Cold Cruel Winter (17 page)

‘How close are you to finding this man?' He paused to look full at Nottingham. ‘And an honest answer this time.'

Did Kenion really want the truth, or did he want hope? Or something in between?

‘I think we'll have him soon.'

The Mayor's hand slapped his desk, the sound sharp and angry.

‘For Christ's sake, I said be honest, Nottingham. I'm not a bloody fool.'

Shamefaced at his stupidity, the Constable began again.

‘I've got men watching the judge whenever he leaves home. Wyatt's not going to get close to him.'

Kenion nodded his approval. ‘But?' he asked.

‘We've been looking everywhere, asked everyone who might help, and no one has any idea where Wyatt is. Another week and I'll have the book with the skin of the second victim.'

The Mayor sat back, thinking. Nottingham waited anxiously in the silence.

‘Just get him. I don't care what you have to do.' He paused to allow the point to sink home. ‘And when you find him, make sure this never comes to trial.' He looked up, staring the Constable full in the face. ‘Do I make myself completely clear, Mr Nottingham?'

‘Yes.'

‘You find this man, I'll try to keep Henderson off your back. If you fail . . .'

Then he'd stand back and watch as Henderson tore him apart to save his sons. He nodded and left the Mayor's office. Outside the cold was bitter, but at least it felt clean.

Back at the jail he took the time to examine Rushworth's body again. His eyes had the cold milkiness of death. There were rope burns around his wrists and ankles, the skin rubbed raw all the way to dirty blood and sinew. The fingernails were chipped and torn to the quick where Rushworth had vainly tried to pick at his bonds.

The gash across his throat was a single, sure stroke. At least his death would have been quick, Nottingham thought, whatever consolation that could have been. It was impossible to judge how long he'd been dead. The winter had been Wyatt's friend; the cold kept the body longer.

On the back the cuts were confident and the murderer had peeled off the skin with even, practised strokes. Christ, he thought, how had Wyatt perfected this? How had he learnt his technique?

But then, how had he managed any of this? How would someone carry a half-naked corpse on Leeds Bridge in this weather and have no one notice?

There'd be no one to mourn Rushworth, he'd have no money for a funeral. In a day or so he'd end up in a pauper's grave where his flesh would slowly rot away, unremarked and unremembered. There would be no money for Isaac's grave either. He and Rushworth might well walk into eternity side by side.

He thought of Rose. A grave might not be much, might be nothing but bones and earth, but it gave him a place for her, where he could find something of her. Who would miss this clerk?

Nottingham let the corpse rest and glanced across at Isaac's withered body. At least the Henderson brothers would pay for that. Unless Kenion used them as pieces in his games with the corporation.

No more murders, he prayed softly. No more dead and dying this winter. Let spring come soon.

Outside, the weather mocked his words. The ground had become hard and icy, the snow a sharp crunch under his boots. The cold stung his face as he walked down Briggate. Few were out now, and those who were darted from shop to shop as if dashing between shelters. Voices and laughter came from the taverns and cookshops, where there was warmth.

Even the whores had taken their business indoors. Who could blame them, the Constable thought? It was the only place they'd find custom in this. Outside they'd just freeze into poverty.

But even now masters would begrudge heat to their servants and workers. They'd count the pennies the coal cost and eke it out like silver.

Only death, it seemed, relished the winter. So he kept his hands on the knife hilt as he walked.

Worthy was in his usual place in the untidy kitchen. Two of his men stood close to the blazing fire, their conversation ending as Nottingham entered the room. The procurer dismissed them with a sharp gesture.

‘Take your coat off, laddie. You'll fry if you don't. The older I get, the more I like it hot in here.'

‘I'm fine, Amos.' He leaned against the table. The pimp was perched on a tall stool, his back against the wall. The suit was the one he always wore, threadbare, almost worn through at elbows and breeches sagging at the knees. The brocade of the cuff had long since worn away and years of stains covered the fabric. The procurer's belly bulged against the faded, elaborate pattern of the long waistcoat, his hose was blotched with grime, and the leather of his shoes scuffed dark.

