Cold Cruel Winter (6 page)

Nottingham could move among the wealthy, converse with the powerful men of the city, and also those who had nothing. But his life had covered both sides of the coin. At times Josh had to wonder if that was why he'd been appointed Constable: because the Corporation were embarrassed to see a merchant's son, even one that had been cast out, among the poor.

But he knew the truth was much more than that: that Nottingham was good at his job. He kept order in the city, and he was a strong leader. He knew how to get the best from his men. He'd encouraged Mr Sedgwick to learn how to read and write, grooming him for the future. He saw things in people that others didn't.

Josh didn't know his letters or numbers, and he didn't care. He was happy as he was. Thirteen or maybe fourteen now, he relished the steadiness of his work, and the sense that for the first time in his life he had a future that went beyond the night. The companions he'd had when he was a thief had mostly drifted off. He saw a few in the city, and the rest, well, the winter would have taken its toll on those who'd stayed in Leeds. He shared his room with Frances, a girl he'd known for four years. She was, he supposed, around his own age; he'd never asked and she'd never volunteered the information, if she even knew. In the old days he'd protected her, fed her, and she'd clung to him. When the others slowly melted away, she'd stayed; by then it seemed perfectly natural for them to be together without even discussing it. Not that they ever talked about much, words weren't their way. She had food ready for him when he returned from working, and held him close in the cold nights. She'd said she thought she might be having a bairn, but her belly was still flat, so he wasn't sure what to make of that. Time would tell, he imagined.

He liked his job, knowing there would be work tomorrow, the day after and next week, and the regular pay. It was more than he'd ever known before. So Richard Nottingham had his loyalty. And Frances, in an odd way, had his love.

Today, though, he was going to disappoint the boss. People were out, in spite of the cold – they were always out, it seemed, no matter the weather – but they had nothing worthwhile to say, just rumours and idle thoughts. Throughout the day he shifted from place to place, from stable to draper, but there was nothing useful. The only consolation was that they didn't know about the skinning. They would, sooner or later. Someone would talk.

He made his way back to the jail, face numb from the bitter weather, hungry for some warmth. Nottingham raised his eyebrow as Josh walked in. When he simply shook his head, the Constable murmured, ‘Damn.'

Sedgwick had gathered a list of the employees sacked by Graves. He'd been thorough, insisting the clerk go back ten years. There were only twelve names, so either the merchant had picked his men well or he was a soft-hearted employer, which the deputy found impossible to believe in the wool trade.

One man had been sent to prison, another transported, both for theft. As to the others, their offences had been quite trivial – smoking in the warehouse, late to work too often, minor infractions but enough to warrant dismissal. He knew enough to follow up, to find the men if he could and talk to them. One of them might well be the murderer. Anyone could do anything in the right circumstances, he'd learnt that much in his time on the job.

By late afternoon, after trudging from address to address and feeling as if he was chasing shadows, he'd managed to find three of the men. One was so wracked with consumption that he seemed to shimmer between life and death on his mattress in a foetid room. Another had hands turned into crippled, shiny claws by a lifetime of work; he couldn't have held a knife.

The third was more interesting. Adam Carter was in his late thirties, tall, broad, still strong, still without work, his manner curt and furtive, scabs on his face and knuckles as prizes from the fights he'd been in over the last fortnight. He'd lost his job in the Graves warehouse five years earlier. Sitting in the dram shop, spinning out one glass of gin as his eyes craved another, he remembered Graves.

‘A right bastard, he were,' he said, the froth of bitterness full on his words. ‘I were late five times in a month, that's all. I told him I was willing to work later to make up for it. My daughter were ill, see, and I'd to look after her since my wife weren't well. They both died a month back from the cold.' He swallowed a little more, grimacing at the taste while Sedgwick sat, listening. ‘Anyway, I tried to tell him, but the self-righteous bugger didn't want to know. Sent me packing.'

‘You still hate him?' Sedgwick asked.

Carter looked up, blue eyes lifeless. ‘I've lost my family,' he answered flatly. ‘Of course I hate him. I fucking hate everyone now.'

‘You know someone killed him.'

‘Aye, it's all over for him, and about bloody time, too.'

Sedgwick stared at him, an accusation in his eyes.

‘No, it weren't me.'

‘And can you prove that?'

‘Course I can't.' Carter hawked and spat on the stone floor. ‘You can't prove it were me, neither. If you could, we wouldn't be here now, you'd have me in the jail.'

It was true, and Sedgwick acknowledged it. Carter didn't have the cunning of the killer, and probably not the skill. This man had given up on living. Whoever killed Graves had a force within him, a deep desire that drove him.

‘I might want to talk to you again,' Sedgwick warned.

Carter shrugged carelessly.

‘Tha's found me once. I'm not going anywhere.'

When he reached the jail, Nottingham and Josh were sharing a jug of ale from the White Swan next door. Sedgwick poured himself a mug and gave his report.

‘So there are seven we still need to talk to,' the Constable mused. ‘You two can work on that tomorrow, you know what to do. I'll find out about the ones who were convicted.'

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Go home, the pair of you. There's nothing more we can do tonight.'

Alone, he drained the cup. The evening outside was loud with the sound of voices, carts, and horses. He wanted the peace of silence. He wanted to be somewhere the thoughts didn't crowd him, where all this vanished and he could feel free.

