Cold Cruel Winter (2 page)

He loved being the Constable's deputy, and even after three years he could barely believe a post with such responsibility was his. The hours were long, the pay poor and the job was rough and dangerous, but what in this life was any better? At least the work was steady; crime would never go away.

There'd been precious little warmth to the sun that had appeared during the day, but it had still felt good on his face after the murderous grip of winter. The worst since 1684, they called it, back when the Aire had frozen over and they'd held a winter fair on the ice. Men might have recalled the good fun of that time, but how many remembered the suffering that must have gone along with it?

Soon he'd be finished and back in his room. Lizzie would have stoked the fire, James would be playing at the table with the horse and figures Sedgwick had painstakingly carved for him. Sedgwick's wife Annie had vanished with a soldier, no word behind her, and no desire for their son. He'd have been lost without Lizzie, a prostitute he'd tumbled a few times in the past. They'd enjoyed each other's company, and the flirtation that contained something more. With Annie gone, James needed a mother, and Lizzie needed . . . truth to tell, he still didn't understand exactly what she needed, but she seemed content and loving enough, away from the trade of her past, better to him than his wife had ever been. They might have been a family sewn together from discarded scraps and shreds, but they were a family nonetheless.

He thought about the Constable, who'd looked so lost since his daughter's death, like a man walking aimlessly in a landscape he no longer recognised. His eyes were sunken, the skin under them as dark as if someone had smudged coal on his skin. Before, he'd seemed young, possessed of more energy than Sedgwick himself. Now it was as if he'd crumpled into himself, a man suddenly far older than his years.

The deputy shook his head and walked on, gazing around and taking in scenes almost without thinking. What was Bob Wright doing talking to Andrew Wakefield? They noticed his glance and turned away self-consciously. He smiled slyly to himself, and stopped at the bridge, with its worn cobbles and wide parapets. They'd held the cloth market here once, he'd been told, although it was long before his time. It must have been hell for the carters and travellers trying to enter the city from the south.

These days white cloth was sold in the White Cloth Hall and only the coloured cloth market was held outside, trestles set up on the lower part of Briggate twice a week, with business lasting just over an hour and conducted in the sedate whispers that passed for silence. It was all the lifeblood of Leeds. The city was wool, purchasing cloth from the weavers and exporting it all over Europe and to the Americas, places that existed to Sedgwick as nothing more than obscure names. Wool made the merchants and the Corporation rich. Not that men like him would ever see anything of the money; they kept that close to their purses. But he was happy enough. And his lad would do better than he had, he'd make certain of that.

There was one final area to walk: the path beside the river by the tenting fields, where cloth was pegged out to stretch, then along by New Mill to Mill Garth and through to Boar Lane, past Holy Trinity Church and back to the jail. And finally home.

He loved this short stretch of his rounds, no more than a few hundred yards from the city but as peaceful as the country. Even the occasional floating corpse in the river couldn't spoil it for him.

He'd almost reached the track at New Mill when he noticed something from the corner of his eye: a low, pale shape that didn't look quite right among the trees. Stopping, he cocked his head and squinted for a better look. It was probably nothing, but he'd better check. It was what he was paid to do.

The hard, frozen grass sawed against his threadbare stockings as he moved through the undergrowth. But it wasn't until he was three yards away that he was able to make everything out fully.

‘No,' he said softly. ‘No.'

It was a man, lying on his back, eyes blank and wide, staring endlessly into the face of death. One arm was thrown carelessly across his breast, the other outstretched as if reaching for something. The strangest thing was that he was bare-chested. The deep red cut across his neck showed how he'd died.

‘No,' Sedgwick said again. He sighed. He wasn't going to be home any time soon.

By the time the coroner arrived, fetched by a boy clutching a coin hot in his hands, full darkness was close. A prissy, fussy man, Edward Brogden was muffled warm against the weather in a heavy new coat of good wool and a tricorn hat, a scarf gathered at his throat.

The deputy already had two men waiting to take the corpse to the jail, crouched with their backs against a tree, trying to stay warm as the temperature started to fall. The coroner gave the body a cursory look, bending to examine the sliced neck.

