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 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.