Terrible as it was, he knew this murder was what he needed. It was forcing him out of himself, pushing him away from the darkness that had consumed him since Rose died.

Nottingham looked at the names of the two convicted men scrawled in his notebook. Had he given evidence at both their trials? He couldn't recall. But he'd testified so many times, against so many men, that it was impossible to bring many details to mind.

Elias Wainwright had been found guilty of stealing cloth from the factory. It was just scraps and offcuts that would have been thrown away anyway. But he'd taken them without permission, and that was a crime. He'd almost certainly have been released long ago.

Abraham Wyatt had been more calculating, he remembered that much. A clerk, he'd been clever enough to embezzle from Graves, and it was sheer accident that he'd been caught. Everyone expected him to hang, but he'd pleaded benefit of clergy and instead he'd been transported, given seven years in the Indies, something many considered worse than the noose. Death out there came slow, he'd heard, from heat and sickness. Few ever came back. Not many lasted a single year, let alone seven.

He banked the fire and blew out the candle, locking the heavy door behind him as he left. A thin wind funnelled down the street and he pushed the collar of his greatcoat close around his neck. Kirkgate was quieter now, the people gone to their houses, trying to keep the winter at bay for another night and praying for the advent of spring.

Six

A long week passed and they found nothing. Whoever had killed Samuel Graves had left no clues, no hints. For all the hours of questions and long searches, he might as well have been invisible.

Deep down, Nottingham knew full well that the man was still in the city. There was more to come, he could feel it. There had to be; no one did that then just vanished. All he could do was keep looking and wait.

Graves's papers arrived. He'd pored over them for hours, reading through every piece of correspondence. He'd been going to London to try to secure a contract to provide blankets for the army. It would have made him a very wealthy man if it had happened, but the Constable was certain that it wasn't the cause behind a murder like this.

Every day the Mayor ranted at him to solve the murder. Every night, when he lay in bed, it preyed on him, until the thoughts of Rose replaced it with something even deeper and darker.

What baffled him still was the skinning. It was easy enough to make sense of a killing, however warped it might be. But so carefully, so delicately, to remove the skin from someone's back? There had to be a reason, but for all his thoughts he couldn't find it.

He'd managed to learn that Wainwright had died, another victim of the killing winter. He'd dispatched a letter to London to learn if Abraham Wyatt had died in Jamaica or been released, but it could well be weeks before he received a reply.

Seven frustrating days had passed since Sedgwick had found the body, days of half-hopes that proved as substantial as October mist. The only consolation was that the weather had hesitatingly begun to warm, melting much of the ice and turning packed snow into grey, creaking slush.

He'd been sitting in the jail since seven. Sedgwick and Forrester had gone out to ask more questions, although he already knew the answers would be of no help. On Briggate the sounds of the Tuesday market echoed loudly, cheerful and competitive as the traders vied with each other.

The door opened and a boy entered hesitantly, his eyes wide at being in such a place. Nottingham looked down at him and smiled gently.

‘Please sir . . .' the boy began in a small voice. He was tiny but already careworn, and from his rags he was obviously one of the urchins whose life on the streets of Leeds would be pitifully short.

‘What do you need?' he asked.

‘Someone told me to give this to the Constable.' He brought a small parcel from behind his back, wrapped in an old sheet from the
Leeds Mercury
.

‘I'm the Constable,' Nottingham told him kindly. ‘Who told you to do this?'

‘I don't know, sir,' the boy answered. ‘But he gave me a penny for it.'

‘I see.' He was alert now, staring at the package the boy had put on the desk. ‘And when did he do this?'

‘Just a few minutes ago, sir. Over near Lands Lane.'

‘What did he look like? Do you remember?' He tried to make the questions sound casual; he didn't want to terrify the boy into silence.

The lad shook his head. ‘I couldn't really see him, sir. He had a hat pulled down, and a heavy coat.'

‘Was he big? Small?'

‘Not so big,' the boy said with confidence. ‘But he said he'd watch me and if I didn't do the job he'd take the money back and hurt me.'

‘Well, you've done it, so everything is fine.' Nottingham smiled at him. ‘What's your name?

‘Mark, sir. My mother said it's for one of the followers of Jesus.'

‘She was right. Where is she now?'

‘Dead, sir.'

‘I'm sorry about that, Mark. You can go now, you've done your job well.'

As the door closed, he sat down and unwrapped the package.

Seven

They were the first to make me feel inferior.

Nottingham realized he'd been holding his breath and forced himself to exhale slowly. He was sitting at his desk, holding the slim, bound volume. The binding was pale brown leather, thin and crinkled, and dry to the touch.

He ran his thumb across it, feeling the rough texture. On the front, in exact, immaculate copperplate, was the title:
The Journal of a Wronged Man
, and underneath, in smaller letters,
In Four Volumes
written in ink the dark, rich red of fresh blood.

Revenge, he thought. Abraham Wyatt. He didn't know why but it had to be; he could feel it, the way some pieces fell into place so perfectly that it was impossible to be any other way. Wyatt must have survived the Indies somehow, to be carried home by hate. He'd had eight years to plan all this.

He picked up the small book and began to read again, his face set in a frown, concentrating intently on the even, copperplate script.