Cold Cruel Winter (10 page)

‘Could he have gone into any of the courts off the ginnel?'

‘He could.' Morris admitted slowly. ‘But I didn't hear a door or owt. I've got good ears,' he said with pride.

‘What did you do after that?'

‘I were starting to get worried. I looked around a bit, but I couldn't find him, so I came back here quick as I could.'

‘You did the right thing, then,' Nottingham told him with a small smile. ‘You go and get some rest. Report to Mr Sedgwick or Josh in the morning.'

‘Yes, sir.' Morris looked up hopefully. ‘I still have a job? Only I need the money . . .'

‘You still have a job,' the Constable confirmed.

Once Morris had gone, a grateful grin lighting up his dirty face, Nottingham put on his greatcoat and left the jail. He needed to see the scene for himself, to try to understand how Rushworth could simply have gone.

He was certain Wyatt had him now, and barring a miracle, no one would see him alive again. Anger burned in his gut, fury at the killer. But there was also a tinge of admiration. The man was daring – and clever.

On Lower Briggate there was plenty of noise from the inns and beer shops as people drank the evening away. Whores plied their trade in isolation or gossiped in small groups as they waited for business, walking on tall wooden pattens to keep their cheap dresses from the mud. With the thaw had come the return of the city smells, the rich stew of shit, piss and rubbish all hidden by the cold.

He turned into the Calls, trying to keep his mind open to all the possibilities. By now the street was almost empty, and his footsteps resounded off the cobbles. Nottingham knew the ginnel Morris meant: a small lane close to the Parish Church that ran alongside the large property owned by Berkenhold, the merchant.

There was enough moonlight to see the high brick wall that kept people out of the orchard behind the big house. The other side was the frontage of old houses, the gaps between them leading to a warren of courts, the homes of the poor and desperate who could afford no better. How many people would be living back there, he wondered? Hundreds, most likely.

Snatch a man and take him into one of those and it would be almost impossible to find him. The entries were barely wider than a man's shoulders, dark, foreboding, and menacing in the night.

He walked through the ginnel and back. It was barely thirty yards long, a lost little place. There were three courts. He didn't even try to walk into them. He'd get the men down here and have them scour the places. It was always possible that the murderer had his rooms here. Someone might have seen something. He'd have Sedgwick talk to the tenants here; with his easy manner they seemed to open up to him.

He'd been angry at Morris, but he understood the man wasn't to blame. He'd done exactly what was expected, and he'd never stood a chance against this murderer. In truth, he'd done the right thing to return to the jail and raise the alarm.

The ginnel came out on Kirkgate and Nottingham ambled slowly back to the jail. Could he have put all the pieces together earlier and identified Wyatt? No, he didn't have the information. And as soon as he'd found out, he'd taken steps to protect Rushworth and the judge. But Wyatt had the whip hand. He knew who he wanted, he'd had the time to spy on them and make his plans.

Finally Sedgwick returned, and Nottingham explained that he wanted all the courts off the ginnel searched, and everyone questioned.

‘I don't know if Wyatt's there, John, so be careful. He's dangerous. If you even get a sniff of him I want to know about it.'

‘I'll lay odds he won't be anywhere close to the place,' Sedgwick said.

Nottingham shrugged. ‘You're probably right. But he wouldn't know we were following Rushworth. That must give us something.'

‘But not the poor bugger he's got.'

‘No,' the Constable acknowledged bleakly. In frustration he slapped the desk. ‘Wyatt's spent seven years in the Indies. He must still be brown from the sun. That means he should be easy to spot in Leeds. He can't stay inside all the time. Why hasn't anyone seen him?'

‘He's a smart bastard. You said so yourself, boss. He's worked this all out.'

‘I know.' There was a sense of resignation in his tone.

Clouds had blown in from the West and a thin drizzle had started by the time Nottingham walked down Kirkgate. It would take away the last of the slush and leave many of the roads no better than quagmires. Carters would be stuck, tempers would fray. More problems for the morning.

