Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

Nottingham offered an eloquent shrug. There was a firmness in his voice as he spoke. “Right now he’s what I’ve got, Tom. Someone killed two people and dumped their bodies like — well, you know how they were found. I can’t just dismiss Carver because of who he is — or was. If he didn’t do anything, he might well have seen something useful.”

Williamson glumly nodded his understanding and acceptance. If the Constable needed Carver, the merchants wouldn’t stand in his way.

“Did you go and hear Morton preach last Saturday?” Nottingham asked casually, although he knew it was a clumsy shift of topic.

“No.” The merchant shook his head. “I’ve already got my faith. I’m not looking for another.”

“A few of your colleagues were there with Reverend Cookson. They didn’t seem to like what they heard.”

Williamson smiled slyly. “A little more fishing, Richard?”

Nottingham laughed, but felt no embarrassment. “Let’s say I’d like to know why they feel that way and what they might have been inclined to do about it.”

“Murder?” Williamson looked genuinely shocked.

“As I told his Worship, I’d be remiss if I didn’t investigate all the possibilities.”

The merchant eyed his companion thoughtfully before speaking. “All right. I heard there were a few who thought his words were more than a little dangerous. But no one was talking about anything as extreme as killing.”

“Who?” Nottingham wondered.

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there. But I heard Mr Dale and Alderman Goodison talking about it at the cloth market on Tuesday morning — before we heard Mr Morton was dead, you understand.”

“And what did they have to say?”

“They felt he should be asked to leave Leeds, that his words might give the people ideas above their station. Thankfully,” he added, “Mr Rawlinson wasn’t about at the time.” Williamson hesitated for a moment. “You know me well enough, Richard. I don’t play with politics. That’s all I heard and I’m quite content to leave it that way.”

“I wouldn’t ask for more,” the Constable assured him.

“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.