Chris Nickson - Cold Cruel Winter

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.

‘You know who I am?’ Arkwright asked, and Wyatt had nodded.

‘Then you’ll know why I’m here, Mr Wyatt.’

‘If Graves had paid a fair wage, I’d never have had to steal.’ Wyatt’s voice was husky, on the edge of emotion.

It was as good an admission as anyone needed, Nottingham thought.

‘I’m going to take you with me to the jail,’ Arkwright said. ‘You’ll get a fair trial, I can guarantee you that.’

‘And what about her?’ The man inclined his head towards the woman. ‘How’s she supposed to survive if there’s no money coming in? What’s she going to do?’

Arkwright shook his head briefly. It wasn’t his concern, Nottingham understood that. The city employed them to stop crime and arrest criminals. They couldn’t affect anything beyond that; if they tried, they’d go mad. Lives fell apart; it was the way of the world. Crime had its consequences, even for the innocent. The woman stayed silent, head held proud and high.

‘You’re going to have to come with me,’ Arkwright told him. ‘It’ll be a lot easier if we just walk out of here together, but I’ll put irons on you if I must.’

Wyatt turned to the woman, lacing his arms around her and kissing her deeply. He knows he’ll never see her again, Nottingham thought, and braced himself. He gripped his cudgel. This was often where it became dangerous, where they tried to run and the violence started. But Wyatt broke away, lowered his head, and shuffled slowly towards the Constable.

Wyatt said nothing as they trudged out of the miserable court. The Constable and Nottingham stayed close, braced for the man to bolt, but he just trudged on, submissive and cowed. At the jail Arkwright put him in a cell, locking the door with a heavy clunk. Through the grille Nottingham watched as the man looked around then sat on the bed, legs together, hands gathered in his lap. Then he filled out the ledger, giving the date, the prisoner’s name, and his crime.

For embezzlement, he’d go to the Quarter Sessions, which wouldn’t sit for another month. They’d move him to the prison in the cellar of the Moot Hall. It was a dismal place with little light, but still better than most. The prisoners were fed fairly, their families could visit without bribing the jailers, and they weren’t kept chained and shackled like animals.

There was no doubt that Wyatt was guilty. Graves had gone over the accounts himself and presented the discrepancies. No one on the judge’s bench would dispute the word of one of the city’s most distinguished merchants. The best Wyatt could hope for would be seven years’ transportation, possibly even fourteen. Since he was an educated man Wyatt would plead benefit of clergy, speak a sentence from the Bible and escape the hangman’s noose. The severity of the sentence would depend on how gracious the judge was feeling that day.

The transcript told Nottingham little. The trial was reported in flat, straightforward terms, a catalogue of statements, verdict and sentence. He sat back and wondered. Wyatt’s journal was going to be in four volumes. It didn’t take a great leap of the imagination to see he’d target the judge and the clerk who’d given evidence against him. But with the old Constable dead Nottingham couldn’t see who the fourth person might be.

Joshua Forester was sitting on his pallet, watching Frances in her fitful sleep. She took small breaths, her long hair a tangle on the rough pillow. There was a sheet on the bed, and he’d piled two heavy coats on top for warmth, but even in the thaw the room was still bitter.

She looked so vulnerable, and he worried about the tiny life in her belly. He could look after the two of them, but how would they manage with a baby? Frances had no idea how far along she was, and was too scared to ask anyone for advice. Soon she’d begin to show, he imagined, the way he saw all the time.

He could talk to Mr Sedgwick, but he wasn’t even sure where to begin. No one had ever really asked about his life, they didn’t even know where he lived. He simply arrived at the jail each day and did as he was told. Josh knew he was lucky to have a regular wage, to be one of the Constable’s trusted men.

Frances stirred, and he stroked her cheek.

‘What time is it?’ she asked, her small voice not really awake.

‘Still dark,’ he told her. ‘You go back to sleep. You need your rest now.’

She closed her eyes and he was struck again by her velvetlike beauty, so meek and fragile.

‘Why are you so good to me?’ Frances wondered.

He gazed at her and kissed her eyelids softly. He didn’t even really know why himself. Habit, perhaps, or the feeling that someone cared about him, someone he could care about in return.

She reached out and held his hand in her thin fingers.

‘I love you,’ she told him gently, and drifted away from him. He watched until she settled again, a small smile on her lips. What was she dreaming about? He picked and worried at a loose thread on his shirt. They’d survived the winter, managed to keep food and a fire and fashioned a life together. And a new life, he thought.

After working he needed sleep, but it wouldn’t come. The night seemed to stretch forever, and dawn was a faint hope. Dark wakefulness gave rise to too many thoughts, a time when the imagination ran all over the mind. They left him uncomfortable; he preferred doing things to thinking. But he knew he had to make decisions, find things out. What would it be like to be a father? What would he do?

Josh leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He could tell that this murderer scared the boss. Nothing had been said, but he knew anyway. He’d seen Graves’s back, the skin stripped off. He’d seen Nottingham take the slim book from the drawer, look at it, and handle it with distaste. He’d heard as John and the Constable talked quietly, about things they didn’t want him to know. He understood all the same. His mind had made the leap and connected the two things. He’d stayed quiet, not wanting to believe what his eyes told him yet accepting it was the horrific truth.

Anyone who’d do something like that was more devil than man, Josh decided. Someone who’d stop at nothing to exact his revenge. He’d been out looking and listening, but there’d been no sighting, no whisper about Abraham Wyatt. How could that happen? How could a man carry out a crime like that and disappear? There were plenty of people in the city, that was true, but it wasn’t endless, the way he’d heard London was. Only a devil could vanish. .

Frances stirred again, and he reached out to gently take her hand, letting the sound of her breathing lull him to his rest.

Josh came in, ready to work. He’d looked preoccupied recently, the Constable thought. But he’d been so lost in his own problems that he’d taken no account of the men. As long as they did their work, he’d let them be.

‘I’ve got a job for you,’ he told the boy. ‘Do you know Judge Dobbs?’

Forrester shook his head.

‘Owns a big house at Town End, the other side of the Head Row. It’s the first one beyond the Free School. Use a couple of the men. I want you to follow him everywhere. Don’t let him know you’re there.’