Cold Cruel Winter

by Chris Nickson

  Nottingham was sure the man knew the truth about his sons. But to admit it would mean admitting his failure with them. So each time they were arrested the family lawyer came scurrying. He jingled money in his purse, the walls of power were quickly thrown up, and the law was turned away empty-handed. It was the cobweb justice that prevailed throughout the land. The small were caught fast, helpless. Those who were bigger simply broke their way through.

  Murder, though, was something else. If he could find the proof, Peter and Paul might yet dance on the gibbet. And he’d make an enemy for life on the Corporation.

  It wasn’t what he’d expected from Peacher Hawthorn, but he was glad to have the names. Now Nottingham had to do his job and find evidence strong enough to convict. At least there’d be plenty willing to talk against them; Isaac had been well-respected in Leeds. The Hendersons’ ways might have bought them sycophants, fearful of their arrogance, but they had precious few friends.

  To start, he’d bring them down here, a duty he’d relish. Let them see he knew the truth and was going to prove it. He locked the jail behind him, eyes taking in the faces on Kirkgate, straining at the shadows. His right hand was in his pocket, fist close around the knife hilt. He’d been given a warning, and he knew better than to trust to luck to keep him alive.

  The return of the bitter weather kept the streets quieter than usual. Carters were reluctant to risk their valuable horses on the slick ice of the roads. Men trod carefully, their heads down. At least the city smelt clean in the cold, all the usual stinks of shit, piss and life buried away under snow and ice.

  As he made his way down to the bridge he stayed aware of others, where they walked, how close they came. But if he wasn’t going to accept one of the men following him, this was how it would have to be. Constantly aware, constantly ready.

  Nottingham only let himself relax when he saw Sedgwick. He was questioning a man with a heavy pack on his back, pointing down at the riverbank. The man rested the weight on the stone parapet of the bridge for a moment, his eyes looking up at the deputy intently, then shaking his head. He stood slowly, shifting his body forward to settle the large bundle, then trudged on into the city.

  ‘Anything, John?’

  ‘Bugger all so far.’ Sedgwick rubbed his hands together to warm them, then spat in disgust. ‘You’d think Wyatt was invisible.’

  ‘I can give you a little joy, at least.’

  ‘Oh?’ He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘The Henderson brothers for Isaac. The Peacher passed me the word.’

  The deputy started to smile, then looked suddenly dubious. ‘You think we can make it stick?’

  ‘If we can find the evidence, yes. Then even the alderman won’t be able to buy them off the scaffold. Want to come up and help me bring them to the jail?’

  Sedgwick grinned.‘I think you’ve just made me a happy man, boss.’

  The alderman’s house stood close to the top of Briggate, above the market cross, near to the Head Row. It was an old place, he knew that, but Nottingham had no idea how long it had stood there. The wood of the frame was dark with age, the limewash still bright and fresh after being renewed the year before. Inside, he knew, the rooms were filled with dark wood and hardly any light. It might be ancient, but there was precious little beauty about it.

  He banged on the heavy door, the thick oak worn and scarred by so many hands, then glanced at the deputy. The servant who opened looked warily at them. He knew who they were and what this visit meant.

  ‘Is the alderman in?’ Nottingham asked, knowing full well he’d have been at his warehouse for hours.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And the brothers?’

  ‘They’re still sleeping.’

  ‘Go and wake them. Tell them they have visitors.’

  The man nodded. It wasn’t the first time they’d played this scene together. He showed them through to the parlour, where the fire was laid but not lit, and scurried off. Above his head Nottingham could hear angry, muffled voices. Good, he’d catch them groggy, not rested and still climbing from the depths of drink.

  It was a full half-hour before the brothers burst into the room. Peter was the older, the taller, the leader. Paul trailed just behind, his pale eyes not yet fully awake. Peter Henderson drew himself up, his face haughty and lazy.

  He was as tall as Nottingham and broad, in his early twenties but already running to fat, the buttons straining on an expensively stitched brocade waistcoat. Thick thighs filled a pair of well-cut breeches. His eyes were sharp, wary. Paul’s face had the same shape, the same blond hair, the features so similar that the brotherhood was obvious. But he was docile, empty, the willing sheep to his brother’s shepherd.

