Cold Cruel Winter

by Chris Nickson

  Nottingham kept his face impassive. He’d known that much would leak out sooner or later; the only surprise was that it had taken so long.

  ‘You always listen to idle gossip, Amos?’

  He could sense Worthy smiling.

  ‘I paid good money for that, so it’d better be true.’

  Men didn’t cross the pimp, or lie to him, at least never more than once. Anyone who tried ended up beaten or dead, an example to others.

  ‘Why did you want to know?’ Nottingham asked. He knew Worthy liked to stay abreast of the happenings in the city, but usually the dead only concerned him if the corpse was one of his whores.

  ‘Knowledge is power, laddie. You should know that by now,’ Worthy snorted.

  The Constable gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘If that was true, Amos, I’d be running Leeds by now.’

  ‘You’ve too much honour, laddie. The folk who run things here would never be scared of you. You wouldn’t use what you knew.’

  ‘Unlike you.’

  ‘Aye,’ the pimp agreed. ‘Unlike me. So was I told the truth?’

  ‘Yes, you were.’ He could admit that much, he decided. If Worthy knew, others would too. They’d reached Timble Bridge, and Worthy stopped, hand on the parapet, staring down into Sheepscar Beck running fast below. The night was drawing in deeply around them, the air filled with the kind of damp chill that penetrated right through to the bones.

  ‘An odd thing to do to a man,’ the pimp speculated. ‘He must have had a reason.’

  Nottingham shrugged.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe it was just madness. We’ll know when we catch him.’

  ‘You haven’t managed that yet, laddie. No one in mind?’

  Nottingham turned to stare at Worthy, who was still gazing at the water. ‘This isn’t like you, Amos. You’ve a lot of questions tonight.’

  Worthy turned to face the Constable. He must have been in his late sixties, but he was still a large, solid man, sturdy as the forest, face weathered and battered by violence and time.

  ‘I knew Sam Graves long, long ago, back when I had another life. He was a good friend to me then, and he stayed one. He’d still talk to me if we met on Briggate, not like all the others. And before you ask, he never used my girls. Or any others, as far as I know.’

  Nottingham nodded. Years before, Worthy had owned a shop. After discovering that his own wife and Worthy were lovers, Nottingham’s father had thrown out his wife and son then done all he could to destroy Worthy.

  ‘I don’t like the idea of someone killing him then doing that,’ the procurer continued.

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘Aye, laddie, I know that. I’m offering you help if you want it.’

  Nottingham raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘And what’s the price?’

  With Worthy there was always a payment. Not money, but a debt to be paid sometime.

  The pimp shook his head. ‘No price, Mr Nottingham.’ He emphasized the word and spat.

  The Constable sighed. ‘I don’t believe you, Amos. I’ve known you too long.’

  ‘I’m offering you my men to help you. Simple as that. And I’ll pass on anything my whores hear.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘I respected Sam Graves, and I’ll not say that about many, in this city or elsewhere.’

  The Constable weighed the options. He could use more help, it was true, no matter where it came from. That was especially true if his men had to follow and protect two people. No one on the Corporation would condone him bringing in Worthy and his men, but the Mayor was pressing for a quick arrest. Finally he smiled.

  ‘I’m not going to say no, Amos. I’ll sleep on it tonight. I’ll come and see you tomorrow, unless you want to visit me at the jail.’

  Worthy grinned.

  ‘You already know the answer to that, laddie. And keeping things as quiet as possible is best – for both of us.’

  He doffed his hat, half in friendship, half in insolence, turned and began walking back into the city, his silver-topped stick pushing into the mud. Nottingham watched him go. He was unsure what to make of Worthy’s offer. It was generous, but that was the problem: Worthy wasn’t a man known for his generosity.

  Slowly, deep in thought, the Constable walked up Marsh Lane to his house. It was a small place, provided by the city as part of his job, but even though it needed repairs it was so much better than the rooms and garrets where he and Mary had lived before. It felt warm. Even now, in these days of loss and heartbreak, it felt like home.

