Cold Cruel Winter (15 page)

‘So they'd been watching him.'

‘Seems like it.'

And we failed him. We failed both of them, he thought. We can't keep people alive. If the weather doesn't claim them, sickness does. If not that, then it's a knife or a blow. They all die, and we can't stop it. He felt as if the cold was seeping through his flesh and deep into his heart.

‘We can't do anything more here. Let's go into the warmth.'

He put more coal on the fire, thinking as the blaze began to take hold.

‘Get the men out and question people as they cross the bridge later. Someone will remember one man carrying another in this weather.'

‘I've already got two of them asking around,' Sedgwick told him.

Nottingham smiled. ‘I'm sorry. You know what to do. But get down there yourself. You're smarter than they are. You know what to ask, and how to listen. Even a good description of Wyatt would be something.' The Constable continued, ‘Josh is looking into Isaac's murder.'

‘We'll get Wyatt, boss.'

‘Will we get him in time, though?' He sat down and ran a hand through his hair. ‘You'd better put a closer watch on the judge, too.'

‘And what about you? Who's going to watch you?'

Nottingham smiled slightly.

‘You tried that with Josh. We don't have the men for it. I'm ready for Wyatt if he comes.' He paused and corrected himself. ‘When he comes.'

‘Boss.'

He looked up and saw the anguish on Sedgwick's face. The deputy began to pace.

‘I've never gone against you, have I?'

‘No, John, you haven't,' the Constable said mildly.

‘Do you want to get yourself killed?'

‘No.' Even as he answered, he considered the question. A month ago, even a week ago, he might not have cared. Now that he'd felt Mary's touch again, seen Emily smile, life had the possibility of becoming liveable again. ‘No, believe me, I want to stay alive.'

‘Then why won't you let me put a couple of the men on you? It could make all the difference.'

‘Because . . .' Nottingham began. If he was going to be abruptly honest, there was little reason beyond his pride. He needed to show he was better than a murderer, however wily the killer might be. ‘Who do we have who wouldn't be spotted in a minute by Wyatt? Apart from Josh.'

‘No one,' the deputy admitted reluctantly.

‘We've got men on the judge, we have men looking for Wyatt, Josh is out hunting for Isaac's killer. We just don't have enough people. Certainly not enough good people.'

‘I know.'

‘Go back to the bridge. See if the men have heard anything, and start asking some questions. If we can learn something, if we can take Wyatt soon, none of this will matter.'

Sedgwick nodded briefly, an agreement and an admission of defeat.

Alone, Nottingham penned a brief new report about the two murders. He knew that the Mayor would only be concerned with one of them, and then only for the murderer, not the victim.

He gathered up the paper and went out into the thin, angry cold to deliver it. As he passed the White Swan a figure emerged from the shadow of the door. His coat collar was turned up high, the hat pulled down to protect him from the weather.

As he passed the Constable he stumbled and slid on the ice, arms flailing for support, then grabbing Nottingham's coat. The Constable felt panic soar through his body. He'd let his guard fall. He couldn't react, couldn't reach his knives. Christ, this was Wyatt.

Sixteen

The man hissed two words – ‘For Isaac' – righted himself and strode on quickly. For all the world it was an incident of the weather.

Nottingham turned back to the jail, bile rising in his throat. His hands were shaking, his back coated with a clammy sheen of sweat. He steadied himself against the wall for a moment, glad of the crude, real feel of the stone against his palm.

Inside, away from eyes that might see too much, he reached into his pocket and removed the scrap of paper that Hawthorn the Peacher had put there.

‘The Henderson brothers' were the only words.

He breathed slowly, feeling his heartbeat slowly calm as he paced the floor. God save me, he thought. How could he have been so stupid? A moment was all it ever took. Any stranger, any man, could be Wyatt. He drank some ale from the mug on the desk, gulping at it greedily, waiting until the fear had all drained out of him. Then he looked at the paper again.

