‘The Constable will pay for information,’ Josh said. ‘And you’ll have his gratitude.’
‘That can be a good thing to have,’ the old man decided.
‘If you find him, you can send one of the children to tell me.’
The old man nodded. The deal had been done. Josh walked back through the camp and down the track, finally resting against a dry stone wall.
He knew they were men of their word. They’d keep any eye out for Wyatt, and if they found him, he’d hear. There’d be a small tug on his sleeve, a few whispered words.
Slowly he stood and began to walk back into Leeds. He gazed down at the city from the hill, smoke rising from the chimneys, the low grey haze of cloud. Wyatt was there. Rushworth was there. Frances was there. But he had a day’s work to do before he saw her again.
Nottingham felt the grit churning in his soul. Many people had threatened him in his time as Constable, but few had ever done anything about it, and never as cold-bloodedly as this.
He’d been given his warning. But if Wyatt wanted him dead, he’d have a fight on his hands. At the jail he took a pair of knives from the cupboard and sharpened their blades carefully on a whetstone before sliding them into their sheaths and then into his coat pockets. For a brief moment he considered a pistol, then dismissed the idea. He’d never enjoyed the idea of guns; they only offered a single chance, and he preferred better odds than that when playing for his life.
Armed, he gathered his coat tight about him and locked the jail. Outside, the wind was beginning to whip up from the north. The temperature was falling again and the rain was turning to light snow that rushed angrily around his face.
No more winter, he prayed. There had been enough of that already, too much of it, too many dead, too many hopeless. As he walked up Briggate, past the Ship Inn and the Moot Hall, he saw the faces of the people, the happiness drained from them, walking with heads bowed like penitents.
He ducked into a court between two houses, the opening barely wider than his shoulders, and the wind ceased. He stopped, breathing slowly. Beyond the short passage the ground opened out, muddy and cloying, surrounded by ramshackle houses of stone and wood where the gardens had once stood a century or more before.
Nottingham picked his way across the mire and hammered on a faded blue door. There was no latch or lock he could see, but he knew the man inside would have taken care to make it secure.
He waited, standing back slightly so he could be seen. Finally, as he was about to give up and turn away, the door opened soundlessly. He walked into a dark hallway, following a moving shadow, then into a room where sober grey light fell through dirty glass. Finally he stopped and said, ‘Peter.’
The other man turned. He had to be in his fifties now, the Constable thought, wizened, the wrinkles carved deep into his face, grey hair a thinning tangle on his head, like so many other men who’d been ground down by life. He wore a dusty, dark coat with rips in the shoulders and pockets and dirty, buff-coloured breeches. In a crowd no one would notice him, which was exactly what he wanted. Peter Hawthorn was a peacher, a man who heard about crimes and made his money by informing on the criminals.
‘Mr Nottingham.’ He had a rough, low voice, scarcely more than a growl. As long as the Constable had known him he’d never used more words than absolutely necessary, hoarding them close like bullion.
‘You know who I’m looking for.’
Hawthorn nodded.
‘There’s very good money in it for whoever finds him for me.’
Hawthorn nodded again.
‘But it has to be soon.’
He didn’t know how the peacher had managed such a long life, and he’d never asked. Over all the years some must have known he’d given them up. But he was still here, still making a bare living from his trade in souls.
‘He’s been in the Indies, so his skin will be burned dark. He’s staying out of the way, but he’s in Leeds somewhere.’
He waited for an acknowledgement, but Hawthorn said nothing. Finally Nottingham turned on his heel and left.
On Briggate snowflakes still lashed his face and hands, and it felt even colder than before. If this grew any worse, he thought, the slush would freeze and the streets would be treacherous. The snow was already starting to settle on his shoulders and in his hair as he walked, and back at the jail he had to shake his greatcoat clean.
He stoked up the fire in the grate and settled into his seat to compose his latest report for the Mayor. It would be brief; there was precious little new to tell. As he wrote, he wondered about Rushworth. Was he still alive, or had Wyatt already killed him? He realized in his heart that they’d never find him in time. The next they’d see would be the body and then the book that would inevitably follow.
Worthy’s help could make the difference. He hated to admit it, but he knew it was true. With more men looking, it had to only be a matter of time until they took Wyatt. But how much time did he have? Not enough, that was certain. And there’d be a price to pay in the future for the pimp coming to his aid. There’d be some kind of favour to be done, an eye to be turned away at a crucial moment. Nothing in this life came free.
He set the pen down. He couldn’t settle; the world was buzzing in his head. Someone wanted to kill him. Someone he loved more than his own life was dead. He’d have given himself up for Rose to live, and so would Mary. But God never made his bargains so easily. Instead you had to learn to live in the long shadow of sorrow and face whatever else He put before you.
There was nothing more he could do here. Putting on the coat, still wool-damp and heavy, he set out for home. The temperature had dropped further, the mud freezing rapidly and crunching under his boots, the snow still coming down, small patches lying deceptively white and pure atop the hardening dirt. It would be bitter tonight, and for the next few days as winter gave a harsh reminder it wasn’t done with them yet.
Emily was sweeping the floor. She held the broom awkwardly, pushing it in short stabs that gathered no dust. Without thinking he came up behind her, put his hands over hers and said,
‘Try it this way, love. It’ll be easier.’
He guided her so she made long strokes across the wood. This had been Rose’s job when she lived here, and she’d always tackled it briskly and efficiently.
‘That’s the way,’ he told her. ‘You’ve got it now.’
She turned and smiled gently at him. He was aware of how small and dry her hands were, and uncomfortable with the way her hips swayed as she moved. He returned her smile, for a moment feeling the weight of all the dying lifting from him.
She was the future now, with her dark eyes and long, smooth hair. His only little girl, a young woman now, moving further away from him with each day. Pray God she’d survive, even if his name didn’t.
‘I didn’t know you could do housework, papa,’ she teased. They were the first joyful words he’d heard from her in weeks.
‘You know me, I can do anything.’ He winked and walked into the kitchen. Mary was trimming the fat off a piece of pork.
‘I just wanted to be with you for a little while,’ he explained before she could say anything. He needed this woman, he needed her love, her trust, the way she accepted his devils and his truths.
‘I don’t think you’ve ever come home in the daytime before, Richard.’ Her voice tried to be light, but he could hear the undertone in it.
‘I just wanted a few minutes of peace.’
She put down the knife and wiped her hands on an old cloth before holding him close.
‘Well, there’s precious little of that around here today. Emily’s decided she wants to be helpful, and I’ve spent half the morning having to go over what she’s done.’
‘She’ll learn. At least she’s trying. We should be grateful for that.’
‘Oh, I know. But it would be quicker if I did it all myself.’
‘She needs to know. Before we know it she’ll be a wife herself.’
He could feel the ghost of Rose rise briefly, then vanish again.
‘All in good time,’ Mary said.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘No hurry.’
But time might not be something they possessed. He dared not tell her that his name was on Wyatt’s list.
