Chris Nickson - Cold Cruel Winter

Finally Sedgwick returned, and Nottingham explained that he wanted all the courts off the ginnel searched, and everyone questioned.

‘I don’t know if Wyatt’s there, John, so be careful. He’s dangerous. If you even get a sniff of him I want to know about it.’

‘I’ll lay odds he won’t be anywhere close to the place,’ Sedgwick said.

Nottingham shrugged. ‘You’re probably right. But he wouldn’t know we were following Rushworth. That must give us something.’

‘But not the poor bugger he’s got.’

‘No,’ the Constable acknowledged bleakly. In frustration he slapped the desk. ‘Wyatt’s spent seven years in the Indies. He must still be brown from the sun. That means he should be easy to spot in Leeds. He can’t stay inside all the time. Why hasn’t anyone seen him?’

‘He’s a smart bastard. You said so yourself, boss. He’s worked this all out.’

‘I know.’ There was a sense of resignation in his tone.

Clouds had blown in from the West and a thin drizzle had started by the time Nottingham walked down Kirkgate. It would take away the last of the slush and leave many of the roads no better than quagmires. Carters would be stuck, tempers would fray. More problems for the morning.

He let himself into the dark house, removed his boots and climbed the stairs quietly. Stripping to his shirt, he washed at the ewer then pulled the blanket over himself, Mary’s warmth radiating close by. In her sleep she turned to him, curling by his side. Smiling, he put his arm around her and pulled her closer.

He left the cellar, closing the door firmly behind him, and stretched. Downstairs Rushworth was tied to a chair, his eyes covered and an old cloth stuffed into his mouth to keep him quiet.

He was already weary of the man’s voice, his sorrowful whine no better than an infant’s, grating in the ears and on the brain.

Wyatt took a tired apple, its flesh withered with time, from the table and used his knife to cut it in two. The autumnal smell rose and made him smile.

So far everything had been so easy. He’d expected some problems, but there had been nothing. He’d prepared carefully, calculating everything, his plans immaculate.

It would be harder the next time, he knew that. That was the challenge and he relished it. Gain something too simply and there was no triumph in it, no sweetness. He thought of Rushworth downstairs, talking inanely, grovelling to stave off the inevitable.

He knew the man was hoping for mercy, but there’d be none of that. He’d waited too long for this, endured too much to be magnanimous. This was his time and he’d relish every moment of it.

Wyatt finished the apple and drank deep from a mug of ale. He felt alive, he felt happy. There was still so much of Rushworth to enjoy, as long as he could keep the man quiet. And then there was much more work to do after he was dead.

He pulled down on the waistcoat. He’d worn it when he slashed Graves’s throat and the spurting blood had turned the front of the garment an ugly red-black. It had terrified Rushworth when he put it on. Wyatt smiled grimly and opened the cellar door.

The drizzle had edged into heavy, cold sleet by the time Sedgwick made his way home, and a chill wind stirred up around him. The old scar by his mouth itched and he scratched it without thinking. Along with Josh he’d spent the evening questioning the inhabitants of the courts that snaked off the ginnel where Rushworth had vanished.

There’d been nothing, of course. No one had seen anything or heard of a man with skin burnt by the sun. The empty rooms were accounted for. They’d forced their way into three of them, but there was no sign of evil or murder. Rushworth had vanished, and he knew what that meant.

He shook his head, throwing off raindrops, as he entered the house where he had a room. Lizzie would be waiting, and James would be asleep on his pallet. A fire was burning in the hearth. That cost them in tax, but it was worthwhile for the heat, the thing that had helped keep them alive in the depth of the winter, when morning cold had iced deep over the inside of the windows.

He unlocked the door, smiling as Lizzie held a finger to her lips, her eyes turning to James under his blanket.

‘Hello, love,’ he whispered as he held her, her face warm against his damp cheek. Some said he’d been mad to take on a girl who’d been a prostitute, but he had no regrets. It was love of a fashion, and she’d already proved herself to be a better mother to James than Annie had ever been.

She busied herself, cutting cheese and bread, pouring ale, and putting it on the table ready for him.

‘Another late night,’ she said, but without any touch of the criticism that had always sharpened Annie’s tone.

He took a deep drink, feeling his body begin to relax.

‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘A lot of people to talk to. Looks like the murderer has snatched his next victim.’

Lizzie shuddered and gathered her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

‘No trace?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. He’s just vanished. This murderer’s a clever bastard.’ Sedgwick shook his head in a mix of sadness and admiration before changing the subject. ‘How’s James been?’

‘Good as gold.’ Lizzie beamed. ‘I took him down by the river earlier, over the bridge. I held him up so he could look down at the water.’ She paused. ‘You know what?’

‘What?’

‘He called me mam,’ she announced proudly.

He took her hand, stroking the skin lightly.

‘Does he ask for Annie any more?’

‘Not in a fortnight now, John. He seems happy.’

And why wouldn’t he be? Sedgwick wondered. Lizzie treated the boy like her own. She talked to him, played games with him, took him out.

She leaned across the table and kissed him as he ate. The gesture took him by surprise, but she was forever doing daft things like that, holding him, kissing him. At first the affection had astonished him; now he liked it.

‘I love you, John Sedgwick,’ she said softly.

Who cared what she’d been, he thought. She was a good lass even then, friendly and always ready to laugh. The six months they’d been living together had been joy. They’d made him realize how ground down he’d become with Annie, how their marriage had been ultimately as fragile as gossamer. She’d hated his job and vanished for something she believed was better, a life as a soldier’s woman. He wished the man luck with her; he’d need it.

As soon as she’d heard the news, Lizzie had knocked at his door. He was amazed that she knew where he lived.

‘She’s gone, then?’ she’d asked bluntly.

‘Aye,’ he admitted. The truth was that he was relieved when Annie left; he had his son, but he was uncertain and fearful for the future.

‘Who’s going to look after the little lad?’

With that she’d become part of his life, spending her days with James, her nights with Sedgwick. Within a week she’d brought over her possessions, two worn, faded dresses and a few small things. A month later, they’d moved to this new room, warmer and airier, just before winter began to exert its grip. A new start, he said, fresh surroundings and no memories.

‘Tired?’ she asked, jarring him out of his thoughts.

Sedgwick rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘Long past tired.’

‘You get to bed. I’ll blow out the candles,’ she ordered tenderly.

In the dark he stared at the ceiling. The bed was cosy, and his arm slid around her.

‘Do you ever think of going back?’ he asked her.

‘To what?’ she answered sleepily.

‘To what you used to do.’

That was his fear, that she’d grow tired of this domesticity and leave him. Leave James. Leave a hole in their lives.