Cold Cruel Winter (29 page)

It ended there.

And no more to be written, Nottingham thought. In the morning they'd find him and that would be the end of it all. He put on the clothes that were still damp but warm against his flesh.

As he unlocked the cell Charlotte glanced up. Her face was pale, body shaking from the chill. Good. This was how he wanted her, weak, vulnerable.

‘I have all the evidence I need against you,' he began.

She kept her dark eyes steady on his, saying nothing.

‘We'll find him when it's light.'

‘And kill him?' she asked. Her voice quavered.

‘Yes,' he told her bluntly. ‘No trace, no record.'

‘And me?'

‘You too.' He waited, letting her digest the words. She was silent and he continued. ‘I'll burn the books. None of this will ever have happened.'

‘But it did, didn't it? You'll remember, you'll know.'

‘I live with a lot of things, Charlotte. Good and bad. But I still sleep at night.'

She ran her fingers through her wet hair like a comb. There was a bitter ugliness on her face.

‘What do you want from me?' she asked.

‘To try and understand him.'

‘Why? Do you think he's mad?'

‘Yes,' Nottingham admitted. ‘I do.'

She shook her head wildly, sending droplets of waters spinning across the room. ‘He's not. Not any more than you or me. He wanted things for us. A good life where we weren't always hungry. A place where we could live decently. They stopped us having that.'

‘They?'

‘The people who cheated him, the ones who broke their promises.' Her eyes flashed with life. ‘He could have been successful. He's a clever man. But they wouldn't let him. They only want their own kind to have money, not people who want to better themselves. We had ideas above our station.'

‘Do you really believe that?'

‘I know it.' She stood, a tall woman, suddenly proud. ‘I saw it every day when he came home. His work, my sewing, and we could still barely make a life. He was smarter than all of them. He fooled Graves for a long time. If that man had done right by him he'd still be alive.' She paused. ‘And if not for luck, you'd be dead. Think about that.'

‘Where has he gone?'

‘Do you think I'd tell you?' She laughed. ‘Even if I knew, do you honestly believe I'd tell you?'

‘I don't know,' the Constable said. ‘But I'm certain he hasn't left Leeds.'

‘He won't go anywhere until his business is finished,' Charlotte told him. ‘He'll leave then, whether I'm alive or not.'

‘Do you want to die?' Nottingham asked her.

She glared at him. ‘Have you ever waited for someone? I don't mean for an hour or two, but for years? He was the first man to value me, to treat me well. I look different.' She stuck out her hand to display the deeper colour of her skin. ‘You see that? I've been called all manner of things in my life, but I don't know what I am. My mam died when I was born and she never told anyone who my father was. A tinker, a sailor, a Gypsy? I don't know. But
he
didn't care what I was, it never mattered to him, he loved me for me. He said he'd return, so I waited for him. I was faithful to him. But all those years without him were like dying. I already know what it is.'

He said nothing.

‘Your daughter died, he told me.'

‘Yes.' He kept his voice low and even.

‘And did you feel like you'd died yourself after that?'

He didn't answer.

‘Imagine that feeling tenfold, a hundredfold. That's what I've had.'

‘You know we'll catch him.'

‘If you're good enough. You haven't been so far.'

‘He doesn't have anywhere to hide now.'

She turned away. In the quiet he could hear the rain beating down outside.

‘Even if I could, I wouldn't give him up.'

‘Not even if I offer you your life?'

‘No, Mr Nottingham. Not even for that.'

Nottingham stared out of the window. The thick line of grey clouds rolled all the way to the western horizon. The streets were awash, mud clinging to each step. It wasn't a good time to have men after you and no place to go, he thought with satisfaction.

He opened the drawer and took out the two books, the bindings rough under his fingertips. He needed to see them again, to touch them again so he could remind himself of the evil behind all this. He'd barely put them back out of sight when Sedgwick arrived.

