The Broken Token

by Chris Nickson

  He didn’t pause at the jail, but walked instead to the court where the couple had been murdered. Two men had been left to guard it and ensure nothing was taken, that the scene remained undisturbed. He dismissed them and they left eagerly for breakfast while he searched.

  There was little left of the blood, most of it washed away by the rain, except for a single dark, red-brown pool in the depression of a flagstone. He tried to imagine the bodies as they lay last night, crumpled but still warm to the touch, the souls just departed from life. He walked around, shifting the rubbish with his shoe, looking for anything at all. But as before, there was nothing.

  He made his way back, lost in thought, trying to puzzle together the few pieces he had into a coherent picture. But it was impossible. They were scattered fragments that didn’t even form a shadow.

  Sedgwick was sitting at the desk, his arm resting awkwardly in the sling. He was eating part of a warm, fragrant loaf and sipping from a cup of ale. Nottingham leaned over, tore off some of the bread and ate it hungrily.

  “You should be at home, John. I told you to rest.”

  “Boss.” The word, and the look in his eyes, was half-plea, half-explanation. He wanted this. Nottingham nodded slightly and asked,

  “How’s the arm?”

  “You mean apart from being useless and still hurting?” Sedgwick grimaced.

  “It’s going to take a while. The apothecary said so.”

  “I can still walk and talk.”

  “Just don’t push yourself too far,” the Constable warned, although he knew it was pointless. The man would work hard no matter what he said. “What about our prisoner?”

  “I apologised to Mr Carver and let him go.”

  “How was he?”

  “Asked me for ale money so he could drink his way home.”

  Nottingham chuckled. “Give him credit, he has a right. We kept him here.”

  “I didn’t have any money, so I told him to see if he could find his room if he wasn’t pissed,” Sedgwick grinned broadly. “It’ll be an adventure for him.” He paused and his eyes became serious. “I’ve thought of something else.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m sure the murderer was wearing a hat.”

  “A hat?” the Constable asked.

  “Yes.” He rubbed some of the bread into pellets between his fingers. “I was thinking about it again this morning, and I remembered feeling the brim against my face.”

  “That’s another thing we know about him, then.” The Constable let his features relax into a momentary grin. “Bit by bit, it’s all coming together.” He started to allow himself the hope that they were going to solve this.

  Nottingham chewed on a fingernail as he worried around an idea. It had come to him as he delayed writing his daily report, knowing exactly how the Mayor would react to another pair of murders. Was it possible the killer had come to Leeds from somewhere else? He hadn’t fallen from the sky; he might have left bodies elsewhere before moving on. The Constable decided to send out letters to the surrounding areas; there was nothing to lose, and he might learn something useful. It had brought results before, helping to catch a murderer three years earlier. He gathered up paper and quill and began scribbling notes to other Constables in his rough, spidery scrawl.

  He was sanding the fifth letter, drying the ink before applying his seal, when the door opened and Tom Williamson entered. The merchant’s jacket was freshly cleaned, metal buttons sparkling, his neck stock a sparkling white, and shoes shining although he’d walked through the mud of the streets for the Saturday cloth market.

  “Richard,” he said, dipping his head. His face was grave, his voice dark.

  “Morning, Tom,” Nottingham replied. “You’re just the man I need to see.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you know anyone in authority in Chapel Allerton? Pamela lived there, and I thought someone might have some information.”

  Williamson thought for a moment.

  “Try Mr Bartlett,” he suggested. “I’ve met him once or twice. He’s the Justice of the Peace there, I believe.”

  “Thank you, I shall.” He paused. “So what brings you here, Tom?”

  The merchant looked embarrassed.

  “I thought I’d better tell you – the Mayor’s called an urgent meeting of the aldermen. He sent out a message first thing. He wants to dismiss you.”

  “Ah.”

  Nottingham sat back in his chair and let out a long breath. He’d expected this, but he’d thought it would be done summarily, with Kenion taking the authority into his own hands.

