‘You can die if you want to,’ he said without sympathy. ‘I’m going to give you a choice. You can walk out of here now. Leave Leeds. No coat, no money, nothing, and you never come back.’
‘Or?’
‘Or you can die like him.’
‘Is this a test? Do you want to see how much I love him?’
‘No test,’ he promised.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Because I’ve seen too many corpses this winter. I’m sick of death.’
‘And what if I choose to die?’
He sighed and shook his head. ‘It’s up to you. He’s in the Aire. Walk in the river and join him if you want. But no one here’s going to kill you.’
He unlocked the door and left it open, then went to sit at his desk. He started work on his report for the Mayor, detailing Wyatt’s end. Eventually he heard the soft shuffle of her footsteps. She stood at the entrance to the cells, wary and untrusting.
‘You won’t stop me?’
He shook his head.
She took hold of the door and opened it, letting in the bitter sound of the rain. Without looking back at him, she asked, ‘Tell me something, please.’
‘What?’
‘Did he die easily?’
Nottingham considered his answer.
‘No,’ he said finally, ‘he didn’t.’
She walked on.
‘You’ve let her go, boss?’ Sedgwick was standing by the fire, his expression outraged, the pock marks burning on his cheeks. His old stock was untied, coat hanging open over an ancient crimson waistcoat whose colour had faded.
‘She was never here, John.’
Nottingham went over to the desk, picked up Wyatt’s papers and pulled the two books from the drawer. He weighed them in his hand, the sum of three lives wasted that could easily have been more, and tossed them on to the blaze. ‘None of this ever happened. That’s what the city wants.’
‘So we let Worthy get away with murder?’
‘Yes, we do. I couldn’t have done it, not like that. If you’re honest, neither could you. Someone had to. Maybe we should be glad Amos was there.’
The binding on the books began to crackle and burn and the sharp scent of hot flesh filled the air.
‘It’s how things work in the world, John,’ the Constable said quietly. ‘But at least it’s over. The dying can stop now.’
The day seemed strangely quiet. The rain continued, slowing to a teasing airy drizzle at times before the deluge returned in earnest. Where the Aire had broken its banks people were struggling to save their possessions from the water.
For Nottingham there was paperwork. Reports to write, rolls of the dead to complete, the work of every humdrum week, and he was glad to return to it. He and Sedgwick ate their dinner next door at the White Swan, a mutton pie washed down with good ale, the subject of Wyatt still heavy on their minds.
‘It was wrong,’ the deputy insisted.
‘The only thing wrong about it was that I let someone else kill him,’ Nottingham told him. The subject had been preying on him all day, pecking away at him. ‘I should have done my job.’
‘I thought our job was upholding the law.’
The Constable took a deep drink. ‘The definition of the law can be very broad sometimes.’
‘Broad enough for murder, boss?’
‘In this case, killing him was justice.’
‘Without a trial?’
‘He’d confessed to his crimes. He’d gloried in them. A trial wouldn’t have served any purpose. We did the right thing. The only thing.’
Sedgwick shook his head.
‘Think about it,’ Nottingham continued. ‘All these people, everyone in the city.’
‘What about them?’
‘If they’d known what was going on, what do you think would have happened? Someone going round doing what he did. We’d have had panic. Do they really need to know how evil men can be?’
‘We know.’
‘It’s our job to know,’ the Constable pointed out. ‘And this time we served the people best by keeping everything quiet, by killing Wyatt.’
‘So why did you let the woman go, then, boss? She was in it just as much as he was.’
‘Because she was powerless. She might as well have never existed. There wasn’t any point in killing her.’
‘Go home and rest, John,’ Nottingham advised. ‘It’s been a long day.’
Sedgwick rubbed his eyes. ‘Aye, maybe you’re right, boss.’ He smiled wanly. ‘I’ll tell you something, though. I’m not cut out for your job.’
‘Just as well I’m not leaving yet, isn’t it?’
The first thing he did when he walked into the room was to scoop up James and swing him round until the boy’s laughter became uncontrollable. There was life in the sound, complete joy, the things he needed to hear right now. He pressed the boy against his chest, feeling his tiny heart beat fast, seeing the bright, innocent smile in his eyes.
Lizzie was wearing her good dress, the threadbare pale blue silk a man had given her when she was still a whore. It was faded now, the colour watery, but it still suited her.
‘What’s the occasion?’ he asked. ‘Something special I don’t know about?’
‘The other dress got soaked when I was shopping earlier.’ She tilted her head in the way he loved and asked, ‘Bad day?’
Sedgwick put the boy down and held her. ‘Very,’ he explained briefly. ‘I watched a criminal kill a murderer.’
‘What?’ She pulled back to look at his face.
‘Amos Worthy came with us.’ He watched her grimace at the name. ‘We had Wyatt, and the boss stood by while Worthy slit his throat.’
‘Why did Mr Nottingham allow it?’
‘Because the order from the Mayor was that Wyatt had to die. He had the chance but he couldn’t do it.’
‘And could you have done it?’
‘No.’
‘So maybe it’s for the best that someone could,’ she offered as consolation.
‘That’s what the boss said.’ He shook his head with sadness and confusion. ‘Doesn’t make it any easier, though.’
Lizzie kissed him tenderly. ‘You’re a good man, John Sedgwick, and I love you.’ She grinned and arched her eyebrows. ‘But you’re dripping all over my floor. Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.’
Nottingham stayed late at the jail, only making his way home after dusk had turned to darkness. The rain had passed, heavy clouds scudding away to the east, leaving large puddles and runnels of water. A half-moon scattered light.
His soul felt heavy. He stopped at the lych gate to the church, his hand on the wood, thinking of a few moments at Rose’s grave. But just now he needed the living.
The river would run high for a while yet, carrying off the last of winter. There would be more names to enter in the lists of the dead.
The image of Wyatt sliding down the bank would stay with him. He’d glimpsed Worthy’s face as he used the knife and seen the relish, the cruel smile on his thin lips.
