Cold Cruel Winter (21 page)

She stood, and slowly he followed her, stretching as he rose. Emily finished her sentence, blowing on the ink to dry it before she closed the book. A normal night, he thought as he banked the fire for the night, the way things used to be. Maybe they could slowly find their way back to some kind of happiness, to a new normality. It would be different, changed, smaller, but at least it seemed possible.

The bedroom was cold, with frost already on the window glass, the scratchy fabric of the sheet chilly as he pulled it back. But not for too much longer, Nottingham thought. No matter how cruel this winter had been, it would pass.

In his shirt he could feel the air nipping hard at his skin, and he held Mary as she came into the bed, her hair loose and brushed. She curled into his arms, shivering slightly. He could feel her breath against his cheek.

Slowly, shyly, they kissed. He was sure that with every move, every gesture, she'd pull back, scared. But she stayed, her touch welcoming, her hands chilly on his skin. Tenderly, still cautious, he began to explore her. It wasn't with eagerness, but softly, almost breathlessly, a homecoming after so long away.

He looked into her face, seeing her eyes warm, happy, finally alive again. Relief and joy surged in his blood and he pulled her close. After, he could feel his heartbeat gradually slowing, her hair soft and ticklish against his face.

Rolling on to his back, he put his arm around Mary, her head resting on his shoulder. They lay together in silence, and he listened as her breathing quieted before letting himself fall into the darkness.

Waking came too soon. The night was still full. Mary had her back to him and he moved without disturbing her. He dressed rapidly, while the heat of the bed still clung to his body. In the kitchen he washed his face and hands in a bowl, the cold water sharp.

Nottingham took bread, stuffing it into the large pocket of the old draped waistcoat, and a swig of small beer from the jug on the table. Outside, as he pulled the greatcoat tight around his waist, the air seemed a fraction warmer. The snow was softer, squeezing down under his feet. That made the short journey longer and harder, his boots sliding over the surface as he tried to walk.

By the time he reached the jail he was exhausted, legs aching from the effort. But even that couldn't take away his feeling of contentment.

Sedgwick was already there, feeding coals to the fire. His coat lay over the chair and he turned and stood as Nottingham entered.

‘Morning, boss.'

‘John.' He slipped off his coat and hung it from the nail in the wall. ‘How's Josh's girl?'

‘Still sleeping when I left.' He poked at the blaze to send it roaring. ‘You know, he spent the whole evening sitting by her, stroking her hand, making sure she drank some water. Didn't say a word, either of them.' He shook his head in astonishment and respect.

‘What does Lizzie think?'

The deputy shrugged. ‘She says Frances might survive. The lass has no strength. Looks like she lost the baby early, but there's nothing to her. She's like a twig, wrists as thin as bobbins.'

Nottingham nodded. ‘What if she dies? What do you think Josh would do? He seems to trust you.'

Sedgwick shook his head again slowly. ‘No idea. He keeps everything inside. I like him but it's impossible to guess what he's thinking.'

‘He's been doing some excellent work.'

‘You mean that tip yesterday?'

‘Yes. And noticing one of Worthy's men following ours. People have come to know him. I don't want to risk losing him.' Nottingham settled into the chair and began looking at the papers on his desk. There was only one urgent item, the remainder just the workings of a growing city that needed more and more things written down and signed.

Sedgwick was putting his coat back on, ready to go and check the men.

‘Don't tell them they have people watching them,' the Constable warned. ‘See if any of them notice for themselves.'

The deputy grinned. ‘Right, boss.'

Left to himself, Nottingham sat back, took the bread from his pocket and began to chew slowly. There was a deep joy in his soul now, a sense that he and Mary would come through this. They'd be poorer at heart, there was no avoiding that, but they'd also be stronger.

On top of that, the other worries had returned, cascading on him like water. Wyatt. The Henderson brothers. And now Josh and his girl. According to the letter he'd received, Alderman Henderson intended to apply for their release until they went on trial, and was offering a surety for their behaviour. Did the Constable have any objections?

