Cold Cruel Winter

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Off somewhere?’ Worthy was standing at the corner, right hand resting on his stick, upright, indifferent to the weather. ‘You’d better not be going without me, laddie.’

  ‘Come along then, Amos.’

  ‘Your men let him get away,’ Worthy said. The Constable saw Sedgwick glance uneasily at him, then blankly across at the pimp.

  ‘They did,’ he admitted. ‘Seems he was ready, just in case. He must have gone as soon as we entered the house. But your men didn’t catch him, either, did they?’ Nottingham added pointedly.

  The procurer acknowledged the fact. ‘Won’t happen again. I’ve already made sure of that. You know where he is?’

  ‘I believe he’s in Graves’s warehouse.’

  ‘That’s possible,’ Worthy agreed after a moment’s consideration. ‘And if he’s not?’

  ‘Then we’ll look elsewhere until we find him. I’m going to have him today.’

  By the river they stopped. The water was a full two feet above the bank, sucking at the earth and pulling it away. The noise as it flowed was overwhelming, the biggest sound in the world.

  The current was pulling everything along. Nottingham saw large branches, too heavy for a man to lift, bobbing like twigs. Dead animals were carried by the water, a few sheep, a cow, and then they were gone, so fast that they seemed like imagination.

  He’d seen floods before, too many to remember, and this was one of the worst. Leeds depended on the river. It sent the cloth down to the ports and brought back other things the city needed. Floods were the reminder that it couldn’t be trusted, that it wasn’t always so docile.

  The damage would be extensive this time. The Constable was thankful that the bridge was strong, its foundations deep. It had been widened only a couple of years before; it would withstand all this.

  But some of the buildings along the river weren’t so strong. Water like this could undermine them. Yesterday the warehouse staff would have sweated, moving the cloth to a safe height, protecting the investment. Cloth was worth more than workers in Leeds.

  ‘There’s only one door,’ Nottingham told the others. ‘We’ll go in together. Amos, you stay back and guard that. Mr Sedgwick and I will go and flush him out.’

  Worthy seemed about to protest, but then closed his mouth. The plan made sense, Nottingham knew. They were younger, more agile. Worthy’s sheer size and violence would make him an impassable obstacle.

  Now they just had to find Wyatt there. It was right, it made sense. He’d go to the only place he knew, somewhere he might feel safe.

  The three men followed the muddy track, rain squalling against their backs. Nottingham hunched down into his coat, right hand clutching the cudgel, the dagger tight in his left. His shoulder ached with the tension, one more reason to want Wyatt found and punished.

  As they drew closer to the building he began to pray that he was right. He held his breath, only letting it out when he saw that the lock had been broken. Excitement roared through his blood, louder even than the river.

  ‘He’s here.’

  Thirty-Four

  ‘You go to the left,’ the Constable told Sedgwick. ‘I’ll take the right.’

  ‘He’ll not get out of here,’ Worthy promised.

  ‘I know, Amos.’ Nottingham smiled grimly. ‘Just remember, he’s got nothing left to lose.’

  ‘I owe him for what he did to Sam. You remember that, Constable.’

  ‘Let’s find him first before we start talking about revenge, shall we?’ He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes moved from Sedgwick to the pimp, then he leaned against the door, forcing it slowly open.

  As soon as the space was wide enough he darted in, the deputy close behind. Light filtered through the high windows, grey and pearl-pale. Water had seeped in, leaving long, shallow puddles like wet fingers on the flagstones.

  He moved cautiously along the wall, eyes sharp for any tiny movement, ears pricked for sound. After a few yards he stopped, taking time for his breathing to slow. He could hear the water outside, muted but still deadly.

  Slowly he continued. The cloth had been placed up on shelves, on top of cupboards and cabinets, anywhere the flood couldn’t reach it. The air was filled with the smell of wool, the stink of Leeds money.

  Wyatt was in here.

  Nottingham reached the corner. The river was louder here, just beyond the brick. He saw Sedgwick at the opposite corner, shaking his head. No sign. He gestured and began to edge forward. He brought his feet down lightly, watching where he stood, attempting to make each step silent.

