Cold Cruel Winter (28 page)
Authors: Chris Nickson
Nottingham settled next to him and poured himself a mug of ale.
âHelp yourself, laddie. Never a need to ask.'
The Constable ignored the jibe. âCan you get your men out tonight?' he asked.
âIf you have a good enough reason,' the procurer said through his food.
âWyatt.'
Worthy put down the meat, wiped his hands again and turned to face the Constable. He was slow to speak. âYou thought you had him before.'
âThis time I'm certain.'
Nottingham felt the hard eyes on him, weighing the words for truth and belief. He took another small drink and waited.
âAll right, Constable, I'll trust you this time,' he answered finally. âI can give you four of them. And I'll come down myself. If you get him, I want to be there.'
âThere's a house at the bottom of Woodhouse Hill, between that and the Bradford road.'
âAye, I know it. Nobody's lived there for years now.'
âWyatt and his woman are there.'
âAnd how do you know this?' Worthy asked cynically.
Nottingham tapped the side of his nose. âInformation, Amos. Information. I'll have my men there.'
âWell then, Mr Nottingham, if you have it covered so well, why do you need us?'
âI can always use more help. Just in case. Have two of your men at the top of the hill and two on the road.'
âAye, I heard you'll be shorthanded for a while. The Hendersons did the boy.'
âYes.'
âWhat are you going to do about that?' Worthy raised a thick eyebrow. His forehead was scarred, the pale line disappearing under his short, dirty wig. âPeople have to see who's in charge, or they'll think they can get away with anything.' He threw the bones on to his plate and stood up, his men following quickly. As he left, he looked back at Nottingham and gave a brief, emphatic nod.
âWe'll be there, laddie.'
The rain had begun while he sat in the Talbot. By the time he left it was coming down so hard it bounced off the paving stones on Briggate. There was no point in running; after just a few yards he was drenched.
The downpour was cutting into the last of the slush, leaving more water on the ground, puddling faster than it could soak into the earth. Still, there was one good thing about it; Wyatt and his woman wouldn't be looking for visitors on a night like this.
The men had assembled, coats steaming in the heat from the fire. All had shown up, ready to earn their money.
âThey say it's been raining like this up in the hills for the last day,' Sedgwick told him.
âThe Aire will be flooding soon, then,' Nottingham said. âAll we need.' He opened a drawer and then closed it again. âNo point in taking pistols, we won't be able to prime them in this weather.'
He stood by the door and shouted for silence.
âRight, I told you earlier what I need you to do. If you see anyone trying to run from the house, take them down. Do what you have to do,' he told them. âLet's go.'
There was little talk as they walked up Briggate and turned down the Head Row, then out along Park Lane. The rain had let up slightly, but still teemed down, runnels sluicing down the edges of the road.
The Constable halted by the path that snaked up to the house. No lights showed from the building. He took a deep breath, feeling the raindrops hit cold against his face.
âNo talking from here unless it's vital. You won't be able to see much in all this. Just remember what I told you.'
He marched off along the track, Sedgwick close behind. The mud pulled and sucked at his soaked boots. He was ready for this, ready for it to be over, never to see the books again, to touch the covers made of human flesh.
Nottingham looked ahead to the building, a blurred smudge between earth and the heavy sky. He was breathing slowly, no longer even aware of any pain in his shoulder. In his right hand he held the dagger.
As they neared the house he could start to make out its shape, squat, the tiles of the roof missing in one corner. It looked abandoned, but deep inside himself he knew this was the right place.
The rain dripped in a heavy stream from his hat. A fence, long destroyed, brought him into what had once been the kitchen garden, now bare and waterlogged. He turned and waited as the slow snake of men caught up to him.
âAre you all ready?' Nottingham asked quietly. âTake your positions â and be ready.'
With Sedgwick at his side he rounded the building, reaching out to touch the stone, rough under his fingers. They stood by the front door for a moment, then the Constable nodded and Sedgwick raised his boot.
Thirty-Three
The wood gave only a little at first, then more on the second kick, groaning on its hinges. At the third attempt it exploded open. Nottingham rushed in.
A candle sat on the table, burning bright, the room full of light. The shutters were closed. The room was clean, floors swept, the bed in the corner neatly covered with a sheet.
She was there, half hidden in a crouch behind the table. She wasn't quite the woman of his memory. Her face was older, harder, the hair dark but missing its deep, unusual sheen. A large knife lay at her side, but she made no move to pick it up.
