The Broken Token (11 page)

“Very unfortunate,” the Constable agreed, although it wasn’t an uncommon business tale.

“If that had been all, he could probably have weathered it,” Williamson continued. “Most of us keep a reserve for emergencies. But George liked to play cards, too, and he was a
heavy gambler. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost, but he was in the middle of a losing streak when all this happened.”

“And everything collapsed around him?” Nottingham asked.

The merchant nodded. “The lot, even his family. Everyone thought he’d kill himself, but he didn’t.” He paused. “Well, not immediately. He seems to be teasing out
his death in drink.”

They’d walked a few yards before the Constable asked, “So how does he live now?”

“He has a pension.”

Nottingham gazed quizzically at the other man. He’d never heard of such a thing before.

“Who from?”

“Us,” Williamson explained. “We each put in a small sum every year, and he’s given a weekly allowance. It’s enough to put a roof over his head and keep him fed. And
enough for drink too, obviously.”

“So Mr Carver is still a man of independent means.”

“More dependent means, I suppose,” Williamson countered wryly. “What’s he done?”

“You know the preacher who was murdered?”

“I heard about it,” the merchant said. “But I suppose everyone did.”

“It looks like Carver was the last one to see him alive.”

Williamson stopped and stared in surprise. “Come on, Richard. You’re not seriously suggesting Carver killed him. I know he can get rowdy, but he wouldn’t murder
anyone.”

“No, I’m not suggesting anything,” Nottingham replied evenly. “I just want to talk to him, and I thought it’d help if I knew more about him. Nothing more than
that.”

The merchant didn’t appear convinced. “You obviously suspect him, or you wouldn’t be asking me these questions.”

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.

“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.