  His palms were sweaty and he adjusted his grip on the weapons. For a moment he thought he heard something, some faint noise. He halted, waiting for it to come again. But there was nothing and he began to move, looking forwards, upwards, anywhere a man might hide.

  He covered half the length of the warehouse. It had seemed to take hours, but he knew only quick minutes had passed. Nothing. Could Wyatt have already left, he wondered fearfully?

  No. The man had nowhere else to go.

  The long creak ran around the walls. He couldn’t place where it started. It was followed by sharp silence and then the violent splintering crash of wood and stone. From the other side of the room Sedgwick yelled.

  The Constable was already running, soles slapping against the stone, heading in the direction of the sound.

  ‘He’s going for the door,’ Sedgwick shouted, and Nottingham changed direction in mid stride. He could see Wyatt now, ready to pull back on the knob, crouching, but too far away to catch.

  The movement was so swift and smooth that it blurred, like part of a dance. Wyatt tugged, thrust with his free arm, and then rolled through the opening. He was out into the morning, on his feet and running, not looking back.

  Worthy was down, clutching at his thigh. A blossom of blood stained his breeches and began to spread down his hose. His mouth was set, refusing to acknowledge the pain. Nottingham raced past him, barely twenty yards behind Wyatt, the rain dashing like needles against his face.

  He stumbled in the mud, arms flailing and came close to losing his footing. His boot slid until he could find traction on some gravel and he forced himself forward. Wyatt had gained a precious yard or two, dull light glinting off the dagger in his hand as he moved.

  Nottingham dared not think of Worthy or of Sedgwick. He had to keep his mind on his quarry, to go faster, to catch him. When that was done could he go back. He’d help where he could and count the cost where it was too late.

  Nottingham was panting hard, feet pounding on the soaking ground. His lungs burned, mouth open wide as he gulped in air. Ahead, Wyatt slid, put out a hand to steady himself and dropped his knife. But he kept moving, never glancing behind.

  He was close enough to hear Wyatt straining, his breathing loud and pained. Neither of them could run much further. Wyatt stumbled again, and Nottingham drew even closer, pushed himself harder. He wiped the rain from his face.

  He was the huntsman. He had weapons.

  His foot slid wide on the slippery ground and before he could save himself he was sprawling face down in the mud. He pulled himself up quickly, his lungs hot as fire. Wyatt had gone.

  He felt the panic start to rise. It was impossible.

  He was by the pumping engine, just below the bridge. Normally it would be pushing water from the Aire up to the reservoir by St John’s Church, but it was closed now because of the flood. The building stood tall, its small windows set like eyes high in the wall. With careful footsteps the Constable walked to the door. It was unlocked.

  Nottingham eased his way in, and immediately the full stench of death caught in his throat, making him retch. It was inescapable. All around the room, stacked across the floor like forgotten wood, were awkward bundles of white: corpses laid out in their winding sheets.

  This was one of the places the city had used to store its winter dead, a place to leave them until the ground was soft enough for burying. Now, as the thaw took hold, they wer
e putrefying, and the charnel house smell was like the opened gates of hell.

  Wyatt lay among them, a dark shape, and the only one moving. Outside the river raged. In here there was only the rank stillness of death. The Constable moved closer, the knife tight in his hand.

  ‘You’ve been lucky twice now, Constable.’ Wyatt’s voice was ragged and breathless, with an edge of desperation. ‘I fell over a corpse.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘I twisted something. I can’t get up.’

  ‘Everyone needs luck,’ Nottingham told him. ‘You’ve had your share. But luck runs out.’

  For the first time he could see Wyatt’s full face. The man had thin hair, barely enough to cover his scalp, plastered against his head by the water. His skin was the colour of aged wood, the price of so many years of sun. The T branded on his cheek was bright and loud.

  Wyatt gingerly touched his ankle. ‘Fuck, that hurts.’

  The Constable simply stared, wondering how many times Wyatt’s victims had complained and screamed from their pain before he killed them and took their skin. He was tempted to kick the ankle to see if it made him yell, so he could experience a tiny portion of the agony he’d inflicted. Instead he kept his distance, wary of a ruse and any weapons the man might have.

