Cold Cruel Winter (26 page)

Josh drank, swallowing gratefully. A mouthful at first, then another, before he greedily drained the cup, letting the liquid swirl away the taste of blood in his mouth.

‘There's something in it,' Sedgwick told him. ‘It'll help you sleep.'

‘Do you know who did this?' It was the Constable. From the sound of it, he was over by the door.

‘The Henderson brothers.' It was difficult to speak, to make his mouth form the words.

‘You were lucky the night man spotted you,' Sedgwick told him.

‘The apothecary looked at you while you were unconscious,' Nottingham informed him. ‘It's not good, but it's not too bad. You've got several broken ribs, and you're going to hurt all over for a while. That's the worst of it. You must be tougher than you look, lad. He doesn't think there'll be any lasting damage.'

‘My eyes?' Josh asked.

He could almost hear the boss shrug.

‘The apothecary suggested it. They kicked your head a lot. He wants your eyes bandaged for a couple of days. We'll look after you. I promise you that.' He felt Nottingham's hand on his. ‘We put some dry clothes on you.'

Josh felt one of the rough jail blankets drawn up around him.

‘Get some rest,' the Constable said.

‘He's right, lad,' Sedgwick agreed. ‘It's the best medicine. We'll only be in the office.'

‘Don't,' he began, then had to clear his throat. ‘Don't close the door,' he asked, each word an effort.

‘We won't,' the Constable assured him. He felt warm breath against his cheek and quiet words in his ear.

‘You're going to be fine, I promise.'

The footsteps faded on the flagstones and he lay there, slowly letting relief fill him.

Nottingham's face blazed with rage. He was pacing the office, grinding his teeth as Sedgwick sat by the desk. ‘I'm going to kill them.'

‘Boss—'

‘You heard him.' The Constable continued, waving an arm in the direction of the cells. ‘The Henderson brothers. I'm not going to let them get away with almost killing one of my men.'

‘But the Corporation won't even put them on trial when we have proof. What do you think they'd do if we presented them with this?' Sedgwick asked soberly.

‘I didn't say anything about a trial, John.'

‘Don't, boss.' Nottingham stopped and turned to look at him. ‘You said the Mayor warned you that if anything happened to them, you'd get the blame.'

‘Christ, man, you saw what they did to Josh.' The Constable's face was red with fury. ‘He's still a boy, he didn't have a chance against them. Are you willing to let that lie?'

‘No,' the deputy admitted.

‘He'd barely buried his girl, for God's sake.'

For several seconds neither of them said anything.

‘Look, we both care about him, boss,' Sedgwick said gently. ‘The first thing to do is see he gets well again. You heard the apothecary, he was worried about the way he'd been kicked in the head. Once Josh is back on his feet we'll decide what to do.'

‘When he can move, I'll take him home with me,' Nottingham offered. ‘He'll need someone to look after him.'

‘Lizzie would do that, but . . . I don't think it would help him to be where Frances died.'

‘No.'

The Constable knew he needed to calm himself. When one of the men had arrived at his house to tell him Josh had been attacked, his stomach had lurched. This wasn't a man who could fend for himself in a fight, this was a lad who didn't even look his age.

He'd sent the man for the apothecary and hurried off to the jail, arriving just after they'd brought the boy, carrying him carefully on the old door. Sedgwick was already there, fear playing over his face.

The two of them stayed close by as the apothecary made his inspection. They'd helped cut off his soaking clothes, showing his thin, white frame. Fists clenched so hard that the nails hurt his palms, Nottingham had watched the ribs being bound, the broken nose reset. Two fingers had been smashed, and they were carefully bandaged with a splint. It was for the best that the boy had passed out. Bruises were blooming like dark flowers all across his flesh. He prayed Josh would live and sat holding his hand until he woke, willing the next breath, the next heartbeat. He needed to know who had done this.