‘Our man's been on the bridge all night. He swears Wyatt hasn't gone that way,' the deputy announced. ‘The river's over its banks now, too. It's going to be a bad one, boss.'

They'd had floods before. The engineers worked, made their calculations and built their walls. But nature was stronger than anything they could devise, and when the force was powerful enough, the waters returned.

At least there was little to concern them in that. Houses might be ruined, a few would drown, but none of it was crime.

‘If you were Wyatt, where would you try and hide?' Nottingham wondered. ‘You're soaked, you're scared, your woman's been taken. Where do you go?'

‘Somewhere I can build a fire,' Sedgwick responded.

‘You need dry wood for that. Where do you find dry wood when it's been raining like this?' He stopped suddenly. ‘Come on.' The Constable buttoned his greatcoat and jammed the hat on his head.

‘Where are we going?' Sedgwick asked as they strode down the street.

‘Graves's warehouse,' Nottingham answered briskly. ‘Think about it. Where does Wyatt know in Leeds? There's his house, and he daren't go back there now. And there's the warehouse. He worked there for years. The place will be empty overnight. It has a stove. He'll think he's safe there for now.'

‘The workers will be arriving soon.'

Nottingham shook his head. ‘Not today. It's down by the river. No one with any sense is going near those places today.'

‘Which is why we're going there.'

The Constable grinned. ‘True, John. But we're hunting.'

‘Off somewhere?' Worthy was standing at the corner, right hand resting on his stick, upright, indifferent to the weather. ‘You'd better not be going without me, laddie.'

‘Come along then, Amos.'

‘Your men let him get away,' Worthy said. The Constable saw Sedgwick glance uneasily at him, then blankly across at the pimp.

‘They did,' he admitted. ‘Seems he was ready, just in case. He must have gone as soon as we entered the house. But your men didn't catch him, either, did they?' Nottingham added pointedly.

The procurer acknowledged the fact. ‘Won't happen again. I've already made sure of that. You know where he is?'

‘I believe he's in Graves's warehouse.'

‘That's possible,' Worthy agreed after a moment's consideration. ‘And if he's not?'

‘Then we'll look elsewhere until we find him. I'm going to have him today.'

By the river they stopped. The water was a full two feet above the bank, sucking at the earth and pulling it away. The noise as it flowed was overwhelming, the biggest sound in the world.

The current was pulling everything along. Nottingham saw large branches, too heavy for a man to lift, bobbing like twigs. Dead animals were carried by the water, a few sheep, a cow, and then they were gone, so fast that they seemed like imagination.

He'd seen floods before, too many to remember, and this was one of the worst. Leeds depended on the river. It sent the cloth down to the ports and brought back other things the city needed. Floods were the reminder that it couldn't be trusted, that it wasn't always so docile.

The damage would be extensive this time. The Constable was thankful that the bridge was strong, its foundations deep. It had been widened only a couple of years before; it would withstand all this.

But some of the buildings along the river weren't so strong. Water like this could undermine them. Yesterday the warehouse staff would have sweated, moving the cloth to a safe height, protecting the investment. Cloth was worth more than workers in Leeds.

‘There's only one door,' Nottingham told the others. ‘We'll go in together. Amos, you stay back and guard that. Mr Sedgwick and I will go and flush him out.'

Worthy seemed about to protest, but then closed his mouth. The plan made sense, Nottingham knew. They were younger, more agile. Worthy's sheer size and violence would make him an impassable obstacle.

Now they just had to find Wyatt there. It was right, it made sense. He'd go to the only place he knew, somewhere he might feel safe.

The three men followed the muddy track, rain squalling against their backs. Nottingham hunched down into his coat, right hand clutching the cudgel, the dagger tight in his left. His shoulder ached with the tension, one more reason to want Wyatt found and punished.

As they drew closer to the building he began to pray that he was right. He held his breath, only letting it out when he saw that the lock had been broken. Excitement roared through his blood, louder even than the river.

‘He's here.'

