Cold Cruel Winter (27 page)

‘Josh . . .' the Constable began. Should he tell them? For a moment he was doubtful, but their concern seemed genuine. ‘Josh was badly hurt. He was beaten two nights ago.'

Petulengro's eyes narrowed, and Nottingham could see the disbelief fight with confusion in his face.

‘But how?' he asked, not comprehending. ‘Why?'

‘Because of his job,' the Constable replied coldly. ‘They hurt him a lot.'

Petulengro paused to explain to his brothers in his own tongue. They both looked curiously at Nottingham.

‘You know who?' David asked.

‘Yes,' the Constable admitted.

‘And you arrest them? In jail?'

‘I can't. It's . . .' How could he explain it so it made any sense? ‘I can't.' He left the words, knowing how futile they sounded.

‘Why not? They do this to him, yes?' Petulengro's dark eyes were focused on him.

‘Yes. But they have money. Power.'

The man nodded. That was a protection he understood.

‘And Josh, how is he?'

‘Bad,' Nottingham said. ‘He'll live, he'll be fine, but he's going to need time and care to heal.'

‘Where is he? Who look after him?' There was urgent concern in his voice.

‘He's here.' Nottingham watched the men's eyes widen. ‘He's in one of the cells for now. Later I'll take him home with me.' Suddenly his mind took a leap and he said, ‘Were you the ones who told Josh about the foreigner?'

Petulengro gazed down, an embarrassed flush growing across his face. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘Josh, he ask us to look for someone. We saw this man, and we don't know.' He shrugged an apology.

‘It doesn't matter. You tried to help.'

‘We can take Josh,' Petulengro offered suddenly. He turned to his brothers and spoke a few sentences. They both smiled widely and nodded. ‘We have room, we have people, they look after him.'

‘He'd be better with people he knows,' Nottingham countered. He realized he understood little about these people. How could he trust them? ‘Somewhere warm, somewhere he feels safe.'

‘He know us. He hurt inside, too,' the Gypsy said quietly and tapped his chest. ‘His heart.'

‘Yes.' But whose heart wasn't hurting this winter, Nottingham thought.

‘We look after him,' Petulengro offered again. ‘We take care of him.'

‘No,' Nottingham began, then stopped. What right did he have to say that? He wasn't the lad's father. Josh was old enough to make his own choices. ‘We should let him decide,' he said.

Petulengro gave a broad smile. ‘We have women. They know herbs, make him better. Body and here.' His fingers traced his heart again and then his head.

‘He needs that,' the Constable agreed.

‘We see him now?'

‘Yes.'

With so many people the cell was cramped, the candles flashing shadows like lightning against the walls. He could smell the breath of the other men, the reek of horse from their clothes.

Josh had his eyes open. Nottingham stood by the bed and took his hand. ‘Well, I've seen you look better, lad.'

The boy tried to smile, then stopped as he felt the pain of movement. The Constable poured a little water into his mouth, a few drops at a time. Looking down, seeing Josh bandaged, helpless as a bairn, the ache in his shoulder seemed like nothing. He'd see that the Hendersons paid for all they'd inflicted. For Josh, for Isaac, for all the others.

‘You know these men, Josh?'

‘Yes.' The word was little more than a faint sound accompanied by the tiniest nod of the head. ‘Good friends.'

Petulengro came forward and took Josh's hand gently.

‘Frances . . . we so sorry.' There was a quiet, paternal concern in the man's voice that seemed to reach the lad.

‘Thank you.' For the first time in too long Josh gave a small smile.

‘We will miss her,' Petulengro continued.

Nottingham watched the two of them, the Gypsy talking softly and Josh's face reacting. There was a closeness between them, he realized. The other men looked on, staring at the lad, horrified by his wounds. And there was nothing he could do to avenge him. At least not yet.

The Constable let Petulengro talk for a few minutes, then said, ‘They've offered to look after you while you mend, lad. But it's up to you. You can stay with me, at my house, if you want.'