It was full daylight outside, a market day. On Lower Briggate the coloured cloth market would already have ended, its business conducted in near silence as thousands of pounds changed hands on a promise. Trestles would be dismantled and labourers would be carrying cloth to warehouses, bent double under the weight. Later, in the White Cloth Hall down the road, everything would be repeated as the lengths of plain material were bought and sold.

Traces of snow remained deep in the shade. Where the slush had finally vanished, the streets had become heavy, dark mud, holding fast and thick to horses' hooves and men's boots. He could hear the clatter and shouting of people beyond the window, the life and laughter and flaring arguments.

Winter was passing, but the pain still lingered. Rose had died, carrying his heart with her; Frances had died; so many others. Josh had survived, but from the look of him that was mostly luck.

The Constable sighed. What could he do about the Hendersons? Sedgwick was right, official action was impossible. And the Mayor had already warned him against taking action outside the law. Never mind that they were murderers, that they'd beaten his man, that the pair of them and their father believed no justice applied to them. He was powerless.

He rubbed his shoulder. Much of the pain had vanished, and now it simply ached. He could move it a little more freely, though awkwardly and with a wary slowness.

He pushed his fringe back and sighed. He needed progress. He needed everything. They had to find Wyatt quickly. The net they'd thrown around the judge was good, but sooner or later a clever man would find his way through it. They had to stop Wyatt before that happened.

How could they manage it? They needed luck, the kind of luck that had deserted Leeds this whole winter.

Once they had Wyatt, he could concentrate on what to do about the Hendersons. There would be something: accidents that couldn't be blamed on anyone. No one was going to treat his men like this.

The deputy was sitting with Josh, watching over him. The boy would survive, the apothecary had promised that. Nottingham just hoped the boy would want to continue in the job. He was good, a natural at this work, with a kind of imagination that was rare.

But he'd need his confidence. He had to believe in himself and come back from these injuries and the setbacks with his faith still strong. Josh was a boy, he'd just lost his girl, he was too young to understand and accept it all. His world had opened up around his feet.

Was there a return from all that? All he could do was wait. Josh had been a find, a gamble, the thief who'd successfully become a Constable's man. Finding another like him would be hard. Losing someone he liked, who felt like family, that would be harder still.

Two hours later he was still sitting, trying to think of ways to find Wyatt. Every path came to a dead end. Sedgwick had left, and Josh was still sleeping, giving soft little cries as he moved while he rested.

John Sedgwick drifted up Briggate, long legs moving slowly, eyes assessing everything. He checked on the men around the judge. Two of them were by the Moot Hall where Dobbs was presiding over the daily petty sessions. Another pair waited by the man's house up at Town End.

Thoughts clicked through his brain as he walked. He'd been terrified when he'd seen Josh looking more dead than alive. There had been blood all over his face and hair, his clothes soaked through. Sedgwick wanted revenge for that just as much as the Constable did, but it had to be smoothly done. For himself, he'd as soon kill the Henderson brothers as look at them and remove the problem forever.

He'd never been a violent man, but sometimes it was necessary. Anyone who killed had to die himself. That much he believed from the Bible: an eye for an eye. If someone hit him, he hit back.

Wyatt was one who certainly had to die. Someone like that was filled with the devil; he didn't deserve to live. And he understood that it needed to be done quietly. Wyatt's woman, too. She was part of it. Once the pair of them had gone and the books destroyed there could be no danger of word ever leaking out.

He'd never imagined words could be dangerous. But Wyatt and his books had made him think. He'd read them, working his patient way through both volumes when he was alone at the jail. He understood their power and their horror. As he learned to read and write he'd developed a respect for words. Now he wasn't so certain. He needed the skill if he was ever to advance to Constable, but it was one to exercise carefully, he decided.

He moved down the Head Row and along Vicar Lane, where old houses stood cheek by jowl with new buildings. The street was busy with folk, carts filling the road, smoke from the chimneys hanging low over the city. Already people were forgetting the winter, consigning it to bitter memory before it had even left.

