For a moment he wondered if he’d see her alive again and panic rose quickly through him. He wanted to run to her. But he stayed where he was. There was work to be completed. Duty was something he’d learned in the last few months; there was a job to do and he’d see it through.
Time passed slowly. The iciness of the ground seeped through his shoes and into his feet. His limbs ached, and even deep in the pockets, his fingers were stiff.
Suddenly the man moved. Josh waited a moment then slid to his feet. His legs were stiff and for the first few steps he stumbled like an old man, knees not wanting to move.
The man was further up Briggate, easy to spot as he walked in short bursts, stopping to inspect shop windows as he slyly cast his eyes ahead to the judge and the Constable’s men who followed.
It wasn’t Wyatt, Josh was positive of that. The man moved too confidently, like someone who’d known the ground well for years. The judge crossed the Head Row, a small body plunged deep into a large coat. He was going home to eat, Josh knew, and then he’d sleep in his chair for an hour. It was his daily ritual, as he’d learned in the days he’d had to follow the man.
Nottingham’s men did their work well, staying nearby until the judge was safe behind his own door. They’d leave for a while now, to warm themselves in an inn, and return later to follow if he went out again.
Josh waited until they’d gone. Knowing he had time, he ran around, through the courts and by the Grammar School, to reappear higher up Town End, hidden by a gatepost. No one would look there, and he could see the entire street.
The man waited a few minutes, pacing restlessly and stamping his feet to stay warm before turning on his heel and marching away. Josh followed carefully, keeping distance between them as they moved on to lower Briggate, then on to Swinegate. There Josh moved quickly, his suspicions sharp, arriving in time to see the man vanish into Worthy’s house.
He ran back to the jail, eager to tell the Constable, but he’d left. Josh stood on Kirkgate, the wind harsh against his face. He’d have to give the boss the news later.
He needed food, something hot inside him. He hadn’t eaten since the day before. There was no market, so there were no stalls, but Michael at the Ship would feed him.
Walking quickly he headed back up Briggate. By the Moot Hall, he was about to turn into the small court with the inn when he felt a hand on his sleeve. He turned to see a child, barely five, urgently pulling at his coat. The boy’s face was grubby, hands filthy, and he was dressed in a short, ragged jacket and torn breeches, calves bare, shoes held together with twine. For a moment Josh thought he must be a beggar, then the boy said,
‘They want you to come. They think they’ve seen your man.’
Twenty-Two
The boy took off at a run, as if he had no doubts that Josh would follow. And he did, sliding and slipping on the snow and ice, but quickly catching up and keeping pace. The boy knew his way around the streets, taking short cuts and dashing through small spaces.
They ended up in the Ley Lands. Looking ahead, Josh could see where the city petered out and gave way to cottages. Here, though, there were still courts and yards where people simmered and stewed, survived or died. Even in this weather he could smell the stink of misery, as if it had become part of the houses themselves.
The boy led him around a corner. A man waited there, so deep in the shadows that he looked to blend in with the wall. He was wearing a long cloak, the hood pulled close over his head.
For one horrifying moment Josh wondered if he’d come into a trap, then the man pushed back the cowl. It was the young man from the group of Gypsies.
‘We think we’ve seen him,’ he said without preamble.
‘Where?’
The man didn’t move.
‘There’s a house in the court with most of the roof missing. It looks empty, but there’s a man with darker skin who goes in there.’
‘Thank you.’ The words didn’t seem grateful enough. If they caught Wyatt from this, the man would have a good reward.
The man smiled wryly. ‘You’d better go and tell your master, boy.’
‘Yes.’ Josh began to turn away.
‘And make sure you remember our part,’ the man warned.
‘I will.’ He started to run back to the jail, hoping that the Constable had returned.
When he arrived, Nottingham was sitting at his desk, a slice of pie at his side as he worked. After running hard through the cold, the heat of the room seemed close, and Josh felt clammy cold sweat drying on his face.
‘Wyatt,’ he said, drawing in lungs full of air. ‘I think I might have found him.’
The Constable sat up sharply, his eyes quickly alert. ‘Where?’
‘In a court by the Ley Lands.’ Josh sat, slowly regaining his breath.
‘Are you sure it’s him?’
‘No,’ Josh admitted. ‘I was told.’
Nottingham pushed the fringe off his forehead, fierce concentration on his face.
‘Have you seen him?’
Josh shook his head.
‘Do you believe the information?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Josh answered firmly.
Nottingham nodded. ‘Go and find John and a couple of the other men and come back here. We’ll go and see if this is Wyatt.’
‘Do you think it could be?’
The Constable shrugged. ‘I hope so.’ He smiled. ‘We won’t know until we see, will we? But we’re going to be prepared. Get John.’
It took a full hour before the men were assembled at the jail. Nottingham and Sedgwick took primed pistols, and the Constable armed the others with knives. Josh led the way through the afternoon streets, the party moving silently. The wind had finally dropped and more people were around, heavily wrapped, stepping back in fear and hurried whispers as the men passed.
They halted outside the court. Only Josh and Nottingham ventured in, keeping out of sight as the boy pointed out the house. Two of the men were detailed to go around and watch the rear. There would be no chance of Wyatt escaping, if Wyatt it was. Five minutes later the Constable raised his hand. Flanked by Sedgwick and Josh, their weapons drawn, he walked to the house with the missing roof and pushed heavily on the door.
With a mild groan it gave way and they entered. Sorry grey light filtered down through the rafters and broken joists, casting deep shadows. They stopped to listen, waiting as the place filled with a deep, sad silence. Walking slowly, they moved from room to room. Half the doors were missing, glass gone from the windows, floors deep in dust, cobwebs and rat droppings. It was a place that begged to be taken down and opened to the sky.
At the end of the hall stood the last door, closed and dark. Nottingham turned the knob slowly and pushed it open. The faint light showed stairs down to a cellar. He walked slowly, feeling each step with his foot, the others close behind him.
The floor under his feet changed from wood to packed dirt. The air smelt of stale food, sweat, shit, of life. Someone ate and slept down here. He tightened his grip on the pistol, slowly letting out his breath.
The Constable waited, letting his eyes adjust to the heavy gloom until he could make out the walls. He could feel his heartbeat, the fire of dryness in his mouth. Very slowly he edged his way along, fingertips on the walls, touching the rough finish of bricks and mortar.
After a few yards there was wood. He traced the frame of a door, old, dry, splintering. His hands moved further until he found the door itself, sliding down to the knob. Nottingham could sense the others behind him, tense and waiting.
Slowly he turned the doorknob, then pushed the door wide and stepped into the room. The blackness felt as absolute as death. He had no idea how big the room was, or where Wyatt might be in it. He needed light. And they