âWhere is he, Charlotte?' Nottingham asked. She glanced up at her name, and the candle glow reflected off the tears running down her cheeks.
âYou get her, John,' Nottingham ordered. âI'll see what else is in the house. He's here somewhere.'
He found a candle stub and lit it. Raising his arm sent a shudder of pain from his shoulder, but he needed light and he needed the dagger. The door by the stone sink had to lead outside. Another, though, seemed to go somewhere else. Cautiously, he opened it, standing back as he pushed the wood against the wall.
Stairs went down to the cellar. This is the place, he thought. The stench rose to meet him, a sickening, heady blend of piss, shit and blood. He descended carefully, keeping the flame out ahead of him.
There was the table, with a neat stack of paper, a quill and an inkwell. Close by, a chair and another table with leather straps, and several knives. Barrels stood in the corner.
But there was no Wyatt. He turned around, letting light play into every corner and crevice, but there was no one. At the far end of the room another door stood, barely ajar. Beyond it he could hear the rain. He went out and called for his men.
âDid anyone come out this way?'
He was greeted with blank stares and shakes of the head. They'd missed him. He'd managed to escape. He ducked back in the house and examined the door. The lock was new, the key still in it. Now he was out and loose in the city.
The Constable took the papers from the desk and slid them into a large waistcoat pocket.
Upstairs, Sedgwick had Charlotte's wrists tied behind her.
âWhere did he go?' Nottingham asked urgently. He took her chin in his hands so she had to face him. He kept his grip tight enough to hurt her. âTell me and you won't have the gallows.'
She closed her eyes and said nothing. He pushed her away.
âTake her to the jail,' he ordered. âHave one man stay in case Wyatt returns. Send another down to watch the bridge. We're going after him.'
By the time Sedgwick caught up to him with his long stride, Nottingham was halfway down the track that led to the road. The rain slashed at his face and ran down his neck. He slowed to a fast walk.
âHe must have got out without the useless bloody men seeing him,' the Constable blazed. âWorthy's men buggered up, too. They were supposed to be by the road.' In the darkness he pointed at the city. âHe's out there. He won't be leaving Leeds. He's dreamed about this place and what he'd do for so long that he doesn't have anywhere else to go.'
âSo where do we start?'
âI don't know,' he admitted, âbut he doesn't have another bolthole. And that means we'll find him.'
âWhere?'
Nottingham made a quick decision. Where would he be if he wanted to hide in Leeds?
âWe'll begin by the river and work out from there.'
They marched on grimly, up the Head Row then down Briggate. The only sound was rain pounding on the cobbles; all the snow had finally melted. The water soaked through his coat and his shirt, leaving his skin cold. His boots squelched and he felt as if the world was liquid.
Wyatt was somewhere, somewhere close. At the stairs by the bridge Nottingham stopped. Below, the water was loud, at least two feet higher than usual. For a short moment the moon came through the clouds and he could see the torrent gushing deep and forbidding. The rain in the hills, Nottingham thought, and all this melted snow. Something went by in the river, a large branch, a body, it passed too swiftly for more than a guess.
The Constable glanced upriver. In this weather a regiment could hide in the woods there and never be noticed. The other way, down among the warehouses, were shadows deep enough to engulf a man. Before dawn any search would be hopeless.
He let out a long, slow breath. It was time to admit defeat for now.
âWe'll start again at first light. Go and get some rest.'
Once Sedgwick had left, dashing away gratefully, he stood for another minute. Tomorrow it would happen.
He burrowed into the bed, the blanket close about him, still feeling the chill all the way to his marrow. As soon as he'd walked into the room he'd stripped off his clothes and stood close to the fire, trying to take in its heat.
Lizzie had rubbed his body with a piece of rough cloth and fed him a bowl of warm soup. It took the edge off everything, but he was still cold. The blanket helped, and the closeness of Lizzie's body. A few feet away James was already asleep, his breathing soft in the air.
âDon't you go and come down with something, John Sedgwick,' Lizzie said with a chuckle. âYou'll want me waiting on you every minute of the day.'
He laughed quietly. She could always do this, come up with the right words to make him forget everything else, to make him happy. He reached for her, but she rolled away with a teasing giggle. âThat's not the way to get warm and you know it.'
âThere's a right way and a wrong way, is there?'
She sighed. He didn't need to see her to know she was rolling her eyes. âMen. Don't you know anything?
âIf we did, you'd have nothing left to teach us.'
âYou cheeky bugger.'
