Cold Cruel Winter (20 page)

It took a full hour before the men were assembled at the jail. Nottingham and Sedgwick took primed pistols, and the Constable armed the others with knives. Josh led the way through the afternoon streets, the party moving silently. The wind had finally dropped and more people were around, heavily wrapped, stepping back in fear and hurried whispers as the men passed.

They halted outside the court. Only Josh and Nottingham ventured in, keeping out of sight as the boy pointed out the house. Two of the men were detailed to go around and watch the rear. There would be no chance of Wyatt escaping, if Wyatt it was. Five minutes later the Constable raised his hand. Flanked by Sedgwick and Josh, their weapons drawn, he walked to the house with the missing roof and pushed heavily on the door.

With a mild groan it gave way and they entered. Sorry grey light filtered down through the rafters and broken joists, casting deep shadows. They stopped to listen, waiting as the place filled with a deep, sad silence. Walking slowly, they moved from room to room. Half the doors were missing, glass gone from the windows, floors deep in dust, cobwebs and rat droppings. It was a place that begged to be taken down and opened to the sky.

At the end of the hall stood the last door, closed and dark. Nottingham turned the knob slowly and pushed it open. The faint light showed stairs down to a cellar. He walked slowly, feeling each step with his foot, the others close behind him.

The floor under his feet changed from wood to packed dirt. The air smelt of stale food, sweat, shit, of life. Someone ate and slept down here. He tightened his grip on the pistol, slowly letting out his breath.

The Constable waited, letting his eyes adjust to the heavy gloom until he could make out the walls. He could feel his heartbeat, the fire of dryness in his mouth. Very slowly he edged his way along, fingertips on the walls, touching the rough finish of bricks and mortar.

After a few yards there was wood. He traced the frame of a door, old, dry, splintering. His hands moved further until he found the door itself, sliding down to the knob. Nottingham could sense the others behind him, tense and waiting.

Slowly he turned the doorknob, then pushed the door wide and stepped into the room. The blackness felt as absolute as death. He had no idea how big the room was, or where Wyatt might be in it. He needed light. And they had none.

‘Who's in here?' he shouted.

He could hear John moving around the room. Glancing back he could pick out Josh at the door, faintly highlighted, standing like a ghost.

Nottingham moved to the wall and began working his way slowly around the room. Suddenly there was a small flare of light, and a glow gradually filled the room. Sedgwick had found a candle.

In the opposite corner a man cowered in his bed. His eyes were wide and terrified. There was a wet spot on the dirty sheet where he'd pissed himself, and the scent of urine wafted across as he cowered.

‘Who are you?' Nottingham asked. His pistol was pointed straight at the man's head.

His skin was darker. That much was true, but he looked nothing like the Wyatt of the Constable's memory. This man was squat, his shoulders wide, his hair little more than a shadow on his skull. A thick moustache, the bristle hair turned to grey and white, covered his top lip.

‘Who are you?' he repeated.

The man looked from Nottingham to Sedgwick and to Josh. The Constable could see he was scared for his life.

‘Your name?' Nottingham asked, trying to soften his tone.

‘I—' He looked around helplessly, petrified.

‘What's your name, please?' Nottingham asked again, this time more gently, lowering his weapon.

‘I'm Tom.' The man spoke the word tentatively, the fear full in his voice. ‘Tom Walker.'

Nottingham looked around the room, for what it was worth. The bed was old straw and an even older sheet, with a small travelling chest standing at the foot. Besides that the place was almost bare, the floor swept clean.

‘What are you doing here?'

‘I was a sailor. I'm on my way home.' The Constable caught an accent he couldn't quite pinpoint in the man's voice. ‘I've no money and I found this place.'

‘And where's home?'

‘Newcastle.'

‘Where are you travelling from?'

‘Portsmouth. Paid us off and let us go, like.' He squinted hard, the shock and surprise starting to fade. ‘And who are you, then?'

‘I'm the Constable of Leeds,' Nottingham told him. Walker stared at him.

