“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 —
“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
“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