‘He wasn't killed here,' Sedgwick said.

Brogden raised an eyebrow quizzically. He didn't really care; his only job was to pronounce death.

‘No blood around the body,' the deputy explained. ‘With his throat slashed he'd have lost a lot of it. And he's cold as the tomb.'

‘Turn him over,' the coroner said without comment.

Sedgwick heaved the corpse on to its stomach, then stood quickly, horrified, taking an involuntary step backwards as the bile rose swiftly in his throat. He'd seen a lot in his life, much of it bad, but never anything like this. Someone had carefully, lovingly, taken all the skin off the man's back, leaving a raw, ugly pinkness that barely looked human. Unable to break his stare, he heard the coroner turn and vomit on the grass.

‘Take him away,' Brogden ordered huskily, his voice shaking.

Sedgwick followed the men as they carried the body on an old door, the flesh covered by a ragged, foul-smelling blanket. In the jail near the corner of Briggate and Kirkgate, nestled next to the White Swan Inn, they laid the corpse in the cold, far cell the city used as a mortuary. Sedgwick closed the door softly and shook his head. What kind of man could think to do something like that?

When Nottingham walked into the jail an hour later, Sedgwick was sitting at the desk, gazing into the flickering fire that burned low in the grate.

The Constable was cold, he ached, he was tired, and his soul was weary. After giving the horse back to the ostler on Swinegate he'd stopped at the jail out of habit and a sense of duty.

‘What are you doing still here, John?' he asked.

Sedgwick's head jerked up as if someone had pulled it by the hair. ‘Sorry, boss.'

‘Everything quiet?'

‘No,' Sedgwick answered gravely. ‘Not at all.'

‘Why? What happened?' Nottingham's voice was urgent and inquiring.

The deputy rose slowly and walked back towards the cells.

‘You'd better take a look at this.'

Their breath frosted the air. Sedgwick struck a flint and lit a candle, pushing the gloom far back into the corners. He lifted the edge of the blanket to show the face and neck.

‘Found him in some trees down near the river late this afternoon. If it hadn't been so bad out, someone would probably have seen him earlier.'

Nottingham leaned in for a closer look as the deputy continued.

‘There was hardly any blood where I found him. He was completely cold, he'd been dead a while.'

‘You know who that is, John?' the Constable asked after a moment.

Sedgwick shook his head. Whenever the boss asked a question like that, it meant the person was important.

‘Samuel Graves,' Nottingham told him stonily. The deputy didn't know the name. ‘A merchant, or he used to be, at any rate. Retired now.' He looked knowingly at Sedgwick. ‘A lot of powerful friends on the Corporation.'

‘Look at his back, boss,' the deputy said in a dark tone. ‘I'll warn you, it's bad.'

The Constable raised the shoulder and rolled the corpse on to its side.

‘Jesus.' He spat the word out, wondering at the skinning for a moment, leaving the corpse on its side.

‘Whoever did it knew exactly what he was doing,' Sedgwick pointed out. ‘It's the whole of his back.'

Nottingham's mind was racing. ‘Have you started searching?' he asked.

As soon as the news reached him, the Mayor would demand action on this. This was more than murder; it was a desecration of one of the city's respected citizens. He glanced at the man's back again, the skin neatly and precisely cut away. Something like this made no sense at all.

‘It was too dark, boss. I'll get them organized in the morning. His pockets were empty.'

The Constable nodded. He felt exhausted, drained.

‘You go on home, John. I'll look after things for now. I'll go and tell Mrs Graves.'

‘What are you going to say?'

Nottingham rubbed his eyes. What could anyone say? God knew he'd seen enough murders in his time, but nothing that came close to this. Why, he wondered. Why would one man do this to another? What kind of hatred could be in him?

‘I won't say too much,' he replied with a grim smile. ‘I think we'd better keep very quiet about the details here, don't you?'

Two

He wrote a note to the Mayor, a brief description, knowing full well it would bring a peremptory summons in the morning. Then he gathered his greatcoat around his exhausted body, ready for the cold.

