Now, a square of light from the top of the cellar stairs brought scant illumination into the room. Silas could see a head of wild grey hair poking out from the bundle of rags in the corner.

‘Come on then, Meg. Let’s get thee up and out.’ A man trod heavily down the wooden stairs and prodded the bundle of rags. Silas recognised him as one of the two constables who had taken him from the King’s Arms, the man who had gripped his arm so hard he’d thought the muscle would pop. He shrank back.

‘A five-shilling fine this’ll cost thee, so better get earnin’ again, eh?’ The constable looked across at Silas. ‘Tha’s got a visitor.’

Silas’s heart leapt, but then he remembered where he was. Harriet must not see him in this state, sharing the cellar with a drunken prostitute. He must stink to high heaven, too. How had he been brought so low, so quickly? The constable was pulling the woman to her feet.

‘Come on, let’s have thee.’

The pair of them disappeared up the stairs, but the door remained open. Was he expected to go up or would that be viewed as an attempt to escape, and added to his list of transgressions? It might well be a trap. Silas stood in the centre of the room, uncertain. He needed to urinate and eyed the bucket. A visitor. Perhaps it was Mr Boothby, come to gloat. The door remained open and there was nothing but silence beyond it. An age passed. What should he do?

Then the light from the doorway was eclipsed.

‘Silas. I’ve brought thee summat to eat.’

It was Louisa. She edged down the narrow stairs, carrying a wicker basket. Silas turned his back but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide his shame, and so he sat down on his makeshift bed and put his head in his hands.

‘Don’t fret, love. Here, ’ave some o’ this.’ She shoved a still warm wedge of bread into his hand. ‘I brought thee this an’ all.’ He took the bottle of ale from her. Now his hands were full and he had to look at her.

‘Thank you.’

‘I got a bottle for ’im upstairs an’ all, a bottle o’ whisky. Loosened ’is lips nicely.’

She sat beside him.

‘What’s goin’ on?’ he said. ‘I’ve done nowt wrong.’

‘I know that, o’ course. But it looks like they’re charging thee wi’ grievous bodily harm.’

‘But I never…’

‘Shush up.’ She patted his knee. ‘Eat your bread and sup your ale an’ listen. Do as tha told for once.’

Silas’s mouth was dry. He squeezed the bread in his hands and listened. Louisa told him he’d been brought to the station in Hillfoot after his arrest. The station was the constable’s cottage and miscreants were locked in the cellar until they could be taken to the police headquarters at the town hall. There he would be formally charged and transferred to jail – a proper jail, probably Wakefield – until his trial.