care about him.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Better off than with a bunch of Gypsies,’ she grumbled.

  ‘If it’s what Josh wants.’ He was surprised to hear himself defending the decision.

  ‘Maybe,’ she agreed cautiously. ‘But what are you going to do about those Hendersons? I remember them, they’re a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘We’ll do something. The boss promised.’

  ‘Good.’ She snuggled close. ‘I love you, John. Now let’s get you warm so you can work tomorrow.’

  At the jail Nottingham built up the fire and stripped to his shirt and breeches. Charlotte was in a cell, shivering, the sodden dress hugging her close. He left her. Let her grow cold and scared, he decided. Maybe she’d talk then.

  Once he was warm he settled at the desk with Wyatt’s manuscript. The third book, it would have been. The one wrapped in his skin.

  Seven years in the Indies. That was the judge’s pronouncement. Judge Dobbs, telling me I should be grateful that he was not going to hang me, and all because I knew enough to recite a Bible verse. But if Graves had kept his word and Rushworth had not peached there would
have been none of this. I only took what I had been promised, and a little more for my trouble.

  The voyage was months of hell. We were chained below decks, like the slaves I would see later. It was no matter to the captain if we lived or died; he would be paid all the same. Before we left Liverpool they branded my cheek with a T. A thief for all to see and know. I smelt my flesh as it burned and decided then I would come back for those responsible.

  The Indies were all the agonies that man has described, and more. The heat never faded. Even the nights brought no relief, only time to think and sweat. They worked us from dawn to dusk, often beyond. In the season we would be bent over, hacking at the sugarcane with sharp knives. One slip and the blood would flow and insects flock to its scent. Some died that way, others from the yellow fever. It would take them suddenly, pulling them into a delirium. Few came back from that.

  The overseers were cruel men who knew how to work us hard. The whip fell every day. Twice it fell on me, and I still carry the scars.

  But I knew I would survive it all. I used those hot, sleepless nights well and began to plan. I was different from those other convicts. They were stupid men, bred to labour like oxen. The fields were a good place for them, alongside the slaves from Africa. Truth to tell, other than colour and tongue there was little to mark them apart. I had education, reading, writing, arithmetic. Once the plantation owner learnt that, as I made sure he did, I was plucked away and put in an office.

  I had better meals, better quarters. By the end of three years I made sure I was trusted, and after another twelve months I was indispensable. It was simple enough work to salt away small bits of money that the owner would never miss. For a coin or two a sailor would start a letter on its journey to Charlotte.

  I could have any slave girl I desired, and a few times I succumbed. I was the owner’s right hand, dependable. I pointed out where he was being swindled and helped him increase his profits. I worked well, for myself as much as for him. My stack of coins increased. It was no fortune, but it was enough.

  My plan grew slowly. From a faint outline it took shape. I thought and considered. Mere killing seemed inadequate. Anyone can murder, it takes no skill, there’s no statement in it. I wanted something that would lodge in the mind, something that would make you remember me.

  It all fell into place when I talked to a French trader from the Antilles. He told me of the custom in his homeland. When a man was condemned to be executed, the notes of his trial were bound in his skin. At first it shocked me and I thought the French barbaric. But then I realized it was the perfect thing. I could leave the accounts of my vengeance in the skins of those who had wronged me.

  A sugar plantation is a self-sufficient place. I had time and I had the position to persuade the tanner to teach me his art. One thing I learned remains with me still: each creature has just enough brain to tan his own hide. Curious, is it not? The brains are rubbed on the inside of the leather to cure it, and there is just enough to work the whole skin.

  But that was too much, even for me. There were other methods and I learnt them well. The true technique is in the cutting and I practised on slaves who died. Their bodies were worthless anyway.

  As my time ran out the master asked me to stay on as a free man. His offer was tempting, but the need to make men pay was deep in me. The salary he suggested would have made me a rich man in Europe, but I knew I had to do this. I had made my promise to Charlotte that I would return. She would be waiting. I had my sack of money, enough to keep us until my job was done.

  But whoever reads this – perhaps you, John Sedgwick, although your knowledge of your letters is poor – will want to know how I took the Constable.

  It ended there.

  And no more to be written, Nottingham thought. In the morning they’d find him and that would be the end of it all. He put on the clothes that were still damp but warm against his flesh.

  As he unlocked the cell Charlotte glanced up. Her face was pale, body shaking from the chill. Good. This was how he wanted her, weak, vulnerable.

  ‘I have all the evidence I need against you,’ he began.

  She kept her dark eyes steady on his, saying nothing.

  ‘We’ll find him when it’s light.’

  ‘And kill him?’ she asked. Her voice quavered.

