Cold Cruel Winter Read Online Free PDF Page B

maybe still harboured the secret, ridiculous notion of becoming a writer, words flowed easily, like water in a brook. For Rose, like him in so many ways, they never had. She’d been a kindly girl, with few pretensions, one who greeted each little twist of life with a smile.
    He sighed loudly, aware once more of the large void in his life. In his head he knew others had suffered more, much more, but that was no comfort while his heart still broke at each memory.
    Nottingham picked up the quill and dipped it in ink, hoping to lose himself in the effort of work. He’d learned to read and write as a young boy, before his father had convinced himself that his wife had been unfaithful and the lad was not his. He’d thrown the pair of them from his merchant’s house, and a life of luxury became a daily fight where books and words held no place.
    He’d come back to his letters reluctantly when he took the job as a Constable’s man, but still found no pleasure in them. Now he was teaching Sedgwick to read and write, watching as the deputy eagerly embraced this new world of learning like a child, his writing shaky at first, then quickly becoming firmer, his eyes striving to make sense of words on the page, forming them slowly, then with more confidence. He worked hard at it. Nottingham knew Sedgwick had ambitions to succeed him as Constable, and he’d need these skills for the job. In time, he thought, it might happen. Maybe even sooner than anyone had imagined, he thought, if his weariness with the world didn’t end.
    He was still scribbling when the door opened, forcing in a hard rush of bitter air, and Sedgwick entered, shaking a few flakes of snow from his hair.
    â€˜It’s started again,’ he complained, taking off his coat and standing close to the fire, holding out his hands as if to grasp its warmth.
    â€˜What did you manage to find at the inn?’ Nottingham asked.
    â€˜Graves was booked for Friday’s coach, but he never got on it. Paid for his seat, too, so they were surprised when he never took it.’ He rubbed his palms together. ‘He used to take the coach every two months, they said, and he’d always been punctual.’
    â€˜What time did the coach leave on Friday?’
    â€˜It was a little late – supposed to go at ten, but it was almost eleven when it finally got off. There’d been a problem with one of the wheels, and they had to repair it before they could leave.’
    Nottingham looked at the deputy. ‘Did anyone see Graves on Friday morning?’
    â€˜Maybe, they’re not sure.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘You know what it’s like there when there’s a coach, boss. It’s always madness for a few minutes. Then they had to take care of the wheel and the passengers. A couple of the men say they might have seen him, but they’re not sure; no one’s going to swear to it, they were all too busy.’
    â€˜What about strangers?’
    Sedgwick gave a hopeless smile. ‘I tried that one, too. Between the travellers and the gawkers, they’re all strangers. No faces anyone remembered.’
    The Constable sighed. He hadn’t truly expected much, but he’d hoped for something. He thought for a moment, then said, ‘John, go down to Graves’s warehouse. I was there earlier. They don’t seem to know much, but try asking them about anyone who’s been sacked.’
    Sedgwick nodded and gathered up his wet coat, which was just beginning to steam in the heat, then left.
    Nottingham needed to speak to the widow Graves again. It was never easy, cajoling the bereaved into the past, the last place they wanted to visit, picking and probing at wounds that were still fresh. But he knew it had to be done. Give them a day, that was the way he’d been taught, just long enough to dull the first shock but while things were still clear.
    Once again the widow received him in the sitting room, the