The Henderson brothers. Peter and Paul. It made sense, he thought, terrible, awful sense. For the last three years they'd felt themselves above the law of ordinary men. They'd swaggered around the city as if they felt it owed them everything, that it was theirs to claim.

He'd had them in the jail at least a dozen times, accused of theft, beatings, even rape on two occasions. But their longest stay had been overnight. The accusations had always been withdrawn. It was all a mistake, he'd be told; the wrong men identified, no crime really committed. Then he'd been forced to release them, impotent as he watched them leave the jail with the smirks wide on their privileged faces.

Their father was Alderman Henderson, a wool merchant who'd been on the Corporation for more years than Nottingham could recall. A man of influence, a man with money, who'd spend it to keep legal stains from the family name.

Nottingham was sure the man knew the truth about his sons. But to admit it would mean admitting his failure with them. So each time they were arrested the family lawyer came scurrying. He jingled money in his purse, the walls of power were quickly thrown up, and the law was turned away empty-handed. It was the cobweb justice that prevailed throughout the land. The small were caught fast, helpless. Those who were bigger simply broke their way through.

Murder, though, was something else. If he could find the proof, Peter and Paul might yet dance on the gibbet. And he'd make an enemy for life on the Corporation.

It wasn't what he'd expected from Peacher Hawthorn, but he was glad to have the names. Now Nottingham had to do his job and find evidence strong enough to convict. At least there'd be plenty willing to talk against them; Isaac had been well-respected in Leeds. The Hendersons' ways might have bought them sycophants, fearful of their arrogance, but they had precious few friends.

To start, he'd bring them down here, a duty he'd relish. Let them see he knew the truth and was going to prove it. He locked the jail behind him, eyes taking in the faces on Kirkgate, straining at the shadows. His right hand was in his pocket, fist close around the knife hilt. He'd been given a warning, and he knew better than to trust to luck to keep him alive.

The return of the bitter weather kept the streets quieter than usual. Carters were reluctant to risk their valuable horses on the slick ice of the roads. Men trod carefully, their heads down. At least the city smelt clean in the cold, all the usual stinks of shit, piss and life buried away under snow and ice.

As he made his way down to the bridge he stayed aware of others, where they walked, how close they came. But if he wasn't going to accept one of the men following him, this was how it would have to be. Constantly aware, constantly ready.

Nottingham only let himself relax when he saw Sedgwick. He was questioning a man with a heavy pack on his back, pointing down at the riverbank. The man rested the weight on the stone parapet of the bridge for a moment, his eyes looking up at the deputy intently, then shaking his head. He stood slowly, shifting his body forward to settle the large bundle, then trudged on into the city.

‘Anything, John?'

‘Bugger all so far.' Sedgwick rubbed his hands together to warm them, then spat in disgust. ‘You'd think Wyatt was invisible.'

‘I can give you a little joy, at least.'

‘Oh?' He raised his eyebrows.

‘The Henderson brothers for Isaac. The Peacher passed me the word.'

The deputy started to smile, then looked suddenly dubious. ‘You think we can make it stick?'

‘If we can find the evidence, yes. Then even the alderman won't be able to buy them off the scaffold. Want to come up and help me bring them to the jail?'

Sedgwick grinned.‘I think you've just made me a happy man, boss.'

The alderman's house stood close to the top of Briggate, above the market cross, near to the Head Row. It was an old place, he knew that, but Nottingham had no idea how long it had stood there. The wood of the frame was dark with age, the limewash still bright and fresh after being renewed the year before. Inside, he knew, the rooms were filled with dark wood and hardly any light. It might be ancient, but there was precious little beauty about it.

He banged on the heavy door, the thick oak worn and scarred by so many hands, then glanced at the deputy. The servant who opened looked warily at them. He knew who they were and what this visit meant.

‘Is the alderman in?' Nottingham asked, knowing full well he'd have been at his warehouse for hours.

‘No, sir.'

‘And the brothers?'

‘They're still sleeping.'

‘Go and wake them. Tell them they have visitors.'

