Cold Cruel Winter by Chris Nickson Read Free Book Online

doesn’t stand well with me, either,’ Nottingham said bitterly. ‘Do you know anything about a new contract he was discussing in London?’
    The merchant furrowed his brow. ‘I’d heard something about it – well, rumours of it, nothing more than that. I know Sam kept going down there, but that’s all. He was tight-lipped about the whole affair, but that’s the way he was about most things in business. That was his generation, never let a word slip or someone will be there before you; my father was the same.’
    â€˜Nothing more than that?’
    Williamson shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. Some people thought it was the government, some people thought it might be with the Spaniards. Sam was the only one who really knew. He’d smile about it, but that was all.’
    Nottingham took another small sip of the tea, swallowing it quickly to avoid the harsh taste. He leaned forward, confiding quickly and softly. ‘I’m baffled, Tom. I don’t have any idea who might have wanted to kill him, where he was killed, and certainly not why. That worries me. I feel like a blind man in a crowd. I don’t know where to turn.’
    Williamson sat back in his chair, considering.
    â€˜What do you know about him beyond business?’ Nottingham wondered.
    â€˜Not a great deal,’ the merchant answered eventually. ‘If he did anything bad, he hid it well. Truth to tell, Richard, he probably really was all probity and rectitude, just as he seemed. I know he went to church every Sunday, he seemed to love his wife, and his daughters married well, if I recall. There was never a word of mistresses, but he might just have been very discreet. And if he was ever seen with a whore, well, no one would ever hold that against him.’
    Nottingham sighed.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ Williamson said again. ‘Sam wasn’t a man for scandal. I know it makes your job harder.’
    â€˜It makes it bloody impossible,’ Nottingham replied with a sour laugh.
    â€˜You’ll find him, Richard. You always have.’ Williamson stood up. ‘I need to go.’ He tried to lighten the tone. ‘If I’m not there, the business will surely fall apart by noon. I’ll try asking a few questions for you, but I honestly don’t think there’s much to learn.’
    â€˜Thank you.’
    Joshua Forester was doing what he did well, what he’d come to love. He was listening. In the inns and stableyards, all people were talking about was the murder. It was all speculation – not one of them had known Samuel Graves – but that didn’t matter.
    They all had plenty to say; gossip was the common currency of everyday life, a relief from numbing work. At times Josh felt as if they couldn’t see him, that he wasn’t really there, as they carried on around him as if he didn’t quite exist.
    But his whole life had been like that. It had saved him, allowed him to steal food and cut purses to survive, and helped him become a good Constable’s man. He pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of the coat that was four sizes too big for him and belted with a piece of rope.
    At least he had good boots. He’d taken them from the corpse of a merchant’s son the month before; his old ones were worn through at the sole and leaked. But why would the rich need boots after death, anyway? For them it was just a short walk to heaven.
    The boss had noticed, of course, giving him a short, hard look, but saying nothing. He protected his men. Josh had been astonished to learn that Richard Nottingham had once lived like him, out on the streets, scrabbling, fighting, hungry. Even now, with the pain of grieving written on his face, he seemed in control of everything.
    Nottingham could move among the wealthy, converse with the powerful men of the city, and also those who had nothing. But his life had covered both sides of the coin. At times Josh had to wonder if