The Broken Token

by Chris Nickson

  “We heard summat, didn’t we, Will?” she told Sedgwick. “I were up with the baby – he’s got the croup, I think – and there was this noise.”

  Sedgwick smiled down at her.

  “What kind of noise, luv?”

  “I wasn’t sure at first. Like someone was dragging something heavy. You remember, Will, I woke you?”

  The lad nodded.

  “What time was that?”

  The girl looked confused.

  “Time? I couldn’t tell you that, mister. It were dark, and it felt lonely, so it must have been the middle of the night. You know how everything feels far away then? Except him, of course,” she added, rocking the child in her arms.

  “Did you look out?” Sedgwick asked. The room’s sole window opened on to the court.

  The girl shook her head.

  “Not at first. I mean, the noise stopped, so I didn’t think much more of it, and I had to deal with the babbie. But when it started again, I did.”

  He looked at her pinched face, alert now.

  “Started again? You mean there was more? How much later was that?”

  She considered her answer.

  “Not long. I don’t know, I’d just got him settled and fed, and I was going to go back to sleep when I heard it.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “There wasn’t much of a moon, so I couldn’t really make it out proper. But it looked like someone pulling something, I thought it were a sack of rubbish or summat. I thought it was an odd time, but folk are strange, aren’t they?” she asked with an almost childlike sense of wonder at the world.

  “They are, yes.” He smiled kindly at her. “Did you see or hear anything else?”

  “Not really.” She frowned as she tried to recall. “A bit more noise from down there, and that’s it. I didn’t really see anyone, not enough to make them out or owt. Once it went quiet again, that was it.”

  “Was it a man or woman you saw?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “I didn’t really notice. Just a shape.”

  “Thank you.” Sedgwick noticed that the boy she called Will had barely glanced up throughout the conversation, a sullen expression on his face.

  “Will Littlefield,” he said, and the youth turned sharply. “You do right by this lass of yours, or I’ll be back.”

  “You know him?” the girl asked, taken aback.

  “Oh aye,” Sedgwick replied. “Been friends a long time, haven’t we, Will? Just haven’t seen much of him recently, and you might say that’s a good thing for everyone.”

  He bowed to the girl and left.

  Not a bad night after all, he said to himself as he strolled back down Briggate towards home. It might even make the bollocking he’d get from his wife worthwhile.

  10

  Telling the girls about Pamela’s death hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared, Nottingham reflected the next morning. Rose, with her feelings always close to the surface, had sobbed, comforted by her mother, but Emily, always self-absorbed, had been stoic.

  As he poured water from the ewer into the basin and cleaned his teeth with a piece of sponge, he could hear them all in the kitchen. Mary was issuing her quiet instructions, Rose was trying too hard to inject some gaiety into her voice, to sound lively and happy, while Emily’s brooding presence was evident in her silence.

  The subject of death was carefully avoided as they broke their fast with porridge and small ale. But the conversation remained stilted, almost as if Pamela’s ghost was in the room with them. As soon as he’d eaten Nottingham pulled on his coat and left, eager to escape the close atmosphere of the house.

  Sedgwick was waiting at the jail, dark circles underlining his eyes. He’d arrived home long after the clock struck midnight and had been back by six, listening to the reports of the two men who made up the night watch. He was a good young worker, the Constable thought, there was no doubt of that.

  Nottingham sat and listened carefully as his assistant explained what he’d discovered the previous night.

  “Good,” he nodded appreciatively. “I talked to Amos Worthy yesterday, and he told me Pamela was often at the Ship. Now we need to find where she lived. I’ll take care of that. Have we found the killing ground yet?”

  “Not yet. But from what that lass said, it can’t be far away. I’ve got a couple of men searching; we should have it this morning.”

  “You keep on looking for anyone who might have seen Morton the night before last. The bugger was somewhere before he was killed.”

  “What about George Carver?” Sedgwick wondered.

  The Constable rubbed his chin. Carver was a local legend. He’d been a successful merchant once, selling cloth to the Continent. Somehow the business had slipped away from him and he’d lost everything, his family, his house, whatever money he’d had. No one knew how he earned a living now, but he was in the inns every night, drinking. Pleasant, even charming, company when sober, once he was drunk he turned belligerent and violent, going out of his way to pick fights. He was under five feet six, his body bloated by years of alcohol; all too often he was the one who ended up bloody and unconscious. He’d spent plenty of nights in the cells, as much for his own protection as for the trouble he caused. It was hard to picture him as any kind of murderer, let alone killing in cold blood. But stranger things had happened.

  “If anyone saw him with Morton, we’ll bring him in,” he decided.

  Sedgwick nodded, then said, “By the way, the cutpurse hit again last night. Twice.”

  Nottingham sighed slowly and pushed a hand through his hair.

  “Jesus God, how many times is that? Are you sure it’s the same one?” Anger rippled through him. He didn’t need this on top of the murders.

  “Got to be, boss. No one saw or felt anything. One of the victims this time was a merchant.”

  Nottingham swore.

  “He’ll be complaining to the Mayor. That’s all we need right now.”

