Cold Cruel Winter rn-2

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Serves you bloody right, laddie.’ There was no irony or sympathy in his tone. In his world the forgetful, the thoughtless, ended up dead, with little mourning. He’d been lucky, and he knew it. This was just the harsh reminder. ‘I’m not one of your Papist priests,’ Worthy told him. ‘You’re not going to find any absolution here.’ He gave a quick, sly smile and smoothed the grimy stock at his throat. ‘You can confess everything you like, though. I’ve got all day.’

  Nottingham stood. ‘I need to go, Amos. I just wanted to tell you about Wyatt. I’ve got more men on the judge, but we need to find this bastard soon. So far hardly anyone knows what he’s done to those he’s murdered, but that can’t last.’

  ‘And do you have any bright ideas about what to do?’

  The Constable shook his head sadly. ‘If I had, don’t you think I’d be acting on them?’

  He took his leave, following the street to Boar Lane on his way to the Moot Hall. He’d needed the disdain and the withering comments. He was human, he made mistakes, but when mistakes could be lethal, he needed to learn.

  Even in the slush and the grey grime of late winter, he could feel the city beginning to blossom again. The dead would go in the ground soon, their memories alive, and spring would come soon.

  He was shown straight through to the Mayor’s chamber. With each month since he’d taken office, Kenion’s room had become more crowded with documents and books. Pristine last September, now there were clutters and piles in the corners and on small tables.

  Edward Kenion was seated behind his desk, eyes close to the paper he was reading. He needs spectacles, Nottingham thought, but he’s too vain to wear them. The Mayor looked up.

  ‘Do you have anything new on the murderer?’ he asked without preamble. There was a husky bark to his voice.

  ‘We know what he looks like now.’ The Constable was carefully vague in his admission.

  ‘But you don’t have him, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then do something about it, Constable.’ He sounded frustrated. ‘Find him.’ He fluttered his hand to wave the matter away. ‘Anyway, that’s not why I wanted you here. Alderman Henderson’s sons.’

  ‘Peter and Paul.’

  Kenion nodded briefly. ‘We’ve decided not to put them on trial.’

  ‘What?’ Nottingham stood up sharply, the outrage flaring on his face. ‘They’re guilty of murder. They killed a completely harmless man.’

  ‘How much proof do you have?’ the Mayor asked, his voice calm. He didn’t meet the Constable’s stare.

  ‘We found his pack at their house. Both of them had bloody suits. Someone else identified them as being in the dead man’s room. How much do you want?’

  ‘From what I’m told, your witness never saw them. She can’t see, I believe?’

  ‘She can hear well enough, though.’ He breathed deeply, trying to stop his temper from blazing through. ‘And what about the pack?’

  ‘They claim to have found it on their way home.’

  ‘The clothes?’

  ‘They were in a fight.’

  The Constable began to pace, his boots sinking into the thick rug. ‘You don’t believe that. You can’t.’

  ‘The Corporation has discussed the matter,’ Kenion announced flatly. ‘We had a judge set, but we’ve decided not to proceed. They’ve been released.’ He sat back, daring Nottingham to speak.

  The Constable knew he should say nothing, that he should accept the announcement and leave. He couldn’t change things. But the thought of Isaac the Jew, lying broken and alone on the frozen ground filled his head.

  ‘If they get away with this, those two will kill again,’ he warned. ‘They’ll believe they’re immune from anything.’

  ‘The Corporation believes they’re innocent of the charges, Mr Nottingham,’ the Mayor told him coldly.

  The Constable brushed the fringe off his forehead, running his hand back through his hair. ‘One day they’ll go too far and someone will kill them.’

  ‘That won’t happen, Constable. We pay you to keep this city peaceful. Make sure you remember that.’ It was an order, pure and simple.

  He wanted to punch the wall in frustration, to shout through gritted teeth. As it was, he had no choice but to bow his head, to take the blow and leave. Outside, in the bustle of Briggate, he let the street swallow him.

