“Of course you would, if you really believed you could get it.”
Nottingham grinned.
“Maybe you’re right, at that. But only if needs must, Tom.”
Sedgwick found Carver in the Ship a little after seven. The timing was good; Carver had just finished his first drink, and a single mug of ale wasn’t going to have any effect on his wits or his temper. Oblivion was still a couple of hours away.
“The Constable would like to talk to you, sir.”
Carver glanced up. He smelt of stale sweat, and his thinning hair was lank and greasy. His coat, once exquisite, had been ruined by years of hard wear. Flecks of dried vomit coloured the once-elegant waistcoat and twine held the soles and uppers of his shoes together.
“Then you should tell him where I am, young man,” he said with careful politeness.
“I think he’d rather have the conversation at the jail. Somewhere quieter and less public than this.”
Carver raised an eyebrow. “And without the presence of alcohol?”
Amusement danced in Sedgwick’s eyes. The old bugger wasn’t as addled as everyone said. “That too.”
Carver pushed himself away from the bar and picked up the remains of a hat.
“Very well. No doubt you’d only hound me if I refused.”
“I would, sir. Trust me, it’s much easier this way.”
The desk separated Carver and Nottingham. The Constable was sitting back in his chair, arms folded, quietly assessing the other man. Sedgwick leaned casually against the door, watching and listening carefully.
“I believe you were out drinking on Monday night,” Nottingham began.
Carver looked bemused. “As I’m sure the whole of Leeds can tell you, Constable, I’m out drinking every night. There was no reason Monday should have been different.”
Nottingham kept an impassive face, his voice low. “Do you recall the landlord throwing you out of the Ship?”
“Did he?”
Nottingham watched carefully as Carver tried to place the incident.
“If he says so, I’m sure it’s true.”
“A young woman helped him,” the Constable offered as a reminder.
“Ah.” Carver brightened. “I remember her vaguely.” He gestured at his appearance. “Women don’t often speak to me, especially young women.”
“Do you recall what she said?” Nottingham never took his eyes off the other man’s face, looking for any sign he might be hiding the truth.
“No,” he replied guilelessly. “Beyond the fact she was young and female, I don’t think I could tell you a thing about her. No, wait,” he said suddenly. “She had something blue around her neck.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “A piece of ribbon, maybe?”
“Did she take you anywhere?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Carver sounded genuinely baffled. “Does she say she did?”
“She can’t say anything,” Nottingham told him. “She was murdered later that night.”
“I see.” Worry creased Carver’s forehead and he tried to concentrate.
“She was killed at the same time as a preacher.”
“Is he the one everyone’s been talking about?”
Nottingham nodded. “The strange thing is, someone told us you were with the preacher in the Talbot at ten that night.”
“I was?” Now Carver looked bewildered and a little frightened. “They’re sure it was me?”
“Certain,” Sedgwick confirmed. “Why?”
“I don’t usually go in there, that’s all. But if they saw me, I must have been.”
Nottingham and Sedgwick exchanged perturbed glances.
Sedgwick knew what his boss was thinking. It was too easy. Carver remembered nothing, and was trustingly willing to accept what everyone else claimed for him.
“Did you wake up the next day with blood on your clothes?” Nottingham asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Carver looked confused, then smiled innocently. “Look for yourself, Constable. These are the only clothes I own. Do you see any blood?”
Beyond the stains and the dirt it would be impossible to tell, Sedgwick thought. The man’s coat resembled a midden. If it hadn’t been so well made it would have fallen apart years before. But if there was blood on it, it certainly wasn’t obvious.
“I wish I could be more help,” Carver said, now sounding properly distressed. “I drink to forget, you see, and all too often it works perfectly.”
“Obviously so,” Nottingham said dryly.
“I know I’m a figure of fun. I know I’m kept around as a warning to others – be careful or you’ll end up like him.” Yet there was dignity in his words. He stared at the Constable, his blue eyes suddenly sharp. “But, you know, I don’t really care. Maybe it sounds like madness, but I like my life.”
“Why?” Sedgwick asked in astonishment. He could see little to enjoy in Carver’s existence.
Carver turned in his chair. “No one’s asking anything of me. I’ve got money enough for my wants, and God knows those have lessened over the years. If you had that, wouldn’t you feel like a satisfied man?”
“But you also get in plenty of fights, Mr Carver,” the Constable observed coolly.
“I do,” he admitted with a touch of shame. “And lose them all, I’m told. But alcohol has a wonderful way of dulling the pain.”
“If you can fight, you can commit murder,” Sedgwick suggested ominously.
“And if I lose fights, I can be murdered,” Carver countered, smiling. “Yet I’m still here.”
“But two other people aren’t,” Nottingham said, briskly returning to the subject, “and you evidently saw them both that night.”
The man pulled together the few shreds of his pride.
“Is that an accusation, Constable?”
“It might become one.” Nottingham’s threat hung in the air.
“You’d be able to help if you could remember more,” Sedgwick told him.
“I might be able to help you,” Carver said firmly. “Believe me, memories are no help to me at all.”
