Eleven
He left the cellar, closing the door firmly behind him, and stretched. Downstairs Rushworth was tied to a chair, his eyes covered and an old cloth stuffed into his mouth to keep him quiet.
He was already weary of the man’s voice, his sorrowful whine no better than an infant’s, grating in the ears and on the brain.
Wyatt took a tired apple, its flesh withered with time, from the table and used his knife to cut it in two. The autumnal smell rose and made him smile.
So far everything had been so easy. He’d expected some problems, but there had been nothing. He’d prepared carefully, calculating everything, his plans immaculate.
It would be harder the next time, he knew that. That was the challenge and he relished it. Gain something too simply and there was no triumph in it, no sweetness. He thought of Rushworth downstairs, talking inanely, grovelling to stave off the inevitable.
He knew the man was hoping for mercy, but there’d be none of that. He’d waited too long for this, endured too much to be magnanimous. This was his time and he’d relish every moment of it.
Wyatt finished the apple and drank deep from a mug of ale. He felt alive, he felt happy. There was still so much of Rushworth to enjoy, as long as he could keep the man quiet. And then there was much more work to do after he was dead.
He pulled down on the waistcoat. He’d worn it when he slashed Graves’s throat and the spurting blood had turned the front of the garment an ugly red-black. It had terrified Rushworth when he put it on. Wyatt smiled grimly and opened the cellar door.
Twelve
The drizzle had edged into heavy, cold sleet by the time Sedgwick made his way home, and a chill wind stirred up around him. The old scar by his mouth itched and he scratched it without thinking. Along with Josh he’d spent the evening questioning the inhabitants of the courts that snaked off the ginnel where Rushworth had vanished.
There’d been nothing, of course. No one had seen anything or heard of a man with skin burnt by the sun. The empty rooms were accounted for. They’d forced their way into three of them, but there was no sign of evil or murder. Rushworth had vanished, and he knew what that meant.
He shook his head, throwing off raindrops, as he entered the house where he had a room. Lizzie would be waiting, and James would be asleep on his pallet. A fire was burning in the hearth. That cost them in tax, but it was worthwhile for the heat, the thing that had helped keep them alive in the depth of the winter, when morning cold had iced deep over the inside of the windows.
He unlocked the door, smiling as Lizzie held a finger to her lips, her eyes turning to James under his blanket.
‘Hello, love,’ he whispered as he held her, her face warm against his damp cheek. Some said he’d been mad to take on a girl who’d been a prostitute, but he had no regrets. It was love of a fashion, and she’d already proved herself to be a better mother to James than Annie had ever been.
She busied herself, cutting cheese and bread, pouring ale, and putting it on the table ready for him.
‘Another late night,’ she said, but without any touch of the criticism that had always sharpened Annie’s tone.
He took a deep drink, feeling his body begin to relax.
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘A lot of people to talk to. Looks like the murderer has snatched his next victim.’
Lizzie shuddered and gathered her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
‘No trace?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. He’s just vanished. This murderer’s a clever bastard.’ Sedgwick shook his head in a mix of sadness and admiration before changing the subject. ‘How’s James been?’
‘Good as gold.’ Lizzie beamed. ‘I took him down by the river earlier, over the bridge. I held him up so he could look down at the water.’ She paused. ‘You know what?’
‘What?’
‘He called me mam,’ she announced proudly.
He took her hand, stroking the skin lightly.
‘Does he ask for Annie any more?’
‘Not in a fortnight now, John. He seems happy.’
And why wouldn’t he be? Sedgwick wondered. Lizzie treated the boy like her own. She talked to him, played games with him, took him out.
She leaned across the table and kissed him as he ate. The gesture took him by surprise, but she was forever doing daft things like that, holding him, kissing him. At first the affection had astonished him; now he liked it.
‘I love you, John Sedgwick,’ she said softly.
