Chris Nickson - Cold Cruel Winter

‘It’s how things work in the world, John,’ the Constable said quietly. ‘But at least it’s over. The dying can stop now.’

The day seemed strangely quiet. The rain continued, slowing to a teasing airy drizzle at times before the deluge returned in earnest. Where the Aire had broken its banks people were struggling to save their possessions from the water.

For Nottingham there was paperwork. Reports to write, rolls of the dead to complete, the work of every humdrum week, and he was glad to return to it. He and Sedgwick ate their dinner next door at the White Swan, a mutton pie washed down with good ale, the subject of Wyatt still heavy on their minds.

‘It was wrong,’ the deputy insisted.

‘The only thing wrong about it was that I let someone else kill him,’ Nottingham told him. The subject had been preying on him all day, pecking away at him. ‘I should have done my job.’

‘I thought our job was upholding the law.’

The Constable took a deep drink. ‘The definition of the law can be very broad sometimes.’

‘Broad enough for murder, boss?’

‘In this case, killing him was justice.’

‘Without a trial?’

‘He’d confessed to his crimes. He’d gloried in them. A trial wouldn’t have served any purpose. We did the right thing. The only thing.’

Sedgwick shook his head.

‘Think about it,’ Nottingham continued. ‘All these people, everyone in the city.’

‘What about them?’

‘If they’d known what was going on, what do you think would have happened? Someone going round doing what he did. We’d have had panic. Do they really need to know how evil men can be?’

‘We know.’

‘It’s our job to know,’ the Constable pointed out. ‘And this time we served the people best by keeping everything quiet, by killing Wyatt.’

‘So why did you let the woman go, then, boss? She was in it just as much as he was.’

‘Because she was powerless. She might as well have never existed. There wasn’t any point in killing her.’

‘Go home and rest, John,’ Nottingham advised. ‘It’s been a long day.’

Sedgwick rubbed his eyes. ‘Aye, maybe you’re right, boss.’ He smiled wanly. ‘I’ll tell you something, though. I’m not cut out for your job.’

‘Just as well I’m not leaving yet, isn’t it?’

The first thing he did when he walked into the room was to scoop up James and swing him round until the boy’s laughter became uncontrollable. There was life in the sound, complete joy, the things he needed to hear right now. He pressed the boy against his chest, feeling his tiny heart beat fast, seeing the bright, innocent smile in his eyes.

Lizzie was wearing her good dress, the threadbare pale blue silk a man had given her when she was still a whore. It was faded now, the colour watery, but it still suited her.

‘What’s the occasion?’ he asked. ‘Something special I don’t know about?’

‘The other dress got soaked when I was shopping earlier.’ She tilted her head in the way he loved and asked, ‘Bad day?’

Sedgwick put the boy down and held her. ‘Very,’ he explained briefly. ‘I watched a criminal kill a murderer.’

‘What?’ She pulled back to look at his face.

‘Amos Worthy came with us.’ He watched her grimace at the name. ‘We had Wyatt, and the boss stood by while Worthy slit his throat.’

‘Why did Mr Nottingham allow it?’

‘Because the order from the Mayor was that Wyatt had to die. He had the chance but he couldn’t do it.’

‘And could you have done it?’

‘No.’

‘So maybe it’s for the best that someone could,’ she offered as consolation.

‘That’s what the boss said.’ He shook his head with sadness and confusion. ‘Doesn’t make it any easier, though.’

Lizzie kissed him tenderly. ‘You’re a good man, John Sedgwick, and I love you.’ She grinned and arched her eyebrows. ‘But you’re dripping all over my floor. Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.’

Nottingham stayed late at the jail, only making his way home after dusk had turned to darkness. The rain had passed, heavy clouds scudding away to the east, leaving large puddles and runnels of water. A half-moon scattered light.

His soul felt heavy. He stopped at the lych gate to the church, his hand on the wood, thinking of a few moments at Rose’s grave. But just now he needed the living.

The river would run high for a while yet, carrying off the last of winter. There would be more names to enter in the lists of the dead.

The image of Wyatt sliding down the bank would stay with him. He’d glimpsed Worthy’s face as he used the knife and seen the relish, the cruel smile on his thin lips.

But he was the one who’d brought him; he’d allowed it all to happen. In the end all Worthy did was what the Constable couldn’t do himself, the task he’d been charged to complete. And that, too, was something he’d need to live with.

The house was filled with the smell of fresh bread, the fire burning steadily in the hearth. Mary was sitting in her chair, fingers flitting to and fro as she mended a tear in her old shift.

‘You look tired,’ she said, smiling and extending a hand to him. He took it, feeling her warmth and let out a long, low sigh.

‘Where’s Emily?’

‘She went to bed a little while ago.’

‘Is there anything wrong?’ This was unlike their daughter, and concern flashed through his head.

‘She’s fine. I think she just wanted to read in peace. She’s ready for her own company again. And she swept the whole house. Did a good job of it for once, too.’

‘I feel like I could sleep for a week.’

‘But you know you won’t.’

He laughed. ‘God give me the chance to find out.’

Mary tucked the needle carefully into the fabric. For the first time, he noticed how she’d aged in the last two months. There was more grey in her hair and her face was drawn, clusters of tiny lines around her mouth,

‘Do you want me to come up with you?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he told her. ‘I’d like that a lot.’

The weather brightened into a perfect English spring, as if all that had gone before had been a taunt. The sun shone and the mud dried hard into ruts on the road.

Nottingham walked up to the Gypsy camp. He’d been there twice before with Sedgwick to see Josh’s progress. He was surprised how much he missed the boy.

‘The woman,’ David Petulengro said as they sat and talked. ‘She gone? Not see her now.’

‘Yes,’ the Constable confirmed. ‘She’s gone. She won’t be coming back.’

Josh was healing well. He’d even put on some weight, filling out the way a young man should. He played with the children at their games, running and laughing in a way Nottingham had never seen in him. For the first time there looked to be real happiness in him. The lad had never had the chance to be a child, the Constable reflected. He deserved that, even if it only lasted a brief time.

‘We leave soon,’ Petulengro said.

‘How soon?’

The man shrugged. ‘Two days, maybe three.’

‘What about Josh?’

‘We ask him what he want to do.’

‘He’s happy here.’

‘We happy he here.’ The Gypsy smiled, eyes warm, his moustache curling.

As he ambled back into the city Nottingham knew in his soul that Josh wouldn’t be returning to work. Leeds had given him little, and what it had offered it had torn away again. The lad would be better off with a new life.

The next day was Sunday, and he went to service at the Parish Church with Mary and Emily. On their way through the churchyard they stopped at Rose’s grave. Emily laid a small posy of early wildflowers on the mound of earth. They stood silent, letting themselves fill with memories for a brief time.