Chris Nickson - Cold Cruel Winter

Nottingham looked at the names of the two convicted men scrawled in his notebook. Had he given evidence at both their trials? He couldn’t recall. But he’d testified so many times, against so many men, that it was impossible to bring many details to mind.

Elias Wainwright had been found guilty of stealing cloth from the factory. It was just scraps and offcuts that would have been thrown away anyway. But he’d taken them without permission, and that was a crime. He’d almost certainly have been released long ago.

Abraham Wyatt had been more calculating, he remembered that much. A clerk, he’d been clever enough to embezzle from Graves, and it was sheer accident that he’d been caught. Everyone expected him to hang, but he’d pleaded benefit of clergy and instead he’d been transported, given seven years in the Indies, something many considered worse than the noose. Death out there came slow, he’d heard, from heat and sickness. Few ever came back. Not many lasted a single year, let alone seven.

He banked the fire and blew out the candle, locking the heavy door behind him as he left. A thin wind funnelled down the street and he pushed the collar of his greatcoat close around his neck. Kirkgate was quieter now, the people gone to their houses, trying to keep the winter at bay for another night and praying for the advent of spring.

A long week passed and they found nothing. Whoever had killed Samuel Graves had left no clues, no hints. For all the hours of questions and long searches, he might as well have been invisible.

Deep down, Nottingham knew full well that the man was still in the city. There was more to come, he could feel it. There had to be; no one did that then just vanished. All he could do was keep looking and wait.

Graves’s papers arrived. He’d pored over them for hours, reading through every piece of correspondence. He’d been going to London to try to secure a contract to provide blankets for the army. It would have made him a very wealthy man if it had happened, but the Constable was certain that it wasn’t the cause behind a murder like this.

Every day the Mayor ranted at him to solve the murder. Every night, when he lay in bed, it preyed on him, until the thoughts of Rose replaced it with something even deeper and darker.

What baffled him still was the skinning. It was easy enough to make sense of a killing, however warped it might be. But so carefully, so delicately, to remove the skin from someone’s back? There had to be a reason, but for all his thoughts he couldn’t find it.

He’d managed to learn that Wainwright had died, another victim of the killing winter. He’d dispatched a letter to London to learn if Abraham Wyatt had died in Jamaica or been released, but it could well be weeks before he received a reply.

Seven frustrating days had passed since Sedgwick had found the body, days of half-hopes that proved as substantial as October mist. The only consolation was that the weather had hesitatingly begun to warm, melting much of the ice and turning packed snow into grey, creaking slush.

He’d been sitting in the jail since seven. Sedgwick and Forrester had gone out to ask more questions, although he already knew the answers would be of no help. On Briggate the sounds of the Tuesday market echoed loudly, cheerful and competitive as the traders vied with each other.

The door opened and a boy entered hesitantly, his eyes wide at being in such a place. Nottingham looked down at him and smiled gently.

‘Please sir. .’ the boy began in a small voice. He was tiny but already careworn, and from his rags he was obviously one of the urchins whose life on the streets of Leeds would be pitifully short.

‘What do you need?’ he asked.

‘Someone told me to give this to the Constable.’ He brought a small parcel from behind his back, wrapped in an old sheet from the Leeds Mercury .

‘I’m the Constable,’ Nottingham told him kindly. ‘Who told you to do this?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ the boy answered. ‘But he gave me a penny for it.’

‘I see.’ He was alert now, staring at the package the boy had put on the desk. ‘And when did he do this?’

‘Just a few minutes ago, sir. Over near Lands Lane.’

‘What did he look like? Do you remember?’ He tried to make the questions sound casual; he didn’t want to terrify the boy into silence.

The lad shook his head. ‘I couldn’t really see him, sir. He had a hat pulled down, and a heavy coat.’

‘Was he big? Small?’

‘Not so big,’ the boy said with confidence. ‘But he said he’d watch me and if I didn’t do the job he’d take the money back and hurt me.’

‘Well, you’ve done it, so everything is fine.’ Nottingham smiled at him. ‘What’s your name?

‘Mark, sir. My mother said it’s for one of the followers of Jesus.’

‘She was right. Where is she now?’

‘Dead, sir.’

‘I’m sorry about that, Mark. You can go now, you’ve done your job well.’

As the door closed, he sat down and unwrapped the package.

They were the first to make me feel inferior.

Nottingham realized he’d been holding his breath and forced himself to exhale slowly. He was sitting at his desk, holding the slim, bound volume. The binding was pale brown leather, thin and crinkled, and dry to the touch.

He ran his thumb across it, feeling the rough texture. On the front, in exact, immaculate copperplate, was the title: The Journal of a Wronged Man , and underneath, in smaller letters, In Four Volumes written in ink the dark, rich red of fresh blood.

Revenge, he thought. Abraham Wyatt. He didn’t know why but it had to be; he could feel it, the way some pieces fell into place so perfectly that it was impossible to be any other way. Wyatt must have survived the Indies somehow, to be carried home by hate. He’d had eight years to plan all this.

He picked up the small book and began to read again, his face set in a frown, concentrating intently on the even, copperplate script.

And then there was Samuel Graves. That should be a name to capture a reader’s attention in this place and this time. He was another to think less of me because of my beginnings. He looked down on me, and offered no respect for my talents. But more of him later.

At school I revenged myself on my fellows in minor ways. Small things went missing, belongings of theirs, or items from the school that appeared among their possessions and brought them harsh punishments. I was sly and careful. Suspicion was on me, but I made certain that they could never prove a thing.

My education was too brief. I could have done great things, I know this, but the opportunity and the time were not there for one like me. Poor circumstances make their own needs. There were mouths to be fed in my family; they required me to bring in a wage. So I was torn from my school and each day I walked into Chesterfield and back to do my work as a clerk for a grain merchant. Six miles each way for the privilege of being little better than a slave.

The pay was miserly, and he worked me long and hard. He made money, and plenty of it, far too much for such a stupid man. Once I understood his system, it was not difficult to take some of his profits. He never even realized.

My intention was to amass enough money to enter business myself. Having seen the dubious qualities of those who managed to do well in life, I knew I could be successful. I left my position before anything might be discovered and moved to another. Slowly I accrued some small savings.

Then I was trapped by a ruthless girl. She was friendly enough, and soon free with her favours. But then she came to me, saying she was having our baby, and wanting marriage. There was I, barely sixteen, with my plans, my ambitions. I had tupped the girl with pleasure, but intended nothing more, certainly not wedlock and a life of misery and poverty. I had seen enough of that. Instead, I gave my small fortune to the whore who had tried to trap me, and took to the road.