Cold Cruel Winter (24 page)

When he'd explained to her about the revenge he'd planned, she'd gripped his hand tightly, smiled, and hissed,
yes
. The hatred on her face as he listed their names, counting them off on his dark fingers, had seemed like love to him. It was worth every second, every drop of sweat under the sun on the other side of the world.

She'd helped him with Graves and Rushworth, taking delight in their torment. She enjoyed hurting them; she revelled in their screams and cries as much as he did. But she gave him the pleasure of the death and then left him to cut and cure the skin. And she'd been the one to dispose of the bodies. She was far stronger than she appeared. No one looked twice at a woman helping her drunk man home in the early morning. All it took was a few scolding words to the corpse if she saw anyone. Then she'd lay the body down, take his coat and hurry away.

He righted the desk and gathered the papers, sorting them into order. The bleeding had stopped, and he peeled the cloth from his hand.

‘Do you have him?' Charlotte shouted from upstairs. He could hear the eagerness in her voice.

‘No,' he yelled back. ‘The bastard got away.'

‘What?' She hurried down to him, and he saw the anger flash bright across her face. ‘I thought you said you had it all planned.'

‘I did. He slipped on the ice as I hit him. Then when I was ready to finish him, his daughter came out of the house.'

She slapped him hard across the face, the sound echoing around the thick stone walls. Colour rushed into her cheeks, darkening her skin even further. It had always been this way when he displeased her. She'd lash out until her rage had run. He stood still, letting her hit him again and again. He'd had worse from the overseers. Telling her it hadn't been his fault, that the Constable had had luck on his side, would make no difference.

She'd always angered quickly. But she loved him later. In the silent aftermath she'd bathe the scratches she'd left, kiss the bruises and the welts. She'd trail her hair, still black and lustrous, across his chest.

Finally she stopped, panting for breath, her lip bleeding slightly where she'd bitten it.

‘So what are you going to do now?' She spat the words out so he wasn't sure if it was a serious question or a taunt.

His face stung from the blows, his cheeks burning from pain and from shame. He let his hands hang by his sides, the cut on his hand still a vivid slash.

‘Nottingham's going to be prepared now,' she continued. ‘He'll be wary. And he'll have more men on the judge, too.'

He nodded. She was right, every word was right. It was going to be difficult now.

‘You'd better think,' she told him, her voice suddenly becoming husky and intimate. ‘We need to finish this.'

Twenty-Eight

By morning the snow and ice had melted into soft, mushy pools. At first the Constable tried to pick his way around them, but he gave up long before he reached the Parish Church. His boots were sodden, his feet cold and wet.

He could move the fingers on his left hand, but he could still barely raise his arm. Mary had helped him dress, fussing when he winced as the coat touched the wound. His shoulder throbbed, the pain sharp when he moved it. But he'd survived worse before. A pistol was primed and ready in each of his coat pockets, next to the knives. He'd not be a fool again.

Sedgwick was already at the jail when he arrived, the signs of a sleepless night heavy under his eyes. He stood up hastily as Nottingham entered.

‘Are you all right, boss?'

‘Just walking wounded, John.' He grinned. ‘I'll be fine in a few days. How's Frances? Is there any improvement?'

The deputy was quiet for a long, awkward moment before he answered.

‘She died.'

The words hung in the air. Nottingham shook his head sadly. ‘Oh Jesus. I'm sorry. How's Josh?'

‘I took him home last night. Told him to come in this morning. It'll take his mind off things if he's busy.'

The Constable nodded his agreement. ‘If he doesn't come in, go and check on him.'

‘I will.' He sighed. ‘By the way, someone from the Mayor's office was here yesterday afternoon. The Mayor wants to see you. About the Hendersons.'

‘More trouble there. Wait and see, we'll be lucky if it comes to court.'

‘Boss?'

‘What?'

‘Lizzie asked if you could arrange the funeral for Frances.'

