Cold Cruel Winter (7 page)

Nottingham felt a shiver of fear in his spine. His palms were clammy, although the fire was low in the grate. He set the book down on the desk and paced around the room for a minute, trying to take in what he'd just read. Wyatt was insane, there seemed little doubt of that, but at the same time the man's mind was filled with a clarity whose focus scared him.

And he was positive, beyond any shadow of doubt, that it was Abraham Wyatt. The clues were there, clear to anyone who could read them. Finding Graves alive, the mentions of the things Graves had supposedly done, the grievances of the murderer, they gave so much away.

The book was a taunt, a piece in a game he was playing, a tournament of catch-me-if-you-can, a direct challenge to the Constable. The way he relished putting it all on paper, the sheer pleasure Wyatt was taking in every step of this, disturbed and chilled him. He brushed the fringe off his forehead and forced himself to sit again, taking a deep breath before he picked up the book.

Nottingham stood up quickly and the book fell to the floor. His mouth filled with bile, and for a few short moments he struggled for breath, certain that he'd vomit, the room swimming in front of him.

Jesus. He held on to the desk, eyes closed, the sweat cooling rapidly, chilling on his skin, as he tried to steady his lurching stomach. The relish which the murderer – Wyatt, it had to be Wyatt – took in all this went beyond any belief. In his job he'd dealt with madmen before but none who came close to this. This was evil. He'd read the words, but he couldn't begin to understand the mind behind them.

He glanced down, seeing the book on the flagstones. To know he'd touched it, laid his hands on a dead man's flesh, made him shudder, and once again he tasted the sickness in his throat and forced it back down. He'd have to pick it up, to read what remained, and then comb through it all again and again for any hints it might offer.

Those would be precious few, he was certain. Wyatt might be moonmad, but he was cunning as Reynard, one who'd hide his tracks well. He'd planned carefully, and he had luck on his side. And that, Nottingham knew from experience, could be a dangerous combination.

Gingerly he sat again, reaching for the volume but loath to touch it and feel death on his fingertips. Very cautiously, hands pressing on the paper, not the binding, he read on:

He sat back, staring at the book, lost in thought. Time passed, he had no idea how long. The door banged open and Sedgwick ambled in, frowning, snapping the Constable back to the present.

‘John,' Nottingham said quietly, ‘let's go next door to the Swan. I need a drink, and believe me, you're going to, as well.' He slid the book into the desk drawer, picked up his coat and walked out into the cloudy, suddenly unreal day.

Eight

‘Christ Almighty.' Eyes wide, Sedgwick shook his head in disbelief as Nottingham told him about the book. ‘He's not a man, he's a devil.'

‘Oh, he's a man, no doubt about that. But he's evil – that's absolutely certain.' He took a long swig of strong ale to clear his mouth. A low buzz of conversation filled the inn, but he'd been talking quietly, anxious not to be overheard.

The book had shaken him. It had terrified him. His hands felt unclean, tainted; he could still feel the brittle dryness of the binding against his fingers. That was horror enough. What was far worse was what he saw when he looked beyond that.

Wyatt was a man who planned meticulously, whose revenge had been simmering for years. He'd thrown down his gauntlet, and Nottingham had no choice but to respond. More than that, he had to win, to catch Wyatt before he could complete his mission. Three more deaths. He couldn't allow that to happen.

‘There can't be any word about the book, John,' he warned, taking another mouthful of beer. ‘You and I and the Mayor will be the only ones to know. The same with his plans. He's told us what he intends to do. We're going to stop him.'

Sedgwick pushed his mug around the table. ‘So how do we do that, boss?'

Nottingham sighed deeply. ‘I don't know yet. He wants to murder three more people. We have to start by identifying the people he wants to kill and protecting them. And we have to keep hunting for him.'

He knew that it sounded little enough, and it was. He'd need to review the trial transcript and see who'd given evidence, who would be in danger. But how could anyone reach inside a mind as twisted as Wyatt's and see things through his eyes?

‘I'd better go and tell the Mayor,' he said finally. ‘Get the men out, John.'

‘They're already out, boss.'

The Constable's face tightened. He breathed deeply.

‘Then double their efforts. We're not just fighting a man here, we have to fight against the clock, too.'

Sedgwick returned to the jail. He had a little time. Rummaging in the drawer, he looked at the book. Lying there, it seemed so ordinary, so harmless. The cover looked like any other leather, and he reached out to touch it. He knew he shouldn't, he knew what it was, but he couldn't help himself. It was macabre, of course it was, yet his fingers still irresistibly stroked the binding, then riffled through the pages. His reading was improving, and with a little effort he could slowly make out the sentences, even if he couldn't follow every single word.