  “I’ve been talking to some of the others on the Corporation,” Williamson carried on, his voice still serious and intent. “We’ve decided to oppose him. I know you haven’t caught the murderer yet, but I – well, we – believe you will if you’re given time. You’ve always done an excellent job in the past.”

  The Constable looked up in astonishment. He could scarcely credit what he’d just heard. He listened to the words still echoing in his head and blinked. For a moment he didn’t know what to say, then the words tumbled out. “You’re really going to speak for me? Even though I was wrong about Carver and we haven’t caught the killer?”

  “Dear God, of course we are, Richard.” The merchant appeared amused at his friend’s confusion. “At least some of us know what you’ve done for this city. Kenion’s a buffoon. He’s champing at the bit to run roughshod over us, and we don’t intend to let him, certainly not over this.” He leant forward, his hands on the desk. “Look, I’m not saying we’ll win. You could be out of a job when the meeting’s over, but we’ll fight for you.”

  Nottingham felt a glow of gratitude inside. He’d never expected support from the Corporation. But here were people who valued him, and who had faith he could find the answer to this.

  “Thank you,” he said simply, uncertain what to add. “Thank you.”

  Williamson smiled at him.

  “I’ll come back when we’ve finished and let you know. But if I have anything to do with it, you’ll be Constable for years to come yet.”

  21

  Briggate bustled with Saturday market folk, buyers and sellers crowding the street. At the lower end the cloth sellers were dismantling their stalls, some spending tuppence of their takings on a Brig Shot End breakfast of porridge, boiled meat and ale from one of the taverns.

  Outside the King’s Head, Tom Stookes was standing on his box auctioning off livestock the farmers had driven in from the surrounding villages. To Sedgwick, the man’s braying voice, reeling off bids so quickly they became a blur of sound, was all part of the fabric of the city.

  He spotted Lizzie, the prostitute, a little farther up the street, leaning dispiritedly against a corner, the fan dangling from her fingers. She saw him approaching, head bobbing above the crowd, smiled slightly and tilted her head before disappearing. Sedgwick followed her into the court, spying her in a deep patch of shadow by a wall.

  “Why the secrecy?” he asked her as a greeting. She moved up to him, grinned, and rubbed against him.

  “You’ve been in the wars,” she said tenderly, stroking his bandaged arm in its sling lightly.

  “I’ll survive,” he told her, enjoying the gentle touch of her fingertips. “Now, why do you need to see me out of the way like this?”

  “Thought you might want to reward a girl for getting you some information,” she giggled lightly.

  “Oh aye?” In spite of himself, he laughed. “No fee, eh? On the house, is it?”

  The whore glanced back over her shoulder at the wall and winked.“More like against the house by the look of it. If you can manage with one arm, that is.” Her laugh was hoarse, and she pulled up her skirts before wrapping her arms around his neck. “You know I’ve always liked you, John Sedgwick.”

  He knew it was stupid. He was working, he had a wife and bairn at home. But he was tired, his wife was a bloody shrew, and his pizzle was growing of his own accord. The girl’s breasts were pushing
hard against his chest, and she was looking up at him with the first real desire anyone had shown him in months – since the last time he’d been with her, in fact.

  He freed himself from his breeches, and with practised ease Lizzie moved herself on to him. Sedgwick pushed his weight on her, rubbing the flesh of her shoulders raw against the stone, but she didn’t care. Neither did he. He wasn’t thinking with his brain now, just thrusting deep into her, feeling the world grow out from his groin. With a grunt and a muttered “Fuck,” he came in her, faster than he’d wanted, but he couldn’t hold back.

  Lizzie’s eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and fast. Finally she pushed him away gently and stood up.

  “That’s more like it, John.” She laughed, the sound turning into a violent, liquid cough before it subsided, her face flushed. “You know how to pay a lass for talk, any road.”

  “Better be worth it, then,” he said with a chuckle.

  “That girl you wanted me to find out about?”

  “Yes.”

