Aye, if it suited you, Sedgwick thought to himself. With a slightly envious glance around the room, he bowed his head and left.
One down, he thought, crossing the bridge again, but so many more to go. He’d do as the Constable ordered and talk to a few more pimps, but he wasn’t hopeful. He reckoned he might be better off chatting to some of the girls, describing the dead lass to them and see if anyone knew her. A few would certainly have seen her and might even know her name. Ultimately, though, it probably didn’t matter. By tomorrow she was going to be just another dead body in a pauper’s grave, mourned and missed by next to no one. There were dozens of them each year.
David Sheepshanks and Edward Paley didn’t aspire to the same luxury as Farnham. Both were small time, with just four or five girls each. Neither of them had a girl missing and knew of no one who did. Two more brief visits revealed nothing, and Sedgwick began to believe it was going to be a waste of time.
So he followed his instinct and started canvassing the girls. There were always plenty around, no matter the time, in the inns or on the streets, touting for trade. As they learned all too quickly, it wasn’t a business for the shy, unless they had an inclination for starvation. Some of them were mean bitches, women he wouldn’t dare cross for fear of his life, but most were simply trying to get by and live.
Lizzie Lane was like that. It had been her and her daughter since her man left — ’listed for a soldier when drunk, some people said, although no one seemed to know for sure. She was cheerful, brash and bawdy whenever Sedgwick saw her. For more than two years she’d been a fixture near the Old King’s Head on Briggate. She kept her large breasts pushed high, almost out of the top of her dress, and she loved to trade lewd banter with passing men, usually getting a fair share of customers that she took to her dingy room down the grubby yard.
“Hello, John,” she yelled as she saw him approach, a warmly lecherous smile crossing her face. “Come looking for the company of a real woman?”
“Now then, keep your voice down, you might put off trade, talking to the law,” he told her, laughing, before adding in a quieter voice, “And my missus might hear about it.”
“She didn’t last time,” Lizzie winked and folded the small fan so many whores carried.
“Aye, but if she found out she’d hurt me.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed in mock frustration.
“You’re not here for me, anyway, are you, luv?”
“Not today,” he admitted.
“Well, you’d better not take long, then. Not that most do, anyway,” she chuckled.
“You’ve heard a couple of girls have been murdered?”
Lizzie nodded.
“There’s one, we don’t know who she is, and the Constable would like to find out. The pimps I’ve talked to aren’t saying anything.”
“You think those bastards would?” she interjected.
“Just ask around and see if anyone’s gone missing, would you?”
“What did she look like?” Lizzie asked.
“Tiny thing, blonde hair, pox marks, scar on her chin, old blue dress,” he said.
“That could be half of them around here,” she pointed out wistfully.
“Can you ask a few questions and let me know if anyone says anything?”
Lizzie brightened. “Course I will. Can’t have some prick killing us.”
“You’re a good lass,” Sedgwick said with a grin.
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the ones who can help me.” He winked and walked away.
Nottingham knew Carver wouldn’t be too hard to find. He poked his head around the door of a couple of inns with no luck, then discovered him once more in the Ship, already on his third drink, according to the landlord.
“George,” he said genially, standing over the figure on the bench who was contemplating his ale. The man looked up and answered mildly, “Am I to be harassed daily for the rest of my life then, Constable?”
“I hope not,” the Constable said without a smile. “But I need to ask you a few more questions.”
“Then pull up a seat and take a drink with me.”
Nottingham shook his head.
“Not here. We’ll talk at the jail, I think.”
Carver shrugged, drained his tankard in a single swallow, and stood with barely a hint of unsteadiness.
“I’m at your service,” he announced with a small flourish.
They walked together in silence. The older man smelled especially ripe, his coat crusted with even more food stains, which didn’t seem to concern him in the least.
At the jail he waited until Nottingham sat, then positioned himself on the chair opposite.
“Now, how may I help you Constable?” he asked, for all the world a gracious host relaxed in his own home.
“I’m wondering where you were last night.”
Carver pondered the question for a minute.
“I woke in my own bed, so I can’t have gone too far,” he replied seriously. “Beyond that I’m not sure I can be too much help.”
“You were at the White Swan until gone ten,” Nottingham told him.
“Was I?” Carver asked. “Then you seem to have a better grasp of my whereabouts than I do.”
“Where were you after that? Did you go to the Turk’s Head?”
The merchant bit his lip as he thought, and shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he replied succinctly.
“Two more people were murdered last night,” Nottingham informed him.
“I see.” Carver considered the question gravely. “And what exactly does that mean, Constable?”
Nottingham shifted slightly in his chair and brushed the hair off his forehead. He was too exhausted to play any games, tired of answers that were no use at all.
“It means you need to recall where you were last night, and I need some witnesses who might have seen you.”
Carver raised his hands, palms upwards.
“As I told you, I don’t recall. I’m sorry.”
“Then I’m afraid I have no choice but to arrest you,” the Constable snapped. He’d see if that made Carver remember.
A long silence filled the room. Nottingham impatiently studied the other man, who appeared to be thinking carefully.
“You must do your duty,” Carver agreed finally. “I hope your cells aren’t too uncomfortable.” He stood, waiting to be escorted.
Nottingham unlocked the first cell and waited until Carver was inside before closing the door and turning the key. It was too easy, he thought with a twinge of guilt. Would a murderer, even a mad one, allow himself to be herded like a sheep? Maybe Carver really did have no memory of the events.
“I’ll see you get some supper later. There’s water in the jug.”
“Bring me ale, too,” Carver pleaded.
Nottingham smiled to himself. The man could probably survive for days without eating, but without drink he’d wither in a matter of hours.
“I will,” he promised. “I need your address and the key to your room, too.”
Carver gave both willingly.
He went next door to the White Swan and arranged for a potboy to take Carver food and drink. The city could pay; at least the man wouldn’t cost too much. That done, he stood outside the inn and felt exhaustion hit him like a stone. Sedgwick had rested, but Nottingham had been working since the early hours and now it had caught up with him. He ached to go home and sleep without thought of waking. But first he had to go and search Carver’s room, and do it now while he was still moving.
It was a filthy attic up three rickety flights of stairs, and he wondered how Carver managed to climb them each night. One small, dirty window gazed down on a rubbish-strewn court, its outlines blurred in the growing darkness. The Constable lit a stub of candle and looked around. The room was crammed with possessions, a stack of books climbing up the wall, some trinkets on the sill, piles of faded papers cluttering the floor. The bed was a