For a long time there was no answer, and Nottingham wondered if Josh had drifted back into the peace of unconsciousness. Finally there was a single word, a mumble.

‘Them.'

After seeing Petulengro with the boy he wasn't surprised, but he still felt stung by the answer. He'd come to think of Josh almost as his own, the boy he'd taken in and given hope to. Not a son, but maybe something close.

‘I'll see to it,' he agreed, trying not to show his feelings.

In the office they made the arrangements. The brothers would take Josh, swathed in blankets and strapped to a door.

He was aware that a time was ending. He felt certain now that Josh would never return to work, even if the lad barely knew it himself yet.

‘Don't worry,' he assured Josh as the boy was carried out. ‘I'll be up to see you. So will Mr Sedgwick. We'll have you back in no time.'

And then he was gone.

Petulengro waited by the doorway. ‘Thank you,' he said.

Nottingham shook his head. ‘I just want him well again.'

‘He will be,' the Gypsy promised. ‘It take time, and love. We know Josh many winters, we care for him.' He turned to leave then hesitated. ‘There one thing more.'

The Constable waited.

‘We see something strange. I see it myself. A woman who look like one of us, but she not one of us. It make me think.'

‘Like one of you?' Nottingham asked quickly. ‘How do you mean?' He could feel the surge in his blood, a sense of something special, the luck that would lead them to Wyatt.

‘Her colour.' His tongue tripped over the word. ‘Her skin.' Petulengro rubbed his face with his fingertips. ‘We not know who she is.'

‘Where did you see her?'

‘Woodhouse Hill, at the bottom, yes?'

‘I know the place,' Nottingham told him with an encouraging smile.

‘A house there. All alone. She come and go, come and go.' He made a backwards and forwards motion.

‘You've seen her more than once?'

‘Yes.'

‘What does she look like?' the Constable asked. He could hear the undercurrent of urgency in his voice and hoped the other man didn't notice it. His heart was beating hard behind his breastbone.

‘She is . . .' Petulengro searched for the words, thinking hard. ‘She is not so tall. Hair very dark.' He smiled at his own greyness. ‘Not like me. She not thin, not fat.' He shrugged. ‘I only see her from far away.'

‘Did you see anyone else? A man?'

The Gypsy shook his head. ‘But that house. Very strange.'

‘What about it?'

‘It's like she live there and no want anyone to know. Shutters closed. It look . . .' Again he struggled for the word before shrugging and settling for ‘. . . dead.'

Nottingham could feel a vein beating in his temple. ‘Can you point the place out to me?'

Petulengro nodded. ‘We go now?' he asked.

They marched out along the Head Row, well past the edge of the city at Burley Bar, neither of them speaking. Nottingham was tangled in his thoughts, looking ahead and looking behind. Finally, with Leeds behind them, Petulengro stopped.

‘There,' he said, and pointed. The house was a good quarter of a mile away, sitting on the flat land at the bottom of a hill.

‘And you say you've seen her there yourself?'

‘Yes.'

‘But never a man?'

Petulengro shook his head.

The Constable stared at the building, willing himself into the place. This was it. It had to be. He knew it as firmly as he knew his name.

‘Thank you.'

Petulengro nodded and turned to walk away.

‘Look after Josh well,' Nottingham said. ‘I'll be up soon to see him.'

‘He our friend,' the Gypsy replied simply.

Sedgwick was waiting at the jail when he returned. The deputy was pacing fretfully across the floor, boots clattering awkwardly on the flagstones.

‘Boss.'

‘I know. Don't worry. Josh is in good hands.'

‘He's at your house already?'

‘No, he's with his friends. Friends of his we didn't know about.' As the deputy opened his mouth, Nottingham raised a hand to prevent the torrent of questions. ‘He wanted to go with them, it was his choice. I told him he could stay with me. He preferred to be with them.' He paused deliberately to let the deputy take that in. ‘I'll tell you all about it later. First, call in as many of the men as we can spare.'

