“Bloody awful.” He hacked and coughed, leaning to spit a plume of phlegm on to the stone floor. “This place of yours might be conducive to enforced rest, but you didn’t build it for comfort.”
“It’s not meant to be a rooming house,” the Constable told him sarcastically. “Or do you feel you don’t belong here?”
Carver sat up creakily, arching his back in a stretch. He looked old and frail, his cheeks and nose a sagging network of broken red veins. But there was a strong twinkle of intelligence and character in his eyes.
“You tell me, Constable. After all, you’re the one who invited me into this palace.”
“How’s your memory this morning?” Sedgwick leaned against the door, watching as the other man slowly struggled into full wakefulness.
“As good as ever.” Carver shrugged and smiled, showing a line of rotted, dark teeth. “In other words, poor.”
“So you still don’t remember a girl helping you out of the Ship on Monday night? Or drinking with a preacher in the Talbot?” Nottingham prodded.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said with genuine regret, shaking his head slowly. “I get flashes of things. But when and where they happened, I couldn’t tell you.”
“Then what about the night before last? That’s more recent. Do you have any more recollection of where you were?” Nottingham pushed harder, his gaze fixed on Carver’s face. If there was a sign, he’d notice it this time.
“I’m a poor witness. I think I told you, I drink to find oblivion. Or perhaps it’s to let it find me…” His voice tailed off momentarily. “Whichever way, it’s usually successful,” he mused. “So no, to answer you, I have no recollection at all. But what can you expect from a man who doesn’t even know how he finds his own bed every night?”
“I can expect more than that,” Nottingham informed him bluntly.
“Then I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed, Constable.” Carver shrugged helplessly again. “I’d help you if it was in my power, truly I would. I don’t want a madman on the streets any more than you do. And for what it’s worth, I’m as certain as I can be that the madman isn’t me.”
“I’m not,” the Constable informed him bluntly. He gestured to Sedgwick, who produced the knife. “You recognise it, Mr Carver?”
“Of course,” he replied, blinking in astonishment. “It’s mine, I’ve had it for years.” He looked between the Constable and the deputy as understanding rose in his face. “You think I killed people with that?”
“Well?” Nottingham asked calmly. “Did you?” He saw the growing horror in Carver’s eyes.
“Of course not.” The old man shook his head slowly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I want to do something like that?”
“We don’t know,” Sedgwick interjected. “We were hoping you could tell us.”
“But I can’t.” He sounded lost, adrift. “I can’t.”
“We’re going to find out sooner or later,” the deputy continued. “But it’ll be easier if you tell us now.”
“What if I don’t tell you at all?” Carver asked forlornly. “What if I
“Then you’d better remember, Mr Carver.” Nottingham’s voice was quiet but commanding.
“I’ve tried,” Carver said with soft resignation. “I was thinking as you came in. But what I want and what the good Lord grants me are frequently two different things. I’m a weak man, Constable.”
“So I’m told,” the Constable agreed. “I’ve heard about your past.”
Carver raised his eyebrows slightly.
“I’m sure you have. Most people here know about me. Or they think they do. And there’s very little for me to be proud of in the telling.”
“Or in the ending, at least the way it’s going,” Nottingham pointed out. “Hanging isn’t a particularly auspicious death.”
Carver was silent.
“So why did you kill them, George?” the Constable asked casually. “Four people. It’s quite a total.”
“Were you jealous because the women went with other men when you wanted them?” taunted Sedgwick, his voice insistent.
“What did you hate about them?”
“Or did they just ignore you?” said the deputy. “Was that it… George?”
Carver had lowered his head. Now he raised it again, and Nottingham could see the thin tracks of tears leaking down his cheeks.
“Stop it,” he begged quietly. “Please. I don’t know what I can tell you. I honestly don’t know…”
The Constable glanced quickly at Sedgwick. He’d expected a reaction to the quick barrage of questions, but not this. It left him nonplussed. Was Carver that good an actor? Or was he simply a man who really couldn’t remember that he’d killed?
“I’m going to leave you to think,” Nottingham said briskly.
“Thank you.” The old drunk had become a small man, shrunken, like a corpse that hadn’t died yet.
“But don’t get too cosy,” the Constable warned. He started to leave, then turned. “Remember, jail can also be a dangerous place. Especially for those with bad memories, Mr Carver. It can be a waystation to the gallows.”
“I shall try,” came the muffled promise through the door.
“What are you going to do with him, boss?”
Nottingham shook his head. He didn’t know.
“Let him stew for a while. Maybe a little knowledge of the future might make him remember the past.”
Shortly before noon, not long after they’d taken the anonymous young whore for a pauper’s burial, Nottingham completed his report for the Mayor. It detailed Carver’s arrest and the discovery of the knife in his room. That news, he hoped, should be enough to deflect attention from the cutpurse’s antics. He put down the quill, reading over the words one final time.
He went to check on Carver, peering in through the iron grille. The prisoner sat on the bed, lost in thought. Nottingham folded the report and smiled. He’d take great delight in delivering this one personally and seeing the startled look on Kenion’s face.
But instead he spent a frustrating half hour waiting to see his Worship before a clerk came along and plucked the paper from his hands, telling Nottingham that the Mayor was too busy to see him at the moment. He’d been quietly and firmly put in his place.
It began to drizzle as he left the Moot Hall, with darker clouds moving in from the west promising heavier rain. Nottingham drew his coat around himself and wished he’d worn a hat. Before he’d gone a hundred yards it started to pour, and the streets emptied as if God had swept folk away.
The water glued his hair to his scalp, rivulets running inside his collar and down his back, chilling him. It was a reminder that winter was around the corner with its bitter temperatures and driving wetness. At the jail he towelled his hair with a rough sheet from one of the cells, then took off his coat to dry in front of the fire. Carver was asleep, his snores and snorts loud.
Nottingham glanced out through the small, grimy window. Runnels of water sluiced down the street, washing away rubbish and shit like a biblical flood. Figures scurried through the rain. A horse across Kirkgate waited placidly, blinking its eyes slowly.
As he stared absently, the door opened and a tall figure blew in, enveloped in a heavy greatcoat and hat. He peeled them off and shook himself slowly before announcing, “I’m James Harwood,” as if his name should be familiar.
“I’m Richard Nottingham, the Constable here.”
Harwood stroked his chin, nodding for a moment, and preened his black wig. Sharp features and beady, almost black eyes gave him the air of a rook, alert for carrion.
“I believe you’ve been looking for me,” he said airily, pulling his cuffs from his sleeves.
Nottingham leaned against the sill and looked the man up and down. The clothes had been very expensive once, and looked after carefully, but age was beginning to tell on the fabric, with wear on collars and cuffs and threadbare, shiny patches on the elbows. The style, with large buttons and cuffs and an expansive collar, was past the peak of fashion.
“Have I?” the Constable asked in mild surprise. God spare me another madman, he thought, then Harwood
