Cold Cruel Winter rn-2

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll get the men over to move her first thing,’ Sedgwick told him. ‘Don’t come into work until they’ve been.’

  They left, the candle flame swaying wildly in the draught from the door, shadows dancing madly on the walls. He sat on the bed, trying to keep his eyes away from the dark bloom on the sheet, and took Frances’s hand. She was asleep, her breathing low. She seemed fragile and brittle under his touch, as if death still had hold of her other hand.

  He loved her. He’d said the words for the first time in his life, and understood what they meant. He’d sit and watch her all night and keep her safe.

  Nineteen

  Nottingham was pacing the room when Sedgwick arrived. Dawn had barely broken to the east, pale light crackling up from the horizon. He’d lit a fire after he reached the jail, but the warmth hadn’t filled it yet and he’d kept his greatcoat on. His calves were cold, even under wool stockings and heavy boots.

  He’d barely slept. Any joy in yesterday’s success had evaporated quickly, leaving only anxiety about Wyatt. All too soon, he knew, there’d be another book coming, another taunt, another threat, another horror. He’d held Mary, her body warm and comforting, the rhythm of her breathing softening as she slipped into rest, but his own thoughts wouldn’t give him peace.

  He’d risen early, the chill wind licking at him as he walked into the city. Sounds travelled in the darkness, making him start and grab for the knives. But it was just a dog searching for food, and he felt foolish for his sudden fear. A month earlier he’d have given it no mind.

  Sedgwick brought a flurry of freezing air with him. His face was drawn, deep shading under his eyes.

  ‘Morning, boss.’ He shrugged off his coat and threw it over a chair. ‘I checked the night men. Nothing to report.’

  Nottingham nodded.

  ‘You don’t look well. Bad night?’

  ‘It’s Josh. His lass lost the baby last night. He came and fetched us.’

  ‘How’s his girl?’

  ‘A couple of the men are going to move her to our room so Lizzie can look after her. We told him she’ll be fine, but. .’ He let the words fail. They both knew the truth, that she’d be lucky to survive. He shook his head. ‘There’s nothing to her.’

  ‘How’s Josh?’

  ‘Cried like a baby that she was still alive.’ Sedgwick sighed sadly. ‘He’s beside himself with fear, boss. I told him not to hurry in this morning.’

  Nottingham nodded. ‘I’ll make sure he’s busy. Keep his mind off things.’

  ‘Anything more on Wyatt?’ the deputy asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Do you think someone could be helping him?’ Sedgwick asked. ‘I was thinking about it last night. After all, we know he’s here somewhere. There has to be some reason we never see him.’

  Nottingham considered the question for a moment. ‘Who? He was gone eight years.’

  ‘Didn’t you said he had a woman when you arrested him?’

  The Constable shook his head. ‘That was years ago, John. How would he have kept in touch with her?’

  ‘He can read and write. Maybe she can too, maybe he sent letters. And we know he’s resourceful,’ Sedgwick insisted. ‘It’s possible.’

  Nottingham turned over the idea. There was some reason in Wyatt having an accomplice. It would explain why he seemed invisible. Someone to buy things, even to help dispose of the bodies.

  It would answer some questions, but it raised even more. Who would help someone like Wyatt? He’d barely returned to Leeds. How could he have met someone so quickly that he could trust so completely?

  It was impossible to believe it could be the woman. Women could be violent, they murdered, he knew that. But what Wyatt was doing went far beyond that. Still. .

  ‘The idea of someone helping him makes sense,’ he conceded. ‘I should have thought of it.’

  ‘What about the woman?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied slowly.

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Nottingham gave a small shrug. ‘It was Wyatt we were after, not her.’

  The silence rose between them.

  It supposed a great deal, but it could possibly be the woman, he was reluctantly forced to admit to himself. All he could recall was that she looked different, darker. But he’d only ever seen her briefly, and that had been over eight years before. If she really had waited for Wyatt she’d certainly have the anger after all this time. But what were the odds?

  ‘It’s possible,’ he acknowledged finally. Why hadn’t he ever found out about her? Quite simply, because she hadn’t mattered back then. They had the evidence against Wyatt, and they wanted him convicted as quickly as possible. That was all that counted. She hadn’t been important. Then.

