informal surroundings, reading the
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.
