Cold Cruel Winter (8 page)

‘And what about her?' The man inclined his head towards the woman. ‘How's she supposed to survive if there's no money coming in? What's she going to do?'

Arkwright shook his head briefly. It wasn't his concern, Nottingham understood that. The city employed them to stop crime and arrest criminals. They couldn't affect anything beyond that; if they tried, they'd go mad. Lives fell apart; it was the way of the world. Crime had its consequences, even for the innocent. The woman stayed silent, head held proud and high.

‘You're going to have to come with me,' Arkwright told him. ‘It'll be a lot easier if we just walk out of here together, but I'll put irons on you if I must.'

Wyatt turned to the woman, lacing his arms around her and kissing her deeply. He knows he'll never see her again, Nottingham thought, and braced himself. He gripped his cudgel. This was often where it became dangerous, where they tried to run and the violence started. But Wyatt broke away, lowered his head, and shuffled slowly towards the Constable.

Wyatt said nothing as they trudged out of the miserable court. The Constable and Nottingham stayed close, braced for the man to bolt, but he just trudged on, submissive and cowed. At the jail Arkwright put him in a cell, locking the door with a heavy clunk. Through the grille Nottingham watched as the man looked around then sat on the bed, legs together, hands gathered in his lap. Then he filled out the ledger, giving the date, the prisoner's name, and his crime.

For embezzlement, he'd go to the Quarter Sessions, which wouldn't sit for another month. They'd move him to the prison in the cellar of the Moot Hall. It was a dismal place with little light, but still better than most. The prisoners were fed fairly, their families could visit without bribing the jailers, and they weren't kept chained and shackled like animals.

There was no doubt that Wyatt was guilty. Graves had gone over the accounts himself and presented the discrepancies. No one on the judge's bench would dispute the word of one of the city's most distinguished merchants. The best Wyatt could hope for would be seven years' transportation, possibly even fourteen. Since he was an educated man Wyatt would plead benefit of clergy, speak a sentence from the Bible and escape the hangman's noose. The severity of the sentence would depend on how gracious the judge was feeling that day.

The transcript told Nottingham little. The trial was reported in flat, straightforward terms, a catalogue of statements, verdict and sentence. He sat back and wondered. Wyatt's journal was going to be in four volumes. It didn't take a great leap of the imagination to see he'd target the judge and the clerk who'd given evidence against him. But with the old Constable dead Nottingham couldn't see who the fourth person might be.

Joshua Forester was sitting on his pallet, watching Frances in her fitful sleep. She took small breaths, her long hair a tangle on the rough pillow. There was a sheet on the bed, and he'd piled two heavy coats on top for warmth, but even in the thaw the room was still bitter.

She looked so vulnerable, and he worried about the tiny life in her belly. He could look after the two of them, but how would they manage with a baby? Frances had no idea how far along she was, and was too scared to ask anyone for advice. Soon she'd begin to show, he imagined, the way he saw all the time.

He could talk to Mr Sedgwick, but he wasn't even sure where to begin. No one had ever really asked about his life, they didn't even know where he lived. He simply arrived at the jail each day and did as he was told. Josh knew he was lucky to have a regular wage, to be one of the Constable's trusted men.

Frances stirred, and he stroked her cheek.

‘What time is it?' she asked, her small voice not really awake.

‘Still dark,' he told her. ‘You go back to sleep. You need your rest now.'

She closed her eyes and he was struck again by her velvetlike beauty, so meek and fragile.

‘Why are you so good to me?' Frances wondered.

He gazed at her and kissed her eyelids softly. He didn't even really know why himself. Habit, perhaps, or the feeling that someone cared about him, someone he could care about in return.

She reached out and held his hand in her thin fingers.

‘I love you,' she told him gently, and drifted away from him. He watched until she settled again, a small smile on her lips. What was she dreaming about? He picked and worried at a loose thread on his shirt. They'd survived the winter, managed to keep food and a fire and fashioned a life together. And a new life, he thought.

