‘I see.’ He was alert now, staring at the package the boy had put on the desk. ‘And when did he do this?’
‘Just a few minutes ago, sir. Over near Lands Lane.’
‘What did he look like? Do you remember?’ He tried to make the questions sound casual; he didn’t want to terrify the boy into silence.
The lad shook his head. ‘I couldn’t really see him, sir. He had a hat pulled down, and a heavy coat.’
‘Was he big? Small?’
‘Not so big,’ the boy said with confidence. ‘But he said he’d watch me and if I didn’t do the job he’d take the money back and hurt me.’
‘Well, you’ve done it, so everything is fine.’ Nottingham smiled at him. ‘What’s your name?
‘Mark, sir. My mother said it’s for one of the followers of Jesus.’
‘She was right. Where is she now?’
‘Dead, sir.’
‘I’m sorry about that, Mark. You can go now, you’ve done your job well.’
As the door closed, he sat down and unwrapped the package.
Seven
They were the first to make me feel inferior.
Nottingham realized he’d been holding his breath and forced himself to exhale slowly. He was sitting at his desk, holding the slim, bound volume. The binding was pale brown leather, thin and crinkled, and dry to the touch.
He ran his thumb across it, feeling the rough texture. On the front, in exact, immaculate copperplate, was the title:
Revenge, he thought. Abraham Wyatt. He didn’t know why but it had to be; he could feel it, the way some pieces fell into place so perfectly that it was impossible to be any other way. Wyatt must have survived the Indies somehow, to be carried home by hate. He’d had eight years to plan all this.
He picked up the small book and began to read again, his face set in a frown, concentrating intently on the even, copperplate script.
And then there was Samuel Graves. That should be a name to capture a reader’s attention in this place and this time. He was another to think less of me because of my beginnings. He looked down on me, and offered no respect for my talents. But more of him later.
At school I revenged myself on my fellows in minor ways. Small things went missing, belongings of theirs, or items from the school that appeared among their possessions and brought them harsh punishments. I was sly and careful. Suspicion was on me, but I made certain that they could never prove a thing.
My education was too brief. I could have done great things, I know this, but the opportunity and the time were not there for one like me. Poor circumstances make their own needs. There were mouths to be fed in my family; they required me to bring in a wage. So I was torn from my school and each day I walked into Chesterfield and back to do my work as a clerk for a grain merchant. Six miles each way for the privilege of being little better than a slave.
The pay was miserly, and he worked me long and hard. He made money, and plenty of it, far too much for such a stupid man. Once I understood his system, it was not difficult to take some of his profits. He never even realized.
My intention was to amass enough money to enter business myself. Having seen the dubious qualities of those who managed to do well in life, I knew I could be successful. I left my position before anything might be discovered and moved to another. Slowly I accrued some small savings.
Then I was trapped by a ruthless girl. She was friendly enough, and soon free with her favours. But then she came to me, saying she was having our baby, and wanting marriage. There was I, barely sixteen, with my plans, my ambitions. I had tupped the girl with pleasure, but intended nothing more, certainly not wedlock and a life of misery and poverty. I had seen enough of that. Instead, I gave my small fortune to the whore who had tried to trap me, and took to the road.
That was a meagre time, with jobs in Sheffield, Barnsley, Doncaster. There was a little money to be made from my skills as a clerk, and a little more, over and above, from my native intelligence. Finally I arrived in Leeds.
However, more of that will come in the future. That is a tease, I know, but there is something more immediate to be told. It is full of sensation and horror, all those things people love but claim to hate.
Samuel Graves. He did me the gravest wrong, and so he paid the greatest price. I have found that a man can learn a great deal by listening. People talk to listen to their own pompous voices with no thought of who else might hear them. If a man is quiet and still, he can often go unnoticed; it is a skill I have learnt over the years, and put to good use here.
Following Graves — I cannot feel enough respect to offer him the honorific of Mr — I was able to discover a great deal. Initially, it was a pleasure to find him still alive, still hale and hearty and involved in his work. If he had died before our paths crossed again, I would have been sorely disappointed, and this volume would never have been written.
It only took a few days to hear about his plans to take the London coach, and when he would be leaving. I knew that would be my chance. After all, Graves lived a remarkably ordered life between his warehouse, home and church. If I had not known him somewhat better, I might have been tempted to call him a good man.
In the clamour surrounding the arrival of a coach, it is quite remarkable what a man can do if he is quick and thinks on his feet — another skill I acquired in my travels.
Some damage to a wheel ensured a delay and loud frustration among the passengers. In that time it was very easy to be Graves’s shadow, and once he was alone, to take advantage of the situation. A little something in his drink, and suddenly he was no longer feeling too well.
What should happen but a caring friend appears to help him away to a quiet place? One man helping a drunk, hardly an uncommon sight in any city in the kingdom at any time of day, as I am sure you will agree. A different hat, some dirt on the coat and the wig gone and no one would recognize Graves or even give the pair a second look. Nor would he really be missed as the coach rushed away late.
By now I am sure you must have realized I have a place somewhere, and I took him there. When he woke, of course, he was firmly bound and gagged — after all, I did not want him shouting for help, did I? Not that it would have helped him. There was plenty of time to apprise him of all the things he had done to me, for him to be aware of his responsibilities, and how he would pay for all the ills he had caused me. You might even say he was a lucky man, really, for how many of us come to learn of the time and manner of our death before it happens?
Nottingham felt a shiver of fear in his spine. His palms were clammy, although the fire was low in the grate. He set the book down on the desk and paced around the room for a minute, trying to take in what he’d just read. Wyatt was insane, there seemed little doubt of that, but at the same time the man’s mind was filled with a clarity whose focus scared him.
And he was positive, beyond any shadow of doubt, that it was Abraham Wyatt. The clues were there, clear to anyone who could read them. Finding Graves alive, the mentions of the things Graves had supposedly done, the grievances of the murderer, they gave so much away.
The book was a taunt, a piece in a game he was playing, a tournament of catch-me-if-you-can, a direct challenge to the Constable. The way he relished putting it all on paper, the sheer pleasure Wyatt was taking in every step of this, disturbed and chilled him. He brushed the fringe off his forehead and forced himself to sit again, taking a deep breath before he picked up the book.
For whatever it’s worth, I killed him on the Saturday morning, with one slice of the blade across his throat. He knew it was coming, I had told him, and, to offer him a little credit, he neither fought nor flinched. He understood his time had arrived at my hands and accepted it with equanimity.
There was a great deal of blood, of course. But a chilly room is a fine place to keep a corpse so it does not