  The air was filled with the iron smell of blood from the Shambles and the heady dark richness of shit from the horses pulling carts up and down the street. Leeds was returning quickly from the winter, battered and with fearful memories.

  He stepped out, his face angry, fists clenched in his pockets. He passed the market cross, then turned at the Head Row, walking past Burley Bar, where the houses petered out into scrubby countryside. The road had turned to deep mud, churned by hooves and wheels.

  His shoulder ached viciously, leaving him sweating in the chill air, but the pain was good; without it, the fury would be boiling over in his head.

  As ever, the Corporation was protecting its own. He wanted to release all the frustrations of the last months in one long scream of rage. This was his city. It didn’t just belong to the rich. It was as much the home of Isaac the Jew, of Rose, of all those who’d died during the winter. Leeds was bigger than all of them. His job was to keep them safe, every one of them, and to arrest them when they flouted the law. The justice he upheld was meant to work for them all, not only for those with the jingle of coins in their pockets.

  He knew how stupid it was to come out here alone to this place, beyond the houses, where the land offered plenty of cover. He was prey to Wyatt again, a bird flapping with a single wing. But the pistols were ready, and he needed this.

  He turned to look back up the hill. There was the Red House, its bricks like a bloody stain against the sky. The smoke from the city’s chimneys hung like a dark cloud in the air. But it didn’t matter how much he hated the place sometimes, his life was there.

  Very slowly, Nottingham drew deep breaths in and out until he was ready to go back. A few minutes, a chance to exorcize the fury, that was what he’d needed. He stayed alert to movements, hand in his pocket, as Leeds embraced him again, its streets like arms around him.

  Nottingham arranged the coffin for Frances. The undertaker did work for the city, and made enough from it to furnish his grand house across the river on Meadow Lane. After a few spare words he agreed to supply something, just cheap deal boards hammered together. His apprentice, solemn and shiny in his new coat and hat, arranged to collect the body that afternoon.

  At least Frances would go into the ground with dignity. Josh deserved that. She deserved that, she’d been loved in life, and she should be cared for in her death.

  Sedgwick had gone from the jail. He’d left a note in his awkward, uneven scrawl, explaining he’d gone to investigate a theft by a servant. The usual business of life. The Constable settled in his chair.

  The Henderson decision had been made, and he had to accept it. Nothing he could say would alter it now. It would eat at him, he knew that, one more humiliation, but it served as another reminder of the limits of his power. Like a man secured by a chain, he could only roam so far, no matter how ambitious his reach.

  He’d see the brothers again on the streets, watch them strutting with the invulnerability of privilege. They’d commit more mayhem and crime, and taunt him with the knowledge that there would be nothing he could do to stop them.

  His face was still set hard when Josh came in. The boy’s shoulders were slumped, his eyes staring without seeing, stunned.

  ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ Nottingham said quietly. Josh turned towards him, flesh pale except for the deep smudges under his eyes. ‘I know what it’s like.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction that never came. ‘What was her full name?’ he asked. ‘For the funeral.’

  ‘Frances. Frances Amelia Ormroyd.’ The words came out painfully, like bone breaking skin.

  ‘Come on, sit down
. Have something to drink, you’ll feel a little better.’

  Josh did as he was told, hardly noticing as he gulped from the cup of small ale Nottingham placed in his hand.

  ‘Josh,’ the Constable said, waiting for the boy’s attention. ‘We’re going to bury her tomorrow. If you like, you can spend tonight at my house, or with Mr Sedgwick.’

  Josh shook his head.

  ‘It’s up to you. But you know where we both live, if you change your mind later. You know you’ll be welcome at either place.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Josh said in an empty tone, swallowing more of the liquid. ‘The room’s so empty, but I can still smell her everywhere.’ He glanced up. ‘It’s why I came here. I didn’t know where else to go.’

  ‘It’s going to be that way for a long time,’ Nottingham warned him sadly. ‘You’ll see her. Hear her, too.’ His voice softened. ‘For a while, it’s comforting, like they haven’t really left.’