  The fire was burning bright, coal crackling in the hearth. Emily was seated, staring lost into the blaze with a book closed on her lap, scarcely noticing as he entered and said hello. As she did so often these days, she’d withdrawn into her own safe little world where life couldn’t touch her.

  Nottingham took off the damp greatcoat, hung it from a sturdy nail in the wall, and walked through to the kitchen. Mary was kneading the dough for tomorrow’s bread, hands pushed deep into the mass. She glanced up and smiled at him, the gesture more comforting to him than any fire.

  ‘I hadn’t expected you yet, Richard. I’ve made a pie, but it won’t be ready for a little while.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he answered, reaching out and stroking her cheek with his fingertips to brush off a small smudge of flour. She didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch at his touch, and he felt his heart lighten. Could the scars have begun to harden, could they begin to move out of the morass?

  Her hands continued to work the bread, her eyes focused on her labours. Slowly his hand dropped from her skin.

  ‘You should go and sit with Emily,’ Mary suggested.

  ‘Is she still quiet?’

  Mary sighed and nodded, turning her gaze to her husband. ‘She barely says a word these days. She does everything I tell her without question or demur. You know what she was like . . .’

  Relations had soured between father and daughter in the autumn. Emily had been full of ideas, wanting to become a writer, wayward, secretly seeing a man who’d turned out to be a killer, and she’d been so faithful to him that Nottingham had been forced to hurt her to find his name and stop more death.

  After that, the house had become a place of brooding, simmering silences. Until Rose’s death; then life itself had become fringed with black. Emily’s quietness had turned inward; the girl had barely wanted to leave the house.

  ‘She liked to think for herself,’ he answered.

  ‘She thought she knew everything,’ Mary corrected him. ‘Now she’s so meek, it’s as if she’s a different person. She needs to get some heart back in herself.’

  ‘Maybe she’s not the only one,’ he said.

  She looked questioningly into his face.

  ‘All of us,’ he explained.

  After long moments, she nodded sharply, gathered her breath and began to speak. ‘Most of the time I feel like my heart’s going to break. I see something and it makes me think of Rose. It’s everything. You, Emily, this house. And I don’t know what I can do about it. I don’t even have the words to tell you about the things I’ve been feeling.’

  ‘You think I don’t feel all that too?’ His voice was soft, a little stung by what she’d said.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She wiped her hands on her apron, pausing, pulling together her words. ‘I mean it, Richard, I really don’t know. You go on to work each day. You come home. You exist, and all we do is talk about all the little things as if nothing had changed, as if Rose hadn’t died.’

  ‘I . . .’ he began, but couldn’t go further. She was right.

  ‘As long as I’ve known you, you’ve rarely discussed your work.’ The emotions started to rush out of her, as if she’d kept them in a bottle and now she was uncorking it. Mary placed her hands firmly on the table, trying to anchor herself in place. ‘I know you’ve done it to protect us. I’ve always loved that about you. But now, when you don’t talk about work, and we daren’t talk about family, what do we have left to discuss safely?’

  He reached out, coverin
g her hand with his own, rubbing it slowly, feeling her rough skin under his. ‘I stopped at Rose’s grave on my way home,’ he told her. ‘I go there when I can. Sometimes I pray for her, sometimes I just speak to her in my head.’

  ‘Does it help?’ Mary asked.

  ‘I think so,’ he answered after a moment. ‘Sometimes I feel closer to her.’

  ‘I’ve been there, too,’ she said. ‘I’ve stood for hours. I’ve tried to pray. But all I’ve seen is some earth and no God around it. Rose isn’t there. Not to me.’

  ‘Where is she, then?’

  Mary tapped her head, leaving a smudge of flour on her cap.

  ‘I talk to her, too,’ she said. ‘I tell her things, the little things I’m thinking or doing. And she talks to me. She answers me.’

  Nottingham listened.

  ‘She should still be here. A child shouldn’t die before her parents.’

  ‘It happens all the time,’ he said softly.

