Cold Cruel Winter (14 page)

He edged closer, eyes examining everything. A runnel of blood under Isaac's head had left a wide stain. He reached down and dipped his finger in it. It was cold now, but it had been warm enough to melt the snow a little.

The corpse lay on its side, head tilted back, old empty eyes gazing to heaven, hands clenched into small, gnarled fists.

Isaac had told him once where he was born, but he'd forgotten the name of the country. It had sounded like poetry in the man's faltering English.

‘Here you hunt animals,' he'd said, his accent guttural and heavy. ‘There they killed us for their sport.' And the mist of tears would cover his eyes as the memories came, to stay unspoken.

He'd tried to explain, too, about the skullcap and what it meant, but Nottingham had never understood its significance. Now it was just a circle, another scrap of old cloth.

The Constable walked very slowly around the body, kneeling, examining. Someone had hit Isaac hard on the back of his thin old man's skull. Nottingham gradually widened the circle of his search, looking for Isaac's pack, for a bloodied branch, for anything that might help.

By the time Brodgen arrived, heavily bundled, face flushed by the cold air, he'd found the murder weapon. A dead branch ripped from one of the apple trees in the orchard, just yards away. It was heavy enough to need two hands, but easy to swing hard, and deadly. Fragments of bone clotted with hair and brains were stuck to one end.

There was no sign of the man's pack.

‘Constable,' was all Brodgen offered as a greeting. Nottingham dipped his head in reply. The coroner seemed determined to make everything as simple as possible and return to the warmth of his hearth.

‘Murder?' he asked.

‘No question,' the Constable said.

Brogden nodded, not even pausing to look closely at the body. It was just another poor man of no interest, someone beyond his horizon and past his concern.

‘Murder it is, then,' he agreed and walked away. The judgement had been given; the corpse could be moved. He waited until the men arrived with the old door and the winding sheet stained with the blood of so many. They'd take Isaac to the jail where he could lie until he filled a pauper's grave.

He had no idea what the Jews did for their dead, how they shrived them. He didn't even know what had brought Isaac to Leeds, why he'd stayed or how lonely he'd been for his own kind.

Josh arrived as the Constable was writing his daily report detailing the riot. The apprentices were already at the Petty Sessions to wait on their fines and their masters' wrath. The boy's eyes were red-rimmed, his face tight.

‘Couldn't sleep?' Nottingham asked, and Josh shook his head.

‘It's like my head won't empty. The thoughts won't go away.'

‘That's what happens,' the Constable sympathized. He'd experienced so many nights like that since Rose's death. ‘They build up and gnaw at you.' He paused. ‘Someone killed Isaac the Jew last night.'

He watched as Josh's face sharpened and his mind focused. ‘Where?'

‘Lands Lane, by the orchard. Hit him on the head with a branch and cracked his skull open.'

‘He gave me and Frances clothes.'

Nottingham waited.

‘Back when I started working for you. He told me I was doing a good thing, so he was going to do a good thing. He had some strange word for it.'

‘Do you know where he lived?' Nottingham ran a hand through his hair.

‘The last I knew he had a room in that old court off Vicar Lane, you know, the one everyone says is haunted.'

Nottingham knew it well. The story had circulated for years, probably even generations. A woman who'd starved to death in the days of Queen Bess was supposed to appear screaming out for God's mercy on herself and her child. It was a good tale, and there were plenty of those who'd sworn they'd seen her. When he was young he'd waited there for her himself, still and silent through a pair of long autumn nights. But cold bones were all he'd received for his pains.

‘I'll go and see what he had.'

‘I can come with you,' Josh offered quickly.

‘If you like.'

So that was the plan, he thought. Keep the lad close to him to help hold Wyatt at bay. Josh was willing enough, but he was too young, too slight. Wyatt was ruthless; the boy wouldn't stand a chance.

On Vicar Lane the ample richness of the Vicar's Croft gave way to smaller dwellings, the entrances to the courts like knife openings between houses. He let Josh lead the way, sliding down a small passage with snow hard underfoot, the walls of the buildings rough and dark against his shoulders.

