The Broken Token

by Chris Nickson

  “Did he come in yesterday morning?” Nottingham asked, and she nodded in answer.

  “Said he’d be home last night. When he wasn’t back by this morning I had one of the lads drive me in on’t cart.” She hesitated, torn between wanting the truth and not wishing to hear a word. “How did he die?”

  This was the part the Constable hated most.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Winters, but someone killed him.”

  “My Noah?” She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t understand, her eyes widening suddenly as she tried to draw a breath. “But why? He were a good man, he wouldn’t get in a fight or owt like that.”

  “We don’t know why yet,” he told her, knowing there was at least a grain of truth in his words.

  Her face had a stunned look, mouth hanging slightly open.

  “We think he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know how else to put it,” he admitted.

  “But you’ll find whoever did it and see him swing.”

  He wasn’t sure if it was a plea or a command.

  “I will,” he assured her, although at the moment it seemed as much hope as certainty.

  “I want to take my man home and give him a proper burial,” she insisted suddenly.

  “Of course,” he said. “Do you have your cart here? I’ll have my men carry his body out.”

  She crumpled again at the mention of the word body.

  “He’s dead,” she moaned in a voice that was little more than a croak. “He’s dead. He’s dead for a new bloody suit.”

  Nottingham helped Mrs Winters back outside, feeling the pull of her weight against his arms. Two farm lads waited by the cart, and he instructed them to look after their mistress, then went to round up two men to carry out the corpse. He couldn’t have allowed her back to see him, not with the whore in the same room. She was a bright woman, that was obvious, and she’d easily have put two and two together; she deserved more dignity and a better memory of her husband than that.

  By the time the wagon pulled away the day was well progressed. Nottingham felt the tiredness in his bones, an ache that crept from the inside out. He wanted this man who’d killed four people, wanted him in a way he couldn’t remember wanting to find any criminal in the past. He wanted to see the man’s face. More than that, he wanted to hurt him for what he’d done to Pamela. And if it was Carver, he’d find no mercy.

  Before he could consider what to do next, a messenger from the Moot Hall walked in, summoning him to the Mayor’s office. Nottingham drew a deep breath and wondered how to approach the interview. He didn’t want to mention Carver yet, until he was certain, and the last thing his Worship would want to hear was that they had a madman targeting prostitutes and their clients. If that knowledge became public it would send a shock through the entire city. Too many men used whores, many of them gentlemen of influence. He pondered exactly what he might say.

  He dusted off his coat, then ran fingers through his hair. It was another vain effort towards making himself presentable, but it would have to do. He had no looking glass in the jail. The man would just have to take him as he found him, exhausted in mind and body.

  He was ushered directly into the Mayor’s office without waiting; not a good sign, he decided. Kenion was at his desk, hunched over some papers with a quill in his hand. Absently he gestured Nottingham to a seat, then ignored him for several minutes as he pored over a document before fretfully adding his signature to it. After coming off worse in their last interview, he wanted to establish the pecking order, and make sure it was known before a word was said. Finally Kenion looked up.

  “More murders, I hear,” he said accusingly, skipping the pleasantries.

  “Another prostitute and her client,” the Constable responded.

  “And what are you doing about catching the man responsible?” Kenion folded his hands across his chest, glaring at Nottingham.

  “All we can. We know who the victim was, a farmer from Alwoodley, in town to buy a decent suit of clothes.” Even as he said it, he knew it wouldn’t divert Kenion.

  “I don’t give a tinker’s cuss who he was.” The Mayor’s voice dripped venom. “It’s whoever killed him that concerns me. We shipped that preacher’s body back to Oxford yesterday. How do you think that sounds for the city? A man comes to Leeds to preach the word of God and he’s murdered. It’s a wonderful advertisement for the good Christian folk of the city, don’t you think, Constable?”

  And less than a week ago that preacher was close to causing a riot with his bloody words. You wouldn’t have loved him then, Nottingham thought, but kept his words inside.

  “Things happen in every city.”

  “Well, I’ll not tolerate them here.” The Mayor’s bluster left his face flushed.

  “We’re doing everything we can to find the culprit.” Even as he said it the Constable knew the words sounded weak.

  Kenion stood and leaned across the desk, his voice tight.

  “Then your everything obviously isn’t enough. You said the same bloody thing after the first murders. Now the man’s been out and done it again, right under your noses and you still don’t have a bloody clue who he is!”

  “No, I don’t,” Nottingham let the lie slip off his tongue without guilt.

  “So what are you going to do about it?” the Mayor exploded.

  The Constable looked up calmly.

  “Exactly the same as we’ve been doing,” he responded evenly. “And I’d defy anyone else to be able to do better.” As an attempt to muster his dignity it was hardly convincing, even to his own ears.

  “Happen we’ll see about that very soon,” Kenion replied coldly.

  “That’s your decision, of course,” the Constable acknowledged.

  “It is, Mr Nottingham, and it’s one I’ll not be afraid to make if I don’t see some progress very soon. I suggest you remember that.”