After working he needed sleep, but it wouldn't come. The night seemed to stretch forever, and dawn was a faint hope. Dark wakefulness gave rise to too many thoughts, a time when the imagination ran all over the mind. They left him uncomfortable; he preferred doing things to thinking. But he knew he had to make decisions, find things out. What would it be like to be a father? What would he do?

Josh leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He could tell that this murderer scared the boss. Nothing had been said, but he knew anyway. He'd seen Graves's back, the skin stripped off. He'd seen Nottingham take the slim book from the drawer, look at it, and handle it with distaste. He'd heard as John and the Constable talked quietly, about things they didn't want him to know. He understood all the same. His mind had made the leap and connected the two things. He'd stayed quiet, not wanting to believe what his eyes told him yet accepting it was the horrific truth.

Anyone who'd do something like that was more devil than man, Josh decided. Someone who'd stop at nothing to exact his revenge. He'd been out looking and listening, but there'd been no sighting, no whisper about Abraham Wyatt. How could that happen? How could a man carry out a crime like that and disappear? There were plenty of people in the city, that was true, but it wasn't endless, the way he'd heard London was. Only a devil could vanish . . .

Frances stirred again, and he reached out to gently take her hand, letting the sound of her breathing lull him to his rest.

Josh came in, ready to work. He'd looked preoccupied recently, the Constable thought. But he'd been so lost in his own problems that he'd taken no account of the men. As long as they did their work, he'd let them be.

‘I've got a job for you,' he told the boy. ‘Do you know Judge Dobbs?'

Forrester shook his head.

‘Owns a big house at Town End, the other side of the Head Row. It's the first one beyond the Free School. Use a couple of the men. I want you to follow him everywhere. Don't let him know you're there.'

‘I can do that,' Josh agreed easily. ‘Why do you want him watched, boss?'

‘I think the man who killed Sam Graves will be going after him. Keep your eyes open for anyone else who seems to be around, anyone at all. If they seem suspicious, bring them here and I'll question them. This might be our best chance to find Wyatt.'

‘Yes, boss.'

He gathered up his old greatcoat, so large that it seemed to engulf him.

‘Is everything all right, Josh?' Nottingham asked gently.

The boy looked at the Constable, eyes guileless, startled by the question. ‘Fine, boss. Why?'

‘I just wondered. You've been quiet these last few weeks.'

Forrester shrugged, then slid out through the door. Concern hadn't worked, Nottingham thought. He wrote a note for Sedgwick, telling him to organize men to follow Ralph Rushworth, the clerk from Graves's warehouse who'd given damning evidence at Wyatt's trial.

He smiled. Things were changing. They were taking action.

Nine

Walking home at dusk, Nottingham's steps faltered as he reached the Parish Church. He slipped quietly through the lych gate and crossed the ground to Rose's grave. A little slush remained, but most of the snow had melted into the earth leaving it boggy and clinging, sucking softly at his boots. He hadn't been here for a week; his time had been taken up with the murder. He felt ashamed for ignoring his daughter.

In time, once the earth had fully settled, he'd pay for a headstone. For now, there was only a sinking mound and memories to show that she'd ever lived. He stood, head bowed, scenes from the past twenty years slipping through his mind. Rose as a baby, as an infant toddling on unsteady legs, as a girl with the sun on her hair, playing by the river. Rose on her wedding day, eyes turned in adoration to her husband . . . Rose in her final illness, face wan, eyes lost to the world in her fever.

He hadn't been able to save her, and that guilt bit painfully into his soul. He could catch murderers, but he couldn't keep death from his own daughter, his little girl. He'd failed her, and he'd failed Mary and Emily, too. It was a pact, unspoken, unwritten, but always understood – he was the man, he'd keep them all safe. But he hadn't managed in his duty.