‘Over there,' Josh pointed. ‘Top floor.'

‘Are you coming in with me?'

‘I'll wait out here.'

Nottingham nodded. The boy was taking his duty seriously, and he was glad about that. Josh was dedicated; he'd proved to be a good find.

Half the stairs were missing, making the ascent dangerous. The only light came through a single broken window on a landing, shards of glass on the wood covered with years of cobwebs and grime.

At the top a door had been forced off its hinges, hanging forlorn, awkward and broken. Nottingham gripped the knife in his pocket and eased his way through the gap.

Perhaps the room had been neat yesterday. Now, though, it was chaos. A chest had been broken open, the jaws of its lock gaping, the contents cast wide on the floor. The bedsheet had been cut, and the old straw of the mattress scattered.

Other than destruction and violence, there was little to see. A six-pointed star, beautifully carved from wood and polished, was nailed to the wall. The glass inside the tiny window was clean and clear.

So someone killed Isaac then came here looking for something, he thought. He walked the room, five paces by four, inspecting the floorboards to see if any were loose, looking for any hiding place. There was nothing.

No papers, no memories. Isaac was dead and there were no anchors of his life here. A few clothes, worn but carefully cleaned, a spare pair of shoes. But what did any poor man have to leave behind besides debt and despair?

He turned, ready to leave, and was shocked to see an old woman standing in the doorway. For a moment he thought the stories were true after all, that the ghost did walk. She was so frail as to be insubstantial, and he wondered if he blinked whether she'd be gone. Then he saw her eyes, blue, sightless, and knew she was very real.

Her back was as straight as a girl's, her wrists as thin as wire, her clothes fashionable three decades earlier but cared for, the apron and cap starched crisp and white.

‘So you thought you'd rob him, too.' Her voice was firm, unwavering. ‘I'm not afraid of you.'

No, he thought with admiration, you're afraid of nothing.

‘Mistress, I'm the Constable of Leeds,' Nottingham introduced himself.

‘He's dead, isn't he?' she asked, and he saw her hand tremble before she clutched her dress. ‘I thought he must be when he didn't come home. He always came home. And I knew it when the others came.'

‘The others?'

She answered his question with one of her own. ‘Did they kill him?'

‘I suspect they did,' he told her.

‘There were two of them. I live under here. I heard their footsteps and their voices during the night. They woke me. By the time I could dress and get up here, they'd gone. Was he murdered?'

‘Yes,' Nottingham told her. ‘I'm sorry.' That was why he'd never heard her. She was intimate with this place and moved silently, knowing each inch.

‘They were looking for his gold. Not that there was any to find. Isaac was as poor as me. Look around, you can see that, can't you?'

‘I can,' he agreed.

‘But people think, he's a Jew, he must have a fortune hidden away.' He could hear her bitterness. ‘We ate together. He cooked for me, he gave me clothes.'

‘He was a good man,' was all Nottingham could say. ‘Did you hear anything these men said?'

She stayed perfectly still. Only fury and sorrow were stopping her vanishing before his eyes, he thought.

‘Not the words.'

‘But?' He could sense there was more.

‘The tone. They were young. There was money in their voices.'

‘I see.' He walked across the room, careful to avoid what was left of the things here, the detritus of Isaac's life. Gently he took her hand, her skin like aged vellum under his fingertips. The texture reminded him of Wyatt's book and he let go quickly.

‘What was he like?' Nottingham asked.

‘Like?' She turned into his words, and he was disconcerted to see blind eyes looking up at him. ‘He was a good man, just as you said.' She let out a long sigh. ‘He kept his faith when most would have given up. Do you know, ten years ago he walked to London and back because they have a synagogue there – that's where the Jews pray. When he returned he seemed to sparkle for a while.'

‘How old was he?' Nottingham asked her. She shrugged briefly.