  This was where he paid for their last meeting, Nottingham understood. He’d leave with no doubt as to who was in charge. But as long as Kenion restricted himself to words, not actions, the Constable had time. For now the new Mayor had no one who could replace him. Or so he hoped.

  “I shall, sir.”

  The Constable stood and gave a short nod of his head as a bow before leaving. The Mayor had already returned to his paperwork as an attempt to show how important and busy he was. Busier than he expected to be, Nottingham warranted, and already beginning to wonder if the position was worth the time it took. But there was plenty of truth in his words. They needed progress and they needed it quickly. And right now George Carver was the key.

  16

  Sedgwick was always amazed at the way the pimps hid their wealth. If he had even half their money he’d own a good house with four or five hearths and live like a gentleman. Maybe they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves, he thought, although what they did was no worse than the way some merchants and businessmen acted.

  They all ran strings of girls. Sometimes one of the lasses would leave without a word, but there was never a shortage of new blood arriving from the country, thinking they might make their fortune in Leeds. But no girl was going to make money on her back for anyone but the man who ran her. Most of them would be lucky to survive to twenty-five.

  After years in his job he knew all the pimps and procurers in the city. A few even seemed like decent folk, most treated their girls like objects, and some of the worst ones he could have happily killed – and would have, once or twice, if the Constable hadn’t stopped him.

  Whores were a fact of life. There was no more getting rid of them than fleas. But he could try to stop men openly murdering them.

  Sedgwick walked down Briggate, beyond Boar Lane, following the gentle slope down to the Aire and across the stone bridge that spanned the river, its parapets old and wide. Someone had told him that at one time they used to hold the cloth market here, long before the Cloth Hall was built, and it had been designed for displaying the wares, bales of cloth spread out over the stone.
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  Around him carters were urging on their teams, the clack of horseshoes and wheel rims sharp and loud on the cobbles. Men bowed by heavy packs on their backs negotiated the traffic with stoic looks on their faces, coming to sell or going home disappointed. A few smiled, hands jammed in their pockets to keep thieves from their profits.

  That set him thinking. They’d heard nothing more about their cutpurse for a day or so now. Could he have moved on, deciding he’d tried his luck as far as it would go in Leeds? It was possible, but unlikely. Every thief he’d met liked to push it to the limit, and most ended up caught and hanged. It happened so often it almost seemed like a natural law.

  At the south end of the bridge he turned into a warren of streets. Much of the area to the west, on Meadow Lane, was given over to grand houses built by the merchants as symbols of their success, with expensive brick fronts to illustrate their wealth. But back in these yards was someone who could give them a run, guinea for guinea.

  Without even needing to find his bearings, he made his way through the tiny streets. Few people were around; they were mostly off at their work, or in their rooms, sleeping off labour or drink. It was a place without joy, without hope, like so many others he saw every day, where most people existed rather than lived.

  Not Jane Farnham, though, Sedgwick thought as he stopped and knocked on a door. She was a woman who broke all the rules. She relished her life as a bawd and she’d made a small fortune pandering to the needs of others. No Amos Worthy, perhaps, but with plenty of money just the same.

  A grille in the wood opened and a pair of eyes looked out. Sedgwick didn’t bother to say anything. Whoever was looking would know his face. A thickset man let him in, a fearsome scar on a face that had been battered several times, the nose broken and awkwardly set.

  “Henry.” Sedgwick nodded. The servant wasn’t wearing a waistcoat or jacket, and the muscles of his arms and chest bulged against the old linen of his shirt. He’d been a soldier once, at least that was the tale, and had killed his sergeant with his bare hands before deserting. Not that anyone, except perhaps Henry himself, knew the truth. And after all this time perhaps he’d chosen to believe the legend.

  “What dost tha want?” The man’s voice always sounded hoarse.

  “Is she around? I need to talk to her.”

  Henry eyed him impassively before leaving him inside the door and going into another room, emerging a few seconds later and tilting his ugly head as invitation. Sedgwick followed. He’d been here a number of times, but on each occasion it took his breath away. Jane Farnham’s morning room was the equal of any fine lady’s residence, the furnishings expensive and exquisite, with a thick carpet of Oriental design like a cushion under his feet. From the outside of the building no one would have guessed at this interior.

  But Sedgwick also knew that decorating her rooms in such a manner was as close as Mrs Farnham would ever come to society, for no procurer could ever be received by polite people. So she created her own rich world that would have intimidated most of the people she’d never be likely to entertain, and established her own superiority.

  Farnham herself, wearing a fine jade silk gown of a fashionable London cut, her hair elegantly pinned up in an elaborate coif, looked up from the delicate chair where she sat. No one had ever seen Mr Farnham, if he even existed.

  “Yes?” she drawled. She was a small woman, her head barely reaching Sedgwick’s chest, and nearly as thin as a consumptive. There was a fine, moneyed air about her. She was used to her comforts. No one who didn’t know would ever have guessed that she was a madam with a bawdy house and girls on the street. She strove to seem cultivated, always with a book open on the table. At times she seemed too genteel and tiny to be an effective pimp. But Sedgwick had seen her lose her temper with a whore. She’d beaten the lass so hard and long that the girl had to be carried away. The refined behaviour, he reflected later, was a very thin mask.

