Cold Cruel Winter by Chris Nickson

throat and the spurting blood had turned the front of the garment an ugly red-black. It had terrified Rushworth when he put it on. Wyatt smiled grimly and opened the cellar door.

Twelve
    The drizzle had edged into heavy, cold sleet by the time Sedgwick made his way home, and a chill wind stirred up around him. The old scar by his mouth itched and he scratched it without thinking. Along with Josh he’d spent the evening questioning the inhabitants of the courts that snaked off the ginnel where Rushworth had vanished.
    There’d been nothing, of course. No one had seen anything or heard of a man with skin burnt by the sun. The empty rooms were accounted for. They’d forced their way into three of them, but there was no sign of evil or murder. Rushworth had vanished, and he knew what that meant.
    He shook his head, throwing off raindrops, as he entered the house where he had a room. Lizzie would be waiting, and James would be asleep on his pallet. A fire was burning in the hearth. That cost them in tax, but it was worthwhile for the heat, the thing that had helped keep them alive in the depth of the winter, when morning cold had iced deep over the inside of the windows.
    He unlocked the door, smiling as Lizzie held a finger to her lips, her eyes turning to James under his blanket.
    â€˜Hello, love,’ he whispered as he held her, her face warm against his damp cheek. Some said he’d been mad to take on a girl who’d been a prostitute, but he had no regrets. It was love of a fashion, and she’d already proved herself to be a better mother to James than Annie had ever been.
    She busied herself, cutting cheese and bread, pouring ale, and putting it on the table ready for him.
    â€˜Another late night,’ she said, but without any touch of the criticism that had always sharpened Annie’s tone.
    He took a deep drink, feeling his body begin to relax.
    â€˜Aye,’ he agreed. ‘A lot of people to talk to. Looks like the murderer has snatched his next victim.’
    Lizzie shuddered and gathered her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
    â€˜No trace?’ she asked.
    â€˜Nothing. He’s just vanished. This murderer’s a clever bastard.’ Sedgwick shook his head in a mix of sadness and admiration before changing the subject. ‘How’s James been?’
    â€˜Good as gold.’ Lizzie beamed. ‘I took him down by the river earlier, over the bridge. I held him up so he could look down at the water.’ She paused. ‘You know what?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜He called me mam,’ she announced proudly.
    He took her hand, stroking the skin lightly.
    â€˜Does he ask for Annie any more?’
    â€˜Not in a fortnight now, John. He seems happy.’
    And why wouldn’t he be? Sedgwick wondered. Lizzie treated the boy like her own. She talked to him, played games with him, took him out.
    She leaned across the table and kissed him as he ate. The gesture took him by surprise, but she was forever doing daft things like that, holding him, kissing him. At first the affection had astonished him; now he liked it.
    â€˜I love you, John Sedgwick,’ she said softly.
    Who cared what she’d been, he thought. She was a good lass even then, friendly and always ready to laugh. The six months they’d been living together had been joy. They’d made him realize how ground down he’d become with Annie, how their marriage had been ultimately as fragile as gossamer. She’d hated his job and vanished for something she believed was better, a life as a soldier’s woman. He wished the man luck with her; he’d need it.
    As soon as she’d heard the news, Lizzie had knocked at his door. He was amazed that she knew where he lived.
    â€˜She’s gone, then?’ she’d asked bluntly.
    â€˜Aye,’ he admitted. The truth was that he was relieved when Annie left; he had his son, but he was uncertain and fearful for the