Who cared what she’d been, he thought. She was a good lass even then, friendly and always ready to laugh. The six months they’d been living together had been joy. They’d made him realize how ground down he’d become with Annie, how their marriage had been ultimately as fragile as gossamer. She’d hated his job and vanished for something she believed was better, a life as a soldier’s woman. He wished the man luck with her; he’d need it.
As soon as she’d heard the news, Lizzie had knocked at his door. He was amazed that she knew where he lived.
‘She’s gone, then?’ she’d asked bluntly.
‘Aye,’ he admitted. The truth was that he was relieved when Annie left; he had his son, but he was uncertain and fearful for the future.
‘Who’s going to look after the little lad?’
With that she’d become part of his life, spending her days with James, her nights with Sedgwick. Within a week she’d brought over her possessions, two worn, faded dresses and a few small things. A month later, they’d moved to this new room, warmer and airier, just before winter began to exert its grip. A new start, he said, fresh surroundings and no memories.
‘Tired?’ she asked, jarring him out of his thoughts.
Sedgwick rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘Long past tired.’
‘You get to bed. I’ll blow out the candles,’ she ordered tenderly.
In the dark he stared at the ceiling. The bed was cosy, and his arm slid around her.
‘Do you ever think of going back?’ he asked her.
‘To what?’ she answered sleepily.
‘To what you used to do.’
That was his fear, that she’d grow tired of this domesticity and leave him. Leave James. Leave a hole in their lives.
She laughed gently, a sound that moved him more than any words.
‘You’re a daft beggar, you are. I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you. I’d have taken you away from her if I could. Does that tell you owt?’
‘Aye.’ He drifted away, a smile on his lips.
Nottingham was at the jail well before light. He’d heard the dawn chorus as he walked down Marsh Lane and over Timble Bridge, but it had brought him no pleasure. Holding Mary had soothed his soul a little, but once she was asleep his thoughts had begun to whirl uncontrollably.
All his life he had been a fighter. There had been times when that fight — finding enough food or a safe place to sleep — had meant the difference between life and death, and that had given him the desire never to lose. It was one of the qualities that made him perfect for this job.
Knowing that Wyatt had snatched a victim from under the nose of one of his men made him burn. He would not be outthought and outwitted by a killer, by a madman who saw death and defilement as apt revenge for the crime he’d been the one to commit.
He paused at the head of the ginnel, where the shadows slipped away from Kirkgate and the darkness seemed briefly absolute. Leeds wasn’t that large, maybe seven thousand people. Wyatt was in it somewhere. Someone had seen him, someone sold him food, someone had rented him. . what could he have rented?
Not a room, that much was certain. He couldn’t have tortured, killed and skinned there. He needed somewhere larger, somewhere private. That narrowed it down a little. A house perhaps, or a workshop. He unlocked the door of the jail, glancing in the cells for anyone brought in by the night men. Just a pair of beggars, by the look of them, glad of a rest indoors for once, burrowed under their blankets and quiet to the world.
&nb
sp; He put coal on the fire that had been banked for the night, and stirred the embers, watching the flames dazzle and heat seep into the room before taking off his heavy coat and pushing back his fringe.
For the first time since Rose’s death he had hope in his heart. Inch by inch he and Mary were drawing closer again, beginning to emerge from the fog. It was painful and there was still so far to go, but they’d made their start.
He wouldn’t allow Wyatt to crush that. He’d find him and mete out justice. That was his job. There would be no trial where details of the killing could emerge, nothing to tarnish the reputation of Leeds, so carefully tended and burnished, nothing that could affect the heartbeat of trade. He’d had to do this before, always reluctantly, and he had no doubt he’d have to do it again. The instances had been rare, but in every case he’d had no regrets.
He sat at his desk, a jumble of papers stacked before him. He knew he needed to take up Worthy’s offer. It meant more manpower, more information. But what, he wondered, really lay behind it? He’d known the procurer far too long to take what he said at face value. Worthy was a man with his own reasons for things, his own brand of evil.
