Chris Nickson - Cold Cruel Winter

‘Thank you.’

Joshua Forester was doing what he did well, what he’d come to love. He was listening. In the inns and stableyards, all people were talking about was the murder. It was all speculation — not one of them had known Samuel Graves — but that didn’t matter.

They all had plenty to say; gossip was the common currency of everyday life, a relief from numbing work. At times Josh felt as if they couldn’t see him, that he wasn’t really there, as they carried on around him as if he didn’t quite exist.

But his whole life had been like that. It had saved him, allowed him to steal food and cut purses to survive, and helped him become a good Constable’s man. He pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of the coat that was four sizes too big for him and belted with a piece of rope.

At least he had good boots. He’d taken them from the corpse of a merchant’s son the month before; his old ones were worn through at the sole and leaked. But why would the rich need boots after death, anyway? For them it was just a short walk to heaven.

The boss had noticed, of course, giving him a short, hard look, but saying nothing. He protected his men. Josh had been astonished to learn that Richard Nottingham had once lived like him, out on the streets, scrabbling, fighting, hungry. Even now, with the pain of grieving written on his face, he seemed in control of everything.

Nottingham could move among the wealthy, converse with the powerful men of the city, and also those who had nothing. But his life had covered both sides of the coin. At times Josh had to wonder if that was why he’d been appointed Constable: because the Corporation were embarrassed to see a merchant’s son, even one that had been cast out, among the poor.

But he knew the truth was much more than that: that Nottingham was good at his job. He kept order in the city, and he was a strong leader. He knew how to get the best from his men. He’d encouraged Mr Sedgwick to learn how to read and write, grooming him for the future. He saw things in people that others didn’t.

Josh didn’t know his letters or numbers, and he didn’t care. He was happy as he was. Thirteen or maybe fourteen now, he relished the steadiness of his work, and the sense that for the first time in his life he had a future that went beyond the night. The companions he’d had when he was a thief had mostly drifted off. He saw a few in the city, and the rest, well, the winter would have taken its toll on those who’d stayed in Leeds. He shared his room with Frances, a girl he’d known for four years. She was, he supposed, around his own age; he’d never asked and she’d never volunteered the information, if she even knew. In the old days he’d protected her, fed her, and she’d clung to him. When the others slowly melted away, she’d stayed; by then it seemed perfectly natural for them to be together without even discussing it. Not that they ever talked about much, words weren’t their way. She had food ready for him when he returned from working, and held him close in the cold nights. She’d said she thought she might be having a bairn, but her belly was still flat, so he wasn’t sure what to make of that. Time would tell, he imagined.

He liked his job, knowing there would be work tomorrow, the day after and next week, and the regular pay. It was more than he’d ever known before. So Richard Nottingham had his loyalty. And Frances, in an odd way, had his love.

Today, though, he was going to disappoint the boss. People were out, in spite of the cold — they were always out, it seemed, no matter the weather — but they had nothing worthwhile to say, just rumours and idle thoughts. Throughout the day he shifted from place to place, from stable to draper, but there was nothing useful. The only consolation was that they didn’t know about the skinning. They would, sooner or later. Someone would talk.

He made his way back to the jail, face numb from the bitter weather, hungry for some warmth. Nottingham raised his eyebrow as Josh walked in. When he simply shook his head, the Constable murmured, ‘Damn.’

Sedgwick had gathered a list of the employees sacked by Graves. He’d been thorough, insisting the clerk go back ten years. There were only twelve names, so either the merchant had picked his men well or he was a soft-hearted employer, which the deputy found impossible to believe in the wool trade.

One man had been sent to prison, another transported, both for theft. As to the others, their offences had been quite trivial — smoking in the warehouse, late to work too often, minor infractions but enough to warrant dismissal. He knew enough to follow up, to find the men if he could and talk to them. One of them might well be the murderer. Anyone could do anything in the right circumstances, he’d learnt that much in his time on the job.

By late afternoon, after trudging from address to address and feeling as if he was chasing shadows, he’d managed to find three of the men. One was so wracked with consumption that he seemed to shimmer between life and death on his mattress in a foetid room. Another had hands turned into crippled, shiny claws by a lifetime of work; he couldn’t have held a knife.

The third was more interesting. Adam Carter was in his late thirties, tall, broad, still strong, still without work, his manner curt and furtive, scabs on his face and knuckles as prizes from the fights he’d been in over the last fortnight. He’d lost his job in the Graves warehouse five years earlier. Sitting in the dram shop, spinning out one glass of gin as his eyes craved another, he remembered Graves.

‘A right bastard, he were,’ he said, the froth of bitterness full on his words. ‘I were late five times in a month, that’s all. I told him I was willing to work later to make up for it. My daughter were ill, see, and I’d to look after her since my wife weren’t well. They both died a month back from the cold.’ He swallowed a little more, grimacing at the taste while Sedgwick sat, listening. ‘Anyway, I tried to tell him, but the self-righteous bugger didn’t want to know. Sent me packing.’

‘You still hate him?’ Sedgwick asked.

Carter looked up, blue eyes lifeless. ‘I’ve lost my family,’ he answered flatly. ‘Of course I hate him. I fucking hate everyone now.’

‘You know someone killed him.’

‘Aye, it’s all over for him, and about bloody time, too.’

Sedgwick stared at him, an accusation in his eyes.

‘No, it weren’t me.’

‘And can you prove that?’

‘Course I can’t.’ Carter hawked and spat on the stone floor. ‘You can’t prove it were me, neither. If you could, we wouldn’t be here now, you’d have me in the jail.’

It was true, and Sedgwick acknowledged it. Carter didn’t have the cunning of the killer, and probably not the skill. This man had given up on living. Whoever killed Graves had a force within him, a deep desire that drove him.

‘I might want to talk to you again,’ Sedgwick warned.

Carter shrugged carelessly.

‘Tha’s found me once. I’m not going anywhere.’

When he reached the jail, Nottingham and Josh were sharing a jug of ale from the White Swan next door. Sedgwick poured himself a mug and gave his report.

‘So there are seven we still need to talk to,’ the Constable mused. ‘You two can work on that tomorrow, you know what to do. I’ll find out about the ones who were convicted.’

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Go home, the pair of you. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.’

Alone, he drained the cup. The evening outside was loud with the sound of voices, carts, and horses. He wanted the peace of silence. He wanted to be somewhere the thoughts didn’t crowd him, where all this vanished and he could feel free.

Terrible as it was, he knew this murder was what he needed. It was forcing him out of himself, pushing him away from the darkness that had consumed him since Rose died.