  ‘Get up,’ he ordered.

  ‘I can’t.’ Wyatt shouted the words, his face contorted.

  ‘Then you’re going to have to crawl.’

  Wyatt tried to roll over, letting out a sharp moan as his foot touched the ground. It was convincing, but the Constable stayed back.

  ‘I don’t care how you do it, but you’re going to move,’ he said sharply. Slow drips of rain fell from the tip of his dagger. He’d recovered from the chase and breathed normally again. He kept his gaze fixed on Wyatt.

  He should kill the man right here, slice his throat open, just the way Wyatt had done with Graves and Rushworth. Kill him and send him down the river. Wyatt had to be erased from history, as surely as if he’d never come back to Leeds.

  The man extended his arm as if he was going to pull himself along, fingers curling to prepare for the effort. Wyatt’s eyes flashed with pain, then his arm whipped out towards Nottingham’s leg.

  The Constable stepped back neatly, leaving Wyatt clutching at air.

  ‘Get up,’ he said again.

  ‘Not going to kill me?’ Wyatt’s voice was a sly taunt. ‘Maybe your shoulder still hurts too much? Or do you want the trophy?’

  ‘You’ll die. I can guarantee that.’

  The man looked up with the furtive gaze of an animal. ‘I’m used to it. I was dead inside from the time the ship left until it returned. Then I came alive again. A resurrected man, Constable.’ He gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. ‘Dying again doesn’t scare me. I could slide out of here and into the river.’

  ‘Then why don’t you?’

  ‘Because I’d rather make you kill me.’ He moved slightly and twisted his mouth at the pain. ‘But you won’t. Not in cold blood.’

  Nottingham said nothing. The man was right. He relished the idea, but he couldn’t do it. Not like this. He heard a noise and half-turned, watching Wyatt from the corner of his eye.

  Sedgwick and Worthy stood in the doorway. The pimp’s thigh was coarsely bandaged, an old piece of grimy cloth wound tightly around it. He was limping heavily, using his stick and dragging his boot as he hobbled. He seemed aged, suddenly vulnerable, his large body bent and deflated. The creases and folds of his face were deeper and rougher, showing the old man he usually hid so well.

  At least Sedgwick looked unhurt. His eyes were fixed on Wyatt, burning with hatred.

  ‘So you got the bastard,’ Worthy said. He might have looked smaller but his voice still had power, and the anger flowed in his words.

  ‘He’s too scared to kill me,’ Wyatt taunted. ‘He’s a man of principle, is Mr Nottingham.’

  ‘But I’m not, laddie.’ Worthy pronounced the words flatly, as if it was a perfectly understood fact of life. He reached under his greatcoat and pulled a long knife from its sheath on his belt. ‘You stabbed me. I’m not going to let anyone do that and get away with it.’

  ‘There’s always a price, isn’t there?’ Wyatt sounded fatalistic, almost content at having been given a final sentence.

  ‘Aye, there is.’ Worthy spoke softly. ‘And it has to be paid in full.’

  Nottingham stood and watched. He knew Worthy too well. The man had announced he’d kill, so Wyatt would die. And Nottingham would do nothing to prevent it. All he felt now was relief that he wouldn’t have to complete the task himself.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ Worthy asked.

  ‘No.’ Wyatt shook his head, eyes moving between the three men standing above him. Sedgwick hung back, uneasy, but the Constable ignored the glances he gave.

  ‘You’re not with them, that’s for certain.’ Wyatt moved his leg and gritted his teeth.

  ‘A man ought to know who’s killing him,’ the pimp told him. ‘I’m Amos Worthy. That name mean anything?’

  ‘Nothing. Should it?’

  ‘Sam Graves was a friend of mine. I admired him.’

  ‘You never worked for him, then.’

  ‘That’s as mebbe.’ Worthy cut off the interruption. ‘But he helped me when none of the other sods in this place would.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Wyatt raised his head then hawked and spat. ‘He destroyed my life.’

  ‘The way I’ve heard it, you were caught stealing from him. So don’t tell me you didn’t have it coming. And you didn’t just kill him, laddie, you desecrated him.’