‘He thought he might be seventy, but he didn't really know. He always said he was a man who walked across the world. He was a boy when he saw his family killed. He never even knew why it had happened. After that he just began walking.'

‘And ended up here.'

‘Eventually.' She smiled wanly. ‘It took him many years. He had plenty of stories to pass the evenings.'

‘How long did you know him?'

‘Longer than I've known anyone.' Her hand clutched his, her fingers surprisingly strong. ‘It wasn't long enough. He should have lived for a long time yet.'

‘Yes,' Nottingham agreed soberly, ‘he should. What's your name? In case I need to talk to you again.'

‘Hannah. Hannah MacIntosh. My family came down from Scotland when I was small.' She allowed herself a small, quavering smile. ‘So I know about wandering, too. I was born blind, just in case you were wondering. But I've learned to see in other ways.'

‘Can I do anything to help you?'

She shook her head. ‘No need for that. I'll manage. But thank you, Constable.'

He left her standing at the entrance to the room and made his way gingerly down the stairs, not daring to look back lest he'd imagined her.

Josh waited in the court, idling against the wall.

‘His room's been ransacked. I saw the woman who lives in the room below. She heard two young men.' He decided not to mention the idea of a wealthy family. ‘I couldn't find his pack there or near the body, so someone has that. They'll probably try to sell the clothes.'

Josh nodded his understanding.

‘Get out there, start looking, talk to people. They'll help. Isaac was well-liked.'

The boy hesitated and Nottingham took him by the arm.

‘I know John told you to look after me, but we have work to do.' His face softened. ‘Don't worry, I can look after myself if Wyatt comes for me. Now go on, let's find whoever killed Isaac.'

Josh took off at a run, with all the energy of youth. Nottingham pulled up his coat collar against the cold and made his way through the ice and snow.

At the jail, Sedgwick was sitting behind the desk, his face dark and sober. As the Constable entered, he stood, the chair scraping back loudly on the flagstones.

‘Boss—'

‘You saw Isaac's body?'

‘Boss.' There was foreboding, warning, in his voice.‘Rushworth,' he said.

Nottingham closed his eyes and felt the world explode. He'd become distracted; for a few hours he'd forgotten about the clerk.

‘Is he here yet?'

‘In the cold cell with Isaac.'

He walked through slowly, knowing what he'd find but hoping to put off the moment, to make it wait forever. The deputy followed, a lit candle in his hand.

‘Where was he?'

‘Down by the river. Close to where I found Graves.'

So this was Ralph Rushworth, he thought. He made a small corpse, with a bare, concave chest. His white breeches were dusty and dirty, stained with piss at the crotch. Nottingham stared down into the face. The features were tight, compact, the mouth drawn back over yellowed teeth, the nose long and bulbous at the tip. He lifted the right hand, light, almost weightless in death. The fingers were deep-stained with ink, calloused from years of holding a quill, nails bitten down roughly and rimmed with dirt. Just another clerk, with nothing to distinguish him from hundreds of others besides a few words spoken years ago in court.

He pushed the corpse on to its side. The skin had been neatly taken off the back, removed in a single sheet. What remained was livid and bloody, the body within no longer contained. Like Samuel Graves. This is the way they'll find me in time, Nottingham thought, if Wyatt has his way. He lowered Rushworth again.

‘Anything by the body?'

‘There was a set of scuffed footprints down from the bridge,' Sedgwick answered with a shrug. ‘For what that's worth. No blood, nothing else.'

‘Just one set? No sign he'd dragged Rushworth?'

‘Only one,' the deputy confirmed. ‘I'd just left home when a lad came and grabbed me. They'd gone down there for a snowball fight and seen him.'

‘None of the night men saw anything?'

‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Sorry, boss.'

Nottingham turned to look at the deputy.

‘Two corpses in one night,' he said sardonically. ‘Spring must be here.'

‘Isaac . . . any idea who killed him yet?' Sedgwick asked.

‘Two of them, by the sound of it. He was up on Lands Lane, by the orchard. They ransacked his room, too.'