Nottingham didn’t wait for the coroner’s arrival. He wasn’t going to learn anything more about the bodies until he saw them in the light. Instead he accompanied a pale, shaky Sedgwick back to the jail, the rough bandage now bloody, and sent a boy to wake the apothecary.
“He took me by surprise,” Sedgwick admitted guiltily as they walked slowly down Briggate. He shook his head in anger. “He must have heard me running towards him. Next thing I knew he’d cut me and he was gone.’
Nottingham knew that shock was making the deputy talk, but he encouraged him, while his memory was still fresh.
“Did you see his face?”
“No,” he answered in frustration, but the Constable didn’t give up.
“What was he like? Think. Was he big? Small? Broad?”
Sedgwick concentrated. After a moment he replied hesitantly, “I don’t think he was as tall as me — closer to your size, maybe, boss. And he didn’t seem particularly broad. But he barged through me like I was nothing.”
“He was prepared for you,” Nottingham pointed out.
“He was right-handed,” Sedgwick recalled slowly, fleshing out the image in his head. “And he was wearing a cloak; I felt it brush against me. He moved very fast.”
“Good,” the Constable nodded. It all helped build a picture, and it kept Sedgwick’s mind off his wound.
The apothecary was waiting at the jail, and he set to work immediately, exposing the gash. It was long and vivid, the length of the forearm, and although the cut was deep, he soon slowed the flow of the blood. Gently the apothecary cleaned the wound, then sprinkled a powder on it. Sedgwick drew in his breath sharply.
“Christ, that hurt,” he complained through gritted teeth.
He waited patiently as his arm was swathed in a long linen bandage then secured in a sling. Nottingham watched with concern.
“Well?” the Constable asked finally.
“It’s clean,” the apothecary said, nodding his head with satisfaction. He glanced between the two men. “It should heal well, but it’s going to take time. You won’t have much strength in your arm for a while. Rest it,” he instructed, and Sedgwick nodded. “You’re going to have a scar, though.”
The deputy shrugged. One more scar wouldn’t make a difference.
“Any better?” Nottingham asked, once they were alone.
“It still hurts.” He winced heavily as he tried to raise his arm. “But it could have been a lot worse.”
In his cell, Carver began to snore. Sedgwick looked at the Constable.
“We’ll have to let him go. I’m sorry, boss,” he said quietly. “You told me he didn’t do it.”
“And then I decided you were right,” Nottingham pointed out. “He had the knife. He was seen with both Pamela and Morton on Monday night. There was evidence against him.”
But he was glad to have Carver’s innocence proved all the same. His faith in himself had been rocked more than he wanted to admit by the old sot’s apparent guilt. At least this meant he could still trust his instincts.
“So what now?” Sedgwick interrupted, crowding in on his thoughts. “Where do we go?”
“Back to the beginning.” The Constable sighed, then gave a weak smile. “Well, almost. At least we now know Mr Carver isn’t our murderer.”
They stopped as the door opened, and men brought in the bodies, wrapped in their winding-sheets. Nottingham unlocked the mortuary and guided them in, then uncovered the dead.
The man had the undistinguished look and clothes of a clerk, worn and weary even in death. He was in his forties, as far as Nottingham could judge, cheeks sunk where most of his teeth had been removed. The cloth of his coat and breeches was cheap, third- or fourth-hand, the sewing uneven and ragged. The soles of his shoes had worn through in several places. His fingers were dark-stained with ink, the joints knotted by a lifetime of writing. It was a poor death after a poor life.
The girl was pretty enough, probably fourteen or fifteen, with fine blonde hair and blue eyes, but the bloom had already gone off the rose. Her young features were coarse, her skin reddened across the nose and cheeks. Her homespun dress looked reasonably new, maybe the gift of a pimp or merchant who’d been particularly pleased with her. Her wrists were thin and bony, and her unadorned fingers nearly as small as a child’s.
Once again they’d each been stabbed with two precise strokes, and Nottingham wondered at this murderer. He didn’t just slash, he truly cut to kill, and he knew what he was doing, even when he was rushed.
“John,” he called into the office.
“What is it, boss?”
“Come and take a look at this.”
Sedgwick walked in, his movements slow and a little unsteady.
“You see these wounds?” Nottingham pointed them out.
Sedgwick looked confused. “What about them?”
“If you were trying to kill someone with a knife, would you know where to put the blade to do it properly and efficiently?”
“Well…” he began, then realisation dawned. “So maybe someone with medical knowledge?”
“Maybe,” Nottingham agreed. “Or someone who’s been a soldier, or learned to fence… I don’t know,” he said with a frustrated shrug. “But it’s one more thing we know about him.”
“I should have seen more of him,” the deputy said with embarrassment, and Nottingham shook his head.
“You were lucky, John,” the Constable told him with heartfelt relief. “I’m just glad you’re alive. I’m going to need you to help catch him. Now go home and rest. That’s an order.”
He woke Annie as he tried to undress. Raising his arm was painful and he cried out softly, enough to make James stir and start wailing. Sitting up sleepily, Annie cursed under her breath and reached for the child, starting suddenly as she sensed someone else in the room.
“John?” she whispered and she pulled the baby close.
“Help me,” he said. “I can’t get my bloody clothes off.”
She lit the remains of a candle, gasping as she saw his arm.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he told her quickly, seeing the dried blood on the bandage.
“Work done that?” she asked without a trace of sympathy as she began to ease off the sling and his clothes. “I’ll be up all night mending your coat. And I’ve only just sewn your shirt, now it’s in rags.”
“You don’t care how I am?”
Annie rolled her eyes.
“You’re here and moaning, so you can’t be too bad. Take your son so I can get to work.”
Sedgwick sat on the bed, cradling James in his left arm until the lad fell back to sleep. He lay the boy down tenderly and walked softly over to his wife, watching the needle move swiftly and surely in her hands.
“Is there any food?” he whispered.
She stopped and fixed him with a hard stare.
“No, there’s no food, John.” Before he could speak, she added, “We had the last of it tonight, and you haven’t given me money to buy any more.”
Guiltily, he reached into his pocket and brought out his wages.
“How much of it have you spent on drink and whores?”
“Nothing,” he hissed, careful to keep his voice low. It was like this every time with her accusations and barbs. “I’ve been working.” He felt his anger rising, the way it did whenever they talked. “What do you think I do?” He held out his bandaged arm. “The man who did that could have killed me.”
“And where would I be then?” she retorted, putting down the sewing. “On my own with a babbie and no money. You think more of your Constable than you do of us.”
“He’s given me steady work!” Sedgwick protested. “More than I’d have found elsewhere.”
“Work that keeps you out all hours.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “Do you imagine I like it when people tell me they’ve seen you in the inns or talking to prostitutes?”
“I told you what the job involved when I started it.” He’d explained it to her carefully, but she hadn’t believed him. “You didn’t say anything then.”
“And how was I to know what it would really be like?” There was a vicious edge in Annie’s voice. “You didn’t tell me all the hours I’d be on my own, or how little you’d make.” She let the coins fall through her fingers on to the table. “We’re not going to get rich on your earnings. We’re lucky we can eat on them.”
