Was Wyatt a madman? He had to be. No one in his right mind would do what he’d done. He stared at the book’s cover and felt his gorge rise. A man’s skin. That had to be the true sign of insanity.
He poured a mug of small ale from the jug and drank quickly, letting the liquid wash the dryness out of his mouth. The silence of the room gathered around him. He knew he had to look at the remaining pages.
But not for a minute yet. Everything connected with this man disturbed him. He was calling the tune, and the Constable and his men were dancing like fools. Even Worthy had found nothing.
And meanwhile Wyatt laughed.
These books were the proof. He gloated. This wasn’t his story, it was his boast. Nottingham glanced out of the window. A few people straggled along Kirkgate, their breath blossoming on the cold air.
Inside, intimate with Wyatt, he could have been in a different world, a close, horrifying world. Very carefully, using his fingernails, he prised the book open and found his place.
Since my time in Derbyshire I had foresworn women. In one way or another they were all whores. They took your money, they took your life. I had my plans, and if I wanted a woman she’d come later, when I was established, once I had my fortune.
I had bought a shirt that was too large for me, and needed it altered. I was good with a pen, but I had no skill with a needle. Charlotte was a seamstress who lived in the same court. Since she was so close I took it to her.
There was something unusual about her. She looked different, a deeper colour to her skin, but it was more than that. She was reticent, as genteel as a lady for all she dressed in old clothes and didn’t have two pennies to her name.
She had no idea where she had been born or about her background, but her family had ended up here, then died. She was the only one to survive. Something about her touched me. Unlike the girl who had tried to ruin me or the prostitutes who wanted my coin, she was honest. I wanted to look after her, to give her a better life.
She moved into my room.
But meanwhile, you will also want to know what happened to Mr Rushworth. Of course, you already know.
He was so easy to take. A soft word, and then he recognized me. I knew your man was behind him, but there was no challenge in tricking an oaf like that.
Then I had him away. He was such an unassuming man in life, a man who sensed his lot. The only time I ever heard him speak up was against me. If he had not done that he could still be content with his ink and paper. Maybe there will be some to miss him. I never asked.
In the short time I held him with me he spoke more than I heard in those long years we worked together. He apologized for all the trouble and pain he had caused me, of course. As well he should. He begged. Yes, he begged most volubly. It should have been satisfying but it quickly became tiresome to hear his wheedling voice, praying to me for his life. In the end I finished him sooner than I really wanted just to quiet him.
By that time I found that there was very little satisfaction in killing him. But it was a job that had to be done, a small task to be completed. It was best done quickly.
Gingerly, he slid the book into the drawer on top of its companion. He’d read it, he had no desire to ever open it again. If he could, he’d have burned them both immediately and let the blaze carry away all the hatred, all the fury that Wyatt had packed inside himself over his life.
Wyatt would be in his middle thirties now, and all those years of simmering anger were boiling over. After all these words he might know more about Wyatt’s history, but the man himself remained elusive, more apparition than flesh. He’d told enough about the past, but beyond the killings he’d said nothing of the present. He was a clever, cautious man, hinting at so much but giving away nothing.
Charlotte. At least they had a name now, although there was nothing more about the woman to help them.
What troubled him most was the confidence Wyatt possessed. He wasn’t writing a confession or apology, there was no sorrow in his words for anything he’d done. He truly didn’t believe he could be caught. Was he really so certain of himself?
The Constable poured more of the small beer and swilled it in his mouth before swallowing. He felt like throwing the mug against the wall just to hear it smash, but what would that prove, other than his own frustration?
Who would he go for next? The judge, Nottingham thought. He wanted the challenge, to prove he could do it. He wanted to show how good he was, how deep his revenge could run. And he’d want the Constable alive to read about how he’d done it.
Some of the men watching the judge were obvious; they were meant to be. Others were good, more adept at hiding themselves. He was certain Worthy had his men there, too, watching the watchers. A second ring of defence. When Wyatt came, they’d have him. One way or another. And if he came for the Constable instead, he was ready.
Twenty-One
If it wasn’t for the cold he’d have fallen asleep. The fear for Frances poured through him. He felt sure Lizzie would look after her, but he’d noticed the dark, worried look that flashed between her and John, the concern in their eyes.
He could lose her.
He’d checked the men, seeing each was in position, and told them to watch for a woman with darker skin. Some of them had taken it in immediately, others had been confused and he’d patiently explained it to them.
Two were waiting by the Moot Hall, where the judge had finished the Petty Sessions, and two more were close by the house at Town End. Josh circled around, his eyes open and alert for the woman, even as his heart fretted.
He’d seen so many die in his life, but what he was feeling now for Frances was different. She’d been with him for four years now, arriving from nowhere, so quiet she might have been a shadow. She was a patient girl, and shy, hardly ever meeting people’s eyes. Sometimes he wondered what had happened to her before they met, but she’d never mentioned anything about it.
From the corner of his eye he caught a movement, but he didn’t turn to look. Instead he slowly crossed Briggate, the ruts of ice hard from cart wheels and hooves. There was someone half-hidden in the entry of a court. He didn’t stop, but a single short glance was all he needed. Someone else was watching. From what he’d seen, though, it couldn’t have been Wyatt; the man’s skin had the paleness of too many English winters. He’d tell the boss later.
He settled in a spot a little further down Briggate that allowed him to watch the man without being observed. A wall kept the worst of the wind away and he crouched, hands deep in his pockets. This was work he could do well, tucked away, waiting, unseen, following. It was why the Constable had taken him on. He had the patience to do the job well. But as soon as he settled his thoughts returned to Frances and the anguish came back to his mind.
The idea that she might die terrified him. Over time she’d become part of him, her smile, her presence. He’d looked after her, but her warmth had comforted him too, first when they were children and now in different ways. It seemed impossible for Josh to imagine his life without her in it.
As soon as he finished work he’d go over and spend time with her. Lizzie had said he could stay as long as he wanted, as long as he didn’t tire her. But he’d be happy to simply sit and hold her hand. There didn’t even need to be words.
Two men walked by, heavily wrapped against the cold, barely wasting a glance on him. All they’d be worried about would be their money, Josh thought. He could have been another beggar boy, or the cutpurse he used to be. Two paces on they’d have forgotten about him.
He kept his face carefully angled, looking down but still able to watch the man across the street from the corner of his eye. His thoughts made their inevitable way back to Frances, feeling the sparrow touch of her small hand in his, the way she’d looked as she was carried to John’s room.