  ‘But it’s so strong.’ The boy sounded confused. ‘It’s. .’ He shook his head, lowering it so the Constable couldn’t see him crying.

  ‘It’ll get better eventually.’ Nottingham knew the words wouldn’t sound comforting now. They wouldn’t even sound hopeful, but he had nothing better to offer. ‘Do you want to work? It’ll take your mind off everything.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Go and check the men round the judge’s house. There are more of them since. .’ he rubbed his shoulder.

  Josh flushed, his face reddening with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, boss.’

  Nottingham smiled kindly. ‘I think you have bigger things on your mind. Go on, check them all. If any of them aren’t there, you’ll know where to find them. Make sure they go back.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ The boy rose and made his way to the door.

  ‘Josh?’

  ‘The funeral’s tomorrow at nine. If you don’t want to spend the night at my house or his, I’ll send Mr Sedgwick round for you.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ he answered dully. ‘Thank you.’

  Nottingham sat and brooded for a few minutes. Then he gathered up his coat and marched down Kirkgate. More of the slush had melted, and in places he could even see bare dirt under the puddled water.

  He went into the churchyard. A thin grey layer of slush still covered the ground, but he didn’t need his eyes to know where Rose was buried. He stood there, letting memories rise to the surface. Rose, three years old and laughing as she watched her father try to juggle. At sixteen, modest and beautiful, walking into town with her mother. Ten, hair bleached by the summer sun, eating an apple. Rest with God, he said under his breath. He said the prayers he knew, staring at the earth, trying to see through it, to see her, even though he knew nothing of the real Rose remained there. Finally, reluctantly, he turned away and walked slowly home.

  Twenty-Nine

  A light shower of rain spattered down from grey clouds during the funeral. Nottingham stood by Mary and Emily, with Sedgwick, Lizzie and Josh on the other side of the grave. He looked about eleven, the Constable thought as she studied the lad’s youthful, transparent face, a boy dressed up in a man’s life before he was ready for it.

  He knew the lad could do a man’s work, but inside he was still so young, not ready to have loved like this. Soil trickled from the boy’s hand, landing hollow on the wood as the curate finished the service. Nottingham put an arm around the boy’s shoulders as they walked away.

  ‘Come on home with me,’ he said. ‘Mary’ll look after you.’

  Josh shook his head, a grim smile on his lips, eyes blank. ‘I can’t, boss,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be fine. I promise.’

  The Constable stood, hands in his pockets, cradling the butts of his pistols, as the boy slipped quietly through the lych gate and up the street into the city. He understood what the lad was thinking, the grief coursing through his veins, but he was powerless to stop it.

  From a walk, Josh broke into a run. He needed to get away from there, from the church, from death. The coffin had just been a box. It was only when he threw the earth that he really understood he was saying goodbye to Frances, and her face filled his head.

  He needed to be somewhere that didn’t bring her flying from the shadows in his mind. He ran until he could run no more, through cuts, along the river, dodging people, lungs aching, shoes soaked. When he stopped, he was across from the Old King’s Head. There were coins in his pocket left from his wages, money he hadn’t spent on food, and he walked in to use it on ale.

  He hadn’t eaten in over a day and the drunkenness hit him quickly. He’d wanted to fall into it slowly, to feel its caress on him, loving him as it pulled him away. Instead, he tumbled and dove headlong into his oblivion.

  It was night by the time he left, his feet stumbling and awkward, stepping into water and not caring. The drink hadn’t made the pain vanish, but he had managed to hold it at bay for a few short hours.

  As he walked, he felt the sickness rising suddenly and turned to puke against the wall, wave after wave rising as he choked and spat. He felt a little better afterwards, but no clearer. His sight was blurred and his feet wavered. It didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered any more.