He wanted to believe in God and the life eternal, that Rose was in heaven. But belief was near impossible when you were empty. He silently mouthed prayers for her that came from years of church services . . .
shelter her soul in the shadow of Thy wings, make known to her the path of life
. He hoped they'd bring him a little peace, a communion with her. Instead all he could feel was a thin tear burning down his cheek. Slowly he wiped it away, then stood for a few more minutes until the damp chill roused him.

At the gate he turned right, heading for Timble Bridge and home. He wasn't sure he felt comforted by his visit, but it was something he'd needed to do. Not for Rose, but for himself.

After a few yards he paused.

‘Are you going to show yourself?' he asked loudly before turning.

‘I was wondering how long it would take you, laddie.' A bulky man detached himself from the shadows to stand beside the Constable.

‘So what brings you here, Amos?'

Nottingham had an uneasy relationship with Amos Worthy. The older man was a procurer and pimp, the most successful in Leeds, though he didn't display it in dressy finery. For years the Constable had loathed him and tried to prosecute him, always without success, for Worthy had powerful friends on the Corporation.

Then, the previous year, in the wake of a murder, Nottingham had learned that Worthy had once been his mother's lover. It had come as a disturbing revelation, one that left him even more wary of the man.

‘I was sorry to hear about your lass.'

The Constable gave a small grunt, unsure how to reply. He knew the man hadn't followed him just to give his condolences. He said nothing, waiting for more.

‘There's a lot of talk going round about old Sam Graves,' Worthy continued. Even speaking softly, his voice filled the street.

‘There's always talk,' Nottingham replied blandly.

‘You've not caught the killer.'

‘No,' he admitted. ‘But that's common knowledge.'

‘Someone told me summat interesting,' Worthy said slowly. ‘He said there was a patch of skin missing from Graves's back.'

Nottingham kept his face impassive. He'd known that much would leak out sooner or later; the only surprise was that it had taken so long.

‘You always listen to idle gossip, Amos?'

He could sense Worthy smiling.

‘I paid good money for that, so it'd better be true.'

Men didn't cross the pimp, or lie to him, at least never more than once. Anyone who tried ended up beaten or dead, an example to others.

‘Why did you want to know?' Nottingham asked. He knew Worthy liked to stay abreast of the happenings in the city, but usually the dead only concerned him if the corpse was one of his whores.

‘Knowledge is power, laddie. You should know that by now,' Worthy snorted.

The Constable gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘If that was true, Amos, I'd be running Leeds by now.'

‘You've too much honour, laddie. The folk who run things here would never be scared of you. You wouldn't use what you knew.'

‘Unlike you.'

‘Aye,' the pimp agreed. ‘Unlike me. So was I told the truth?'

‘Yes, you were.' He could admit that much, he decided. If Worthy knew, others would too. They'd reached Timble Bridge, and Worthy stopped, hand on the parapet, staring down into Sheepscar Beck running fast below. The night was drawing in deeply around them, the air filled with the kind of damp chill that penetrated right through to the bones.

‘An odd thing to do to a man,' the pimp speculated. ‘He must have had a reason.'

Nottingham shrugged.

‘Maybe. Maybe it was just madness. We'll know when we catch him.'

‘You haven't managed that yet, laddie. No one in mind?'

Nottingham turned to stare at Worthy, who was still gazing at the water. ‘This isn't like you, Amos. You've a lot of questions tonight.'

Worthy turned to face the Constable. He must have been in his late sixties, but he was still a large, solid man, sturdy as the forest, face weathered and battered by violence and time.

‘I knew Sam Graves long, long ago, back when I had another life. He was a good friend to me then, and he stayed one. He'd still talk to me if we met on Briggate, not like all the others. And before you ask, he never used my girls. Or any others, as far as I know.'

Nottingham nodded. Years before, Worthy had owned a shop. After discovering that his own wife and Worthy were lovers, Nottingham's father had thrown out his wife and son then done all he could to destroy Worthy.

‘I don't like the idea of someone killing him then doing that,' the procurer continued.

‘Neither do I.'

‘Aye, laddie, I know that. I'm offering you help if you want it.'