Free Cold Cruel Winter by Chris Nickson

nodded.
    â€˜Then you’ll know why I’m here, Mr Wyatt.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I’m going to take you with me to the jail,’ Arkwright said. ‘You’ll get a fair trial, I can guarantee you that.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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