opened his eyes wide and said plainly,
“If you’re searching for a murderer, then yes.”
18
“So you’ve murdered someone?” the Constable asked sceptically.
“Not some
“Oh?” Nottingham pushed himself off the sill, eyeing the man more closely. He was perhaps thirty, his face streaked with dirt and stubble. “Four people in Leeds?” he asked in slight disbelief.
“I think you know who I mean.” The man looked smug, even proud, the long fingers of his hands interlaced and pulling against each other.
“Maybe you’d better tell me.” It was impossible to keep a touch of amusement from his tone. Just yesterday morning they’d had no one for the crime, and now there were two killers, one who claimed not to remember, the other falling over himself to confess. Quite the pretty pair, the Constable thought wryly. But if this one was telling the truth… He looked at the man more closely. “So? Mr…?”
“Harwood,” the younger man reminded him with a defiant stare. “It was two men and two prostitutes.”
“And why did you do it?”
“Because they wouldn’t give me money,” Harwood explained simply. He swept a hand over his clothes. “I used to have plenty. But I’m a disinherited son. I live on the charity of others.”
“You could work,” the Constable pointed out tartly. “There are jobs for those who look. You’re not from around here.”
“I grew up in York,” Harwood answered with a casual, gentleman’s manner. “My father grew tired of my gambling debts and put me out three months ago.”
Nottingham sat in his chair and pushed the wet fringe back from his forehead.
“How long have you been in Leeds?”
“A week. I did come looking for work, or at least some Christian men who might help me.” There was a weariness in his voice that seemed almost plausible, the Constable admitted.
“And where have you been staying?”
“I had a room on the Calls for the first three nights. Since my money ran out I’ve been sleeping outside.” Harwood indicated the other chair. “Might I sit?”
Nottingham nodded and the other man eased himself gratefully on to the seat. Nottingham was willing to believe he’d told the truth about sleeping rough, and being from a good family. Beyond that…
“So you killed these people because they wouldn’t give you money?” he inquired.
The man hung his head slightly. “Yes.”
“But you didn’t rob them.” The Constable threw the words out carefully, like a fishing line, watching for a reaction.
“After I’d killed them, my conscience took hold of me.”
He was quick, Nottingham acknowledged, allowing himself to relax slightly. Harwood hadn’t been quite fast enough, though. There’d been a flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he answered, wondering what to say.
“On both occasions?” The Constable raised his eyebrows. “You obviously don’t learn your lessons easily.”
“Anger, sir… then remorse.”
“And the prostitutes?”
Harwood shrugged.
“They were witnesses. They could have identified me.” He shook his head. “And no one will count one or two more dead whores.”
Nottingham smiled grimly, tilted his chair back slightly and put his hands behind his head.
“One of those prostitutes used to be a servant of mine,” he said with slow relish. “So I’m a man who counts dead whores.”
Harwood had the grace to redden slightly.
“Describe the girls to me,” the Constable continued. “You killed them, you must remember what they looked like.”
“Like young girls. Brazen as whores always are.” He tried to emphasise the point by raising his voice.
“Blonde? Redhead? Brunette?” Nottingham kept his tone low and even.
“I didn’t notice. It was dark.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Nottingham bared his teeth slightly. “But it’s hard to notice what you don’t see, isn’t it?”
Harwood jerked his head up.
“You didn’t kill anyone.” Before there was a protest, the Constable pushed ahead. “I’m sure you’ve wanted to, but I doubt you’d actually do it. I’m willing to believe some of your story, but not murder. There’s no free bed and warmth for you.”
Harwood shrugged.
“And being found out now is better than swinging on the gallows for something you didn’t do,” Nottingham continued.
“You’d have discovered the truth in a day or two,” the man observed.
“I’d not deserve my job if it took me that long,” the Constable countered. “So what made you come here?”
“Some men were talking about the murders, down by the bridge. I thought I might find some shelter if I confessed,” Harwood admitted sheepishly.
Nottingham took a couple of coins from his pocket and tossed them at the other man, who caught them with a practised grab.
“No shelter here, but buy yourself something to eat,” the Constable instructed, with a dark gleam of anger in his eyes. “Then you can get out of my city. I don’t expect to see you in Leeds again. Wakefield isn’t far; I hear they believe most things there.”
Harwood settled the hat on his head and stood.
“Will you catch him?” he asked accusingly.
“Your news is behind the times, Mr Harwood,” Nottingham said with a wry smile. “We arrested him last night.”
The door closed loudly as Harwood left. Nottingham rubbed his hands over his face and let out a long, slow breath. He could feel a knot of rage inside. He needed a drink. Buttoning his heavy coat he ran next door to the White Swan. It was comfortably warm and smoky, the air thick with the powerful smells of wet wool and ale. He sat at the end of a bench, nodding at some of the faces he recognised and ordered some hot mulled wine from the girl. Her dress was cut low over the swell of her breasts, showing the darker curve of the top of her nipples, her smile inviting as she leaned forward to place the jug on the table. Another whore, he laughed to himself, tupping in her room or behind the building for a few extra pennies. As long as there were men there’d never be any shortage of them.
He was still sitting there, sipping the wine and letting its heat warm his body, when Sedgwick walked in, his height letting him peer over the crowd that had grown with the end of the workday. Spotting the Constable, he pushed his way through the people and sat on to the bench.
“How did his Worship react when you told him we’d arrested Carver?” he asked with a grin.
“I didn’t have the chance. He was too busy to see me.”
The smile slowly faded from Sedgwick’s face.
“And I had someone else to confess to the murders.”
“What?” The deputy looked up, dumbfounded.
Nottingham waved his hand.
“Don’t worry yourself. It was just some con man looking for some free room and board for a day or two.