  ‘Yes,’ he told her bluntly. ‘No trace, no record.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘You too.’ He waited, letting her digest the words. She was silent and he continued. ‘I’ll burn the books. None of this will ever have happened.’

  ‘But it did, didn’t it? You’ll remember, you’ll know.’

  ‘I live with a lot of things, Charlotte. Good and bad. But I still sleep at night.’

  She ran her fingers through her wet hair like a comb. There was a bitter ugliness on her face.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ she asked.

  ‘To try and understand him.’

  ‘Why? Do you think he’s mad?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘I do.’

  She shook her head wildly, sending droplets of waters spinning across the room. ‘He’s not. Not any more than you or me. He wanted things for us. A good life where we weren’t always hungry. A place where we could live decently. They stopped us having that.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The people who cheated him, the ones who broke their promises.’ Her eyes flashed with life. ‘He could have been successful. He’s a clever man. But they wouldn’t let him. They only want their own kind to have money, not people who want to better themselves. We had ideas above our station.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘I know it.’ She stood, a tall woman, suddenly proud. ‘I saw it every day when he came home. His work, my sewing, and we could still barely make a life. He was smarter than all of them. He fooled Graves for a long time. If that man had done right by him he’d still be alive.’ She paused. ‘And if not for luck, you’d be dead. Think about that.’

  ‘Where has he gone?’

  ‘Do you think I’d tell you?’ She laughed. ‘Even if I knew, do you honestly believe I’d tell you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the Constable said. ‘But I’m certain he hasn’t left Leeds.’

  ‘He won’t go anywhere until his business is finished,’ Charlotte told him. ‘He’ll leave then, whether I’m alive or not.’

  ‘Do you want to die?’ Nottingham asked her.

  She glared at him. ‘Have you ever waited for someone? I don’t mean for an hour or two, but for years? He was the first man to value me, to treat me well. I look different.’ She stuck out her hand to display the deeper colour of her skin. ‘You see that? I’ve been called all manner of things in my life, but I don’t know what I am. My mam died when I was born and she never told anyone who my father was. A tinker, a sailor, a Gypsy? I don’t know. But he didn’t care what I was, it never mattered to him, he loved me for me. He said he’d return, so I waited for him. I was faithful to him. But all those years without him were like dying. I already know what it is.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Your daughter died, he told me.’

  ‘Yes.’ He kept his voice low and even.

  ‘And did you feel like you’d died yourself after that?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Imagine that feeling tenfold, a hundredfold. That’s what I’ve had.’

  ‘You know we’ll catch him.’

  ‘If you’re good enough. You haven’t been so far.’

  ‘He doesn’t have anywhere to hide now.’

  She turned away. In the quiet he could hear the rain beating down outside.

  ‘Even if I could, I wouldn’t give him up.’

  ‘Not even if I offer you your life?’

  ‘No, Mr Nottingham. Not even for that.’

  Nottingham stared out of the window. The thick line of grey clouds rolled all the way to the western horizon. The streets were awash, mud clinging to each step. It wasn’t a good time to have me
n after you and no place to go, he thought with satisfaction.

  He opened the drawer and took out the two books, the bindings rough under his fingertips. He needed to see them again, to touch them again so he could remind himself of the evil behind all this. He’d barely put them back out of sight when Sedgwick arrived.

  ‘Our man’s been on the bridge all night. He swears Wyatt hasn’t gone that way,’ the deputy announced. ‘The river’s over its banks now, too. It’s going to be a bad one, boss.’

  They’d had floods before. The engineers worked, made their calculations and built their walls. But nature was stronger than anything they could devise, and when the force was powerful enough, the waters returned.

  At least there was little to concern them in that. Houses might be ruined, a few would drown, but none of it was crime.

  ‘If you were Wyatt, where would you try and hide?’ Nottingham wondered. ‘You’re soaked, you’re scared, your woman’s been taken. Where do you go?’

  ‘Somewhere I can build a fire,’ Sedgwick responded.

  ‘You need dry wood for that. Where do you find dry wood when it’s been raining like this?’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Come on.’ The Constable buttoned his greatcoat and jammed the hat on his head.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Sedgwick asked as they strode down the street.

  ‘Graves’s warehouse,’ Nottingham answered briskly. ‘Think about it. Where does Wyatt know in Leeds? There’s his house, and he daren’t go back there now. And there’s the warehouse. He worked there for years. The place will be empty overnight. It has a stove. He’ll think he’s safe there for now.’

  ‘The workers will be arriving soon.’

  Nottingham shook his head. ‘Not today. It’s down by the river. No one with any sense is going near those places today.’

  ‘Which is why we’re going there.’

  The Constable grinned. ‘True, John. But we’re hunting.’