had none.
‘Who’s in here?’ he shouted.
He could hear John moving around the room. Glancing back he could pick out Josh at the door, faintly highlighted, standing like a ghost.
Nottingham moved to the wall and began working his way slowly around the room. Suddenly there was a small flare of light, and a glow gradually filled the room. Sedgwick had found a candle.
In the opposite corner a man cowered in his bed. His eyes were wide and terrified. There was a wet spot on the dirty sheet where he’d pissed himself, and the scent of urine wafted across as he cowered.
‘Who are you?’ Nottingham asked. His pistol was pointed straight at the man’s head.
His skin was darker. That much was true, but he looked nothing like the Wyatt of the Constable’s memory. This man was squat, his shoulders wide, his hair little more than a shadow on his skull. A thick moustache, the bristle hair turned to grey and white, covered his top lip.
‘Who are you?’ he repeated.
The man looked from Nottingham to Sedgwick and to Josh. The Constable could see he was scared for his life.
‘Your name?’ Nottingham asked, trying to soften his tone.
‘I-’ He looked around helplessly, petrified.
‘What’s your name, please?’ Nottingham asked again, this time more gently, lowering his weapon.
‘I’m Tom.’ The man spoke the word tentatively, the fear full in his voice. ‘Tom Walker.’
Nottingham looked around the room, for what it was worth. The bed was old straw and an even older sheet, with a small travelling chest standing at the foot. Besides that the place was almost bare, the floor swept clean.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was a sailor. I’m on my way home.’ The Constable caught an accent he couldn’t quite pinpoint in the man’s voice. ‘I’ve no money and I found this place.’
‘And where’s home?’
‘Newcastle.’
‘Where are you travelling from?’
‘Portsmouth. Paid us off and let us go, like.’ He squinted hard, the shock and surprise starting to fade. ‘And who are you, then?’
‘I’m the Constable of Leeds,’ Nottingham told him. Walker stared at him.
‘Is there anyone else living in the house?’ the Constable asked.
‘No one I’ve seen. But I’ve only been here a couple of days, like. I’m on my way tomorrow. Just needed to rest up.’
Nottingham smiled.
‘We’ll leave you, then. Have a safe journey, Mr Walker. Josh, go and tell the others we’ve finished.’ He paused. ‘But good work.’
Upstairs, the light seemed to flood in on them, leaving Nottingham blinking. He felt the tension of the last few minutes seep out of his bones, leaving him tired.
He shrugged himself deeper into his greatcoat and they left the house, the pistol in his pocket. He’d hoped this had been it, that he could have taken Wyatt quickly and simply.
‘How are the men around the judge?’
‘They’re staying close,’ Sedgwick answered. ‘But not so close he knows they’re there.’
‘Good.’
Josh arrived at a run, his face anxious.
‘Boss?’ he asked.
‘Go on.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘I know it wasn’t Wyatt, but he was dark. Just a sailor. But well done.’
Josh beamed. ‘I was out earlier, and someone was following our men who were after the judge.’
‘What?’ Sedgwick asked. ‘Who?’
‘And did he go back to Worthy’s house?’ Nottingham asked.
‘Yes.’ Josh sounded deflated.
‘Don’t worry, lad. Worthy and his men want to find Wyatt. Worthy claims he owes Graves a debt and this is his way of paying it off.’
‘You don’t believe that, do you?’ Sedgwick scoffed.
The Constable made a dismissive gesture. ‘I know full well that Amos Worthy has never done anything without his own reasons. Still, it’s good to know we have another line of defence around the judge.’
They were close to the jail, just the other side of Kirkgate. The light was waning, the bitterness in the air more acute.
‘Go home,’ he said. ‘Josh, I hope your girl is a little better.’
The boy reddened. Nottingham waited until they’d turned the corner then started down the road. He needed his hearth, too.
In the distance was the Parish Church. He knew he should stop and see Rose’s grave. It seemed like days since he’d talked to her and he was beginning to feel as if she was slowly slipping away, to become part of the past, not the present. In his head the line between the living and the dead was becoming firmer. She was growing less substantial, drifting into mist like a ghost.
He could still feel her in his heart, the love as strong as when she’d been a little girl. But maybe Mary had been right, that work was who he really was, that only his job brought him truly alive.
Nottingham stopped at the lych gate, running his hand along the wood, his nail idly chipping off a fragment of ice. For a moment he considered turning the handle and taking his apologies, his sorrows, to Rose. But maybe it was better for both of them for him to let her rest a while, to let her die.
Slowly he walked on, looking ahead to the warmth of home.
Twenty-Three
It was simple enough to glide through the city unnoticed. Wrapped heavily against the weather he could be any one of the anonymous figures on the street. He’d seen the men placed so obviously around the judge and followed their movements.
He’d even spotted the others surreptitiously watching the watchers. That gave him pause. He knew the judge’s routine by now and where all his guards would be, although Dobbs himself seemed unaware of their existence.
Spiriting him away wouldn’t be easy, but with care he could manage it. He had ideas, a plan that would leave them all wondering what had happened. But that was for when he was ready.
It amused him to walk past those meant to catch him. Bundled like this, with just his eyes showing, he was almost invisible. The weather had been his friend this winter, its cruelty matching his own. As long as he was careful — and he was always careful — he had the freedom of Leeds.
He’d followed the Constable too, at a wary distance. He knew the man’s routines, he’d seen his family, discovered his loss. By watching and waiting, exercising the patience that had served him so well these last years, he’d been able to build up his picture, t o put all the pieces in place. Soon the time would be right again. Soon.
Twenty-Four
‘How is she?’ Josh asked in an eager whisper. Frances was curled on a pallet, sleeping softly, two tattered blankets covering her thin body.
‘She’s been sleeping a lot,’ Lizzie told him kindly. ‘But she needs that. She lost a lot of blood and her body needs to get strong again. Poor little thing.’