He let himself into the dark house, removed his boots and climbed the stairs quietly. Stripping to his shirt, he washed at the ewer then pulled the blanket over himself, Mary's warmth radiating close by. In her sleep she turned to him, curling by his side. Smiling, he put his arm around her and pulled her closer.

Eleven

He left the cellar, closing the door firmly behind him, and stretched. Downstairs Rushworth was tied to a chair, his eyes covered and an old cloth stuffed into his mouth to keep him quiet.

He was already weary of the man's voice, his sorrowful whine no better than an infant's, grating in the ears and on the brain.

Wyatt took a tired apple, its flesh withered with time, from the table and used his knife to cut it in two. The autumnal smell rose and made him smile.

So far everything had been so easy. He'd expected some problems, but there had been nothing. He'd prepared carefully, calculating everything, his plans immaculate.

It would be harder the next time, he knew that. That was the challenge and he relished it. Gain something too simply and there was no triumph in it, no sweetness. He thought of Rushworth downstairs, talking inanely, grovelling to stave off the inevitable.

He knew the man was hoping for mercy, but there'd be none of that. He'd waited too long for this, endured too much to be magnanimous. This was his time and he'd relish every moment of it.

Wyatt finished the apple and drank deep from a mug of ale. He felt alive, he felt happy. There was still so much of Rushworth to enjoy, as long as he could keep the man quiet. And then there was much more work to do after he was dead.

He pulled down on the waistcoat. He'd worn it when he slashed Graves's throat and the spurting blood had turned the front of the garment an ugly red-black. It had terrified Rushworth when he put it on. Wyatt smiled grimly and opened the cellar door.

Twelve

The drizzle had edged into heavy, cold sleet by the time Sedgwick made his way home, and a chill wind stirred up around him. The old scar by his mouth itched and he scratched it without thinking. Along with Josh he'd spent the evening questioning the inhabitants of the courts that snaked off the ginnel where Rushworth had vanished.

There'd been nothing, of course. No one had seen anything or heard of a man with skin burnt by the sun. The empty rooms were accounted for. They'd forced their way into three of them, but there was no sign of evil or murder. Rushworth had vanished, and he knew what that meant.

He shook his head, throwing off raindrops, as he entered the house where he had a room. Lizzie would be waiting, and James would be asleep on his pallet. A fire was burning in the hearth. That cost them in tax, but it was worthwhile for the heat, the thing that had helped keep them alive in the depth of the winter, when morning cold had iced deep over the inside of the windows.

He unlocked the door, smiling as Lizzie held a finger to her lips, her eyes turning to James under his blanket.

‘Hello, love,' he whispered as he held her, her face warm against his damp cheek. Some said he'd been mad to take on a girl who'd been a prostitute, but he had no regrets. It was love of a fashion, and she'd already proved herself to be a better mother to James than Annie had ever been.

She busied herself, cutting cheese and bread, pouring ale, and putting it on the table ready for him.

‘Another late night,' she said, but without any touch of the criticism that had always sharpened Annie's tone.

He took a deep drink, feeling his body begin to relax.

‘Aye,' he agreed. ‘A lot of people to talk to. Looks like the murderer has snatched his next victim.'

Lizzie shuddered and gathered her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

‘No trace?' she asked.

‘Nothing. He's just vanished. This murderer's a clever bastard.' Sedgwick shook his head in a mix of sadness and admiration before changing the subject. ‘How's James been?'

‘Good as gold.' Lizzie beamed. ‘I took him down by the river earlier, over the bridge. I held him up so he could look down at the water.' She paused. ‘You know what?'

‘What?'

‘He called me mam,' she announced proudly.

He took her hand, stroking the skin lightly.

‘Does he ask for Annie any more?'

‘Not in a fortnight now, John. He seems happy.'

And why wouldn't he be? Sedgwick wondered. Lizzie treated the boy like her own. She talked to him, played games with him, took him out.

