Cold Cruel Winter (12 page)

He bowed his head for a moment and drew a loaf of bread from under his heavy coat, putting it down near the flames.

‘Thank you,' the oldest man said, his eyes smiling, speaking slowly in strongly-accented English. ‘You are well?'

‘Yes, I am,' Josh responded, and added, ‘thank you.'

‘And your girl?'

‘She's going to have a baby.'

The man beamed and translated. Everyone smiled widely.

‘New life is a good thing,' the old man told him. ‘But I think you come for other reasons today.'

‘I'm looking for someone. I thought you might have seen him.'

One of the young men, who wore a permanently angry expression, raised his voice.

‘And why would we tell you if we had, boy?'

‘Because he kills people,' Josh answered.

The elder raised his hand to bring calm. ‘Why you think we see him?'

‘You and your people see things most folk miss. You go to the places a lot of people don't go.'

The man nodded slowly. ‘And this man, who is he? How we know him?'

‘He has dark skin. He was in the Indies for a long time.' Josh hesitated. ‘That's all I know.'

The men looked from one to another, communicating with small facial inflections.

‘It is possible,' the old man admitted cautiously. ‘We maybe see man like that.'

‘I need to know where he lives,' Josh told them. ‘Before he kills more people.'

The old man talked with the others once more, words flying in their incomprehensible language. Josh half-watched the men while he listened to the lively sounds of the camp and the whinnying of the horses tethered in the distance. The Gypsies made their money from horse trading, they'd told him, and from the small things they could sell.

‘We see him again, we find out where he live,' the man agreed finally. ‘Some of my family, they feel is wrong to help the law. The law is often unkind to us.' He frowned momentarily as memories slipped through his mind. ‘But you are our friend.'

‘Will he pay to know?' the young man burst out.

‘The Constable will pay for information,' Josh said. ‘And you'll have his gratitude.'

‘That can be a good thing to have,' the old man decided.

‘If you find him, you can send one of the children to tell me.'

The old man nodded. The deal had been done. Josh walked back through the camp and down the track, finally resting against a dry stone wall.

He knew they were men of their word. They'd keep any eye out for Wyatt, and if they found him, he'd hear. There'd be a small tug on his sleeve, a few whispered words.

Slowly he stood and began to walk back into Leeds. He gazed down at the city from the hill, smoke rising from the chimneys, the low grey haze of cloud. Wyatt was there. Rushworth was there. Frances was there. But he had a day's work to do before he saw her again.

Nottingham felt the grit churning in his soul. Many people had threatened him in his time as Constable, but few had ever done anything about it, and never as cold-bloodedly as this.

He'd been given his warning. But if Wyatt wanted him dead, he'd have a fight on his hands. At the jail he took a pair of knives from the cupboard and sharpened their blades carefully on a whetstone before sliding them into their sheaths and then into his coat pockets. For a brief moment he considered a pistol, then dismissed the idea. He'd never enjoyed the idea of guns; they only offered a single chance, and he preferred better odds than that when playing for his life.

Armed, he gathered his coat tight about him and locked the jail. Outside, the wind was beginning to whip up from the north. The temperature was falling again and the rain was turning to light snow that rushed angrily around his face.

No more winter, he prayed. There had been enough of that already, too much of it, too many dead, too many hopeless. As he walked up Briggate, past the Ship Inn and the Moot Hall, he saw the faces of the people, the happiness drained from them, walking with heads bowed like penitents.

He ducked into a court between two houses, the opening barely wider than his shoulders, and the wind ceased. He stopped, breathing slowly. Beyond the short passage the ground opened out, muddy and cloying, surrounded by ramshackle houses of stone and wood where the gardens had once stood a century or more before.

Nottingham picked his way across the mire and hammered on a faded blue door. There was no latch or lock he could see, but he knew the man inside would have taken care to make it secure.