‘Is there anyone else living in the house?' the Constable asked.

‘No one I've seen. But I've only been here a couple of days, like. I'm on my way tomorrow. Just needed to rest up.'

Nottingham smiled.

‘We'll leave you, then. Have a safe journey, Mr Walker. Josh, go and tell the others we've finished.' He paused. ‘But good work.'

Upstairs, the light seemed to flood in on them, leaving Nottingham blinking. He felt the tension of the last few minutes seep out of his bones, leaving him tired.

He shrugged himself deeper into his greatcoat and they left the house, the pistol in his pocket. He'd hoped this had been it, that he could have taken Wyatt quickly and simply.

‘How are the men around the judge?'

‘They're staying close,' Sedgwick answered. ‘But not so close he knows they're there.'

‘Good.'

Josh arrived at a run, his face anxious.

‘Boss?' he asked.

‘Go on.' He ruffled the boy's hair. ‘I know it wasn't Wyatt, but he was dark. Just a sailor. But well done.'

Josh beamed. ‘I was out earlier, and someone was following our men who were after the judge.'

‘What?' Sedgwick asked. ‘Who?'

‘And did he go back to Worthy's house?' Nottingham asked.

‘Yes.' Josh sounded deflated.

‘Don't worry, lad. Worthy and his men want to find Wyatt. Worthy claims he owes Graves a debt and this is his way of paying it off.'

‘You don't believe that, do you?' Sedgwick scoffed.

The Constable made a dismissive gesture. ‘I know full well that Amos Worthy has never done anything without his own reasons. Still, it's good to know we have another line of defence around the judge.'

They were close to the jail, just the other side of Kirkgate. The light was waning, the bitterness in the air more acute.

‘Go home,' he said. ‘Josh, I hope your girl is a little better.'

The boy reddened. Nottingham waited until they'd turned the corner then started down the road. He needed his hearth, too.

In the distance was the Parish Church. He knew he should stop and see Rose's grave. It seemed like days since he'd talked to her and he was beginning to feel as if she was slowly slipping away, to become part of the past, not the present. In his head the line between the living and the dead was becoming firmer. She was growing less substantial, drifting into mist like a ghost.

He could still feel her in his heart, the love as strong as when she'd been a little girl. But maybe Mary had been right, that work was who he really was, that only his job brought him truly alive.

Nottingham stopped at the lych gate, running his hand along the wood, his nail idly chipping off a fragment of ice. For a moment he considered turning the handle and taking his apologies, his sorrows, to Rose. But maybe it was better for both of them for him to let her rest a while, to let her die.

Slowly he walked on, looking ahead to the warmth of home.

Twenty-Three

It was simple enough to glide through the city unnoticed. Wrapped heavily against the weather he could be any one of the anonymous figures on the street. He'd seen the men placed so obviously around the judge and followed their movements.

He'd even spotted the others surreptitiously watching the watchers. That gave him pause. He knew the judge's routine by now and where all his guards would be, although Dobbs himself seemed unaware of their existence.

Spiriting him away wouldn't be easy, but with care he could manage it. He had ideas, a plan that would leave them all wondering what had happened. But that was for when he was ready.

It amused him to walk past those meant to catch him. Bundled like this, with just his eyes showing, he was almost invisible. The weather had been his friend this winter, its cruelty matching his own. As long as he was careful – and he was always careful – he had the freedom of Leeds.

He'd followed the Constable too, at a wary distance. He knew the man's routines, he'd seen his family, discovered his loss. By watching and waiting, exercising the patience that had served him so well these last years, he'd been able to build up his picture, t o put all the pieces in place. Soon the time would be right again. Soon.

Twenty-Four

‘How is she?' Josh asked in an eager whisper. Frances was curled on a pallet, sleeping softly, two tattered blankets covering her thin body.

‘She's been sleeping a lot,' Lizzie told him kindly. ‘But she needs that. She lost a lot of blood and her body needs to get strong again. Poor little thing.'