The door opened and Sedgwick ambled in, his eyes morning bright, his hair a tangle.
‘Anything last night?’ Nottingham asked him.
‘No.’ The deputy gave him the short answer. ‘We searched almost everything, but there was bugger all to offer a clue. No one saw anything, no one heard anything.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course.’
‘We need to find him before he kills Rushworth.’ He didn’t need to mention what would happen after Rushworth was dead. That knowledge hung between them like a dark promise.
‘How?’
‘Wyatt has to have space for what he does. And privacy.’ He paused to allow the idea to sink in, waiting until Sedgwick began to nod his understanding.
‘Makes sense,’ he agreed. ‘Somewhere with some isolation.’
‘Start looking around today,’ Nottingham ordered. ‘He needs to eat and drink, too. He’s buying things somewhere. Get Josh out asking around the shops and the traders.’
‘I will.’
The Constable looked up at Sedgwick. ‘Someone was talking to me about Graves’s murder last night. He knew what had happened after.’
The deputy raised his eyebrows. ‘It wasn’t from me,’ he said defensively.
Nottingham waved the idea away with his hand. ‘I didn’t think it was. Or from Josh. It was Amos Worthy who stopped me.’
‘Oh aye? What’s all this to do with him, then? I was hoping the winter might have claimed him.’
‘He says Graves was good to him long ago.’ He’d never explained to the deputy that his mother and Worthy had been lovers once; it was a history he needed to keep private.
‘And?’
‘And he wants to help us catch the murderer.’
Sedgwick glanced out of the barred window at people moving along Kirkgate, the sounds of the morning rising.
‘I’d be wondering what’s in it for him.’
‘That was my first thought, too,’ Nottingham agreed quietly.
‘I’ve never seen him do owt that didn’t benefit him or his purse.’
‘Hard to believe, but I think he might be sincere this time. I can’t see any way he can use this to his advantage. And the more people we have looking, the sooner we’ll catch Wyatt. Agreed?’
‘Maybe,’ Sedgwick conceded cautiously.
‘People will say things to Worthy’s men they wouldn’t say to us.’
‘Rather than face a beating, you mean?’
‘Not always, John.’
He waited as Sedgwick considered.
‘You’re going to use him, aren’t you?’
‘If Rushworth hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have,’ Nottingham replied reasonably. ‘It’s urgent now. And we’ve got sod all so far. You know that.’
The deputy let out a loud, slow breath.
‘Aye, that’s true.’
‘So we’ve got nothing to lose.’
He wasn’t sure if he was trying to justify the decision to himself or to the deputy.
‘If we can save Rushworth,’ Sedgwick warned. ‘It might already be too late. And what about the Mayor? Or the Corporation?’
‘We don’t tell them.’ His eyes flashed for a moment. ‘They only ask that I do my job, not how I do it.’
‘It’s dangerous, boss.’
The Constable nodded slowly. He knew that well enough. He just had to make sure he kept control of everything.
‘I’ll be back in a while.’
His coat warm around him, Nottingham walked through the drizzle down Briggate. His mind was a jumble of thoughts, of Rushworth, of Worthy, of Graves, of Mary, of Rose.
Just before the bridge he turned on to Swinegate. With the thaw there was plenty of life on the street, the squall of families, shopkeepers setting out their wares, the powerful smell of horseshit from an ostler’s yard, the heady scent of malt from an innkeeper’s brewing.
He pushed open a nondescript door. It was never locked; there was no man in the city mad enough to try to steal from this place. An ageless crone sat in a room off the corridor, a mug of gin balanced on her lap, her eyes a thousand miles away.
He walked through to the kitchen. The windows were dirty, probably never cleaned, and a scattering of crusted dishes stood in the corners. Worthy was there, in his usual spot, standing by the table in the same coat and breeches as the day before, an empty plate on the table before him with a jug of small beer and cups. Two of his men, both young, large and imposing, idled in the corner, hands going for daggers as soon as they saw the Constable. The pimp raised his hand to stop them.