He waited, standing back slightly so he could be seen. Finally, as he was about to give up and turn away, the door opened soundlessly. He walked into a dark hallway, following a moving shadow, then into a room where sober grey light fell through dirty glass. Finally he stopped and said, ‘Peter.'

The other man turned. He had to be in his fifties now, the Constable thought, wizened, the wrinkles carved deep into his face, grey hair a thinning tangle on his head, like so many other men who'd been ground down by life. He wore a dusty, dark coat with rips in the shoulders and pockets and dirty, buff-coloured breeches. In a crowd no one would notice him, which was exactly what he wanted. Peter Hawthorn was a peacher, a man who heard about crimes and made his money by informing on the criminals.

‘Mr Nottingham.' He had a rough, low voice, scarcely more than a growl. As long as the Constable had known him he'd never used more words than absolutely necessary, hoarding them close like bullion.

‘You know who I'm looking for.'

Hawthorn nodded.

‘There's very good money in it for whoever finds him for me.'

Hawthorn nodded again.

‘But it has to be soon.'

He didn't know how the peacher had managed such a long life, and he'd never asked. Over all the years some must have known he'd given them up. But he was still here, still making a bare living from his trade in souls.

‘He's been in the Indies, so his skin will be burned dark. He's staying out of the way, but he's in Leeds somewhere.'

He waited for an acknowledgement, but Hawthorn said nothing. Finally Nottingham turned on his heel and left.

On Briggate snowflakes still lashed his face and hands, and it felt even colder than before. If this grew any worse, he thought, the slush would freeze and the streets would be treacherous. The snow was already starting to settle on his shoulders and in his hair as he walked, and back at the jail he had to shake his greatcoat clean.

He stoked up the fire in the grate and settled into his seat to compose his latest report for the Mayor. It would be brief; there was precious little new to tell. As he wrote, he wondered about Rushworth. Was he still alive, or had Wyatt already killed him? He realized in his heart that they'd never find him in time. The next they'd see would be the body and then the book that would inevitably follow.

Worthy's help could make the difference. He hated to admit it, but he knew it was true. With more men looking, it had to only be a matter of time until they took Wyatt. But how much time did he have? Not enough, that was certain. And there'd be a price to pay in the future for the pimp coming to his aid. There'd be some kind of favour to be done, an eye to be turned away at a crucial moment. Nothing in this life came free.

He set the pen down. He couldn't settle; the world was buzzing in his head. Someone wanted to kill him. Someone he loved more than his own life was dead. He'd have given himself up for Rose to live, and so would Mary. But God never made his bargains so easily. Instead you had to learn to live in the long shadow of sorrow and face whatever else He put before you.

There was nothing more he could do here. Putting on the coat, still wool-damp and heavy, he set out for home. The temperature had dropped further, the mud freezing rapidly and crunching under his boots, the snow still coming down, small patches lying deceptively white and pure atop the hardening dirt. It would be bitter tonight, and for the next few days as winter gave a harsh reminder it wasn't done with them yet.

Emily was sweeping the floor. She held the broom awkwardly, pushing it in short stabs that gathered no dust. Without thinking he came up behind her, put his hands over hers and said,

‘Try it this way, love. It'll be easier.'

He guided her so she made long strokes across the wood. This had been Rose's job when she lived here, and she'd always tackled it briskly and efficiently.

‘That's the way,' he told her. ‘You've got it now.'

She turned and smiled gently at him. He was aware of how small and dry her hands were, and uncomfortable with the way her hips swayed as she moved. He returned her smile, for a moment feeling the weight of all the dying lifting from him.

She was the future now, with her dark eyes and long, smooth hair. His only little girl, a young woman now, moving further away from him with each day. Pray God she'd survive, even if his name didn't.

‘I didn't know you could do housework, papa,' she teased. They were the first joyful words he'd heard from her in weeks.

‘You know me, I can do anything.' He winked and walked into the kitchen. Mary was trimming the fat off a piece of pork.