The man nodded. It wasn't the first time they'd played this scene together. He showed them through to the parlour, where the fire was laid but not lit, and scurried off. Above his head Nottingham could hear angry, muffled voices. Good, he'd catch them groggy, not rested and still climbing from the depths of drink.

It was a full half-hour before the brothers burst into the room. Peter was the older, the taller, the leader. Paul trailed just behind, his pale eyes not yet fully awake. Peter Henderson drew himself up, his face haughty and lazy.

He was as tall as Nottingham and broad, in his early twenties but already running to fat, the buttons straining on an expensively stitched brocade waistcoat. Thick thighs filled a pair of well-cut breeches. His eyes were sharp, wary. Paul's face had the same shape, the same blond hair, the features so similar that the brotherhood was obvious. But he was docile, empty, the willing sheep to his brother's shepherd.

‘The meaning of this, Constable?' Peter asked.

Nottingham took his time answering. He looked at them, unshaven, pale bristles on their cheeks. They smelt of old beer and stale sweat. He waited, his eyes travelling up and down their clothes, looking for any sign of blood.

‘You're coming to the jail with us,' he told them.

Peter stuck his hands into the pockets of his breeches and tilted his head back. ‘For what?'

‘The murder of Isaac the Jew.' He spoke calmly, watching. Peter's face was fixed, hard, but Paul's eyes flickered with fear, and he knew he had them.

‘I suppose you have proof?'

‘Suppose what you like, Master Henderson. For now we're taking you to the jail to ask you some questions.'

Peter didn't turn his head, but bellowed, ‘Watkins!'

The servant scurried in. Henderson didn't even turn towards the man but kept his gaze fixed on Nottingham.

‘Send word to our father that the Constable has arrested us. And have lawyer Ames come down to the jail.'

As the parlour door closed softly, he said,‘You won't have us long.'

Nottingham smiled. ‘We'll only need you long enough to hang you. Shall we go, then?'

The Constable gave Sedgwick quiet instructions, then followed the brothers down the street. They walked in silence, but he knew people saw them, that the word would spread that the Henderson brothers had been arrested again. He kept a good pace, forcing them to walk faster than they wanted.

For a moment he felt something, like small pinpricks on his neck, and he turned sharply. But there was no one there.

Josh was waiting at the jail, standing by the desk. Nottingham put Peter and Paul into a cell together, letting the sound of the key turning in the lock resound. Then he spoke soft words into the boy's ear and watched him hurry off at a run.

The two of them sat silent on the bed, so close their bodies almost touched. Was it to give each other strength, he wondered? He closed the door behind himself and leaned against it. Peter looked up at him, but Paul didn't move his head.

‘Do you know Chapeltown Moor?' Nottingham began.

Peter leaned back against the wall. ‘The races.' He paused and turned to the Constable. ‘And the hangings. We like a good hanging. I laugh when they piss themselves.'

‘Then we'll have to see that the pair of you make a good hanging. My guess is you'll piss yourselves even before you get on the scaffold.'

‘Who was it we're supposed to have murdered?' Peter asked.

‘Isaac the Jew.'

‘That's the one who buys old clothes?'

‘Bought,' Nottingham corrected him.

Peter shrugged. ‘Bought, then.'

‘Why did you kill him? The rumour that he had gold in his room?'

Peter looked at him with contempt, as he might a servant. ‘We didn't kill anyone. Why do you think we did?'

‘Where were you last night?'

‘Last night?' Peter stretched and turned to his brother. ‘The Talbot, wasn't it? We lost some money on the cockfighting.'

‘That's right,' Paul agreed. Nottingham could see he looked uncomfortable, his fingers twisting together. He'll be the one to collapse, the Constable thought. All it would take would be the right thrust. ‘Then you vanished with that whore for a while.'

‘Money badly spent,' Peter said sorely.

‘What time did you get home?' Nottingham asked.

‘No idea,' Peter replied blandly. ‘You'd have to ask the servants. They're the ones who got up to let us in.'