Shamefaced at his stupidity, the Constable began again.
‘I’ve got men watching the judge whenever he leaves home. Wyatt’s not going to get close to him.’
Kenion nodded his approval. ‘But?’ he asked.
‘We’ve been looking everywhere, asked everyone who might help, and no one has any idea where Wyatt is. Another week and I’ll have the book with the skin of the second victim.’
The Mayor sat back, thinking. Nottingham waited anxiously in the silence.
‘Just get him. I don’t care what you have to do.’ He paused to allow the point to sink home. ‘And when you find him, make sure this never comes to trial.’ He looked up, staring the Constable full in the face. ‘Do I make myself completely clear, Mr Nottingham?’
‘Yes.’
‘You find this man, I’ll try to keep Henderson off your back. If you fail. .’
Then he’d stand back and watch as Henderson tore him apart to save his sons. He nodded and left the Mayor’s office. Outside the cold was bitter, but at least it felt clean.
Back at the jail he took the time to examine Rushworth’s body again. His eyes had the cold milkiness of death. There were rope burns around his wrists and ankles, the skin rubbed raw all the way to dirty blood and sinew. The fingernails were chipped and torn to the quick where Rushworth had vainly tried to pick at his bonds.
The gash across his throat was a single, sure stroke. At least his death would have been quick, Nottingham thought, whatever consolation that could have been. It was impossible to judge how long he’d been dead. The winter had been Wyatt’s friend; the cold kept the body longer.
On the back the cuts were confident and the murderer had peeled off the skin with even, practised strokes. Christ, he thought, how had Wyatt perfected this? How had he learnt his technique?
But then, how had he managed any of this? How would someone carry a half-naked corpse on Leeds Bridge in this weather and have no one notice?
There’d be no one to mourn Rushworth, he’d have no money for a funeral. In a day or so he’d end up in a pauper’s grave where his flesh would slowly rot away, unremarked and unremembered. There would be no money for Isaac’s grave either. He and Rushworth might well walk into eternity side by side.
He thought of Rose. A grave might not be much, might be nothing but bones and earth, but it gave him a place for her, where he could find something of her. Who would miss this clerk?
Nottingham let the corpse rest and glanced across at Isaac’s withered body. At least the Henderson brothers would pay for that. Unless Kenion used them as pieces in his games with the corporation.
No more murders, he prayed softly. No more dead and dying this winter. Let spring come soon.
Outside, the weather mocked his words. The ground had become hard and icy, the snow a sharp crunch under his boots. The cold stung his face as he walked down Briggate. Few were out now, and those who were darted from shop to shop as if dashing between shelters. Voices and laughter came from the taverns and cookshops, where there was warmth.
Even the whores had taken their business indoors. Who could blame them, the Constable thought? It was the only place they’d find custom in this. Outside they’d just freeze into poverty.
But even now masters would begrudge heat to their servants and workers. They’d count the pennies the coal cost and eke it out like silver.
Only death, it seemed, relished the winter. So he kept his hands on the knife hilt as he walked.
Worthy was in his usual place in the untidy kitchen. Two of his men stood close to the blazing fire, their conversation ending as Nottingham entered the room. The procurer dismissed them with a sharp gesture.
‘Take your coat off, laddie. You’ll fry if you don’t. The older I get, the more I like it hot in here.’
‘I’m fine, Amos.’ He leaned against the table. The pimp was perched on a tall stool, his back against the wall. The suit was the one he always wore, threadbare, almost worn through at elbows and breeches sagging at the knees. The brocade of the cuff had long since worn away and years of stains covered the fabric. The procurer’s belly bulged against the faded, elaborate pattern of the long waistcoat, his hose was blotched with grime, and the leather of his shoes scuffed dark.
‘You think you’ll get the Henderson lads to swing?’ he asked.
Nottingham wasn’t surprised that he’d already heard.
‘I have the evidence. I don’t see what the alderman can do to stop it.’
Worthy shook his large head sadly. ‘Stop fooling yourself, Constable.’ He reached out with a thick, scarred hand and pointed. ‘He’s not going to let it happen. The family name depends on it. He’s going to use all his influence to stop you, and that’s a lot of power in this city. You mark my words on that.’
‘I haven’t forgotten, Amos.’
‘Still, that pair is best off the streets,’ he said dismissively.
‘You haven’t mentioned Rushworth,’ Nottingham said flatly.
Worthy shrugged and spat on the flagstone floor. ‘It’s why you’re here, isn’t it, laddie? I know you don’t like my company enough to come by for gossip.’
‘You’ve heard we found his body.’
The pimp have him a withering look. ‘I won’t ask about the skin. I don’t need to, it’s all over your face.’
Nottingham nodded. ‘Have your men found anything?’ he asked.
‘Not a bloody thing,’ Worthy answered bitterly. ‘And it’s not for want of trying, either, lest you were wondering,’ he added. ‘I don’t know who this bugger is, but he’s not relying on anyone. He just seems to vanish.’
‘No one vanishes.’
‘No?’ The procurer raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Neither of us can find him. You tell me what that means.’
‘It means he’s cleverer than us.’
‘No, laddie, I don’t believe that. Between us, we know the place in a way he never could. He’s been gone a long time.’
‘He’s been planning this for years, Amos,’ Nottingham said insistently. ‘He lived here before, he had time to know Leeds.’
‘You have men on the judge,’ Worthy said. It was a statement, not a question. ‘And I have men on your men.’ He looked at the Constable with a question in his hard eyes. ‘But who’s looking out for you?’
‘I’m prepared. I can look after myself.’ He brought out the knives and laid them on the table.
‘A handsome arsenal, Mr Nottingham,’ he said sarcastically. ‘And fine if you get a chance to use them.’
‘I’ll be ready for him.’
Worthy stood up and walked around the table until he was face to face with the Constable. ‘Laddie,’ he said quietly, ‘you’ve been going round with your head in a cloud. You’re not ready for a gust of wind, let alone Wyatt. I could take those from you in a moment.’ He paused for a moment. ‘What would you think if I told you I’d had a man on you for days?’
Nottingham’s eyes gave him away.
‘My lad’s good, but so is Wyatt. When he comes for you, he’ll take you,’ Worthy warned.
‘We’ll see. Amos, I don’t care how we get him, or who gets him. Just so long as we stop him quickly.’
The pimp nodded.
‘And take your man off me. I want to flush Wyatt out. You think what you will, I’ll be waiting for him.’
With a curt nod, the Constable left the house, back on to Swinegate. He glanced around, but saw no one waiting in the shadows. The businesses had their doors closed, precious candles burning inside as they hoped for customers. Even the smith’s hammer seemed to fall at a slower pace. Normally cramped, a cauldron of noise, the street looked wide as a river in the expanse of snow.
He walked past the apothecary where strange and wonderful things hung in the window, past the cabinet maker where the sweet smells of wood and varnish filled the air in summer.
The cold was like a harsh wall against his face as he turned on to Boar Lane and felt the thrust of the wind blowing down hard and thin from the East. Holy Trinity Church stood tall on the other side of the road, its lines still new and sharp, the glass of its windows reflecting a milky light.
Maybe he should feel triumphant. He had Peter and Paul Henderson in the cells with good, hard evidence against them. But with Wyatt still loose it was hard to know anything but failure.
He turned suddenly, but all he saw were one or two servants braving the weather to carry messages for their