‘I just wanted to be with you for a little while,' he explained before she could say anything. He needed this woman, he needed her love, her trust, the way she accepted his devils and his truths.

‘I don't think you've ever come home in the daytime before, Richard.' Her voice tried to be light, but he could hear the undertone in it.

‘I just wanted a few minutes of peace.'

She put down the knife and wiped her hands on an old cloth before holding him close.

‘Well, there's precious little of that around here today. Emily's decided she wants to be helpful, and I've spent half the morning having to go over what she's done.'

‘She'll learn. At least she's trying. We should be grateful for that.'

‘Oh, I know. But it would be quicker if I did it all myself.'

‘She needs to know. Before we know it she'll be a wife herself.'

He could feel the ghost of Rose rise briefly, then vanish again.

‘All in good time,' Mary said.

‘Yes,' he agreed. ‘No hurry.'

But time might not be something they possessed. He dared not tell her that his name was on Wyatt's list. She felt warm in his arms, a part of himself, the best part.

‘I'll get you some food,' she said, breaking away to bustle, cutting bread and cheese and pouring a mug of ale. He sat at the table, watching her work, fingers nimble and assured in her kingdom, until she put a plate before him.

‘I'll go back after this,' he told her. ‘There's plenty to do.'

‘When isn't there?' she wondered.

‘More than ever at the moment.'

‘It won't ever end, and you know it.'

‘True.'

‘And that's why you love it, Richard.'

He nodded, knowing that was true as well. Some men had drink as their weakness. For him it had always been his work. From the moment he'd become a Constable's man, all those years ago, he'd known this was for him. It meant too many hours away from his family, but even now it was a price he'd gladly pay to do the job.

He chewed slowly, washing the food down with the ale, and watched Mary as she worked, carefully cleaning the knives and scouring dishes. She glanced out of the window and sighed.

‘Do you think this winter will ever leave?' she asked bleakly.

‘Eventually,' he answered. He knew exactly what she meant. As long as the cold gripped them, Rose was still close. Once the sun finally arrived and the season changed, there would be fresh, true hope for the future, a warmth they could feel inside as well as out. He stood, held her tight and kissed her brow softly.

‘I need to get back to the jail.'

She nodded and drew back to hold him at arm's length.

‘Why did you really come home, Richard?'

‘Because I wanted to be with the people I love most in the world.' He squeezed her arm lightly. It was an honest answer, even if it wasn't a complete one. He couldn't tell her how scared of life he felt sometimes. He couldn't tell anyone. He just needed the quiet reassurance of his home. Softly, he stroked her sleeve with his fingertips.

‘I'll be back tonight. I'll try not to be too late.' It was a promise he'd made and broken so often that the words were more ritual than promise.

Emily was on the stairs, awkwardly pushing the broom into the crevices and corners. He paused for a moment to watch her until she felt his glance and turned to face him.

‘You're seeing how it's done now.'

‘I'm slow.' She smiled. ‘Rose was much better.'

‘We all have to start somewhere, you know.'

‘I think mama will see I have plenty of practice.' She pushed the hair away from her forehead in a gesture that was so like his own it disarmed him.

‘Well, they say practice makes perfect.' He gave her a wink and pulled on his coat.

The besom stopped its swish across the stair.

‘Papa?' Emily asked.

‘What is it?'

‘They say that God gathers those close whom he loves, don't they?'

‘Some people do,' he agreed, wondering at her question.

‘If that's true,' she said with real concern in her voice, ‘does that mean He hates the rest of us? He leaves us here to miss them and mourn them.'

‘I don't know, love' he told her finally. ‘All we can do is hope He loves us all.'

Outside, the sky had lowered further, and the snow was still coming down. Endless clouds the colour of dull pewter rolled into the city. Even before he reached Timble Bridge the greatcoat was covered in white. Underfoot the mud had hardened into a treacherous, slippery mass.