Read Online Cold Cruel Winter by Chris Nickson - Free Book Online Page B

news on Graves’s killer,’ he said brusquely.
    The Constable could hear the weariness in his voice. ‘I do,’ he replied carefully. ‘But it’s not good.’
    He described the book, watching Kenion carefully as the colour fell from his face and he retched silently, hands gripping tight on the desk. When the Constable finished, the Mayor was silent for a long time before asking, ‘Where’s this book now?’
    â€˜It’s at the jail,’ Nottingham replied.
    â€˜And who else knows about it?’
    â€˜Only my deputy.’
    Kenion raised an eyebrow.
    â€˜You trust him?’
    â€˜Completely,’ the Constable replied.
    â€˜You’d better be right. No one else can know about this. If words spreads, I’ll know who to blame.’
    Nottingham nodded. He understood the importance of silence.
    â€˜We need to find this bugger fast,’ Kenion said. He stared directly at the Constable. ‘We can’t afford another killing like Sam’s. What are you doing about it?’
    There was nothing to be gained now by hedging, Nottingham decided.
    â€˜My men are looking, but there’s been nothing so far. But now I know who’s responsible, I can do a lot more. If I can identify his other targets from the trial transcript, I can guard them.’
    The Mayor rubbed his fleshy chin and nodded.
    â€˜And we’ll keep looking, of course. We’ll find him.’
    â€˜Just make sure you find him in time.’ It was half-command, half-wish.
    Before he left the Moot Hall, Nottingham visited the clerk in the archives and collected the transcript of Wyatt’s trial. It was thin, a saddeningly short hearing. In itself, that was no surprise. Justice was dispensed swiftly and harshly in the city. But he needed clues, names. With a deep, heartfelt sigh, he walked back to the jail.
    Nottingham read through the trial transcript four times. The first time his eyes slipped hurriedly over the words, familiarizing himself with the events in court; he hadn’t attended the trial himself. Afterwards he studied it in more detail, pausing to think and examine statements, trying to imagine himself in Wyatt’s position.
    The guilt had never been in question; the evidence was obvious and overwhelming, and presented clearly and concisely. Wyatt hadn’t spoken in his own defence, although it wouldn’t have made any difference. Both Graves and one of his clerks had been able to show how he’d embezzled a total of twelve pounds over two years. It wasn’t a fortune, by any means, but enough to make a real difference. Wyatt had thought he was being clever, of course, but once examined his methods seemed obvious, banal.
    He recalled arriving at Wyatt’s lodging to arrest him. Nottingham was still the deputy then, accompanying the old Constable, David Arkwright, in case of trouble. He’d seen how Wyatt lived. There was nothing expensive or fancy in the room he and his woman shared with another couple. A small, battered chest to hold their clothes stood at the foot of the bed. The walls were bare, stained by ragged brown patches of damp, but the floorboards were swept scrupulously clean, a blanket folded neatly across the pallet.
    Wyatt himself was a small man, dressed in clean clothes, the coat worn but carefully brushed and mended, the waistcoat plain, home-cut but well stitched. His fingers were heavily coloured by the ink he used every day, but the nails were short and free of dirt. The wig on his head fitted well.
    His woman wore a simple grey gown, a shawl gathered close around her shoulders, hair loose, brushed to a shine and falling long down her back. Her eyes were large, a deep, dreamy brown, and her skin was the colour of summer dust. There was an exotic tinge to her that he couldn’t place. She held his gaze evenly as she moved next to Wyatt and took his hand.
    â€˜You know who I am?’ Arkwright asked, and Wyatt had