He described the book, watching Kenion carefully as the colour fell from his face and he retched silently, hands gripping tight on the desk. When the Constable finished, the Mayor was silent for a long time before asking, ‘Where’s this book now?’
‘It’s at the jail,’ Nottingham replied.
‘And who else knows about it?’
‘Only my deputy.’
Kenion raised an eyebrow.
‘You trust him?’
‘Completely,’ the Constable replied.
‘You’d better be right. No one else can know about this. If words spreads, I’ll know who to blame.’
Nottingham nodded. He understood the importance of silence.
‘We need to find this bugger fast,’ Kenion said. He stared directly at the Constable. ‘We can’t afford another killing like Sam’s. What are you doing about it?’
There was nothing to be gained now by hedging, Nottingham decided.
‘My men are looking, but there’s been nothing so far. But now I know who’s responsible, I can do a lot more. If I can identify his other targets from the trial transcript, I can guard them.’
The Mayor rubbed his fleshy chin and nodded.
‘And we’ll keep looking, of course. We’ll find him.’
‘Just make sure you find him in time.’ It was half-command, half-wish.
Before he left the Moot Hall, Nottingham visited the clerk in the archives and collected the transcript of Wyatt’s trial. It was thin, a saddeningly short hearing. In itself, that was no surprise. Justice was dispensed swiftly and harshly in the city. But he needed clues, names. With a deep, heartfelt sigh, he walked back to the jail.
Nottingham read through the trial transcript four times. The first time his eyes slipped hurriedly over the words, familiarizing himself with the events in court; he hadn’t attended the trial himself. Afterwards he studied it in more detail, pausing to think and examine statements, trying to imagine himself in Wyatt’s position.
The guilt had never been in question; the evidence was obvious and overwhelming, and presented clearly and concisely. Wyatt hadn’t spoken in his own defence, although it wouldn’t have made any difference. Both Graves and one of his clerks had been able to show how he’d embezzled a total of twelve pounds over two years. It wasn’t a fortune, by any means, but enough to make a real difference. Wyatt had thought he was being clever, of course, but once examined his methods seemed obvious, banal.
He recalled arriving at Wyatt’s lodging to arrest him. Nottingham was still the deputy then, accompanying the old Constable, David Arkwright, in case of trouble. He’d seen how Wyatt lived. There was nothing expensive or fancy in the room he and his woman shared with another couple. A small, battered chest to hold their clothes stood at the foot of the bed. The walls were bare, stained by ragged brown patches of damp, but the floorboards were swept scrupulously clean, a blanket folded neatly across the pallet.
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.
