‘And by the time you’d reached the ginnel he’d gone?’
‘Aye. It was like he’d just vanished.’ He opened his eyes wide. ‘I ran to the end and looked up and down the street, but he wasn’t there. He’d just disappeared.’
‘Could he have gone into any of the courts off the ginnel?’
‘He could.’ Morris admitted slowly. ‘But I didn’t hear a door or owt. I’ve got good ears,’ he said with pride.
‘What did you do after that?’
‘I were starting to get worried. I looked around a bit, but I couldn’t find him, so I came back here quick as I could.’
‘You did the right thing, then,’ Nottingham told him with a small smile. ‘You go and get some rest. Report to Mr Sedgwick or Josh in the morning.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Morris looked up hopefully. ‘I still have a job? Only I need the money. .’
‘You still have a job,’ the Constable confirmed.
Once Morris had gone, a grateful grin lighting up his dirty face, Nottingham put on his greatcoat and left the jail. He needed to see the scene for himself, to try to understand how Rushworth could simply have gone.
He was certain Wyatt had him now, and barring a miracle, no one would see him alive again. Anger burned in his gut, fury at the killer. But there was also a tinge of admiration. The man was daring — and clever.
On Lower Briggate there was plenty of noise from the inns and beer shops as people drank the evening away. Whores plied their trade in isolation or gossiped in small groups as they waited for business, walking on tall wooden pattens to keep their cheap dresses from the mud. With the thaw had come the return of the city smells, the rich stew of shit, piss and rubbish all hidden by the cold.
He turned into the Calls, trying to keep his mind open to all the possibilities. By now the street was almost empty, and his footsteps resounded off the cobbles. Nottingham knew the ginnel Morris meant: a small lane close to the Parish Church that ran alongside the large property owned by Berkenhold, the merchant.
There was enough moonlight to see the high brick wall that kept people out of the orchard behind the big house. The other side was the frontage of old houses, the gaps between them leading to a warren of courts, the homes of the poor and desperate who could afford no better. How many people would be living back there, he wondered? Hundreds, most likely.
Snatch a man and take him into one of those and it would be almost impossible to find him. The entries were barely wider than a man’s shoulders, dark, foreboding, and menacing in the night.
He walked through the ginnel and back. It was barely thirty yards long, a lost little place. There were three courts. He didn’t even try to walk into them. He’d get the men down here and have them scour the places. It was always possible that the murderer had his rooms here. Someone might have seen something. He’d have Sedgwick talk to the tenants here; with his easy manner they seemed to open up to him.
He’d been angry at Morris, but he understood the man wasn’t to blame. He’d done exactly what was expected, and he’d never stood a chance against this murderer. In truth, he’d done the right thing to return to the jail and raise the alarm.
The ginnel came out on Kirkgate and Nottingham ambled slowly back to the jail. Could he have put all the pieces together earlier and identified Wyatt? No, he didn’t have the information. And as soon as he’d found out, he’d taken steps to protect Rushworth and the judge. But Wyatt had the whip hand. He knew who he wanted, he’d had the time to spy on them and make his plans.
Finally Sedgwick returned, and Nottingham explained that he wanted all the courts off the ginnel searched, and everyone questioned.
‘I don’t know if Wyatt’s there, John, so be careful. He’s dangerous. If you even get a sniff of him I want to know about it.’
‘I’ll lay odds he won’t be anywhere close to the place,’ Sedgwick said.
Nottingham shrugged. ‘You’re probably right. But he wouldn’t know we were following Rushworth. That must give us something.’
‘But not the poor bugger he’s got.’
‘No,’ the Constable acknowledged bleakly. In frustration he slapped the desk. ‘Wyatt’s spent seven years in the Indies. He must still be brown from the sun. That means he should be easy to spot in Leeds. He can’t stay inside all the time. Why hasn’t anyone seen him?’
‘He’s a smart bastard. You said so yourself, boss. He’s worked this all out.’
‘I know.’ There was a sense of resignation in his tone.
Clouds had blown in from the West and a thin drizzle had started by the time Nottingham walked down Kirkgate. It would take away the last of the slush and leave many of the roads no better than quagmires. Carters would be stuck, tempers would fray. More problems for the morning.
He let himself into the dark house, removed his boots and climbed the stairs quietly. Stripping to his shirt, he washed at the ewer then pulled the blanket over himself, Mary’s warmth radiating close by. In her sleep she turned to him, curling by his side. Smiling, he put his arm around her and pulled her closer.
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