She leaned across the table and kissed him as he ate. The gesture took him by surprise, but she was forever doing daft things like that, holding him, kissing him. At first the affection had astonished him; now he liked it.

‘I love you, John Sedgwick,' she said softly.

Who cared what she'd been, he thought. She was a good lass even then, friendly and always ready to laugh. The six months they'd been living together had been joy. They'd made him realize how ground down he'd become with Annie, how their marriage had been ultimately as fragile as gossamer. She'd hated his job and vanished for something she believed was better, a life as a soldier's woman. He wished the man luck with her; he'd need it.

As soon as she'd heard the news, Lizzie had knocked at his door. He was amazed that she knew where he lived.

‘She's gone, then?' she'd asked bluntly.

‘Aye,' he admitted. The truth was that he was relieved when Annie left; he had his son, but he was uncertain and fearful for the future.

‘Who's going to look after the little lad?'

With that she'd become part of his life, spending her days with James, her nights with Sedgwick. Within a week she'd brought over her possessions, two worn, faded dresses and a few small things. A month later, they'd moved to this new room, warmer and airier, just before winter began to exert its grip. A new start, he said, fresh surroundings and no memories.

‘Tired?' she asked, jarring him out of his thoughts.

Sedgwick rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘Long past tired.'

‘You get to bed. I'll blow out the candles,' she ordered tenderly.

In the dark he stared at the ceiling. The bed was cosy, and his arm slid around her.

‘Do you ever think of going back?' he asked her.

‘To what?' she answered sleepily.

‘To what you used to do.'

That was his fear, that she'd grow tired of this domesticity and leave him. Leave James. Leave a hole in their lives.

She laughed gently, a sound that moved him more than any words.

‘You're a daft beggar, you are. I've wanted you ever since I saw you. I'd have taken you away from her if I could. Does that tell you owt?'

‘Aye.' He drifted away, a smile on his lips.

Nottingham was at the jail well before light. He'd heard the dawn chorus as he walked down Marsh Lane and over Timble Bridge, but it had brought him no pleasure. Holding Mary had soothed his soul a little, but once she was asleep his thoughts had begun to whirl uncontrollably.

All his life he had been a fighter. There had been times when that fight – finding enough food or a safe place to sleep – had meant the difference between life and death, and that had given him the desire never to lose. It was one of the qualities that made him perfect for this job.

Knowing that Wyatt had snatched a victim from under the nose of one of his men made him burn. He would not be outthought and outwitted by a killer, by a madman who saw death and defilement as apt revenge for the crime he'd been the one to commit.

He paused at the head of the ginnel, where the shadows slipped away from Kirkgate and the darkness seemed briefly absolute. Leeds wasn't that large, maybe seven thousand people. Wyatt was in it somewhere. Someone had seen him, someone sold him food, someone had rented him . . . what could he have rented?

Not a room, that much was certain. He couldn't have tortured, killed and skinned there. He needed somewhere larger, somewhere private. That narrowed it down a little. A house perhaps, or a workshop. He unlocked the door of the jail, glancing in the cells for anyone brought in by the night men. Just a pair of beggars, by the look of them, glad of a rest indoors for once, burrowed under their blankets and quiet to the world.

He put coal on the fire that had been banked for the night, and stirred the embers, watching the flames dazzle and heat seep into the room before taking off his heavy coat and pushing back his fringe.

For the first time since Rose's death he had hope in his heart. Inch by inch he and Mary were drawing closer again, beginning to emerge from the fog. It was painful and there was still so far to go, but they'd made their start.

He wouldn't allow Wyatt to crush that. He'd find him and mete out justice. That was his job. There would be no trial where details of the killing could emerge, nothing to tarnish the reputation of Leeds, so carefully tended and burnished, nothing that could affect the heartbeat of trade. He'd had to do this before, always reluctantly, and he had no doubt he'd have to do it again. The instances had been rare, but in every case he'd had no regrets.