Cold Cruel Winter (31 page)

‘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.'

Thirty-Six

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.

Later, as they walked home, with Emily far in front chattering away with a neighbour's girl, Mary said,

‘I saw Sarah Rains at the market yesterday.'

He recalled her, the woman who ran the Dame school where his daughters had been educated. ‘How is she?' he asked.

‘She was telling me that she knows a good family in Headingley that needs a governess for their girls. She thought Emily would be ideal.'

‘Emily?' he burst out in astonishment. His wayward girl with ambitions as a writer working as a governess?

‘She's grown up a lot since . . . in the last few months, Richard. She's clever. And she needs something to do with her life.'

‘Have you talked to her about it?'

Mary nodded. ‘She wants the position.'

‘And Mrs Rains vouches for the family?'

‘Yes. I told Emily it was up to you.'

‘I'd want to know more about these people first.'

Mary smiled gently. ‘I suspected that.'

‘But if everything's fine, I don't see why not. It could be exactly what she needs.'

On Monday morning there was crisp birdsong in the air and the smell of summer in the wind. Nottingham arrived at the jail with early light. He'd barely settled to his desk when Sedgwick arrived at a run, his face an awkward confusion of disbelief and joy.

‘You won't believe this, boss.'

The Constable waited, wondering.

‘The night men found the Hendersons in the Aire. They'd drowned.'

‘What, both of them?'

‘Aye, the pair together. They'd fetched up by the bridge, in just their shirts. Their clothes were upstream. Looks like they'd got drunk and gone swimming. The lads said they'd had two complaints about them being rowdy in the inns last night.'

Nottingham shook his head in surprise and pleasure. ‘God works in mysterious ways, eh, John?'

‘I thought you'd be pleased, boss.' The deputy was grinning. ‘The coroner's been down and I'm just waiting on some more men to bring the bodies back here. I had to come and tell you.'

‘No need to be too gentle with them.'

‘I wasn't planning on it.'

He ducked out, going back to his work. For a few minutes the Constable thought about the brothers. Once again he'd been spared the need to act. Slowly he picked up the quill, sharpening the nib with a small knife, and started on his reports.

He'd been scribbling for a while when the door opened and Josh arrived, accompanied by David Petulengro. The lad looked healthy, his face shining, but he was hesitant, setting foot in the jail as if it was a place that scared him. The Constable smiled.

‘You've come to say your farewells, haven't you, lad?' Nottingham asked.

Josh was taken aback, eyes widening. ‘How did you know, boss?'

‘Don't you remember? I know everything.' He laughed. ‘You should have learnt that by now. No,' he continued, ‘I've seen it in you for a while now when I've been up at the camp. You're due some happiness.'

‘I couldn't go without seeing you, boss. I needed to thank you,' Josh said simply. ‘For everything.'

The Constable nodded. ‘Have you seen Mr Sedgwick yet?'

‘I visited him and Lizzie last night.'

‘Did he ask you to stay on here?'

‘Yes,' the boy admitted.

‘Well, for what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing. The best thing. Get away from Leeds. But,' he added, ‘if you change your mind, I've always got a job for you.'

Josh smiled and blushed deep.

‘Where will you go?'

‘We go to the horse fair at Shipley,' Petulengro interjected. ‘Then up to big gathering in Appleby. You know it?'

Nottingham shook his head. The Gypsy smiled. ‘All Gypsy horses. Big fair. But we come back next winter.'

The Constable smiled. ‘You always do. And bring this one with you. I want to see him again.'

Reaching across the desk, the two men clasped hands.

The door swung wide and men carried in the corpses of Peter and Paul Henderson, their bodies hardly concealed under old, thin sheets. Petulengro looked pointedly at Nottingham. ‘We leave this morning. We just had to finish few things first.'

Nottingham raised his hand as the Gypsy walked out.

Afterword

This is a book that definitely has two parents. The first is a news story from 2006. A book estimated to be three hundred years old was found on the street in Leeds (ironic, but true). Tests showed that the book had actually been bound in human skin. This process, known as anthropodermic bibliopegy, wasn't common, but certainly not unknown, especially in France.

A number of libraries have copies of books bound in human skin, and it was also sometimes used to bind the trial proceedings of a murderer who was later executed for his crimes. Something like that can stir the imagination.

The other is a short story I wrote called
Home
, which appeared in the anthology
Criminal Tendencies
published by Crème de la Crime in 2009. In that, a man returned from having been transported but met a far different end. Still, it raised a
what if
question and offered me a starting point.

There was no especially cruel winter in Leeds in 1731–32; that's strictly my imagination. But winter was a difficult time for the poor then, and many more did die in that season. Even the wealthy wouldn't have been completely immune from its ravages.

Today the area at the bottom of Woodhouse Hill is built up, and the home of the Thoresby Society, the historical society of Leeds, stands above it, close to a lovely small park. Marsh Lane, too, is now very much part of the urban jungle, and you'd look in vain for Timble Bridge or the traces of Sheepscar Beck close to it.

I'm grateful to Lynne Patrick for her belief in the worth of Richard Nottingham and John Sedgwick, and her love of crime fiction. Although no longer my publisher, she remains a wonderful editor and a valued friend.

I'm also glad to have Thom Atkinson as my closest friend and critic. The best writer I know, his suggestions and critiques are always insightful and improve what I've written, as they have here. All weaknesses and historical errors are my own.

Linda Hornberg is a superb artist and I'm proud that she's willing to work her magic on the maps for these books. Once again, her work is wonderful and I'm grateful.

Several books have been useful in the writing of this book.
The Illustrated History of Leeds
by Steven Burt and Kevin Brady (Breedon Books, 1994) is an invaluable resource, as are
Leeds: The Story of a City
by David Thornton (Fort, 2002),
The Municipal History of Leeds
by James Wardell (Longman Brown & Co., 1846),
Gentleman Merchants
by R. G. Wilson (Manchester University Press, 1971) and
1700
by Maureen Waller (Sceptre, 2000).

Finally, as ever, my world is rocked by Graham and August.