“Do you own a knife?” Nottingham asked.
The man fumbled in one of the large pockets of his coat, eventually drawing out a small, worn blade.
“That’s it. That’s my weapon. Not too deadly, I’m afraid, unless you’re a piece of twine.”
“Murder isn’t a laughing matter, Mr Carver.” The Constable was beginning to sound frustrated, and Carver hung his head.
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“Consider what we have. You were seen with both of the victims that night, and you can recall next to nothing about what happened. Try suffering the pain of memory to see if anything becomes clearer.”
“And if I can’t remember anything?”
“Then that might prove unfortunate,” Nottingham pronounced, his eyes holding the merchant.
“They’d never hang me,” Carver said hopefully. “When scandal rears its head, friends have a habit of looking the other way. Think about that. You can go, Mr Carver.”
After the door had closed Sedgwick rounded on the Constable, trying to contain his anger. “Why in God’s name didn’t you arrest him, boss?”
Nottingham looked up slowly and shook his head.
“I don’t think he did it,” he answered. He knew there was enough evidence to put Carver in a cell for now, but his gut told him it was wrong; the man was confused, even ridiculous – but not guilty of murder. “I can’t make up my mind whether I despise him or feel sorry for him, but I believe he’s innocent.”
“He was seen with both of the victims,” Sedgwick insisted, his face reddening. “And he’s a clever bugger, for all the drink.”
“Do you really think he’s the killer, John?” the Constable asked quietly. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes!” Sedgwick said insistently. “He fits. Why don’t you believe it?”
Nottingham gazed at the deputy, so certain in his convictions, and wished
he could share them. God knew he wanted this solved. But from the moment Carver had entered, the merchant had seemed so genuine in his confusion that it was impossible to think he was capable of the murders. Those had required decision and action, two things that were far beyond the old sot these days. About all he could manage was to drift through the remainder of his life.
“I just feel it,” the Constable said bluntly, holding up his hand before Sedgwick could protest. “I was watching him, John, and there was nothing about him that made me think he was a murderer. Everything inside is telling me he’s innocent.” He desperately wanted to make Sedgwick understand, but he didn’t have the words to properly express his thoughts. He couldn’t even really explain it to himself; it was just instinct and experience yelling at him. “I know you think I’m wrong, but I know I’m not.”
The deputy paced around the room, trying to work off his mood. Nottingham sympathised; there’d been times before when he’d tried to convince his superiors of someone’s guilt, only to have older heads say no.
“What happens if someone else dies, and we find out Carver was responsible?” Sedgwick asked bluntly. “What will you do then? It’ll be on your head.”
“I know,” the Constable acknowledged calmly. “And if he’s a murderer, I’ll arrest him, watch him hang, and live with being wrong for the rest of my life. But honestly, I don’t believe he is.”
In the meantime he’d pray he’d made the right decision in letting Carver go.
By the time he arrived home, Mary was putting the finishing touches to dinner, a pie of vegetables with a scant handful of meat to flavour it. He could hear the girls talking quietly in their room.
“Thank you for spending time with Meg after the funeral,” he told his wife. “I would have, but…”
She nodded her understanding.
“How was she when you left?”
“Sad, bitter and lonely,” Mary replied gently, shaking her head. “We did what we could.”
“What about Emily?”
“She sat by the window and sulked most of the time.”
Nottingham sighed. “I’d hoped we’d turned a corner when we talked yesterday,” he said ruefully. “Obviously we didn’t.”
“She’s not going to change overnight, Richard,” Mary said patiently. “Give her a little time.”
“You’re right.” He pulled her close and kissed her lightly.
“Have you found him?”
He didn’t need to ask who she meant.
“No,” he told her softly, stroking her hair. “Not yet.”
He almost started to tell her about Carver, but stopped. Like Sedgwick, he knew he could never make her see why he’d let the man go, and he was too weary to discuss it. He wanted to sleep. Please God all this would be over soon, and life could return to its usual pace. And please God he’d made the right decision.
Then there was another knock in the middle of the night.
14
The dream had been vivid, although he couldn’t remember it once he was awake. The hammering at the door was like Monday night all over again and immediately he knew what had happened. He pulled on a pair of breeches, took the cudgel from the bedside, and went to open the door.
Sedgwick was standing there, wild-eyed, hair streaming, his face flushed. “Another one,” he announced.
He was always the one they told first.
Nottingham blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes and force himself to full wakefulness. Another murder. Dear Christ, he thought with sudden panic, had he been wrong about Carver?
“Shit,” he said. “Shit, shit, shit.” His mind was racing. “Where? Who?”
“A man and a girl again,” Sedgwick replied, breathless from running. “In Turk’s Head Yard.”
“Right, you know what to do. Get Brogden and I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”
He dressed, pulling on waistcoat, stockings, coat and shoes, then set out at a fast walk through the darkness. By the time he’d cleared Timble Bridge his mind was focused. He prayed it might not be the same killer, a coincidence, but in his bones he knew it couldn’t be anyone else.