  ‘I know that, Richard.’ Her voice flared with bitterness and injustice. ‘That doesn’t make it any better.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed.

  ‘I cry a lot. I’ll be doing something, anything, and I’ll start crying. Sometimes it feels like I’ll never stop. Sometimes I don’t want to.’

  ‘We both miss her, you know that.’

  ‘I’ve watched you,’ she continued, her gaze fixed on him. ‘After Rose died, you seemed lost, but it was as if you wanted to be that way. You wanted it to hurt. You didn’t want anyone too close to you, you wouldn’t have let me near if I’d tried.’ She paused. ‘Now you have this murder the city’s talking about, and suddenly you’re you again. You’re Richard Nottingham, the Constable. You have a purpose.’ Her eyes were large and moist. ‘You have all that. And I’m Mary Nottingham, I’m still here. I’m still surrounded by the same things, the same memories, every single day.’

  Slowly, with tenderness born from years together, from happiness and grief, he gathered her to him. She cried softly as he held her close. Silently, he thanked God. She felt so familiar in his arms, so much a part of him, a part he’d missed in these last weeks.

  She pulled back suddenly, not hiding the tears, and wiping them away with the back of her hands.

  ‘Let me finish here.’

  He smiled then unfolded her from his arms. They’d begun again. Together.

  He’d barely taken three bites of the pie before there was a hurried pounding on the door. Glancing apologetically at Mary and Emily, he rose from the table to answer it. Josh was there, his legs muddy, breath coming fast and steaming on the air so he was hardly able to push the words out.

  ‘Mr Sedgwick asked if you’d come, boss. Right now.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘It’s that man from Graves’s warehouse.’

  ‘Rushworth?’ The Constable felt the pit of his stomach fall.

  ‘Yes. He’s vanished.’

  Ten

  ‘Damn it.’ Nottingham paused to think. He thought he’d covered everything, that he was in control again. ‘Go back,’ he ordered quickly. ‘Tell John I’m on my way. Get men out. Look where he lives. Look in the taverns in case he went there. Look everywhere. And I want whoever was supposed to follow him at the jail in an hour.’

  Forrester took off again, running as fast as his legs would move. Nottingham knew the reality. They’d search. If they were very, very lucky, they’d find Rushworth. But even as he hoped, he knew the truth would almost certainly be different. Wyatt had snatched him. The next time they’d see the man would be as a corpse with the flesh stripped from his back.

  He turned back to look pleadingly at Mary. Emily gazed at him curiously.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’

  Mary nodded in understanding. She’d heard the words so often before in their life together. He put on his old, plain buff coat, gathered up his greatcoat and swept out of the door, buttoning the garment as he walked quickly over the bridge and up Kirkgate, ploughing through the dense mud of the road.

  At the jail Sedgwick was sitting behind the desk, frowning anxiously.

  ‘How did it happen, John?’ Nottingham asked angrily before the deputy could say anything. ‘There were supposed to be men on him.’

  ‘I had Morris following him. He’s not the best, but he’s usually reliable. He said Rushworth went down a ginnel. By the time Morris got there, Rushworth had vanished. He says he looked all over then came back here. Josh was on and he came and got me.’

  ‘Has someone tried his home in case Morris just lost him?’

  ‘I went over myself. Lives alone, his neighbours said. His wife died during the winter. Don’t worry, boss, I didn’t tell them anything.’

  The Constable rubbed his chin, feeling the stiff rasp of stubble.

  ‘Have you talked to Morris?’

  ‘Aye, just for a minute, then I sent him out again.’

  ‘And what do you think. Is he telling the truth?’

  He watched the deputy carefully framing his answer.

  ‘I believe him. He’s not a liar. He’s always been a solid man, boss, he does the work as best he can. It’s just . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s not too sharp. He’s fine for little jobs, but this might have been too much for him.’

  Nottingham stared hard at Sedgwick. ‘So why did you pick him? You know how important this is.’

  The deputy look back evenly. ‘You said you wanted men on it right away. He was there, the better ones weren’t.’

  Nottingham grimaced in frustration.

