The Broken Token (16 page)

“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.”

“Anger, sir… then remorse.”

“And the prostitutes?”

Harwood shrugged.

“They were witnesses. They could have identified me.” He shook his head. “And no one will count one or two more dead whores.”

Nottingham smiled grimly, tilted his chair back slightly and put his hands behind his head.

“One of those prostitutes used to be a servant of mine,” he said with slow relish. “So I’m a man who counts dead whores.”

Harwood had the grace to redden slightly.

“Describe the girls to me,” the Constable continued. “You killed them, you must remember what they looked like.”

“Like young girls. Brazen as whores always are.” He tried to emphasise the point by raising his voice.

“Blonde? Redhead? Brunette?” Nottingham kept his tone low and even.

“I didn’t notice. It was dark.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Nottingham bared his teeth slightly. “But it’s hard to notice what you don’t see, isn’t it?”

Harwood jerked his head up.

“You didn’t kill anyone.” Before there was a protest, the Constable pushed ahead. “I’m sure you’ve wanted to, but I doubt you’d actually do it.
I’m willing to believe some of your story, but not murder. There’s no free bed and warmth for you.”

Harwood shrugged.

“And being found out now is better than swinging on the gallows for something you didn’t do,” Nottingham continued.

“You’d have discovered the truth in a day or two,” the man observed.

“I’d not deserve my job if it took me that long,” the Constable countered. “So what made you come here?”

“Some men were talking about the murders, down by the bridge. I thought I might find some shelter if I confessed,” Harwood admitted sheepishly.

Nottingham took a couple of coins from his pocket and tossed them at the other man, who caught them with a practised grab.

“No shelter here, but buy yourself something to eat,” the Constable instructed, with a dark gleam of anger in his eyes. “Then you can get out of my city. I don’t expect
to see you in Leeds again. Wakefield isn’t far; I hear they believe most things there.”

Harwood settled the hat on his head and stood.

“Will you catch him?” he asked accusingly.

“Your news is behind the times, Mr Harwood,” Nottingham said with a wry smile. “We arrested him last night.”

The door closed loudly as Harwood left. Nottingham rubbed his hands over his face and let out a long, slow breath. He could feel a knot of rage inside. He needed a drink. Buttoning his heavy
coat he ran next door to the White Swan. It was comfortably warm and smoky, the air thick with the powerful smells of wet wool and ale. He sat at the end of a bench, nodding at some of the faces he
recognised and ordered some hot mulled wine from the girl. Her dress was cut low over the swell of her breasts, showing the darker curve of the top of her nipples, her smile inviting as she leaned
forward to place the jug on the table. Another whore, he laughed to himself, tupping in her room or behind the building for a few extra pennies. As long as there were men there’d never be any
shortage of them.

He was still sitting there, sipping the wine and letting its heat warm his body, when Sedgwick walked in, his height letting him peer over the crowd that had grown with the end of the workday.
Spotting the Constable, he pushed his way through the people and sat on to the bench.

“How did his Worship react when you told him we’d arrested Carver?” he asked with a grin.

“I didn’t have the chance. He was too busy to see me.”

The smile slowly faded from Sedgwick’s face.

“And I had someone else to confess to the murders.”

“What?” The deputy looked up, dumbfounded.

Nottingham waved his hand.

“Don’t worry yourself. It was just some con man looking for some free room and board for a day or two. Where were you, anyway?”

“I was trying to find a name for that second whore,” Sedgwick explained. “Someone must have known her.”

“Any luck?”

“Bugger all.” He scratched his head. “If anyone knows owt, they’re not saying.”

“Get yourself a cup,” the Constable said. “You’ve earned it.”

Nottingham knew he should have gone home long before. But he was still at the tavern three hours later, sitting across from Sedgwick. He’d lost track of how much
they’d drunk, and he didn’t care. Usually he was temperate; tonight, though, he felt a need to lose himself. Mary would understand, he was certain.

Just before midnight Sedgwick pushed himself to his feet. His legs were a little unsteady, but his mind seemed clear enough.

“I’d better check the night men,” he told the Constable in a thick voice.

Nottingham nodded. It was better to stop now, before they were too far in their cups. He rose too, wrapping the thick coat around himself and taking a final sip of wine.

“Let them manage by themselves for once,” he said. “Go home.”

Sedgwick’s eyes shone bright and he shook his head briefly.

“Duty,” he laughed. “That’s what you taught me, boss.” And he left.

By the time the Constable emerged, Sedgwick had vanished. There was a raw, thin edge to the night air that made him shiver and pull up his collar. The cold sobered him slowly as he walked. The
afternoon’s rain and rushing wind had brought plenty of leaves off the trees, leaving them slippery and treacherous along the streets, and he trod carefully. The sky had cleared, leaving a
bright rash of stars bright in the sky.

Nottingham tried to allow himself a small glow of satisfaction. After all, it looked as if they’d caught the murderer. But underneath, worrying away like a burr, was another fact: if that
was true, he’d been wrong about Carver. His judgement, his instinct, had been faulty, and Sedgwick had been right. And two people had died because of it. Maybe his time had passed. Maybe he
should quit his post.

What else could he do, though? This work had been his life for so many years. He’d kept the city safe. The citizens of Leeds – the ones who led blameless lives, at least on the
outside – feared that crime and murder might touch their houses at any time. No matter that many of them, especially the merchants, were involved in their own schemes that broke the law. Or,
he laughed to himself as his thoughts wandered, maybe that was exactly why they feared things happening.

He’d been their Constable a long time, but few of them would miss him if he was replaced – as long as the next man kept them safe. Some might know his name, but most would be happily
ignorant, recognising him only by face if they bothered to acknowledge him at all. Yet they’d still expect the Constable and his men to protect them from the sea of danger they imagined
washing up against the walls of their impeccable houses and the driftwood of humanity that might touch them.