‘It’s all right, lads. You can go. I was expecting Mr Nottingham.’
The men sidled out, giving the Constable wary, suspicious looks.
‘Were you?’
‘Was I what, laddie?’ Worthy sat back in his chair, exploring his teeth with a sliver of wood.
‘Expecting me?’
The pimp gave an easy grin. ‘Aye, I was. You’re not a fool. You know you need help but you’ve wondered why I offered my services.’ He tossed the wood aside and wiped his hands on his old, greasy waistcoat. He might well be one of the richest men in the city, Nottingham thought, but he never spent a penny he didn’t have to on himself or his surroundings.
‘You’ve turned it around in your head and you can find no hidden reason. So you’ve come here. Reluctant as ever.’
The Constable reached across and poured himself a cup of beer. ‘And you’re as astute as ever, Amos. I need your help.’
‘Then you’d better tell me all about it, laddie, so we can work together properly.’
‘Did you ever hear of a man called Abraham Wyatt?’
Worthy shook his head. ‘Means nowt to me.’
‘He was one of Graves’s clerks. Stole some money, ended up transported to the Indies for seven years.’
‘And he came back with revenge in his head?’
‘In his heart,’ Nottingham corrected him.
‘So you think he’s the one who murdered Sam?’
‘I’m sure of it,’ Nottingham said flatly. ‘It’s the first of four murders.’
Worthy’s head snapped up, his eyes sharp and inquisitive.
‘How do you know that?’
‘That’s what he implied in the first volume of his book with its special binding.’
‘Special binding?’
‘Now you know what happened to the skin,’ the Constable told him.
Worthy remained silent for several breaths then shook his head. ‘That’s not the work of anyone human,’ he declared finally. ‘Four murders, he said. All like this? With the same ending?’
‘Yes.’
‘You believe him?’
‘I do.’ Nottingham paused. ‘He’s already snatched the second victim. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Who is it?’
‘A man named Rushworth. He clerks for
Graves, and he gave evidence at Wyatt’s trial.’
Worthy nodded.
‘And who are the other two?’
‘Judge Dobbs. He handed down the sentence.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know.’
Worthy sighed lightly. ‘Who arrested him?’
‘The old Constable.’
‘Who was there with him?’
‘I was.’
‘I know your mother didn’t raise you to be both blind and a fool, laddie,’ the pimp said in exasperation. ‘Old Arkwright’s dead.’
Suddenly, Nottingham understood. He was the fourth victim. For the love of God, he must have turned stupid. How had he missed something so obvious?
‘Not nice to know someone wants to kill you, is it?’
‘You’d know if anyone would,’ the Constable responded, the anger at himself brimming over into his voice.
‘Aye, I would,’ Worthy replied mildly. ‘Enough of them have tried. And failed.’ He poured himself more of the beer and drank it down in a single swallow. ‘You’d have done it yourself if you could.’
‘I’d have put you in jail, Amos.’
‘It’ll never happen, laddie, and you know it.’ He tapped the side of his nose. Worthy had too many important protectors in the city to end up convicted of anything: the merchants and aldermen who used his whores or borrowed his money.
Silence filled the air. Nottingham rubbed his chin, feeling the harsh bristle, a reminder that he needed a shave. He needed to be better armed, he thought. All he usually carried was a small dagger, little better than a penknife. Another knife, perhaps a primed pistol in his coat pocket. It wasn’t something he wanted to do, but he was forewarned now. Wyatt was clever. He needed to be constantly aware and alert.
But unless they had the devil’s own luck and found Rushworth soon, it would likely be several days until Wyatt tried to strike again. He’d need time with his victim, and longer still to cure the skin and write his book.
Doing that was as important to the man as the act of killing, Nottingham understood that. He needed it all to be known, put it all on paper, to indulge his evil and play out his part.
‘Penny for them, laddie?’
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