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unreal day.

Eight
    â€˜Christ Almighty.’ Eyes wide, Sedgwick shook his head in disbelief as Nottingham told him about the book. ‘He’s not a man, he’s a devil.’
    â€˜Oh, he’s a man, no doubt about that. But he’s evil – that’s absolutely certain.’ He took a long swig of strong ale to clear his mouth. A low buzz of conversation filled the inn, but he’d been talking quietly, anxious not to be overheard.
    The book had shaken him. It had terrified him. His hands felt unclean, tainted; he could still feel the brittle dryness of the binding against his fingers. That was horror enough. What was far worse was what he saw when he looked beyond that.
    Wyatt was a man who planned meticulously, whose revenge had been simmering for years. He’d thrown down his gauntlet, and Nottingham had no choice but to respond. More than that, he had to win, to catch Wyatt before he could complete his mission. Three more deaths. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
    â€˜There can’t be any word about the book, John,’ he warned, taking another mouthful of beer. ‘You and I and the Mayor will be the only ones to know. The same with his plans. He’s told us what he intends to do. We’re going to stop him.’
    Sedgwick pushed his mug around the table. ‘So how do we do that, boss?’
    Nottingham sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know yet. He wants to murder three more people. We have to start by identifying the people he wants to kill and protecting them. And we have to keep hunting for him.’
    He knew that it sounded little enough, and it was. He’d need to review the trial transcript and see who’d given evidence, who would be in danger. But how could anyone reach inside a mind as twisted as Wyatt’s and see things through his eyes?
    â€˜I’d better go and tell the Mayor,’ he said finally. ‘Get the men out, John.’
    â€˜They’re already out, boss.’
    The Constable’s face tightened. He breathed deeply.
    â€˜Then double their efforts. We’re not just fighting a man here, we have to fight against the clock, too.’
    Sedgwick returned to the jail. He had a little time. Rummaging in the drawer, he looked at the book. Lying there, it seemed so ordinary, so harmless. The cover looked like any other leather, and he reached out to touch it. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew what it was, but he couldn’t help himself. It was macabre, of course it was, yet his fingers still irresistibly stroked the binding, then riffled through the pages. His reading was improving, and with a little effort he could slowly make out the sentences, even if he couldn’t follow every single word.
    The boss was right. Word about this could never leak out. The city would panic, and there would be no chance of containing it. He closed the drawer again. He’d never imagined that writing could be too powerful and too dangerous.
    Nottingham had to wait at the Moot Hall, although he’d insisted to the clerk that his business with the Mayor was urgent. Sitting, he tried to empty his racing mind. The luxury of the city building, with its dark, highly polished wainscoting and heavy carpet, seemed a whole world away from what he saw every day. The courts and yards, the ragged men and women, the children scavenging at the market or on the river bank, the lives and deaths that took place every day just outside these walls, that was what he really knew. He never felt comfortable in the homes of the merchants, surrounded by wealth, the muted chime of a long clock announcing the passing of hours, or the luxurious, moneyed sheen of fabric of a suit or gown.
    The Mayor looked harassed. He was halfway through his one-year term, and all the deaths of winter, which he could do nothing to halt, had weighed on him; it still showed although the thaw had begun.
    He looked up from his papers as Nottingham sat.
    â€˜You’d better have