Thirty-Four

‘You go to the left,' the Constable told Sedgwick. ‘I'll take the right.'

‘He'll not get out of here,' Worthy promised.

‘I know, Amos.' Nottingham smiled grimly. ‘Just remember, he's got nothing left to lose.'

‘I owe him for what he did to Sam. You remember that, Constable.'

‘Let's find him first before we start talking about revenge, shall we?' He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes moved from Sedgwick to the pimp, then he leaned against the door, forcing it slowly open.

As soon as the space was wide enough he darted in, the deputy close behind. Light filtered through the high windows, grey and pearl-pale. Water had seeped in, leaving long, shallow puddles like wet fingers on the flagstones.

He moved cautiously along the wall, eyes sharp for any tiny movement, ears pricked for sound. After a few yards he stopped, taking time for his breathing to slow. He could hear the water outside, muted but still deadly.

Slowly he continued. The cloth had been placed up on shelves, on top of cupboards and cabinets, anywhere the flood couldn't reach it. The air was filled with the smell of wool, the stink of Leeds money.

Wyatt was in here.

Nottingham reached the corner. The river was louder here, just beyond the brick. He saw Sedgwick at the opposite corner, shaking his head. No sign. He gestured and began to edge forward. He brought his feet down lightly, watching where he stood, attempting to make each step silent.

His palms were sweaty and he adjusted his grip on the weapons. For a moment he thought he heard something, some faint noise. He halted, waiting for it to come again. But there was nothing and he began to move, looking forwards, upwards, anywhere a man might hide.

He covered half the length of the warehouse. It had seemed to take hours, but he knew only quick minutes had passed. Nothing. Could Wyatt have already left, he wondered fearfully?

No. The man had nowhere else to go.

The long creak ran around the walls. He couldn't place where it started. It was followed by sharp silence and then the violent splintering crash of wood and stone. From the other side of the room Sedgwick yelled.

The Constable was already running, soles slapping against the stone, heading in the direction of the sound.

‘He's going for the door,' Sedgwick shouted, and Nottingham changed direction in mid stride. He could see Wyatt now, ready to pull back on the knob, crouching, but too far away to catch.

The movement was so swift and smooth that it blurred, like part of a dance. Wyatt tugged, thrust with his free arm, and then rolled through the opening. He was out into the morning, on his feet and running, not looking back.

Worthy was down, clutching at his thigh. A blossom of blood stained his breeches and began to spread down his hose. His mouth was set, refusing to acknowledge the pain. Nottingham raced past him, barely twenty yards behind Wyatt, the rain dashing like needles against his face.

He stumbled in the mud, arms flailing and came close to losing his footing. His boot slid until he could find traction on some gravel and he forced himself forward. Wyatt had gained a precious yard or two, dull light glinting off the dagger in his hand as he moved.

Nottingham dared not think of Worthy or of Sedgwick. He had to keep his mind on his quarry, to go faster, to catch him. When that was done could he go back. He'd help where he could and count the cost where it was too late.

Nottingham was panting hard, feet pounding on the soaking ground. His lungs burned, mouth open wide as he gulped in air. Ahead, Wyatt slid, put out a hand to steady himself and dropped his knife. But he kept moving, never glancing behind.

He was close enough to hear Wyatt straining, his breathing loud and pained. Neither of them could run much further. Wyatt stumbled again, and Nottingham drew even closer, pushed himself harder. He wiped the rain from his face.

He was the huntsman. He had weapons.

His foot slid wide on the slippery ground and before he could save himself he was sprawling face down in the mud. He pulled himself up quickly, his lungs hot as fire. Wyatt had gone.

He felt the panic start to rise. It was impossible.

He was by the pumping engine, just below the bridge. Normally it would be pushing water from the Aire up to the reservoir by St John's Church, but it was closed now because of the flood. The building stood tall, its small windows set like eyes high in the wall. With careful footsteps the Constable walked to the door. It was unlocked.