  ‘The meaning of this, Constable?’ Peter asked.

  Nottingham took his time answering. He looked at them, unshaven, pale bristles on their cheeks. They smelt of old beer and stale sweat. He waited, his eyes travelling up and down their clothes, looking for any sign of blood.

  ‘You’re coming to the jail with us,’ he told them.

  Peter stuck his hands into the pockets of his breeches and tilted his head back. ‘For what?’

  ‘The murder of Isaac the Jew.’ He spoke calmly, watching. Peter’s face was fixed, hard, but Paul’s eyes flickered with fear, and he knew he had them.

  ‘I suppose you have proof?’

  ‘Suppose what you like, Master Henderson. For now we’re taking you to the jail to ask you some questions.’

  Peter didn’t turn his head, but bellowed, ‘Watkins!’

  The servant scurried in. Henderson didn’t even turn towards the man but kept his gaze fixed on Nottingham.

  ‘Send word to our father that the Constable has arrested us. And have lawyer Ames come down to the jail.’

  As the parlour door closed softly, he said,‘You won’t have us long.’

  Nottingham smiled. ‘We’ll only need you long enough to hang you. Shall we go, then?’

  The Constable gave Sedgwick quiet instructions, then followed the brothers down the street. They walked in silence, but he knew people saw them, that the word would spread that the Henderson brothers had been arrested again. He kept a good pace, forcing them to walk faster than they wanted.

  For a moment he felt something, like small pinpricks on his neck, and he turned sharply. But there was no one there.

  Josh was waiting at the jail, standing by the desk. Nottingham put Peter and Paul into a cell together, letting the sound of the key turning in the lock resound. Then he spoke soft words into the boy’s ear and watched him hurry off at a run.

  The two of them sat silent on the bed, so close their bodies almost touched. Was it to give each other strength, he wondered? He closed the door behind himself and leaned against it. Peter looked up at him, but Paul didn’t move his head.

  ‘Do you know Chapeltown Moor?’ Nottingham began.

  Peter leaned back against the wall. ‘The races.’ He paused and turned to the Constable. ‘And the hangings. We like a good hanging. I laugh when they piss themselves.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to see that the pair of you make a good hanging. My guess is you’ll piss yourselves even before you get on the scaffold.’

  ‘Who was it we’re supposed to have murdered?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Isaac the Jew.’

  ‘That’s the one who buys old clothes?’

  ‘Bought,’ Nottingham corrected him.

  Peter shrugged. ‘Bought, then.’

  ‘Why did you kill him? The rumour that he had gold in his room?’

  Peter looked at him with contempt, as he might a servant. ‘We didn’t kill anyone. Why do you think we did?’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘Last night?’ Peter stretched and turned to his brother. ‘The Talbot, wasn’t it? We lost some money on the cockfighting.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Paul agreed. Nottingham could see he looked uncomfortable, his fingers twisting together. He’ll be the one to collapse, the Constabl
e thought. All it would take would be the right thrust. ‘Then you vanished with that whore for a while.’

  ‘Money badly spent,’ Peter said sorely.

  ‘What time did you get home?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘No idea,’ Peter replied blandly. ‘You’d have to ask the servants. They’re the ones who got up to let us in.’

  ‘I will.’ He paused. ‘And are those the clothes you were wearing last night?’ He stared at Paul, who nodded in response.

  Peter stood up and approached the Constable. The planes of his face, hard and sharp, burned with anger.

  ‘I’ll make sure my father destroys you for this.’

  ‘I won’t let anyone get away with murder,’ Nottingham replied evenly. ‘I don’t care what his surname is.’

  With slow, precise care, Henderson spat into the Constable’s face. ‘That’s my opinion of you and your law.’

  Nottingham brought his knee up sharply, feeling it connect hard against the younger man’s balls. Almost as if time had slowed, Henderson’s eyes widened in shock then he collapsed with a groan, tossed down carelessly to the floor, hands cradling his crotch as he curled up. He was gasping for air, skin suddenly pale. Paul started to rise to help him but the Constable gestured him back.

