The Broken Token

by Chris Nickson

“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 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.

  “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 can’t tell you?”

  “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 tho
ught. 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.