stink, and a workroom and the lengthy winter have been good to me in that. When I was ready, disposing of the body was an easy task. I was only surprised that it took so long for anyone to notice him lying there.
But there is something more you want to know, is there not? There is something you cannot understand, something that makes you believe I am inhuman. Why, you wonder, did I remove the skin from his back?
I had not told Graves about that, it would have been far too cruel, even to a man like him. The knowledge of his death was punishment enough, not the use to which he would be put, and after death what would it matter to him, anyway?
Some of the skills a man learns in rural areas are very strange. But in a place where self-sufficiency is vital, it is important to be able to turn a hand to everything. So, among many other duties, I was taught how to skin a beast and to cure the hide. The technique is not especially hard, and even the act of skinning is not particularly complex, once one learns how to do it properly. For what it is worth, the real art is in peeling the flesh away evenly, and I had an old, excellent teacher with some long-held tricks and a very sharp knife.
The difficulty here was in curing the skin. Ideally it should have had at least a week longer, but I confess I was eager to share my triumph.
But no doubt you are mystified as to exactly what I mean. Why would I cure the flesh as if Graves was no better than a common beast?
The answer is, quite literally, in your hands.
Take a look at the cover of this small volume, Constable. If it seems like good quality leather, that’s a testament to my meagre skill. It seems very apt, somehow, to have the description of the death of Samuel Graves wrapped in his own skin.
Nottingham stood up quickly and the book fell to the floor. His mouth filled with bile, and for a few short moments he struggled for breath, certain that he’d vomit, the room swimming in front of him.
Jesus. He held on to the desk, eyes closed, the sweat cooling rapidly, chilling on his skin, as he tried to steady his lurching stomach. The relish which the murderer — Wyatt, it had to be Wyatt — took in all this went beyond any belief. In his job he’d dealt with madmen before but none who came close to this. This was evil. He’d read the words, but he couldn’t begin to understand the mind behind them.
He glanced down, seeing the book on the flagstones. To know he’d touched it, laid his hands on a dead man’s flesh, made him shudder, and once again he tasted the sickness in his throat and forced it back down. He’d have to pick it up, to read what remained, and then comb through it all again and again for any hints it might offer.
Those would be precious few, he was certain. Wyatt might be moonmad, but he was cunning as Reynard, one who’d hide his tracks well. He’d planned carefully, and he had luck on his side. And that, Nottingham knew from experience, could be a dangerous combination.
Gingerly he sat again, reaching for the volume but loath to touch it and feel death on his fingertips. Very cautiously, hands pressing on the paper, not the binding, he read on:
Have I horrified you? Have I revolted you? I trust I have. After all, what I have done is inhuman, is it not?
You will recall that I wrote that this book will extend to four volumes. When they are all done, my revenge will be complete. If you are a clever man, and I trust you are to have your position, you may already have deduced who I am. That is of no import. Think of me merely as an instrument of retribution. Three more volumes will mean three more victims. What should concern you are their identities. Who are they, and how can you keep them safe? Even if you know who they might be, how do you dare to tell them the truth without causing a panic?
And now I’ve presented you with a challenge, Constable. When my mission is complete I shall leave Leeds, and if that happens, you will never be able to catch me. So now you have it. You need to find me, to stop me. I don’t believe you can. I have had a long, long time to plan this, what felt like lifetimes, and all you can do is try to keep up with me. Forgive me if I do not say that I wish you well.
He sat back, staring at the book, lost in thought. Time passed, he had no idea how long. The door banged open and Sedgwick ambled in, frowning, snapping the Constable back to the present.
‘John,’ Nottingham said quietly, ‘let’s go next door to the Swan. I need a drink, and believe me, you’re going to, as well.’ He slid the book into the desk drawer, picked up his coat and walked out into the cloudy, suddenly unreal day.
Eight
‘Christ Almighty.’ Eyes wide, Sedgwick shook his head in disbelief as Nottingham told him about the book. ‘He’s not a man, he’s a devil.’
‘Oh, he’s a man, no doubt about that. But he’s evil — that’s absolutely certain.’ He took a long swig of strong ale to clear his mouth. A low buzz of conversation filled the inn, but he’d been talking quietly, anxious not to be overheard.
The book had shaken him. It had terrified him. His hands felt unclean, tainted; he could still feel the brittle dryness of the binding against his fingers. That was horror enough. What was far worse was what he saw when he looked beyond that.
Wyatt was a man who planned meticulously, whose revenge had been simmering for years. He’d thrown down his gauntlet, and Nottingham had no choice but to respond. More than that, he had to win, to catch Wyatt before he could complete his mission. Three more deaths. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
‘There can’t be any word about the book, John,’ he warned, taking another mouthful of beer. ‘You and I and the Mayor will be the only ones to know. The same with his plans. He’s told us what he intends to do. We’re going to stop him.’
Sedgwick pushed his mug around the table. ‘So how do we do that, boss?’
Nottingham sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know yet. He wants to murder three more people. We have to start by identifying the people he wants to kill and protecting them. And we have to keep hunting for him.’
He knew that it sounded little enough, and it was. He’d need to review the trial transcript and see who’d given evidence, who would be in danger. But how could anyone reach inside a mind as twisted as Wyatt’s and see things through his eyes?
‘I’d better go and tell the Mayor,’ he said finally. ‘Get the men out, John.’
‘They’re already out, boss.’
The Constable’s face tightened. He breathed deeply.
‘Then double their efforts. We’re not just fighting a man here, we have to fight against the clock, too.’
Sedgwick returned to the jail. He had a little time. Rummaging in the drawer, he looked at the book. Lying there, it seemed so ordinary, so harmless. The cover looked like any other leather, and he reached out to touch it. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew what it was, but he couldn’t help himself. It was macabre, of course it was, yet his fingers still irresistibly stroked the binding, then riffled through the pages. His reading was improving, and with a little effort he could slowly make out the sentences, even if he couldn’t follow every single word.
The boss was right. Word about this could never leak out. The city would panic, and there would be no chance of containing it. He closed the drawer again. He’d never imagined that writing could be too powerful and too dangerous.
Nottingham had to wait at the Moot Hall, although he’d insisted to the clerk that his business with the Mayor was urgent. Sitting, he tried to empty his racing mind. The luxury of the city building, with its dark, highly polished wainscoting and heavy carpet, seemed a whole world away from what he saw every day. The courts and yards, the ragged men and women, the children scavenging at the market or on the river bank, the lives and deaths that took place every day just outside these walls, that was what he really knew. He never felt comfortable in the homes of the merchants, surrounded by wealth, the muted chime of a long clock announcing the passing of hours, or the luxurious, moneyed sheen of fabric of a suit or gown.
The Mayor looked harassed. He was halfway through his one-year term, and all the deaths of winter, which he could do nothing to halt, had weighed on him; it still showed although the thaw had begun.
He looked up from his papers as Nottingham sat.
‘You’d better have news on Graves’s killer,’ he said brusquely.
The Constable could hear the weariness in his voice. ‘I do,’ he replied carefully. ‘But it’s not good.’
