Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

She looked up at him with an understanding smile. How many times over the years had he come home like this and said words like those, he wondered. And on each occasion she’d protected his sleep carefully, making sure he was able to rest until he woke refreshed.

It was some measure of his station that they had a house with two bedrooms, he thought, climbing the staircase and feeling the plaster of the wall rub against his coat. He stripped off his clothes, down to the linen shirt, pulled the covers over his body and felt peaceful oblivion overwhelm him.

It was dark when Nottingham woke, and for a moment he was disorientated. Mary was asleep beside him, the assured rhythm of her breathing comforting by his head. He had no idea what time it might be, and lay there, eyes open. Night thoughts drifted like ghosts in and out of his mind, insubstantial as spring mist.

He stretched slowly, taking care not to wake his wife, slipped out of bed and dressed silently before going downstairs. He didn’t bother lighting a candle. After so many years he knew his way around the house by feel and sound. He poured a cup of small beer, cut bread and cheese and sat at the table.

He ate slowly, his stomach relishing the simple meal. Outside, the blackness was just beginning to fade on the eastern horizon as the first blue of Friday’s dawn arrived. Somewhere between six and seven, Nottingham judged, a good time to wake and go to work. And to tease the truth out of Carver.

Outside he pulled his coat tight around himself as the cold morning air hit him, clouding his breath and sharpening his stride to the jail. Sedgwick was sitting at his desk, his brow furrowed, vainly trying to study a letter the Constable had written. A fire burned in the grate, and snoring came from Carver’s cell.

“Morning, John, you’re here early.”

Sedgwick put down the paper with a look of relief and disappointment.

“I haven’t been home, boss,” he admitted sheepishly. “I fell asleep here.” He paused, rolling his neck on his shoulders to work out the night’s stiffness. “You did the right thing, you know, arresting him.”

“I know,” Nottingham agreed with a rueful nod. “I owe you an apology.” He took out the knife. “That was in his room.”

Sedgwick smiled with satisfaction and weighed the blade in his hand. The Constable watched his face, but there was no sign of smugness.

“Aye, you could certainly kill someone with that,” the deputy acknowledged. “What did he have to say about it?”

“I haven’t asked him yet. I wanted you there.” He deserved that.

Sedgwick nodded his gratitude.

“Anything new overnight?” the Constable asked, glad to change the subject.

“A couple of fights, the lads handled them.” He shrugged, then stopped. “But the cutpurse seems to be back again.”

“Oh?” Nottingham raised an eyebrow warily. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this.

“He got three more yesterday evening that we know of.”

The Constable groaned. “Of course, no one saw anything?”

“Not a bloody thing.” There was exasperation in the deputy’s voice. “Whoever it is, he’s like a ghost. And you haven’t heard the worst yet,” Sedgwick continued.

“Go on.”

“Two of them were merchants. So you know he’ll have got away with a pretty penny.”

“That’s not funny, John,” Nottingham said with sad conviction. “It means there’ll be another summons from the Mayor. That’s the last thing we need on top of these murders. He roasted my arse yesterday.”

“Want me to put more men on catching him, boss?”

“No,” he answered, then stopped to weigh his resources in his head. With only a few men, he was always stretched. But they’d caught their murderer, and that would ease the strain. “Yes, add another,” he decided finally. “That way at least I can tell his Worship we’re doing everything we can.”

“And you can tell him we’ve arrested Carver,” Sedgwick said with pride.

“Yes.” Nottingham took a deep breath. “I can tell him that.”

He unlocked the heavy cell door. The prisoner was half-asleep on his thin bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Well, Mr Carver,” Nottingham began. He edged into the small stone room, Sedgwick close behind him. “How do you feel?” There was no sympathy in his voice.

“Bloody awful.” He hacked and coughed, leaning to spit a plume of phlegm on to the stone floor. “This place of yours might be conducive to enforced rest, but you didn’t build it for comfort.”

“It’s not meant to be a rooming house,” the Constable told him sarcastically. “Or do you feel you don’t belong here?”

Carver sat up creakily, arching his back in a stretch. He looked old and frail, his cheeks and nose a sagging network of broken red veins. But there was a strong twinkle of intelligence and character in his eyes.

“You tell me, Constable. After all, you’re the one who invited me into this palace.”

“How’s your memory this morning?” Sedgwick leaned against the door, watching as the other man slowly struggled into full wakefulness.

“As good as ever.” Carver shrugged and smiled, showing a line of rotted, dark teeth. “In other words, poor.”

“So you still don’t remember a girl helping you out of the Ship on Monday night? Or drinking with a preacher in the Talbot?” Nottingham prodded.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said with genuine regret, shaking his head slowly. “I get flashes of things. But when and where they happened, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Then what about the night before last? That’s more recent. Do you have any more recollection of where you were?” Nottingham pushed harder, his gaze fixed on Carver’s face. If there was a sign, he’d notice it this time.

“I’m a poor witness. I think I told you, I drink to find oblivion. Or perhaps it’s to let it find me…” His voice tailed off momentarily. “Whichever way, it’s usually successful,” he mused. “So no, to answer you, I have no recollection at all. But what can you expect from a man who doesn’t even know how he finds his own bed every night?”

“I can expect more than that,” Nottingham informed him bluntly.

“Then I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed, Constable.” Carver shrugged helplessly again. “I’d help you if it was in my power, truly I would. I don’t want a madman on the streets any more than you do. And for what it’s worth, I’m as certain as I can be that the madman isn’t me.”

“I’m not,” the Constable informed him bluntly. He gestured to Sedgwick, who produced the knife. “You recognise it, Mr Carver?”

“Of course,” he replied, blinking in astonishment. “It’s mine, I’ve had it for years.” He looked between the Constable and the deputy as understanding rose in his face. “You think I killed people with that?”

“Well?” Nottingham asked calmly. “Did you?” He saw the growing horror in Carver’s eyes.

“Of course not.” The old man shook his head slowly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I want to do something like that?”

“We don’t know,” Sedgwick interjected. “We were hoping you could tell us.”

“But I can’t.” He sounded lost, adrift. “I can’t.”

“We’re going to find out sooner or later,” the deputy continued. “But it’ll be easier if you tell us now.”

“What if I don’t tell you at all?” Carver asked forlornly. “What if I can’t tell you?”

“Then you’d better remember, Mr Carver.” Nottingham’s voice was quiet but commanding.

“I’ve tried,” Carver said with soft resignation. “I was thinking as you came in. But what I want and what the good Lord grants me are frequently two different things. I’m a weak man, Constable.”