  Josh was aware of voices on the street as he moved, and from the corner of his eye he could sense the shapes of people, their outlines and the colour of their coats. He groped his way into the cramped entry to a court, leaned over and puked again, coughing and spitting until all he could taste was bile.

  Then he was on his knees. There was a pain in his back, and without thinking he started to crawl away from it through the vomit and the slush.

  ‘It’s the Constable’s little whelp.’ He could hear the voice distinctly behind him. He’d heard it before, but he couldn’t give a name to it.

  ‘Wonder what his master would say if he saw him like this?’ It was a different voice, but similar to the first. Josh tried to crawl a little faster, but could barely move. The voices stayed close behind him. Just a little further and he’d reach the court. Something pushed him and he sprawled forward, a puddle of cold water a vivid shock against his face.

  ‘He should keep a tighter lead on his boy. Show him how to behave in public and not annoy his betters.’ There was an intake of breath and a boot landed hard on his ribs. He retched again, crying out. He tried to climb to his knees.

  A club cracked sharply down on his back, sending him sprawling once more. Then boots began to hack at him, against his legs, his stomach. Josh tried to curl and protect himself, knees up against his chest, fingers laced over his skull. Things remembered from childhood.

  These two had plenty of time, and they were relishing it as a private luxury. One kick would land, the spot carefully picked. As the pain burned through him like fire, they’d select the next place, in no hurry, making it hurt.

  He was painfully, chillingly sober now. He was trapped. Even if he could reach the court down the passageway, it was a dead end. He’d never be able to push past them to escape; he lacked the strength and the speed. Shouting and screaming wouldn’t help. In a place like this there were no Samaritans. All he could hope was that they’d stop before they killed him.

  The blows and boots kept coming, delivered with rough precision, enough of a gap between them to tease him with the vain hope of mercy.

  He had no idea how long they continued. Time became something unknown. He thought he saw Frances, but he knew she was dead. Finally, thankfully, there was oblivion.

  By the time he came back, pain filled his body. They’d gone, he didn’t know when. It was still full velvet darkness. He tried to straighten his legs, moving them fractionally, but tears flowed from the pain. He felt something in his mouth and opened it to spit out blood and broken teeth.

  The thought danced at the edge of his mind that if he died here, he’d be with Frances. He started to smile, but it was agony.

  He tried to think. He was here until morning, or until someone found him. Some of his bones were certainly broken, and there was
probably damage inside. The Henderson brothers, he realized. The voices had been theirs.

  His mind began to swim and he forced himself to focus. What could he do? He tried to speak, but all that came out was a whisper that no one would hear. He needed to stay awake, not to give in to this.

  The others would be asleep in their beds. They’d have worried about him during the day. The night men would be out, as much as they ever were, but they’d never glance down here. Even if they did, he was just another shape on the ground, lost in the night.

  He began to think about Frances, tracing the shape of her face in his head. He remembered the things she’d said, the quiet smile of her brown eyes. He’d loved the way she’d reach for his hand in a crowd, scared of losing him and being on her own. That had always been her fear, right from the time he’d met her, and she’d spend her days fretting when he was gone. At night she’d cuddle close, as if she was afraid he’d vanish before the dawn.

  She’d just been a child when she joined the others. She’d drifted in one day, there like a shadow haunting the edge of things, a silent sliver of a girl. His thieving had supported them, and slowly she’d just become part of things. They were a large family, looking out for each other, helping. She’d done her share, quietly, unobtrusively. They didn’t speak much. Frances kept her own counsel, spending words reluctantly, keeping them like valuable coin.

  He’d liked her shyness, the way she kept her head bowed. Back in the days when he was a cutpurse, sometimes he’d save a coin and pass it to her. He remembered the delight he felt when she finally used the money to buy a dress. She’d blushed when she noticed him looking.

  Josh tried to move again. He steadied himself for the effort, using his hands to drag himself forwards. The pain seared through his arms like fire. He managed to pull himself a couple of feet. In spite of the cold he was sweating, panting as if he’d run across the city, tears running down his face.