Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

“You’re a good lass,” Sedgwick said with a grin.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the ones who can help me.” He winked and walked away.

Nottingham knew Carver wouldn’t be too hard to find. He poked his head around the door of a couple of inns with no luck, then discovered him once more in the Ship, already on his third drink, according to the landlord.

“George,” he said genially, standing over the figure on the bench who was contemplating his ale. The man looked up and answered mildly, “Am I to be harassed daily for the rest of my life then, Constable?”

“I hope not,” the Constable said without a smile. “But I need to ask you a few more questions.”

“Then pull up a seat and take a drink with me.”

Nottingham shook his head.

“Not here. We’ll talk at the jail, I think.”

Carver shrugged, drained his tankard in a single swallow, and stood with barely a hint of unsteadiness.

“I’m at your service,” he announced with a small flourish.

They walked together in silence. The older man smelled especially ripe, his coat crusted with even more food stains, which didn’t seem to concern him in the least.

At the jail he waited until Nottingham sat, then positioned himself on the chair opposite.

“Now, how may I help you Constable?” he asked, for all the world a gracious host relaxed in his own home.

“I’m wondering where you were last night.”

Carver pondered the question for a minute.

“I woke in my own bed, so I can’t have gone too far,” he replied seriously. “Beyond that I’m not sure I can be too much help.”

“You were at the White Swan until gone ten,” Nottingham told him.

“Was I?” Carver asked. “Then you seem to have a better grasp of my whereabouts than I do.”

“Where were you after that? Did you go to the Turk’s Head?”

The merchant bit his lip as he thought, and shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he replied succinctly.

“Two more people were murdered last night,” Nottingham informed him.

“I see.” Carver considered the question gravely. “And what exactly does that mean, Constable?”

Nottingham shifted slightly in his chair and brushed the hair off his forehead. He was too exhausted to play any games, tired of answers that were no use at all.

“It means you need to recall where you were last night, and I need some witnesses who might have seen you.”

Carver raised his hands, palms upwards.

“As I told you, I don’t recall. I’m sorry.”

“Then I’m afraid I have no choice but to arrest you,” the Constable snapped. He’d see if that made Carver remember.

A long silence filled the room. Nottingham impatiently studied the other man, who appeared to be thinking carefully.

“You must do your duty,” Carver agreed finally. “I hope your cells aren’t too uncomfortable.” He stood, waiting to be escorted.

Nottingham unlocked the first cell and waited until Carver was inside before closing the door and turning the key. It was too easy, he thought with a twinge of guilt. Would a murderer, even a mad one, allow himself to be herded like a sheep? Maybe Carver really did have no memory of the events.

“I’ll see you get some supper later. There’s water in the jug.”

“Bring me ale, too,” Carver pleaded.

Nottingham smiled to himself. The man could probably survive for days without eating, but without drink he’d wither in a matter of hours.

“I will,” he promised. “I need your address and the key to your room, too.”

Carver gave both willingly.

He went next door to the White Swan and arranged for a potboy to take Carver food and drink. The city could pay; at least the man wouldn’t cost too much. That done, he stood outside the inn and felt exhaustion hit him like a stone. Sedgwick had rested, but Nottingham had been working since the early hours and now it had caught up with him. He ached to go home and sleep without thought of waking. But first he had to go and search Carver’s room, and do it now while he was still moving.

It was a filthy attic up three rickety flights of stairs, and he wondered how Carver managed to climb them each night. One small, dirty window gazed down on a rubbish-strewn court, its outlines blurred in the growing darkness. The Constable lit a stub of candle and looked around. The room was crammed with possessions, a stack of books climbing up the wall, some trinkets on the sill, piles of faded papers cluttering the floor. The bed was a bundle of straw covered with an old sheet; it smelt as though it hadn’t been changed in years.

A flimsy table that looked like someone had thrown it out was covered with worn quills and paper filled with scribbles that made no sense. Carefully, the Constable moved them aside. Underneath, not even properly covered, was a knife. It hadn’t been hidden, simply laid down and forgotten. It was not the one Carver had shown him before.

Nottingham picked it up and carefully studied the blade in the bleak candle flame. It was about the right size and length, the steel roughly cleaned. But as he examined it more closely, he noticed a series of dark flecks on the metal. He rubbed at them with a wetted finger, and watched the stains slowly smear, the deep rust colour lightening.

It was blood, beyond a doubt.

Christ. It felt like a blow on the head. Had he been as wrong as that? He bowed his head slowly and clenched his fists. Fuck.

His instinct had failed and he’d let himself be taken in. Carver had conveniently lied about a bloody knife. God alone knew how little of what he’d said was the truth. Walking back to the jail, he felt a bitter fire inside. He wanted to confront his prisoner, to find out what he’d really done. No, he decided after a pause, tomorrow was better, once he was rested and he’d had time to consider all of this. Tonight he was too tired to think properly, and for Carver he’d need to be sharp. He put the blade in his coat pocket and went home.

His legs carried him along the familiar route. He walked past the turning to the White Cloth Hall, past Alderman Atkinson’s grand mansion with its distinctive cupola, and the dark holy bulk of the parish church. Across the road an orchard stretched all the way to Sheep Scar Beck, its ground almost carpeted by windfall apples as the leaves began to turn and die.

There was a reassurance in the scenes. He’d lived through them all for so many years. They kept him anchored to this place he knew and loved so well.

At home the enticing smell of a lamb stew greeted him as he entered, and he followed his nose into the kitchen where Mary stood surrounded by the steam and heat of cooking. Sweat shimmered on her face, and he watched, smiling, as she wiped her forehead with her arm, a single lock of hair plastered to her skin. His heel banged against the floor and she turned with a shock.

“My God, Richard, you startled me.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologised, feeling a deep, loving tenderness for this woman.

“Are you back for the night?” she asked.

“God, I hope so,” he said fervently. “I’m dead on my feet.”

“Do you want something to eat? The stew’s nearly done.”

He shook his head, then beckoned her to him, folding her in his arms as she nestled against him. He could feel the warmth she gave off and let it soak into him like a hot bath.

“I think we’ve found him,” Nottingham told her, but there was no sense of triumph in his voice. All he felt was his own failure of judgement as he spoke the name. “George Carver.”

She pulled away from him slightly.

“The drunk?”

He nodded.

“But why?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll find out tomorrow.” Suddenly he didn’t want to discuss it any more, even with Mary. “I need to go to bed. When the girls get back, make sure they keep quiet. And if anyone wants me, it had better be life or death.”