Chris Nickson - Cold Cruel Winter

‘You’ve turned it around in your head and you can find no hidden reason. So you’ve come here. Reluctant as ever.’

The Constable reached across and poured himself a cup of beer. ‘And you’re as astute as ever, Amos. I need your help.’

‘Then you’d better tell me all about it, laddie, so we can work together properly.’

‘Did you ever hear of a man called Abraham Wyatt?’

Worthy shook his head. ‘Means nowt to me.’

‘He was one of Graves’s clerks. Stole some money, ended up transported to the Indies for seven years.’

‘And he came back with revenge in his head?’

‘In his heart,’ Nottingham corrected him.

‘So you think he’s the one who murdered Sam?’

‘I’m sure of it,’ Nottingham said flatly. ‘It’s the first of four murders.’

Worthy’s head snapped up, his eyes sharp and inquisitive.

‘How do you know that?’

‘That’s what he implied in the first volume of his book with its special binding.’

‘Special binding?’

‘Now you know what happened to the skin,’ the Constable told him.

Worthy remained silent for several breaths then shook his head. ‘That’s not the work of anyone human,’ he declared finally. ‘Four murders, he said. All like this? With the same ending?’

‘Yes.’

‘You believe him?’

‘I do.’ Nottingham paused. ‘He’s already snatched the second victim. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Who is it?’

‘A man named Rushworth. He clerks for Graves, and he gave evidence at Wyatt’s trial.’

Worthy nodded.

‘And who are the other two?’

‘Judge Dobbs. He handed down the sentence.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t know.’

Worthy sighed lightly. ‘Who arrested him?’

‘The old Constable.’

‘Who was there with him?’

‘I was.’

‘I know your mother didn’t raise you to be both blind and a fool, laddie,’ the pimp said in exasperation. ‘Old Arkwright’s dead.’

Suddenly, Nottingham understood. He was the fourth victim. For the love of God, he must have turned stupid. How had he missed something so obvious?

‘Not nice to know someone wants to kill you, is it?’

‘You’d know if anyone would,’ the Constable responded, the anger at himself brimming over into his voice.

‘Aye, I would,’ Worthy replied mildly. ‘Enough of them have tried. And failed.’ He poured himself more of the beer and drank it down in a single swallow. ‘You’d have done it yourself if you could.’

‘I’d have put you in jail, Amos.’

‘It’ll never happen, laddie, and you know it.’ He tapped the side of his nose. Worthy had too many important protectors in the city to end up convicted of anything: the merchants and aldermen who used his whores or borrowed his money.

Silence filled the air. Nottingham rubbed his chin, feeling the harsh bristle, a reminder that he needed a shave. He needed to be better armed, he thought. All he usually carried was a small dagger, little better than a penknife. Another knife, perhaps a primed pistol in his coat pocket. It wasn’t something he wanted to do, but he was forewarned now. Wyatt was clever. He needed to be constantly aware and alert.

But unless they had the devil’s own luck and found Rushworth soon, it would likely be several days until Wyatt tried to strike again. He’d need time with his victim, and longer still to cure the skin and write his book.

Doing that was as important to the man as the act of killing, Nottingham understood that. He needed it all to be known, put it all on paper, to indulge his evil and play out his part.

‘Penny for them, laddie?’

Nottingham shook his head. ‘Just thinking.’

‘So how are we going to stop him?’ Worthy asked.

‘We need to find him.’

‘And when we do?’

The Constable paused for a moment. ‘Kill him quietly.’

Worthy nodded and drained his cup. ‘Aye, that’s what I thought. They won’t want folk to know too much about all this.’

‘But that doesn’t happen until I’ve talked to him.’

The pimp gazed at him quizzically.

‘Why? You think you can make sense of something like this?’

Nottingham shrugged. ‘I doubt if I’ll be able to do that,’ he admitted. ‘I just want to know.’

‘Don’t waste your time,’ Worthy advised. ‘There are some things that are beyond understanding.’

The Constable stood up.

‘You’ll get your men out?’

‘Aye. Do you know anything about him that might help?’

‘He’s spent seven years in the Indies. His skin will still be dark, he’ll stand out. I don’t know what he’s doing for money. He’s probably taken a place that’s quiet. Not a room. Bigger.’

‘It’s a start. I’ll tell my lads.’

‘And he stays alive until I talk to him.’

Worthy held up his palms in submission. ‘If that’s what you really want, laddie.’

‘It is. And I don’t need one of your men watching me.’

The pimp’s eyes twinkled. ‘The thought never occurred to me.’

Wyatt would need to buy food. The Constable had said that, but Josh had already worked it out for himself. A man couldn’t live on air. But a man could be sly. Josh knew the tricks, the places to find food without spending money and without being seen by those who cared.

For the last few days he’d kept his eyes open, talking quietly to the folk who lived that way themselves, out on the edges of society. They were what he’d been himself just a few short months before. The dispossessed, the invisible, the hopeful and the hopeless. Most of the time they stayed out of sight, taking only what they needed, so that the good citizens were hardly aware of their existence. But there were those who saw things the others missed. These were the ones who’d notice someone like Wyatt. They were the ones to talk to.

His hair was wet from the light rain, lank against his face. Frances had cut it with an old pair of scissors a few days before. The blades were dull and she’d ended up hacking off hunks. Still, at least he didn’t look like a beggar lad now, she’d told him. He’d caught his reflection in a shop window a few times, taken aback by the change, his hair short, almost neat. The boss had said nothing, but he’d noticed and exchanged a short glance with Mr Sedgwick.

Josh drifted up the road that extended beyond the Head Row into Woodhouse. Beyond lay Headingley, then Otley, Ilkley, and a whole country past that. All places he’d never been and didn’t care about.

After a mile he turned on to a small track of bare, muddy earth and made his way up to a copse on the peak of the hill. Hidden away within the trees was a small community of people surrounded by their painted wooden caravans, with all the horses, their real wealth, hobbled beyond that. Old canvas had been pitched from the branches for shelters.

They’d arrived before winter’s grip turned cruel, and made the raw place their own. They’d been coming for years now, arriving with the season and departing in spring. Josh had first gone to see them when he was still a child, oddly drawn to these exotic folk. They’d treated him kindly, and he’d come to know a few of them, to like and trust them. He’d often brought Frances with him. She been entranced by the bright colours of their clothes and caravans, by the simple pleasure they took in their hard lives, and even by their strange tongue. Once they’d discovered he’d become a Constable’s lad they’d been wary, but their suspicions had quickly vanished.

Josh nodded at some familiar faces. A stewpot hung over a fire, and the tempting smell of rabbit meat filled the encampment. Water sat nearby in a pair of ewers, both cracked and ancient.