  ‘I’m sorry, John, you were just doing what I’d ordered. I told Josh I wanted Morris back here. I’ll find out what happened. How many men do you have out looking?’

  ‘Every single one of them, except those keeping an eye on the judge, and he’s tucked up at home.’

  Nottingham let out a long, slow sigh. ‘We’ll need men on the judge. We can’t afford any problems there. And scour the bloody city for Rushworth. We need to find him sharpish.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Nottingham was trying to sort through some papers, fretting and hoping for news, when the man walked into the jail. He knew Morris’s face, although they’d not spoken often. Morris was a stooped, scrawny man with a heavy, dark beard that grew to his chest. His hair was lank and matted, face and hands dirty; he looked like a beggar in his layers of ancient clothes.

  ‘Tha’ wanted to see me, sir,’ he said.

  ‘You were following Rushworth.’

  Morris considered the statement. ‘Aye, that’s what Mr Sedgwick told me to do.’

  ‘I want to know everything that happened. Everything. Take your time. It doesn’t matter how small.’ Nottingham perched on the edge of the desk

  ‘I went down to that warehouse. Tha’ know the one?’

  The Constable nodded.

  ‘I waited till they all come out for the day.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else waiting around?’

  Morris shook his head.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘How did you know Rushworth?’

  ‘Mr Sedgwick had told me what he looked like.’

  ‘Where did he go after they all came out?’

  He could see the man trying to slowly marshal his memories.

  ‘He went along the Calls. There were some people about, so I didn’t let myself get too far behind him.’

  ‘How far away were you?’

  Morris tried to estimate the distance in his head. ‘Mebbe forty yards. Little bit more, perhaps. Fifty yards at most.’

  ‘Did he look around? Did he talk to anyone?’

  ‘Nay, he had his head down and he was striding out. Like people do when they’re going home from work. Glad to be free.’

  ‘And when he was in the Calls?’

  ‘He ducked into this ginnel. I know it, it’s just a short one, leads through to Kirkgate not far from t’ Parish church.’

  ‘What did you do?’


  ‘I walked faster so I wouldn’t lose him, sir.’

  ‘But you did lose him.’

  Morris hung his head.

  ‘I know.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And by the time you’d reached the ginnel he’d gone?’

  ‘Aye. It was like he’d just vanished.’ He opened his eyes wide. ‘I ran to the end and looked up and down the street, but he wasn’t there. He’d just disappeared.’

  ‘Could he have gone into any of the courts off the ginnel?’

  ‘He could.’ Morris admitted slowly. ‘But I didn’t hear a door or owt. I’ve got good ears,’ he said with pride.

  ‘What did you do after that?’

  ‘I were starting to get worried. I looked around a bit, but I couldn’t find him, so I came back here quick as I could.’

  ‘You did the right thing, then,’ Nottingham told him with a small smile. ‘You go and get some rest. Report to Mr Sedgwick or Josh in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Morris looked up hopefully. ‘I still have a job? Only I need the money . . .’

  ‘You still have a job,’ the Constable confirmed.

  Once Morris had gone, a grateful grin lighting up his dirty face, Nottingham put on his greatcoat and left the jail. He needed to see the scene for himself, to try to understand how Rushworth could simply have gone.

  He was certain Wyatt had him now, and barring a miracle, no one would see him alive again. Anger burned in his gut, fury at the killer. But there was also a tinge of admiration. The man was daring – and clever.

  On Lower Briggate there was plenty of noise from the inns and beer shops as people drank the evening away. Whores plied their trade in isolation or gossiped in small groups as they waited for business, walking on tall wooden pattens to keep their cheap dresses from the mud. With the thaw had come the return of the city smells, the rich stew of shit, piss and rubbish all hidden by the cold.

  He turned into the Calls, trying to keep his mind open to all the possibilities. By now the street was almost empty, and his footsteps resounded off the cobbles. Nottingham knew the ginnel Morris meant: a small lane close to the Parish Church that ran alongside the large property owned by Berkenhold, the merchant.