‘You think you'll get the Henderson lads to swing?' he asked.

Nottingham wasn't surprised that he'd already heard.

‘I have the evidence. I don't see what the alderman can do to stop it.'

Worthy shook his large head sadly. ‘Stop fooling yourself, Constable.' He reached out with a thick, scarred hand and pointed. ‘He's not going to let it happen. The family name depends on it. He's going to use all his influence to stop you, and that's a lot of power in this city. You mark my words on that.'

‘I haven't forgotten, Amos.'

‘Still, that pair is best off the streets,' he said dismissively.

‘You haven't mentioned Rushworth,' Nottingham said flatly.

Worthy shrugged and spat on the flagstone floor. ‘It's why you're here, isn't it, laddie? I know you don't like my company enough to come by for gossip.'

‘You've heard we found his body.'

The pimp have him a withering look. ‘I won't ask about the skin. I don't need to, it's all over your face.'

Nottingham nodded. ‘Have your men found anything?' he asked.

‘Not a bloody thing,' Worthy answered bitterly. ‘And it's not for want of trying, either, lest you were wondering,' he added. ‘I don't know who this bugger is, but he's not relying on anyone. He just seems to vanish.'

‘No one vanishes.'

‘No?' The procurer raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Neither of us can find him. You tell me what that means.'

‘It means he's cleverer than us.'

‘No, laddie, I don't believe that. Between us, we know the place in a way he never could. He's been gone a long time.'

‘He's been planning this for years, Amos,' Nottingham said insistently. ‘He lived here before, he had time to know Leeds.'

‘You have men on the judge,' Worthy said. It was a statement, not a question. ‘And I have men on your men.' He looked at the Constable with a question in his hard eyes. ‘But who's looking out for you?'

‘I'm prepared. I can look after myself.' He brought out the knives and laid them on the table.

‘A handsome arsenal, Mr Nottingham,' he said sarcastically. ‘And fine if you get a chance to use them.'

‘I'll be ready for him.'

Worthy stood up and walked around the table until he was face to face with the Constable. ‘Laddie,' he said quietly, ‘you've been going round with your head in a cloud. You're not ready for a gust of wind, let alone Wyatt. I could take those from you in a moment.' He paused for a moment. ‘What would you think if I told you I'd had a man on you for days?'

Nottingham's eyes gave him away.

‘My lad's good, but so is Wyatt. When he comes for you, he'll take you,' Worthy warned.

‘We'll see. Amos, I don't care how we get him, or who gets him. Just so long as we stop him quickly.'

The pimp nodded.

‘And take your man off me. I want to flush Wyatt out. You think what you will, I'll be waiting for him.'

With a curt nod, the Constable left the house, back on to Swinegate. He glanced around, but saw no one waiting in the shadows. The businesses had their doors closed, precious candles burning inside as they hoped for customers. Even the smith's hammer seemed to fall at a slower pace. Normally cramped, a cauldron of noise, the street looked wide as a river in the expanse of snow.

He walked past the apothecary where strange and wonderful things hung in the window, past the cabinet maker where the sweet smells of wood and varnish filled the air in summer.

The cold was like a harsh wall against his face as he turned on to Boar Lane and felt the thrust of the wind blowing down hard and thin from the East. Holy Trinity Church stood tall on the other side of the road, its lines still new and sharp, the glass of its windows reflecting a milky light.

Maybe he should feel triumphant. He had Peter and Paul Henderson in the cells with good, hard evidence against them. But with Wyatt still loose it was hard to know anything but failure.

He turned suddenly, but all he saw were one or two servants braving the weather to carry messages for their mistresses and an old man with a stick, tottering cautiously on the snow and ice. The world had become an upside-down place, the weather like an unleashed beast.

At Briggate, first he thought to turn and head back to the jail. Instead his footsteps took him in a different direction, towards Timble Bridge and home.