As he left the goal, Nottingham longed to keep going down Kirkgate, to cross Timble Bridge and go home. He needed to see Mary and Emily, to have the comfort of his own fire and his family close. But he couldn't, not yet. Duty had to come first. At Vicar Lane he turned, setting one foot leadenly in front of the other on the hard ground, feeling the thin whip of the weather in his flesh.

Lights were burning in the windows of the Graves house, a new, plain three-storey building standing behind a small garden at Town End, close to St John's Church, across from the Ley Lands. The path had been carefully swept clean of snow and ice, and the night had the thick feel of velvet sliding against his face as he raised the knocker to let it fall heavily against the wooden door.

A minute passed, and then two. He was about to knock once more when he heard the sharp click of a servant's shoes in the hall. The man was in his twenties, with muscled arms and a direct stare that bordered on insolence. A guttering candle cast deep shadows across his face.

‘I'm the Constable of Leeds,' Nottingham announced without preamble. ‘I need to see your mistress.'

The servant considered for a moment, taking in the travel dirt on Nottingham's coat and the lines cut deep on his face.

‘Yes, sir. Come in,' he said grudgingly, leading the way down a hallway panelled to waist height in dark, polished wood that reflected the candle flame.

Mrs Graves was in a sitting room where coal was piled high on the fire to burn hot. A candelabrum on a side table gave her ample light to read the book in her lap. She looked to be about sixty, the Constable judged, perhaps a little older, her arms thin with mottled, wrinkled flesh, her silk gown from the time of Queen Anne, a pair of shawls gathered tightly around her shoulders to give more warmth. Nottingham ducked his head briefly and waited until the door closed softly and they were alone. She lowered the book.

‘I'm Richard Nottingham,' he began. ‘I'm—'

‘I know who you are,' she croaked impatiently, assessing him with shrewd, sharp eyes. A few strands of grey hair stuck out awkwardly from her mop cap. A walking stick, its handle worn by frequent use, leaned against the side of the chair. ‘I've lived here all my life, I know who's who. Now, what is it?'

How did he begin, he wondered. How could he give her the heartbreak?

‘It's about your husband,' he started.

She waved her hand dismissively. ‘If you've come to see him, he left for London on Friday. I told him he should wait until the roads were better. But he's never listened to me before, so why would he now?' She sighed, and he could hear a lifetime of closeness and affection hidden behind her words.

The Constable's face showed nothing, but he absorbed the information she gave him. Graves could well have been dead for four days already.

‘I'm afraid he's dead, ma'am,' Nottingham said quietly.

She shook her head in disbelief, eyebrows furrowing. ‘Don't be ridiculous, Mr Nottingham,' she scolded him brusquely. ‘I just told you, he took the coach for London on Friday.'

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Graves, but it seems he didn't,' he told her. ‘Your husband is dead.'

For a moment he thought she hadn't heard him. Then the words hit her and he saw her face collapse in quiet anguish. Her hand scrabbled to the pocket of her dress for a handkerchief and she buried her face in the white linen. He felt powerless. He couldn't approach her, couldn't offer any comfort; all he could do was wait awkwardly.

‘How?' she managed eventually, her voice suddenly a girl's small, weak sob.

He had no choice. He had to give her some of the truth; she might know something to help him, but still he hesitated.

‘He was murdered,' Nottingham said finally. Her face remained hidden behind the scrap of cloth. ‘Would you like me to call a servant?'

She gave a short, tight shake of her head. Her shoulders heaved, but he heard no weeping in the deep silence.

When she finally raised her eyes again, she looked as ancient as the night outside.

‘Can I get you anything?' he asked.

Her eyes flickered over the room.

‘A glass of that cordial,' she said, then added, ‘Please.'

He walked to the sideboard, removed the stopper from the expensive glass decanter, poured some of the liquid – good French brandy, by the smell of it – and took it to her. She drained half the glass in a single swallow. Nottingham expected her to cough, but she simply closed her eyes for a moment and gave a deep, painful sigh.