bundle of straw covered with an old sheet; it smelt as though it hadn’t been changed in years.
A flimsy table that looked like someone had thrown it out was covered with worn quills and paper filled with scribbles that made no sense. Carefully, the Constable moved them aside. Underneath, not even properly covered, was a knife. It hadn’t been hidden, simply laid down and forgotten. It was not the one Carver had shown him before.
Nottingham picked it up and carefully studied the blade in the bleak candle flame. It was about the right size and length, the steel roughly cleaned. But as he examined it more closely, he noticed a series of dark flecks on the metal. He rubbed at them with a wetted finger, and watched the stains slowly smear, the deep rust colour lightening.
It was blood, beyond a doubt.
Christ. It felt like a blow on the head. Had he been as wrong as that? He bowed his head slowly and clenched his fists. Fuck.
His instinct had failed and he’d let himself be taken in. Carver had conveniently lied about a bloody knife. God alone knew how little of what he’d said was the truth. Walking back to the jail, he felt a bitter fire inside. He wanted to confront his prisoner, to find out what he’d really done. No, he decided after a pause, tomorrow was better, once he was rested and he’d had time to consider all of this. Tonight he was too tired to think properly, and for Carver he’d need to be sharp. He put the blade in his coat pocket and went home.
His legs carried him along the familiar route. He walked past the turning to the White Cloth Hall, past Alderman Atkinson’s grand mansion with its distinctive cupola, and the dark holy bulk of the parish church. Across the road an orchard stretched all the way to Sheep Scar Beck, its ground almost carpeted by windfall apples as the leaves began to turn and die.
There was a reassurance in the scenes. He’d lived through them all for so many years. They kept him anchored to this place he knew and loved so well.
At home the enticing smell of a lamb stew greeted him as he entered, and he followed his nose into the kitchen where Mary stood surrounded by the steam and heat of cooking. Sweat shimmered on her face, and he watched, smiling, as she wiped her forehead with her arm, a single lock of hair plastered to her skin. His heel banged against the floor and she turned with a shock.
“My God, Richard, you startled me.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologised, feeling a deep, loving tenderness for this woman.
“Are you back for the night?” she asked.
“God, I hope so,” he said fervently. “I’m dead on my feet.”
“Do you want something to eat? The stew’s nearly done.”
He shook his head, then beckoned her to him, folding her in his arms as she nestled against him. He could feel the warmth she gave off and let it soak into him like a hot bath.
“I think we’ve found him,” Nottingham told her, but there was no sense of triumph in his voice. All he felt was his own failure of judgement as he spoke the name. “George Carver.”
She pulled away from him slightly.
“The drunk?”
He nodded.
“But why?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll find out tomorrow.” Suddenly he didn’t want to discuss it any more, even with Mary. “I need to go to bed. When the girls get back, make sure they keep quiet. And if anyone wants me, it had better be life or death.”
She looked up at him with an understanding smile. How many times over the years had he come home like this and said words like those, he wondered. And on each occasion she’d protected his sleep carefully, making sure he was able to rest until he woke refreshed.
It was some measure of his station that they had a house with two bedrooms, he thought, climbing the staircase and feeling the plaster of the wall rub against his coat. He stripped off his clothes, down to the linen shirt, pulled the covers over his body and felt peaceful oblivion overwhelm him.
17
It was dark when Nottingham woke, and for a moment he was disorientated. Mary was asleep beside him, the assured rhythm of her breathing comforting by his head. He had no idea what time it might be, and lay there, eyes open. Night thoughts drifted like ghosts in and out of his mind, insubstantial as spring mist.
He stretched slowly, taking care not to wake his wife, slipped out of bed and dressed silently before going downstairs. He didn’t bother lighting a candle. After so many years he knew his way around the house by feel and sound. He poured a cup of small beer, cut bread and cheese and sat at the table.
He ate slowly, his stomach relishing the simple meal. Outside, the blackness was just beginning to fade on the eastern horizon as the first blue of Friday’s dawn arrived. Somewhere between six and seven, Nottingham judged, a good time to wake and go to work. And to tease the truth out of Carver.
Outside he pulled his coat tight around himself as the cold morning air hit him, clouding his breath and sharpening his stride to the jail. Sedgwick was sitting at his desk, his brow furrowed, vainly trying to study a letter the Constable had written. A fire burned in the grate, and snoring came from Carver’s cell.
“Morning, John, you’re here early.”
Sedgwick put down the paper with a look of relief and disappointment.
“I haven’t been home, boss,” he admitted sheepishly. “I fell asleep here.” He paused, rolling his neck on his shoulders to work out the night’s stiffness. “You did the right thing, you know, arresting him.”
“I know,” Nottingham agreed with a rueful nod. “I owe you an apology.” He took out the knife. “That was in his room.”
Sedgwick smiled with satisfaction and weighed the blade in his hand. The Constable watched his face, but there was no sign of smugness.
“Aye, you could certainly kill someone with that,” the deputy acknowledged. “What did he have to say about it?”
“I haven’t asked him yet. I wanted you there.” He deserved that.
Sedgwick nodded his gratitude.
“Anything new overnight?” the Constable asked, glad to change the subject.
“A couple of fights, the lads handled them.” He shrugged, then stopped. “But the cutpurse seems to be back again.”
“Oh?” Nottingham raised an eyebrow warily. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this.
“He got three more yesterday evening that we know of.”
The Constable groaned. “Of course, no one saw anything?”
“Not a bloody thing.” There was exasperation in the deputy’s voice. “Whoever it is, he’s like a ghost. And you haven’t heard the worst yet,” Sedgwick continued.
“Go on.”
“Two of them were merchants. So you know he’ll have got away with a pretty penny.”
“That’s not funny, John,” Nottingham said with sad conviction. “It means there’ll be another summons from the Mayor. That’s the last thing we need on top of these murders. He roasted my arse yesterday.”
“Want me to put more men on catching him, boss?”
“No,” he answered, then stopped to weigh his resources in his head. With only a few men, he was always stretched. But they’d caught their murderer, and that would ease the strain. “Yes, add another,” he decided finally. “That way at least I can tell his Worship we’re doing everything we can.”
“And you can tell him we’ve arrested Carver,” Sedgwick said with pride.
“Yes.” Nottingham took a deep breath. “I can tell him that.”
He unlocked the heavy cell door. The prisoner was half-asleep on his thin bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Well, Mr Carver,” Nottingham began. He edged into the small stone room, Sedgwick close behind him. “How do you feel?” There was no sympathy in his voice.