  Wyatt didn’t respond.

  ‘A real man wouldn’t need to do that,’ Worthy said with venom. As the anger rose in him he stood more erect and seemed to grow younger, chest jutting out menacingly.

  ‘Boss . . .’ Sedgwick said, but Nottingham waved him to silence.

  Wyatt looked up at the Constable. ‘Charlotte?’ he asked.

  Nottingham shook his head. She’d disappear too, so there was no lingering vestige of what had happened. The Mayor would have a discreet word with Graves’s widow, and there was no one to care about Rushworth.

  ‘You’d better kill me, then,’ Wyatt said with finality.

  ‘Think you deserve a quick, easy death, do you, laddie?’

  ‘Does what I think matter to you, old man?’ It was a goad, and Worthy reacted.

  He was swift with the blade, slicing across Wyatt’s neck. The blood gushed up in a shining arc. As his breath gurgled, Wyatt turned to the Constable. There was no fear in his stare, just triumph.

  Nottingham held the murderer’s eyes until the life had gone from them. It was over in a moment but it seemed to last forever.

  Worthy wiped the blade on his coat and returned it to its sheath.

  ‘We’d better get him out of here.’

  The words roused the Constable. It made sense. Even in this village of the dead a bloody corpse would raise questions. He turned to glance at Worthy.

  ‘Put him in the river, laddie,’ the pimp said, emphasizing each word slowly as if addressing someone simple.

  Nottingham took the corpse by the collar, dragging it slowly over the ground. Outside the rain continued, but the air smelt clean and fresh, of life.

  ‘Let him drop,’ Worthy ordered, and the Constable released his hold. Putting his weight on the stick, the procurer limped over. He raised his leg and pushed at Wyatt, grunting with effort and pain.

  The body began to roll and tumble down the slick, muddy surface towards the river. The water flowed violently as Wyatt slid inexorably towards it.

  The river took him quickly, the current pulling him down like a lover and dragging him under. Nottingham waited, wondering, half-hoping he’d surface, but there was nothing, just the flow surging downstream.

  ‘Looks like your murderer drowned, Constable,’ Worthy said finally before sliding the knife into its sheath and limping away slowly.

  Nottingham didn’t move. He just stood and looked at the river, barely
even noticing the rain. He didn’t stir until Sedgwick reached out and touched his arm.

  ‘Let’s go back to the jail, boss.’

  ‘I suppose we should, John.’ He sighed. ‘There’s nothing more here.’

  Thirty-Five

  He was surprised to see people moving on the streets, the bustle of a crowd, of horses and humans, none of them knowing what had happened. Nottingham felt as if he’d walked out of a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare.

  Sedgwick was at his side, hunched against the weather, his face dark with concern. They turned on to Kirkgate then into the sanctuary of the jail. Nottingham sat, not even taking off his coat.

  The deputy tended the fire, poking the coal until the flames danced and warmth began to fill the room. Without a word, the Constable stood and walked through to the cells. Charlotte was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, her gown grubby and gathered around her legs.

  ‘Is he dead?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he told her. ‘He drowned.’ How easy it was to lie, he thought.

  She nodded, unsurprised by the news. Her hair was lank, its black colour heavily streaked with grey in the morning light. ‘And what about me? How are you going to kill me?’

  ‘You can die if you want to,’ he said without sympathy. ‘I’m going to give you a choice. You can walk out of here now. Leave Leeds. No coat, no money, nothing, and you never come back.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or you can die like him.’

  ‘Is this a test? Do you want to see how much I love him?’

  ‘No test,’ he promised.

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I’ve seen too many corpses this winter. I’m sick of death.’

  ‘And what if I choose to die?’

  He sighed and shook his head. ‘It’s up to you. He’s in the Aire. Walk in the river and join him if you want. But no one here’s going to kill you.’

  He unlocked the door and left it open, then went to sit at his desk. He started work on his report for the Mayor, detailing Wyatt’s end. Eventually he heard the soft shuffle of her footsteps. She stood at the entrance to the cells, wary and untrusting.