  ‘We can try looking for her,’ he said. ‘The only things I can remember are that her skin wasn’t pale like most people and she had a strange air about her. Foreign, perhaps.’

  ‘Was she? Foreign?’ Sedgwick asked.

  Nottingham pushed the fringe off his forehead. ‘I don’t know, John. I never talked to her. She was nothing. We were just after Wyatt.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be many here who look like her,’ the deputy suggested. ‘Anyone with darker skin.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  It was so little, but at this point he’d try anything that might bring him to the murderer. And the simple fact was that, unlikely as this was, they had nothing else.

  ‘Have the men keep their eyes open. If they see someone who might be her, they should just follow from a distance. That was good thinking.’ The deputy grinned in appreciation and started to leave. ‘And John, this doesn’t mean we’re not still watching for Wyatt, too.’

  ‘I know, boss. I’ll remind them.’

  Nottingham walked over to the fire and held out his hands, as if trying to cup the warmth and bring it close. He was proud of his deputy. Sedgwick had come a long way in the last two years. He used his head, he was brave, and in a few more months his reading and writing would be good enough. Then all he’d need to become Constable would be more experience.

  Nottingham had waited ten years for the position. He’d served his old master well, spending seven years as Deputy Constable. At first he’d felt the weight of responsibility heavily on his shoulders. He’d wanted to prove himself, to show how much he deserved the position.

  As time passed, it became a job like any other. He took over more of the work, making decisions as Arkwright the old Constable became happy to fade into the background. By the end all that was missing was the title, and when that came it seemed perfectly natural. He was old enough, with ample experience and confidence.

  He had no doubt that Sedgwick would become Constable in good time; he’d recommend him himself, just as he’d promoted him to deputy. The old order would pass and the new one come in.

  Nottingham was still thinking when Josh arrived. There was a pearl light coming through the window, pale and gentle. The boy looked as though he hadn’t slept.

  ‘John told me,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Josh look embarrassed.

  ‘Have they moved her?’

  He nodded. ‘Lizzie says she’s a little better. She was sleeping.’

  He told Josh about Wyatt’s woman. For a swift moment he considered sending the lad home, but decided against it. In his room he’d just brood. At least here he’d be doing something. It was a feeling he’d come to know all too well himself in the last weeks.

  ‘I need you to check on the men around the judge,’ he said. ‘Make sure they stay alert. Keep your own eyes open, too. Wyatt’s going to be planning and watching.’ He paused. ‘Or it could be the woman doing it,’ he added as a sudden revelation hit him.

  ‘She could be following you, too, boss,’ Josh pointed out.

  It was true, he realized. He’d been expecting a man, looking for one. His eyes had passed over the women without thought.
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  ‘Let’s worry about the judge,’ he said with a smile he didn’t feel.

  He watched through the window as Josh ran off up the street. The boy was in pain, but he still had plenty of energy.

  They had another road to follow now, another chance to track Wyatt. Somewhere out there he was finishing the next part of his book. Very soon it would arrive.

  Twenty

  It came that afternoon. Once again it was wrapped in a sheet from the newspaper, delivered by a young boy who’d been paid to bring it and couldn’t give any worthwhile description of the man who’d instructed him.

  Nottingham laid it on the desk unopened. His throat was dry. He knew he had to read it, that it could tell him important things about Wyatt. But first he’d see Rushworth’s skin, debased, used. He’d have no choice but to touch it, feel it, hold it.

  Slowly, he sat down, and carefully removed the paper. The book lay there, the cover staring back at him. Slowly, with a mixture of revulsion and sadness, he reached out and ran his fingertips over the rough skin. The poor bastard, he thought. To die and have a memorial like this.

  He pulled the cover back, seeing the sharp copperplate of Wyatt’s writing. The Journal of a Wronged Man, Volume Two of Four. The paper had been roughly cut and carefully sewn into the binding.

  Nottingham held the pages apart with his fingertips, trying to keep his touch clear of the skin, and began to read.

  My arrival in Leeds, all those years ago now, was far from auspicious. I was young and naive and I honestly believed I had the chance to make my fortune here. I arrived with nothing. Truly with nothing. I had the clothes I wore and, if I remember it properly, three small coins. But I believed in the power of Fortune to look after me.