‘Of course. Does she need any help?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘I'll take care of it.' He grimaced. ‘I'd better see what His Worship wants. But at least the day can't get any worse.'

Sedgwick laughed. ‘Don't say that, boss. You'll only tempt fate.'

‘It doesn't need any bloody temptation around here.'

He had other places to visit before going to the Moot Hall. The young curate at the Parish Church, heartened by the change in the weather, was swift to agree to a funeral the next morning.

On Swinegate, people were out, chattering, buying, selling, a gabble of voices that filled the air and the pavement. The better shopkeepers had cleared the slush outside their businesses, hoping to entice folk to stop and look. After too many weeks of starved trade, there was a brisk hunger about the city, an eagerness. Servants and housewives had wildness in their eyes as they touched the merchandise, then rushed the coins from their purses before grabbing the goods as if they were something illicit.

Down the street, the old door, its layers of paint peeling, stood closed. He went through, feeling the heat from the kitchen washing out through the house. Worthy was in his customary spot, messily eating bread and drinking small ale. He swallowed the food he'd been chewing and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

‘Mr Nottingham. What can I do for you, laddie?'

The Constable slumped on to a stool. ‘Wyatt attacked me yesterday. I was lucky.'

Worthy was suddenly alert. ‘How did he do that? Didn't you have your weapons handy?'

‘I had no chance to reach them.'

‘And I thought you were an intelligent man, Constable.' He spat out the title. ‘You know he could be anywhere. You said yourself how clever he is. And here you are, telling me we could have been looking for you now if it wasn't for sheer bloody luck?'

‘Yes,' Nottingham admitted guiltily.

Worthy shook his head and spat on the flagstones. ‘Christ, but you're a stupid bastard.' The pimp looked at him, his voice slowly rising. He brought a fleshy fist down on the table, making the dishes jump. ‘If I were you, I'd not be coming here to admit I'd made such a mess of things.' His face was darkening, the colour rising from his neck. ‘I told you to always be on your guard. What did you think, that I was joking?'

Nottingham stood up. ‘Finished ranting, Amos?' he asked calmly. ‘I'm not one of your men. You don't intimidate me. I came down to tell you what Wyatt looks like. If you want to know, that is?'

‘Go on,' Worthy said grudgingly.

‘He's not quite my height, and a little heavier than me. There's colour to his skin, but not too dark, and he has a T branded on his left cheek. Oh, and lots of tiny scars on the back of his hands.'

‘That it?'

‘That's all I could see. You can tell your men. It might help.'

‘Where did he find you?'

‘Just near Timble Bridge.'

Worthy nodded slowly. ‘If he's that good, how did you get away?'

‘I told you – luck. I slipped on the ice.' He looked abashed. ‘He'd have cracked my skull if I hadn't. As it was, he hit my shoulder.'

The procurer glanced at the arm. ‘Hurt, does it?'

‘Yes.' He knew what was coming, but he didn't mind. That was really why he'd come here, to be reminded of his stupidity, to have it ground into him so he'd never make the same complacent mistake again.

‘Serves you bloody right, laddie.' There was no irony or sympathy in his tone. In his world the forgetful, the thoughtless, ended up dead, with little mourning. He'd been lucky, and he knew it. This was just the harsh reminder. ‘I'm not one of your Papist priests,' Worthy told him. ‘You're not going to find any absolution here.' He gave a quick, sly smile and smoothed the grimy stock at his throat. ‘You can confess everything you like, though. I've got all day.'

Nottingham stood. ‘I need to go, Amos. I just wanted to tell you about Wyatt. I've got more men on the judge, but we need to find this bastard soon. So far hardly anyone knows what he's done to those he's murdered, but that can't last.'

‘And do you have any bright ideas about what to do?'

The Constable shook his head sadly. ‘If I had, don't you think I'd be acting on them?'

He took his leave, following the street to Boar Lane on his way to the Moot Hall. He'd needed the disdain and the withering comments. He was human, he made mistakes, but when mistakes could be lethal, he needed to learn.

