ribs.
Who were they, he wondered. He’d doubtless learn the man’s name soon enough, when a wife came looking for her errant husband. But the girl might remain anonymous forever. The chances of kin, or even someone who cared enough to find out where she’d gone, were small.
It chilled him to know there was someone in Leeds who’d do this to people. Not just once but again — and more, he was certain, if he had the chance. It had to be the work of a lunatic. No sane man would kill a couple in cold blood that way.
Nottingham looked at the bodies again, rubbing his chin as his mind worked through the possibilities. Unless there was some unlikely connection between this unknown farmer and Morton, someone was randomly killing whores and the men with them.
He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed it wasn’t Carver.
The sound of the jail door roused him. Sedgwick was sitting at the desk, shaking his head to keep himself awake.
“What did you find?” the Constable asked.
“You mean besides the fact that hard work for godly souls means an undisturbed night’s sleep?” Sedgwick responded bitterly. “I think they were more offended that people had been killed on their doorsteps than anything else.”
“And were any of the good citizens able to give you information?”
“A couple admitted they heard noises, but ‘the middle of the night’ was as exact as they could be. And since their houses were locked up tight, they didn’t look.”
“What about the inn?”
“Closed early, not much trade. All in their beds and asleep.”
“Whoever’s doing this is either lucky or very canny,” Nottingham pondered. “He picks his spots well, places where no one will care or no one wants to know.”
“It’s definitely the same man, then?”
“Has to be. Killed by a knife, same position.” Could he have predicted and prevented this? he asked himself — although inside he knew he couldn’t.
Sedgwick yawned and stretched slowly.
“It means the killer didn’t single out Morton and Pamela,” Nottingham continued. “He’s murdering prostitutes and the men who’ve bought their services.”
He looked pointedly at his deputy, and Sedgwick’s eyes widened at the implications. “Once the pimps and procurers realise that they’re all going to think the competition’s doing it.”
“Exactly,” the Constable said glumly. “So they’ll be killing each other and the whores will be terrified. And don’t forget our friends on the Corporation,” he added acidly. “They like their regular tumbles, too.”
“What are we going to do?”
Nottingham sighed and shook his head.
“We’d better find him, John. As fast as we can.” He hesitated, grateful Sedgwick hadn’t mentioned the name yet, then said, “I’m going to discover where Carver was last night.”
He’d sent Sedgwick home for a few hours’ sleep, after instructing him to send men out to search for the new killing ground. He needed his deputy, but he wanted his mind fresh and sharp, not raw after too many hours of work. He should have been resting himself, but his brain wouldn’t slow down. His eyes were gritty as he rubbed them. Along with weariness, he felt self-doubt beginning to creep in. What if Carver was the killer, and he’d let him walk away to commit two more murders? He’d told Sedgwick he’d live with the guilt, but words were cheap. He’d been wrong before, and more than once. That had been over petty crimes, though, not murder. Murders, he corrected himself soberly. Murders.
Next door to the jail, the landlord of the White Swan was cleaning off the benches in a lacklustre fashion. The patrons were never too particular, so he didn’t care too much, either. Quiet morning drinkers were scattered around the place as the Constable walked in. A few heads turned to glance at the newcomer, then returned to their mugs of ale or wine. The landlord nodded his head in greeting.
“Early for you, Mr Nottingham.”
The Constable offered a thin, weary smile.
“If only drinking would get rid of all my problems, Michael.”
“But you’ll have something?”
Michael Harding moved behind the bar, wiping his hands on his apron. He was a carefree sort, at least until someone crossed him. Then his tongue and his fists erupted like a sudden storm on anyone who deserved it. As soon as he was done, the mild, easy manner returned. His way kept the tavern quiet and generally peaceful, but Nottingham often wondered just how far below the surface the temper really lurked.
“I don’t imagine you’ve come in here for a restful hour,” Harding said as the Constable sipped from the tankard.
“I think I last had one of those about twenty years ago, Michael.” Nottingham laughed, but to his ears it sounded forced. “Seen much of George Carver lately?”
“What’s the old bugger been up to now?” Harding drew himself some ale and leaned against the bar. “Heard you had him in yesterday.”
Nottingham smiled again. Gossip spread like seeds on the wind in Leeds.
“We had a chat,” he admitted, trying not to give anything away.
“Aye, he told me all about it. Came in here after you let him go. Said he needed a drink, but when does George not need one?” Harding winked.
“Did he stay long?”
The landlord cocked his head to think.
“Till ten, perhaps. He’d had a fair few by then.”
“How was he?”
Harding shrugged. “Moaning a bit, got a little loud a couple of times. Didn’t cause any trouble, though. You must have scared him.”
“But not sobered him, obviously.”
Harding gave a braying laugh.
“I doubt if God himself could do that, Mr Nottingham.”
“Was he going anywhere else?” Nottingham tossed out the question.
Harding shrugged once more. “Not my business. He’d spent good money here, that’s all I care about.”
To his surprise, Nottingham discovered he’d almost drained the mug. He finished it in one long swallow and brushed back his fringe.
“Well, no rest for the wicked, or for those of us who have to try and stop them. Thank you for the drink, and the information.”
“What’s George done, then?” Harding asked as the Constable walked away.
“I’m not sure he’s done anything. I hope not, anyway,” Nottingham replied truthfully and let the door close behind him.
That accounted for some of Carver’s movements, he thought, stopping on the corner to allow an overloaded farm cart to turn from Vicar Lane into Kirkgate. But he’d have gone on somewhere else. That was his way, to drink himself into insensibility every night. He assessed the options. There was the Old King’s Head, the Ship, the New King’s Head and even the Talbot, all within a distance Carver could stagger if necessary. And of course the Turk’s Head. Nottingham sighed; he’d have to check them all.
It was a thankless business. For different reasons, most of the landlords had no great love of the law, and brought varying degrees of co-operation to their talks. But an hour later no one had admitted to seeing Carver the previous night and he was willing to believe them; it would be such a foolish thing to lie about.
One thing was certain; tonight they’d talk to George Carver again, and Nottingham dreaded the meeting.
15