The deputy was too wary to be sanguine. The weather could still have a sting in its tale. He'd heard some of the weavers talking over their breakfasts before the cloth market. Up in the hills all the snow was melting into the streams and rivers. There was too much water. Any rain and there'd be flooding.

He'd seen it before, the Aire spilling up from its banks. The Calls had been knee deep, the bottom of Briggate impassable to man and beast. Not that, he hoped, not after this winter . . .

The season brought his mind back to Josh. The boy would need plenty of care for the next few weeks. He'd be better with the Constable and his family. Recovery was hard enough, he knew that. He'd been beaten himself once, not long after he became a Constable's man. Within a month his body had been fine, but it had taken a full year for his nerve to recover.

Sedgwick stayed at the jail that night. Josh had woken a few times during the day, a little better but not well enough to be moved. He checked on the boy and dozed in the chair, a full pie and a jug of Michael's best ale from the White Swan by him on the desk. He was warm and fed but ready for his own bed when the Constable arrived with first light.

Once Sedgwick had left, Nottingham settled. There were reports to write but first he spent a little time with Josh, feeding him a bowl of broth he'd brought from home.

The boy still found it difficult to speak, his mouth swollen. But he seemed more alert; that was good news, and the bandages had come off his eyes.

Mary had been reluctant to take Josh in, and he knew her objections made sense. They had no room for him, no truckle bed to pull out. And they were still grieving themselves, missing Rose. But compassion had finally won out over reason and she'd agreed. She'd set up a pallet in the living room. Later today he'd have Josh carried to the house on Marsh Lane.

The lad had fallen back into his rest when Nottingham checked again. Now there was time to write, and come up with some plan to find Wyatt.

He'd been working for an hour when the door opened and three men walked in, glancing around uneasily. One was large, the others much smaller, but their faces showed they were brothers, the same shape to their mouths and noses. They had skin a few shades deeper than his own, much the same colour as the woman Charlotte in his memory. He stood up, cautiously assessing them. Their clothes were old and patched but still serviceable, and they wore good, heavy boots.

The Gypsies. With everything else this winter he'd forgotten they were in Leeds. They'd been coming so long, since well before his time, that they were part of the seasonal landscape. They kept themselves to themselves and they rarely caused trouble. Nottingham thought that the face of the biggest man looked faintly familiar, but he didn't believe they'd ever spoken before.

The large man pulled off his hat, showing thick white hair.

‘We look for Josh,' he said hesitantly.

Thirty-One

‘I'm Richard Nottingham. I'm the Constable of Leeds.'

The big man smiled widely under his heavy moustache. The other two stood emotionless behind him.

‘Josh, he tell me about you.'

‘You know him?' Nottingham's eyebrows rose in astonishment. He wondered how the lad could have met these men.

The man nodded merrily. ‘Yes, yes, of course we know him. We are friends.' He spoke with a strong accent the Constable couldn't place, all his words slow and considered. English wasn't his native tongue, that was obvious, but there was a deep, pleasant music running under it all, nonetheless. ‘He come to see us since he was little. We know him well for long time.' The man held his hand at waist height. ‘Now he work for you. He help us, we help him.'

‘And who are you?'

‘David Petulengro,' the man replied, pointing at himself. ‘These are brothers, Thomas and Mark.' Mark had serious, deep eyes and skin heavily scarred by the pox, while Thomas was much younger, wirier, with a shadowed face, his features sharp and dour. Petulengro frowned. ‘We hear what happen to Frances.'

‘You knew her as well?' the Constable asked.

‘Yes, yes,' the man answered in surprise. ‘Josh bring her to see us many times.' He held up his hands for emphasis. ‘We liked her.' His brothers nodded in agreement. ‘We want to tell him our sorrow for her.'

The Constable nodded.

‘When you bury her?' Petulengro asked.

‘Yesterday.' He looked apologetic. ‘Josh never mentioned you . . .'

Petulengro shrugged. ‘A man hurts, he don't think. We want to tell him how we are . . . sorry. To ask what we can do,' the Gypsy repeated. ‘You know where we find him?'