  “She were called Molly. Nice girl, by all accounts, liked a laugh. Hardly been here three month.”

  “Who was pimping her?” Sedgwick asked her.

  “Old Cedric, someone told me, but I don’t know if it’s true.” She ran a hand through his hair, trying vainly to pull out some of the matts, then adjusted her dress over her breasts. She regarded him tenderly. “You’re a good lad, John. Any time you decide to leave that wife of yours, come to me. I mean that.”

  For once, he didn’t know what to say. He’d always liked Lizzie; she had a ready wit. They’d shared jokes, a few mugs of ale and a couple of tumbles, but he had no idea she felt that way about him. She’d said things, but he’d never taken them seriously. He tucked his prick, shrunk once more, back into his breeches, and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Thank you, luv. I appreciate that. Now I’d better go and see a man about a girl.”

  He was back on Briggate before she could say anything, a grin splitting his face. Cedric was lucky; he was going to be in a good mood when he arrived.

  The rumour was that Cedric Winthrop had once been rich, controlling most of the prostitutes in Leeds. If it had ever been true, those days were long gone. Now he was a broken old man who hung on by the skin of his teeth, with no more than three or four girls willing to work for him. Sedgwick hadn’t even considered him when he was making his round of the pimps. Winthrop’s cottage, a tiny, half-timbered dwelling by the bridge at the bottom of Lady Lane, was a rundown wreck, with slates missing from the roof and a musty, mildewed smell in its main room.

  Cedric himself was a paunchy old man in clothes twenty years out of date, with the beaming face of someone’s kindly grandfather, his blue eyes framed by grimy spectacles. A thick double chin rested on his collar, his skin so pale it was almost pearlescent. His wig sat on the table, leaving just a wisp of thin silver hair on his scalp.

  “Morning, Cedric,” Sedgwick said merrily as the pimp opened the door. “A little bird told me you’ve lost one of your girls.” He pushed past Winthrop, ducking to avoid the low lintel.

  Sedgwick sat at the table, carelessly wiping a layer of dust with his sleeve. “You ran a lass called Molly?”

  “Ran?” Winthrop looked confused, as if he’d never heard the term before.

  “Have you seen her in the last few days, Cedric?” he asked patiently.

  “No.” Winthrop took a handkerchief from his breeches pocket and wiped his spectacles. “I went looking for her yesterday.”

  “Well, she’s in a pauper’s grave now, poor girl.”

  “What? She’s dead?” The spectacles tinkled on the bare floorboards. Sedgwick leaned over, picked them up and returned them gently to the man’s hand. He was surprised to see so much emotion in a procurer.

  “She was murdered. Her and a farmer.”

  “God,” Winthrop said softly, and closed his eyes for a moment before tears could flow.

  “What can you tell me about her?” Sedgwick asked him.

  The old man half-smiled sadly, shook his head and shrugged.

  “You’ve heard her story once, you’ve heard it a hundred times. She was nice enough, in from the country a few months ago. Most of the time I’d bring men from the taverns to her room. She was a bit shy. But I’d been down with a touch of rheum, so she must have gone out to work the streets.”

  “And got herself killed,” Sedgwick pointed out. “How long were you in your bed?”

  “I started feeling poorly Wednesday morning. Yesterday was the first day I went out,” he answered slowly. “If…”

  “Ifs don’t work in life, Cedric,” Sedgwick told him sympathetically. “You know that by now.” He stood.

  Winthrop nodded absently, not moving as the deputy let himself out.

  Nottingham was staring at the corpses once more when he heard the door to the jail open. Wiping his hands on a rag, he left the cell. Amos Worthy, tall and straight in his threadbare coat, stood by the desk, a walking stick clenched in his hand. His face was deadly serious, eyes as cold as the Constable had ever seen them. He had two men flanking the door, muscled thugs who earned their bread being unleashed like dogs at his command.

  “You won’t need that pair, Amos,” Nottingham said casually as he sat down. “No one’s going to attack you here. What do you want?”