Turk’s Head Yard ran off Briggate, just a few yards down from the Moot Hall. Sedgwick had left a man with a torch to watch over the bodies, and he pulled at his forelock as Nottingham approached.
“Anyone been near them?”
“No one, sir. A few curious, like, but none of them wanted to get that close to the corpses.”
“Right. Start asking around. I want to know if anyone heard anything at all, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was the same scenario as before, the girl sprawled face down, legs apart, with the man on top as if taking her from behind. He couldn’t see their faces, but he could wait until the coroner had given them his cursory examination.
The Constable paused and looked around him. This yard was a far cleaner place than Queen Charlotte’s Court; its houses were cramped together around the Turk’s Head Inn, but carefully tended around a path of swept flagstones. It was the kind of place where artisans lived, joiners and masons, families with incomes and aspirations. For them a murder like this would be an affront. This time, he thought, it was possible that some houseproud folk had seen and heard something. For now, however, although he sensed they were awake, they were keeping behind their locked doors.
Sedgwick arrived with Brodgen. As the coroner bent to examine the bodies, Nottingham took his assistant aside.
“Who found them?”
“Our man there,” Sedgwick answered. “He was doing his rounds and came down here. As soon as he saw them he came to find me at home, and I ran for you.”
The Constable nodded and rubbed the stubble on his chin, looking at the shuttered windows around them.
“I want you to talk to everyone in the yard. Go house to house before it gets light. A place like this you’ll probably find them all at home. It’s small enough you should be able to cover it all. There must still have been someone awake at the Turk’s Head. Someone must be able to tell us something.”
“Right.”
He was considering his next course of action when Brogden approached.
“From the look of them, I’d say another whore and a farmer,” he said distastefully after a brief glance, his mouth pursing. Tonight his clothes looked dishevelled, hastily thrown on, and he’d left his wig at home. He bent over to give a rough examination of the corpses. “Killed by a knife, the same as the last two you dragged me out to see,” the coroner described impatiently. “But it can’t have been too long ago, they’re still fairly warm.”
“Anything else?” Nottingham asked.
Brogden rose and shook his head.
“Go ahead and look for yourself. They’re dead, Constable, that’s all you need me to say. And with that, I’m going back to my bed.” He put the hat on his head and walked out of the court.
Nottingham detailed men to carry the bodies to the jail, then examined the ground once they’d gone. There was very little blood. Once again they hadn’t been killed where they were found, although given the place, that didn’t surprise him. Whores and their clients wouldn’t dare use a respectable place like this for tupping.
But they hadn’t been dead long, and it had only been an hour at most since they were discovered. They couldn’t have been murdered far away. At first light he’d send men out combing the area. He realised that even if they found the site it might tell him nothing. Yet it was better than not knowing. Everything, or anything, could be important.
He sat at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to summon up the will to face the corpses in the cold cell. It was barely dawn; a cloudy grey sky promised dull weather after yesterday’s sun.
Finally he sighed and stood to do his duty.
He was almost scared to gaze at their faces in case he saw someone else he knew. But both of these were strangers.
Brogden had been right about the man. He was in his mid-thirties, as f
ar as Nottingham could judge. The clothes were better than any labourer could afford, but still country cut and stitched at home, the seams awkward and uneven, the breeches tight around stout, muscled thighs. Blood had turned the material to a rust colour from a pair of deep stab wounds in the chest. The dead man had a florid face, reddened by exposure to the weather, and his hands were well calloused, nails cracked and short, with dirt ingrained into the skin.
The girl couldn’t have been above eighteen. Even in life no one would have called her pretty; there were extensive pox marks on her cheeks and an old white scar on her chin. She’d been a scrawny reed of a thing with bones poking through her flesh: scarcely a decent meal in her life, he imagined. Her dress was a faded blue, cut low to expose most of her tiny breasts. She’d also received two cuts, one to her stomach and another between her ribs.
Who were they, he wondered. He’d doubtless learn the man’s name soon enough, when a wife came looking for her errant husband. But the girl might remain anonymous forever. The chances of kin, or even someone who cared enough to find out where she’d gone, were small.
It chilled him to know there was someone in Leeds who’d do this to people. Not just once but again – and more, he was certain, if he had the chance. It had to be the work of a lunatic. No sane man would kill a couple in cold blood that way.
Nottingham looked at the bodies again, rubbing his chin as his mind worked through the possibilities. Unless there was some unlikely connection between this unknown farmer and Morton, someone was randomly killing whores and the men with them.
He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed it wasn’t Carver.
The sound of the jail door roused him. Sedgwick was sitting at the desk, shaking his head to keep himself awake.
“What did you find?” the Constable asked.
“You mean besides the fact that hard work for godly souls means an undisturbed night’s sleep?” Sedgwick responded bitterly. “I think they were more offended that people had been killed on their doorsteps than anything else.”
“And were any of the good citizens able to give you information?”
“A couple admitted they heard noises, but ‘the middle of the night’ was as exact as they could be. And since their houses were locked up tight, they didn’t look.”
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