  “He’s a clever bugger, whoever he is,” Sedgwick said, shaking his head in admiration. “Slick, too.”

  The Constable rubbed his face. Already it seemed as if this was going to be a very long day.

  “You know it’ll be sheer good luck if we get him, don’t you?” He sighed again. “Still, we’d better show willing and put someone on it. Who can we spare?”

  Sedgwick pursed thin lips and thought for a moment. Including the two night walkers, they had a total of six men. It wasn’t enough, and they both knew it. Nottingham kept trying for more money from the Corporation, but they weren’t prepared to pay. Safety was good, as long as it came cheap.

  “There’s Wilkins,” he suggested. “He’s not the sharpest lad, but he’s willing.”

  “He’ll do,” Nottingham agreed. “Tell him to spend the day walking around and keeping his eyes open.”

  “He’ll be doing it within the hour.”

  The Constable sat back in his chair, framing his thoughts.

  “We need to find out why Pamela and Morton were murdered, John. It looks like it had something to do with sex, but they were both fully dressed.” He shrugged helplessly. “It could be someone trying to confuse us, or I could have got it all wrong. What do you think?”

  Sedgwick chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered his reply.

  “It must have something to do with sex,” he agreed with conviction. “It has to. He’d not have gone to all the trouble otherwise, dragging the bodies around like that to make his point.”

  “Go on.” Nottingham was giving his full attention, intrigued by where this might lead.

  “Whoever did it can’t be right in t’ head. Laying them out like that, it’s a sick thing to do.”

  “True,” the Constable agreed.

  “They weren’t robbed,” Sedgwick continued, counting the points on his fingers, “so we can forget that.”

  “So how do we find the killer?” Nottingham asked him bluntly.

  “If we knew that, he’d be in the cell
s now, boss.”

  A slow silence filled the room.

  “I agree the murderer’s probably mad in some way,” Nottingham said finally, “but that just makes him more dangerous.”

  The deputy digested the thought.

  “We’d better find him soon, John.”

  After Sedgwick had left, Nottingham sat quietly. In his head he went through every step he’d taken so far, wondering if he’d missed or ignored anything that could hint at the murderer’s identity. Most people killed from passion or from drink, quite often the pair of them together. This was something very different, however, coming from the mind, not the heart. Usually it took no more than a day to find a killer. But this time he could throw all his men into it and still not come up with a result. And the other business of the city – the cutpurses, the thefts, the violence – wouldn’t stop just because he had to concentrate on this. Finally, exasperated, he shook his head, closed the door behind himself and began walking back to the parish church.

  This time the new curate didn’t ask his name, simply looked at him resentfully and escorted him into the vestry. The Reverend Cookson was at his desk, poring over a Bible and making notes – doubtless for one of his interminable sermons, Nottingham thought. He glanced up as the Constable entered, laid down his quill, and straightened the expensive powdered wig that was already perfectly perched on his head.

  “I heard you were looking for me yesterday, Constable.”

  “I was,” Nottingham confirmed. Unable to resist the dig, he added, “Your curate seemed to doubt my identity.”

  Cookson had the grace to offer a slightly embarrassed smile, showing discoloured teeth in a large mouth.

  “You’ll have to forgive Mr Crandall. He only arrived a short while ago and doesn’t know Leeds or its people yet. I think he’s more used to parochial ways.”

  The Reverend had a rich, mellifluous voice, used to filling the nave with its rolling cadences on a Sunday, its sound almost too big for such a small room. Although he wasn’t a merchant, Cookson’s position made him one of the most important men in the city, well paid as a shepherd of souls, his influence extending into every walk of life. Tall and thin, he had the self-satisfied, smug look that Nottingham despised. For all that he was supposedly a man of God, Cookson was also a fighter, always eager to slyly grab a little more power or consolidate what he already had.

  “Now, what can I do for you, Constable?” he asked.

  “You’ll have heard what happened to the visiting preacher?”

  “I did.” The vicar sat back and crossed his arms. “A terrible business when someone serving God is murdered,” he said, but there was no great sympathy in his tone. “Do you know who killed him?”

  “Not yet, no,” Nottingham replied straightforwardly, his eyes fixed on the other man. “From what I’ve heard, I gather you didn’t approve of what he was saying.”

  Cookson raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to imply I might be a suspect in this death?”

  Nottingham weighed his answer carefully.

  “I rarely imply things, Reverend. If I have something to say I come right out and say it.”

  Cookson examined the words for hidden meanings or barbs, then nodded.

  “You’re right, of course. It was impossible to approve of someone who wanted to upset the social order in the name of religion.”

  “And what was it he said that was so upsetting?”

  “People like the late Mr Morton aim their words like missiles, Constable. They end up making the poor discontent with their lot, and that’s a dangerous thing, as you well know.” He searched Nottingham’s face for a reaction. Seeing none, he continued, “When you have a man talking like that, it’s sowing the seeds of rebellion and revolution, and that’s asking for trouble in a place like Leeds. The Jacobins up in Scotland would love to see confusion down here so they could march in.”

  “Then perhaps you feel his death was a good thing?”

  Cookson shook his head in vigorous denial, but the Constable could see the truth in his eyes.