  Worthy gestured at the cell. “You’ve got a girl in there.”

  “I’ve got a man in there, too.” He leaned back. The procurer had only been in the jail once before that he could recall, and that was on a charge that had vanished along with the witnesses.

  “The lass is mine,” Worthy announced flatly. “A good little earner, as well.” He looked down solemnly. “I don’t like people taking what’s mine.”

  “How do you know she’s one of yours?” the Constable asked with contempt.

  “She didn’t come back last night. My girls know they’d better have a bloody good reason for not returning,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “What did she look like?”

  “Little thing, blonde hair, blue eyes. Some daft bastard had given her a dress that was halfway decent and she always wore that,” he spat out quickly, then looked up. “You need anything more?”

  “What was her name, Amos?”

  “Alice. Alice Fairbanks.” He banged the stick on the stone flag. “These lads’ll take her.”

  Nottingham nodded his agreement; he had no further need of the body.

  Once they’d left, awkwardly carrying the shroud between them, Worthy rubbed a hand over his freshly-shaved chin.

  “Six bodies now, Mr Nottingham.”

  “I can count, Amos,” he replied testily, turning a quill in his fingers.

  “I look after my own.”

  The Constable rose slowly, staring across the desk at Worthy.

  “No,” he corrected carefully, “you look after your own when they do what you tell them. I’ve seen what happens when they don’t, remember?” He worked hard to keep his voice under control. “So don’t come in here trying to sound concerned and bereaved, like you’d lost a daughter.”

  The pimp’s face remained impassive. “Do you have any suspicion who’s doing this?” he asked finally.

  “No,” Nottingham admitted.

  Worthy stroked his chin again.

  “If you want him, better pray you find him before I do, then.”

  “Are you threatening me, Amos?”

  “I’m not threatening you, laddie,” he answered with a brisk shake of his head. “You should know me by now; I never threaten. Consider it a promise.”

  “I don’t think it’s wise to make promises like that,” Nottingham told him blandly.

  The pimp cocked his head. “Are you threatening me now, Mr Nottingham?”

  The Constable smiled, baring his teeth. “Consider it a promise, Amos.”

  “I’ll still be looking,” the pimp announced stonily. “I’m not going to let someone kill one of my girls.”

  “From wh
at I’ve heard, you prefer to do that yourself.” Nottingham waited as Worthy glared at him, knuckles tightening around the silver handle of the walking stick. “You’re safe enough, I was never able to prove it. But I’ll tell you something for nothing.” He paused. “I wish to God I could have.”

  “Rumours have a habit of becoming exaggerated. You ought to know that by now,” Worthy countered, relaxing his grip.

  “True enough,” Nottingham agreed with a small nod. “But others have a basis in fact.”

  “Maybe,” he conceded grudgingly. “I’m more interested in the man who murdered Alice. I want to get my hands on him.”

  “No.” Nottingham brought his hand down sharply on the desk, and the sound rang around the stone walls of the room. “I’m not going to say it again, Amos. This is my business, not yours. If you want to help me, I’ll gladly take that. But so you understand me properly: I won’t have your justice in this.”

  Worthy eyed him with no expression for a long time, then turned on his heel and left.

  The Constable had no doubt that Worthy would be hunting the killer. He wasn’t a man ever to back down from his words, and once he started, he’d be relentless. Nottingham was limited in what he could do, but the pimp’s men would have no compunction about beating information out of people. He’d heard that Worthy himself had once tried to roast a widow over a fire when he suspected her of sheltering one of his runaway girls. The woman had refused to press charges, insisting it had never happened.

  Worthy would also try to bribe information from men who worked for the Constable. He could trust John, he was certain of that, but beyond that, nobody. They’d have to be careful.

  Of course, it might not even matter. If Kenion had been persuasive or forceful enough, Leeds might already have a new Constable. He glanced out of the window, hoping to spot Tom Williamson returning with a grin on his face, but all he saw were the heads of people going about their business, some grim, some happy.