Objections, fears . . . how many could he list? More to the point, would anything he said make any difference at all? Henderson had wielded power on the Corporation for years. He knew who he could manipulate, and more importantly, how to do it. The judges dined at his house and listened intently when he spoke.

Nottingham had no doubt about what would happen if Peter and Paul were let out. Within a day there'd be many souls all too happy to confirm they'd been drinking with them until late, and any witnesses would be intimidated or simply disappear.

But he dared not state that blatantly. It would be a slur on the Alderman. He needed to be circumspect with his words, to express his concern at how grave the crime had been, that justice demanded they remain in jail. He added that Isaac the Jew had been known and respected, and that his friends might seek revenge; the Constable and his men couldn't be everywhere to protect them.

It didn't sound convincing, even to him. Unless there was a rare judge in Leeds who'd begun to respect the law, they'd be home very soon – and Henderson would make sure the judge was one of his cronies.

Nottingham would keep the evidence close, where the Hendersons and their friends couldn't find it, and he'd need to find the old woman a new room, somewhere safer, where the brothers wouldn't find her. That would be a job for Josh. At least they'd be able to make a good case when it all came to trial.

He finished writing, sanded the document dry and rolled it up. Eating the remainder of the bread, he prepared for the day. First to the Moot Hall, then it would be time to talk to Worthy again. It seemed impossible that between them they couldn't find Wyatt in a city the size of Leeds. In London, Norwich, or even in York he could understand it. In those places humanity roared like a flood. Here, he'd once been told, there were only around seven thousand people. Every day he saw familiar faces, he could give names to many of them. How could one person, or even two, hide so well?

The question vexed him as he walked over to the Moot Hall. More people were out, their progress along the street slow as the ice gradually oozed into slush around their feet. But the air had certainly turned, with the faintest hint of spring in the breeze. Pray God it wasn't another false hope.

The clerk took his paper and yawned as he glanced over the writing. It was just one more document in an endless series that he'd read today.

‘The judge has already been appointed to the case,' he said in a bored tone.

‘Who is it?' Nottingham asked.

‘Judge Dobbs.'

The Constable smiled wryly as he walked away. Of course, who else could it be? This was God's little irony. Dobbs and Henderson had been friends for years, and Dobbs had never been celebrated for his impartiality. Justice would stand a greater chance in a crooked gaming palace. The Henderson brothers were as good as home.

He walked down Briggate, water squeezing out under the soles of his boots. The surfaces were slick, and several times he had to catch his balance against the wall. He watched others fall; one of them didn't get up again but rolled around and bellowed in pain, clutching his ankle.

By the time he reached Worthy's house he was aching and tired. Nottingham couldn't remember the city streets ever being this treacherous. There was nothing he could do about it, except hope the temperature would keep rising so this would pass quickly. Two women had tumbled with great embarrassment; their skirts flew up and the boys and apprentices roared their comments.

The kitchen was hot. The heavy faces of the pimp's men were shiny and patches of sweat stank under their arms. They left eagerly when Worthy dismissed them. The Constable waited until the two of them were alone, drawing off his greatcoat and standing by the long table.

‘Heard you almost had someone,' Worthy said.

‘The wrong man.'

The procurer shrugged. ‘Did he know owt?'

‘Just someone passing through.'

‘So we're no closer to Wyatt.'

‘No.'

Worthy began to pace around the kitchen, the heels of his shoes clicking sharply against the old flagstones. ‘What do we do, laddie?'

Nottingham watched the pimp as he moved. He was a large man; his protruding belly pushed the dirty waistcoat out in front of him. It was all firm, though; Worthy was a strong man, with voracious appetites for everything.

‘I still don't understand your interest in all this, Amos.'

Worthy turned to look at him, his scarred hands resting flat on the tabletop and speaking firmly. ‘I told you once, I owe Sam Graves a debt. This is the only way I can repay it now. You understand?'