Even in the slush and the grey grime of late winter, he could feel the city beginning to blossom again. The dead would go in the ground soon, their memories alive, and spring would come soon.

He was shown straight through to the Mayor's chamber. With each month since he'd taken office, Kenion's room had become more crowded with documents and books. Pristine last September, now there were clutters and piles in the corners and on small tables.

Edward Kenion was seated behind his desk, eyes close to the paper he was reading. He needs spectacles, Nottingham thought, but he's too vain to wear them. The Mayor looked up.

‘Do you have anything new on the murderer?' he asked without preamble. There was a husky bark to his voice.

‘We know what he looks like now.' The Constable was carefully vague in his admission.

‘But you don't have him, do you?'

‘No,' Nottingham admitted. ‘Not yet.'

‘Then do something about it, Constable.' He sounded frustrated. ‘Find him.' He fluttered his hand to wave the matter away. ‘Anyway, that's not why I wanted you here. Alderman Henderson's sons.'

‘Peter and Paul.'

Kenion nodded briefly. ‘We've decided not to put them on trial.'

‘What?' Nottingham stood up sharply, the outrage flaring on his face. ‘They're guilty of murder. They killed a completely harmless man.'

‘How much proof do you have?' the Mayor asked, his voice calm. He didn't meet the Constable's stare.

‘We found his pack at their house. Both of them had bloody suits. Someone else identified them as being in the dead man's room. How much do you want?'

‘From what I'm told, your witness never saw them. She can't see, I believe?'

‘She can hear well enough, though.' He breathed deeply, trying to stop his temper from blazing through. ‘And what about the pack?'

‘They claim to have found it on their way home.'

‘The clothes?'

‘They were in a fight.'

The Constable began to pace, his boots sinking into the thick rug. ‘You don't believe that. You can't.'

‘The Corporation has discussed the matter,' Kenion announced flatly. ‘We had a judge set, but we've decided not to proceed. They've been released.' He sat back, daring Nottingham to speak.

The Constable knew he should say nothing, that he should accept the announcement and leave. He couldn't change things. But the thought of Isaac the Jew, lying broken and alone on the frozen ground filled his head.

‘If they get away with this, those two will kill again,' he warned. ‘They'll believe they're immune from anything.'

‘The Corporation believes they're innocent of the charges, Mr Nottingham,' the Mayor told him coldly.

The Constable brushed the fringe off his forehead, running his hand back through his hair. ‘One day they'll go too far and someone will kill them.'

‘That won't happen, Constable. We pay you to keep this city peaceful. Make sure you remember that.' It was an order, pure and simple.

He wanted to punch the wall in frustration, to shout through gritted teeth. As it was, he had no choice but to bow his head, to take the blow and leave. Outside, in the bustle of Briggate, he let the street swallow him.

The air was filled with the iron smell of blood from the Shambles and the heady dark richness of shit from the horses pulling carts up and down the street. Leeds was returning quickly from the winter, battered and with fearful memories.

He stepped out, his face angry, fists clenched in his pockets. He passed the market cross, then turned at the Head Row, walking past Burley Bar, where the houses petered out into scrubby countryside. The road had turned to deep mud, churned by hooves and wheels.

His shoulder ached viciously, leaving him sweating in the chill air, but the pain was good; without it, the fury would be boiling over in his head.

As ever, the Corporation was protecting its own. He wanted to release all the frustrations of the last months in one long scream of rage. This was his city. It didn't just belong to the rich. It was as much the home of Isaac the Jew, of Rose, of all those who'd died during the winter. Leeds was bigger than all of them. His job was to keep them safe, every one of them, and to arrest them when they flouted the law. The justice he upheld was meant to work for them all, not only for those with the jingle of coins in their pockets.

He knew how stupid it was to come out here alone to this place, beyond the houses, where the land offered plenty of cover. He was prey to Wyatt again, a bird flapping with a single wing. But the pistols were ready, and he needed this.