  ‘That,’ he told Peter, ‘was very stupid.’

  He locked the door behind them and sat at his desk, wiping the spittle from his face. He’d probably done the wrong thing, he knew that, but it had been a reaction. He’d taken a chance with the arrest. Now he needed evidence. If he couldn’t find it, then Henderson would be right; the alderman would destroy him.

  But he was certain the evidence was there. The sound of money, the woman had said. That was this pair. They’d be too cocksure to get rid of whatever they’d found. Now he had to wait for Josh and Sedgwick to return, and pray they’d discovered what he needed.

  It was the best part of half an hour before the deputy arrived. He was carrying a pack that the Constable recognized as Isaac’s, and two suits of bloody clothes that he laid out on the desk. He grinned and shook his head

  ‘Right on display by their beds,’ he said. ‘They couldn’t even be bothered to hide anything.’

  Nottingham nodded his approval. Got you, he thought triumphantly. No lawyer will be able to talk them out of this.

  ‘Right, bring those along and let’s see what they have to say. Peter might be feeling a little fragile.’

  ‘Oh?’ The deputy raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘He had a little accident. Very unfortunate.’

  ‘Aye, it happens sometimes,’ Sedgwick agreed sympathetically.

  ‘It does.’

  He knew he only had a few minutes before the alderman and his lawyer arrived, before there was another angry note from the Mayor. He needed to make the most of them.

  The pair of them were sitting together. Paul had a protective arm round his brother’s shoulders. Peter had been sick on the floor, and the cell was filled with the harsh smell. Traces of vomit flecked the bright peacock colours of his waistcoat and jacket.

  Light, dull as lead, came through the barred window.

  ‘So you didn’t murder Isaac the Jew,’ Nottingham said.

  ‘I told you that,’ Peter said. His voice was thick and he shifted his weight very carefully on the bed.

  ‘I thought you might want more time to remember and reconsider.’

  Peter’s eyes hardened.‘We can’t remember what we didn’t do. Constable.’

  Nottingham nodded sagely. ‘I just wondered, since you had his pack in your room and some clothes stained with blood.’

  Sedgwick came forward, holding the pack, the clothes draped over his arm.

  Peter started to rise, only his brother’s arms fast around him holding him back.

  Nottingham leaned against the wall and folded his arms. ‘That’s ample evidence for me. It will be for the Assizes, too. You’re both for the noose.’ The satisfaction he felt as he said it almost worried him. ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘They say the Jews always have money,’ Paul answered.

  ‘Be quiet,’ his brother ordered him loudly.

  ‘But he didn’t, did he?’ Nottingham said. ‘Not in his pack, not in his room.’ He was staring at Paul who shook his head slowly and sadly. ‘So you killed him for nothing.’

  ‘We didn’t kill anyone,’ Peter yelled.

  ‘That pack and your clothes say you did. Very loudly.’

  ‘We don’t know where they came from,’ he blustered.

  Nottingham scratched his chin and shook his head. ‘You don’t think anyone’s going to believe that, do you?’

  The silence filled the room for a long moment. The Constable walked out, Sedgwick right behind him, letting the lock click heavily.

  Nottingham sighed deeply. ‘Now we just have to get them to the scaffold.’

  ‘The alderman’s going to fight you all the way.’

  ‘There’s too much here, even for him.’ He gestured at the evidence in the deputy’s arms. ‘He’ll fight until he realizes he can’t win.’

  ‘He’ll hate you.’

  Nottingham smiled and shrugged. ‘He won’t be the first, will he?’

  He felt drained, a body emptied of everything. The energy and the fury had vanished now that the chase was over. He sat down heavily, the seat hard against his back.

  ‘So what now, boss?’

  ‘We wait for the alderman and his lawyer. Keep those things out of the way. We’ll let them rant, then present them with the evidence.’

  He didn’t have long. Within five minutes Henderson had arrived, the lawyer trailing behind him, the master and his dog.

