In the clamour surrounding the arrival of a coach, it is quite remarkable what a man can do if he is quick and thinks on his feet — another skill I acquired in my travels.
Some damage to a wheel ensured a delay and loud frustration among the passengers. In that time it was very easy to be Graves’s shadow, and once he was alone, to take advantage of the situation. A little something in his drink, and suddenly he was no longer feeling too well.
What should happen but a caring friend appears to help him away to a quiet place? One man helping a drunk, hardly an uncommon sight in any city in the kingdom at any time of day, as I am sure you will agree. A different hat, some dirt on the coat and the wig gone and no one would recognize Graves or even give the pair a second look. Nor would he really be missed as the coach rushed away late.
By now I am sure you must have realized I have a place somewhere, and I took him there. When he woke, of course, he was firmly bound and gagged — after all, I did not want him shouting for help, did I? Not that it would have helped him. There was plenty of time to apprise him of all the things he had done to me, for him to be aware of his responsibilities, and how he would pay for all the ills he had caused me. You might even say he was a lucky man, really, for how many of us come to learn of the time and manner of our death before it happens?
Nottingham felt a shiver of fear in his spine. His palms were clammy, although the fire was low in the grate. He set the book down on the desk and paced around the room for a minute, trying to take in what he’d just read. Wyatt was insane, there seemed little doubt of that, but at the same time the man’s mind was filled with a clarity whose focus scared him.
And he was positive, beyond any shadow of doubt, that it was Abraham Wyatt. The clues were there, clear to anyone who could read them. Finding Graves alive, the mentions of the things Graves had supposedly done, the grievances of the murderer, they gave so much away.
The book was a taunt, a piece in a game he was playing, a tournament of catch-me-if-you-can, a direct challenge to the Constable. The way he relished putting it all on paper, the sheer pleasure Wyatt was taking in every step of this, disturbed and chilled him. He brushed the fringe off his forehead and forced himself to sit again, taking a deep breath before he picked up the book.
For whatever it’s worth, I killed him on the Saturday morning, with one slice of the blade across his throat. He knew it was coming, I had told him, and, to offer him a little credit, he neither fought nor flinched. He understood his time had arrived at my hands and accepted it with equanimity.
There was a great deal of blood, of course. But a chilly room is a fine place to keep a corpse so it does not stink, and a workroom and the lengthy winter have been good to me in that. When I was ready, disposing of the body was an easy task. I was only surprised that it took so long for anyone to notice him lying there.
But there is something more you want to know, is there not? There is something you cannot understand, something that makes you believe I am inhuman. Why, you wonder, did I remove the skin from his back?
I had not told Graves about that, it would have been far too cruel, even to a man like him. The knowledge of his death was punishment enough, not the use to which he would be put, and after death what would it matter to him, anyway?
Some of the skills a man learns in rural areas are very strange. But in a place where self-sufficiency is vital, it is important to be able to turn a hand to everything. So, among many other duties, I was taught how to skin a beast and to cure the hide. The technique is not especially hard, and even the act of skinning is not particularly complex, once one learns how to do it properly. For what it is worth, the real art is in peeling the flesh away evenly, and I had an old, excellent teacher with some long-held tricks and a very sharp knife.
The difficulty here was in curing the skin. Ideally it should have had at least a week longer, but I confess I was eager to share my triumph.
But no doubt you are mystified as to exactly what I mean. Why would I cure the flesh as if Graves was no better than a common beast?
The answer is, quite literally, in your hands.
Take a look at the cover of this small volume, Constable. If it seems like good quality leather, that’s a testament to my meagre skill. It seems very apt, somehow, to have the description of the death of Samuel Graves wrapped in his own skin.
Nottingham stood up quickly and the book fell to the floor. His mouth filled with bile, and for a few short moments he struggled for breath, certain that he’d vomit, the room swimming in front of him.
Jesus. He held on to the desk, eyes closed, the sweat cooling rapidly, chilling on his skin, as he tried to steady his lurching stomach. The relish which the murderer — Wyatt, it had to be Wyatt — took in all this went beyond any belief. In his job he’d dealt with madmen before but none who came close to this. This was evil. He’d read the words, but he couldn’t begin to understand the mind behind them.
He glanced down, seeing the book on the flagstones. To know he’d touched it, laid his hands on a dead man’s flesh, made him shudder, and once again he tasted the sickness in his throat and forced it back down. He’d have to pick it up, to read what remained, and then comb through it all again and again for any hints it might offer.
Those would be precious few, he was certain. Wyatt might be moonmad, but he was cunning as Reynard, one who’d hide his tracks well. He’d planned carefully, and he had luck on his side. And that, Nottingham knew from experience, could be a dangerous combination.
Gingerly he sat again, reaching for the volume but loath to touch it and feel death on his fingertips. Very cautiously, hands pressing on the paper, not the binding, he read on:
Have I horrified you? Have I revolted you? I trust I have. After all, what I have done is inhuman, is it not?
You will recall that I wrote that this book will extend to four volumes. When they are all done, my revenge will be complete. If you are a clever man, and I trust you are to have your position, you may already have deduced who I am. That is of no import. Think of me merely as an instrument of retribution. Three more volumes will mean three more victims. What should concern you are their identities. Who are they, and how can you keep them safe? Even if you know who they might be, how do you dare to tell them the truth without causing a panic?
And now I’ve presented you with a challenge, Constable. When my mission is complete I shall leave Leeds, and if that happens, you will never be able to catch me. So now you have it. You need to find me, to stop me. I don’t believe you can. I have had a long, long time to plan this, what felt like lifetimes, and all you can do is try to keep up with me. Forgive me if I do not say that I wish you well.
He sat back, staring at the book, lost in thought. Time passed, he had no idea how long. The door banged open and Sedgwick ambled in, frowning, snapping the Constable back to the present.
‘John,’ Nottingham said quietly, ‘let’s go next door to the Swan. I need a drink, and believe me, you’re going to, as well.’ He slid the book into the desk drawer, picked up his coat and walked out into the cloudy, suddenly unreal day.
Eight
‘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.’
‘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.