Sedgwick glanced at him questioningly.

‘We're getting Wyatt and his woman tonight.'

Thirty-Two

The deputy had managed to round up five men, a ragtag collection of sour souls from the shadowy places of the city. Nottingham wouldn't have trusted most of them, but now he needed them.

He had to keep men around the judge until Wyatt had been caught. Those had to be the sharper ones, alert, able to think for themselves. That left him with those he used only in desperation, who'd claim the coin and drink it away as soon as they had it. The Constable knew all too well not to pay them until the job was done.

‘We'll go when it's dark,' Nottingham instructed them. ‘The house sits by itself, so they won't be able to see us. There's open ground all around it.' He paused and waited for them to show their understanding. ‘There's a man and a woman, they should both be there. You can't miss him; he has a T branded on his cheek.' He pointed swiftly at four men. ‘You'll each cover one corner of the house. You,' he said, looking at the fifth, ‘look for a back door and guard it. Mr Sedgwick and I will take the front door. It's simple enough: we want both of them.' He looked around the faces and said seriously, ‘I don't mind their condition. Any questions?'

A heavy silence followed his words.

‘Right, be here at six sharp. We won't wait for anyone who's late. And you won't be paid if you're not here,' he added. It was all the incentive they'd need.

They dispersed and he was alone with Sedgwick. The close smell of unwashed bodies and stale beer still hung in the air.

‘Do you really think it's them, boss?'

‘I do, John. Don't ask me how, but I know it is. I can feel it in my water.'

Sedgwick stretched, his long arms almost touching the ceiling, then slumped on a chair. They had more than an hour to pass before the men returned.

‘So who has Josh?' he asked, trying to make it sound like an idle question.

‘Friends of his. Gypsies.'

‘What?' He sat up quickly. ‘You let Gypsies take Josh?'

‘Calm down,' the Constable told him. ‘I didn't
let
anyone take Josh. He wanted to go with them. He knew Mary and I would have looked after him. He chose this. You know they come here every winter. Josh has been friends with them since he was little. He trusts them.'

‘He didn't know what he was saying,' the deputy complained.

‘I was there. He knew full well what he was doing. He'd taken Frances out there often – they'd only just heard she'd died and came to pay their respects. They want to look after him.' His tone softened. ‘Think about it. When he looks at us, he's reminded of all the bad things that have happened.'

Sedgwick nodded reluctantly.

‘It's probably for the best, John.'

‘I'll still want to see him, check on him.'

‘So do I. I promised him we would. They're only camped up by Woodhouse.'

‘They the ones who told you about Wyatt?'

‘They said they'd seen the woman going into the house a few times. Said she looked like one of them, but they didn't know who she was. They were puzzled. They were going to pass it on to Josh.'

Sedgwick considered the information then asked, ‘What are we going to do about the Hendersons?'

The Constable shrugged, feeling a twinge in his shoulder. ‘We'll never get them to court, you know that.'

‘That's not the only kind of justice.'

‘I know.'

‘So what, then?'

Nottingham sighed very quietly. ‘All in good time, John. Let's get Wyatt first and take care of that.'

‘And then?'

‘We'll let things blow over, bide our time.'

‘But how long?' Sedgwick asked angrily. ‘They could have killed Josh.'

Nottingham could hear the frustration in his voice, the impotence. He'd felt it often enough himself before. ‘I know,' he answered calmly. ‘Once the time is right, we'll do it together. Just you and me.'

The deputy smiled, satisfied, and Nottingham stood up. ‘Why don't you go next door and have something to eat and drink? We'll be off soon enough.'

‘You coming, boss?'

‘No, I have an errand first.'

Worthy was sitting in the Talbot, two of his men on the opposite side of the bench, hands resting on dagger hilts, their eyes constantly scanning the crowd. It was a loud place, booming with voices, the floor slick with split ale, the air harsh with smoke and the smell of cooked food. The pimp was chewing a chicken leg, wiping the juices from his chin on to his coat as he ate greedily.