Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

“So I’m told,” the Constable agreed. “I’ve heard about your past.”

Carver raised his eyebrows slightly.

“I’m sure you have. Most people here know about me. Or they think they do. And there’s very little for me to be proud of in the telling.”

“Or in the ending, at least the way it’s going,” Nottingham pointed out. “Hanging isn’t a particularly auspicious death.”

Carver was silent.

“So why did you kill them, George?” the Constable asked casually. “Four people. It’s quite a total.”

“Were you jealous because the women went with other men when you wanted them?” taunted Sedgwick, his voice insistent.

“What did you hate about them?”

“Or did they just ignore you?” said the deputy. “Was that it… George?”

Carver had lowered his head. Now he raised it again, and Nottingham could see the thin tracks of tears leaking down his cheeks.

“Stop it,” he begged quietly. “Please. I don’t know what I can tell you. I honestly don’t know…”

The Constable glanced quickly at Sedgwick. He’d expected a reaction to the quick barrage of questions, but not this. It left him nonplussed. Was Carver that good an actor? Or was he simply a man who really couldn’t remember that he’d killed?

“I’m going to leave you to think,” Nottingham said briskly.

“Thank you.” The old drunk had become a small man, shrunken, like a corpse that hadn’t died yet.

“But don’t get too cosy,” the Constable warned. He started to leave, then turned. “Remember, jail can also be a dangerous place. Especially for those with bad memories, Mr Carver. It can be a waystation to the gallows.”

“I shall try,” came the muffled promise through the door.

“What are you going to do with him, boss?”

Nottingham shook his head. He didn’t know.

“Let him stew for a while. Maybe a little knowledge of the future might make him remember the past.”

Shortly before noon, not long after they’d taken the anonymous young whore for a pauper’s burial, Nottingham completed his report for the Mayor. It detailed Carver’s arrest and the discovery of the knife in his room. That news, he hoped, should be enough to deflect attention from the cutpurse’s antics. He put down the quill, reading over the words one final time.

He went to check on Carver, peering in through the iron grille. The prisoner sat on the bed, lost in thought. Nottingham folded the report and smiled. He’d take great delight in delivering this one personally and seeing the startled look on Kenion’s face.

But instead he spent a frustrating half hour waiting to see his Worship before a clerk came along and plucked the paper from his hands, telling Nottingham that the Mayor was too busy to see him at the moment. He’d been quietly and firmly put in his place.

It began to drizzle as he left the Moot Hall, with darker clouds moving in from the west promising heavier rain. Nottingham drew his coat around himself and wished he’d worn a hat. Before he’d gone a hundred yards it started to pour, and the streets emptied as if God had swept folk away.

The water glued his hair to his scalp, rivulets running inside his collar and down his back, chilling him. It was a reminder that winter was around the corner with its bitter temperatures and driving wetness. At the jail he towelled his hair with a rough sheet from one of the cells, then took off his coat to dry in front of the fire. Carver was asleep, his snores and snorts loud.

Nottingham glanced out through the small, grimy window. Runnels of water sluiced down the street, washing away rubbish and shit like a biblical flood. Figures scurried through the rain. A horse across Kirkgate waited placidly, blinking its eyes slowly.

As he stared absently, the door opened and a tall figure blew in, enveloped in a heavy greatcoat and hat. He peeled them off and shook himself slowly before announcing, “I’m James Harwood,” as if his name should be familiar.

“I’m Richard Nottingham, the Constable here.”

Harwood stroked his chin, nodding for a moment, and preened his black wig. Sharp features and beady, almost black eyes gave him the air of a rook, alert for carrion.

“I believe you’ve been looking for me,” he said airily, pulling his cuffs from his sleeves.

Nottingham leaned against the sill and looked the man up and down. The clothes had been very expensive once, and looked after carefully, but age was beginning to tell on the fabric, with wear on collars and cuffs and threadbare, shiny patches on the elbows. The style, with large buttons and cuffs and an expansive collar, was past the peak of fashion.

“Have I?” the Constable asked in mild surprise. God spare me another madman, he thought, then Harwood opened his eyes wide and said plainly,

“If you’re searching for a murderer, then yes.”

“So you’ve murdered someone?” the Constable asked sceptically.

“Not some one .” Harwood relished the word, emphasising the last syllable. “Four people.”

“Oh?” Nottingham pushed himself off the sill, eyeing the man more closely. He was perhaps thirty, his face streaked with dirt and stubble. “Four people in Leeds?” he asked in slight disbelief.

“I think you know who I mean.” The man looked smug, even proud, the long fingers of his hands interlaced and pulling against each other.

“Maybe you’d better tell me.” It was impossible to keep a touch of amusement from his tone. Just yesterday morning they’d had no one for the crime, and now there were two killers, one who claimed not to remember, the other falling over himself to confess. Quite the pretty pair, the Constable thought wryly. But if this one was telling the truth… He looked at the man more closely. “So? Mr…?”

“Harwood,” the younger man reminded him with a defiant stare. “It was two men and two prostitutes.”

“And why did you do it?”

“Because they wouldn’t give me money,” Harwood explained simply. He swept a hand over his clothes. “I used to have plenty. But I’m a disinherited son. I live on the charity of others.”

“You could work,” the Constable pointed out tartly. “There are jobs for those who look. You’re not from around here.”

“I grew up in York,” Harwood answered with a casual, gentleman’s manner. “My father grew tired of my gambling debts and put me out three months ago.”

Nottingham sat in his chair and pushed the wet fringe back from his forehead.

“How long have you been in Leeds?”

“A week. I did come looking for work, or at least some Christian men who might help me.” There was a weariness in his voice that seemed almost plausible, the Constable admitted.

“And where have you been staying?”

“I had a room on the Calls for the first three nights. Since my money ran out I’ve been sleeping outside.” Harwood indicated the other chair. “Might I sit?”

Nottingham nodded and the other man eased himself gratefully on to the seat. Nottingham was willing to believe he’d told the truth about sleeping rough, and being from a good family. Beyond that…

“So you killed these people because they wouldn’t give you money?” he inquired.

The man hung his head slightly. “Yes.”

“But you didn’t rob them.” The Constable threw the words out carefully, like a fishing line, watching for a reaction.

“After I’d killed them, my conscience took hold of me.”

He was quick, Nottingham acknowledged, allowing himself to relax slightly. Harwood hadn’t been quite fast enough, though. There’d been a flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he answered, wondering what to say.

“On both occasions?” The Constable raised his eyebrows. “You obviously don’t learn your lessons easily.”