  “We’ve got a dead prostitute in the jail,” Segwick blurted. “Have you had a girl gone missing lately?”

  Farnham exchanged a glance with Henry, who shook his head briefly.

  “No, we haven’t,” Farnham informed him in a soft voice. “If we had, of course we’d have told the Constable’s office.”

  Aye, if it suited you, Sedgwick thought to himself. With a slightly envious glance around the room, he bowed his head and left.

  One down, he thought, crossing the bridge again, but so many more to go. He’d do as the Constable ordered and talk to a few more pimps, but he wasn’t hopeful. He reckoned he might be better off chatting to some of the girls, describing the dead lass to them and see if anyone knew her. A few would certainly have seen her and might even know her name. Ultimately, though, it probably didn’t matter. By tomorrow she was going to be just another dead body in a pauper’s grave, mourned and missed by next to no one. There were dozens of them each year.

  David Sheepshanks and Edward Paley didn’t aspire to the same luxury as Farnham. Both were small time, with just four or five girls each. Neither of them had a girl missing and knew of no one who did. Two more brief visits revealed nothing, and Sedgwick began to believe it was going to be a waste of time.

  So he followed his instinct and started canvassing the girls. There were always plenty around, no matter the time, in the inns or on the streets, touting for trade. As they learned all too quickly, it wasn’t a business for the shy, unless they had an inclination for starvation. Some of them were mean bitches, women he wouldn’t dare cross for fear of his life, but most were simply trying to get by and live.

  Lizzie Lane was like that. It had been her and her daughter since her man left – ’listed for a soldier when drunk, some people said, although no one seemed to know for sure. She was cheerful, brash and bawdy whenever Sedgwick saw her. For more than two years she’d been a fixture near the Old King’s Head on Briggate. She kept her large breasts pushed high, almost out of the top of her dress, and she loved to trade lewd banter with passing men, usually getting a fair share of customers that she took to her dingy room down the grubby yard.

  “Hello, John,” she yelled as she saw him approach, a warmly lecherous smile crossing her face. “Come looking for the company of a real woman?”

  “Now then, keep your voice down, you might put off trade, talking to the law,” he told her, laughing, before adding in a quieter voice, “And my missus might hear about it.”

  “She didn’t last time,” Lizzie winked and folded the small fan so many whores carried.

  “Aye, but if she found out she’d hurt me.”

  She rolled her eyes and sighed in mock frustration.

  “You’re not here for me, anyway, are you, luv?”

  “Not today,” he admitted.

  “Well, you’d better not take long, then. Not that most do, anyway,” she chuckled.

  “You’ve heard a couple of girls have been murdered?”

  Lizzie nodded.

  “There’s one, we don’t know who she is, and the Constable would like to find out. The pimps I’ve talked to aren’t saying anything.”

  “You think those bastards would?” she interjected.

  “Just ask around and see if anyone’s gone missing, would you?”

  “What did she look like?” Lizzie asked.

  “Tiny thing, blonde hair, pox marks, scar on her chin, old blue dress,” he said.

  “That could be half of them around here,” she pointed out wistfully.

  “Can you ask a few questions and let me know if anyone says anything?”

  Lizzie brightened. “Course I will. Can’t have some prick killing us.”

  “You’re a good lass,” Sedgwick said with a grin.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “Only the ones who can help me.” He winked and walked away.

  Nottingham knew Carver wouldn’t be too hard to find. He poked his head around the door of a couple of inns with no luck, then discovered him once more in the Ship, already on his third drin
k, according to the landlord.

  “George,” he said genially, standing over the figure on the bench who was contemplating his ale. The man looked up and answered mildly, “Am I to be harassed daily for the rest of my life then, Constable?”

  “I hope not,” the Constable said without a smile. “But I need to ask you a few more questions.”

  “Then pull up a seat and take a drink with me.”

  Nottingham shook his head.

  “Not here. We’ll talk at the jail, I think.”

  Carver shrugged, drained his tankard in a single swallow, and stood with barely a hint of unsteadiness.

  “I’m at your service,” he announced with a small flourish.

  They walked together in silence. The older man smelled especially ripe, his coat crusted with even more food stains, which didn’t seem to concern him in the least.

  At the jail he waited until Nottingham sat, then positioned himself on the chair opposite.

  “Now, how may I help you Constable?” he asked, for all the world a gracious host relaxed in his own home.

  “I’m wondering where you were last night.”

  Carver pondered the question for a minute.

  “I woke in my own bed, so I can’t have gone too far,” he replied seriously. “Beyond that I’m not sure I can be too much help.”

  “You were at the White Swan until gone ten,” Nottingham told him.

  “Was I?” Carver asked. “Then you seem to have a better grasp of my whereabouts than I do.”

  “Where were you after that? Did you go to the Turk’s Head?”

  The merchant bit his lip as he thought, and shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he replied succinctly.

  “Two more people were murdered last night,” Nottingham informed him.