‘There’s a house at the bottom of Woodhouse Hill, between that and the Bradford road.’
‘Aye, I know it. Nobody’s lived there for years now.’
‘Wyatt and his woman are there.’
‘And how do you know this?’ Worthy asked cynically.
Nottingham tapped the side of his nose. ‘Information, Amos. Information. I’ll have my men there.’
‘Well then, Mr Nottingham, if you have it covered so well, why do you need us?’
‘I can always use more help. Just in case. Have two of your men at the top of the hill and two on the road.’
‘Aye, I heard you’ll be shorthanded for a while. The Hendersons did the boy.’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you going to do about that?’ Worthy raised a thick eyebrow. His forehead was scarred, the pale line disappearing under his short, dirty wig. ‘People have to see who’s in charge, or they’ll think they can get away with anything.’ He threw the bones on to his plate and stood up, his men following quickly. As he left, he looked back at Nottingham and gave a brief, emphatic nod.
‘We’ll be there, laddie.’
The rain had begun while he sat in the Talbot. By the time he left it was coming down so hard it bounced off the paving stones on Briggate. There was no point in running; after just a few yards he was drenched.
The downpour was cutting into the last of the slush, leaving more water on the ground, puddling faster than it could soak into the earth. Still, there was one good thing about it; Wyatt and his woman wouldn’t be looking for visitors on a night like this.
The men had assembled, coats steaming in the heat from the fire. All had shown up, ready to earn their money.
‘They say it’s been raining like this up in the hills for the last day,’ Sedgwick told him.
‘The Aire will be flooding soon, then,’ Nottingham said. ‘All we need.’ He opened a drawer and then closed it again. ‘No point in taking pistols, we won’t be able to prime them in this weather.’
He stood by the door and shouted for silence.
‘Right, I told you earlier what I need you to do. If you see anyone trying to run from the house, take them down. Do what you have to do,’ he told them. ‘Let’s go.’
There was little talk as they walked up Briggate and turned down the Head Row, then out along Park Lane. The rain had let up slightly, but still teemed down, runnels sluicing down the edges of the road.
The Constable halted by the path that snaked up to the house. No lights showed from the building. He took a deep breath, feeling the raindrops hit cold against his face.
‘No talking from here unless it’s vital. You won’t be able to see much in all this. Just remember what I told you.’
He marched off along the track, Sedgwick close behind. The mud pulled and sucked at his soaked boots. He was ready for this, ready for it to be over, never to see the books again, to touch the covers made of human flesh.
Nottingham looked ahead to the building, a blurred smudge between earth and the heavy sky. He was breathing slowly, no longer even aware of any pain in his shoulder. In his right hand he held the dagger.
As they neared the house he could start to make out its shape, squat, the tiles of the roof missing in one corner. It looked abandoned, but deep inside himself he knew this was the right place.
The rain dripped in a heavy stream from his hat. A fence, long destroyed, brought him into what had once been the kitchen garden, now bare and waterlogged. He turned and waited as the slow snake of men caught up to him.
‘Are you all ready?’ Nottingham asked quietly. ‘Take your positions — and be ready.’
With Sedgwick at his side he rounded the building, reaching out to touch the stone, rough under his fingers. They stood by the front door for a moment, then the Constable nodded and Sedgwick raised his boot.
Thirty-Three
The wood gave only a little at first, then more on the second kick, groaning on its hinges. At the third attempt it exploded open. Nottingham rushed in.
A candle sat on the table, burning bright, the room full of light. The shutters were closed. The room was clean, floors swept, the bed in the corner neatly covered with a sheet.
She was there, half hidden in a crouch behind the table. She wasn’t quite the woman of his memory. Her face was older, harder, the hair dark but missing its deep, unusual sheen. A large knife lay at her side, but she made no move to pick it up.
‘Where is he, Charlotte?’ Nottingham asked. She glanced up at her name, and the candle glow reflected off the tears running down her cheeks.
‘You get her, John,’ Nottingham ordered. ‘I’ll see what else is in the house. He’s here somewhere.’
He found a candle stub and lit it. Raising his arm sent a shudder of pain from his shoulder, but he needed light and he needed the dagger. The door by the stone sink had to lead outside. Another, though, seemed to go somewhere else. Cautiously, he opened it, standing back as he pushed the wood against the wall.
Stairs went down to the cellar. This is the place, he thought. The stench rose to meet him, a sickening, heady blend of piss, shit and blood. He descended carefully, keeping the flame out ahead of him.
There was the table, with a neat stack of paper, a quill and an inkwell. Close by, a chair and another table with leather straps, and several knives. Barrels stood in the corner.
But there was no Wyatt. He turned around, letting light play into every corner and crevice, but there was no one. At the far end of the room another door stood, barely ajar. Beyond it he could hear the rain. He went out and called for his men.
‘Did anyone come out this way?’
He was greeted with blank stares and shakes of the head. They’d missed him. He’d managed to escape. He ducked back in the house and examined the door. The lock was new, the key still in it. Now he was out and loose in the city.
The Constable took the papers from the desk and slid them into a large waistcoat pocket.
Upstairs, Sedgwick had Charlotte’s wrists tied behind her.
‘Where did he go?’ Nottingham asked urgently. He took her chin in his hands so she had to face him. He kept his grip tight enough to hurt her. ‘Tell me and you won’t have the gallows.’
She closed her eyes and said nothing. He pushed her away.
‘Take her to the jail,’ he ordered. ‘Have one man stay in case Wyatt returns. Send another down to watch the bridge. We’re going after him.’
By the time Sedgwick caught up to him with his long stride, Nottingham was halfway down the track that led to the road. The rain slashed at his face and ran down his neck. He slowed to a fast walk.
‘He must have got out without the useless bloody men seeing him,’ the Constable blazed. ‘Worthy’s men buggered up, too. They were supposed to be by the road.’ In the darkness he pointed at the city. ‘He’s out there. He won’t be leaving Leeds. He’s dreamed about this place and what he’d do for so long that he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.’
‘So where do we start?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, ‘but he doesn’t have another bolthole. And that means we’ll find him.’
‘Where?’
Nottingham made a quick decision. Where would he be if he wanted to hide in Leeds?
‘We’ll begin by the river and work out from there.’
They marched on grimly, up the Head Row then down Briggate. The only sound was rain pounding on the cobbles; all the snow had finally melted. The water soaked through his coat and his shirt, leaving his skin cold. His boots squelched and he felt as if the world was liquid.
Wyatt was somewhere, somewhere close. At the stairs by the bridge Nottingham stopped. Below, the water was loud, at least two feet higher than usual. For a short moment the moon came through the clouds and he could