There was a dark intensity in his eyes that Nottingham finally believed.

‘Judge Dobbs has been given the Henderson case,' the Constable said.

Worthy spat on the floor. ‘You know what'll happen.'

‘I'll have the evidence, and I'll look after my witness.'

‘Aye, and it still won't make a damn bit of difference.'

‘If I don't present a case, they won't have one to answer.'

‘Don't be so daft. With Dobbs there won't be a case anyway. He's lived in Henderson's pocket for years. They'll be out of the courtroom before you have chance to draw breath.'

Nottingham shrugged. Of course Worthy was right, but he had no choice but to follow the law. He had to present the facts. However he felt, what happened after that was beyond his control.

‘Wyatt,' he said.

‘He's smarter than the pair of us,' Worthy said with faint admiration.

‘I wonder if a woman was waiting for him,' Nottingham said.

The pimp tilted his head in curiosity. ‘What woman is this?'

‘He was living with someone when we arrested him. Her name's Charlotte, according to his new book.'

‘So why would you think all this, laddie?'

‘Think about it. We can't find him. He has to buy food somehow, he's not living on fresh air. So maybe someone is helping him. It could well be her. Who else would he have?'

‘Why would she wait?' Worthy countered. ‘He was gone a long time.'

‘I don't know,' Nottingham admitted. ‘It's all guesswork. But it makes sense. We haven't seen him at all. She could be running the errands, even help him carry the bodies.'

Worthy considered the idea for a few moments, rubbing the back of his hand across his greasy mouth then down the grimy material of his waistcoat.

‘I suppose it's possible,' he agreed grudgingly. ‘But it's a lot of guessing and hoping with bugger all facts.'

‘I know that,' Nottingham argued passionately. ‘Still, I don't care how clever Wyatt is, he can't have arrived here with nothing and then just started doing this all by himself.'

‘We don't know how long he's been in Leeds.'

‘From the sentence he had, it can't be that long. He has someone helping him.' He looked up. ‘It feels right.'

Worthy nodded slightly. ‘Mebbe, laddie, mebbe. So what do you know about her?'

‘Beyond what I told you, nothing, really. Her skin was a little darker, black hair. That's all I remember.'

‘Not a lot.'

‘I've had my men out looking, but there's been nothing yet.'

‘I'll have mine keep their eyes open. But what we're really saying is we're nowhere and grasping at straws.'

Nottingham smiled wryly. ‘I hope not,' he said.

The door opened and one of Worthy's men appeared. ‘That lad of the Constable's is here. Needs to see him.'

Nottingham stood up. ‘I'll be off.'

‘I'll have them look for her.'

The Constable nodded and left. After the gloom of the kitchen, even the greyness of Swinegate seemed bright. Josh was waiting by the door, his body tense, eyes darting from side to side.

‘What is it?'

‘We had a message, boss. Your wife is ill.'

Twenty-Five

‘What? Who told you?' Nottingham felt the shock, the numbing dread, rising in him. Not like Rose, please God . . .

‘A boy came. Said your neighbour had sent him,' Josh answered nervously.

‘How long ago?'

‘About half an hour, I think, maybe a little longer. We've been looking for you.'

The Constable nodded curtly, his thoughts dashing ahead of him. ‘Tell Mr Sedgwick he's in charge for the moment. I'll send word when I know more.'

‘Yes, boss.'

Nottingham ran along Swinegate, a few more people moving on the street, with hawkers treading warily as they shouted their goods. His heels threw up small spurts of slush, boots sliding every few steps.

He cut through The Calls, where small brick lodging houses advertised their empty rooms, and the tanners and shoemakers had their works, the air low with the dank stench of piss and leather.

Nottingham began gasping for breath. He needed to be home, to see Mary. The thought of her falling ill . . . at least Emily was there. His thoughts roared wildly: Mary was dying, he'd have to live without her.