Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

“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.

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.”