‘We don’t know how long he’s been in Leeds.’
‘From the sentence he had, it can’t be that long. He has someone helping him.’ He looked up. ‘It feels right.’
Worthy nodded slightly. ‘Mebbe, laddie, mebbe. So what do you know about her?’
‘Beyond what I told you, nothing, really. Her skin was a little darker, black hair. That’s all I remember.’
‘Not a lot.’
‘I’ve had my men out looking, but there’s been nothing yet.’
‘I’ll have mine keep their eyes open. But what we’re really saying is we’re nowhere and grasping at straws.’
Nottingham smiled wryly. ‘I hope not,’ he said.
The door opened and one of Worthy’s men appeared. ‘That lad of the Constable’s is here. Needs to see him.’
Nottingham stood up. ‘I’ll be off.’
‘I’ll have them look for her.’
The Constable nodded and left. After the gloom of the kitchen, even the greyness of Swinegate seemed bright. Josh was waiting by the door, his body tense, eyes darting from side to side.
‘What is it?’
‘We had a message, boss. Your wife is ill.’
Twenty-Five
‘What? Who told you?’ Nottingham felt the shock, the numbing dread, rising in him. Not like Rose, please God. .
‘A boy came. Said your neighbour had sent him,’ Josh answered nervously.
‘How long ago?’
‘About half an hour, I think, maybe a little longer. We’ve been looking for you.’
The Constable nodded curtly, his thoughts dashing ahead of him. ‘Tell Mr Sedgwick he’s in charge for the moment. I’ll send word when I know more.’
‘Yes, boss.’
Nottingham ran along Swinegate, a few more people moving on the street, with hawkers treading warily as they shouted their goods. His heels threw up small spurts of slush, boots sliding every few steps.
He cut through The Calls, where small brick lodging houses advertised their empty rooms, and the tanners and shoemakers had their works, the air low with the dank stench of piss and leather.
Nottingham began gasping for breath. He needed to be home, to see Mary. The thought of her falling ill. . at least Emily was there. His thoughts roared wildly: Mary was dying, he’d have to live without her.
By the time he reached Timble Bridge the fear was pushing him faster, trying to outrun the darkness at the back of his mind. Home was close enough to see now, and he breathed deeply to try to quell the panic.
Along Marsh Lane trees lined the road, winter-bare and stark. Nottingham started to run harder. The slush was thick, the layer of ice slick underneath. His left foot slipped and he began to fall, hands flailing at the air as his body arced forward.
He was still in the air as something struck his shoulder, the pain sharp enough for him to cry out even before his body hit the ground. Without thinking, he rolled to the side, sliding unsteadily on to his feet, trying to keep his balance.
The man was facing him, legs apart, a heavy, shiny cudgel swinging in his hand.
So this was Wyatt. Under an old tricorn hat, he wore a rich brown, full-bottomed periwig — probably taken from Graves, the Constable thought. A scarf covered the lower part of his face, leaving only his eyes showing, calculating and pale in skin the colour of old wood. Nottingham could see the edge of a branding, T for thief, on the man’s cheek. His hands were large, their backs covered with dozens of tiny scars.
The Constable had knives in his pockets. He just needed to reach them. Reach one, anyway. His left arm was useless, numb from the blow. He began to edge backwards, feet testing the ground at each step. Wyatt said nothing, standing still, his intent gaze never leaving Nottingham’s face. He was smaller than the Constable, but a full decade younger, hardened and muscled by years of labour.
Nottingham tried to move his left arm. Harsh pain sprang through him, so sharp he had to compress his lips to stop crying out. Wyatt had been clever; he’d played on his fear, played on his love for his family. Worry had made him stupid. He hadn’t even taken any precautions for his own protection. He’d thought about death so much in the last few weeks and now he was looking directly at it.
For once, though, the long, cruel winter had been on his side. If he hadn’t slipped the cudgel would have cracked his head, and Wyatt would have taken him silently. Now he had a chance. Home was just a hundred yards away, down an empty road, with no one in sight.
If he tried to turn and run, Wyatt would be on him. He could shout, but who would hear with doors and windows shut tight?
Nottingham took another step backwards, his boot heel coming down softly, shifting the weight to his left leg. A droplet of sweat ran down his spine. He hardly dared to breathe, his eyes fixed on Wyatt.
Beyond the two of them, the world ceased to exist. Wyatt kept swinging the cudgel gently to and fro.
Wyatt would know exactly where he lived, Nottingham thought, how far he had to go to safety. He’d play with him, let him feel hopeful, and then pounce. The cat with the mouse.
The Constable knew that his only chance was to end this. Throw himself at Wyatt, knock him from his feet, then run. If he allowed Wyatt to keep control, he was lost. Those eyes were imprinted on his memory now; they’d visit him in his dreams, leave him awake in his bed.
He’d have to make his move soon, but he couldn’t offer any warning of it. To fool Wyatt, it had to be a complete surprise.
‘Papa!’
Nottingham tensed at the sound of Emily’s voice behind him. She must have come out from the house and seen him.
‘Papa!’
The Constable didn’t turn. His gaze remained firmly on Wyatt. The murderer’s eyes shifted to Emily, then back to Nottingham. He began to raise the cudgel and Nottingham drew in his breath. Then silently Wyatt turned and slipped into the woods.
With a long sigh Nottingham sat on the ground, the icy wetness of the slush soaking through his breeches. He moaned and reached across to touch his shoulder. As his fingers pressed lightly on his coat, pain raced down his arm.
‘Papa!’
He heard Emily running down the road, but he was too fatigued to turn and look at her. His right hand was shaking.
‘Papa, what’s wrong? Who was that man?’ Emily knelt by him, her gaze dark and fearful.
‘He’s someone who wants to kill me,’ he answered her softly. He felt as if his mind was floating, that none of the last few minutes had been real, as if he’d conjured them from his imagination. ‘Thank you,’ he told her.
‘Why?’
‘If you hadn’t shouted, I might be dead.’
Her face turned pale. He reached out and stroked her arm.
‘It’s fine now, love. He’s gone.’ He held out his right hand. ‘Come on, help me up.’
He leaned heavily against her. It was just a short distance home, but by the time they reached the door he felt as if he’d marched too many miles. His body was weary, the pain in his shoulder intense and sharp.
Inside, he stumbled to his chair and slumped as Mary came out from the kitchen. She knelt by him, running her hand over his face, and he tried to smile for her.
‘Richard. .’ Her voice was fearful, suddenly husky.
‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘I don’t think anything’s broken.’ He smiled gently at her. How many times had she