  People claimed that the merchant had been handsome when he was younger, but there were few signs of it now. His face had turned hard and coarse, with no warmth in the eyes or mouth. An expensive wig sat awkwardly on his broad skull. He wore good plain clothes, his coat and breeches as sober as a Quaker’s, but they couldn’t hide the way his large body had thickened, ripened with fortune.

  The lawyer, lean and long, had the feral look of an ambitious man, his gaze darting around eagerly for opportunities. His waistcoat was fine silk in bright colours, his suit deep plum velvet, a testament to his fees. He had the air of a man who spent every day around corruption and had come to relish the scent.

  ‘Where are they?’ Henderson demanded. His hands were shaking with fury.

  ‘They’re in a cell. Where they belong, Alderman.’ Nottingham’s reply was equitable.

  ‘You don’t treat my lads like that.’

  Nottingham stood. He was taller than the merchant and looked down at him.

  ‘I’ll treat them the way I treat everyone else when they’re guilty of murder.’

  ‘Murder?’ the lawyer asked. ‘That’s a very serious charge, Mr Nottingham.’

  ‘With very serious consequences,’ the Constable reminded him.

  ‘You have proof, I take it?’

  Nottingham gazed slowly from one of them to the other before he answered.

  ‘I do,’ he announced.

  ‘Oh aye? Is that like that proof you’ve had before?’ Henderson gave a short, coarse laugh. ‘Evaporated like warm piss, that did.’

  Money and threats will do that, Nottingham thought.

  ‘John.’ The deputy brought Isaac’s pack and the clothes from the corner.

  ‘That’s the pack of the man they murdered, and the clothes they wore when they killed him.’ He couldn’t resist adding, ‘It was Isaac the Jew they killed.’

  ‘And where did you find these things, Mr Nottingham?’ the lawyer wondered.

  ‘In the bedroom the brothers share,’ the Constable told him.

  ‘What?’ Henderson exploded, his face red, spittle flying from his lips. ‘You went through my house?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And who gave you the right to do that?’

  ‘The law of England,’ Nottingham replied. ‘Ask your man.’

  Henderso
n turned furiously on the lawyer, who gave a short, embarrassed nod.

  ‘Get them out here,’ the merchant demanded angrily. ‘I want to see them.’

  Nottingham gestured to the deputy, never taking his eyes off Henderson. The lock clicked and in a few seconds the brothers appeared, their hopes raised by the arrival of their father.

  ‘Did you do it?’ Henderson asked bluntly.

  ‘Of course not.’ Peter held his head up defiantly.

  ‘See there, Constable?’ the merchant demanded. ‘He says they’re innocent.’

  Nottingham had to stop himself laughing. ‘The evidence says otherwise. And if you don’t know the penalty for murder, Mr Henderson, I’m sure your lawyer will tell you.’

  The merchant glared at his sons and gestured at the clothes and pack. ‘He says these were in your room.’

  ‘He must have put them there,’ Peter said.

  Henderson rounded on the Constable.

  ‘He’s accusing you.’

  Nottingham shrugged.

  ‘Ask your servants. We didn’t bring anything with us. What do you think we did, bring it in by magic?’ He looked at the lawyer. ‘They’ll go to the Assizes.’

  ‘It won’t stand,’ the merchant threatened.

  ‘He’s wanted us for a long time,’ Peter complained. ‘He’d do anything to get us.’ He sounded desperate, trapped.

  The door opened. Josh walked in slowly, leading the old woman who lived in the room beneath Isaac’s. A heavy coat seemed to weigh her down, her skin almost translucent. She looked around with her sightless eyes, taking in the warmth, the feel of people close by.

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ Josh apologized. ‘It took us a little while to get here.’

  ‘That voice,’ the woman said.

  ‘Which one?’ Nottingham asked.

  ‘The young one.’ She spoke clearly, sounding more like a girl than a woman who’d experienced so many years of the world’s cruelty. ‘The one who said you’d wanted them for a long time. That’s the man I heard in Isaac’s room.’

  It was perfect, Nottingham thought. He couldn’t have asked for more. The timing, the clear honesty of her words.

  ‘Thank you,’ he told her.

  ‘Are you going to believe that blind bitch?’ Peter shouted.