Josh sat on the floor by Frances and took her hand in his. She didn't even stir as he touched her, and her skin felt cool in his fingers. For an urgent moment he looked across, watching her face carefully to check she was still breathing.

‘You stay with her.' Lizzie put her arm around his shoulder and squeezed it lightly. ‘Don't worry, love, she's doing well.'

‘Thank you,' he said.

‘We're going to take the lad out for a while,' she continued. ‘You just spend some time with her.'

He nodded and stroked the pale hand.

Sedgwick had James by the hand, pulling back with a smile as the boy tried to run from him. Lizzie watched them lovingly, and even in the cold the deputy felt happy.

‘How is she really?' he asked.

‘She's stronger than she looks,' Lizzie told him. ‘I thought we were taking her in so she wouldn't die on her own.'

‘Do you think she'll live?' He hoisted James up on to his shoulders then above his head, the boy squealing with pleasure.

‘She might,' Lizzie answered cautiously. ‘Who really knows?' The hem of her skirt shushed over the packed snow. ‘When's it going to get warm?' she asked.

‘Not bloody soon enough.' He let the boy down, but kept a tight hold on his hand. ‘Be good to feel warm again. Do we have to stay out long? I'm tired.'

‘Give them a few minutes, love.' She put her arm through his. ‘You remember what young love's like. And who knows how long they might have?'

He nodded grudgingly as they walked down to the Aire. The light had fallen away and twilight lingered on the horizon, a thin band of pale blue below the thick clouds.

‘I've told you we're keeping men on Judge Dobbs,' Sedgwick said thoughtfully.

‘Yes.' She held his arm as they followed the path down to the river bank, James's tiny legs pumping hard on the grass.

‘There's a part of me that wishes Wyatt had got him first.'

‘John!' She hit his chest lightly. ‘That's a terrible thing to say about anyone.'

He shrugged. ‘Well, it's true. He's no more interest in real justice than James here has. I've seen him transport men for next to nothing, and hung at least two I know of who weren't guilty, just because the merchants wanted it.'

‘That's the way. You should know that by now.'

He kicked at the snow. ‘Doesn't mean I have to like it.' He paused, looked around, and turned to her. ‘He's a bastard. Most of the justices are. They don't care about the evidence. All they do is give the verdicts and sentences the Corporation wants. If one or two of them ended up dead, it'd be no loss for the law.'

‘Be careful,' Lizzie warned him in a hiss. ‘Anyone hears you talk like that you'll lose your job.'

‘I know that. You're the only one I've ever told.'

‘What about Mr Nottingham? How does he feel?'

Sedgwick shook his head. ‘It's not something we've talked about.'

‘For the best, if you ask me.'

‘Aye, mebbe.' He put his arm around her. ‘Don't worry, I like my work, I want to keep it.'

She pulled him close for a swift kiss. ‘Then make sure you do. Come on, we can go back now, we've given the lovebirds some time alone. You look as if you're perished.'

‘I've been outside all day.'

He took James by the hand again, the three of them making their way back to the Bridge.

‘John?'

‘What?'

‘Please, don't ever say things like . . . you know . . . again. It's dangerous.'

‘I won't.' He gave her a gentle smile. ‘I promise.'

The fire burned high, the crackle of coal soft in the room. Nottingham felt the heat all through his body, soaking his flesh and caressing him inside. Mary sat close by, sewing a new dress for Emily; the girl was across the room, bending to write in the notebook he had bought her for Christmas, a candle flickering dangerously low next to her.

For the first time in months, since the grip of winter on the city's throat, he felt real contentment. All the problems remained, but for tonight at least he'd been able to leave them behind.

He reached out and lazily stroked Mary's wrist, watch her lips curl into a small smile as her hands worked. Apart from small domestic noises, the room was quiet. He felt as if he could happily let sleep take him.

Mary pushed the needle into the fabric and set it down on a stool. ‘It's late,' she announced. ‘Time we were all in bed.'