It was dark when Josh reached his room, the key turning awkwardly as ever in the lock. The darkness and cold inside surprised him. Normally Frances would have had a light burning and the smell of food would fill the place. Groping for tinder and a candle, he called her name softly. She might be sleeping, the way she sometimes did at odd hours, curled and quiet like a small child, tiny under the covers.

The flame took, guttering at first as it threw strange shadows and then strengthening. She was in the bed, just her face showing, pale as the moon. A patch of deep colour, shiny and dark, stained the sheet.

‘Frances,' he said, and her face turned towards him, eyes half opening.

In a voice hardly more than a whisper, tears on her cheeks, she said, ‘I've lost it. I've lost the baby.'

He knelt by the pallet, stroking the cold sweat from her forehead with his hand. Her hair was matted and soaked. Slowly he pulled back the covering to see the thick stream of blood that had collected between her legs. A heavy metallic tang filled the air. He reached out and ran his finger through it. Still warm.

‘Jesus.'

It was half exclamation, half prayer. He knew nothing about babies, but death was an old companion and he could feel him in the room. He squeezed Frances's hand tenderly.

‘How long ago did it happen?'

She gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘I don't know.' It sounded as if each word was an effort. Inside, he felt the fear rising, the taste of terror in his throat. He kissed her lips softly, feeling them cold and clammy.

‘Hold on,' he told her. ‘I'm going to get someone who can help.' As he began to rise, he said, ‘I love you.'

Eighteen

Outside, in the freezing darkness, his breath came quickly as panic took his mind. He could rouse the apothecary, but he wouldn't come for a lad with no money. Who else was there?

John might be able to help. He fixed on the thought and began to run, slipping and sliding as he tore out of the court and down Briggate. Please God, he asked, let him be home.

At the house he pushed open the door and ran in, his footfalls loud and urgent. He hammered on the wood, silent prayers slipping from his head to heaven.

Sedgwick answered finally, his face slack with sleep, hair wild.

‘It's Frances.' The words tumbled out. ‘Help me. She's bleeding.'

‘Come in, lad,' Sedgwick said.

‘No, you have to come,' Josh pleaded. ‘She's bleeding.'

The deputy pulled him inside by the hand. A candle illuminated the room softly. His woman was in bed, her sharp eyes focused. A small boy slept on a pallet.

‘Where's she bleeding?' Sedgwick asked.

‘There.' Josh pointed.

‘The baby?'

He nodded and saw Sedgwick exchange an anxious look with the woman.

‘She needs someone,' he told the deputy.

‘I'll come,' the woman said quickly, climbing out of bed and beginning to dress, taking quick, calm charge. ‘John, you get next door to watch James then go fetch the apothecary.'

Sedgwick nodded, took Josh's address, and put on his clothes.

‘Show me where she is. You're Josh, aren't you?' She wrapped a heavy shawl around her shoulders. ‘I'm Lizzie, love.'

Outside she hurried along, holding on to Josh's arm for support on the ice. ‘What did you say your lass's name was?'

‘Frances.'

‘We'll take care of her,' Lizzie said reassuringly. Josh blinked back his tears and believed her. She seemed so calm and capable.

Their footsteps clattered on the rickety stairs and he opened to door to the room. Frances lay where he'd left her, eyes closed, face white as bone.

He watched as the woman walked over to the bed, smiling gently.

‘Hello love,' she said, ‘I'm Lizzie.' She stroked the girl's head and turned to Josh. ‘Build up the fire,' she ordered, ‘and get your lass something to drink. She'll be parched.'

He did as he was told, putting valuable coals on the hearth and watching the glow rise to a small blaze as he poured some small ale into a cracked mug he'd taken from the back of an inn.

Lizzie was examining Frances and he couldn't look. He couldn't bear to see the blood caked and cracked on her, or the way her legs seemed splayed like a corpse. He was scared. The woman was talking quickly and quietly to the girl, her words too soft to hear.

Finally she stood and drew Josh into a corner away from the candle's light. She put her hands on his shoulder. He could feel his body shaking under her touch.