  The journey from Chesterfield had taken me five days. What little money I had set out with was spent on food and lodging along the road, pitiful as that was. Thin stews with hardly any meat, gruels, beds alive with fleas. But it was all that was on offer, and it was better than hunger and cold.

  At first, Leeds justified my faith. Within a single day I had a job, making far more money than I ever had in Derbyshire. My decision seemed like a good one. I worked for a tanner. As jobs went, it was a step up from what I had known, more clerking and putting together the wages. The hours were long, and much was expected of me, but I could manage all that with ease. I was young, I had energy, I still held my dreams of running my own business and watching clerks as the owner watched me.

  I had a room in a lodging house, but it was clean and neat. I had ample to eat, even a little money in my pocket for the first time. But soon I discovered that others were making more than I was. Nights in the taverns and conversations over a jug or two showed that the tanner was taking advantage of me. I had been a country boy and easily satisfied, but no more. I was suddenly wiser. I left my position and sought another that would pay me what I was worth.

  But I quickly found that Leeds was a cruel town. Because I had left one job, others were reluctant to take me on. I believed, as I still do, that the tanner had told others about me. I was a clerk with a good hand, I could spell, and I could think, but I could not find a job. After a month, all my money exhausted, I began work in a shop.

  Some might have said I had been humbled for my pride, yet that would be a lie. I had simply understood my worth, I had rightly demanded it, and I had been hit back down. For my trouble, now I was selling flour and other comestibles to servants.

  It kept body and soul together, but little more than that. The injustice of it stung me every day, but I had my plans. I had had another setback, but I had overcome it. I knew that in my heart. I would have my revenge, too. In the end I burned down the tannery. The only pity was that the owner was not in it. He should have been, but something happened, I do not even recall what now. Still, I took satisfaction from the fact that it bankrupted him. If he had paid me a proper wage, he would have prospered and so would I.

  The shop work was degrading to someone who could easily do a clerk’s work. I determined I would come through it, my time in the wilderness. It was intended to try me, to make me stronger and prepare me for the future.

  In the end, it was a period that lasted for two long years. I hated every day of it. But I did have the opportunity to discover how stupid most people are. They would pay for something and never count the change. I was able to supplement my wages a little. That was just as well, because the shopkeeper paid me next to nothing.

  But I knew things would improve eventually. I kept my faith in myself. There were jobs, and I kept applying. Finally one came along, a proper clerk’s job with a merchant. I worked hard, and he paid me well for all I did. Within twelve months I had become his head clerk. He saw my worth and rewarded it.

  He was older, though, and I had barely had my high position for a year when he decided to retire. There was no one to take over the business. If I had had the money, I would have bought it from him. But I could not have raised the sum he needed. Not yet. I knew no one who would take the risk of backing me. No one with money. That was the secret, of course: a connection to money.

  The stock was sold off, and those of us who worked there were let go. I had a good reference, and a little extra money, but that was all. Once again, I had been cheated of my reward.

  I was able to find another job. It was only my due, after all. Graves employed me. He promised me a lot. The other merchant had recommended me highly. I would start at the bottom, Graves said, to learn his ways, then as soon as I showed my mettle I would become his head clerk.

  He lied, of course, as they all do. Instead, he received my services for far less than they were worth. He gave me increases each year, but they were miserly. He could afford more. I knew that because I kept the accounts for the business. After four years of this, of still being a clerk and Graves waving me away each time I reminded him of what he had said, I met Charlotte.

  Nottingham carefully closed the book. There was more to read, but he needed to think on Wyatt’s words for a while. How deep was the well of bitterness inside the man? It seemed endless.

  He had a very faint memory of a fire at a tannery, years before. Even back then, it appeared, Wyatt’s warped sense of justice could be ruthless. Each grudge, each affront went into his ledger, never forgotten, never forgiven. The Constable sat back, stroking his chin.

  Was Wyatt a madman? He had to be. No one in his right mind would do what he’d done. He stared at the book’s cover and felt his gorge rise. A man’s skin. That had to be the true sign of insanity.

  He poured a mug of small ale from the jug and drank quickly, letting the liquid wash the dryness out of his mouth. The silence of the room gathered around him. He knew he had to look at the remaining pages.

  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 nam
e.

  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.