Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

“Maybe he didn’t know what it was like,” Sedgwick suggested graciously.

“A couple of minutes inside should have told him all he needed to know,” Nottingham dismissed the idea. “You’ve got a good witness?”

“A man called Martin Hooper. He was at the Market Cross on Saturday, saw Morton preach. Called him ‘that bloody mouthy bastard.’ No mistaking the identity.” Sedgwick paused. He’d been carefully hoarding the last piece of information. “And he says Morton was drinking with Carver.”

“Carver?” Nottingham sat upright quickly. “What time was this?”

“He claims it was about ten.”

“And we know Carver left the Ship around nine with Pamela,” the Constable mused. “Did your witness say anything about her?”

Sedgwick shook his head.

“I asked him if there’d been a girl about. He just looked at me as if I was daft and said that of course there were bloody girls about, but he didn’t remember one in particular.”

Nottingham rubbed his knuckles over his chin. She might have been there, taken a shine to Morton’s money, and the old drunk could have become jealous… it was possible.

“Let’s have Carver in,” he ordered abruptly. “I want to hear him explain this.”

“I’ve already got a couple of the men on it,” Sedgwick answered. “But I think we’ll have better luck tonight once he goes out drinking.”

The Constable nodded his agreement. Like some strange beast, Carver only seemed to emerge as the daylight faded.

“Just make sure you find him before he gets pissed, then. We don’t need another fight.”

Nottingham needed information on Carver, and he knew the best place to find it. The merchants, the business elite who brought money into Leeds through their woollen cloth dealings, effectively ran the place by controlling the Corporation. Most of them would be unwilling to talk about someone who’d once been one of their own, even as dissolute and broken a character as George Carver.

But there was one man who might help. Three years before, Tom Williamson had been named the city’s Cloth Searcher. It was an ancient office, and largely ceremonial, although Williamson had taken it seriously. During his year long tenure he and Nottingham had become friends, quite easily and unconsciously straddling the social barrier that divided them. They didn’t see too much of each other now, but the goodwill had remained.

It was early afternoon and that meant there was a fair chance Williamson would be at Garroway’s Coffee House on the Head Row, enjoying a dish of tea. The merchants tended to gather there, conducting business in its informal surroundings, reading the Leeds Mercury and the London newspapers, or idly passing the time.

As Nottingham entered the building, he was struck by the smells, so exotic and rich. There was coffee, powerful and enticing, and underneath a deeper, more mysterious hint of chocolate. He’d tried them both, once, but didn’t care for the taste of either, too alien to a palate that was used to small beer and ale. He’d tasted tea, too, and enjoyed that. But all these were luxuries, far beyond his meagre pocket.

Williamson was in the corner, shoulders hunched, engrossed in the backgammon board in front of him. In his mid-thirties and tall, the merchant had the most straightforward, honest face Nottingham had ever seen, which probably wasn’t a great business asset, he thought wryly. And he was a poor liar. But from all the rumours, his business was thriving. Williamson’s father had died the year before, and now Tom was running it himself, making sound decisions and prospering even more than before. He was plainly dressed, his breeches and coat of good quality, the waistcoat carefully tailored in length and cut, but sober, the buckles on his shoes dull metal rather than gold.

His roll finished, Williamson looked up and spotted the Constable, a smile curling his mouth upwards.

“Richard!” he greeted warmly. “What brings you to this den of iniquity on a lovely afternoon?”

Nottingham returned the smile, genuinely pleased to see the man. It had been too long. “I wanted a word with you, actually.”

For a moment Williamson looked nonplussed, as if searching his memory for any wrongdoing. Satisfied, he said happily, “Well, have a seat, and we can talk while I thrash Mr Greenwood here.”

“Better in private, if you don’t mind.”

“I see.” Williamson gazed at his companions. “Looks as if luck’s on your side today, Jeremiah.” Picking up his immaculate tricorn hat off the bench he followed Nottingham outside.

“What’s all the mystery about?” he asked as they began to stroll up the Head Row.

“I’m after a bit of information, Tom,” Nottingham admitted bluntly.

The merchant tilted his head slightly in curiosity.

“Something a little delicate, obviously. Information on whom?”

“George Carver.”

“Oh dear.” Williamson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Poor old George is in trouble again, is he? What do you want to know about him?”

“I know he lost his money, but I’ve never heard how it happened,” Nottingham said. “As far as anyone can tell, he doesn’t do a stroke of work, but he still has somewhere to live and the brass to go out drinking every night. I thought you might know something about that.”

“It’s not really a secret, I suppose,” Williamson began readily. “It’s just that it’s never seemed like anything to talk about. I was just a lad when it happened, so I heard most of it from my father. It seems George found a new buyer in Holland — this was back when they were still a big market for us. Good references, everything you could want. Things went well. After a couple of shipments they placed a big order, asked for credit, and George extended it to them. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but they never paid.”

“Very unfortunate,” the Constable agreed, although it wasn’t an uncommon business tale.

“If that had been all, he could probably have weathered it,” Williamson continued. “Most of us keep a reserve for emergencies. But George liked to play cards, too, and he was a heavy gambler. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost, but he was in the middle of a losing streak when all this happened.”

“And everything collapsed around him?” Nottingham asked.

The merchant nodded. “The lot, even his family. Everyone thought he’d kill himself, but he didn’t.” He paused. “Well, not immediately. He seems to be teasing out his death in drink.”

They’d walked a few yards before the Constable asked, “So how does he live now?”

“He has a pension.”

Nottingham gazed quizzically at the other man. He’d never heard of such a thing before.

“Who from?”

“Us,” Williamson explained. “We each put in a small sum every year, and he’s given a weekly allowance. It’s enough to put a roof over his head and keep him fed. And enough for drink too, obviously.”

“So Mr Carver is still a man of independent means.”

“More dependent means, I suppose,” Williamson countered wryly. “What’s he done?”

“You know the preacher who was murdered?”

“I heard about it,” the merchant said. “But I suppose everyone did.”

“It looks like Carver was the last one to see him alive.”

Williamson stopped and stared in surprise. “Come on, Richard. You’re not seriously suggesting Carver killed him. I know he can get rowdy, but he wouldn’t murder anyone.”

“No, I’m not suggesting anything,” Nottingham replied evenly. “I just want to talk to him, and I thought it’d help if I knew more about him. Nothing more than that.”

The merchant didn’t appear convinced. “You obviously suspect him, or you wouldn’t be asking me these questions.”