  “I never said that, Mr Nottingham. Every death, particularly one so violent, is a tragedy. But you saw the reaction he provoked on Saturday – and that was from the very people he was supposed to comfort! We can’t have more scenes like that. It was almost a riot, man!”

  And he was right, Nottingham knew. If they hadn’t hustled Morton away quickly, it would have been ugly.

  “I’d planned to ask that the Mayor ban Mr Morton from speaking in public, for the safety of Leeds,” Cookson stated. “Then, of course, it became unnecessary.”

  “I believe there were several merchants who agreed with you?”

  The vicar look astonished at the question. “More than several – the majority, I’d imagine. The idea underlying Morton’s words is one that challenges the entire social order. We may be equal in the eyes of God, but here on earth we all have our separate roles to fulfil. Some lead, others follow, and that’s the way it’s always been. To suggest to the followers that maybe the whole idea is wrong is rather like letting a young child play with a lit candle. It’s irresponsible.”

  And dangerous to those in power, Nottingham thought cynically. Yet it didn’t fully address Saturday’s events.

  “But as you said, the people he came to help didn’t want to hear him, either. Why do you think that was?” he asked.

  “The nature of man is essentially conservative, Constable, surely you’ve noticed that in your work?” The Reverend gave a short, broken smile. “People like the familiar, the routine of the church. The followers are content to follow, it’s what they know, they’re comfortable with it. But if people like Morton repeat their message often enough, at some point people will start to question things. Once that happens, the future becomes a lot less certain.”

  “Mr Morton’s future became very certain,” Nottingham said flatly.

  “Just because I didn’t want him preaching, that doesn’t mean I wanted him dead.” Anger bristled like lightning across Cookson’s face.

  “I never said it did, sir,” the Constable replied softly, defusing the tension. “There’s one other matter I’d like to bring up with you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The girl who was with him.”

  “A prostitute, from what I’ve heard,” the Reverend dismissed her.

  “That’s right. She needs to be buried.”

  Cookson looked up questioningly.

  “Surely a pauper’s grave is adequate?”

  “I’m paying for the funeral,” Nottingham announced without explanation.

  The vicar looked as if he was about to say something, then stopped and nodded.

  “Very well,” he agreed gracelessly. “Have her brought over and I’ll have someone take care of it.”

  He hadn’t expected more from Cookson. The Reverend was a wily man, one who hoarded power, spending it only when absolutely necessary. He relished his position in the city, so well established that he had no need to flaunt it. Nottingham didn’t care if he delegated Pamela’s funeral as long as she received a decent burial, and he felt no qualms on his insistence.

  The whores were plying their trade outside the taverns on Briggate. With no market, the street seemed almost quiet, the thick trudge of cartwheels on cobbles and the yells of drivers the main backdrop. The air smelt of dung and smoke and offal, the smell of Leeds that Nottingham had known all his life.

  Just past the Ship, where a passage opened like a crack in the wall to a teeming court, he stopped to talk to a prostitute who was idly watching the passing men. Polly had a proud face. At twenty she’d been doing this for seven years, but there was still a mischievous spark in her eyes. The life hadn’t beaten her down yet.

  He stood so that his shadow fell across her face, and she turned, suddenly aware of his presence.

  “Mr Nottingham,” she said with a smile that looked surprisingly happy. “Out for some morning fun wi’ a lass?” Her wink was so deliberately outrageous that he cou
ldn’t help but grin at her.

  “Doubt my missus would like that too much, Pol.” His voice became serious. “I’m looking for a little help.”

  “Go on, then,” the girl replied. She pulled a threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders as a light breeze began to funnel down from the north.

  “You heard about the girl who was murdered the other night?”

  Polly’s expression saddened.

  “Show me someone who doesn’t know about that by now, poor bloody cow. It’s been all over the place since yesterday morning. What’s so special about her, then?”

  “She was our maid once, a long time ago.”

  He saw the initial disbelief in her eyes and kept staring at her until her expression softened again.

  “Pamela, wasn’t it?” she said, and he nodded. “I used to see her. Quiet girl, you’d hardly know she was there. You’ve got to put yourself forward in this game if you’re going to make any money.”

  “Do you know where she lived?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, luv, I don’t.” She shrugged. “No reason, you see. Do you want me to ask around?”

  “Please, yes.” He brought a penny from his breeches pocket. “If you find out, send a boy to find me.” He was about to walk off when her voice stopped him.

  “Mr Nottingham? I didn’t know her, but I’m sure your Pamela were a good lass.”

  He smiled sadly.

  “She was, Polly. She was that.”

  He talked to several contacts, whores, touts and con men, before walking back to the jail. He’d have the information soon, he knew. Pamela might have had very few friends, but people knew her face, and someone would know where she lived. All he needed was a little patience.

  Back at his desk he wrote a note to Rawlinson, releasing Morton’s body, and arranged for an undertaker to prepare Pamela’s corpse and carry it to the church.

  More than twenty four hours had gone by since the murder and he was no further along than when he’d first seen the bodies. By his calculations he had another day before the Mayor would demand results. He needed some bloody answers.