Authors: Chris Nickson
Cold Cruel Winter (18 page)
âJohn'll be here with the apothecary in a minute.' She sighed. âShe's lost the babby, but I've seen worse. There's no meat on her. She couldn't nourish what was growing inside. Do you understand that?' Her voice was warm. He nodded. âHow old is she?'
âI don't know,' he answered truthfully. âWill she . . . ?'
âDie, you mean?' Lizzie raised her eyebrows. âGod willing, she'll recover. The apothecary will give her something to make her sleep. That's what she needs now, rest so she can heal. Can you look after her?'
âWhat do I need to do?' he asked eagerly.
She ruffled his hair. âI know you're a Constable's man, Josh, but you're nobbut a boy.' She paused. âLook, tomorrow we'll get a couple of lads to carry her over to our room. I can take care of her until she's on her feet again. How's that?'
âButâ' he began, before realizing he had nothing to say. He couldn't care for Frances, he was gone more than he was here. He looked at Lizzie, her mouth quite relaxed, her eyes warm. âYes,' he agreed.
âGood lad. Don't worry, you can come over and be with her all you like.'
The door opened and Sedgwick arrived with the apothecary, a wizened old man who was wheezing from the climb. He shrugged off his greatcoat, showing how he'd thrown on his clothes when the deputy roused him. The tiny room seemed suddenly full of people.
âShe's lost a lot of blood,' Lizzie told him.
âSkin and bone,' the apothecary muttered.
âShe's strong. But she needs sleep.'
The man nodded and rummaged in the bag he'd brought, finding a small bottle and a battered spoon. He fed Frances a little of the liquid.
âThank you,' Josh told Sedgwick, and the deputy smiled and shrugged self-consciously.
âThank Lizzie, lad. She knows what to do. You can trust her.'
The woman came and touched the deputy on the arm, taking him into the corner where she'd talked to Josh. He watched as she whispered insistently into his ear. John's eyes widened and for a moment he looked as if he was about to protest, then just nodded his agreement and returned to the boy.
âI can't afford to pay,' Josh said.
Sedgwick put his arm around Josh's shoulders. âYou don't have to. You work for the Constable, the apothecary looks after us for nowt. You just take care of your lass tonight. I'll have a couple of the men take her to our place in the morning.' He squeezed Josh's thin flesh affectionately. âDon't worry, lad. Lizzie says she looks as if she'll be fine. She's just going to need some time.'
Relief filled him. He began to cry. He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hands, but he knew he was hiding nothing. The years of living by his wits and his sly fingers slid away and he felt like a small child again, helpless and utterly lost.
Arms hugged him tight and Lizzie's breath was soft against his skin.
âYou have a good cry, love.' Josh buried his face against her shoulder and let the tears come, tasting their salt in his mouth, while hands stroked his back like the mother he couldn't remember.
âDoes Frances own another shift?' she asked.
He didn't know. Home was just a place he saw when he wasn't working. Frances kept it warm, had food on the table, a quiet smile on her face and loved him. He gave her his wages. That was all he knew of the place. He shrugged.
âWhat about another sheet, then?' Lizzie said. âDo you have one of those?'
He shook his head. Lizzie gently pushed him away and kissed his forehead.
âNever mind, eh? We'll make do. I've cleaned her up a little, so you just watch her tonight. Josh?' He raised his eyes to meet hers. âIf she starts to bleed again or if she seems worse, just come and get us.'
âYes,' he replied. âThank you.'
âI'll get the men over to move her first thing,' Sedgwick told him. âDon'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.
âMorning, boss.' He shrugged off his coat and threw it over a chair. âI checked the night men. Nothing to report.'
Nottingham nodded.
âYou don't look well. Bad night?'
âIt's Josh. His lass lost the baby last night. He came and fetched us.'
âHow's his girl?'
âA 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. âThere's nothing to her.'
âHow's Josh?'
âCried like a baby that she was still alive.' Sedgwick sighed sadly. âHe's beside himself with fear, boss. I told him not to hurry in this morning.'
Nottingham nodded. âI'll make sure he's busy. Keep his mind off things.'
âAnything more on Wyatt?' the deputy asked.
âNothing.'
âDo you think someone could be helping him?' Sedgwick asked. âI 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. âWho? He was gone eight years.'
âDidn't you said he had a woman when you arrested him?'
The Constable shook his head. âThat was years ago, John. How would he have kept in touch with her?'
âHe can read and write. Maybe she can too, maybe he sent letters. And we know he's resourceful,' Sedgwick insisted. âIt'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 . . .
âThe idea of someone helping him makes sense,' he conceded. âI should have thought of it.'
âWhat about the woman?'
âI don't know,' he replied slowly.
âWhat was her name?'
âI don't know.' Nottingham gave a small shrug. âIt 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?
âIt'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.
âWe can try looking for her,' he said. âThe 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.'
âWas she? Foreign?' Sedgwick asked.
Nottingham pushed the fringe off his forehead. âI don't know, John. I never talked to her. She was nothing. We were just after Wyatt.'
âThere wouldn't be many here who look like her,' the deputy suggested. âAnyone with darker skin.'
âThat'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.
âHave 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. âAnd John, this doesn't mean we're not still watching for Wyatt, too.'
âI 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.
âJohn told me,' he said. âI'm sorry.'
Josh look embarrassed.
âHave they moved her?'
He nodded. âLizzie 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.
âI need you to check on the men around the judge,' he said. âMake sure they stay alert. Keep your own eyes open, too. Wyatt's going to be planning and watching.' He paused. âOr it could be the woman doing it,' he added as a sudden revelation hit him.
âShe 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.
âLet'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.
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 naïve 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.
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