The boss was right. Word about this could never leak out. The city would panic, and there would be no chance of containing it. He closed the drawer again. He'd never imagined that writing could be too powerful and too dangerous.

Nottingham had to wait at the Moot Hall, although he'd insisted to the clerk that his business with the Mayor was urgent. Sitting, he tried to empty his racing mind. The luxury of the city building, with its dark, highly polished wainscoting and heavy carpet, seemed a whole world away from what he saw every day. The courts and yards, the ragged men and women, the children scavenging at the market or on the river bank, the lives and deaths that took place every day just outside these walls, that was what he really knew. He never felt comfortable in the homes of the merchants, surrounded by wealth, the muted chime of a long clock announcing the passing of hours, or the luxurious, moneyed sheen of fabric of a suit or gown.

The Mayor looked harassed. He was halfway through his one-year term, and all the deaths of winter, which he could do nothing to halt, had weighed on him; it still showed although the thaw had begun.

He looked up from his papers as Nottingham sat.

‘You'd better have news on Graves's killer,' he said brusquely.

The Constable could hear the weariness in his voice. ‘I do,' he replied carefully. ‘But it's not good.'

He described the book, watching Kenion carefully as the colour fell from his face and he retched silently, hands gripping tight on the desk. When the Constable finished, the Mayor was silent for a long time before asking, ‘Where's this book now?'

‘It's at the jail,' Nottingham replied.

‘And who else knows about it?'

‘Only my deputy.'

Kenion raised an eyebrow.

‘You trust him?'

‘Completely,' the Constable replied.

‘You'd better be right. No one else can know about this. If words spreads, I'll know who to blame.'

Nottingham nodded. He understood the importance of silence.

‘We need to find this bugger fast,' Kenion said. He stared directly at the Constable. ‘We can't afford another killing like Sam's. What are you doing about it?'

There was nothing to be gained now by hedging, Nottingham decided.

‘My men are looking, but there's been nothing so far. But now I know who's responsible, I can do a lot more. If I can identify his other targets from the trial transcript, I can guard them.'

The Mayor rubbed his fleshy chin and nodded.

‘And we'll keep looking, of course. We'll find him.'

‘Just make sure you find him in time.' It was half-command, half-wish.

Before he left the Moot Hall, Nottingham visited the clerk in the archives and collected the transcript of Wyatt's trial. It was thin, a saddeningly short hearing. In itself, that was no surprise. Justice was dispensed swiftly and harshly in the city. But he needed clues, names. With a deep, heartfelt sigh, he walked back to the jail.

Nottingham read through the trial transcript four times. The first time his eyes slipped hurriedly over the words, familiarizing himself with the events in court; he hadn't attended the trial himself. Afterwards he studied it in more detail, pausing to think and examine statements, trying to imagine himself in Wyatt's position.

The guilt had never been in question; the evidence was obvious and overwhelming, and presented clearly and concisely. Wyatt hadn't spoken in his own defence, although it wouldn't have made any difference. Both Graves and one of his clerks had been able to show how he'd embezzled a total of twelve pounds over two years. It wasn't a fortune, by any means, but enough to make a real difference. Wyatt had thought he was being clever, of course, but once examined his methods seemed obvious, banal.

He recalled arriving at Wyatt's lodging to arrest him. Nottingham was still the deputy then, accompanying the old Constable, David Arkwright, in case of trouble. He'd seen how Wyatt lived. There was nothing expensive or fancy in the room he and his woman shared with another couple. A small, battered chest to hold their clothes stood at the foot of the bed. The walls were bare, stained by ragged brown patches of damp, but the floorboards were swept scrupulously clean, a blanket folded neatly across the pallet.

Wyatt himself was a small man, dressed in clean clothes, the coat worn but carefully brushed and mended, the waistcoat plain, home-cut but well stitched. His fingers were heavily coloured by the ink he used every day, but the nails were short and free of dirt. The wig on his head fitted well.

His woman wore a simple grey gown, a shawl gathered close around her shoulders, hair loose, brushed to a shine and falling long down her back. Her eyes were large, a deep, dreamy brown, and her skin was the colour of summer dust. There was an exotic tinge to her that he couldn't place. She held his gaze evenly as she moved next to Wyatt and took his hand.

‘You know who I am?' Arkwright asked, and Wyatt had nodded.

‘Then you'll know why I'm here, Mr Wyatt.'

‘If Graves had paid a fair wage, I'd never have had to steal.' Wyatt's voice was husky, on the edge of emotion.

It was as good an admission as anyone needed, Nottingham thought.

‘I'm going to take you with me to the jail,' Arkwright said. ‘You'll get a fair trial, I can guarantee you that.'