Nottingham needed information on Carver, and he knew the best place to find it. The merchants, the business elite who brought money into Leeds through their woollen cloth dealings, effectively ran the place by controlling the Corporation. Most of them would be unwilling to talk about someone who’d once been one of their own, even as dissolute and broken a character as George Carver.
But there was one man who might help. Three years before, Tom Williamson had been named the city’s Cloth Searcher. It was an ancient office, and largely ceremonial, although Williamson had taken it seriously. During his year long tenure he and Nottingham had become friends, quite easily and unconsciously straddling the social barrier that divided them. They didn’t see too much of each other now, but the goodwill had remained.
It was early afternoon and that meant there was a fair chance Williamson would be at Garroway’s Coffee House on the Head Row, enjoying a dish of tea. The merchants tended to gather there, conducting business in its informal surroundings, reading the Leeds Mercury and the London newspapers, or idly passing the time.
As Nottingham entered the building, he was struck by the smells, so exotic and rich. There was coffee, powerful and enticing, and underneath a deeper, more mysterious hint of chocolate. He’d tried them both, once, but didn’t care for the taste of either, too alien to a palate that was used to small beer and ale. He’d tasted tea, too, and enjoyed that. But all these were luxuries, far beyond his meagre pocket.
Williamson was in the corner, shoulders hunched, engrossed in the backgammon board in front of him. In his mid-thirties and tall, the merchant had the most straightforward, honest face Nottingham had ever seen, which probably wasn’t a great business asset, he thought wryly. And he was a poor liar. But from all the rumours, his business was thriving. Williamson’s father had died the year before, and now Tom was running it himself, making sound decisions and prospering even more than before. He was plainly dressed, his breeches and coat of good quality, the waistcoat carefully tailored in length and cut, but sober, the buckles on his shoes dull metal rather than gold.
His roll finished, Williamson looked up and spotted the Constable, a smile curling his mouth upwards.
“Richard!” he greeted warmly. “What brings you to this den of iniquity on a lovely afternoon?”
Nottingham returned the smile, genuinely pleased to see the man. It had been too long. “I wanted a word with you, actually.”
For a moment Williamson looked nonplussed, as if searching his memory for any wrongdoing. Satisfied, he said happily, “Well, have a seat, and we can talk while I thrash Mr Greenwood here.”
“Better in private, if you don’t mind.”
“I see.” Williamson gazed at his companions. “Looks as if luck’s on your side today, Jeremiah.” Picking up his immaculate tricorn hat off the bench he followed Nottingham outside.
“What’s all the mystery about?” he asked as they began to stroll up the Head Row.
“I’m after a bit of information, Tom,” Nottingham admitted bluntly.
The merchant tilted his head slightly in curiosity.
“Something a little delicate, obviously. Information on whom?”
“George Carver.”
“Oh dear.” Williamson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Poor old George is in trouble again, is he? What do you want to know about him?”
“I know he lost his money, but I’ve never heard how it happened,” Nottingham said. “As far as anyone can tell, he doesn’t do a stroke of work, but he still has somewhere to live and the brass to go out drinking every night. I thought you might know something about that.”
“It’s not really a secret, I suppose,” Williamson began readily. “It’s just that it’s never seemed like anything to talk about. I was just a lad when it happened, so I heard most of it from my father. It seems George found a new buyer in Holland — this was back when they were still a big market for us. Good references, everything you could want. Things went well. After a couple of shipments they placed a big order, asked for credit, and George extended it to them. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but they never paid.”
“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.
Then there was another knock in the middle of the night.