But she gave in readily enough, and enjoyed it as much as he did. Later, as sleep was slowly overtaking him, she asked, âHow's Josh?'
âSome people are looking after him. Gypsies,' he said uncomfortably.
âWhat?' He felt her sit up. âI thought he was going to stay with Mr Nottingham.'
âThe Gypsies came. They're old friends, apparently. Known him since he was a nipper or something. And he wanted to go with them.'
âHe could have come here,' Lizzie insisted, âwith folk who care about him.'
âI know.'
âBetter off than with a bunch of Gypsies,' she grumbled.
âIf it's what Josh wants.' He was surprised to hear himself defending the decision.
âMaybe,' she agreed cautiously. âBut what are you going to do about those Hendersons? I remember them, they're a nasty piece of work.'
âWe'll do something. The boss promised.'
âGood.' She snuggled close. âI love you, John. Now let's get you warm so you can work tomorrow.'
At the jail Nottingham built up the fire and stripped to his shirt and breeches. Charlotte was in a cell, shivering, the sodden dress hugging her close. He left her. Let her grow cold and scared, he decided. Maybe she'd talk then.
Once he was warm he settled at the desk with Wyatt's manuscript. The third book, it would have been. The one wrapped in his skin.
Seven years in the Indies. That was the judge's pronouncement. Judge Dobbs, telling me I should be grateful that he was not going to hang me, and all because I knew enough to recite a Bible verse. But if Graves had kept his word and Rushworth had not peached there would have been none of this. I only took what I had been promised, and a little more for my trouble.
The voyage was months of hell. We were chained below decks, like the slaves I would see later. It was no matter to the captain if we lived or died; he would be paid all the same. Before we left Liverpool they branded my cheek with a T. A thief for all to see and know. I smelt my flesh as it burned and decided then I would come back for those responsible.
The Indies were all the agonies that man has described, and more. The heat never faded. Even the nights brought no relief, only time to think and sweat. They worked us from dawn to dusk, often beyond. In the season we would be bent over, hacking at the sugarcane with sharp knives. One slip and the blood would flow and insects flock to its scent. Some died that way, others from the yellow fever. It would take them suddenly, pulling them into a delirium. Few came back from that.
The overseers were cruel men who knew how to work us hard. The whip fell every day. Twice it fell on me, and I still carry the scars.
But I knew I would survive it all. I used those hot, sleepless nights well and began to plan. I was different from those other convicts. They were stupid men, bred to labour like oxen. The fields were a good place for them, alongside the slaves from Africa. Truth to tell, other than colour and tongue there was little to mark them apart. I had education, reading, writing, arithmetic. Once the plantation owner learnt that, as I made sure he did, I was plucked away and put in an office.
I had better meals, better quarters. By the end of three years I made sure I was trusted, and after another twelve months I was indispensable. It was simple enough work to salt away small bits of money that the owner would never miss. For a coin or two a sailor would start a letter on its journey to Charlotte.
I could have any slave girl I desired, and a few times I succumbed. I was the owner's right hand, dependable. I pointed out where he was being swindled and helped him increase his profits. I worked well, for myself as much as for him. My stack of coins increased. It was no fortune, but it was enough.
My plan grew slowly. From a faint outline it took shape. I thought and considered. Mere killing seemed inadequate. Anyone can murder, it takes no skill, there's no statement in it. I wanted something that would lodge in the mind, something that would make you remember me.
It all fell into place when I talked to a French trader from the Antilles. He told me of the custom in his homeland. When a man was condemned to be executed, the notes of his trial were bound in his skin. At first it shocked me and I thought the French barbaric. But then I realized it was the perfect thing. I could leave the accounts of my vengeance in the skins of those who had wronged me.
A sugar plantation is a self-sufficient place. I had time and I had the position to persuade the tanner to teach me his art. One thing I learned remains with me still: each creature has just enough brain to tan his own hide. Curious, is it not? The brains are rubbed on the inside of the leather to cure it, and there is just enough to work the whole skin.
But that was too much, even for me. There were other methods and I learnt them well. The true technique is in the cutting and I practised on slaves who died. Their bodies were worthless anyway.
As my time ran out the master asked me to stay on as a free man. His offer was tempting, but the need to make men pay was deep in me. The salary he suggested would have made me a rich man in Europe, but I knew I had to do this. I had made my promise to Charlotte that I would return. She would be waiting. I had my sack of money, enough to keep us until my job was done.
But whoever reads this â perhaps you, John Sedgwick, although your knowledge of your letters is poor â will want to know how I took the Constable.
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